Well, it's a hotel room in Quantico actually, but my point is that the USMC Educators' workshop that I've been writing about officially started yesterday. Other than observations about flying from a regional airport the size of our house, which I will share, I promise, I don't have a whole lot to say about the Marine Corps yet. Just one thing: They are Very Serious. Very. Serious. Oh sure, they laugh and smile, but all in a Very Serious manner.
Now if you know me at all, you know that I don't take anything very seriously. Well, besides my marriage vows. Seriously though, I don't take myself, my career, my anything that, well, seriously. I mean, my degrees are all dusty, rolled up in a chest at the foot of our bed, sports trophies are hidden away in my closet, and the one framed picture of husband-dear and I in our bedroom is one where we both make a funny face. So being among people who take everything, including themselves Very Seriously has been a challenge.
Take yesterday's travel for instance. As you may remember, the USMC had me booked on a regional commuter to the Atlanta airport. Not the most economical means of getting me to the ATL, but you know, at least it was only twenty minutes from my house, as opposed to several hours. After waiting at the airport for an hour, however, the check-in person, who also doubled as the luggage loading crew, flight line crew, customer service rep, and reservations agent came up to me and the one other passenger (as the airport didn't have a PA system) and told us that the flight would be delayed for at least an hour. No reasons were given, so when I called my POC (point of contact - Marines love acronyms as much as the Air Force does), and he asked me if I knew why the plane was delayed, I said, "I honestly don't know, but we're in the south, so it could very well be that the pilot's grits aren't fully cooked yet."
Although I realize that was perhaps not quite Comedy Central material, it really didn't deserve the crickets it got. I mean, people, at this point I already knew I was going to miss my connecting flight to DC, I had also been told that most other flights were fully booked, so I thought a little humor might help.
It didn't.
When I finally got to DC, I was about three hours behind schedule, and subsequently missed the first half of the briefing. As we (my USMC driver/PA officer) and I were making our way down the beltway I said something sarcastic like, "Well, at least we'll set a great standard for the rest of the week", which also did not go over well.
So, yes, serious indeed. Which, I suppose, is helpful when you're parachuted into enemy territory or engaging in hand to hand combat, and whatever other scary things these marines do. It does, however, make daily life far less amusing.
In short, I think I better tone down my sarcasm this week.
Wish me luck!
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
The fire ant solution
I'd like to think that as far as bugs are concerned, I have matured a lot over the past four years. I hardly ever yell, squeal, or demand that a male figure come in and squash whatever multiple-legged creature has made it into my personal space bubble.
Case in point #1: The other day a tiny little spider crawled out from between the cushions of our couch, whilst I was sitting on said couch. My response? "Oh, hey, a spider". After some consideration, I decided I should probably kill it, however, the spider chose that exact moment to disappear back between the sofa cushions, and has not been seen since. And do I care? No. Not really.
Case in point #2: Cockroaches do nothing for me anymore. The other day, when I was scrubbing the back porch, I must have seen about ten of the brown little beasts half-dragging themselves into a dark corner (apparently, our pest protection doesn't kill them immediately, but allows them to flail and gasp for a little while first). Instead of screaming and jumping on something, I took my broom, possibly said something like, "Hiiii--yah!" and crushed the half-dying bugs. Yes, I'm heartless. And possibly a drama queen.
Anyway, the one bug, however, that I simply cannot get used to, is the fire ant. Fireants are those gigantic red ants that attack any human being who comes within three feet of their mound and leave painful, itchy welts that can, and in my case always do, swell up to the size of a kernel of corn, and, if you're lucky, leave you with a nice little scar as a reminder of the encounter.
If it were up to me, these little beasts would be completely eradicated from the planet. Entirely. I know that every animal, no matter how small, serves a purpose, which, no matter how minute it is, keeps the circle of life, the chain of all existence in place, but you know what? If all fire ants are wiped out tomorrow, and we as human beings cease to exist, so be it.
As you can probably tell, this summer has been a tough one as far as fire ants are concerned. In spite of all our anti-pest activity from last summer, we seem to have attracted every single fire ant in the county to our backyard this year. You see, this year we don't just have the big mound under our bed room window, oh no. We have a mound at the corner of our porch, one right in front of the porch, one in the middle of the yard (but conveniently located along the little trail that runs to the pool), and one right next to the pool filter system. Now guess who's in charge of running the filter? And guess who did not see the gigantic fire ant mound?
Indeed. Me.
And I have eight fire ant bites on one foot and six on the other to prove it.
Now fire ants are nothing like their red cousins over in Europe. Georgia fire ants are European red ants on crack. With a hangover. Yes, the red ants we get in Europe will bit you, and yes, that bite will sting. But people, I was bitten almost two weeks ago, and not only can you still see the welts, they still itch and burn from time to time.
What's even worse is that any of the conventional remedies don't work for me anymore. Benadryl, creams, ointments, nothing. Washing with soap, water, even bleach, nothing will help. So when the fire ants attacked me this last time, I turned to the internet for help, and came up with worcestershire sauce. That's right, the condiment a lot of people like to use on their meat.
But hey, I like experiments as much as the next person, so I filled a bucket with worcestershire sauce, and dunked one of my feet in it. Why not both feet, you ask? Well, the scientist in me wanted to make sure that if it worked, it was because of the sauce and not some sort of placebo effect, so I decided to only use the sauce on one foot, and let the other foot serve as a control group.
Well, you'll be happy to know that the sauce worked (and the dogs licked my feet for the rest of the day), but only for about ten hours. That night, the itching and the burning returned in full force. At night, the itching got so bad, I managed to scratch one of the bites into a (I'm sorry for the visual) bloody pulp in my sleep.
The next day, I realized that a trip to CVS would be inevitable. The bites were driving me insane, and it was all I could do to not scratch them. As I was windexing our back door, the itching got so bad, I, in an act of desperation, squirted some windex on it. And there it was. Immediate relief. I squirted some on the other foot. The burning stopped. It was nothing short of a miracle, honestly. For the next few days, all I had to do was squirt some windex on my feet every morning, and I was good to go. It. Was. Awesome.
So there you have it, the solution to fire ant bites: Windex. No need to smell like a steak restaurant, just windex your feet.
And those fire ant mounds? They're gone. This week I went out and bought the meanest ant killer I could find. Every single mound has been spot treated, and they had better not come back. Because I am ready and waiting.
Case in point #1: The other day a tiny little spider crawled out from between the cushions of our couch, whilst I was sitting on said couch. My response? "Oh, hey, a spider". After some consideration, I decided I should probably kill it, however, the spider chose that exact moment to disappear back between the sofa cushions, and has not been seen since. And do I care? No. Not really.
Case in point #2: Cockroaches do nothing for me anymore. The other day, when I was scrubbing the back porch, I must have seen about ten of the brown little beasts half-dragging themselves into a dark corner (apparently, our pest protection doesn't kill them immediately, but allows them to flail and gasp for a little while first). Instead of screaming and jumping on something, I took my broom, possibly said something like, "Hiiii--yah!" and crushed the half-dying bugs. Yes, I'm heartless. And possibly a drama queen.
Anyway, the one bug, however, that I simply cannot get used to, is the fire ant. Fireants are those gigantic red ants that attack any human being who comes within three feet of their mound and leave painful, itchy welts that can, and in my case always do, swell up to the size of a kernel of corn, and, if you're lucky, leave you with a nice little scar as a reminder of the encounter.
If it were up to me, these little beasts would be completely eradicated from the planet. Entirely. I know that every animal, no matter how small, serves a purpose, which, no matter how minute it is, keeps the circle of life, the chain of all existence in place, but you know what? If all fire ants are wiped out tomorrow, and we as human beings cease to exist, so be it.
As you can probably tell, this summer has been a tough one as far as fire ants are concerned. In spite of all our anti-pest activity from last summer, we seem to have attracted every single fire ant in the county to our backyard this year. You see, this year we don't just have the big mound under our bed room window, oh no. We have a mound at the corner of our porch, one right in front of the porch, one in the middle of the yard (but conveniently located along the little trail that runs to the pool), and one right next to the pool filter system. Now guess who's in charge of running the filter? And guess who did not see the gigantic fire ant mound?
Indeed. Me.
And I have eight fire ant bites on one foot and six on the other to prove it.
Now fire ants are nothing like their red cousins over in Europe. Georgia fire ants are European red ants on crack. With a hangover. Yes, the red ants we get in Europe will bit you, and yes, that bite will sting. But people, I was bitten almost two weeks ago, and not only can you still see the welts, they still itch and burn from time to time.
What's even worse is that any of the conventional remedies don't work for me anymore. Benadryl, creams, ointments, nothing. Washing with soap, water, even bleach, nothing will help. So when the fire ants attacked me this last time, I turned to the internet for help, and came up with worcestershire sauce. That's right, the condiment a lot of people like to use on their meat.
But hey, I like experiments as much as the next person, so I filled a bucket with worcestershire sauce, and dunked one of my feet in it. Why not both feet, you ask? Well, the scientist in me wanted to make sure that if it worked, it was because of the sauce and not some sort of placebo effect, so I decided to only use the sauce on one foot, and let the other foot serve as a control group.
Well, you'll be happy to know that the sauce worked (and the dogs licked my feet for the rest of the day), but only for about ten hours. That night, the itching and the burning returned in full force. At night, the itching got so bad, I managed to scratch one of the bites into a (I'm sorry for the visual) bloody pulp in my sleep.
The next day, I realized that a trip to CVS would be inevitable. The bites were driving me insane, and it was all I could do to not scratch them. As I was windexing our back door, the itching got so bad, I, in an act of desperation, squirted some windex on it. And there it was. Immediate relief. I squirted some on the other foot. The burning stopped. It was nothing short of a miracle, honestly. For the next few days, all I had to do was squirt some windex on my feet every morning, and I was good to go. It. Was. Awesome.
So there you have it, the solution to fire ant bites: Windex. No need to smell like a steak restaurant, just windex your feet.
And those fire ant mounds? They're gone. This week I went out and bought the meanest ant killer I could find. Every single mound has been spot treated, and they had better not come back. Because I am ready and waiting.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Heet: Lang leve de kuisheid!
Terwijl de rest van Amerika overstroomt, of in brand staat, is het hier vooral warm. Heel erg warm. Zelfs voor de gemiddelde Georgian die voor een graadjeof dertig haar hand niet meer omdraait is het de laatste weken ontzettend warm. Natuurlijk is het hier in Georgia wel vaker ontzettend warm, maar nooit zo vroeg. En nooit zo ontzettend warm. Om u een beeld te geven; het heeft sinds 1 juni maar liefst een keer geregend. Afgelopen vrijdag, om te precies te zijn. De regenbui duurde een half uur, en ging gepaard met donder en bliksem. Ondertussen ligt de temperatuur sinds 1 juni rond de 100F (38C), en dat is zelfs voor hier bijzonder ongewoon.
Zo ongewoon dat het meertje om de hoek op een paar plassen na droog ligt. Onze maple heeft er voor dit jaar maar de brui aan gegeven, en verliest dus, ondanks ons extra sproeien, sinds afgelopen weekend al haar bladeren. Er is al minstens 15cm water uit het zwembad verdampt, en de enige reden dat onze rozenstruiken nog leven is omdat ik deze elke dag braaf water geef.
Het is dus eigenlijk gewoon belachelijk warm.
En ik snap nu eindelijk ook waarom vrouwen (en mannen) in het midden oosten met lange broeken/jurken lopen. Want ik doe dat sinds kort namelijk ook. Nee, ik loop niet in een burka, en draag ook geen wijde zwarte gewaden, maar ik draag wel vaker een lange rok, of een halflange broek.
En voordat u nu allemaal denkt dat de hitte naar mijn hoofd is gestegen, ik kan u echt verzekeren dat dit heel goed werkt. Allereerst is het namelijk dat je, hoe weinig je ook aan hebt, toch wel zweet. Het maakt niet uit of je in een bikini of een broekpak loopt, je zult het vrij snel (in het broekpak misschien ietsje sneller) ontzettend warm krijgen. En zweten. In feite is er dus, naast een bizarre vorm van narcissme, totaal geen reden om in de zomer in hotpants/korte, dunne, en oorschijnende jurkjes/ieniemineie topjes te lopen. Het nadeel aan dit soort minieme kledingkeuzes is zelfs dat je naast het heel warm hebben, ook nog eens fijn verbrandt.
Daarnaast heeft het dragen van een lang broek het enorme grote voordeel dat je benen nooit of te nimmer aan elkaar plakken. En voor diegenen onder jullie die nu hun neus ophalen en iets roepen in de trant van ,"Eeeuw! Nou, zulke dikke benen heb ik niet hoor!", heb ik drie woorden: kom naar Georgia. Dik, dun, kort, lang, alles plakt aan elkaar. Geloof me. Behalve wanneer je een lange broek draagt. Nu raad ik niemand aan om in een spijkerbroek te lopen, maar een linnen broek kan ik iedereen aanraden.
En een lange rok/jurk is helemaal een uitkomst. Niet alleen omdat je je niet continu druk hoeft te maken of er allerlei ongewenste lichaamsdelen uit het minimale topje/broekje/rokje hangen, maar vanwege het ruisen. Jawel, ruisen. Rokken in boeken uit de jaren vijftg "ruisden" altijd, en dat doen ze eigenlijk nog steeds. Als je namelijk in een lange rok loopt, dan beweegt de rok, door de beweging van je benen heen en weer, en voila, een verkoelend briesje. Ook kun je, wanneer je zit, lekker een stuk stof van de rok pakken, deze heen en weer wapperen, en voila, hetzelfde briesje.
Ideaal, ik zeg het u.
En ook al draag ik een enorm korte spijkerbroek met t-shirt terwijl ik dit typ, ik voel heel binnenkort weer een lange rokken dag aankomen. Als de temperatuur niet zakt ten minste. Ik kan het iedereen van harte aanbevelen. Terug naar de lange rokken uit Staphorst en Amersfoort!
Echt waar.
Zo ongewoon dat het meertje om de hoek op een paar plassen na droog ligt. Onze maple heeft er voor dit jaar maar de brui aan gegeven, en verliest dus, ondanks ons extra sproeien, sinds afgelopen weekend al haar bladeren. Er is al minstens 15cm water uit het zwembad verdampt, en de enige reden dat onze rozenstruiken nog leven is omdat ik deze elke dag braaf water geef.
Het is dus eigenlijk gewoon belachelijk warm.
En ik snap nu eindelijk ook waarom vrouwen (en mannen) in het midden oosten met lange broeken/jurken lopen. Want ik doe dat sinds kort namelijk ook. Nee, ik loop niet in een burka, en draag ook geen wijde zwarte gewaden, maar ik draag wel vaker een lange rok, of een halflange broek.
En voordat u nu allemaal denkt dat de hitte naar mijn hoofd is gestegen, ik kan u echt verzekeren dat dit heel goed werkt. Allereerst is het namelijk dat je, hoe weinig je ook aan hebt, toch wel zweet. Het maakt niet uit of je in een bikini of een broekpak loopt, je zult het vrij snel (in het broekpak misschien ietsje sneller) ontzettend warm krijgen. En zweten. In feite is er dus, naast een bizarre vorm van narcissme, totaal geen reden om in de zomer in hotpants/korte, dunne, en oorschijnende jurkjes/ieniemineie topjes te lopen. Het nadeel aan dit soort minieme kledingkeuzes is zelfs dat je naast het heel warm hebben, ook nog eens fijn verbrandt.
Daarnaast heeft het dragen van een lang broek het enorme grote voordeel dat je benen nooit of te nimmer aan elkaar plakken. En voor diegenen onder jullie die nu hun neus ophalen en iets roepen in de trant van ,"Eeeuw! Nou, zulke dikke benen heb ik niet hoor!", heb ik drie woorden: kom naar Georgia. Dik, dun, kort, lang, alles plakt aan elkaar. Geloof me. Behalve wanneer je een lange broek draagt. Nu raad ik niemand aan om in een spijkerbroek te lopen, maar een linnen broek kan ik iedereen aanraden.
En een lange rok/jurk is helemaal een uitkomst. Niet alleen omdat je je niet continu druk hoeft te maken of er allerlei ongewenste lichaamsdelen uit het minimale topje/broekje/rokje hangen, maar vanwege het ruisen. Jawel, ruisen. Rokken in boeken uit de jaren vijftg "ruisden" altijd, en dat doen ze eigenlijk nog steeds. Als je namelijk in een lange rok loopt, dan beweegt de rok, door de beweging van je benen heen en weer, en voila, een verkoelend briesje. Ook kun je, wanneer je zit, lekker een stuk stof van de rok pakken, deze heen en weer wapperen, en voila, hetzelfde briesje.
Ideaal, ik zeg het u.
En ook al draag ik een enorm korte spijkerbroek met t-shirt terwijl ik dit typ, ik voel heel binnenkort weer een lange rokken dag aankomen. Als de temperatuur niet zakt ten minste. Ik kan het iedereen van harte aanbevelen. Terug naar de lange rokken uit Staphorst en Amersfoort!
Echt waar.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
A lame-o blog-o
I've written about three introductions to this blog, and none of them seem to do justice to the lame-ness of the conversation captured below. One version focused on how husband-dear and I share a terrible sense of humor; another talked about how we're both just really speeeshul, while another one was all about the importance of having a large vocabulary when trying to understand our family (as well as a lame sense of humor). But none of them really cut it. So I decided to instead just share with you the conversation that took place between husband-dear and Ozzie, our oldest, during lunch:
Ozzie is eating a bowl of Steamworks corn, and the smell has apparently wafted into the kitchen where husband-dear is cooking something. I'm in the living room, cleaning our windows.
Husband-dear, "Wow, that corn smells really good."
Ozzie, "I know."
Husband-dear; "It's smells just amazing. Amazing."
Me; "Yes, it's just like corn straight off the cob."
Husband-dear is now laughing quietly at himself, "Yes, it's amazing, a-amaize-ing, get it? Get it?"
Ozzie sighs, "Yes, dad, I get it."
Me, "Ama..? Oh, OK."
Husband-dear is still giggling, "You know, like maize, the native American word for corn."
Ozzie, "Dad. I get it."
Husband-dear, "Well, I'm glad you like it. Just make sure you don't eat too much, or...." he pauses for dramatic effect, "you'll get husky." He breaks out into silent laughter, and I can see Ozzie roll his eyes at this obvious display of parental idiocy, "That's just hilarious dad. Really."
Husband-dear, "Well, OK, I guess that was kind of....corny." He now can't stop laughing at himself.
"Yes, dad, " Ozzie sighs, "very funny. Really."
But husband-dear isn't one to give up this easily, "Yes, it was corny, but thank you for lending me your ears anyway.".
Ozzie has decided that ignoring his dad is the best policy, so husband-dear turns to me, "Get it honey, ears?"
"Yes dear, ears."
I'm telling you, fish gotta swim, and birds gotta fly, and I gotta love that man till I die. Seriously.
Ozzie is eating a bowl of Steamworks corn, and the smell has apparently wafted into the kitchen where husband-dear is cooking something. I'm in the living room, cleaning our windows.
Husband-dear, "Wow, that corn smells really good."
Ozzie, "I know."
Husband-dear; "It's smells just amazing. Amazing."
Me; "Yes, it's just like corn straight off the cob."
Husband-dear is now laughing quietly at himself, "Yes, it's amazing, a-amaize-ing, get it? Get it?"
Ozzie sighs, "Yes, dad, I get it."
Me, "Ama..? Oh, OK."
Husband-dear is still giggling, "You know, like maize, the native American word for corn."
Ozzie, "Dad. I get it."
Husband-dear, "Well, I'm glad you like it. Just make sure you don't eat too much, or...." he pauses for dramatic effect, "you'll get husky." He breaks out into silent laughter, and I can see Ozzie roll his eyes at this obvious display of parental idiocy, "That's just hilarious dad. Really."
Husband-dear, "Well, OK, I guess that was kind of....corny." He now can't stop laughing at himself.
"Yes, dad, " Ozzie sighs, "very funny. Really."
But husband-dear isn't one to give up this easily, "Yes, it was corny, but thank you for lending me your ears anyway.".
Ozzie has decided that ignoring his dad is the best policy, so husband-dear turns to me, "Get it honey, ears?"
"Yes dear, ears."
I'm telling you, fish gotta swim, and birds gotta fly, and I gotta love that man till I die. Seriously.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Coatracks and hatstands
The south has a lot of things other states don't have. Some of these things are good, like peaches, pecans, sweet tea, front porches, and crepe myrtles. Some of them are not so good, such as giant cockroaches. 100F+ summers, yellow flies, fire ants, and the confederate flag. There are also some things the south does not have, some of which are good (the lack of rainy summers comes to mind), some of which are bad (people who know that one does not need to come to a complete stop to make a turn), and some of which are downright baffling to the visitor (the lack of coat racks).
One of the first things you will notice upon entering a southern home is that once you step inside the house, you are truly inside the house. And I mean right smack dab inside it. Although I've written about the lack of doors in American houses before, I, as a four-year veteran of the south, still can't get over the fact that none of the southern homes I have visited have a hallway. When you walk into a house, you basically just walked right into the living room. Granted, some of them may have what realtors generously call an "entryway", but this really means nothing other than that your front door is sandwiched in between two rooms, which provides the illusion of a hallway.
So, no hallways in modern southern homes. And you know what that means, when a home doesn't have a hallway? That there is no centralized coat/hat/shoe location in the house. Anyone who's ever been in any home in The Netherlands, Germany, Scandinavia, England, or any other civilized nation will be familiar with the tiny hallways filled with an impressive collection of shoes, gloves, coats, and hats in each house. Hallways that, even with the optical illusion of grandeur provided by a glass-plated front door, are just incredibly narrow, a feat usually exacerbated by the presence of a huge coatrack, on which all the inhabitants of the house seem to have always stacked every single winter coat they own.
American homes usually don't have such hallways. Houses in the north have usually solved this problem by adding on a "mudroom", a place where residents can don/shed their skisuits/masks/snowboots without the added worry of dribbling melted snow/mud/ice/salt all over the pretty rugs. But homes in the south just do without.
Interestingly, the only people who really seem to notice are people not from here. And the only reason they notice is because they're the only people who actually bring a coat when they come see us, and then are slightly distraught when they don't see a coatrack anywhere in the house, and thus have no clue where to leave their down-lined $200 feat of weather-proof engineering. You see, southerners don't really use coats. In the summer there's obviously no need for coats, and in the winter, most people would rather put on a heavy sweater or hoodie than dig their coat out of the back of their walk in closet. as that's where we keep our coats. In our closet. Somewhere next to our wedding gowns, old prom dresses, unused motorcycle jackets, and one's mess dress.
Now most homes will, much to your relief, I'm sure, have a central location for shoes. But this is usually not a place out in the entry way/living area. Oh no. Remember now, this is the south, we like things to look nice, and that means that we will absolutely not keep piles of dirty shoes in plain view. So most people keep their shoes in their garage. Or, in our case, in a corner by the laundry room. And it makes perfect sense when you consider that most southerners don't ever come in their house through the front door, but prefer to use their garage instead (which in our case connects to our laundry room). If you're a visitor, that might be a tad confusing, but remember, we're in the south here, we're perfectly OK with you leaving your shoes on inside the house. And if we're not, well, we'll never tell you.
One of the first things you will notice upon entering a southern home is that once you step inside the house, you are truly inside the house. And I mean right smack dab inside it. Although I've written about the lack of doors in American houses before, I, as a four-year veteran of the south, still can't get over the fact that none of the southern homes I have visited have a hallway. When you walk into a house, you basically just walked right into the living room. Granted, some of them may have what realtors generously call an "entryway", but this really means nothing other than that your front door is sandwiched in between two rooms, which provides the illusion of a hallway.
So, no hallways in modern southern homes. And you know what that means, when a home doesn't have a hallway? That there is no centralized coat/hat/shoe location in the house. Anyone who's ever been in any home in The Netherlands, Germany, Scandinavia, England, or any other civilized nation will be familiar with the tiny hallways filled with an impressive collection of shoes, gloves, coats, and hats in each house. Hallways that, even with the optical illusion of grandeur provided by a glass-plated front door, are just incredibly narrow, a feat usually exacerbated by the presence of a huge coatrack, on which all the inhabitants of the house seem to have always stacked every single winter coat they own.
American homes usually don't have such hallways. Houses in the north have usually solved this problem by adding on a "mudroom", a place where residents can don/shed their skisuits/masks/snowboots without the added worry of dribbling melted snow/mud/ice/salt all over the pretty rugs. But homes in the south just do without.
Interestingly, the only people who really seem to notice are people not from here. And the only reason they notice is because they're the only people who actually bring a coat when they come see us, and then are slightly distraught when they don't see a coatrack anywhere in the house, and thus have no clue where to leave their down-lined $200 feat of weather-proof engineering. You see, southerners don't really use coats. In the summer there's obviously no need for coats, and in the winter, most people would rather put on a heavy sweater or hoodie than dig their coat out of the back of their walk in closet. as that's where we keep our coats. In our closet. Somewhere next to our wedding gowns, old prom dresses, unused motorcycle jackets, and one's mess dress.
Now most homes will, much to your relief, I'm sure, have a central location for shoes. But this is usually not a place out in the entry way/living area. Oh no. Remember now, this is the south, we like things to look nice, and that means that we will absolutely not keep piles of dirty shoes in plain view. So most people keep their shoes in their garage. Or, in our case, in a corner by the laundry room. And it makes perfect sense when you consider that most southerners don't ever come in their house through the front door, but prefer to use their garage instead (which in our case connects to our laundry room). If you're a visitor, that might be a tad confusing, but remember, we're in the south here, we're perfectly OK with you leaving your shoes on inside the house. And if we're not, well, we'll never tell you.
Monday, June 13, 2011
And now in other news...
....my pool.
After Thursday's drama-filled post (I am guessing I was a little less zen about it than I originally thought - but thanks everyone for the love), I decided to talk about something completely different, but whose troubles are equally time-consuming: our pool.
You may remember a post two years ago where I announced that we had finally caved and purchased what could best be described as a redneck excuse for a pool. Even though every year or so I get the itch to mortgage one of the children and purchase an in-ground pool, the frugal Dutch woman in me has, so far, always taken over, and so this year, for the third year in a row, we have set up our little above-ground pathetic-excuse-for-a pool.
Now, and I hate to admit this, but I'm pretty sure this is this particular pool's last season. We still love our little pool, but it's just been trouble, trouble, trouble since the day we opened the pool. (And for those of you who just went, "You did what with the pool?", in the world of pools, getting the pool ready for usage is called "opening the pool". It, technically, refers to taking the cover off an in-ground pool, but us above-ground pool owners, who actually just drag a gigantic box down from the attic, have taken the term and made it our own).
First, the hose connecting the salt water pump to the pool had cracked. Well, that was not a surprise (the incessant sun will destroy just about anything down here), and not a problem, as husband-dear merrily jumped in his car and purchased a few feet of hose. So now the hoses don't match, but really, who cares.
Then one of the connectors had gone missing. That was a little bit more of a problem, as a) this specific connector actually stops all 5000 gallons of water in the pool from leaking out, and b) this was one of them oddly-shaped connectors made specifically for our pool's intake valve, which husband-dear was unable to reproduce. Not one to give up (read: trek to the pool supply store where they would charge us a car payment for a replacement piece), I went on my slightly-less merry way to Lowe's, and presented our problem to the man in charge of plumbing. Now I don't know what world of plumbing-awesomeness this man came from, but forty-five minutes later I went home with a connector that fit. It was also made up of three different pieces of PVC pipe and required four clamps, but did I mention it cost us $7 total?
Next, the filter started leaking. And I don't mean a little dribble of water that one can just ignore, no, I mean it started to enthusiastically spout water down its sides in a such a convincing manner, our dogs had started to use it on really hot days. I took the lid of the filter, and tightened it. No cigar. Husband-dear took the lid off, and re-adjusted it. No luck again. As it turned out, the washer inside the lid had cracked, and needed replaced. No problem, my car knew its way to Lowe's by know, and off I went.
Then, the inflatable ring sprung a leak. A very slow leak. We patched it, and thought the problem was fixed, until last week the ring was suspiciously low on air again. My first thought was that the patch had somehow started leaking, but when that wasn't the case, I gave up. Honestly, I'm just too lazy to fill a spray bottle with soapy water and check the entire ring again, and I'd rather re-air the ring once every three days.
To top it all off, it appears that I am now also combating a dead-algae problem. Yes, dead algae. I'm neurotic enough about my pool's chlorine/PH/bromine levels to make sure no algae makes it out alive in our pool, but once the stuff is dead, it's just impossible to get rid off. If you have a "real" pool, you hook your vacuum cleaner up to your filter, set it to "waste", and just suck the dead yuck up. But in a pool like ours, a vacuum cleaner consists of a garden hose and a little net meant to catch leaves and bugs, while little pieces of algae just fly right through the netting. The end result? Crystal-clear water and a yucky pool bottom. That's obviously not going to fly with Dr. D., so I am now thinking of jerry-rigging, well, of having husband-dear jerry-rig, a second hose to the vacuum so we can just siphon the flakes out.
So, yes, all in all, I think our $175 pool is on its last legs.
Now that is not to say that we won't be purchasing a new cute little Intex pool again. Oh no, I have my plan all laid out, don't you worry. This August, when everyone's thinking of Fall and Halloween, and all the Intex pools go on sale for half off or more at your local Walmart, I will purchase next year's pool, and just store it up in the attic until the spring time. I'm telling, my passport may be blue, but my heart still bleeds orange!
After Thursday's drama-filled post (I am guessing I was a little less zen about it than I originally thought - but thanks everyone for the love), I decided to talk about something completely different, but whose troubles are equally time-consuming: our pool.
You may remember a post two years ago where I announced that we had finally caved and purchased what could best be described as a redneck excuse for a pool. Even though every year or so I get the itch to mortgage one of the children and purchase an in-ground pool, the frugal Dutch woman in me has, so far, always taken over, and so this year, for the third year in a row, we have set up our little above-ground pathetic-excuse-for-a pool.
Now, and I hate to admit this, but I'm pretty sure this is this particular pool's last season. We still love our little pool, but it's just been trouble, trouble, trouble since the day we opened the pool. (And for those of you who just went, "You did what with the pool?", in the world of pools, getting the pool ready for usage is called "opening the pool". It, technically, refers to taking the cover off an in-ground pool, but us above-ground pool owners, who actually just drag a gigantic box down from the attic, have taken the term and made it our own).
First, the hose connecting the salt water pump to the pool had cracked. Well, that was not a surprise (the incessant sun will destroy just about anything down here), and not a problem, as husband-dear merrily jumped in his car and purchased a few feet of hose. So now the hoses don't match, but really, who cares.
Then one of the connectors had gone missing. That was a little bit more of a problem, as a) this specific connector actually stops all 5000 gallons of water in the pool from leaking out, and b) this was one of them oddly-shaped connectors made specifically for our pool's intake valve, which husband-dear was unable to reproduce. Not one to give up (read: trek to the pool supply store where they would charge us a car payment for a replacement piece), I went on my slightly-less merry way to Lowe's, and presented our problem to the man in charge of plumbing. Now I don't know what world of plumbing-awesomeness this man came from, but forty-five minutes later I went home with a connector that fit. It was also made up of three different pieces of PVC pipe and required four clamps, but did I mention it cost us $7 total?
Next, the filter started leaking. And I don't mean a little dribble of water that one can just ignore, no, I mean it started to enthusiastically spout water down its sides in a such a convincing manner, our dogs had started to use it on really hot days. I took the lid of the filter, and tightened it. No cigar. Husband-dear took the lid off, and re-adjusted it. No luck again. As it turned out, the washer inside the lid had cracked, and needed replaced. No problem, my car knew its way to Lowe's by know, and off I went.
Then, the inflatable ring sprung a leak. A very slow leak. We patched it, and thought the problem was fixed, until last week the ring was suspiciously low on air again. My first thought was that the patch had somehow started leaking, but when that wasn't the case, I gave up. Honestly, I'm just too lazy to fill a spray bottle with soapy water and check the entire ring again, and I'd rather re-air the ring once every three days.
To top it all off, it appears that I am now also combating a dead-algae problem. Yes, dead algae. I'm neurotic enough about my pool's chlorine/PH/bromine levels to make sure no algae makes it out alive in our pool, but once the stuff is dead, it's just impossible to get rid off. If you have a "real" pool, you hook your vacuum cleaner up to your filter, set it to "waste", and just suck the dead yuck up. But in a pool like ours, a vacuum cleaner consists of a garden hose and a little net meant to catch leaves and bugs, while little pieces of algae just fly right through the netting. The end result? Crystal-clear water and a yucky pool bottom. That's obviously not going to fly with Dr. D., so I am now thinking of jerry-rigging, well, of having husband-dear jerry-rig, a second hose to the vacuum so we can just siphon the flakes out.
So, yes, all in all, I think our $175 pool is on its last legs.
Now that is not to say that we won't be purchasing a new cute little Intex pool again. Oh no, I have my plan all laid out, don't you worry. This August, when everyone's thinking of Fall and Halloween, and all the Intex pools go on sale for half off or more at your local Walmart, I will purchase next year's pool, and just store it up in the attic until the spring time. I'm telling, my passport may be blue, but my heart still bleeds orange!
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Baby Talk
It's been almost two years since the bombshell of "Hey, guess what, you can't have kids!" dropped, and although I'd love to pretend I'm fine and perfectly over it in a "turn lemons into lemonade" kind of way, it's not that cut and dried. I mean, you can adopt a new puppy (did that), remodel half the rooms in your house (did that too), go on a cruise (check), but it still doesn't make up for the fact that your house is very much baby-free.
Now please don't think I wander through life teary-eyed, ready to break down each time I see a newborn, because I don't. Usually anyway. I still don't like shopping for newborns, or going to baby showers for that matter, and I really appreciate it when friends take the time to tell me about their pregnancy in person before announcing it at a public event. But other than that, my life is usually normal. Just like yours. Albeit possibly without babies.
As the whole "infertility" issue became less of a "Oh-my-God" shocker, and more of a "part of our lives that sucks", I've found myself better able to talk about it. So now whenever I have to run through the usual medical questionnaire at a doctor's office, and get asked if I have kids/if I want kids, I can answer calmly without bursting into tears. When people ask me if we want kids of our own, I have a handy comeback ready, "Well, we already have two, you know.", And in those instances when people are idiotic enough to follow that up with, "Well, those aren't really -yours-, you know", I have routine answer ready too, the harshness of which really hinges on how much the person annoys me.
But what's interesting about not being able to have children, is how everyone with children suddenly feels as though they are experts on the subject. Experts whose advice you, the infertile one, are obviously dying to hear. Because, obviously, when you have children "of your own", whom you had "the natural way", you are a bonafide expert on not being able to have children. Of course.
Over these past two years, I have had people give me the worst advice in the most insensitive manner imaginable. And instead of snapping back at them, I would smile. A lot. In fact, I've smiled so much over these past two years that I now have two wrinkles on the side of my mouth (although I'll accept they may not be the direct result of the past two years, they are definitely there).
Just the other day I was thinking about all the advice I've gotten these past two years, and how incredibly inappropriate some of it was. And for your (and my) merriment, I decided to list some of the funniest, out-there, OMG-did-they-just-say-that advice, things you definitely want to avoid when talking to me.
1. Don't talk about s.e.x with me. Really. I don't want to hear about the positions you used to successfully produce your offspring. I don't want to hear about the positions your sister or your best friend used either. I really don't need to see what these looked like either. Really. Especially when we're meeting in my office, you're my boss's boss's boss, and we're supposed to be talking about some report that's due.
2. Do Not Tell Me To Relax. Whoever came up with that old wives' tail deserves a good southern whoopin'. Relaxing, people, has nothing to do with getting pregnant. Getting pregnant is about biological principles, which work just fine, relaxed or not. When you've been trying to get pregnant for a year, you're really far beyond the "just relax" stage anyway. On that note, don't tell me about this cute little cabin you and your husband went to, and where you got pregnant with child #4.
3. While we're on the topic of oversharing, why is it that when you can't have kids, people automatically assume you're perfectly alright sharing every little detail about your inability to conceive with them? Honestly, I don't volunteer the fact that husband-dear and I can't have biological children together. This means that the only reason I just told you is because you asked. This does not mean I want to tell you why (because I probably don't), or go into detail about everything we've tried or not (because I really don't), or engage in any sort of discussion featuring my ovaries/uterus/cycles (nope, not happening).
4. "Have you thought about (insert fertility method here)" Is a kicker too. I really wonder if people expect us to sit up and cry out "What?! No?! Really? We've never heard of that! Please, tell us more!", because, well, we know them all. Probably better than most well-doers. What's amazing though is that after we've told people we're not interested in this or that procedure, they insist on trying to convince us to try it anyway. I've heard it all; how you can pay in installments, how you only have to pay if you get pregnant, how there's this awesome specialist five hours north, and how they know all sorts of Oprah-worthy success stories featuring far-away acquaintances who got pregnant after 8 IVF cycles, 9 IUIs, or who ended up using a surrogate mother/donor.
5. Adoption is also a very popular option. Seriously, with the amount of times we get told to adopt or try some experimental fertility procedure, you would think these people are getting a cut of the fees. Anyway, people always insist on asking why we won't adopt. Uhm, well, because we wanted a child of our own? Not someone else's? Apparently this makes us not want children bad enough, which is usually the merciful end to that conversation.
6. Another favorite response centers on the plan for your life. God/Yahweh/Mother Earth/Fate must have something different in store for us, a plan that's equally great but doesn't feature children. Right. And knowing that makes it all better, how exactly?
7. And finally, please don't tell me about your mother's sister's daughter's cousin who was infertile "just like you", but who ended up getting pregnant years and years later. Don't laugh and tell me, "So it could happen to you too!", because medically, it can't. It's great that this happened to your fourth cousin five times removed, your neighbor's cousin's great aunt, or Sarah in the old testatement, but it's called a fluke for a reason. Don't give me books featuring such stories either. They do me no good, other than to have me wonder what sort sin I must have committed to not be such a miracle mom. .
So what do you say to someone who can't have children? It's really very simple. You just show sympathy. Or crack a joke. Or just say nothing at all. And if you don't know what to say, then say that. But please don't try to fix it, I don't expect you to.
...And now in other news....
Now please don't think I wander through life teary-eyed, ready to break down each time I see a newborn, because I don't. Usually anyway. I still don't like shopping for newborns, or going to baby showers for that matter, and I really appreciate it when friends take the time to tell me about their pregnancy in person before announcing it at a public event. But other than that, my life is usually normal. Just like yours. Albeit possibly without babies.
As the whole "infertility" issue became less of a "Oh-my-God" shocker, and more of a "part of our lives that sucks", I've found myself better able to talk about it. So now whenever I have to run through the usual medical questionnaire at a doctor's office, and get asked if I have kids/if I want kids, I can answer calmly without bursting into tears. When people ask me if we want kids of our own, I have a handy comeback ready, "Well, we already have two, you know.", And in those instances when people are idiotic enough to follow that up with, "Well, those aren't really -yours-, you know", I have routine answer ready too, the harshness of which really hinges on how much the person annoys me.
But what's interesting about not being able to have children, is how everyone with children suddenly feels as though they are experts on the subject. Experts whose advice you, the infertile one, are obviously dying to hear. Because, obviously, when you have children "of your own", whom you had "the natural way", you are a bonafide expert on not being able to have children. Of course.
Over these past two years, I have had people give me the worst advice in the most insensitive manner imaginable. And instead of snapping back at them, I would smile. A lot. In fact, I've smiled so much over these past two years that I now have two wrinkles on the side of my mouth (although I'll accept they may not be the direct result of the past two years, they are definitely there).
Just the other day I was thinking about all the advice I've gotten these past two years, and how incredibly inappropriate some of it was. And for your (and my) merriment, I decided to list some of the funniest, out-there, OMG-did-they-just-say-that advice, things you definitely want to avoid when talking to me.
1. Don't talk about s.e.x with me. Really. I don't want to hear about the positions you used to successfully produce your offspring. I don't want to hear about the positions your sister or your best friend used either. I really don't need to see what these looked like either. Really. Especially when we're meeting in my office, you're my boss's boss's boss, and we're supposed to be talking about some report that's due.
2. Do Not Tell Me To Relax. Whoever came up with that old wives' tail deserves a good southern whoopin'. Relaxing, people, has nothing to do with getting pregnant. Getting pregnant is about biological principles, which work just fine, relaxed or not. When you've been trying to get pregnant for a year, you're really far beyond the "just relax" stage anyway. On that note, don't tell me about this cute little cabin you and your husband went to, and where you got pregnant with child #4.
3. While we're on the topic of oversharing, why is it that when you can't have kids, people automatically assume you're perfectly alright sharing every little detail about your inability to conceive with them? Honestly, I don't volunteer the fact that husband-dear and I can't have biological children together. This means that the only reason I just told you is because you asked. This does not mean I want to tell you why (because I probably don't), or go into detail about everything we've tried or not (because I really don't), or engage in any sort of discussion featuring my ovaries/uterus/cycles (nope, not happening).
4. "Have you thought about (insert fertility method here)" Is a kicker too. I really wonder if people expect us to sit up and cry out "What?! No?! Really? We've never heard of that! Please, tell us more!", because, well, we know them all. Probably better than most well-doers. What's amazing though is that after we've told people we're not interested in this or that procedure, they insist on trying to convince us to try it anyway. I've heard it all; how you can pay in installments, how you only have to pay if you get pregnant, how there's this awesome specialist five hours north, and how they know all sorts of Oprah-worthy success stories featuring far-away acquaintances who got pregnant after 8 IVF cycles, 9 IUIs, or who ended up using a surrogate mother/donor.
5. Adoption is also a very popular option. Seriously, with the amount of times we get told to adopt or try some experimental fertility procedure, you would think these people are getting a cut of the fees. Anyway, people always insist on asking why we won't adopt. Uhm, well, because we wanted a child of our own? Not someone else's? Apparently this makes us not want children bad enough, which is usually the merciful end to that conversation.
6. Another favorite response centers on the plan for your life. God/Yahweh/Mother Earth/Fate must have something different in store for us, a plan that's equally great but doesn't feature children. Right. And knowing that makes it all better, how exactly?
7. And finally, please don't tell me about your mother's sister's daughter's cousin who was infertile "just like you", but who ended up getting pregnant years and years later. Don't laugh and tell me, "So it could happen to you too!", because medically, it can't. It's great that this happened to your fourth cousin five times removed, your neighbor's cousin's great aunt, or Sarah in the old testatement, but it's called a fluke for a reason. Don't give me books featuring such stories either. They do me no good, other than to have me wonder what sort sin I must have committed to not be such a miracle mom. .
So what do you say to someone who can't have children? It's really very simple. You just show sympathy. Or crack a joke. Or just say nothing at all. And if you don't know what to say, then say that. But please don't try to fix it, I don't expect you to.
...And now in other news....
Monday, June 6, 2011
Tri-bugs
Getting ready for a race just isn't what it used to be. When husband-dear and I just ran road races, all we did the night before was eat our tri-pasta (although back then it still went by the name of "pasta salad"), and go to bed on time. Once I (and later, we) started doing triathlons all that changed. Now we have journals, check lists, pre-race, post-race, and TA (transition area) bags, as well as a car full of supplies "just in case". I'm serious.
I mean, think about. A triathlon includes swimming, biking, and running, which means you not only need equipment for all three events, you also need enough fluids and nutrition to keep you going for the entire race. Last weekend, when both husband-dear and I raced, I counted the number of water bottles I ended up loading into the dishwasher afterwards: twelve. Yes, people, we went through six waterbottles each. Granted, that included pre-race hydration, post-race recovery drinks, the prerequisite water bottle to get the sand off your feet from the beach, as well as our race bottles, but still. Twelve bottles. Oh, and a camelbak. We were hydrated up the wazoo.
And although I won't bore you with my entire equipment checklist, let's just say that includes such items as: goggles (can't see without them), lube (to stop the wetsuit from chafing your skin, nothing kinky, get your mind out of the gutter), a spare everything, helmet, biking shoes, running shoes, a towel ( the only way to claim your little 1x1' area in the transition area), and a spray-on sunscreen. And as of this past Saturday, I'm going to have to add bugspray to that list.
Yes, bugspray.
Just when you thought you had seen it all as far as bugs went (cockroaches the size of your palm, termites dying to chew up your home, and ciccadas loud enough to wake the dead), there was yet another gigantic eeuw! to add to my list.
You see, this particular race required its participants to "pre-rack" their bicycles, i.e., put their bikes inside the transition area (on a, you guessed it, rack) the night before the race. And so husband-dear and I trekked out the event area, and dutifully numbered and racked our bikes the afternoon before the race. On a side note, as most tri-bikes cost the equivalent of a small car, I always find this an interesting practice. Even more so since no one ever complains. It helps, I suppose, that the event has a night guard on duty, and that no one, well except you all now, knows that the aggregate value of the six hundred or so bikes out there could really help the US get rid of some of its deficit.
And in case you wondered, no, husband-dear and I don't ride tri-bikes. I'm Dutch, after all.
Anyway, when we showed up the next morning, not only was I delighted to find my bicycle to still be there, I was also thrilled to find my bike covered in lines of tiny little ants. Yes, ants. A closer inspection revealed them to be the harmless black variety, which led to a minor celebration on my part, as I can't imagine riding a race on a bike covered in fire ants (actually I can. It would probably be my fastest race to date). After that small victory, however, I was left to wonder a) how these ants got here (we were next to a beach, after all, not the most logical site for ant hills), b) why they had crawled all over MY bike, ignoring the two $5k bikes next to mine, and c) if they would just stay on the bike while I rode it, crawling all over me as well. I could just imagine what the feel of tiny little ants crawling into my tri top and stampeding across my back would do to my time (or race pictures for that matter).
The ants appeared unperturbed as I inflated my tires, checked my brakes, and taped three gels to the seat post. They also didn't appear to care much about the two waterbottles that appeared out of nowhere either.
When husband-dear appeared to borrow the pump, he noticed the ants too, "Well," he said practically, "Looks like you'll have to add bug spray to your check list from now on."
"Apparently." I was not amused,
"Or get a termite protection plan for your bike."
Indeed.
The best part of the whole ant-experience (and yes, they did disappear once I started riding), was when we walked down to the beach for the start of the race and I caught the following conversation between a toddler and her mother:
"Mommy! There's ants in the sand! There's ants all over the sand!"
"It's OK, they're not going to hurt you."
"But I don't like ants! And there shouldn't be any ants on the beach!"
"Oh honey, this is Georgia, there are ants everywhere."
Very true.
I mean, think about. A triathlon includes swimming, biking, and running, which means you not only need equipment for all three events, you also need enough fluids and nutrition to keep you going for the entire race. Last weekend, when both husband-dear and I raced, I counted the number of water bottles I ended up loading into the dishwasher afterwards: twelve. Yes, people, we went through six waterbottles each. Granted, that included pre-race hydration, post-race recovery drinks, the prerequisite water bottle to get the sand off your feet from the beach, as well as our race bottles, but still. Twelve bottles. Oh, and a camelbak. We were hydrated up the wazoo.
And although I won't bore you with my entire equipment checklist, let's just say that includes such items as: goggles (can't see without them), lube (to stop the wetsuit from chafing your skin, nothing kinky, get your mind out of the gutter), a spare everything, helmet, biking shoes, running shoes, a towel ( the only way to claim your little 1x1' area in the transition area), and a spray-on sunscreen. And as of this past Saturday, I'm going to have to add bugspray to that list.
Yes, bugspray.
Just when you thought you had seen it all as far as bugs went (cockroaches the size of your palm, termites dying to chew up your home, and ciccadas loud enough to wake the dead), there was yet another gigantic eeuw! to add to my list.
You see, this particular race required its participants to "pre-rack" their bicycles, i.e., put their bikes inside the transition area (on a, you guessed it, rack) the night before the race. And so husband-dear and I trekked out the event area, and dutifully numbered and racked our bikes the afternoon before the race. On a side note, as most tri-bikes cost the equivalent of a small car, I always find this an interesting practice. Even more so since no one ever complains. It helps, I suppose, that the event has a night guard on duty, and that no one, well except you all now, knows that the aggregate value of the six hundred or so bikes out there could really help the US get rid of some of its deficit.
And in case you wondered, no, husband-dear and I don't ride tri-bikes. I'm Dutch, after all.
Anyway, when we showed up the next morning, not only was I delighted to find my bicycle to still be there, I was also thrilled to find my bike covered in lines of tiny little ants. Yes, ants. A closer inspection revealed them to be the harmless black variety, which led to a minor celebration on my part, as I can't imagine riding a race on a bike covered in fire ants (actually I can. It would probably be my fastest race to date). After that small victory, however, I was left to wonder a) how these ants got here (we were next to a beach, after all, not the most logical site for ant hills), b) why they had crawled all over MY bike, ignoring the two $5k bikes next to mine, and c) if they would just stay on the bike while I rode it, crawling all over me as well. I could just imagine what the feel of tiny little ants crawling into my tri top and stampeding across my back would do to my time (or race pictures for that matter).
The ants appeared unperturbed as I inflated my tires, checked my brakes, and taped three gels to the seat post. They also didn't appear to care much about the two waterbottles that appeared out of nowhere either.
When husband-dear appeared to borrow the pump, he noticed the ants too, "Well," he said practically, "Looks like you'll have to add bug spray to your check list from now on."
"Apparently." I was not amused,
"Or get a termite protection plan for your bike."
Indeed.
The best part of the whole ant-experience (and yes, they did disappear once I started riding), was when we walked down to the beach for the start of the race and I caught the following conversation between a toddler and her mother:
"Mommy! There's ants in the sand! There's ants all over the sand!"
"It's OK, they're not going to hurt you."
"But I don't like ants! And there shouldn't be any ants on the beach!"
"Oh honey, this is Georgia, there are ants everywhere."
Very true.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Recipe for success, sometimes: Tri-Pasta
Tomorrow will be our second triathlon of the season, and I was preparing our customary pre-race dinner just now, I realized that that is one thing I've never shared with anyone: our absolutely delicious Tri-Pasta.
I first made this dish when I was a poor college student on a hot summer evening who realized she needed some veggies. Never in all of my library-computer-lab-filled days would I have imagined that this recipe would become the one and only thing my husband (husband? What husband? Me? Marry? Hah!) would eat prior to major races (I'm sorry? Did you just say races? As in sporting events? Really? Hah!). Yeah, I'm telling you, I had no idea.
Anyway, for all of you dying for a cold, yet healthy dish during these three-digit-days, or for those of you who have been on the lookout for a perfect pre-race meal, here is my first (and probably only) blog-recipe:
Ingredients:
A box of tri-colored pasta (Just 'cause it looks prettier. You can go all health and get whole wheat pasta too, but prior to a race, we like to carboload. A lot).
A cucumber (English or American doesn't matter)
Two/three tomatoes
A block of feta cheese
Can of whole corn
Bacon
Oil
Vinegar
Various herbs and spices
A large bowl (with lid preferably).
Boil the pasta, strain it and then let it cool off. Make sure that if you put it in the fridge, you cover it, or else it will harden too much.
Bake the bacon (or if you're like me, and you tend to burn regular bacon, buy a microwave-ready package and stick in the microwave).
Let the bacon cool and then cut it into tiny squares, then put it in the bowl.
Strain the corn and put about 3/4 of a 16oz (448gr) can in the bowl as well
Cut up the cucumber into very small pieces. You can leave the rind on or not, it's entirely up to you. If you must know, however, we leave it on, 'cause husband-dear thinks it's healthier. And he's probably right. Put cucumber in bowl.
Cut up the tomato into (you guessed it) small pieces. Try to include only the "meaty" part, since if you include a lot of the gooey (for lack of a better word) tomato parts, it's going to leak all over everything else. Add tomato to bowl.
Cut up the feta into squares, or triangles, or whatever shape works for you. It's hard to tell you how much to use; we buy an 8 oz block (227gr) and use about 2/3 of it. The feta goes in the bowl too.
Mix up all the ingredients. This is the point where you check if each ingredient is equally "represented" so to speak. You don't want a whole lot of corn and very little cucumber, for instance (can you tell I'm not really an exact science cook?).
Add the pasta. Mix the whole thing up again.
This is when it's time to make the dressing, and get a little creative (yes, even more). I just add 2 parts of olive oil, 1 part vinegar, and then mix in salt, pepper, garlic powder, Italian seasoning, basil, parsley, oregano, dill weed, and a hint of sugar. However, husband-dear has been known to just add Balsamic vinaigrette, and that works too.
Add the dressing to the salad, and you have got yourself one great example of a pre-race meal. And please don't feel like you have to call it tri-pasta either. We just started calling it that last year (husband-dear thought it was the funniest thing, as we eat it before tri's, and use tri-pasta. Yes, I married a dork. But a loveable one).
Anyway - Enjoy!
I first made this dish when I was a poor college student on a hot summer evening who realized she needed some veggies. Never in all of my library-computer-lab-filled days would I have imagined that this recipe would become the one and only thing my husband (husband? What husband? Me? Marry? Hah!) would eat prior to major races (I'm sorry? Did you just say races? As in sporting events? Really? Hah!). Yeah, I'm telling you, I had no idea.
Anyway, for all of you dying for a cold, yet healthy dish during these three-digit-days, or for those of you who have been on the lookout for a perfect pre-race meal, here is my first (and probably only) blog-recipe:
Ingredients:
A box of tri-colored pasta (Just 'cause it looks prettier. You can go all health and get whole wheat pasta too, but prior to a race, we like to carboload. A lot).
A cucumber (English or American doesn't matter)
Two/three tomatoes
A block of feta cheese
Can of whole corn
Bacon
Oil
Vinegar
Various herbs and spices
A large bowl (with lid preferably).
Boil the pasta, strain it and then let it cool off. Make sure that if you put it in the fridge, you cover it, or else it will harden too much.
Bake the bacon (or if you're like me, and you tend to burn regular bacon, buy a microwave-ready package and stick in the microwave).
Let the bacon cool and then cut it into tiny squares, then put it in the bowl.
Strain the corn and put about 3/4 of a 16oz (448gr) can in the bowl as well
Cut up the cucumber into very small pieces. You can leave the rind on or not, it's entirely up to you. If you must know, however, we leave it on, 'cause husband-dear thinks it's healthier. And he's probably right. Put cucumber in bowl.
Cut up the tomato into (you guessed it) small pieces. Try to include only the "meaty" part, since if you include a lot of the gooey (for lack of a better word) tomato parts, it's going to leak all over everything else. Add tomato to bowl.
Cut up the feta into squares, or triangles, or whatever shape works for you. It's hard to tell you how much to use; we buy an 8 oz block (227gr) and use about 2/3 of it. The feta goes in the bowl too.
Mix up all the ingredients. This is the point where you check if each ingredient is equally "represented" so to speak. You don't want a whole lot of corn and very little cucumber, for instance (can you tell I'm not really an exact science cook?).
Add the pasta. Mix the whole thing up again.
This is when it's time to make the dressing, and get a little creative (yes, even more). I just add 2 parts of olive oil, 1 part vinegar, and then mix in salt, pepper, garlic powder, Italian seasoning, basil, parsley, oregano, dill weed, and a hint of sugar. However, husband-dear has been known to just add Balsamic vinaigrette, and that works too.
Add the dressing to the salad, and you have got yourself one great example of a pre-race meal. And please don't feel like you have to call it tri-pasta either. We just started calling it that last year (husband-dear thought it was the funniest thing, as we eat it before tri's, and use tri-pasta. Yes, I married a dork. But a loveable one).
Anyway - Enjoy!
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Parking wars
Before I can rant about the parking war that is about to commence here on campus, you need to know two important facts that I've neglected to mention before:
1. Faculty and staff have to buy a parking permit in order to be able to park on campus, and
2. We have just bought a new car.
Regarding number 1, I would like the record to show that our campus does not lack parking space like a lot of urban campuses do. There is no driving around and around and around parking lots to find that one empty spot like you might have to do at other major universities. There is no "if you leave for lunch, you're out of luck" either, and really, parking down here is pretty good. It just costs you money. Which, considering the absolute abundance of parking spaces, really makes no sense. Well, it does if you consider that the university receives $35 annually from every employee, and that I'm sure that helps with the university budget, but last time I checked, I don't think it was my job to donate to that same budget. Anyway, I digress.
And regarding number 2, I know, I'm very excited. You might remember that husband-dear owns a truck. He loves that truck. I love that truck. It's ten years old, went all over Europe with us, and holds just about anything. But in recent months it's been, well, struggling. Husband-dear had to replace the radiator in the fall, and a few months ago, his car stopped dead on his way to work. Apparently, the alternator was in need of replacement too. That was when we decided we really needed a new car. The truck is our long-distance vehicle (as my car is really too small), and as neither one of us was thrilled at the idea of driving twelve hours with a truck whose parts are apt to stop at random, we knew the time had come to retire our trusty Dodge. Fortunately, and I really mean this (mainly because I'm a nostalgic old biddy), we decided to keep the old truck, to teach the kids how to drive (and also because husband-dear is as attached to that truck as I am). Anyway, all that aside, we are now the proud owners of a brand new Honda- CRV. It's new, it has XM radio, leather seats, as well as a towing package for our bicycle rack, and we are very happy.
Recently, husband-dear has once again demonstrated his awesomeness by letting me drive the CRV to work. Granted, during summer session, I only have to drive to work about once a week, but still. It's very cool. The CRV is infinitely more comfortable, cooler, faster, and it just makes me happy to drive it.
Enter the university police department.
Every time I've driven the car, I've followed the parking rules, stopped at the police department, and obtained a temporary parking permit. And every time, that went fine. Until today.
You see, today I was told I had exceeded the number of temporary parking permits allowed, and would have to buy an additional parking permit. In short, I would have to fork over another $35 to be allowed to drive another car to work.
Hell no.
Call me stingy, but the fact that I have to pay to be allowed to park at work is silly enough to begin with, I will not let the police department determine which car I am allowed to drive to work. This has to be some sort of infringement upon my basic, inalienable rights as a US citizen to drive whatever car I want to.
You'll be happy to know I didn't get upset with anyone at the police department. I have just sent out a string of angry emails to our dean (who agrees with me), and various member of the administration.
Perhaps I'm overreacting. Perhaps I should just pay the $35, and think of it as another tax write-off. But perhaps it really is as ridiculous as I think it is. What do you think?
1. Faculty and staff have to buy a parking permit in order to be able to park on campus, and
2. We have just bought a new car.
Regarding number 1, I would like the record to show that our campus does not lack parking space like a lot of urban campuses do. There is no driving around and around and around parking lots to find that one empty spot like you might have to do at other major universities. There is no "if you leave for lunch, you're out of luck" either, and really, parking down here is pretty good. It just costs you money. Which, considering the absolute abundance of parking spaces, really makes no sense. Well, it does if you consider that the university receives $35 annually from every employee, and that I'm sure that helps with the university budget, but last time I checked, I don't think it was my job to donate to that same budget. Anyway, I digress.
And regarding number 2, I know, I'm very excited. You might remember that husband-dear owns a truck. He loves that truck. I love that truck. It's ten years old, went all over Europe with us, and holds just about anything. But in recent months it's been, well, struggling. Husband-dear had to replace the radiator in the fall, and a few months ago, his car stopped dead on his way to work. Apparently, the alternator was in need of replacement too. That was when we decided we really needed a new car. The truck is our long-distance vehicle (as my car is really too small), and as neither one of us was thrilled at the idea of driving twelve hours with a truck whose parts are apt to stop at random, we knew the time had come to retire our trusty Dodge. Fortunately, and I really mean this (mainly because I'm a nostalgic old biddy), we decided to keep the old truck, to teach the kids how to drive (and also because husband-dear is as attached to that truck as I am). Anyway, all that aside, we are now the proud owners of a brand new Honda- CRV. It's new, it has XM radio, leather seats, as well as a towing package for our bicycle rack, and we are very happy.
Recently, husband-dear has once again demonstrated his awesomeness by letting me drive the CRV to work. Granted, during summer session, I only have to drive to work about once a week, but still. It's very cool. The CRV is infinitely more comfortable, cooler, faster, and it just makes me happy to drive it.
Enter the university police department.
Every time I've driven the car, I've followed the parking rules, stopped at the police department, and obtained a temporary parking permit. And every time, that went fine. Until today.
You see, today I was told I had exceeded the number of temporary parking permits allowed, and would have to buy an additional parking permit. In short, I would have to fork over another $35 to be allowed to drive another car to work.
Hell no.
Call me stingy, but the fact that I have to pay to be allowed to park at work is silly enough to begin with, I will not let the police department determine which car I am allowed to drive to work. This has to be some sort of infringement upon my basic, inalienable rights as a US citizen to drive whatever car I want to.
You'll be happy to know I didn't get upset with anyone at the police department. I have just sent out a string of angry emails to our dean (who agrees with me), and various member of the administration.
Perhaps I'm overreacting. Perhaps I should just pay the $35, and think of it as another tax write-off. But perhaps it really is as ridiculous as I think it is. What do you think?
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