"lean restroom
smoked brisket"
I should have gotten a picture, but we drove by too fast. Then I spent the next 40 seconds or so trying to wrap my brain around what the billboard was advertising at the gas station in the middle of nowhere, Texas.
"lean restroom
smoked brisket"
Finally I told John exactly what I had seen. His first reaction was, “ewww”. Lean restroom-smoked brisket? Then immediately he pointed out, as I’m sure you have already discerned, that there is probably a “c” missing:
"clean restroom
smoked brisket"
Mind you, this was at about hour 11 on our long drive, so I blame my brain malfunctioning on that little fact.
Eventually we got hungry for dinner, but not for “lean restroom-smoked brisket”.
Or for McDonald’s (just doesn’t taste good).
Or for Dairy Queen (usually takes forever and a day for them to get your order filled).
When you are driving through most of Texas, larger cities are few and far between, and the small towns generally have: McDonald’s, Dairy Queen, and Sonic.
So, Sonic it was.
Only, at about the time we decided we were hungry, the road had turned into a larger highway not directly intersecting any towns. It is at times like this that having a blackberry in the car is pretty handy. I found the next two nearby towns and looked up the location of the closest Sonic, got directions, and attempted to steer John (who was driving at the time) in the right direction.
Apparently there were two different exits leading to the same road, and the one we chose to use was going in the wrong direction. Within ten minutes I ascertained we were not any where close to a town, so we turned around to head back to the highway.
Just as I was thinking I might need to eat my arm I was so hungry, we saw yet another exit for the same road. I was hesitant, but John wanted his Sonic so he took the exit. Two miles down the road, lo and behold, there stands a glorious Sonic waiting just for us. Angus burger and mozzarella sticks for all.
In case you’re thinking of driving on Hwy 287 in Colorado, don’t. Even if it seems like it will be faster than the alternative routes, it won’t. That’s because at two separate locations the road is down to one lane for several miles, which basically ensures you will have to wait for upward of twenty minutes at a dead stop until it is your turn to drive on the road. (On the up side, both locations receive cell service, so it’s a great time to make some phone calls or use your blackberry/I-phone.)
Also, the E470 toll road in Colorado is probably more expensive than you assume it will be. And they don’t take credit cards. We finally ran out of cash at the third toll booth and had to just drive on through. It’s two dollars at each booth. (Obviously we are not cash-carriers.) We fully expect to receive our bill from the transportation department in Colorado any day now (if they even send interstate tickets). It will just be for the tolls we didn’t pay as long as we pay within 20 days of receiving the bill, so really, that might be faster than stopping at each toll booth on the road unless you have a toll pass…hmmm.
Surprisingly the road trip home did not seem as long as it really was. But I probably do not want to be stuck in a car for longer than a few hours again any time soon.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
More Random Snapshots from Colorado
Another reason the Cowboy Brad performance mentioned in the previous post was so entertaining: lots of kiddos in attendance.
It seems many of the children have seen Cowboy Brad before. I’m uncertain as to whether it is easier or more difficult for Cowboy Brad during this particular performance, but the audience continues requesting songs until the very end so he does not need to come up with (or, on the other hand, does not get to choose) any of his own pieces to perform.
With all the children’s requests we get to hear songs about a skunk, a feather bed, and water.
Near the end of the evening, Cowboy Brad picks one little girl, probably about three years old, to sing her request. The small girl speaks so softly that even we, sitting just two rows behind her, cannot hear or understand the song she is asking for. The girl’s mother, either in an attempt to make an actual song title out of her daughter’s request or because she herself has no idea what her child was saying, pronounces that her daughter is saying, “On Top of Old Smokey”.
The little girl will have none of it. This is obviously NOT what she wants to hear. Immediately she states, more clearly and loudly, that she is requesting Cowboy Brad to sing “Don’t Let Kitties Out”.
Without a moment’s hesitation Cowboy Brad responds, “Oh! We all know that one! Let’s see, it has three…no four…verses.” He then proceeds to sing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”, “The Alphabet Song”, and “Baa, Baa Black Sheep” followed by “Don’t let kitties, kitties out; don’t you let those kitties out…” to the same tune.
As an accommodating audience we all join in.
The four-year-old sitting almost right in front of us also provides quite a captivating show. At some point during the event, her mom hands her their digital camera. Watching the world through the screen on the back of the camera is just fascinating! After about five minutes, the girl figures out how to press the button to take a picture and proceeds to take pictures of the ground, the sky, her shoes, her shirt, a rock, and John (whom she is flirting with just a little bit). Most of these pictures are taken either right on top of the object or from a distance of about half an inch.
It is almost as entertaining to watch the girl’s parents reviewing her photography skills after they eventually reclaim the camera. I’m fairly certain most of the pictures were not kept for posterity, but it sure occupied a four-year-old for a good 15 minutes.
It wasn’t all fun and games with the kids, though. One boy, I’m guessing he was about six, must have had his hand in the air after every song for a good twenty minutes, ready with his request for Cowboy Brad. Unfortunately, the hour comes to an end, Cowboy Brad ends the show, and the little boy throws a fit that he did not get his turn to make a song request. The last time I see him, the boy is scrambling out of his mother’s arms and heading up to the CD table and Cowboy Brad, his hand still waving wildly in the air, no doubt ready to tell Cowboy Brad just what he wants him to sing.
One other totally unrelated incident I must share from our week in Colorado: the hairdryer.
While cleaning up breakfast one morning, my sister-in-law rounds the corner from the hallway with a stricken look on her face and announces, “The hairdryer fell into the toilet” followed immediately by, “What do I do?”
To my surprise she is obviously still alive and unharmed. Haven’t you been told all your life that if you drop the hairdryer in water (or even use the hairdryer too close to water) you will suffer a most unpleasant death by shock?
I have.
At least, that’s what I think of every time I dry my hair near a sink or toilet.
The bathroom we’re sharing in Colorado is the size of a matchbox, and with the toilet lid up there is definitely a great chance that a hairdryer that slips out of the hand could end up right in the toilet bowl.
To my relief, I see when I enter the bathroom that my sister-in-law has already boldly and quickly yanked the plug out of the socket. In this case, I’m fairly certain no harm can come from lifting the hairdryer out of the toilet.
This happens to be my mother-in-law’s hairdryer - a travel-sized appliance that she bought recently for a trip to Germany because it converts to two different voltages. Fancy.
Miraculously, after waiting a day for the hairdryer to completely dry out, we try it out just to see if it might still work, and it does!
My mother-in-law says she just might write a glowing review of the item for the company that makes it: dropped in the toilet while turned on and plugged in, but it continues to function!
Maybe all hairdryers are this impervious to water, but I don't recommend trying to find out.
It seems many of the children have seen Cowboy Brad before. I’m uncertain as to whether it is easier or more difficult for Cowboy Brad during this particular performance, but the audience continues requesting songs until the very end so he does not need to come up with (or, on the other hand, does not get to choose) any of his own pieces to perform.
With all the children’s requests we get to hear songs about a skunk, a feather bed, and water.
Near the end of the evening, Cowboy Brad picks one little girl, probably about three years old, to sing her request. The small girl speaks so softly that even we, sitting just two rows behind her, cannot hear or understand the song she is asking for. The girl’s mother, either in an attempt to make an actual song title out of her daughter’s request or because she herself has no idea what her child was saying, pronounces that her daughter is saying, “On Top of Old Smokey”.
The little girl will have none of it. This is obviously NOT what she wants to hear. Immediately she states, more clearly and loudly, that she is requesting Cowboy Brad to sing “Don’t Let Kitties Out”.
Without a moment’s hesitation Cowboy Brad responds, “Oh! We all know that one! Let’s see, it has three…no four…verses.” He then proceeds to sing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”, “The Alphabet Song”, and “Baa, Baa Black Sheep” followed by “Don’t let kitties, kitties out; don’t you let those kitties out…” to the same tune.
As an accommodating audience we all join in.
The four-year-old sitting almost right in front of us also provides quite a captivating show. At some point during the event, her mom hands her their digital camera. Watching the world through the screen on the back of the camera is just fascinating! After about five minutes, the girl figures out how to press the button to take a picture and proceeds to take pictures of the ground, the sky, her shoes, her shirt, a rock, and John (whom she is flirting with just a little bit). Most of these pictures are taken either right on top of the object or from a distance of about half an inch.
It is almost as entertaining to watch the girl’s parents reviewing her photography skills after they eventually reclaim the camera. I’m fairly certain most of the pictures were not kept for posterity, but it sure occupied a four-year-old for a good 15 minutes.
It wasn’t all fun and games with the kids, though. One boy, I’m guessing he was about six, must have had his hand in the air after every song for a good twenty minutes, ready with his request for Cowboy Brad. Unfortunately, the hour comes to an end, Cowboy Brad ends the show, and the little boy throws a fit that he did not get his turn to make a song request. The last time I see him, the boy is scrambling out of his mother’s arms and heading up to the CD table and Cowboy Brad, his hand still waving wildly in the air, no doubt ready to tell Cowboy Brad just what he wants him to sing.
One other totally unrelated incident I must share from our week in Colorado: the hairdryer.
While cleaning up breakfast one morning, my sister-in-law rounds the corner from the hallway with a stricken look on her face and announces, “The hairdryer fell into the toilet” followed immediately by, “What do I do?”
To my surprise she is obviously still alive and unharmed. Haven’t you been told all your life that if you drop the hairdryer in water (or even use the hairdryer too close to water) you will suffer a most unpleasant death by shock?
I have.
At least, that’s what I think of every time I dry my hair near a sink or toilet.
The bathroom we’re sharing in Colorado is the size of a matchbox, and with the toilet lid up there is definitely a great chance that a hairdryer that slips out of the hand could end up right in the toilet bowl.
To my relief, I see when I enter the bathroom that my sister-in-law has already boldly and quickly yanked the plug out of the socket. In this case, I’m fairly certain no harm can come from lifting the hairdryer out of the toilet.
This happens to be my mother-in-law’s hairdryer - a travel-sized appliance that she bought recently for a trip to Germany because it converts to two different voltages. Fancy.
Miraculously, after waiting a day for the hairdryer to completely dry out, we try it out just to see if it might still work, and it does!
My mother-in-law says she just might write a glowing review of the item for the company that makes it: dropped in the toilet while turned on and plugged in, but it continues to function!
Maybe all hairdryers are this impervious to water, but I don't recommend trying to find out.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Rocky Mountain Adventures
I believe I may begin making ice cubes in trays because the ice coming from our ice machine tastes bad. For those of you who know me, you know I do not take ice in my drinks…normally. I think the circumstances are now appropriate to drink beverages with ice. It may have something to do with the fact that over the last week in Colorado I became acclimated to temperatures that never rose higher than the 80-degree mark only to return to the humidity and consistently triple-digit temperatures that are summertime in Texas.
Yes, it has been difficult coming back to the realities of life: work; sweltering heat; flat, brown, treeless landscapes and all.
Estes Park was lovely. The view from the cabin we stayed in was great. Cooking our food rather than rushing around each night to get ready to go out to dinner was relaxing. The hikes we went on were beautiful.
In fact, as I looked back at our pictures today I begin to wonder if it might be possible that the photos are actually more superb than the views in real life. Nah. I think maybe the pictures are that much more perfect now that I am back home and far removed from mountains, trees, and running water (in the form of streams, rivers, and waterfalls…we do still have running water in our house – even in the kitchen sink).
After that long day of hiking to Black Lake, including the unsuccessful search for Blue Lake, we were going to take the day off but decided instead to take a shorter hike the following day. Rocky Mountain National Park and the surrounding forests are huge. I’m not a big fan of repeating hikes since life is short and I know there is so much more to be seen, but the Circle of Lakes is a beautiful place to hike and the round-trip distance is manageable and does not require an early morning start.
The early morning starts and I are not necessarily friends. We’re not enemies either. It’s more like a love-hate relationship. I’m not exactly a morning person, but then I also absolutely love admiring my surroundings and the beauty of nature in early morning light and the silence that accompanies the beginning of a new day. This is why one morning last week I accompanied my dear husband to Sprague Lake before the sun rose to watch the sunrise and experience alpenglow.
The Circle of Lakes trail was interesting to me this time because the first (and only other time) I hiked this trail it was cold, snowing, and the water was frozen.
Let’s compare and contrast. Here is the view of Emerald Lake in May of 2005:
And here is the view we enjoyed last week:
This short hike is much easier (and much shorter) in July.
Finally we take a day of rest, driving down to Glenn Haven for cinnamon rolls in the morning, and then driving up Fall River Road to the Alpine Visitor Center 12,000 feet above sea level. The view is stunning. And don’t you agree that this picture I took looks like it comes right from the Windows wallpaper that comes with your computer?
At this point, I feel I must admit that, contrary to my vows after Monday night’s YMCA program featuring the singers from South Dakota, I did indeed attend yet another YMCA program Wednesday evening: Cowboy Brad.
I also admit that I thoroughly enjoyed the performance consisting of Cowboy Brad and his guitar. He sounds just like John Denver, sings a lot of John Denver pieces, and even looks a bit like John Denver. I have a special place in my heart for John Denver because I grew up listening to his records (that’s right…records…from back in the day), and my sister and I would spin and dance around the room to John Denver’s music and voice.
The rest of the week consists of more hiking, both hikes I had not done previously: Lake Isabelle and Estes Cone. Lake Isabelle is actually in a national forest, not the Rocky Mountain National Park and the gate employees do not seem to be in the best of moods. First they ask if we have a national park pass (whish is irrelevant since this is a national forest, not a national park), then when we say we need to get a few more dollars out of the trunk to pay the forest fee they tell us we need to move forward to the pay booth right now while John’s mother is still trying to find the money in the trunk of the car. We decide to wait a few seconds for her to finish in the trunk before driving off. The man tells us we can’t just sit there without pulling up because he doesn’t want the line of cars to stick out in the road. (The road, as far as we can tell, is about two miles away from this pay booth, but whatever.)
Lake Isabelle was probably my favorite hike, while Estes Cone was my favorite destination of the week.
While eating lunch at Lake Isabelle, we are entertained by what we think is a beaver poking out of the huge rock we’re sitting on. At least, his head looks kind of like a beaver. However, later, he emerges fully from his home and his tail is definitely not that of a beaver. Perhaps he is a large marmot? I have never seen a marmot this large, but I suppose if people regularly eat on this particular rock, and the creature lives right here under the rock, then large quantities of human food could contribute to his (or her) size. We got some pretty good close-ups of the animal through the binoculars.
John would like me to inform everyone that Estes Cone is really a mountain. Mt. Estes Cone if you will. We would not want anyone to underestimate the steep, rocky hike or the extremely high elevations we climbed just because “mountain” is not in the name of Estes Cone. It is not the prettiest of hikes, but the view from the summit is worth every step.
Thus ends our week in Estes Park. The 15-hour drive back home was really not as long as we expected it to seem, even though the second audio book we listened to on our way home was not nearly as good as Endurance: Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage.
After a day filled with unpacking, laundry, cleaning, and catching up I am appreciating our trip to the mountains even more. Stay tuned for ramblings regarding the drive back.
Yes, it has been difficult coming back to the realities of life: work; sweltering heat; flat, brown, treeless landscapes and all.
Estes Park was lovely. The view from the cabin we stayed in was great. Cooking our food rather than rushing around each night to get ready to go out to dinner was relaxing. The hikes we went on were beautiful.
In fact, as I looked back at our pictures today I begin to wonder if it might be possible that the photos are actually more superb than the views in real life. Nah. I think maybe the pictures are that much more perfect now that I am back home and far removed from mountains, trees, and running water (in the form of streams, rivers, and waterfalls…we do still have running water in our house – even in the kitchen sink).
After that long day of hiking to Black Lake, including the unsuccessful search for Blue Lake, we were going to take the day off but decided instead to take a shorter hike the following day. Rocky Mountain National Park and the surrounding forests are huge. I’m not a big fan of repeating hikes since life is short and I know there is so much more to be seen, but the Circle of Lakes is a beautiful place to hike and the round-trip distance is manageable and does not require an early morning start.
The early morning starts and I are not necessarily friends. We’re not enemies either. It’s more like a love-hate relationship. I’m not exactly a morning person, but then I also absolutely love admiring my surroundings and the beauty of nature in early morning light and the silence that accompanies the beginning of a new day. This is why one morning last week I accompanied my dear husband to Sprague Lake before the sun rose to watch the sunrise and experience alpenglow.
The Circle of Lakes trail was interesting to me this time because the first (and only other time) I hiked this trail it was cold, snowing, and the water was frozen.
Let’s compare and contrast. Here is the view of Emerald Lake in May of 2005:
And here is the view we enjoyed last week:
This short hike is much easier (and much shorter) in July.
Finally we take a day of rest, driving down to Glenn Haven for cinnamon rolls in the morning, and then driving up Fall River Road to the Alpine Visitor Center 12,000 feet above sea level. The view is stunning. And don’t you agree that this picture I took looks like it comes right from the Windows wallpaper that comes with your computer?
At this point, I feel I must admit that, contrary to my vows after Monday night’s YMCA program featuring the singers from South Dakota, I did indeed attend yet another YMCA program Wednesday evening: Cowboy Brad.
I also admit that I thoroughly enjoyed the performance consisting of Cowboy Brad and his guitar. He sounds just like John Denver, sings a lot of John Denver pieces, and even looks a bit like John Denver. I have a special place in my heart for John Denver because I grew up listening to his records (that’s right…records…from back in the day), and my sister and I would spin and dance around the room to John Denver’s music and voice.
The rest of the week consists of more hiking, both hikes I had not done previously: Lake Isabelle and Estes Cone. Lake Isabelle is actually in a national forest, not the Rocky Mountain National Park and the gate employees do not seem to be in the best of moods. First they ask if we have a national park pass (whish is irrelevant since this is a national forest, not a national park), then when we say we need to get a few more dollars out of the trunk to pay the forest fee they tell us we need to move forward to the pay booth right now while John’s mother is still trying to find the money in the trunk of the car. We decide to wait a few seconds for her to finish in the trunk before driving off. The man tells us we can’t just sit there without pulling up because he doesn’t want the line of cars to stick out in the road. (The road, as far as we can tell, is about two miles away from this pay booth, but whatever.)
Lake Isabelle was probably my favorite hike, while Estes Cone was my favorite destination of the week.
While eating lunch at Lake Isabelle, we are entertained by what we think is a beaver poking out of the huge rock we’re sitting on. At least, his head looks kind of like a beaver. However, later, he emerges fully from his home and his tail is definitely not that of a beaver. Perhaps he is a large marmot? I have never seen a marmot this large, but I suppose if people regularly eat on this particular rock, and the creature lives right here under the rock, then large quantities of human food could contribute to his (or her) size. We got some pretty good close-ups of the animal through the binoculars.
John would like me to inform everyone that Estes Cone is really a mountain. Mt. Estes Cone if you will. We would not want anyone to underestimate the steep, rocky hike or the extremely high elevations we climbed just because “mountain” is not in the name of Estes Cone. It is not the prettiest of hikes, but the view from the summit is worth every step.
Thus ends our week in Estes Park. The 15-hour drive back home was really not as long as we expected it to seem, even though the second audio book we listened to on our way home was not nearly as good as Endurance: Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage.
After a day filled with unpacking, laundry, cleaning, and catching up I am appreciating our trip to the mountains even more. Stay tuned for ramblings regarding the drive back.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Reading in the car
While we're not all that excited about ending our vacation tomorrow, we're eagerly anticipating the book that we plan to start and finish during tomorrow's 16 hour drive. On the way up here, we listened to Endurance: Shackleton's Incredible Voyage, and thoroughly enjoyed it. It's the true story of Sir Ernest Shackleton's 1914 expedition to Antarctica that went terribly wrong. He and 27 other men ended up stranded for over a year and a half in the arctic waters of the Weddell Sea. This true story is both astonishing and inspirational, and is a testament to the capabilities of the human body and mind when put to the test. If you're looking for some good summer reading, pick this one up. Or, download it from Audible and listen to it on your next road trip.
Hiking Estes Cone today
While we're enjoying our last day in Colorado hiking Estes Cone, go to our Flickr site to see pictures and videos from this week. Erin will write again in a couple of days to fill you in on our adventures.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Bits & Pieces from Estes Park
We made it to Colorado. After a quick trip to visit some friends in Colorado Springs, we drove up to Estes Park where the in-laws have a cabin every summer.
Currently John is enjoying some almost-cooked brownies (we like them a little gooey) eaten with a knife because we seem to have depleted the stockpile of silverware and dishes during the course of this evening. (This may have something to do with the fact that John’s dad provided us all with a “pasta bar” for dinner – it’s always a production, requires the use of all cookware in the kitchen, and ends up being quite tasty.)
Though the cool air and general silence of the mountains is perfection, the dishwasher (yes, we have a dishwasher in our not-so-rustic cabin) is currently working overtime to correct the kitchen situation, and let’s just say it sounds like it’s about to take off every time we turn it on.
So far: we’ve eaten out on the porch for most meals while enjoying a fantastic view of the Rocky Mountains, taken two hikes (one to Ouzel Falls, another to Black Lake), done some reading in the chairs out on the front porch, taken two trips to the grocery store (yes, that’s two trips in two days), and attended a gospel quartet (that was actually a quintet) YMCA program.
If this post is random and makes no sense, that’s because I’m dead tired. I think we hiked about 11 miles today. The view was worth it as you can see below, but the trail was pretty rocky, and my feet still feel a little like Jell-O.
Currently John is enjoying some almost-cooked brownies (we like them a little gooey) eaten with a knife because we seem to have depleted the stockpile of silverware and dishes during the course of this evening. (This may have something to do with the fact that John’s dad provided us all with a “pasta bar” for dinner – it’s always a production, requires the use of all cookware in the kitchen, and ends up being quite tasty.)
Though the cool air and general silence of the mountains is perfection, the dishwasher (yes, we have a dishwasher in our not-so-rustic cabin) is currently working overtime to correct the kitchen situation, and let’s just say it sounds like it’s about to take off every time we turn it on.
So far: we’ve eaten out on the porch for most meals while enjoying a fantastic view of the Rocky Mountains, taken two hikes (one to Ouzel Falls, another to Black Lake), done some reading in the chairs out on the front porch, taken two trips to the grocery store (yes, that’s two trips in two days), and attended a gospel quartet (that was actually a quintet) YMCA program.
If this post is random and makes no sense, that’s because I’m dead tired. I think we hiked about 11 miles today. The view was worth it as you can see below, but the trail was pretty rocky, and my feet still feel a little like Jell-O.
Oh, and we also experienced "krummholz", a German word meaning "bent, twisted, crooked". In the subalpine area on mountains, there are areas of these densely packed, two-foot knarled, trees. After Black Lake, we tried to find Blue Lake, but we were unsuccessful at negotiating the krummholz by traversing the rocks (as described to us in our hiking book). There was no signage, and the krummholz got the better of us. We decided to turn around and make our way back before ever finding the elusive Blue Lake.
(There's my sister-in-law among the kummholz.)
I think that YMCA program last night with the gospel “quartet” (quintet) was my first and last YMCA program experience. The guys who sang hailed from South Dakota.
I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from South Dakota. I guess with the population that state boasts chances are slim that I would actually know anyone from that area of our country.
The “quartet” sang pretty well and was fairly entertaining as far as gospel quartets who drive all the way to Colorado from South Dakota to sing for probably a few hundred bucks go.
Mind you, I am still getting accustomed to the altitude here, and we hiked yesterday, so I was struggling to keep my eyes open during the hour-long concert.
During a rendition of “I’m Proud to Be an American”, in my tired state, I found it a little too funny when multiple audience members shot up out of their seats to stand at the line in the song that says, “And I’ll gladly stand up…” Ironically, no one stood up for any of the songs about Jesus. The whole religious/political/worshipping God/”worshipping” country dilemma is something I could write a separate blog about. But not today.
The low-point was probably after the “I’m Proud to Be an American” song when the lead singer announced that this is usually when they end their concert…selfishly I start having visions of bed…only to then comment, “But tonight, just for you all, we have two extra pieces we’re going to sing for you.” I managed to stay awake and still got to bed at a pretty early hour.
Oh, and also on the way back to the cabin we stopped by to borrow “National Park Monopoly” from the YMCA. Mostly just to accumulate a couple more dice so we have enough to play Farkel, but we also found it interesting to peruse the properties on the game board. While waiting for the employee to tape up the dilapidated Monopoly box, we found this sign:
Good to know. You know, in case the fire wood doesn’t burn the way we think it should, we’re stuck with it. Or if we don’t use all of it we’re just going to have to eat that $2 and leave some “free” firewood for the next cabin occupants.
And just to make everybody down in the Southern U.S. jealous: it’s in the 70’s here, and that’s about 30 degrees cooler than current Texas weather.
And here’s some of what we get to look at:
(There's my sister-in-law among the kummholz.)I think that YMCA program last night with the gospel “quartet” (quintet) was my first and last YMCA program experience. The guys who sang hailed from South Dakota.
I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from South Dakota. I guess with the population that state boasts chances are slim that I would actually know anyone from that area of our country.
The “quartet” sang pretty well and was fairly entertaining as far as gospel quartets who drive all the way to Colorado from South Dakota to sing for probably a few hundred bucks go.
Mind you, I am still getting accustomed to the altitude here, and we hiked yesterday, so I was struggling to keep my eyes open during the hour-long concert.
During a rendition of “I’m Proud to Be an American”, in my tired state, I found it a little too funny when multiple audience members shot up out of their seats to stand at the line in the song that says, “And I’ll gladly stand up…” Ironically, no one stood up for any of the songs about Jesus. The whole religious/political/worshipping God/”worshipping” country dilemma is something I could write a separate blog about. But not today.
The low-point was probably after the “I’m Proud to Be an American” song when the lead singer announced that this is usually when they end their concert…selfishly I start having visions of bed…only to then comment, “But tonight, just for you all, we have two extra pieces we’re going to sing for you.” I managed to stay awake and still got to bed at a pretty early hour.
Oh, and also on the way back to the cabin we stopped by to borrow “National Park Monopoly” from the YMCA. Mostly just to accumulate a couple more dice so we have enough to play Farkel, but we also found it interesting to peruse the properties on the game board. While waiting for the employee to tape up the dilapidated Monopoly box, we found this sign:
Good to know. You know, in case the fire wood doesn’t burn the way we think it should, we’re stuck with it. Or if we don’t use all of it we’re just going to have to eat that $2 and leave some “free” firewood for the next cabin occupants.And just to make everybody down in the Southern U.S. jealous: it’s in the 70’s here, and that’s about 30 degrees cooler than current Texas weather.
And here’s some of what we get to look at:
Thursday, July 17, 2008
[Insert Interesting Title Here]
This morning the kitchen sink broke.
Of course it broke. We’re about to leave on a vacation. The house knows when we’re preparing to travel because it seems to always choose those inopportune times to quit working in some way.
Sometimes the house knows before we even know. For instance, the year my grandfather died, the water heater started leaking all over the place about one day before we received the sad news that Grandpa had died and we would need to leave the state within four days or so to attend the funeral. (And it all got resolved before we left town.)
John was rinsing out his bowl this morning after breakfast when suddenly the water ceased pouring out of the kitchen faucet. He tried the hot water. Still nothing. His first suspicion was that a water main broke, but upon examination every other faucet in the house worked.
It turned out that even the dishwasher right next to the sink and the sprayer in the sink worked.
After an early morning call to my dad, we felt confident the problem had to be with the faucet itself, not the pipes or the stems, or the shut-off valves.
Of course, the easiest solution (taking the aerator off the end of the faucet to see if it was clogged up) did not resolve the issue.
Can I also just say that I went to bed very late last night because I kept hearing “something” rattling around in our house? I was having flashbacks of mice in the kitchen in Amsterdam, but even though I made John get up, turn on all the lights in the house and search for critters, we were unable to find the source of the noise.
Then the lights went off again, John got back in bed, and I heard the noise…again. And I was almost certain I faintly smelled something burning. John said he did too, but he may have just been trying to make me feel a little less paranoid. (It didn’t work, by the way. I felt terribly paranoid and a bit crazy.) We couldn’t determine the origin of the smell either.
I think I fell asleep an hour later. Thus, I am not in the best of moods to deal with the broken kitchen sink faucet.
After John left for work I discovered the critter making all the noise last night.
Don’t worry, it’s not horrendous. It was some strange bug that I think is supposed to fly (thank goodness it was dying and incapable of soaring through the air around my head!), but was injured to such a degree that it was simply jumping around the hall bathroom. I smacked it with a shoe (John’s…ssshhhh, don’t tell him) and disposed of it.
And to my relief I finally got ahold of my in-laws’ “guy” to come fix the faucet this evening. Which he did, in a matter of ten minutes. The explanation I got was that the valve that lets water, hot or cold, into the faucet had a build-up of calcium and other debris preventing the water from getting through. It works now.
What with all the trip preparations, it may be a while until the next post. I know two of you may be disappointed, so I apologize.
Do have a nice weekend!
Of course it broke. We’re about to leave on a vacation. The house knows when we’re preparing to travel because it seems to always choose those inopportune times to quit working in some way.
Sometimes the house knows before we even know. For instance, the year my grandfather died, the water heater started leaking all over the place about one day before we received the sad news that Grandpa had died and we would need to leave the state within four days or so to attend the funeral. (And it all got resolved before we left town.)
John was rinsing out his bowl this morning after breakfast when suddenly the water ceased pouring out of the kitchen faucet. He tried the hot water. Still nothing. His first suspicion was that a water main broke, but upon examination every other faucet in the house worked.
It turned out that even the dishwasher right next to the sink and the sprayer in the sink worked.
After an early morning call to my dad, we felt confident the problem had to be with the faucet itself, not the pipes or the stems, or the shut-off valves.
Of course, the easiest solution (taking the aerator off the end of the faucet to see if it was clogged up) did not resolve the issue.
Can I also just say that I went to bed very late last night because I kept hearing “something” rattling around in our house? I was having flashbacks of mice in the kitchen in Amsterdam, but even though I made John get up, turn on all the lights in the house and search for critters, we were unable to find the source of the noise.
Then the lights went off again, John got back in bed, and I heard the noise…again. And I was almost certain I faintly smelled something burning. John said he did too, but he may have just been trying to make me feel a little less paranoid. (It didn’t work, by the way. I felt terribly paranoid and a bit crazy.) We couldn’t determine the origin of the smell either.
I think I fell asleep an hour later. Thus, I am not in the best of moods to deal with the broken kitchen sink faucet.
After John left for work I discovered the critter making all the noise last night.
Don’t worry, it’s not horrendous. It was some strange bug that I think is supposed to fly (thank goodness it was dying and incapable of soaring through the air around my head!), but was injured to such a degree that it was simply jumping around the hall bathroom. I smacked it with a shoe (John’s…ssshhhh, don’t tell him) and disposed of it.
And to my relief I finally got ahold of my in-laws’ “guy” to come fix the faucet this evening. Which he did, in a matter of ten minutes. The explanation I got was that the valve that lets water, hot or cold, into the faucet had a build-up of calcium and other debris preventing the water from getting through. It works now.
What with all the trip preparations, it may be a while until the next post. I know two of you may be disappointed, so I apologize.
Do have a nice weekend!
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Complex Simplicity
I’ve felt a little puny today – sore throat, headache, and all – so today’s post is more a comment on another blog than it is any original, thoughtful prose.
Shaun Groves is lamenting the fact that, after visiting the Dominican Republic to see first-hand the horrific work conditions for adults and children who make all the clothes we buy and are wearing in this country, finding fair trade items of clothing that fit and are reasonably priced is turning out to be quite the challenge.
So, just for the heck of it, I decided to do a little googling to see if it is possible to find fair trade clothing…in my size.
If you will become offended or defensive reading about the trials and tribulations of skinny, short people, you can stop reading this post right now. Come back tomorrow.
I’m serious. The sore throat is not making me very diplomatic tonight.
I already dread shopping. I rarely do it. It makes me tired and gives me a headache. I admit that part of the dislike stems from having to spend money.
Usually I end up having to spend much more money than I assume “normal” people could spend on apparel because I wear small petite sizes. Even many stores that carry “petite” do not carry sizes that will fit me. And now that the general population of the world seems to be getting larger, sizes have changed. The number says it will fit me, but the clothing is getting bigger.
I’m sure most people are delighted that they can now buy clothing in one or two sizes smaller without having to do anything themselves. I, on the other hand, have nightmares that someday I will not be able to find any garments that fit me anywhere unless companies start making negative sizes.
I know there are others out there with these same issues. I’m guessing a lot of them are of Asian descent. For a brief period of time we considered moving to Singapore where one of the absolute most positive things I was looking forward to was being able to go shopping and find clothing in my size.
So, I discovered there are indeed stores, online and in real life, that carry fair trade and organic brand attire. However, the only store I found that carries items in petite sizes only sells a variety of clothing that looks like potato sacks: tunics, shawls, ponchos, large, loose-fitting shirts, vests.
Don’t ask me why I even tried to research fair-trade petite apparel; it’s making my headache worse.
Just for the record, the only clothing-related issue Shaun has is his tall height and even he is having trouble finding some fair-trade jeans. And he can buy regular jeans at Target if he wants; I cannot.
Let it be known that my desire is to buy fair-trade items. The complexity and near impossibility of this undertaking is mind-boggling.
Shaun Groves is lamenting the fact that, after visiting the Dominican Republic to see first-hand the horrific work conditions for adults and children who make all the clothes we buy and are wearing in this country, finding fair trade items of clothing that fit and are reasonably priced is turning out to be quite the challenge.
So, just for the heck of it, I decided to do a little googling to see if it is possible to find fair trade clothing…in my size.
If you will become offended or defensive reading about the trials and tribulations of skinny, short people, you can stop reading this post right now. Come back tomorrow.
I’m serious. The sore throat is not making me very diplomatic tonight.
I already dread shopping. I rarely do it. It makes me tired and gives me a headache. I admit that part of the dislike stems from having to spend money.
Usually I end up having to spend much more money than I assume “normal” people could spend on apparel because I wear small petite sizes. Even many stores that carry “petite” do not carry sizes that will fit me. And now that the general population of the world seems to be getting larger, sizes have changed. The number says it will fit me, but the clothing is getting bigger.
I’m sure most people are delighted that they can now buy clothing in one or two sizes smaller without having to do anything themselves. I, on the other hand, have nightmares that someday I will not be able to find any garments that fit me anywhere unless companies start making negative sizes.
I know there are others out there with these same issues. I’m guessing a lot of them are of Asian descent. For a brief period of time we considered moving to Singapore where one of the absolute most positive things I was looking forward to was being able to go shopping and find clothing in my size.
So, I discovered there are indeed stores, online and in real life, that carry fair trade and organic brand attire. However, the only store I found that carries items in petite sizes only sells a variety of clothing that looks like potato sacks: tunics, shawls, ponchos, large, loose-fitting shirts, vests.
Don’t ask me why I even tried to research fair-trade petite apparel; it’s making my headache worse.
Just for the record, the only clothing-related issue Shaun has is his tall height and even he is having trouble finding some fair-trade jeans. And he can buy regular jeans at Target if he wants; I cannot.
Let it be known that my desire is to buy fair-trade items. The complexity and near impossibility of this undertaking is mind-boggling.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Don't tell me my grass is too tall and I can't park on the street.
I attended another neighborhood association meeting last night. This association just got started in or around April. We don’t live in a fancy neighborhood with a mandatory association (and John vows we never will), so this is all voluntary.
We voluntarily went to the first interest meeting, voluntarily paid a whopping $20 for the yearly fee, and now voluntarily are on the membership and welcoming committee (even though neither of us remembers “volunteering” for this particular committee and there is currently no funding for the welcoming committee to offer new neighbors a gift of any sort on behalf of the neighborhood association).
Come to think of it, my few attempts to lure neighbors to meetings or become a card-carrying member of the neighborhood association have utterly and miserably failed.
I shall not dwell on that right now.
The entire meeting last night culminated in one burning question, that perhaps should have been addressed back in April, or even before a first general meeting of the ‘hood was called: what is the one focus and goal of our neighborhood association?
We do not have any brilliant entrances to the neighborhood ensconced in bronze signage, brick walls, or flowering plant life.
There are no community parks or other common areas to beautify with state-of-the-art playground equipment, fountains that will inevitably quit working after only a year, or doggie-only areas in which to meet other friendly canine owners (oh, wait…that doesn’t technically fall into the “beautify” category).
Finally, regardless of the fact that 80 percent of EVERY meeting I have attended centers around reports of crime, rumors of crime, suspicions of crime, or tales of crimes long past, the neighborhood association is not a crime-stoppers group or the city code enforcement agency.
So, what do we do? Why are we here?
The answer, very simply: to party.
(I have a sneaking suspicion some of the elderly folks who joined the association so they could start carrying around a notepad to keep track of all the code violations and report those ghastly overhanging tree limbs and annoying barking dogs to the city all in the name of the neighborhood association are now crestfallen.)
(Good news, folks. As a citizen of this city, you can turn your neighbor into the code compliance department ANY TIME YOU PLEASE, with or without a neighborhood association. Just don’t expect to make many friends.)
I have a feeling my job on the membership committee just got easier.
“Hi, want to join the neighborhood association? For just $20 a year for an entire family you can party all year round!”
Everybody likes a party, right?
So, now that our goal is clear, we will meet next month with renewed enthusiasm. What sort of soiree will we hold? Where can the happy event take place? How will we feed an entire neighborhood on a budget of approximately $150? Most importantly, will there be a bounce house involved?
It turns out our neighborhood association will be mostly a social club. Pretty fun and low key on the surface, right? In my deep pondering after last night’s meetings, I have come to the conclusion that perhaps with “party” as the goal of the association, serious results will ensue. I believe it goes something like this:
Party; get to know your neighbors; learn their names, how long they’ve lived here, who their kids are.
People of different income levels and ethnicities start interacting at the party.
Start going outside a little more because you know more people and knowledge makes you comfortable.
Notice when new people move in or attend a party…or don’t attend the party.
The gangs, drug-dealers, and criminals move out…or don’t move in. (Not that we have a real problem with this in our neighborhood, but let’s not be naïve. I know some of it is out there.)
OK, maybe it’s a stretch. I’m not saying this will happen overnight.
It’ll just take lots and lots of parties.
No problem. That’s what the neighborhood association is all about.
We voluntarily went to the first interest meeting, voluntarily paid a whopping $20 for the yearly fee, and now voluntarily are on the membership and welcoming committee (even though neither of us remembers “volunteering” for this particular committee and there is currently no funding for the welcoming committee to offer new neighbors a gift of any sort on behalf of the neighborhood association).
Come to think of it, my few attempts to lure neighbors to meetings or become a card-carrying member of the neighborhood association have utterly and miserably failed.
I shall not dwell on that right now.
The entire meeting last night culminated in one burning question, that perhaps should have been addressed back in April, or even before a first general meeting of the ‘hood was called: what is the one focus and goal of our neighborhood association?
We do not have any brilliant entrances to the neighborhood ensconced in bronze signage, brick walls, or flowering plant life.
There are no community parks or other common areas to beautify with state-of-the-art playground equipment, fountains that will inevitably quit working after only a year, or doggie-only areas in which to meet other friendly canine owners (oh, wait…that doesn’t technically fall into the “beautify” category).
Finally, regardless of the fact that 80 percent of EVERY meeting I have attended centers around reports of crime, rumors of crime, suspicions of crime, or tales of crimes long past, the neighborhood association is not a crime-stoppers group or the city code enforcement agency.
So, what do we do? Why are we here?
The answer, very simply: to party.
(I have a sneaking suspicion some of the elderly folks who joined the association so they could start carrying around a notepad to keep track of all the code violations and report those ghastly overhanging tree limbs and annoying barking dogs to the city all in the name of the neighborhood association are now crestfallen.)
(Good news, folks. As a citizen of this city, you can turn your neighbor into the code compliance department ANY TIME YOU PLEASE, with or without a neighborhood association. Just don’t expect to make many friends.)
I have a feeling my job on the membership committee just got easier.
“Hi, want to join the neighborhood association? For just $20 a year for an entire family you can party all year round!”
Everybody likes a party, right?
So, now that our goal is clear, we will meet next month with renewed enthusiasm. What sort of soiree will we hold? Where can the happy event take place? How will we feed an entire neighborhood on a budget of approximately $150? Most importantly, will there be a bounce house involved?
It turns out our neighborhood association will be mostly a social club. Pretty fun and low key on the surface, right? In my deep pondering after last night’s meetings, I have come to the conclusion that perhaps with “party” as the goal of the association, serious results will ensue. I believe it goes something like this:
Party; get to know your neighbors; learn their names, how long they’ve lived here, who their kids are.
People of different income levels and ethnicities start interacting at the party.
Start going outside a little more because you know more people and knowledge makes you comfortable.
Notice when new people move in or attend a party…or don’t attend the party.
The gangs, drug-dealers, and criminals move out…or don’t move in. (Not that we have a real problem with this in our neighborhood, but let’s not be naïve. I know some of it is out there.)
OK, maybe it’s a stretch. I’m not saying this will happen overnight.
It’ll just take lots and lots of parties.
No problem. That’s what the neighborhood association is all about.
Monday, July 14, 2008
This Old House
We have lived in this house for six and a half years. Well, more or less. We did take a leave of absence for a year and a half, so I guess that means we’ve only physically lived here for five years.
In any case, John decided he would clean out and organize the garage this weekend for the first time…ever.
(Meanwhile, I was in the house thoroughly scrubbing down the kitchen counters with a bit of Borax in an attempt to ward off cockroaches.)
After only a short time, I decided we should take some pictures of the garage cleaning and here’s what I saw:
Unfortunately I did not get a before picture of the closet in the garage. That’s what John decided to tackle first. Later this month I will post before and after pictures as part of Boo Mama’s Before and After. And, yes. I know cleaning the garage wasn’t on my to-do list, and technically my husband is the one cleaning it, but I think his efforts should be documented for the entire internet to see.
What I really want to relate today is the interesting finds we discovered in our garage. The one we’ve had for six and a half years.
First, there is the bag of doorknobs.
I think we knew about the plethora of random, mostly used, doorknobs, but we never actually pulled them all out of the garage closet. In fact, I’m pretty sure we initially glanced at the doorknobs, thought, “Do we need to replace any of the old doorknobs in our house with even older, dirtier doorknobs?” and decided, “Nope. Not today.” Then we pushed the doorknobs and the bag containing them to the far back corner of a shelf in the garage closet.
It turns out the bag in which the doorknobs have been housed is this:
Now, John has long told me tales of grocery shopping as a boy with his mom at the Skaggs Alpha Beta. I, in turn, have always laughed and told him what a ridiculous name for a grocery store, or really any store, this name is. Skaggs Alpha Beta? What is that? Does it mean something? Who would even dream up a name like this?
(John also insists that shopping carts are “buggies” while clearly I prefer the term “shopping cart”, or just "cart". That’s an entirely different issue, though it always seems to come up with the Skaggs Alpha Beta topic.)
Obviously I did not grow up in or near the Dallas area. To be fair, I suppose Piggly Wiggly is a strange name for a grocery store as well. But really, hasn’t everyone heard of Piggly Wiggly? Who’s heard of Skaggs Alpha Beta?
So, now I have proof in the form of a 20 year-old plastic shopping bag that Skaggs Alpha Beta was indeed a grocery store. And, judging by the picture, a pharmacy as well. (Yes, it has to be at least 20 years old because I believe Skaggs Alpha Beta was bought by some other company in 1988. My husband corroborates this information.)
The other odd discovery was the “secret shelf” in the garage closet. All the shelves (that we have seen and used) are metal. At the very top of the closet, noticeable only when you tilt the top metal shelf up or down, is a wooden board shelf. This shelf is about 12 feet high. It is waaaaaay up in the closet which apparently goes clear up to almost the roof of the house. In fact, this is the only picture I could get of this anomaly:
I know. It’s not very instructional. It was quite difficult to take a picture of something that high up in the closet.
Beyond discovering the “secret shelf”, we were even more perplexed by what we found residing on the “secret shelf”:
Uh-huh.
These shutters/blinds are stained the same color as the wood paneling we took down in our family room. However, we have no windows or opening in our entire house that are the correct size to fit these shutters. We are clueless as to what these would have ever been used for.
I probably don’t even need to say it, but these things are ugly. Granted, the fabric is faded and the shutters are tremendously dirty and dusty, but even cleaned up they would be ugly. I’m assuming the previous owners of the house thought so too, because they relegated them to the “secret shelf” – maybe about the same time as the doorknobs in the Skaggs Alpha Beta bag. Or, considering how old this house is, they could have been on that shelf for 40 years or more.
This makes us wonder what other secrets lurk in closets we’ve never taken the time to thoroughly examine or the attic, where we definitely don’t spend more than five minutes at a time.
John had to abandon the garage clean-up to attend a cousin’s birthday party, so he will finish at a later date. (And now that I’ve posted this on the blog, you can all hold him accountable!) I will keep you updated on what other goodies from bygone eras our garage holds in store.
In any case, John decided he would clean out and organize the garage this weekend for the first time…ever.
(Meanwhile, I was in the house thoroughly scrubbing down the kitchen counters with a bit of Borax in an attempt to ward off cockroaches.)
After only a short time, I decided we should take some pictures of the garage cleaning and here’s what I saw:
Unfortunately I did not get a before picture of the closet in the garage. That’s what John decided to tackle first. Later this month I will post before and after pictures as part of Boo Mama’s Before and After. And, yes. I know cleaning the garage wasn’t on my to-do list, and technically my husband is the one cleaning it, but I think his efforts should be documented for the entire internet to see.
What I really want to relate today is the interesting finds we discovered in our garage. The one we’ve had for six and a half years.
First, there is the bag of doorknobs.
I think we knew about the plethora of random, mostly used, doorknobs, but we never actually pulled them all out of the garage closet. In fact, I’m pretty sure we initially glanced at the doorknobs, thought, “Do we need to replace any of the old doorknobs in our house with even older, dirtier doorknobs?” and decided, “Nope. Not today.” Then we pushed the doorknobs and the bag containing them to the far back corner of a shelf in the garage closet.
It turns out the bag in which the doorknobs have been housed is this:
Now, John has long told me tales of grocery shopping as a boy with his mom at the Skaggs Alpha Beta. I, in turn, have always laughed and told him what a ridiculous name for a grocery store, or really any store, this name is. Skaggs Alpha Beta? What is that? Does it mean something? Who would even dream up a name like this?
(John also insists that shopping carts are “buggies” while clearly I prefer the term “shopping cart”, or just "cart". That’s an entirely different issue, though it always seems to come up with the Skaggs Alpha Beta topic.)
Obviously I did not grow up in or near the Dallas area. To be fair, I suppose Piggly Wiggly is a strange name for a grocery store as well. But really, hasn’t everyone heard of Piggly Wiggly? Who’s heard of Skaggs Alpha Beta?
So, now I have proof in the form of a 20 year-old plastic shopping bag that Skaggs Alpha Beta was indeed a grocery store. And, judging by the picture, a pharmacy as well. (Yes, it has to be at least 20 years old because I believe Skaggs Alpha Beta was bought by some other company in 1988. My husband corroborates this information.)
The other odd discovery was the “secret shelf” in the garage closet. All the shelves (that we have seen and used) are metal. At the very top of the closet, noticeable only when you tilt the top metal shelf up or down, is a wooden board shelf. This shelf is about 12 feet high. It is waaaaaay up in the closet which apparently goes clear up to almost the roof of the house. In fact, this is the only picture I could get of this anomaly:
I know. It’s not very instructional. It was quite difficult to take a picture of something that high up in the closet.
Beyond discovering the “secret shelf”, we were even more perplexed by what we found residing on the “secret shelf”:
Uh-huh.
These shutters/blinds are stained the same color as the wood paneling we took down in our family room. However, we have no windows or opening in our entire house that are the correct size to fit these shutters. We are clueless as to what these would have ever been used for.
I probably don’t even need to say it, but these things are ugly. Granted, the fabric is faded and the shutters are tremendously dirty and dusty, but even cleaned up they would be ugly. I’m assuming the previous owners of the house thought so too, because they relegated them to the “secret shelf” – maybe about the same time as the doorknobs in the Skaggs Alpha Beta bag. Or, considering how old this house is, they could have been on that shelf for 40 years or more.
This makes us wonder what other secrets lurk in closets we’ve never taken the time to thoroughly examine or the attic, where we definitely don’t spend more than five minutes at a time.
John had to abandon the garage clean-up to attend a cousin’s birthday party, so he will finish at a later date. (And now that I’ve posted this on the blog, you can all hold him accountable!) I will keep you updated on what other goodies from bygone eras our garage holds in store.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
My Rant on Roaches
Warning: This post is not for the weak of stomach or easily disgusted.
Keep in mind, we live in Texas where the cockroaches are the size of small dogs. Oh yeah, and they fly.
I abhor roaches. There is no other way to say it. I could fill this whole page up with a devotional on my hatred of roaches and it still would not come close the disgust and horror that fills me when I see one in or near my house.
So, several months ago I am showering before bed. I reach out to grab my towel and begin drying myself off when I think I feel something scratchy rub my arm. I am immediately filled with a sense of dread followed by the most rational thought that it must be a tag on the towel or something equally mundane. This thought process takes place over a matter of about half a second, because even my reasoning doesn’t lift the queasy feeling in my stomach.
I quickly hold the towel as far away from me as possible, and what do I see but a gigantic cockroach crawling around on my bath towel! As I am screaming bloody murder and jumping up and down like a mad woman, I fling the cursed insect across the bathroom (our bathroom is the size of a small elevator, so this is of little comfort). Immediately I start yelling for John at the top of my lungs. He is, after all, only lying in bed in the next room, but I need to make sure he understands the urgency of the situation.
I hear John jump out of bed all the while yelling at me, “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? What happened? Who’s there?” I hysterically scream something like, “ROACH! ROACH! IT WAS ON ME! KILL IT! QUICK!”
While I am trying to decide how to extricate my nude self from the bathroom while avoiding the roach and at the same time not letting it disappear because vengeance is clearly necessary, John mutters something about going to get a fly swatter.
A fly swatter! He would have to go all the way to the other side of the house for this instrument when clearly a sturdy shoe right out of his closet would be more appropriate. I probably shout something of this nature, though I’m much too horrified by the incident and the live cockroach in my bathroom to clearly remember anything else.
John grabs a shoe, obliterates the roach, and then informs me that screaming bloody murder as he is falling asleep is to be reserved for intruders wielding axes or guns. I disagree. Cockroaches, especially ones touching my person, are on par with intruders, weapons or no weapons.
Needless to say, for about four days I had heart palpitations and sweaty hands every time I entered the shower. Months later I still take my towel off the rack and shake it vigorously before getting it anywhere near my body.
In the past week, I have noticed at some point during my showers there ends up being one or two baby, teeny tiny, roaches hanging out in a corner or two of the shower stall. These I can handle promptly with a wad of toilet paper. However, I am disturbed that a whole nest of these creatures must be lurking in our shower walls or underneath the shower floor. Clearly the bait traps we set out after the unfortunate towel incident are not doing the job!
And, by the way, I have a love/hate relationship with the bait traps. In the past, they always seemed to make the roaches disappear, at least from my view. Eventually. The trouble is that while the baits are fresh, I have to deal with roaches being lured out of hiding to come visit the bait traps.
And I’m starting to think that, unless the roaches are wise to the fact that if I see them they will die thus they need to come out to eat the bait while I am either asleep or away, the roaches will never get back to their nest with the bait, because I cannot see a roach and allow it to continue on its merry way. That’s just nonsense.
Maybe I will start placing a bait trap in the shower during the day when it is not in use. Then, hopefully, the roaches will not have to travel too far into the public eye to be poisoned.
Ugh. I hate roaches.
It’s a battle at our house.
And I won’t even get into the wasps that I suspect are living under the siding under the eaves on our back patio. Other than calling an exterminator, which I have been forbidden to do, I have no other ideas to resolve the problem. I am sure not tearing the siding down myself to be swarmed by wasps. But, that’s another post.
Keep in mind, we live in Texas where the cockroaches are the size of small dogs. Oh yeah, and they fly.
I abhor roaches. There is no other way to say it. I could fill this whole page up with a devotional on my hatred of roaches and it still would not come close the disgust and horror that fills me when I see one in or near my house.
So, several months ago I am showering before bed. I reach out to grab my towel and begin drying myself off when I think I feel something scratchy rub my arm. I am immediately filled with a sense of dread followed by the most rational thought that it must be a tag on the towel or something equally mundane. This thought process takes place over a matter of about half a second, because even my reasoning doesn’t lift the queasy feeling in my stomach.
I quickly hold the towel as far away from me as possible, and what do I see but a gigantic cockroach crawling around on my bath towel! As I am screaming bloody murder and jumping up and down like a mad woman, I fling the cursed insect across the bathroom (our bathroom is the size of a small elevator, so this is of little comfort). Immediately I start yelling for John at the top of my lungs. He is, after all, only lying in bed in the next room, but I need to make sure he understands the urgency of the situation.
I hear John jump out of bed all the while yelling at me, “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? What happened? Who’s there?” I hysterically scream something like, “ROACH! ROACH! IT WAS ON ME! KILL IT! QUICK!”
While I am trying to decide how to extricate my nude self from the bathroom while avoiding the roach and at the same time not letting it disappear because vengeance is clearly necessary, John mutters something about going to get a fly swatter.
A fly swatter! He would have to go all the way to the other side of the house for this instrument when clearly a sturdy shoe right out of his closet would be more appropriate. I probably shout something of this nature, though I’m much too horrified by the incident and the live cockroach in my bathroom to clearly remember anything else.
John grabs a shoe, obliterates the roach, and then informs me that screaming bloody murder as he is falling asleep is to be reserved for intruders wielding axes or guns. I disagree. Cockroaches, especially ones touching my person, are on par with intruders, weapons or no weapons.
Needless to say, for about four days I had heart palpitations and sweaty hands every time I entered the shower. Months later I still take my towel off the rack and shake it vigorously before getting it anywhere near my body.
In the past week, I have noticed at some point during my showers there ends up being one or two baby, teeny tiny, roaches hanging out in a corner or two of the shower stall. These I can handle promptly with a wad of toilet paper. However, I am disturbed that a whole nest of these creatures must be lurking in our shower walls or underneath the shower floor. Clearly the bait traps we set out after the unfortunate towel incident are not doing the job!
And, by the way, I have a love/hate relationship with the bait traps. In the past, they always seemed to make the roaches disappear, at least from my view. Eventually. The trouble is that while the baits are fresh, I have to deal with roaches being lured out of hiding to come visit the bait traps.
And I’m starting to think that, unless the roaches are wise to the fact that if I see them they will die thus they need to come out to eat the bait while I am either asleep or away, the roaches will never get back to their nest with the bait, because I cannot see a roach and allow it to continue on its merry way. That’s just nonsense.
Maybe I will start placing a bait trap in the shower during the day when it is not in use. Then, hopefully, the roaches will not have to travel too far into the public eye to be poisoned.
Ugh. I hate roaches.
It’s a battle at our house.
And I won’t even get into the wasps that I suspect are living under the siding under the eaves on our back patio. Other than calling an exterminator, which I have been forbidden to do, I have no other ideas to resolve the problem. I am sure not tearing the siding down myself to be swarmed by wasps. But, that’s another post.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Resorting to the Dregs of Reality Television
Confession: I have been watching The Bachelorette this season.
Perhaps even more upsetting is that I am going to write a post about it. Oh, life is exciting!
(And this blog, by the way, will not be a spoiler for those of you who have not yet, but will in the future, watch last night’s episode to see who the bachelorette chose. Although, this post may betray the outcome of engagement/no engagement. I just won’t say who she picked.)
As we all know, it was “the most dramatic season finale ever”…as usual. John was watching a lot of the show with me and offering his ever-creative, comedic, if slightly sarcastic, commentary during the entire episode.
In the After-Show show, Chris, the host, spent the entire hour before every commercial break telling us that the bachelorette and her intended were going to reveal a “big surprise”. Finally, John decided he knew what the surprise was going to be.
In his words:
“I know! She’s pregnant! With the runner-up’s baby! And Chris is going to be the next Jerry Springer! Just wait…there’s about to be big body-guards dressed in black coming onstage to deal with the bedlam.”
In the end, the “big announcement” wasn’t much of a surprise to me. I mean, the bachelorette and her chosen are engaged. Usually that means you will be getting married. Why is it such a big deal to announce, after you are already engaged and wearing the big diamond ring, that you plan to marry? What else would it mean to be engaged?
(I’m sorry if this “big announcement” is a spoiler for you. Look up the definition of “engaged”. It means “pledged to be married”.)
So, no outrageous drama. No body guards. And I guess Chris will continue to simply be a reality television host.
Another random comment - the last bachelor, the British guy, and his “beloved” came on the show for a little interview. Was it just me, or did it seem to anyone else that they were less than thrilled as they watched clips of their engagement? Did anyone else think they seemed very strained and vague in their answers?
Since I think there’s like a 1% success rate for people on this show actually getting married, can I just say right now that I predict the British guy and the American actress will not ever get married? OK. You read it first here.
And a quick note to all these people who “fall in love” during a 16-week TV show: once the show is over, no cameras will follow you around your house night and day, and for sure no one will be paying for you to take dates in helicopters, in the Bahamas, or in the ocean deep sea diving with sharks. I hope you’re alright with a movie from Netflicks and dinner at Taco Cabana.
Don’t get me wrong. Netflicks and Taco Cabana suit me just fine. It is, after all, who you’re with and not how much money is being spent.
And I wouldn’t trade my crazy, exaggerating, highly comical husband for all the trips to the Bahamas in the world.
Perhaps even more upsetting is that I am going to write a post about it. Oh, life is exciting!
(And this blog, by the way, will not be a spoiler for those of you who have not yet, but will in the future, watch last night’s episode to see who the bachelorette chose. Although, this post may betray the outcome of engagement/no engagement. I just won’t say who she picked.)
As we all know, it was “the most dramatic season finale ever”…as usual. John was watching a lot of the show with me and offering his ever-creative, comedic, if slightly sarcastic, commentary during the entire episode.
In the After-Show show, Chris, the host, spent the entire hour before every commercial break telling us that the bachelorette and her intended were going to reveal a “big surprise”. Finally, John decided he knew what the surprise was going to be.
In his words:
“I know! She’s pregnant! With the runner-up’s baby! And Chris is going to be the next Jerry Springer! Just wait…there’s about to be big body-guards dressed in black coming onstage to deal with the bedlam.”
In the end, the “big announcement” wasn’t much of a surprise to me. I mean, the bachelorette and her chosen are engaged. Usually that means you will be getting married. Why is it such a big deal to announce, after you are already engaged and wearing the big diamond ring, that you plan to marry? What else would it mean to be engaged?
(I’m sorry if this “big announcement” is a spoiler for you. Look up the definition of “engaged”. It means “pledged to be married”.)
So, no outrageous drama. No body guards. And I guess Chris will continue to simply be a reality television host.
Another random comment - the last bachelor, the British guy, and his “beloved” came on the show for a little interview. Was it just me, or did it seem to anyone else that they were less than thrilled as they watched clips of their engagement? Did anyone else think they seemed very strained and vague in their answers?
Since I think there’s like a 1% success rate for people on this show actually getting married, can I just say right now that I predict the British guy and the American actress will not ever get married? OK. You read it first here.
And a quick note to all these people who “fall in love” during a 16-week TV show: once the show is over, no cameras will follow you around your house night and day, and for sure no one will be paying for you to take dates in helicopters, in the Bahamas, or in the ocean deep sea diving with sharks. I hope you’re alright with a movie from Netflicks and dinner at Taco Cabana.
Don’t get me wrong. Netflicks and Taco Cabana suit me just fine. It is, after all, who you’re with and not how much money is being spent.
And I wouldn’t trade my crazy, exaggerating, highly comical husband for all the trips to the Bahamas in the world.
Monday, July 07, 2008
The Picture Atop This Page...
We'll be there in two weeks.
Rocky Mountain National Park.
That picture was taken on the only hike we got to do when we went last year. Due to unfortunate circumstances (like a sweet nephew being born four months early), we didn't get to stay in Colorado longer than a few days, and a couple of those days were fraught with many tears and much anxiety over what was happening in a hospital back in Texas.
We hope to stay a bit longer this year to really relax, enjoy nature, and relish the cooler temperatures.
One teensy problem hangs over my head.
Upon arriving in the higher Colorado elevations I become ill for several days. Headaches, fatigue, nausea. It's not very fun.
Now, I'm not entirely certain whether this has more to do with altitude or with some horrendous mutant allergen that resides in Colorado in the summer waiting to attack me upon arrival.
I've taken allergy medication; it hasn't seemed to help much. I also make sure to drink plenty of water, which is pretty easy since I always drink lots of water; that too seems to have no effect.
If any of you out there have any other suggestions or magic tricks that might help me be able to enjoy the vacation for the duration, rather than having to wait until the last two days we're there to feel good, please feel free to leave a comment. I am taking all and any ideas.
Two weeks!
Rocky Mountain National Park.
That picture was taken on the only hike we got to do when we went last year. Due to unfortunate circumstances (like a sweet nephew being born four months early), we didn't get to stay in Colorado longer than a few days, and a couple of those days were fraught with many tears and much anxiety over what was happening in a hospital back in Texas.
We hope to stay a bit longer this year to really relax, enjoy nature, and relish the cooler temperatures.
One teensy problem hangs over my head.
Upon arriving in the higher Colorado elevations I become ill for several days. Headaches, fatigue, nausea. It's not very fun.
Now, I'm not entirely certain whether this has more to do with altitude or with some horrendous mutant allergen that resides in Colorado in the summer waiting to attack me upon arrival.
I've taken allergy medication; it hasn't seemed to help much. I also make sure to drink plenty of water, which is pretty easy since I always drink lots of water; that too seems to have no effect.
If any of you out there have any other suggestions or magic tricks that might help me be able to enjoy the vacation for the duration, rather than having to wait until the last two days we're there to feel good, please feel free to leave a comment. I am taking all and any ideas.
Two weeks!
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Wow!
Going to see fireworks on the 4th of July at the city celebration seemed like such a great idea…until after the show was over.
Oh, I kid. Actually, the fireworks show itself was spectacular! It was almost as good as a show at Disney World. And we got to spend some quality time chatting with a friend who came with us.
The conversation time was significantly longer than it would otherwise have been since we ended up spending 45 minutes in the car just trying to get out of the parking lot we had parked in.
Since city celebrations do not typically take place in, say, an auditorium or a sporting arena where traffic flow patterns have been planned and routed for thousands of visitors exiting at one time, the mass exit after the fireworks show can only be described as horrific.
After some contemplation, I came to the conclusion that the city did absolutely everything they could to help move traffic along as best they could: cones to direct traffic, police officers at almost every intersection, providing extra public transportation (which I assume was also having a time trying to move through all the traffic). It was just the nature of city roads and shopping center parking lots not accustomed to hosting thousands upon thousands of vehicles all at one time.
I also thought of solutions should we decide to attempt this celebration in the future: park in a neighborhood a few miles away and walk, or finally get ourselves some bicycles and try to ride across town.
In any case, the city’s Fourth of July spectacular was apparently a huge success judging by the extreme crowd.
For us, waiting in traffic with a friend to talk with wasn’t at all a bad time.
(And maybe all those people and tremendous traffic makes it just a little bit more like an actual Disney World fireworks show!)
I guess I’m spoiled by remembering all the fireworks shows from my childhood. We were always on vacation visiting relatives on the 4th. At one set of grandparents’ we drove all of ten minutes to sit out on blankets in the middle of a field to watch the fireworks. At the other set of grandparents’ we went over a few blocks in the neighborhood to see the fireworks from the neighboring amusement park.
Maybe less crowded, but not quite as fantastic. There are trade-offs, I guess.
I hope your Fourth of July celebration was just as good, whether crowded and loud or quiet and relaxing.
Oh, I kid. Actually, the fireworks show itself was spectacular! It was almost as good as a show at Disney World. And we got to spend some quality time chatting with a friend who came with us.
The conversation time was significantly longer than it would otherwise have been since we ended up spending 45 minutes in the car just trying to get out of the parking lot we had parked in.
Since city celebrations do not typically take place in, say, an auditorium or a sporting arena where traffic flow patterns have been planned and routed for thousands of visitors exiting at one time, the mass exit after the fireworks show can only be described as horrific.
After some contemplation, I came to the conclusion that the city did absolutely everything they could to help move traffic along as best they could: cones to direct traffic, police officers at almost every intersection, providing extra public transportation (which I assume was also having a time trying to move through all the traffic). It was just the nature of city roads and shopping center parking lots not accustomed to hosting thousands upon thousands of vehicles all at one time.
I also thought of solutions should we decide to attempt this celebration in the future: park in a neighborhood a few miles away and walk, or finally get ourselves some bicycles and try to ride across town.
In any case, the city’s Fourth of July spectacular was apparently a huge success judging by the extreme crowd.
For us, waiting in traffic with a friend to talk with wasn’t at all a bad time.
(And maybe all those people and tremendous traffic makes it just a little bit more like an actual Disney World fireworks show!)
I guess I’m spoiled by remembering all the fireworks shows from my childhood. We were always on vacation visiting relatives on the 4th. At one set of grandparents’ we drove all of ten minutes to sit out on blankets in the middle of a field to watch the fireworks. At the other set of grandparents’ we went over a few blocks in the neighborhood to see the fireworks from the neighboring amusement park.
Maybe less crowded, but not quite as fantastic. There are trade-offs, I guess.
I hope your Fourth of July celebration was just as good, whether crowded and loud or quiet and relaxing.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
FDA Remains Vague During Search for Contaminated Produce
While eating a quesadilla last night (made specifically with grape tomatoes because those tomatoes are apparently safe from the salmonella outbreak currently plaguing the United States), I hear on the news that it might not be the tomatoes after all that are causing the disease.
Investigators now believe it could be any number of other produce commonly eaten with raw tomatoes.
Like…say…cilantro, onion, jalepeños, avocados? The FDA officials aren’t saying.
Still, as I listen to this news I stare at the quesadilla I’m eating – complete with cilantro, onion and avocado – warmed in a pan so the cheese melts, but by no means “cooked”.
For goodness sake, I live in Texas. Ninety-nine percent of the population eats a combination of this produce on a daily basis. All I can say is: we might be in trouble down here.
What am I supposed to eat when three quarters of the produce department in the grocery store might be off limits?
It is disturbing news.
But not so disturbing that I do not continue eating my quesadillas.
Thought I do offer up fervent prayers for God to protect me from my offensive dinner choice.
When John gets home and wants some dinner I will have to serve it up with a warning: the FDA is expanding their search for the salmonella-causing produce and “they refuse to say what other types of produce they’re probing, except that those items are often served with tomatoes”.
Do with this information what you will.
Investigators now believe it could be any number of other produce commonly eaten with raw tomatoes.
Like…say…cilantro, onion, jalepeños, avocados? The FDA officials aren’t saying.
Still, as I listen to this news I stare at the quesadilla I’m eating – complete with cilantro, onion and avocado – warmed in a pan so the cheese melts, but by no means “cooked”.
For goodness sake, I live in Texas. Ninety-nine percent of the population eats a combination of this produce on a daily basis. All I can say is: we might be in trouble down here.
What am I supposed to eat when three quarters of the produce department in the grocery store might be off limits?
It is disturbing news.
But not so disturbing that I do not continue eating my quesadillas.
Thought I do offer up fervent prayers for God to protect me from my offensive dinner choice.
When John gets home and wants some dinner I will have to serve it up with a warning: the FDA is expanding their search for the salmonella-causing produce and “they refuse to say what other types of produce they’re probing, except that those items are often served with tomatoes”.
Do with this information what you will.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Credible Sources
There was a recent news brief on Radio
The actions being taken by the “thousands” of people in the
“Many are buying survival rations and even boats - which will come in handy during flooding - or are preparing bunkers in foreign countries.”
Because apparently some foreign countries will not be affected by the “worldwide catastrophe”.
Hmmm. I wish they had listed those foreign countries in the article so I would know where on earth to go to avoid the “worldwide catastrophe”.
Seriously, I don’t believe we’ll know when the world will end. Jesus says in Matthew 24:42-44 that we won’t know. And, really, does it matter? Shouldn’t we be living life as God intended us to, to the fullest, each and every day? Whether my life ends in the apocalypse, from a fatal disease or from just plain old age I guess I need to be ready to go at any time.
Later in this news article, a believer in the 2012 apocalypse proves that perhaps the logic of this particular group of people might be flawed when she says, “You know, maybe it’s really not that bad that the Netherlands will be destroyed. I don’t like it here anymore. Take immigration, for example. They keep letting people in. And then we have to build more houses, which makes the
Uh-huh.
And this, boys and girls, is why it is essential to check your sources to make sure they are credible. You can find all kinds of irrationality if you just look long enough…five seconds or so should do.
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