He Said, She Said

Closin' Shop

2008-09-10T20:14:00.005+02:00

We have made the difficult decision to close up shop on this little blog for now. It's been a blast, but we need to set it aside for now. To be honest, we have too much on our plates right now.

We're not going to delete it though, and maybe someday we'll be back. If you want to keep up with us, we'll both be posting (as we can) on our blogs: Heather Between and t(r)oymarbles.

Thanks for reading!

Painting

2008-09-04T19:37:00.003+02:00

My friend Matt can create watercolor paintings like nobody’s business. I have great admiration for the way he can control watercolor paints because that is something I’ve never been able to do.

My mom has bought and completed more than a few paint-by-number kits. It sticks in my memory that she has actually done DaVinci’s Last Supper. Tacky, I know, but it does confirm the secret code theory that’s been circulating these days.

Far from being the “fine artist”, I’m at my best painting walls. I abhor the prep work, though. Taping off all the baseboards, outlets, radiators and light switches is not my cup of tea.

I do insist on quality paint. There’s nothing worse than painting with thin, cheap stuff. When we first moved in to our flat two years ago, we painted the whole place with a type of paint you mix yourself. You buy a bag of paste, add water and color. It worked okay for lighter colors but we wanted to do some walls in a deep red. The red ended up looking more purplish and chalky. So, we decided to bite the bullet and buy a more expensive ready-mixed brand. Coating the walls with that stuff was sheer pleasure. It was worth the price.

If there’s one skill I wish I could add to my repertoire it would be the ability to create stunning works of visual art, painting included. Alas, I don’t think it’s “in the cards” for me, though.

A lot of what I know about painting, I learned from Troy. In the world of painting, I married up. Not only does he have a lot of knowledge about painting, he does a really good job at it, through the whole process. It never fails that he is the one that does the clean-up; washing out the brushes, wiping up spills, picking up drop cloths. I’m a consummate slacker when it comes to painting. I like the actual painting and you can even get me to do some prep, like taping. But once the wall looks all purty, I’m done.

When we moved into our current apartment, our landlord gave us permission to paint the whole place however we wanted. In Spain you can buy this cheap paint goop that you mix with color and water. It’s a bit crazy, but it works out pretty cheaply. We had fun mixing our own colors. Nic got a sunny yellow, Meg got a pinky purply sort of color, and the rest of the house is kind of café au laitish. Except for the red. We painted our bedroom red, as well as one wall in the living room. For those, we had to buy real honest to goodness premixed paint, because the cheap stuff did not cut it when it came to red.

I have to say, knowing that the cheap paint goo exists is dangerous because sometimes I daydream about new and exciting color schemes!

September

2008-09-01T17:45:00.004+02:00

Oh, September. The dog days of summer are gone (what on earth does that mean, anyway? Why thank you, Mr. Google for this information) and the brutal routines of school mornings are back. The temps are still a bit too warm for comfort and going all day without a nap is killer.

This September is full of newness for our family. Meg and Nic are in a new school, which is quite a distance away. In order to save money, they ride with a teacher. He has to be there early, so on the most brutal days, they have to get up at 6:30 and leave by 7:15.

It’s full of growing-up kids. Meg is going to Middle School camp with her class tomorrow and won’t be home until Thursday. She’s been helping me pack school lunches, something we’ve never had to do. Today we picked up her new phone (for emergencies, not gabbing with friends) so that eventually she and Nic can take the metro without us but still be able to get help if they need it.

September has more limbo in it than normal for me this year. If I get the school job I am hoping for, I have most of September to get my life together. If I don’t, I probably need to start looking for something else. I’d be really happy to know, one way or another.

I’m looking forward to the part of September that brings crisp air and cool nights.

September loosens
its sweaty grip
on summer
out of necessity.
Bright emerald leaves
pale with sometime dew.
The trees
begin to languish in confusion,
not knowing whether to count on sun or chill.
They begin to entertain thoughts of fatalism
but don’t want to give up just yet.

Perceive a weak,
slow whisperleak
in the air.
Change is imminent.

September is
the kindest kind of cruelty imaginable.
She is the now and not yet.
She is the house half-built.
She demands prayer.
In September,
the builder begs
for resolve
to finish what was started
before the cursing season takes over
and the last chance skips away smug.

September is
the epic novel that is
a mere three chapters shy of completion.
She is the teasing promise.
She asks you to trust her,
but does so with
a concealed wink and cross of fingers.

September is
the sigh that comes after sighing.
She is the nap
when you should be rising
and the wakening
when you should be reclining.

September is
the unavoidable call-to-arms,
suddenly interrupting furlough.
September is my coach, but
I am a novice runner
wishing to delay my training
just one more day.

In September,
too many cars return to the city.
Crane anxiously for a parking place.
You are a wheeled hamster.
Circle four more times.
Eventually an oil-stained spot will open.

Hope has its basis in September,
but it is forced.
Still,
hold on to this.
Thank heaven
hope is not utterly deferred.

Firsts

2008-08-29T19:29:00.008+02:00

First CD I bought:

Yeah, uh huh: cuz that was worth the money.

First vinyl album I bought (before CD’s existed):

Ain’t he cute?

First job: feeding two golden retrievers down the block from us when I was 8. This job resulted in my first savings account, believe it or not. This is why I'm a millionaire today.

First dog we had when I was a kid: a Pekingese Poodle named Fonzie.

We got rid of him pretty quickly cuz he bit me. I didn’t taunt him, I swear. Cuz I was a well-mannered little scamp, dontchyaknow.

First full-length play I performed in:

My character’s name was Bud Frump. The name “Frump” tells you what kind of person he was. It wasn’t typecasting. I think.

First school: Sunset Terrace Elementary in Rochester, Minnesota.

This is where I first sniffed glue.

First time overseas: spent most of my time in Birmingham, England. Cuz, yeah, Birmingham has such a booming tourism industry.

First time I kissed Heather: in Henry Hallgren’s basement while watching this movie:

We necked because this flick is such a romantic movie.

First time I rode on a plane: I was 17.

First job in ministry: part time youth pastor at Evangel Baptist Church in Wheaton, Illinois.

I wore a tie and pretended to be sophisticated.

First car I owned: an old station wagon. I bought it for $1 from my pastor in Minnesota. I’m not sure I didn’t get ripped off.

The first time I ate sushi, I was hooked.

The first time I left my family, I flew from Toronto to London, England.

The first time I saw Two Towers, I had nightmares that night about Orcs chasing me.

The first time I was ever in the hospital was to have my gall bladder removed.

The first time I saw a positive sign on a pregnancy test was 30 months after we started trying to get pregnant.

The first dog I ever “owned” was a Pekinese puppy named Pal that my parents gave me for my 1st birthday.

The first time I slept in a water-bed, I knew I wanted one.

The first time I tried Dr. Pepper was in a motor home we were driving from Florida to Michigan one furlough. I had a sip of my Dad’s and the rest is history.

The first car I ever drove was a Subaru station wagon.

The first car Troy and I owned was a behemoth electric blue station with a saggy driver’s seat. We called her Sally.

The first boy I really kissed was Troy. (He’s the last, too)

The first time I rode a horse was on a ranch in Western Canada where my Dad used to work.

The first movie I ever saw in a theater was Sound of Music. My parents snuck us out of my grandparents’ apartment in Toronto because they didn’t approve of going to the movies.

Dessert

2008-08-28T20:46:00.006+02:00

We don’t normally eat dessert after meals in our house (unless you count our son who asks for a cookie at 9:30 on Saturday mornings when he ate breakfast, oh, 45 minutes before.) When I was growing up, dessert was reserved for when we had company. Normally we just ate another spoon of mashed potatoes or something if we wanted something more to eat.

Since I don’t enjoy baking, I was happy to carry that tradition on with my own family. If they do want something sweet after a meal, their choices usually consist of yogurt or a store-bought cookie. Nothing but the finest for my family.

Here are my favorite desserts, if I don’t have to make them myself:
Tiramisu (My favorite is at La Finca de Susana here in Madrid.)
Brownies (from a box is just fine.)
April’s warm chocolate chip cookies.
Kim’s chocolate cakey pudding thingies (do you notice a trend in the fact that OTHER PEOPLE make these?)
Ice cream (not vanilla, unless there is plenty of chocolate sauce).
Cheesecake (Carolyn’s, with caramel sauce whenever possible. Or Café Latte’s chocolate raspberry. I’m warning you, don’t click that link unless you can get in your car and go over there. RIGHT NOW.)
In a pinch, a few squares of Valor’s sugar free dark chocolate with almonds.

And now I need to go run 100 miles, if you’ll excuse me. Except, oh yeah, I don’t run any more than I bake. Oh well!

I had to ask Heather if the topic she selected was to be written in the singular form or the plural form. She opted for the singular, but I think it should be plural.

This tells you how much I like me a heap o’ dessert.

My fav: strawberry shortcake.

If I cannot get that, I will settle for:
-brownies
-ice cream—any kind except coffee flavored
-cookies, especially homemade peanut butter or chocolate chip or Christmas cookies or snickerdoodles or ginger snaps or snickerdoodles.

Yes, I’m aware I’ve written the word “snickerdoodles” twice. It’s such an interesting word I just couldn’t pass up writing it again.

I also like cake, any kind: chocolate, white, yellow, marble, purple or limestone.

I adore pie, almost any kind: apple, cherry, blueberry, pumpkin, banana cream.

Cobbler’s awesome too, but could someone settle an issue that has perplexed me no end? What’s the difference between

-apple cobbler
-apple crisp
-apple crumble

Finally, no post on dessert would be complete without mentioning the fond memories I have eating mom’s pumpkin bars with cream cheese frosting and her bundt cake. I love the word “bundt” also. If someone could come up with a bundt snickerdoodle cake, that would make me extremely happy.

To sum up: I like dessert so much I think that if I couldn’t get anything “proper” I’d likely settle for a spoonful of raspberry jam.

Out of Town

2008-08-25T10:32:00.001+02:00

We're going on a working retreat with our team in 5 minutes, and we didn't get anything written for today. We'll be back on Wednesday!

Donuts

2008-08-21T12:29:00.008+02:00

Please help me solve one of life’s greatest mysteries: should we spell it “doughnut” or “donut”?

On the one hand, I think the first spelling is better because they’re made of dough. But that theory breaks down because they don’t always have nuts. In some ways the second spelling makes more sense, because Homer Simpson, who loves donuts, often says, “Doh!” –and he’s a nut.

The only problem with that theory is: the extra “H” in the spelling.

Therefore, I propose a spelling change to: DOHnut.

Now that that enigma has been unraveled I can get to more important matters. I hereby declare that the best DOHnuts in the world can be found at the Minnesota State Fair.

For starters, these DOHnuts come in a small bag that crackles when you put your thumb and forefinger in, thereby adding to the intrinsic classiness of the DOHnut-eating experience. They’re always hot and greasy. They’re sprinkled with sugar and melt in your mouth.

My grandma used to make sugared DOHnuts with leftover mashed potatoes. Believe it or not, they were delish.

After those tasty delights, I prefer Krispy Kreme and then Dunkin’ Donuts.

I like all varieties, including:

-Powdered
-Classic glazed
-Chocolate glazed
-Glazed jelly filled
-Powdered jelly filled
-Frosted maple
-Blueberry cake
-Long Johns
-Cinnamon with apple filling
-Custard filled
-Glazed with Veggiemite filling

Now you have two questions to respond to: how do you spell DOHnuts, and which one is your fav?

I’m a little dismayed that Troy chose this topic because now I want to get on the bus and go over to Dunkin Coffee (that’s what they call them in Madrid now) and stuff a donut or 3 in my face. And also some of their little crispy hash brown thingies because you can’t get them anywhere else in Spain. But that’s sort of off topic.

Although I will occasionally divert to eating a filled donut, I almost always stick to plain ole’ glazed. They have always been my favorite. If I can get a warm Krispy Kreme, I’m happy, but I’ll take a Dunkin’ if necessary.

My first job in North America was waitressing at a shop in Brantford, Ontario. This is quite bemusing actually, because the clear boss in Canadian donut circles is Tim Horton’s. But I didn’t work for them. I don’t think Mr. C’s is open any more. We did indeed serve MORE than donuts though. Personally, I enjoyed the apple muffins, and the beef pot pies because they had NO peas in them. Actually, it was just full of tasty beef. I would smear the top with ketchup and salt and pepper. Yummy! Oops, again, off topic.

Personally, I consider it a great accomplishment that I know how to roll fresh donuts in powdered sugar, then use the fancy filling dispenser and fill them to bursting with apple, strawberry or raspberry filling. It’s probably the most valuable job skill I have!

Back to School

2008-08-21T11:42:00.004+02:00

I enjoy the whole “back-to-school buzz”. Normally I have to limit my exposure to the aisles of new notebooks, pens, pencils, erasers, backpacks, etc. because if I don’t I could fill a shopping cart and cause my bank balance to suffer from hunger pangs. This year has kind of snuck up on me because our kids are starting school almost two weeks earlier than they normally do. I’m not sure how prepared we are, but we’ll see I guess. This year I’ll have to pack lunches, and we won’t have school uniforms so that will be an adjustment for all of us.

When I was growing up I enjoyed school, and I was always excited about going back to school. Almost without fail I would wake up about 17 times during the night, nervous that I had overslept and was going to be late for the big day. My new outfit would be all picked out, my bag packed and all that jazz.

I think that for me, part of the thrill of going back to school was the reunion. Some of my friends would be gone for the summer months, so I was always excited to get to see them again.

I am enthused about the return to routine again. Not so much about the early mornings! Also enthused about my children not being together 24/7. I’m ready to take a break from being the referee.

Summer provides a nice break, but I’m a creature of habit so I rather enjoy the scheduled regularity of the school year. I like the “early-to-bed-early-to-rise” rhythm of the week. I also find intentional learning stimulating and enjoy seeing my kids learn new things. I even enjoy working with them on their homework.

When I was a kid, I always knew the beginning of the school year was imminent because I’d get a new pair of shoes. There’s nothing like the suggestive power of new shoes: I believed they could honestly help me run faster and jump higher.

As I got older, the first day of school provided occasion to jockey for position in the classroom based on one of two criteria:

A. Either I’d look for a good friend and sit next to them
or
B. I’d look for a pretty girl and sit next to her. Yes, I was a nerd, but I fancied myself a regular Casanova.

I remember the first time I attended a school that involved changing classrooms for each period and using lockers. Compared to primary school, junior high felt huge; and, compared to junior high, high school felt gi-normous, so I was nervous: “What if I don’t make it to class on time? What if I get lost?” I remember walking quickly through the hallways, heart beating rapidly, eyes focused only on what was in front of me so as to get to my locker and to the next class without incident.

Public Transportation

2008-08-18T18:16:00.006+02:00

Living in Europe these past ten years, I’ve grown accustomed to public transportation. It is now officially my preferred method of transport, apart from walking. In some ways, we’ve gotten spoiled now, because it drives me crazy how you have to drive everywhere in North America.

There is one minor drawback, however, to most public transport systems. It forces you to classify people into one of two categories: runners or non-runners. I’ll explain: about 50 percent of the time a bus or train pulls up to the platform at such a moment as to make it feasible for you to run and catch it, or—if you simply walk—you’ll miss it by less than a second, forcing you to wait for the next one to come (which can sometimes be up to 20 minutes—in the case of some busses—and sometimes even an hour in the case of some trains).

You can guess I’m of the “running” persuasion, while Heather is of the “I’d-prefer-to-be-slower-than-a-slug-on-barbiturates” persuasion.

Last night, we had this discussion with a pair of friends that are married. He, interestingly enough, aligns himself with the wiser of the two sides (that is, the “if-I-miss-this-train-my-life-is-over” side), while his wife sides with my wife.

Out of curiosity, which tendency do you lean towards? Run for it (because, yes, life is to be lived like a competition) or just keep walking (because, yes, it’s fun to see your spouse frustrated no end)?

I am a complete convert to public transportation, but that is mostly because I started using it here in Spain, where it is much more developed than any place I have ever lived before. I did experience random pockets of it while I was growing up; taking the bus to the downtown part of Quito because it was a nightmare to drive/park there, taking the subway around Toronto when we visited my Grandparents there.

Even though we own a car, we use public transportation in Madrid probably 95% of the time. Madrid has an amazing system of metro (subways) and bus. I love the freedom, the low cost, and the knowledge that we’re doing our part to lessen our impact on the environment.

I prefer the bus to metro. Even if it takes longer, I love to ride around and look at beautiful Madrid. Dark tunnels, not so much. Plus, I can deal with a crowded bus much better than I can deal with a crowded metro. If I have to be smashed up against strangers, I really prefer to be able to look past them and see something other than a dark wall.

I almost cannot cope if the metro stops in the middle of the tunnel between stops and sits there. It makes me claustrophobic, paranoid and jittery. Me no likey.

Also, unless there is no avoiding it (like there is no chance I’ll be on time unless I do) I do not run for buses or trains.

Naps

2008-08-15T15:44:00.004+02:00

I am not aware of any time in my life that I did not dig naps. Maybe when I was a kid, but I doubt it. Even in high school, Sunday afternoons in my house involved naps for my parents and I. My brother was not a big fan, but that worked out OK as he got older because he would make pie on Sunday afternoon. Definitely a win-win situation.

Anyway, I love naps. I used to require at least a 2-hour time-slot for a nap. Anything less and I would just end up feeling cheated. Or I would spend the whole time wondering if I really had enough time to get a decent amount of sleep. Because oh no, I don’t waste time worrying about ridiculous things.

Lately, I have learned to accept and even grow to love power naps into my life. Maybe it’s my age, but a 20 minute snooze where I am more in la-la land than really sleeping can be remarkably restorative.

Here is the deal though, I must be at least 90% horizontal for a nap to happen. The couch works, my bed works, the hammocks on the balcony work. Sitting up does not work. Please make a note.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I have time for a power nap before company comes!

When I take naps, I tend to take “power” naps. I lay down and “close my eyes” (that’s the expression I use) for 15-20 minutes and then get back up again. It’s pretty rare for me to take a nap of greater duration than one hour. It’s a funny thing, though, because usually I have to be feeling pretty drowsy to lay down and snooze, but by the time I actually put my head on the pillow I catch my second wind, or when I actually lay down, my mind starts racing with all the things I need to do which makes me unable to rest peacefully.

Chances are, if a nap lasts an hour or longer, it’s because I just lay down on the couch and doze off. The act of actually going to a bed to nap revives my energy.

My nap-taking quotient also tends to come and go in a seasonal fashion. Seems like I will go for months without taking a single nap and then, wham, all of a sudden I’m feeling generally tuckered out and will feel like I need one every day for a period of 6-8 weeks. Today happens to be one of those days I feel like taking a nap. In fact, a couple hours ago I said I was going to take one but then I got going on other stuff and the nap got lost in the shuffle.

Magazines

2008-08-13T20:54:00.009+02:00

If we had more money, I think I’d be a magazine junkie. Here are some of the magazines I would subscribe to:

-Time
-Newsweek
-Reader’s Digest
-Sports Illustrated
-Christian History
-Christianity Today
-Leadership Journal
-National Geographic
-The New Yorker
-The Atlantic

I don’t think I’d be interested in having subscriptions to People or Us or other “celebrity gossip” magazines, but I must say that if I’m sitting next to someone that’s leafing through one, I will look over their shoulder to get the latest mud.

At various times we have had subscriptions to Newsweek, Reader’s Digest and Christianity Today but, to be honest, it’s too expensive keeping up with it all so we tend to use the internet a lot more now, since most of these magazines put much of their content online anyway.

Awhile ago I bought a CD-Rom containing 45 issues of Christian History, so that pretty much serves as my “nerd fix” for the rest of my life.

When I was a kid I enjoyed leafing through magazines of high art. Sneaking peaks at my brother's *ahem* Playboy magazine collection that he had hidden underneath his mattress happened to be one of my preferred *ahem* "reads". You can be sure that one is off my list now.

I also liked Archie comics:

And I think my all-time favorite is….(drum roll, please)…Mad Magazine. If you’ve never heard of it, here are a few cover designs. You’ll get the picture in no time.

(I also like how the price of the magazine is "$1.00 CHEAP". Here's another one that'll give you a chuckle.)

I love magazines. When I was in college, I worked as the periodical assistant in our college library, which got me forever hooked. It was my job to check the new periodicals in, put an orange dot on them and stamp them with the “Northwestern College Library” stamp and then shelve them. If I had time, I would read them on my lunch hour before they were put into circulation.

I have had a life-long friendship with Reader’s Digest; I grew up with them in the house (along with the Reader’s Digest condensed books). Almost without fail, when I arrive in America, my first treat is a copy of Reader’s Digest, and Good Housekeeping. I love having fresh new magazines to read on the plane. Recently we were visiting friends in the military, and one of my treats was the current Good Housekeeping.

When we lived in the US, I had a few subscriptions over time. I think I subscribed to a few parenting magazines when Meg was born, and some cross-stitch magazines. We subscribed to Newsweek for awhile when we lived in Barcelona.

Nowadays we don’t have a single subscription, which may be a good thing because we don’t have much space either. Thankfully, a lot of magazines now have online issues, which I can see from Madrid, and don’t kill trees.

But I’m still always thrilled when Lucy sends me her issues of Today’s Christian Woman.

Olympics

2008-08-11T19:59:00.007+02:00

I can’t remember when the Olympics started registering on my radar. Again with the MK and TV thing, but I don’t remember really being that aware of them when I was growing up. I obviously KNEW they existed but I don’t remember watching them really until after Troy and I were married.

I have to admit, I’m a bigger fan of the winter games. I like the ice-skating especially, but I seem to be more drawn to the winter sports than summer ones. I can hardly stand to watch the diving, since that diver years (decades even?) ago hit his head on the diving board. I get too stressed out.

This year it has been fun because Meaghan and Nicolas, but especially Meg, have been very interested in watching the games. In true TCK (third culture kid) fashion, Meg roots for both Spain and the US (and recently commented that we should root for “my” countries, Canada and Ecuador as well.) I’ve been working this week, so haven’t gotten to watch too much, but Meg has been giving me updates. I HAVE seen some basketball (with the gi-normous Chinese player on the men’s team) cycling, (Spain won a gold!) swimming and right now we are watching tennis. Spain’s player Rafa Nadal is playing. He’s smokin’ (as a tennis player, not in cuteness.)

Clearly, I have well-informed, articulate opinions on the Olympics.

I DO love Cool Runnings, does that count?

I prefer the winter Olympics. I realize that’s politically incorrect, seeing as the summer Olympics are now in full swing, but it’s the truth.

My favorite sport is ice hockey and I have fond memories of the 1980 U.S. team whooping the Russians. That was one day I really was proud to be an American.

Now that I’ve gotten the shameless patriotism out of my system…Currently, I am watching the tennis match between Rafa Nadal and someone whom I only have referred to as “some Italian schmuck”. It’s not that I have anything against the Italian’s; it’s just that Nadal just won Wimbeldon, and he IS a Spaniard, and we ARE living in Spain, so I pretty much have to refer to ANYONE Nadal plays as “a schmuck.”

Anyhoo…I also enjoy watching basketball and volleyball, so there are two points in favor of the summer Olympics, but let’s face it: bobsledding is one heckuva crazy sport, as is skiing and ski jumping and…Yeah, the winter Olympics pretty much kick the big dimpled butt of the summer Olympics.

It has been fun seeing our kids get into the Olympics this year. This is the first year on record I can honestly remember them noticing the Olympics so it has been fun seeing them cheer for various teams. Interesting: they always cheer for Spain and for America when they play, but I have yet to see what they’ll do when the two play against each other. Time will tell.

Kool Aid

2008-08-08T20:18:00.012+02:00

I could guzzle gallons of this stuff and never get tired of it. My favorite is grape; then orange; then cherry.

I have had some bad experiences with Kool Aid but this was simply because the person who made it skimped on the sugar ration. I cannot overstate how crucial it is that one use copious amounts of sugar when preparing unsweetened Kool Aid. Of course, if you are using the pre-sweetened version, simply make sure you don’t over-dilute the powder base.

I’ve always loved the Kool Aid Guy.

If I had a Kool Aid Guy costume I’d go dancing around town, making people happy, pouring them Kool Aid. I think there should be many, many, many more Kool Aid people in this ol’ world. I hope my kids grow up to be Kool Aid dancers.

I also like Kool Aid because it gives you a nice Kool Aid mustache if you drink it correctly. When I drink Kool Aid I am so happy I just want the world to know and a Kool Aid mustache is a fun way to do that.

Finally, I like the fact that Kool Aid is spelled with a “K”. I think that’s very clever and have always wanted to ask the creators of Kool Aid why they chose that spelling. I’m sure there is probably some sophisticated reason and I think if I found it out I would have uncovered a Deep Secret.

I must have had a deprived childhood, because I don’t get the whole Kool-aid thing. I actually think it’s pretty gross, to tell you the truth. From my babysitting experience, I also know that it stains like crazy, which is a really stupid attribute to give a drink for kids. Kids. I have never bought Kool-aid for my own kids. I also think it’s annoying to make because you have to add sugar to it. Kind of defeats the point of an “instant” drink, no?

We recently got given a few packets of generic kool-aid stuff, and my hubby and kids are in rapture. I opened the fridge the other day and it reeked of grape kool-aid. Mmmmm, tasty. Not.

When I was a kid and we would go on furlough, I was also kind of wigged out by the commercials featuring the giant Kool-aid pitcher on wheels that would come blasting through a wall, or some such thing. I could never really understand why the kids were so happy to see it, and did not run away screaming.

As a poor deprived missionary kid, I was subjected to Ecuador’s version of Kool-aid, Yupi. See?

We drank the peach flavor. It was marginal, but passable.

My hubby and kids are also fans of Tang. GAAAHHH! Recently we found maracuya (passion fruit) flavor, which was the least disgusting powdered mix drink I’ve had lately. My ridiculous daughter thinks that the Tang is better than FRESH maracuya.

As Bill Cosby would say, BRAIN DAMAGE.

Top 10 Summer Foods

2008-08-06T19:25:00.011+02:00

There are certain foods that I associate with summer, and some of them are not that readily available in Spain. So in honor of summer eating, here are my top ten favorite things to eat during summer.

1. Fresh raspberries. I love raspberries more than any other berry. When I CAN find them in Spain they are usually pretty pricey. I love being able to pick them and eat them. When we were in Germany recently I picked a couple of wild ones but they were sour and sort of buggy.

2. Broccoli/cauliflower/bacon/mayo salad. I know there must be an official name for this salad that everyone brings to potlucks and picnics, but I don’t know what it’s called.

3. Corn on the cob. I.love.this. It’s my all-time favorite thing to eat at the Minnesota state fair. They cook it on a rotisserie grill thingy and then dip the whole ear in a vat of melted butter. It’s also good if you cook it in the microwave still in the husk.

4. KFC coleslaw. I have never found a coleslaw I like as much.

5. Pink lemonade, you know, the kind that is frozen in a can.

6. Lucy’s potato salad. The perfect potato salad.

7. Anything on the grill, but the bacon-wrapped filet mignons I used to buy at Sam’s club are my favorite.

8. Deviled eggs. With dry mustard, not yellow.

9. Bread and butter pickles, preferably made by my sister-in-law.

10. Ice cream. Always wonderful; best in summer.

Since food is a serious thing, I’ll start with a disclaimer: let’s assume, shall we, that I already get to include certain foods as a foundation while at the same time not “eating into” my list of top 10 summer foods—pun intended. This foundation would include:

-Hot Tamales (thanks Megan!)
-Powdered donuts
-Bacon strips
-Bacon bits
-Beef wrapped in bacon
-Toast
-Bacon and Tomato on toast
-Cap’n Crunch
-Cap’n Crunch with bacon bits

Now that I’ve gotten the foundational health foods out of the way, here are my top 10 summer foods, in no particular order:

1. Sweet corn on the cob
2. Lemonade
3. Watermelon
4. Popsicles
5. Chicken chutney salad (yes, I do have some class)
6. Sangria
7. Roasted marshmallows
8. Dill pickles

The last two require some explanation:
9. Raspberry cobbler with vanilla ice cream: when I was a kid, we picked wild raspberries and brought them to my aunt. She’d make cobbler with them. It was delicious.

10. Fresh fish, caught from the lake, batter-fried by my brother Todd. He’s quite the fish fryer. Writing this makes me miss him just now.

Yes, summer food does have its attachments. Some of these foods we can’t really get in Spain, so when we have the chance to partake, it is truly a treat.

Happy eating, everyone! We'd love to hear what your top ten are.

Writer's Block

2008-08-04T19:20:00.003+02:00

I rarely get writer’s block. Perhaps that’s because, as Heather says, brevity of speech is not my strong suit. Frequently I need to cut my original drafts for He Said/She Said in half (since we give ourselves a limit of 250 words). I wrote a drama once, aiming for a 15 minute piece, and discovered, while practicing, that it was actually 30 minutes. So, I cut it in half. It was painful to do so but rewarding at the same time, since it gave me lots of back story to go on in portraying the role.

Even though I know it’s different, I liken writer’s block to forgetting a line in a play. In college, my drama coach told me that if I ever dropped a line I should just say whatever popped into my head to keep the scene moving forward. “In fact,” she pointed out, “you could just blurt out ‘I’ve got a turkey coming in the mail!’” Believe it or not, 90 percent of the time it would actually jostle my brain to recall the real line I was supposed to say.

With that, I’ll close this post by saying, “I’ve got a turkey coming in the mail!”

Now, magically, I’ve got in mind what I really wanted to say about writer’s block, but since I’ve used up my 250 words, you all will just have to use your imagination as to what I was going to say. See ya Wednesday!

Maybe I should just claim that I have writer’s block right now and then I would be done! Woo hoo! But I guess that would be el-lamo. So I won’t.

I have to say that I used to be a much more prolific writer than I am now. When I was young I used to write constantly; poems, short stories, letters, you name it. I don’t know what happened, but I often have trouble getting words out of my head.

Strangely enough, I have more trouble when I try to write on paper than when I’m on my computer. Maybe it’s because I have gotten used to being able to edit at will or something. It actually makes me kind of sad though that I can’t open a new notebook and have words flow onto the page like I used to. Part of me just thinks I need to make myself do it but that’s not much fun either.

I often seem to be able to write great things in my head. And then they just won’t. come.out. Stupid brain.

OK, it’s 99ish degrees in Madrid, I kid you not. My brain is mush. That is all.

We're Such SLACKERS!!!!

2008-07-21T22:43:00.002+02:00

Hey peeps, we were really trying to get ahead of things, but we didn't. We leave tomorrow for a few days of vacation and then we'll be at our annual conference with our mission after that. We'll be back WITHOUT fail on Monday, August 3. And we'll do our very best to make you snort your drink out your nose that day!

Thanks!

100

2008-07-18T14:24:00.003+02:00

This is our 100th post, believe it or not! Hard to believe you have been putting up with us for that long! We're impressed when anyone even notices that we have been slacking and not posting regularly. (Rest assured, we will continue to try our utmost to stick with our thrice-weekly posting schedule. Thanks for your patience with us!)

Anyway, to celebrate, we thought we'd let you put in your two cents' worth about what post you have enjoyed the most! Try and go with your gut reaction without going back to read them :) Have fun!

Smell

2008-07-16T13:24:00.003+02:00

I have a really keen sense of smell. My nose is super sensitive to both good and bad smells; I can often smell things that others can’t. Maybe I have a superpower after all!

I think smell is an amazing thing. It always amazes me how one whiff of something can transport you back in time to a specific place. I think a lot of our memories are made more poignant by the smells that go along with them.

On the flip side, I think smells can be tortuous as well.

Some smells I could do without:

Licorice
Burning rubber
Burnt hair
Lexi’s, um, “toots”
Mothballs
Leftovers that have been in the fridge too long
Wet dog
Fingernail clippings (sorry if that was too gross)
Beer
Nasty street corners baking in the hot Madrid sun

I’ll end on a fresh and happy note! These are some of my favorite smells:

Freshly brewed coffee
Baking bread
Garlic, especially roasted
Honeysuckle (although it makes me sneeze like a crazy person)
Turkey and stuffing roasting in the oven
Fresh basil just pinched off the plant
Cinnamon
Sprigs of fresh mint
Lilacs
Chocolate
The air during and after a good rainstorm
Baby powder
Hot chocolate chip cookies
Just mowed grass (but, again with the sneezing)
My kids, after a bath or shower
Fallen leaves in autumn
Vanilla
Cotton sheets, line-dried in the sun

Being an actor, I’ve learned that smell is more connected to emotion than sight. Try it out now. In your mind’s eye imagine these scents:

Coffee
Fresh cut grass
The sea
Roast turkey
Perfume
Rain
A strawberry scented candle
Lilacs
Bacon
Spearmint
Puppy
Lemon
Shower gel
Pine
Chocolate
A lit match
Fresh tobacco

Okay, now imagine these smells:
Urine
Bad breath
Dirty socks
Cigarette smoke
Wet dog
Cooked cabbage
Moldy egg salad
A field covered in fresh manure
Insect repellent
Skunk
Old carnival ponies
Sulfur
Stale, imitation crab meat
Zucchini gone bad
Rancid, uncooked potatoes
Mildew

My guess is: there were a handful of items from the first list that conjured positive emotions. Smell has the potential to actually make one feel less fearful even. By the same token, there were likely a handful of items from the second list that called forth negative emotions.

Some of the scents, both good and bad, have particular memories attached to them and recalling these memories results in (quite often) strong emotional impulses. That’s why, depending on your experiences, some of the items from the first (“positive”) list may actually call forth negative emotions, even though we tend to regard those scents as generally pleasant. For example, perfume: if you’re divorced and you imagine the perfume your ex-wife wore, this could have a negative effect.

Interesting, isn’t it? What are some other scents that you’d add to either list? Are there any scents from the first list you’d regard as negative?

Golf

2008-07-12T15:37:00.006+02:00

When I was a kid I thought people who watched golf on television were freaks. “Why,” I thought, “would anyone want to watch something so boring?” It only took a few tries at the game myself to appreciate the brilliance of televised golfers.

Having said that, golf is one of those games with which I have a love-hate relationship. Most times when I go golfing (which isn’t often) I will be on, say, hole 7 of 9 and I will be muttering to myself, “Never again will I play this stupid game! I hate it! The ball never does what I want it to do!” But then, on hole 9, I’ll hit a brilliant shot right onto the green, close to the pin; or, I’ll sink a magnificent putt or nail a superb drive. And all of a sudden, my mood changes, and I fall into the trap every golfer falls into, thinking, “I can’t wait to come again!” For some reason, that one good shot was worth it all.

I’m actually not very good at golf. I consider it a good round if I can get one over par on a hole, because most times I’ll get two or three over. I imagine that’s because I don’t get to play very much. If I had the chance to play more often and visit the driving range once or twice a week to hit a big bucket of balls, I imagine I’d cut my score by a third before long.

I have never played golf in real life. When I was a little girl, my parents would sometimes take us to a golf course in Quito on Sunday afternoons. It was on the side of Pichincha, and my brother and I loved to roll down the grassy hills. On our honeymoon, I followed Troy around a golf course in Red Wing, Minnesota. Was I a good wife or what? I have played mini-golf a few times and enjoyed it.

I’m a regular golfer now, in my living room. I’m an OK golfer on the Wii, though no match for my hubby. The booger actually got a hole in one. On the Wii. He now gets annoyed if he can’t match his 9 under par score. I don’t like to play golf with him anymore. I think my best score is +1. I’m fairly certain that I could never golf successfully in real life. For one thing, I doubt I could muster the power to hit a ball (if I even managed to connect it to my club) more than 20 feet. However, I think I would do an excellent job of driving a golf cart! For now, I’ll stick to the Wii. It soothes my golf ego by complimenting me “Nice shot!” and “Nice on!” That’s enough for me.

Books

2008-07-09T20:59:00.002+02:00

I love books! I devour them. I read super fast, so they never last long enough for me. I’m always looking for something to read, although I have to limit myself somewhat. Once I get on a reading roll, I have a hard time doing anything else.

I was really happy to get a chance to read while we were on vacation. I raided CJ and Amy’s bookshelves and I was thrilled to get my hands on A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini. I had been wanting to read it ever since I read Kite Runner. I think he is an amazing writer, and I think his stories are very important and need to be heard. So that was cool.

I also got to read Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, which is another one that has been on my list for awhile. I am definitely going to have to get my hands on a copy of that one. It’s a short little book, but it is packed with wisdom and words to live by. I am amazed that it was originally published in 1955!

In my house there are two “classes” of books. Since we don’t have a public library with English books remotely near us, I buy books in the 1-3 euro room of used bookstores, but usually those are ones I plan on parting with. Then there are books we buy to keep. Mostly we buy those when we are in the U.S. and can browse though used bookstores.

First, I need to clear something up: It’s my fault we didn’t post yesterday. Now that my conscience is clear *whew!*, we can address the topic at hand…

I love books. If I had enough money, I’d love to increase our budget for buying books five-fold. I could spend all day (literally!) in a Barnes & Noble bookstore. I’d go through the shelves of most sections book by book, if I had the time and, if I knew I could spend, say, 500 dollars in one go on purchases, I’d make a big fat list during my browsing, take the list home and carefully plot which ones I’d buy.

My thematic priorities are as follows (pretty much in this order)…

Theology
Poetry
History
Classics
Philosophy
Drama
Children’s Books (from Dr. Seuss to “chapter books”)
Fiction (a wide variety)
Biographies

I rarely read books more than once. If I refer to a book after I’ve read it, that’s only because I remember a particular passage and pull it off the shelf to find something very specific I need.

Last note: I’ve always known a handful of Robert Frost’s poems before. I am just finishing up an anthology of Frost poems. He is very good. If you don’t know his stuff well, I encourage you to read him.

Swimming

2008-07-07T08:00:00.002+02:00

Our pool is just beneath us (literally), so our kids are keen on swimming every day. I guess when I was a kid I would have gone swimming every day, too, if I had had the chance, but I can’t recall being as fanatical about it as they are! Still, I can’t complain, because our pool is in the shade and it’s heated—two rare features in Madrid. This past week we’ve all gone swimming three times, and the kids have gone another time “alone”, contenting themselves with Dad merely sitting poolside, reading, instead of the usual playtime with them in the pool. We told them early this season: “You will get more time in the pool this year if you’re okay with Mom and Dad not coming in with you!” So far, they’ve managed to cope with that arrangement.

Even as an adult, I enjoy swimming more when some kind of game is involved. If we didn’t have kids, it’s likely I would rarely get in the pool, but since we do, I get in the pool more often because they’ll be goofy with me. We play ball or say silly things to each other under the water. They also enjoy jumping off my shoulders and swimming between my legs. All in all, I’m grateful we get to go swimming a lot this summer. Likely, we will frequent the pool every day in August, since Madrid typically feels like a fiery furnace that month.

We’re blessed to live in an apartment building with a swimming pool. Actually, our apartment is directly over the swimming pool, so if our floor ever gives way we’ll be in the pool , summer or not. It’s nice having it so easily accessible. But it can be the bane of my existence because it’s always hovering in the consciousness of the kids. They can hear the water splashing and are forever dropping comments about the LOVELY WEATHER and WHEW, I AM SO HOT TODAY.

This year they have finally come to grips with the fact that they’ll get more swim time if they are content for us to take them down but not get in the pool with them. The kids both know how to swim and we have a lifeguard, but we don’t usually send them down on their own, even though everyone else does. If we aren’t in the mood to get in the pool, one of us will take a book down and sit on a bench while they swim.

I have to say though, if the weather stays this hot all summer, I might be getting in the pool more than normal. We are also spoiled because our pool is heated, so it doesn’t take your breathe away when you get in, and then the air actually feels nice and cool when you get out. And because the pool is literally under our apartment, but open to the sides, we don’t have to worry about sunscreen either!

4th of July

2008-07-04T08:00:00.003+02:00

This year, we are celebrating the 4^th in Germany, with some college friends. CJ is in the US military, but I can’t tell you any more because then he might have to kill me. And you. Just kidding. Sort of. Mostly I just don’t know, because I’m a bad friend.

Anyway, to be honest, we never really know quite what to do with the 4^th of July, even when we are in America. The last time we were in the U.S. on the 4^th of July we ended up getting together with fellow missionaries who had just moved back from Europe and watching the World Cup on TV. We’re so patriotic aren’t we? We did barbecue though, so does that count? And it was storming like crazy that day, so the only fireworks we saw were through the rain and in between lightning strikes on the way back from Denver to Colorado Springs.

So this year we’ll be enjoying the festivities provided by the American military, in Germany. I don’t know exactly what, but perhaps we’ll have BBQ and hot dogs. I hope we have potato salad.

I don’t have strong feelings about the 4^th of July, or any “patriotic” holiday from any of the countries that I have lived in. I always say (I know, it’s corny, but true) that I feel more like a citizen of the world than any particular country. That means I get to claim ALL the holidays!

I’m not super patriotic, but I do have fond memories of 4^th of July celebrations when I was a kid. Up until the year I was 9, my family would go to Silver Lake in Rochester, Minnesota to witness the evening’s fireworks display. I’m sure that in reality Rochester’s show rates as average compared to other fireworks displays around the country but my heart remembers it as the best, brightest, most spectacular I’ve ever seen.

We weren’t wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but we always managed to get plenty of firecrackers, bottle rockets, roman candles, cherry bombs and sparklers. A 4^th of July staple for us kids involved the following: we’d lay two bottle rockets side by side on the street, light the fuse and see how far (and where) they’d go. Some would get stuck under a car, others would fly into a tree, and others would make it the full length of the block.

I especially liked it when we went camping after the 4^th, because inevitably we’d find a dead fish on the beach, place a firecracker (or two) in its mouth and watch the fun.

Of course, no post would be complete without mentioning the delicious 4^th of July fare: polish sausages, hamburgers, hot dogs, potato salad, devilled eggs, lemonade, root beer, ice cold dill pickles, and watermelon. Yum.

This year, we’ll be on an American military base in Germany on the 4^th. I imagine our kids will love it.

Our dog

2008-07-02T08:00:00.005+02:00

…is smart, too smart for her own good.
…is cheeky.
…would make a nice football, if I were a punter.
…has eaten three pair of panties in one go.
…threw up the last pair of panties while I was receiving a ride home from a friend in our friend’s Lexus.
…is gross.
…farts.
…possibly has a reservoir of toxic waste in her intestines, from which her farts are produced.
…was licking our brown leather couch earlier today like it was a giant side of beef.
…likes to stick her nose in the garbage.
…likes to eat really disgusting things in said garbage, which I can’t mention here specifically, but the items in question begin with “mens” and end with “truation pads”.
…has been known to produce snot rags out her rectum.
…is often very cute.
…likes to have her paws rubbed.
…is loved much by our kids, which is the only reason she’s still alive today.
…gets to sit on our couch.
…is pretty.
…cannot be let off her leash.
…sometimes sounds like she’s speaking to us.
…will get up on all fours on top of our dining table, if we’re not watching her carefully.
…needs a bath right now like nobody’s business.
…is up for sale. Just kidding. Our kids wouldn’t allow it.
…has ears that could airlift her to Egypt should a strong enough wind catch them just so.
…ate the better part of our friend’s chicken dinner while we were away recently.

We have a beagle, Lexi. She turns six on July 5^th. It’s a good thing her birthday isn’t on the 4^th of July; I’m pretty sure that America would not be happy sharing its birthday with the likes of Lexi.

We do love our dog; she is part of our family (in a dog sort of way). But she tries our patience in NUMEROUS ways. Unfortunately, she has enough smarts and cuteness to make her dangerous; she seems like she should be well-behaved. Don’t be deceived by the cuteness. She also thinks she’s at least half human. Observe:

The best word I have to describe Lexi is “opportunist”. She is a master of making the most of even the tiniest chance to sneak into the garbage snout-first or stand on top of the dining room table.

We generally don’t leave her with people unless we don’t care if they continue to like us after the fact. Recently our friends/neighbors offered to watch her for a weekend. We dropped her off, and after delivering a 50-minute discourse on her evil ways, we left. Over the course of the weekend, she learned to jump on the pedal of the garbage can (why do you think ours is on top of the dryer outside the kitchen?) so she could stick her snout in. She also stole some/all of a freshly roasted chicken. I didn’t ask for details.

Fortunately, they seem to still be willing to be our friends. However, this week, the dog is going to the kennel.

Superpowers

2008-06-30T08:00:00.001+02:00

Troy and I recently started watching Heroes, so I’ve been pondering the very important question “If I were a superhero, what powers would I want/have?” I know, this kind of deep thinking is a challenge in the summer heat, but sometimes you just can’t back away from the hard thought processes, you know?

I came up with the following list of powers I would like to have if I was a superhero:

The ability to move objects with my mind. This would come in really handy when it’s time to clean up the house.

The ability to shrink. I would apply this immediately to all the fatty regions on my body.

The ability to be invisible. I’d like to be able to disappear when I made a stupid comment. I’d also use it to spy on my children when I am curious about how they are acting (good, bad, cute or otherwise) when I’m not in the room.

The ability to make others do whatever I want just by thinking it. Well, that seems pretty obvious to me!

The ability to read minds. This one would be helpful so I would know if my children are being rebellious on the inside. It would also help me know when I should use the previous power.

The ability to teleport. I would love to be able to flit around Madrid and back and forth across the world instantly and easily. Especially when it’s too hot/cold/rainy/I’m too lazy.

I would like elastic ear lobes. That way, when it rained, I wouldn’t even need an umbrella.

It would also have been nothing short of “super” if my brother had grown up with stink-free feet.

I think it would also be neat to be able to eat as many boxes of Hot Tamales as one wants with no repercussions whatsoever. On second thought, throw in slabs o’ bacon to that diet and I would be a happy camper.

Basically, when I think of superpowers, I want something that will enhance my life, make it easier. So, included in my superpower package I would like things like self-trimming toenails, self-cleaning ears, indestructible teeth, and static-length hair and beard. Also, I wouldn’t object to being able to run for as long as I want without getting tired, and the ability to retain word-for-word recall of anything I read. Related to that: I’d like any writing ideas I get to write themselves.

On a different topic: Another superpower I’d like would be the power to make people (ahem—my wife) laugh at all my jokes.

It also wouldn't hurt to have the ability to make money.

Tornadoes

2008-06-25T18:29:00.004+02:00

Tornadoes are like spiders for me: I find them tremendously fascinating but terrifying. I was afraid of tornadoes before I even saw one. I think this happened because I took my cues from those older than me: One day I saw how freaked out my mom was that the sky was green and the air was suddenly still, so I got freaked out too. I remember being told to get in the basement and stay there until the danger passed. I remember the sirens that would sound in town whenever there was a tornado warning and I remember the high-pitched alert that came through the TV and the mysterious words that would appear when we were put on a “Tornado Watch”.

I think storm chasers have to be among the craziest people in the world. The movie “Twister” first made me aware that there even were such people.

When I was a kid I heard my mom say to someone once: “When a tornado is getting close, it sounds like a freight train.” That night, I awoke to the sound of a violent wind that sounded like a train, and I sat straight up in bed, convinced a tornado was making a bee-line for us. I ran to my mom’s room and told her a tornado was coming. She took me back to my room, which also happened to be the laundry room, and pointed out to me that it was just the washer spinning on high speed.

There are no tornadoes in Ecuador, so I grew up without them being part of my mindset. I find them freaky and fascinating at the same time. I can watch countless videos of them, but I’m pretty sure that if I saw one coming my way, I would not be standing around with my video camera.

In some ways I think I’m actually a bit of a tornado snob. I’m much more impressed by the ones that are about a mile wide and seem like they can suck up whole cities in one gulp. I know the skinny ones can do damage too, but really, they are just so, SKINNY. I tried to find photos but I was wasn’t feeling, so just go with me here and use your imagination.

I’m glad we live in Madrid, where we can get a wicked good thunderstorm without having to worry about the potential of a mean-spirited cloud coming by to gobble up my world. And for the record, I think that tornadoes that happen at night are the meanest ones of all because you can’t even seen them coming.

The only thing I can say in defense of tornados is that at least they are somewhat predictable when the weather conditions are a certain way. That ranks them over earthquakes in my book, because you definitely can’t see an earthquake coming! No way, no how.

Arachnophobia

2008-06-23T21:38:00.007+02:00

I admit it, I am a closet fan (or not so closet since we own it) of the “thrill-omedy” Arachnophobia. I’m not overly fond of spiders, but I’d rather deal with a spider than a roach any day.

I think part of the reason I like it so much is that these spiders are a villain that everyone loves to hate, and since they aren’t human, it’s OK. And come on, John Goodman is freaking hilarious as the exterminator. Plus, the sheer number of spiders that invade is super high on the squirm scale! I also love it because it’s scary without a lot of the weird and creepy stuff that shows up in some movies today.

Personally I think this movie is best watched in a group, with people who aren’t afraid to scream at the top of their lungs. I first saw the movie at my journalism prof’s house with a bunch of my fellow journalism students. We screamed the house down and laughed until we almost wet our pants. It was one of the most fun nights of college.

And for those of you out there who are worried about the mistreatment of spiders (some people objected to the movie when it came out because it “gave spiders a bad reputation.”) you’ll be happy to know that all spiders were “herded” with hot and cold. And the honkin’ big one? It was fake.

If you have the guts, come over and watch it with me. I dare you.

Snakes and spiders have one thing in common for me: I find them both terribly fascinating but, were I to encounter one loose within 8 feet of me, I would freeze with fear.

When I lived in Texas, I saw a big hairy tarantula when I played over at my friend’s house. And this was not because he had one as a pet. No, we were just playing out back, when suddenly we saw a hairy tarantula there, stuck in the corner of my friend’s porch. My friend told us to simply walk away slowly or the spider would jump at us and bite us. That was one smart kid.

I also have heard about the brown recluse spider. Apparently this spider looks like an ordinary house spider. Its bite at first appears like a mosquito bite. But, if you let it go untreated, the subtle poison begins to eat away at your flesh and it kills you slowly but surely.

As I write this, many of the doors in our apartment are opened, allowing air to come in via our wrap-around balcony. I imagine one or two of these little varmints crawling into our house right now. And, tonight, while I’m asleep, one will bite me. I will wake in the morning, thinking it was just a mosquito bite, but, come August, I’ll be shopping for special underwear for folks that only have half a buttocks. Yeah, I guess you could say I have arachnophobia.

Hot Pink Nail Polish

2008-06-20T19:46:00.007+02:00

The other day Amy Swacina was listening to Heather and I try to decide some future topics for He Said, She Said and she chimed in with her own topic suggestion: Hot Pink Nail Polish. I thought it would be a nice challenge to write on something like that, so Amy: this is dedicated to you. My imagination went wild with this one, so I hope you enjoy it! Follow this link and turn your sound up.

Clearly, I need to speak to my agent. I can't continue to work under these conditions. Ever since Troy discovered how to record himself, he takes the "he said" part to a more and more extreme level. And I am left in the dust. Yeah, yeah, I know that technically I am not supposed to know about what "he said." That would work, if he actually WROTE something. But when he RECORDS something, I can hear it all 32 times he tests it. Mainly because he has to turn it up so loud so he can hear it over the sound of his (and the kids') cackling.

So really, what on earth am I going to say about hot pink nail polish that will even register in the brains of you readers? Huh? I knew that this would be a hard topic to think of anything on, but seriously!

I have to say I am a more a red nail polish kind of girl. My toenails are painted red right now. If I do wear pink nail polish, I tend to go for colors more like "Rose Suede". Yeah, I was an Avon Lady in another life, briefly. Troy was cackling back then too.

And now, I'm going to go back to nursing my vicious going-on-24-hour sinus headache. Y'all come back now, hear?

Summer

2008-06-18T21:04:00.006+02:00

Ah, summer. Apparently the new trend is that it remains cool and very, very rainy in Madrid. Then overnight, it heats up to eleventy billion degrees. Or at least 80-something. I swear, last week I was wearing a sweater and today it was roasting. Go figure.

Since we finally had beautiful blue sky and warmth today, we went in the pool after we picked up the kids from school. It was glorious. This year they got the mix of heat and chemicals right the first time. Last summer the pool was forever too cold or had too many chemicals or whatever. Today it was beautiful. It finally feels like summer.

The balcony doors are open, the hammocks are hung. This morning I sat on the balcony and had some toast and coffee. Lexi, (the dog) sat at the other little chair across from me. We had a very pleasant time.

The best of summer starts after Friday though, when the kids are done with school and mornings can be leisurely and chill. I’m ready for things to slow down.

We’re kicking off the summer with a futbol (that’s soccer to you Americans) party. Spain is playing Greece in the Euro Cup. Apparently the game doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things but we’re going to have fun anyway!

Bring on summer!

It’s late so my energy level to write something coherent and cohesive or codependent and coexistent, is pretty dang low. I had some ideas to write about how I actually prefer winter to summer. I was gonna “diss” summer and then come ‘round and say what I liked about summer. I was gonna do it in a roundabout kinda way, hopefully sprinkling in a joke or two, but I couldn’t figure out the best way to do it, so basically I’m left with a one-word topic that leaves me as flat as a duck’s foot. So, I’m just gonna do some random one-word free association and hopefully you’ll be able to make sense of it and just how I feel about summers past and present, and especially how Suzanne Somers makes me smile and choke all at once.

Okay, here goes, my typewritten Rorschach test.

Summer, heat, beat, drums, chicken legs, Kentucky, cousin, Tracy, blonde, crush, lake, camp, tent, fire, marshmallows, ‘smores, stories, ghosts, dark, stars, planets, aliens, Close Encounters, Richard Dreyfuss, sunburn, mashed potatoes, butter, salted, corn, state fair, horses, mini donuts, sugar, sticky, humid, mosquitoes, gnats, basketball, slam dunk, David Munger, Old Spice, rollerskating, sucking face, cruising chicks, swimming, skinny dipping, nightswimming, REM, Losing My Religion, finding God, crying, changing, laughing, telling jokes, playing pranks, ding dong ditch, hide and seek, kick the can, red rover, stealing bikes, fireworks, roman candles, cherry bombs.

This is what summer means to me.

Thinking Out Loud

2008-06-16T19:09:00.003+02:00

My mentor Brian Newman once told me: “You are the most external processor I’ve ever met!”

What he meant by that was this: I seem to be incapable of thinking silently. I have to think out loud.

That would be fine, except it drives Heather crazy, because I will often think through problems I’m having (that she does not want to get involved in) with her in the room. The upshot: my problems become her problems. So, if she’s having a trouble-free day, by the time I have finished figuring out my problem, she will now be worried and I’ll be happy.

Works out pretty nicely for me, doesn’t it?

This also affects my work-life. I find that I work better with someone else than I do on my own. I need the interaction that other people provide in order to arrive at conclusions. When I’m trying to be creative, I find it much more difficult doing so in front of a computer screen all by myself than doing the same thinking with a few other people and a package of post-its.

I have only met one other person that can match me in the thinking-out-loud department. Uh huh—that would be Kelly Wills. For those of you who don’t know her, suffice to say that I work with her and it would not surprise me to hear her suddenly blurt out something like: “I wonder if constantly saying ‘swoosh-swish-swash’ while walking would deter pigeons from crapping on me.”

This post was inspired by our friend Lisa, who apparently has trouble telling when she is thinking in her head and when she is thinking out loud and it’s actually coming out her mouth. In fact, she actually said “talking out loud” and we were like, “You mean, THINKING out loud?” So this one is for you, Lisa.

Troy pretty much lives his life through process which he expresses in an ongoing verbal flow. To him, thinking=open mouth. It doesn’t matter whether anyone is listening (or whether anyone who is listening actually cares about what he is saying in the given moment.) He’s like the energizer bunny of external processing.

I, on the other hand, process mostly in my head, so I don’t tend to think out loud too much. I am more likely to come to a conclusion in my head and then make a general announcement about it. Or not, depending on how forthcoming I feel.

Currently I am actually completely worn out from too little sleep and the season’s hardest goodbye this morning, so I have nothing more to process, out loud or otherwise.

That is all from me for today peeps!

Stash

2008-06-13T22:56:00.002+02:00

I have a hoarding habit. I think it comes from growing up on the mission field and not having access to things we liked in America. Friends would come to visit us and bring us goodies, which we would divvy up with military precision. My brother would blow through this allotment in record time, and then he would come begging for some of mine, which I resented deeply. I had an empty stationery box in my dresser where I kept my chocolate from America.

Our family has continued this tradition, on two levels. The first level is Mom’s normal chocolate stash. Make no mistake, the chocolate “cabinet” is way out of reach of the children. I have various other chocolate stashes around the house, but if Meg knows where they are, she will raid them. So for my own protection the mother lode has to be out of reach.

The secondary level of stash is when we get candy from America, usually mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Since all four of us like them, we have to divide the package into four little baggies of them. The kids ask every five minutes if they can eat one of theirs. I hide mine somewhere and eat one every once in awhile.

This plan can backfire however, because the other day I was working on my box of filing and I found a baggie of Peanut Butter cups at the back of my filing cabinet. But alas, they were stale and disappointing.

Heather uses this word to refer to over-the-counter drugs she carries in a little box in her purse. The other day, she asked me to pick up some allergy medicine. When I walked in she said, “You got the stash?” and then chuckled.

For me, the word actually carries the original illegal meaning. Most people find this surprising about me (because I’m in the ministry) but I grew up around drugs (as in marijuana). In fact, my brother sold pot to others when I was a kid. I can remember when I was 8ish: I came into the house to find him measuring out a large table-full of pot to make dime and nickel bags as well as a cache of joints.

I also learned early on that he had a stash of Playboy in his room. And, uh, Mom and soon-to-be-stepdad had a stash of Jim Beam on top of the fridge that I could reach any time I wanted a nip. Ah, yes, the innocence of childhood. I was 9 at the time.

Now that I’m supposed to be a man of God, I invest the word “stash” with other meanings. For example, I find it difficult keeping a stash of Hot Tamales in the house.

Also, I think the word “stash” would make a good name for a character in a soap opera. I can just hear someone saying, “Did you hear that Stash proposed to Alycia, but he really thought she was her twin brother Mortimer?”

Gardening

2008-06-11T17:39:00.006+02:00

I would like to be good at gardening. In my dream world, I fancy myself pruning and cultivating award-winning gardens with little landscape lights and lush, healthy grass, neatly trimmed. I can see rose bushes bursting with blossoms and a little pond with lily pads and water hyacinths.

The best I've ever been able to accomplish, however, involves overgrown honeysuckle bushes that take over like the Mongolian hordes of yore and tulip stems with no tulips on them because the dog has eaten them and fire bushes that are half-dead and look like they've actually been on fire. Also, I seem to recall hardened dog turds scattered around frail olive trees that produced no olives and a slimy pond attended by chipped or broken miniature porcelain trolls with butt-cleavage a plumber would envy.

This is why we enjoy living in the city. We have no yard to tend but we do live in a very green complex. Our balcony looks out onto a courtyard with trees and grass nurtured by Luis, our portero. We have hammocks out there and the railing of our terrace is lined with ivy that is relatively easy to keep trimmed. We have tried tending some potted plants but even those shrivel up and die like Cuba Gooding, jr's career. Funnily enough, under Luis' care, the identical plants flourish. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what his secret is. Maybe it's because he waters them.

I believe this post should actually be entitled “Gardening: the lack thereof”. Regrettably, I did not inherit my Mom’s green thumb. She was great with plants. I am not. All the plants we currently have are outside on the balcony because our wood floors mark very easily and very permanently. Of course I forget they (the plants) are out there. But they are still hanging on. They might not be pretty, but they are alive. Somewhat.

I have a pot of red geraniums which is ironically doing OK. My Mom loved them, so I bought them because they remind me of her. It makes me smile to see they survived the winter and there are red blooms again.

My biggest gardening failure is hydrangeas. I love them. Thing is, they are not cheap. I have bought two potted ones since we lived in Spain. Both them died violent and definite deaths. They clearly do not like me. The first one was on my stairs, in direct hot Spanish sun, so I thought that was the problem. The next one was placed tenderly on my shaded balcony here in the city. Nope. Nothing doin.’ Dead, dead, dead.

My greatest gardening success last summer was growing basil in one of the planters on the balcony. I bought two plants and enjoyed many a batch of tomatoes, mozzarella and fresh basil. I am looking forward to planting more this summer, now that I know it’s a good location.

But I hope our tomatoes don’t have salmonella!

Frasier

2008-06-09T22:20:00.003+02:00

Troy and I just finished working our way through all 11 seasons of Frasier. I have to say, I think they should have stopped at season 10. It definitely went downhill quickly. I don’t know if they were all tired or what.

In general though, I love Frasier. I think it has excellent writing and a good cast. Somehow they strike a really good balance between being completely ridiculous and over-the-top so you want to smack them, and being so self-deprecating that you want to give them every benefit of the doubt.

I love the way Eddie stares at Frasier all the time.

I hate the way Frasier just cannot stay in a relationship. Ever.

I love the way they never show Maris; knowing that my imagination is probably conjuring up far worse than any actress they could find.

I love it when Daphne “does” an American accent.

I think this is my all-time favorite Frasier quote: Frasier [responding to a caller] “Roger, at Cornell University they have an incredible piece of scientific equipment known as the Tunneling Electron Microscope. Now, this microscope is so powerful that by firing electrons you can actually see images of the atom, the infinitesimally minute building blocks of our universe. Roger, if I were using that microscope right now, I still wouldn't be able to locate my interest in your problem.”

Frasier has left the building!

We just finished watching the final season of this hit television spin-off series. Frasier Crane, played by Kelsey Grammer, first made his appearance in the hit original series "Cheers." "Frasier" is quite possibly the most successful spin-off ever.

I am partial to this series because, quite frankly, the writing is just so dang good--especially for a 30-minute comedy program.

I love all the characters, but if I had to choose my favorite, I would choose Niles, Frasier's brother. He's just hilarious. So, in honor of Niles, here are a collection of my favorite quotes from him:

"Her lips were saying 'no,' but her eyes were saying, 'read my lips.'"

"A funny thing happened the other day. One of my patients had a rather amusing Freudian slip. He was having dinner with his wife, and he meant to say 'pass the salt,' but instead he said 'You've ruined my life, you blood-sucking shrew.'"

"My taekwondo instructor says I'm two moves away from becoming quite threatening."

"I've always liked the thought of meeting the great people of history, but then I think 'what if it's like high school and none of the really cool dead people want to talk to me?' Mozart'll tell me he's busy, but then later I'll see him out with Shakespeare and Lincoln!"

"It's my testicular hypothermia device. It promotes motility by keeping my nether regions at a cool and constant ninety-six degrees."

Post-it©s

2008-06-06T09:42:00.007+02:00

Some weeks ago our ministry team did a hat-making exercise at a team building event. The object was to create a hat out of art materials that would communicate what was unique about us. I decided quickly just the thing for me: I would make my hat out of sticky notes.

Everyone chuckled at this because often in group settings, I will break out the post-its and say, "Write 3 things that..."

Amy (on staff with our church) always rolls her eyes when I ask the team to brainstorm using post-its, but I persist in using them. I do so, in part, because I love seeing the reaction I get from everyone, but, on a more serious side, I really do think they are a great way to foster healthy teamwork.

I can honestly say that this simple invention (consisting of a smidgen of effective, but surface-friendly adhesive on the end of a small piece of paper) has changed my life. It's amazing how a tiny thing like post-its can help us become better listeners, more creative, and less judgmental. I find that when I'm tempted to make a snap decision, I force myself to slow down and do a little brainstorming using square stickies. Invariably, when used in group settings like this, people walk away from the meeting feeling valued and respected.

Next time you're making a decision, give it a try. I'm sure you'll see the light that post-its really are indispensable.

I don’t remember when the Post-it© phase of Troy’s life began, but I wish I had invested eleventy billion dollars (or $4) in 3M stock back then, because I would be a billionaire now. But alas, I did not have the foresight to do that. I actually think it was someone in our mission, Christian Associates, that’s to blame. But I can’t finger the exact person, so there is nothing I can do. That person, if caught, could possibly be blamed for the partial deforestation of the world.

Troy uses Post-it’s for many, many things. At our team meetings, our church staff are used to Troy walking in with a wad of them in his hand. He’ll start handing them out and say “List 5 things… blahbidittyblahblahblah …one per post-it.” Sometimes, he’ll take pity on the environment and say “You can put them all on one.” That makes Amy very happy.

Because of this obsession, Troy always gets Post-its in his stocking. At Christmas-time I roam the euro stores in search of new and exciting shapes and colors. The only problem with the lesser-than-3M-quality notes is that they are not very sticky. So when Troy starts smacking them up on the door to the cabinet in our living room that hides our TV, they eventually begin fluttering to the ground in a sad little display of my cheapness.

So lately, he has been collecting ideas on Nic’s Ikea chalkboard that has taken up dubious residence in our living room décor. Saves trees I guess.

Sayings of Yore

2008-06-04T20:20:00.006+02:00

I somehow have collected an arsenal of old fashioned sayings (I think a lot of them are actually Canadian.) I grew up hearing them from my Grandma, my parents and a few other random sources.

Sayings like:

“You’ve got more nerve than a canal horse.”

“I look like the wreck of the Hesperus”

“A whistling woman and an old fat hen, both will come to no good end.”

“One fine day in the middle of the night, two dead boys rose up to fight. Back to back, they faced each other, drew their swords and shot each other. The deaf policeman heard the noise, and if you don’t believe me, go ask the blind man, he saw it all.”

“By the skin of his teeth”

“Busier than a one-armed paper-hanger”

That’s just a sampling. I’m sure I will think of more when I hit publish. I got curious and was trying to look up some of these quotes, and I found these other funny Canadian quotes, courtesy of this site. I don’t know if they are all really Canadian, but they’re funny!

“Rattlesnakes are so big on the Bruce Peninsula, they don't have rattles; they have little bells that play "Nearer My God to Thee."

“Been there. Done that. Got that maple-leaf T-shirt.”

"I've seen live bait smarter 'n' him."

"The chances are slim and none, and slim is visiting Alberta."

"I'm gonna feed you a shut-up sandwich."

"We never went to bed hungry. We stayed up."

I think someone one day should take old sayings and spruce them up a bit, going through them systematically, so as to keep them alive.

For example, I think no one says "chew the fat" anymore because it's not politically correct to say "fat". So, why not make it "masticate the obesity" instead? Or, better still: "gnaw the gristle"?

Also, there's "a penny for your thoughts." That expression needs to be changed to reflect inflation and the exchange rate. Or, you could keep it at just a penny and then you'd be saying something like "what you think is pretty worthless, frankly. In fact, counting the hairs on my grandpa's toes would prove more exciting."

And "toss the pigskin" doesn't make sense anymore, either. Instead, I suggest "hurl the swine"--but I guess that could also be misconstrued as another way of saying "to vomit".

Expressions that could, perhaps, be kept just as they have always been might include "Pow! Right in the kisser." That one does seem to still have a certain charm, doesn't it?

I also realize it is not an expression per se, but we really should keep the word "cockamamie" alive, don't you think? It has so many uses, and if you combine it with other "creative" words you could construct sentences like "Get that cockamamie thingamajig outta my mug and quit yer lollygagging, will ya?!"

I wonder where the expression "till the cows come home" came from. My question is: "Did the cows ever come home?"

Mountains

2008-06-02T14:27:00.011+02:00

I used to think Minnesota had mountains until I said that to someone once and they just laughed. About 24 seconds later I admitted we were lucky to have hills.

I love watching movies that contain mountain-climbing, but I would not enjoy climbing mountains personally and I would likely soil myself when it came to rappelling. I think I like watching mountain-climbing movies because it helps me imagine what it would be like to have rippling abs and rock-hard biceps. Also, sometime I’d like to wear lederhosen and yodel. Alternatively, it would be neat to scale Everest and then, at the summit while the sun was setting, play the National Anthem on a didgeridoo.

I also like movies that are set in the mountains but do not contain mountain-climbing. Some day I’d like to have a really long bushy beard, wear hiking boots, and a red union suit. I’d don a flannel shirt and wear trousers held up by suspenders. I’d like to “plug a chaw” and cook beans over the fireplace in my log cabin. I’d also like to hunt and fish and fell trees and fry some cakes on the griddle. I’d wet my whistle with some whiskey and sing funny songs about Uncle Flinch and his pet wolverine. Kids would love my stories, but they would listen from across the room because of my bad breath.

I think this kind of life makes for a viable alternative to owning an RV.

I grew up surrounded by the mountains of Ecuador, so I feel most at home when I can look up and see one towering over my head. I prefer them to be patchwork green or snow-covered, or better yet, a combination of both. Like this:

It’s strange, because even though I grew up around them, I’m sort of at a loss of what to SAY about them. I have spent hours in vehicles, crawling along the side of mountains with little between our car and the river at the bottom of the valley below. I have sat in the silence that exists when you are so far above civilization that all you can hear is the wind blowing and your own thoughts. I have used them as my daily directional reference point. It’s easy to know where you are when you can look up and see Guagua Pichincha from anywhere in town. (That’s also why I can hardly ever remember street names in Quito because I navigate in reference to the mountains.)

I love mountains in tame ways. I don’t walk them much, let alone hike or mountain climb. And I wouldn’t consider down-hill skiing even for a million bucks. I like looking at them, and knowing they are there, but I don’t want to get too well acquainted with their perils.

I will say I think the best mountain experience is sitting with your body in natural hot springs and your head in freezing cold Andean air with this view:

Schtick

2008-05-30T15:45:00.001+02:00

I feel that I need to start with an apology to all of you, although most of you will probably find what follows below (in Troy’s part) more amusing than I do. Even though I chose this topic, I did not think through the madness that would ensue. And yes, I know what is in Troy’s post today because the sound of it was echoing down the hall and I was unable to escape.

Anyway. Our house is an almost constant comedy hour, with Troy and Nicolas performing at will. I roll my eyes, Meg goes back and forth between eye-rolling, saying “Stop it!” and helpless giggles. There is a whole ensemble of “schtik” that they perform. And it just keeps getting bigger, and bigger. And bigger. Oy vey!

I honestly have no idea where all this stuff comes from. I mean, I know it’s from Troy’s crazy mind, but I am continually awed by the sheer magnitude of the stuff. It has been building up for almost 20 years now; I shudder to think of what the repertoire will look like by the time we’ve been married 40 years.

Once again I am left somewhat speechless in the glare of the schtik. I should have known better. I know at least half of you are desperate to press play now, so we might as well get on with it.

Follow this link and turn up the volume!

Blurkers

2008-05-28T12:45:00.006+02:00

A “blurker” is a “blog lurker”. The term often is used to specify someone who regularly reads your blog but never comments. Blurking is considered poor blogosphere etiquette, but has become quite common.

What makes blurking so weird is that you know there are folks doing it, but you don’t know what they’re like. This causes a blogger’s imagination to run wild. You start thinking who these creepy people are.

So…I’ve filled in the blanks, created my own little blurker profiles. I imagine that blurkers of He Said, She Said include (but are not limited to) the following people:

Ole Kilnikov: Ole is a Swedish Russian. He is a speed skater and harvests wheat with a sickle. He likes his speed skating outfit too much.

Rita Fern: Rita composes ballads to express how she feels when she reads our blog. One day she hopes to get these songs published. She likes to wear hemp.

Hank Williams: Actually a pseudonym. His real name is Edgar Shank but he admires people who can yodel, which is how he found He Said, She Said.

Kalina Suarez: Kalina’s distinguishing feature is that her navel appears on the small of her back. She invented chocolate covered Oreos.

Tod Smit: Because Tod got short-changed on the spelling of his name, he’s been over-compensating all his life. He likes to read He Said, She Said by beaming it on his wall via video projector.

These are the blurkers of our blog. For goodness’ sake, people: COMMENT!

Alright all you blurkers, we know you’re out there. And yes, we even know WHAT you are.

“1. blurker: A blog lurker. Someone who reads a lot of blogs but never posts any comments. I stopped posting to my LJ because all my readers were blurkers.” (from www.urbandictionary.com)

The funny thing about blurkers is that the blogger can (if they use any sort of stat tracker type thingy) find out quite a lot about who is reading their blog. We use Statcounter to keep track of things around here, and there is a view that shows a map of the world with little “pins” in the spots where people are reading. It’s wicked cool, and seeing people from all over the world checking in with our little blog makes my heart go pitter patter.

I admit, I blurk quite a bit too. ;-) I usually feel like I don’t really have anything to add, so will often just stay quiet even though I read regularly. Weird isn’t it? Because I would say to all of you blurking here, “Come out of the closet, and introduce yourself! We promise we won’t bite.” Yet I keep on blurkin’.

What do you say, peeps? If I go and post comments on five different blogs I read, will you reveal yourself in the comments? If I post 10? Will ya, will ya, huh?

Ahem. Anyway, if you have been reading, it would tickle us if you would leave us a comment!

Umbrellas

2008-05-26T18:02:00.013+02:00

I think I had a really good idea for a topic on Friday night, but I can’t remember for the life of me what it was. I hate it when that happens.

We have been having so much rain lately; much more than is normal for May. April maybe, but not May. To be honest, most of the time I can’t be bothered with umbrellas. I tend to take them places and then leave them there. Most of the time, I take my chances and hope that I’ll only get sprinkled on. After all, (and I’m sure Troy will be happy to testify to this) I’m not made of sugar. Although salt probably melts just as easily as sugar.

Lately though it has been down-pouring so much that I have been using my umbrella. That is, I have been using it when my husband hasn’t already taken it. We only have a certain number of umbrellas in our house, and we have one little compact one that fits in my purse. But it also fits in the murse. So pretty much whoever leaves first wins. I think I need to purchase a very girly umbrella that he’s not tempted to take. I saw a tiny little cute frilly one in H&M the other day; I should have picked it up.

These umbrellas make me giggle:

Our friend Jake has one of these but I can’t find the photo.

This is crazy, but I’m quite sure Lexi would approve. She's a baby about the rain.

I get the feeling this is another one of Heather’s “I’ve-got-a-bone-to-pick-with-you” topics. What I mean to say is: I know that she thinks there are certain umbrellas in our home that belong to “her”. But, what I want to say is: that view is sadly mistaken. In actuality: what’s hers is mine and what’s mine is mine. Sounds fair, du’n’ it?

I think part of the confusion stems from the fact that either:

A. I bought her a very nice umbrella some time ago, but it is not compact enough to fit in her purse so…

B. She bought herself an umbrella to fit in her purse.

Notice: in no instance is there a moment on record when any kind of umbrella has been purchased for ME. So, what is a man to do, I ask?

On a separate note: some time ago I posted a little nugget on my personal blog that stated: “If I weren't a pastor, and I had the chance to do anything else, I think I'd enjoy making umbrellas.”

Thinking about it now, I still stand by that statement. Not sure why, just think it would be neat.

Okay, enough profundity.

RVs

2008-05-23T10:55:00.004+02:00

I have a fascination for RV’s that’s frankly unexplainable. I like RV’s because they are little movable houses. When I was little I liked playing house; I think of RV’s as “playing house” on crack.

Some of my fondest memories are of camping in my dad’s pop-up camper. That was a little like playing house, too. My grandma had an RV that we stayed in a couple times. That was like staying in The Ritz of campers. ( I remember playing Pit in grandma’s RV but, because someone was trying to sleep, we had to play it silently. I almost peed my pants I was laughing so hard, and it would not surprise me if grandma did.)

I like cars and I like road trips, so what better than a road trip accompanied by the scent of home-cooked fried chicken and a Coke pulled out of your vehicle’s fridge?

I like the little tables and curtains and the toilet—don’t get me started on RV toilets; those things are just too AWESOME. There’s nothing like being able to relieve oneself on the highway.

Some day it would do my heart good to go on a road trip across Amuhricuh in an RV with orange shag carpeting, brown couch cushions, harvest gold cupboards and puce green plumbing fixtures. I’d have tumblers with Farah Fawcett pictures on ‘em and I’d wear cutoff shorts and man-clogs. I’d sing “Free Bird” by Lynrd Skynrd over and over again at high volumes. It’d be heavenly.

Troy has been going on for years about how we can buy a Winnebago/RV/camper/whatever theheckyouwanna call them when we are retired so we can travel around America and see the sights.

One summer furlough, our family drove a monstrous motor home from Florida to Michigan. It was not fun. The fridge didn’t work so we couldn’t really eat/prepare meals. My Dad was completely exhausted from wrestling that beast up the highway with semis practically blowing us off the road. Parking was a pain, and at the end of every day when the friends we were traveling with got a nice motel room, we had to stay in that contraption we had been driving in ALL day.

I admit, the IDEA of an RV may be tempting. They are definitely fun to look in when on display at State Fairs and so on. Their cozy little bedrooms and handy little compartments in which to store all your belongings may seem oh so appealing.

But really, with gas prices these days? And never mind that if you drive an RV, you either have to drive it EVERYWHERE, or you have to tow another smaller vehicle with you.

The ridiculous part of them is that you can buy an actual real live house for less than some of these things. This one costs $743,645!!!!!!

Personally I think we should buy a Mini Cooper convertible and see the sights after a good night's sleep in a decent (doesn't have to be fancy) hotel.

Hot Tamales

2008-05-21T20:50:00.000+02:00

Mmmmmmmmm, the cinnamon spiciness that are Hot Tamales make them one of the very very few non-chocolate candy that I will eat. The problem with them is that once you start to eat them, you think “I’ll just eat a few more” until you have consumed your body weight in them and the roof of your mouth is raw. And then you eat a few more.

I can’t remember the first time I ate Hot Tamales. I’m pretty sure that Troy introduced me to them while we were in college. When we lived in the US I would usually put them in his stocking at Christmas, but I didn’t eat them that much myself.

And then one fateful Thanksgiving, when we house-sat for someone. Downstairs in their family room, in easy reach of the two big comfy chairs, we found a large bag of them. And we ate way too many. I can’t remember if we bought them more or not, but we should have!

It’s now tradition that we eat them whenever we are back on furlough. It certainly didn’t help that we found 2 lb bags of them at Sam’s Club. I won’t embarrass us by telling you how many of those bags we consumed during various road-trips and catching up on TV sessions. Let’s just say that the roofs of our mouths have never been the same.

Wow, look what I just found. Good thing we can’t get our hands on this baby!

No, we don’t mean the real kind of tamale you would get in a place like Mexico. We mean the kind you buy in an American grocery store. Most people think of them as being “like Mike & Ikes”, but actually it’s the other way ‘round: Mike & Ike’s are like Hot Tamales.

For those of you who still don’t know what I’m talking about: Hot Tamales are a chewy cinnamon-flavored candy. They come in a small box or a large bulk bag. Each piece is about the size of a baby’s thumb, but they are much tastier than your average infant digit. I suppose the size of each piece is intended to be thought of as “bite-size” but my personal opinion is that Hot Tamales are best eaten two-at-a-time, and, on rare occasions, three at a time.

The other day we were talking with Kristen, who is part of our church home group, about Hot Tamales and how much we liked them. (No doubt, Heather will tell you in her post that we usually eat two bulk bags of Hot Tamales during a two-month stay in the States every other summer.) Anyway, because you can’t buy Hot Tamales here in Spain, Kristen arranged to have her boyfriend bring us FOUR big boxes of Hot Tamales (he came to visit her here).

Thanks, Kristen! And, by the way, all four boxes have already been consumed. And, yes, the kids did not get one morsel.

Sick Day

2008-05-19T20:08:00.001+02:00

I am worn out from a busy weekend, and Troy has a cold, so we're taking a sick day today! We'll be back on Wednesday.

Try not to miss us too much.

Pop

2008-05-16T11:51:00.006+02:00

“Pop” is also known as soda, soda-pop, and soda-water, depending on where you live. Growing up in Minnesota, we called it “pop” and pronounced it “pahp”. When my oldest brother started calling it “soda” I thought it was a more sophisticated designation and began calling it that myself.

Growing up, my oldest brother always drank Mountain Dew. Because it was his favorite pop, it became my favorite. I also enjoyed drinking warm half-full cans of Pepsi in the morning, since my mom had a habit of having half a can at night and leaving the rest. Eventually, I learned to look inside the can before gulping, because I discovered the hard way that often she would use the can as an ashtray.

I never understood the rivalry between Coke and Pepsi. At first, I couldn’t tell the difference between the two. Of course, now I can tell the difference, but I still don’t see why people have to be so opinionated about the finer nuances of their cola flavor. I mean: get a life, people! (By the way, who out there has ever had an RC cola? And points to anyone who can tell me what “RC” stands for. I know the answer, but am curious to see if anyone else knows).

One final item: I don’t know why, but it makes me smile thinking about pop brands I had long ago that you don’t see anymore. In particular, Tab and Shasta come to mind.

I’m not actually sure what I call carbonated beverages. I am mostly sure I call it pop if I am referring to a group of carbonated beverages, as in “Let’s go to the store and get some pop for the party.” However, I normally refer to the brand of “pop” that I actually want. “Can I have a Dr. Pepper, please.” I do not call all carbonated beverages Coke, that’s for sure.

Most of the time, we don’t have carbonated beverages in the house unless it’s for a specific occasion. My usual carbonated beverage of choice is Coke Light (Europe’s version of Diet Coke, which in Spain they almost always serve with a slice of lemon, which I love). It actually helps that there are not as many varieties of carbonated beverages here to be tempted by. I do also like to drink bubbly water, so I guess that’s technically a carbonated beverage but without the calories.

When in the United Sates, I like to drink: Dr. Pepper (regular or diet, I think Diet Dr. Pepper is probably the “best” diet carbonated beverage out there. I’m not completely sold on all the new varieties, but I’m not completely opposed, either), Cherry Coke, Vanilla Coke, Diet Coke with lime, and Root Beer. If I’m a restaurant that only serves Pepsi, I’ll drink it, but I definitely choose Coke over Pepsi any day. And yes, I could pass a taste test.

I think the absolutely, most vile carbonated beverage is Mountain Dew. Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Chinese Food

2008-05-14T10:11:00.004+02:00

I can’t remember the first time I ate Chinese food. We used to go to a big Chinese restaurant in Quito called the Chifa China. They had big lazy Susans in the middle of the table to make sharing the food easy. In Ecuador, the Chinese people put “cuy” (this is Quechua word and I’m not going to tell you what it means) in the middle of the Wan Tun fritos. They wouldn’t tell you what it was until you tried it and pronounced it delicious, which we did. Even when we found out what it was. Curious yet?

By the time I was in high school my favorite dish at our normal Chinese haunts was chicken with peaches. It sounds weird, but it’s not that different than lemon chicken, only peachier. Yum. Then there was that time I bit into a big hunk of ginger or something in my soup. YEOW. Good memories.

When I went to college, someone took me to Leann Chin’s and I was introduced to lemon chicken. Double yummy. I have been a big fan ever since.

Some other important things about my consumption of said food:

I prefer white rice

I rarely order spring rolls anymore. Our old favorite in the burbs had little mini rolls that I used to get, but I don’t like the big ones much…too greasy.

I still order wan tun fritos but I don’t think they eat cuy in Spain.

I also heart verduras rebozadas with soy sauce.

Before I met Heather, Chinese food meant “chicken chow mein.” Yep, that’s all I would ever eat. For starters, that’s what my mom made when she cooked “Chinese” at home (never mind the fact that it isn’t even “Chinese”). But, even when we went out for “Chinese” food (at Wong’s in Rochester), that’s what I would order. In high school, when I worked on Saturdays, I would often get chicken chow mein from across the street for lunch.

So, when I met Heather, she rightly scoffed at my single-minded selection. She told me: “That’s not Chinese food!”

Once, I was with her in Toronto, visiting her family. Her father was there and they all planned on going out for Chinese food one evening, because they all grew up in China. I was a little scared, thinking I probably wouldn’t be able to get my chicken chow mein as usual. I was right. They ordered all kinds of dishes I had never heard of before and, what’s more, they shared from each other’s selections.

Thanks to Heather I have now learned to be more adventurous in my selections. In fact, I’d say we’ve switched places since Heather always orders lemon chicken and I am content with almost anything (the sole exception to this is sweet and sour pork).

The last time I remember having Chinese with my dad, I ordered cashew chicken and he ordered (you guessed it!) chicken chow mein. He looked at me like I wasn’t his son.

Allergies

2008-05-12T17:05:00.009+02:00

My body behaves strangely when it comes to allergies. For example, I didn’t develop an allergy to cat hair until I was 8. We discovered it one Christmas when my face broke out in hives. Since then, however, I can always tell when I’m in a house that has a cat, because eventually my nose starts running and I begin to have difficulty breathing. My cat allergy is here to stay.

Hayfever, on the other hand, is something that comes and goes. Some years I’ll have problems, but other years I won’t. The worst time in my life was junior high and high school. Picture this: when I wipe or blow my nose I always push the end of it up as if I’m attempting to cram a large gourd up there. Well, if one does this action repeatedly over the course of, say, three weeks, one begins to develop a permanent line across the bridge of one’s nose that looks like a watermark left on a high wall next to a river that had a flood and then receded. This line was so impressed in my skin that I don’t think it went away until my 30’s. In fact, I think that even today if you look close, you can see it.

Now, thank goodness, my allergies are not so severe. This bodes well for laying in one’s hammock on the balcony, which I hope to do this week, thanks to the nice weather.

I have had allergies in some form or other my whole life. Growing up in Ecuador I didn’t really have allergies to plants, but I have always been allergic to cats. There are pictures from somebody’s birthday party where my eye is swollen almost shut and I am clutching a wet washcloth that I used to soothe the itch. I can still remember that horrible itch. Shudder.

Troy and I are both allergic to cats in various degrees. For me It really depends on the cat and there does not seem to be any rhyme or reason to which ones bother me and which don’t. Sometimes all I have to do is walk into someone’s house and before I even SEE a cat, my eyes are swelling, my neck is itchy, and my ears and throat itch.

Driving up the east coast from Florida to Canada during summer furloughs was sheer torture. Somewhere around West Virginia and the Blue Ridge Mountains I would be afraid I was going to die, and then I would be afraid I wasn’t going to die. (Quote courtesy of my Dad. Anyone want to guess how many times I have heard that in my life?) Back then (decades ago) there wasn’t very effective allergy medicine. I remember taking some green syrupy stuff that knocked me out more than my allergies.

Nowadays, meds are somewhat better. I used to take Seldane D. Until they took it off the market because it caused heart palpitations. Very reassuring.

Renting Movies

2008-05-09T08:45:00.001+02:00

Troy and I have this funny little routine when it comes to renting movies. There is only one video store in our neighborhood. It’s called “House Movies” but I get the feeling they perhaps forgot “of” in between. Who knows. Maybe the store belongs to Greg House, M.D. Anyway, Troy is usually the one to go rent the movies. This is mainly because he takes the dog for her last walk at the same time. When HE takes her, she will wait quietly outside while he picks a movie. If I take her, she flails around like a dying fish and howls like a banshee almost the entire time I am in the establishment. I am not a big fan of said behavior.

After an appropriate interval of browsing the options, the obligatory phone call is made, wherein Mr. Cady asks me what I am in the mood to watch, and lists possibilities. House Movies does not have a great selection so it’s not like walking into Blockbuster and finding eleventy billion copies of all the movies you are dying to see. Sometimes I narrow it down for him, sometimes I leave him hanging and force him to make a decision. If I am on my game, when he calls, I answer “Movie hotline, how can I help you?” or some other tomfoolery.

Without fail, this is how the scenario ends. Troy comes home.

“What did you get?”

“I don’t know what it’s called in English.”

We have tried three methods of renting movies:

1. The old-fashioned way: through shops like Blockbuster.
2. Through a “cine-bank”: kind of like going to an ATM.
and
3. By mail-order.

My least favorite way of renting movies is by mail order. You rarely get what you want and when you do you have to wait a long time for it to come.

My favorite way is through a cine-bank. Heather and I used this method when we lived out in the ‘burbs because there was one just a short walk away.

But, when we moved into the city we could not find a cine-bank near us. So, we scouted out the nearest Blockbuster-type place, but that was pretty far away. So, we opted to rent by mail order. This was so disappointing that we now have settled on renting from a store, the old-fashioned way, even though the shop is a longish walk away.

The place we rent from is called House Movies. It is tiny, and very disorganized, and the owner seems to prefer horror movies, because that is what they have in greatest supply.

So, whenever I venture to House Movies, I take my mobile phone with me because almost every time I need to call Heather to either warn her about what I am planning to bring home or ask for her opinion. This has become a routine for us and, for some reason, she finds this rather amusing.

Spiderman

2008-05-07T16:30:00.008+02:00

I wish I could wear a spidey suit and actually look good in it. One day in Plaza Mayor there was a man dressed in one. That would have been pretty cool, except this guy looked more like Rodney Dangerfield in spandex. What’s more, he was supposed to be a “living statue” (that is, he should have been standing stone-still until someone gave him money to move), but this guy never stopped moving. He kept posing and re-posing, but in such a fashion that he looked more like Bart Simpson doing Tai Chi than Spiderman striking sleek poses. I half-thought of paying him money just to get him to stop moving. It was creepy.

Having said that, what creeped me out even more was the fact that, were I to don the same suit, it would likely fit me in the same way—and I would likely be posing in similar fashion.

One of my favorite Spiderman memories is from the American kid’s program called “The Electric Company.” From time to time Spiderman would appear and do something goofy. I still remember the song they sang before his segment. It went like this:

What more is there to say, really?

I have been racking my brains all day to try and figure out how to write 250 words about Spiderman. I CAN probably write 250 words about the shenanigans Troy got up to while writing this post. He was feverishly trying to figure out how to post an audio clip on blogger, and then he hid in the office with the door closed to record something, which no doubt is going to show up when I hit publish in a few minutes. Let’s face it; pretty much whatever I write is going to be anti-climactic.

In truth, I am pretty ambivalent about Spiderman. I don’t mind the movies, but I have never been that impressed by Spiderman. If you must know, I am more a Superman kind of girl. I think Spiderman’s costume is kind of creepy, and it’s kind of bogus that he can run out of web to shoot from his wrists. Because without that, he can’t really fly through the air now can he?

I’d also like to know the background behind the whole alter-characters of these superhero types. Clark Kent is a reporter, Peter Parker is a photographer. Did the same person create them? If not, who had the idea first? And why can’t Peter Parker be a plumber or something? I’m just saying.

I obviously am grasping at straws here. So I’m going to go ahead and hit publish so we can all find out what Troy thought was so funny.

Leftovers

2008-05-05T09:30:00.000+02:00

Troy wanted to know why I always pick topics that I can use to “get at him.” I told him I didn’t pick them for that reason. But, that doesn’t mean that if the opportunity arises…

ANYWAY! Leftovers! Troy and I have very differing opinions on leftovers. These fall into two categories. The first category is hot/cold. Troy must always eat leftovers piping hot; so hot in fact that he

a) has to wait for them to cool back down before he can eat them or

b) sears the roof of his mouth

I am quite happy to eat mine cold. Last week I made meatloaf, for the first time in probably more than a year. Part of my motivation was that I was craving a meatloaf sandwich. Which I ate, cold, and it was spectacular. Troy ate one too. His was piping hot. I also like to eat cold chicken curry, usually scooping it up with a tortilla.

Which brings us to the second category, eaten/left in fridge to rot until one of us decides to dump it out. I am not that bothered about eating things again. Troy, on the other hand, has a strict code of leftovers. There can be perfectly good leftovers in the fridge and he will eat a PB&J or toast. For example, he will eat my “spaghetti“ for leftovers but he will only eat chicken curry the first time around.

There is a container of some pasta in the fridge I made, that cannot be saved.

As I write this I am enjoying a leftover meatloaf sandwich and so is Heather. Heather and I have different views regarding leftovers. I need to heat mine and she almost always eats hers cold. For example, I heated my meatloaf for 1.5 minutes while she took hers right out of the fridge and plopped it on her bread.

I also maintain strict guidelines regarding appropriate times of day to eat leftovers. Heather is known for eating lunch or supper leftovers for breakfast.

She has also been known to confuse leftover functionality. Leftover functionality is the art of maintaining roles for certain foods. For example, curry sauce should not be used as a chip dip. And, cranberry sauce: if it is not used as a spread for a sandwich on Thanksgiving Day, it should not be used as such the day after. To use leftover portions outside of their designated functions causes one to experience Leftover Func. Leftover Func is functionality cut short.

There are many leftovers I will not eat. For example, we have a pasta thingy in the fridge. It has been in there now for, I’m guessing, a week. Unless Heather eats it, it will go to waste. She hates this.

I will eat pizza, Chinese food, meatloaf, French toast, sloppy joes, and hamburgers for leftovers, so don’t start accusing me of not eating leftovers.

Also, if we have leftover ice cream, I will eat that.

Muffins

2008-05-02T12:42:00.000+02:00

My favorite muffins are the Betty Crocker blueberry muffins you make from a mix. Yes, I’m sophisticated. With these muffins, however, I have two disappointments:

1. You can’t get the mix in Spain (unless you go to a special store and trade a human organ for it)
and
2. The box promises more muffins than it can deliver.

Heather makes bran muffins from scratch. She uses a whole box of bran cereal to make the batter, which means she always makes a huge batch at a time. I reckon one batch of batter lasts us a whole week. I like them best when they are warm. Yum.

The only down-side to Heather’s muffins: uh, Heather and the kids can tell you that.

The only place I know of here in Madrid where you can get a good muffin is at Starbucks. I rarely get one there, though, because of the inflated price, even though they are the size of a cantaloupe (I think they use muffin hormones).

In the States I also like the muffins at Perkins, which are also rather large.

If I started a muffin-making company I would coax people who have plenty o’ nuthin’ to buy my large muffins by calling my company Plenty o’ Muffin. I would want to be remembered as the maker of the largest muffins ever and instead of calling myself the CEO I would simply have people call me Stud Muffin.

Mmmmmm, muffins. I love muffins warm from the oven, with butter. Muffins aren’t very common in Spain, so either I have to make them, or go to Starbucks. Meg loves Starbucks muffins too. Every time she sees a Starbucks (which these days, is everywhere in Madrid!) she comments on how she loves their muffins. That is not a habit I intend to encourage.

But I digress. I most often make bran muffins, not because I need the bran (ahem) but because I have a super easy recipe that I can mix up and then keep in the fridge. The recipe says you can keep the batter in the fridge for six weeks. We don’t know if it’s true because ours is always long gone before then. I dig the recipe because it involves mixing and measuring only once. Then you can have a pan of hot muffins in about 20 minutes. Add some butter and honey, and you have yourself a spectacular breakfast (or ahem, way to stay regular.)

If I am trying to be healthy, I use mostly wheat flour in the muffins. If I don’t care that much, I load them up with raisins. Oh bliss.

I also really like blueberry, apple and chocolate chip muffins. And double chocolate. Actually I’m not sure if there is a muffin I don’t like. Unless they include nuts. I am violently opposed to nuts in baked goods. I love nuts, I just don’t want them in my carrot cake, muffins, or banana bread.

Free Ice cream

2008-04-30T15:40:00.004+02:00

To be honest, I am not a big fan of April, as in, the month. For one thing, it’s the month in which my Mom died. For another, it’s the month I have to take the car in for its annual inspection, which I always dread. That is one of those jobs Troy would do if we lived in America, but here it’s easier for me to do, for various reasons.

Every April, though, there is something that makes the month worth-while. Free ice cream! Yep, for the past 4 or 5 years, our family has been diligently attending Ben and Jerry’s free ice cream day (I think it’s technically free CONE day, but in Spain you get a little tub of ice cream.)

We have managed to avoid the mobs at the more central locations and choose to go to one of their locations in various malls. Usually we go right after school. That means around 4 o’clock and the line is minuscule. So miniscule in fact, that it allows for three or four trips through the line. The nice employees at Ben & Jerry’s don’t mind; it’s not THEIR money!

Yesterday, I had to work at Red Hat, so we went at 7 and we were quite dismayed by a much longer line than we are used to. As we waited in line, we toyed with the idea of standing in line again while we ate our first round, but we decided not to be gluttons. For once.

Ben & Jerry’s Annual Free Ice Cream day is proof that humans are evolving. At least some of us, anyway.

It’s amazing what free ice cream does to one’s behavior. Yesterday we arrived at the mall and walked quickly, craning our necks in the direction of the Ben & Jerry’s retail point. As soon as I saw the line, my heart dropped and I began plotting: what strategy would I employ to make the most of someone else’s generosity? Last year we practically walked right up to the counter—four or five times—and ordered what we wanted, when we wanted it. There’s nothing like the thrill of ordering exotic ice cream flavors willy-nilly, free of charge. (By the way, “Willy-Nilly” should be the name for Ben & Jerry’s next flavor creation. It goes well with flavor names like Chunky Monkey and Chubby Hubby, I think.)

Anyway, back to yesterday: The first thing I noticed while standing in line was someone just ahead of us eating their ice cream while cueing up for their next round. I thought, “That’s what I’m going to do. That’s smart.”

But, alas: we didn’t. I had my one scoop of mint something-or-other and we went home. Nevertheless, even though the ice cream dosage was smaller this year, it was still worth it.

One final highlight: Nic tried something other than vanilla this year. And, uh, Heather got something other than chocolate for once.

One of those two statements is false. You pick which.

Sneezing

2008-04-25T12:58:00.003+02:00

If you’re going to sneeze, you may as well do it BIG. This is why I already know what Heather is going to write: she’s going to tell you that I “sneeze with my vocal cords.” In fact, I am so sure of this that I think she should buy me an ice cream sundae as a reward (if she does, indeed, use those very words in her post). Is there anyone out there to support me in that?

To me, it helps if I vocalize while sneezing. Most commonly, I will say “Ah CHA!!!” when I sneeze. That’s right: not “ah-choo”, but rather, the classier “Ah CHA!!!”

Speaking of classy, have you ever sneezed and passed gas inadvertently at the same time? I, uh, haven’t, but I, uh, just wonder what that would, uh, be like.

Heather, by the way, has the most normal sneeze I’ve ever heard. This is one reason I married her.

Also, I enjoy sneezing while chewing nuts or apple chunks or anything that will produce shrapnel out one’s face portal. I think it would be great to capture a moment like that on camera. It would be even funnier if a chunk of sumthin’ turned rebel and decided to go up your nasal passage, instead of out your mouth, thereby getting lodged in your snot canal.

One final note: it’s great when someone laughs and sneezes at the same time. Those are moments to cherish forever.

Let me just start by saying that I am not a dainty sneezer. I am prone to the boisterous Grant sneeze. I’m just saying.

That said, I’ll move on to my real point. Sneezing should not require the use of vocal chords. (Nor should other things that are best left unsaid at this time, but my hubby knows what they are. Ahem, Troy. And no, it’s not THAT, people. Get your minds out of the gutter!)

Back to the topic at hand: when Troy sneezes, it’s the loudest thing EVER. He says “A-CHAAAAAAAAAA” at the top of his lungs. It’s explosive. For some reason, he has chosen to reject the traditional “ACHOO” for reasons unbeknownst to mankind.

Our friend Kristen has the tiniest little sneezes ever. She sounds like a kitten. And Nic’s preschool teacher used to make him giggle because she sneezed “A-chiiis”. I don’t know if that is the correct Spanish sneeze or if it was just her.

A good sneeze every once in awhile is satisfying. But a torrent of sneezes brought on by allergies or a cold is just plain tortuous. And woe unto you if you don’t have a tissue (or pack) at hand. I can remember once in high school during some sort of standardized test (ACT or SAT or some other random test with an acronym), I sneezed into my hand, had no tissue and could do nothing about it until the next break. Ew.

Hockey

2008-04-23T12:48:00.005+02:00

I learned to ice skate when I was 2 and I started playing hockey when I was 4—at least, that’s what my mom told me. I guess it’s true, because I cannot remember a time when I did not skate or play hockey.

I was a show-off. Once when I was 6 (?), during an open skate time down at the Rec Center, I wanted to show mom how fast I could skate. I blasted down the length of the rink, but was a little too confident on the turn. I slid into the boards and broke my arm. I remember some stranger picking me up and bringing me over to my mom and saying, “I think he broke his arm.”

When I was barely 10, we moved to Texas. Fortunately, my mom found a hockey league in which I could participate. It was awesome because I was like Wayne Gretzky compared to those Texan hicks. I registered a hat trick in practically every game.

The first winter I knew Heather we went down to the hockey rink on campus. Of course, I took the opportunity to impress her with my stick handling and shooting. My need to show-off still hadn’t worn off. Maybe that’s why she married me…

Nowadays, I don’t get to play any hockey and I honestly miss it. Recently, I had the chance to watch part of a playoff game on TV: Minnesota vs. Colorado. The game went into overtime and Minnesota won. I was in heaven.

Being a Canuck, hockey is in my blood. It’s only fitting that I married a man from Minnesota so that we could infuse our children with double the hockey fever. So far it’s working; our kids love the “Mighty Duck” movies. If we lived in the US or Canada I’m sure Nic would be enrolled in peewee hockey.

I grew up hearing stories of my Dad’s hockey escapades. He played hockey even after he married my Mom. I know that on more than one occasion she got called to the emergency room because someone had skated on his face. Or some other body part. Fun and games, people, fun and games.

I didn’t really have a Hockey Team until I moved to Minnesota when I started rooting for the Minnesota North Stars. But then, in a tumultuous turn of events, the Stars moved to, of all places, Dallas! Say what? That was just wrong on so many levels.

For awhile we were Colorado Avalanche fans since we moved to Colorado and Minnesota still didn’t have a NHL team.

But hurray, now we have the Minnesota Wild! And they have a sweet place to play, the Xcel Center in St. Paul. A few years ago Troy and I went to a game there, and it was awesome. I think they lost, but we had a blast.

I’ll leave you with this tidbit: hockey is SUPPOSED to be rough. In Canada we say “We went to see the fights, and a hockey game broke out.”

Wii

2008-04-21T21:35:00.003+02:00

Some very generous friends of ours recently bought us a Wii. This is a huge treat for us as it’s very unlikely that we would have been able to buy one ourselves (as there is usually more month than money in our house).

We’ve had it for a couple of weeks now and tonight was the first night I exerted my will and wrestled my way into the family lineup. I decided to start with golf, and promptly got under par by 1 on the first game I played. My husband was thoroughly disgusted, since HIS best is +2. Plus I have never swung a golf club in real life and he likes to golf. Hee hee. My beginner’s luck went a little downhill, but in an all family game, my 11-year old daughter won with grace and style, and I came in second.

Mostly I have been sitting on the couch watching Troy play tennis. Here are some of the more memorable quotes:

"Eat my grass, Ryan!"
"I love it when they fall down and hit their heads"
"Man, I can't even beat these rotten people."

I really love how he talks like they are real people! I find it hilarious to watch Meg play as well; she really gets into it. I don’t think she is particularly athletic in real life, but she’s a natural on the Wii.

So now we’ll have to resist the temptation to spend all our hard-earned dollars on Wii games!

Tonight, Heather played golf for the first time. She ended one under par. Yes, that was her first attempt. I couldn’t believe it. I need to watch out because this is one sport she can beat me at. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried playing the same game of golf as her (several), but in all my attempts the best I can do is one over par. What can I say? She’s a natural.

The first time Meaghan tried boxing, she turned into a pit bull. As she threw punches she exclaimed to “Ryan”, her cartoon opponent: “You wanna piece o’ me?!” My little meek angel turned into a spunky jabber.

Speaking of “Ryan”: he’s a much better tennis player. The first time I came up against him on the court, he beat me. Maybe that was because he was paired with someone that looked like a cross between Martina Navratilova and Michael Jackson—that, or a pug. Either description will do.

The nice thing about Wii is that it has many uses. For example, I think it would be neat to play Wii in tights and a tank top while wearing clogs.

I particularly like to see the Wii characters fall on their face when they go diving for the tennis ball. They actually kick up a cloud of dust doing so. It makes me feel not so bad about all those times my schnoz dug divots out of the court while bursting for a tough shot.

When Leaving the House

2008-04-18T09:18:00.005+02:00

I am not a big fan of being late, so when we have to go somewhere I usually have my ducks in a row. I tend to focus on the destination, and everything else around me fades into oblivion. (I often have to look for my shoes and my sunglasses, right when I want to be walking out the door. The shoes part is not my fault; my husband cleans up behind me in a very efficient way. The sunglasses are my fault, because they are usually either buried in my purse, already on top of my head, or set down in some random spot in the house.)

However, getting Troy out the door can be a challenge. I try and give him a countdown “We’re leaving in 10 minutes.” “We’re leaving in 5 minutes.” He always answers and says yes, while continuing to sit at his desk. Then, when it’s T-20 seconds to walk out the door, he will decide to:

Collect the recycling to take out “on the way out” (which means we have to walk past the recycling containers on the way to the metro.)
Take a sinus pill.
Look all over the house for his murse, which has been hanging on the chair in the kitchen, right where he left it, the entire time.
Clip his fingernails.
Empty the dishwasher.
Find his MP3 player, headphones, keys, metro pass.
Visit the little boy’s room.
Tidy up.
Start a load of laundry.

I exaggerate only a little.

I like to tie up loose ends. I am NOT insane. I prefer to think of it as “conscientious”.

For example, I don’t like the recycling to pile up at home, so I make it a custom to take a little out each time I leave the house. It just so happens that I also prefer to gather the recycling just before walking out the door.

Another loose end: dishes. If there are a few cups, two spoons, a knife, two plates and a cutting board that need to be loaded into the dishwasher, I will do it at that time. It only takes, like, 43 seconds, seriously. Oh, and I may as well wipe up those bread crumbs and froth residue off the counter top, eh?

Oops. The dishwasher has clean dishes in it. I have enough time to put ‘em away, don’t I, let’s just see shall we? May as well do it while Heather gets the kids sorted and puts the dog in her kennel there aren’t that many in here really Glasses, Plates, Silverware I’m done see? Heather’s calling. Just a minute, hon. I’ll be done in a sec. Actually, I should put a load of laundry in so when we come back I can just throw it in the dryer quick. Crap, haven’t brushed my teeth yet, I really should do that now in case I meet the king or something.

Did I mention my wife still loves me? Thank you, dear.

Our Married Life After We Had Children

2008-04-16T09:36:00.004+02:00

How can having kids not have an affect on a marriage? Consider:

Today, I yelled at my kids and then yelled at my wife for yelling at me for yelling at the kids. Meanwhile, the kids shed tears that could turn even W.C. Fields into a Mr. Rogers. Yes, having children has a way of changing the tenor of the home environment—and that’s understating it.

But, though having children does present various challenges to a marriage, it can also provide opportunities to grow even closer as husband and wife. For example, each weekday morning we rise together to get the kids fed, dressed and prayed up for the day. If memory serves, Heather and I rarely ate breakfast together before we had kids (because we didn’t have to).

Of course, now that the kids attend school, that also changes our marriage. On the one hand, marriage becomes more difficult as we have appointments, homework, and school bills to worry about. On the other hand, marriage is easier with older children because you’re not having to worry about things like who is going to change the next diaper.

I must say, I’m glad Heather and I agree on parenting style issues. I shudder to think the toll our marriage would take if we were constantly battling over how to discipline the kids.

All in all, I’m glad we have kids and can honestly say I hope we have grandkids someday.

This week I’ve been a “single” Mom while Troy has been in Holland, and my life looks a lot different than it would had I been home alone. Sure, I’ve had to get up every morning on time, have breakfast with the kids, take them to school, keep the house running, do my church work, pick them up, do homework (although, there was that phone call to Dad to get his help with math homework….), feed them, do the bedtime routine (few giggles when Mom is reading), spend the evening doing whatever, and then repeat.

But I’m glad I’m not home alone. I have two other souls in the house with me that also miss Troy, so burdens are halved. They are old enough to help now, with dishes, tidying up, walking the dog and that sort of thing. Again, burdens halved.

They are also good conversationalists. Walking home from school, I have to make them take turns processing their day, or they will just talk over each other. Yesterday Nic had a “bad time” during second playtime when “some older boys thought I was bothering the girls, but I was just PLAYING with them, and they were hitting me. When the teachers saw me crying, they said the boys would be punished. But I forgave the boys.” My kids teach me to always be looking for something to learn, to be resilient, to forgive again and again and to not guard my heart even in repeated onslaughts.

My kids make me a better person.

Our Married Life Before We Had Children

2008-04-14T09:34:00.004+02:00

We were married in August 1991. Meaghan, our first child was born in February 1997. That’s five and a half years of married life before we had children.

During our first year of marriage we were poor and busy. Heather was working and I was finishing up college, while also working as an assistant drama director. She would drop me off at school early in the morning and we wouldn’t see each other until late that night.

After our first year of marriage, things changed considerably. Though we were both occupied with different matters (work, school, and ministry), we were much less busy.

Looking back on it now, I wonder: “What on earth did we do with all the time we had on our hands?” This was especially true after I had made it semi-official to avoid the completion of my master’s degree.

I can remember eating ice cream each day, but, uh, I don’t think we ate that much ice cream to fill the hours of our day.

I guess we just did a lot of relaxing and reading and hanging out. Life before we had children was, uh, pretty weird, now that I think about it. Tune in on Wednesday to catch a glimpse of life as we know it now.

Once we decided it was time to have babies, it took us 30 months to conceive Meaghan. So by the time she was born, I had been longing for her so much that sometimes I have a hard time remembering life before her. Then, life before Nicolas joined our family.

Before we had kids…

we could sleep as late as we wanted.

we didn’t get morning cuddles with squirming wiggly giggly boys.

we could stay out late, which we usually did not.

we didn’t have an excuse to go home and go to bed at a reasonable hour.

we could eat what, when and where we wanted to.

we didn’t have comedy hour at meals, and breakfast tea never shot out of anyone’s nose.

we didn’t have to get up and get anyone breakfast.

We didn’t have anyone to tease about making us coffee and bringing it to us in bed, or giggle at the indignant response “I am just a young child!”

we didn’t have to set a good example for anyone else.

we didn’t have 2 little mirrors of our bad behavior that are the best conscience of all.

we had to walk the dog ourselves.

we didn’t have an 11-year-old who is turning into Miss Responsibility.

we read lots.

we didn’t read out loud with voices that cause giggling fits.

So yeah, all in all, I wouldn’t go back.

Mice

2008-04-11T09:34:00.004+02:00

1. I love Of Mice and Men.

2. Why are there so many animated mice in the world and why are they allowed to go on living? We are afraid of them in real life, but turn them into cartoons and they’re considered lovable. Consider: Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Jerry (is his last name Mouse?), the Ratatouille guy (points to anyone who can remember his name without having to look it up), and Mighty Mouse.

3. Just remembered: his name is Remy. Points to me, I guess.

4. When I was a kid, I often wore my hiking boots, er, “clod hoppers” to the bathroom (even if I had nothing else on—now there’s an image for you), because frequently a mouse would appear and I wanted to be prepared to give it a sound stomping.

5. I saw a mouse run across the kitchen floor once. I grabbed the closest thing I could find to defend myself: a meat tenderizer. I prefer to kill mice in as violent a way as possible.

6. My son gets more frightened by things that might happen in movies than by the appearance of the Rodents Of Unusual Size in The Princess Bride. Go figure.

7. The mice in Babe are among my favorite characters in any movie I’ve ever seen, full stop.

8. I love the line “Or rats’ feet over broken glass/ In our dry cellar” in T.S. Eliot’s poem The Hollow Men.

9. I like cheese, but not the stinky kind.

I find it amusing that humans will keep mice as pets. Yet if they see one run across the kitchen floor they scream hysterically. I offer you some vignettes of my life experience with mice(if you are squeamish, you might want to go elsewhere):

Once, our family took care of our neighbors’ pet mice. They lived in a glass aquarium. I can’t remember whose decision it was, but we put some wide flat books (and therefore heavy) on the top to keep them in. You see where this is going, don’t you? A book fell in and impaled one of the poor little mice. My mother was mortified and overcome with guilt.

Sometime later we had our own pet mouse. I remember him being tiny, white and cute. I can’t remember his name.

When our neighborhood started getting built up and many of the empty lots overtaken by construction equipment, a mouse came inside, deciding our bright orange kitchen was a good place to live. There was a random assortment of people in our kitchen hunting for said mouse. It made the mistake of making a run for it from under the fridge. One of the men involuntarily gave in to his primal urge to stomp on said mouse. He squashed its head flat.

Shortly after Meg was born, a mice died a sqeaky death on my bag of brown sugar.

Troy and I had a little mouse for awhile in Barcelona. I don’t know why. His name was Pipsqueak, Pip for short.

Red

2008-04-09T19:49:00.005+02:00

Today I was walking the kids home after school, and it was raining sporadically. All three of us put our hoods up, me the hood on my fleece and they the hoods on their jackets. I joked that we looked like three Red Riding Hoods, because we were all dressed in red.

That got me thinking about how much I like the color red. One of the walls in our living room is red, and our whole bedroom is the same red. The rug in the living room is red, the striped curtains and cover on the rocking chair have red in them, and there is a red curtain panel at both living room windows.

I like red, it makes things cozy and warm. I know, it’s a random topic. In no particular order, here is a list of other red things I like:

Big fat red candles.
Red cotton sundresses. I bought one last summer but still have not worn it.
Red pottery made by Kelly.
Red purses/bags
Toenails
Poppies and tulips.
Christmas decorations.
Raspberries, cherries, strawberries, plums. (I don’t know if those all count as technically red.) If we’re talking fruit I think red apples are my least favorite.
Cardinals.
Red doors, mailboxes, roofs.
Red shoes.
Red barns.
Red Vokswagon bugs.
Red wine.

I’m actually so weird that I like to go to flickr and search for "red" or another color. You should try it!

14 points about red:

1. I own very few red clothes.

2. I do have two pair of red underwear.

3. One of those pair of red underwear has an embroidered Santa on them. When they were new, Santa would play a song, and his bulb nose would flash red. One day, I was in the house and I kept hearing a song. I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from and why at times it sounded close, while at other times it sounded far away. Later, I discovered that the song was coming from my underwear.

4. I just realized that that last sentence I wrote could be taken out of context and used against me in a court of law.

5. Another interesting thing about red: there’s a red notebook on my desk in front of me.

6. We have a red wall in our living room.

7. Heather wore red today.

8. My kids both wore red jackets today.

9. It’s hard to make me blush red.

10. It’s easier to get me to wear red blush than to get me to blush red.

11. I used to prefer red apples, but now I think I prefer green.

12. It’s easy to make Kelly Wills turn red now that she’s twitterpated.

13. The brightest red I’ve ever seen: Heather’s innards spilled out after Meaghan was removed from her belly when the doctors performed a C-section. Fresh blood really is vibrant.

14. I like the name Fred.

Rain

2008-04-07T17:23:00.003+02:00

When it comes to rain I take pretty polar positions.

If it’s winter, and I HAVE to be somewhere at a certain time and take public transportation to get there, I am pretty much “Rain, rain, go away.”

But I love to wake up to the sound of rain on a lazy weekend morning when there is no rush to get out of the house. It’s delicious to snuggle back down under the covers and know the world outside is wet while I am cozy.

I love to sit on the couch and watch a downpour out the window, preferably with lots of thunder and lightning. I miss good old mid-western U.S. summer thunderstorms. Even when we get lightning in Madrid, I don’t always get to see it because I can’t always see sky from my windows without getting up.

I even like to walk in the rain, if I can dress for it and know that I can go inside and get dry and warm again when I am done. My favorite is talking a walk in autumn rain, when it has not gotten too cold yet, and you can smell the wet leaves (that’s better than wet dog!)

There is also something amazing about being outside in a warm summer shower, with bare feet, getting soaked to the skin and not feeling a chill at all.

I’m actually hankering for a good thunderstorm this week; it’s supposed to rain. I can only hope!

The adultery and the accident
and the divorce that year
were like sideways rain,
blown parallel to the ground
by gales cursing the same
(and anything rooted).

The rain,
like bullets
fired mercilessly
by The Mercenary,
like knives
thrown by The Bearded Man Himself
that governs The Big Top,
too many blades to dodge.

You are going to get hit
and soaked
in your own blood.

………………………………

This year
the cloud is your hand,
moving lightly,
and the shade is welcome.

And the rain is your voice,
falling gently this time.
Gently, this time.

It is night.
I have been sleeping since dusk.
I came home from the fields
with a hole in my boot
(though I started the morning
with a new sole).
The fields have worn me thin.

It was only dusk,
but I closed my eyes, hoping for midnight.

Sometime after that:
the cloud came.
At dusk I closed my eyes,
hoping,
and the cloud came.

I do not know when it happened
(before midnight?)
but no matter
because now it is night and
there are no stars,
because they are covered.
But no matter
because there is rain
all around me,
your voice just beside me.

And I am rested.
I do not need to see stars,
I do not need direction.
Your voice, the rain, has come.
And you are all around me.

I can sleep again,
but I wish to stay awake,

here,

in this night,

hope,

Listen!
Rain!

Clutching your whisper.

Growing Old

2008-04-04T08:00:00.001+02:00

Recently I was sitting in VIPS killing time while Nic was at speech and language therapy. A cute little elderly couple wandered in and held an entertaining little interchange with the waiter and I thought to myself “That’s how Troy and I are going to act when we are old.”

However, recently I have begun to wonder if I may be fully senile well before we get to be doddering and cute. If the past six months are any indication, my brain cells have already begun a slide into oblivion that can’t be stopped.

However, here are some things that we WON’T be doing when we are old, assuming we still have a few wits about us:

Buying a 40-foot Winnebago and traveling around any continent/country/state/province.
Buying a mobile home and settling down with a colony of 40 cats/Chihuahuas/any other animal.
Moving to the south of Spain, and parading on the beach in speedos and bikinis.
Making our children miserable (at least not on purpose!)
Opening a day-care.
Watching home-shopping channels.
Watching the weather channel and then calling our children to give them the news that it’s going to snow six inches in Detroit.
Wearing plaid golf-pants.

We MAY perhaps:

Have matching recliners in the living room with stacks of good books beside them.
Have slumber parties with our grandchildren (if we are blessed with any!)
Eat dinner during the “early bird” hour if we live in America.
Hold hands while we shuffle around.

I have already grown old. I can no longer stay up all night. I awake before the alarm. I have a daughter going into junior high next year.

According to one source, I barely make the cutoff to be on Facebook legally. On top of that, my *gasp* 20^th high school reunion is this summer.

Yes, I am already “old”.

As I think about growing even older, I wonder things like: Where will we live? What will we be doing? Will we have grandchildren? Will we have good health? Will we even know who we are?

Perhaps even more crucial will be whether or not we will still like Alias and when (and how) I put the dog out of her misery.

Today I am anticipating the coming retreat weekend. Tomorrow at this time Heather and I will be in the throes of a pretty intense team building time.

And I have no idea what we will be feeling, thinking. What decisions will be made about our near- and distant-future? Will we be doing the same thing even 3 years from now?

The truth is: I know very little what tomorrow will bring, and even less what will come our way 30 years from now. But, this much I know: I want to spend every hour of it with you, my love.

And, together, our Master Jesus is more than able to lead the way, one step at a time.

And for me that is enough, enough, enough.

Routine

2008-04-02T19:50:00.000+02:00

7:10- Get the kids out of bed

7:11- The kids are now in our bed, cuddling with Mom.

7:12- Shower and shave, perhaps pass gas.

7:25- Come out of the bathroom and receive a smack on the butt from daughter (yes, no kidding, every morning). Get dressed and commence goofing around. Will it be knock-knock jokes or animal noises this morning?

7:30- I put on the tea kettle, and fill kid orders for breakfast. Heather makes the coffee, taking care to leave cold milk for Dad. Somewhere in this time block: yell at dog.

7:40- Dad pours milk on cereal. All family members take note. The scarfing has begun; consumption of mass quantities.

But keep goofing around. Mom rolls eyes. Somewhere towards the end of this time block: yell at kids because they won’t settle down for morning prayers. For some reason, they got all riled up.

7:52- Say morning prayers. Read Bible stories, and close with a blessing.

8:03- Kids get dressed for school. Mom supervises them while doing something on computer. Dad cleans kitchen, listens to music while doing so.

8:22- Wiping counters down, gathering recycling to take out.

8:26- Brushing teeth and, uh, somethin’ else I’d rather not mention.

8:30- Coats on, two poop bags prepped, kids grab recycling to take out. By now dog is jumping around like a kangaroo on crack. Put dog in strait jacket and go out door.

This is our morning routine. Believe it or not, this gives my life meaning.

I find it slightly ironic that I am writing about routine because it seems like I have had precious little of it in my life lately. I do like routine a lot though, and I miss it when it's gone. I think I am going to be able to make friends with it again next week at least for my own schedule but April is still going to be sort of a wonky month because Troy has a couple of out-of-the-ordinary things on his plate.

Here are some routines I dislike:

Having to take our 14- year old car in for inspection every April.

Putting money in our Spanish bank account every month and waiting on pins and needles for the rent to come out before some other random bill comes out and leaves the account just shy of what will cover rent.

Withdrawing money and finding out the exchange rate improved the next day.

Having to drag myself and the kids out of bed after the spring time change.

Those things may not sound like routines to you but I guarantee you they happen with alarming regularity.

Now for more pleasant routines:

Putting whipped cream on my coffee on Saturday and Sunday morning.

Putting the feather duvet in the duvet cover as soon as it's cool enough at night.

Morning cuddles.

Spending time on the balcony in the hammocks or at my little table when the weather turns warm.

Sunday afternoon naps.

Choir

2008-03-31T19:40:00.004+02:00

I receive the iTunes New Music Tuesday newsletter. Every so often it will feature iTunes picks for various genres of music. Some time ago they put the spotlight on classical music. That month they included mostly instrumental pieces, but one album consisted of choral music. I had a listen to the excerpts and was hooked, so I bought it promptly.

The group: Stephen Layton-Polyphony.

The work: Cloudburst and Other Choral Works by Eric Whitacre.

If you have a chance, buy this album. Then, block out an hour to just sit down and soak in the beauty.

This morning, I listened to the title piece on my walk home. I turned up the volume so I could catch all the portions sung in pianissimo. It’s a unique piece, because at one point in the song you hear the sound of rain. When I first heard the song, I didn’t think much of it, but this morning, listening to the song more intently, I picked out that the raindrop sounds were being made by the clapping of hands. I was dumbstruck. Amazing, in a word.

It brought me back to my days in college when I had the privilege of singing in a first-rate choir. One song included a percussive sound created by the syncopation of human voices. There really is no substitute for simple a capella choral music. It made me miss those days. I had no idea what a privilege it was to sing in a choir like that.

I love singing in choirs; there is something so stirring and satisfying about it. I haven’t been one in a long time.

The absolute best choir experience I have ever had was during high school. Back in the day, the mission that I grew up with had big concerts ever year in honor of Quito Days. We sang a bunch of different music, but my favorite part of the concert was when we donned traditional embroidered Ecuadorian dresses and sang a whole selection of beloved Ecuadorian songs.

People in the audience were super participative, clapping, singing, shouting “Viva Quito!” and “Viva Eugenio!” (our well known and loved director!) Participating in those concerts was a huge adrenalin rush.

The concerts were held in the colonial part of Quito at the Teatro Sucre, which was a pretty grand experience. Here, you wanna see?

Cool, eh?

I would have scanned the photo that I have of the Coro Vozandes performing. But I couldn’t find it. And of course, when I did get the photo back, guess who was the ONLY person you couldn’t see? Yep. Me. I was the only person in the whole choir that was blocked by the director because of the angle the photo was taken from.

Oh well, viva Quito, and El chulla Quiteño, and Lamparilla.

Tickling

2008-03-28T14:37:00.008+01:00

Why is it that tickling makes us laugh, but most times we dislike it? I can remember being held down by my uncle when I was a kid. He’d tickle me just under my chin, so I’d move my head. He’d go for under my arm, so I’d clench. Then, he’d go for the side of my belly, so I’d squirm. Then, my kneecap; I’d twist. Finally, my foot: he’d clamp my foot under one arm and just tickle away. There was nothing I could do to get out of that one. I hated it.

But, there’s something about tickling someone that still seems fun, so I must confess: I tickle my kids. Not often, mind you—and not incessantly like my uncle—but probably once a day for a few seconds. My favorite is to drum my fingers over their rib cage; that always gets ‘em going. Rarely do I tickle their feet.

Tickling Heather is another matter. When I first met her, I thought she was unticklable. It didn’t take long after we got married for me to figure out that actually she is extremely ticklish. We’re talkin’ almost everywhere. Sometimes just giving her a hug makes her shudder. I often want to accompany my hug with a kiss on her neck. This, however, is off limits, as it makes her ticklish. So, I’ve just learned to live with it. Woe is me.

One final thought: I wonder why dogs aren’t ticklish.

I have a violent aversion to being tickled, which I believe I got from my Mom. I rarely saw her get as mad as when she did if one of us tickled her. She was extremely ticklish, but that was something we rarely exploited because she was fearsome in her wrath.

I am hoping that I can continue to keep my children from realizing that I am at all ticklish. Right now, Nicolas is not very good at tickling. AT ALL. So he’s still safe. However, I shudder to think of what he may be like when he is a teenager bigger than his Mom. I don’t doubt that he will get a kick out of sitting on me and tickling me until I want to kill him. I guess that means he will never be allowed to read this blog. Ever.

Troy knows better than to tickle me, and mostly he behaves himself. But not always. He likes to try and kiss my ears, which I do not tolerate. He always whines about it “C’mon, let me get in there.” But I am an expert at using my shoulders to block him and his goatee from my delicate ears. I am fully aware that if he really wanted to, he has the strength to tickle me at will. However, he prefers not to have to sleep in the bathtub for the rest of his years on earth, which is where he will most certainly end up if he presses his advantage.

Clouds

2008-03-26T18:25:00.004+01:00

My favorite time and place to observe clouds is when flying (as long as there is no turbulence! Then I close my eyes, grip my armrests and keep telling myself it’s just like riding down a bumpy country road. My self then answers back, “Yeah right, except for the enormous amount of distance between you and the earth!”)

I really like it when I am flying over the ocean, and the sky and the sea below are the same color, with some puffy white clouds in between to blur the line between the two. It’s like being suspended inside a snowglobe that hasn’t been shaken.

I do find it very curious that clouds can “pack a punch”. They mostly appear (even when grey) wispy and harmless, but man, they can throw an airplane around like nobody’s business. For this reason, I have to say that in general, I distrust clouds. They can be very fickle, floating serenely above your head one moment, bombarding you with rain, sleet or snow the next. Personally, I think they should give a little more warning. Perhaps they could turn a bright orange or something.

Green clouds are never good; that usually means a tornado is headed your way. Of all the clouds in the world, tornadoes are definitely the ones I distrust the most!

I leave you with my favorite cloud quote. Said Mary this past weekend when we all tumbled outside to admire the sunset , “It looks like somebody vomited cotton candy. But in a good way!”

When I see a cloud I always think of what it represents. Clouds, to me, point to something else. They are like metaphors that way. So, I picked a theme and ran with it in the form of poetry. It’s mediocre poetry (at best), but I had fun playing around, all the same. I hope you enjoy it.

Doubts appear as clouds;
reared in mist,
they move and shift.
Fear grows
and never seems to show
there is a top-side
white in light
(or gold and bold).

Doubts appear as clouds,
but hope is the burst
though doubt may come first.

Without the droplet there would be no cloud,
and doubt is but the seed of hope.
So, do not fear doubt.

Hope is a question,
an experiment with uncertainty,
like a cloud
that shifts with
changing pressure.
I could not hope without a push.

I do not know
what tomorrow unfolds,
and so
I hope.

If I knew
what the cloud would do,
I would
not hope.

……………………………

Yes, fear is real,
but it is only the drop
and love is the cloud that reigns.
Fear cannot have the last word.

Even seeds of doubt breed hope.
Even tiny fears leave in love.

Doubt is but a vapor.
Fear is only mist.

Shhh, my child.
Do not be afraid of the clouds.
They are bigger than the drops.
Rest, my child.
This too shall pass.

Coming Home

2008-03-24T19:14:00.006+01:00

Ah, coming home. It’s one of my favorite things in the world. There is so much I love about home: my own bed, coffee, couches and a plethora of other things. I love home.

Troy and I re-enter home in very different ways. He usually is the one to unload the car, although I have tried to be better lately about helping with that. But while I like to have some time to just soak up home again, he re-enters best by unpacking everything and setting things right again. So yeah, it’s the coming home version of puttering.

Our kids are funny too, because they get really excited to go someplace, but they get equally excited to come home again. Nic usually disappears into his room for hours of intense play. We got home yesterday and he has already created several masterpieces with his Meccano.

And then we have the dog. She was at the kennel this past weekend, which she doesn’t like much. She used to be able to go to “doggy camp” where she just ran around the vet’s yard with a pack of other dogs and got into heaps of trouble. Either way, when she comes home, she sacks out on the couch and sleeps for hours. Literally. I brought her home around 12:30 and she didn’t really get off the couch for 5 hours.

There definitely is no place like home.

I knew we had to write something today, and have honestly been thinking about it all day. Nothing gripped me, however, so I guess about one or two in the afternoon I decided I’d just post something I wrote in the past that dealt with the theme of coming home. But then I knew that that would be cheating, since the whole point of this blog is to write something new.

So, I sat down tonight to write something new. I’ve been mostly staring at a pulsing cursor for the past hour. Nothing.

At first, I thought: “I’ll try writing a poem to express how I feel about coming home.” But, I was unable to form a single metaphor. It was like trying to describe heat.

Then, I thought: “Okay, if poetry doesn’t work, I’ll try my hand at a little drama.” Sometimes I find that it is better for me to work out my thoughts on a subject by pretending to be someone else, to resolve some inner conflict through imagined dialogue. By the end of writing a drama, I often recognize myself in someone else. But that approach didn’t work either.

Then, I thought: “I can’t just write something…you know…normal…for this. Describing home calls for a little art, you know. After all, home is a special place. It deserves some kind of special treatment.”

So, here’s what I’ve come to realize: Art used to be my home. Now home is my art.

"It's Friday, but Sunday's Coming"

2008-03-20T11:00:00.005+01:00

Looking for the Living One in a Cemetery

At the crack of dawn on Sunday, the women came to the tomb carrying the burial spices they had prepared. They found the entrance stone rolled back from the tomb, so they walked in. But once inside, they couldn't find the body of the Master Jesus.

A Ghost Doesn't Have Muscle and Bone

They didn't waste a minute. They were up and on their way back to Jerusalem. They found the Eleven and their friends gathered together, talking away: "It's really happened! The Master has been raised up—Simon saw him!"

Then the two went over everything that happened on the road and how they recognized him when he broke the bread.

While they were saying all this, Jesus appeared to them and said, "Peace be with you." They thought they were seeing a ghost and were scared half to death. He continued with them, "Don't be upset, and don't let all these doubting questions take over. Look at my hands; look at my feet—it's really me. Touch me. Look me over from head to toe. A ghost doesn't have muscle and bone like this." As he said this, he showed them his hands and feet. They still couldn't believe what they were seeing. It was too much; it seemed too good to be true.

He asked, "Do you have any food here?" They gave him a piece of leftover fish they had cooked. He took it and ate it right before their eyes.

From The Message, Luke 24

To hear Tony Campolo’s classic message about the Resurrection, click here.

This is what Easter means to me; a collage of verses.

David, the prophet king, writes of the Messiah: “you will not abandon me to the grave, nor will you let your Holy One see decay.” – Psalm 16:11

Isaiah, the prophet, predicted Jesus’ death and resurrection: “After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life and be satisfied; by his knowledge my righteous servant will justify many, and he will bear their iniquities.”—Isaiah 53:11

The apostle Paul celebrates: “…he is the beginning and the firstborn from among the dead, so that in everything he might have the supremacy.” – Colossians 1:18

“He forgave us all our sins... And having disarmed the powers and authorities, he made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross.” – Colossians 2:13-15

“And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins.”—I Corinthians 15:17

Peter, on the day of Pentecost, has the audacity to proclaim: “God has raised this Jesus to life, and we are all witnesses of the fact… God has made this Jesus, whom you crucified, both Lord and Christ."

When the people heard this, they were cut to the heart and said to Peter and the other apostles, "Brothers, what shall we do?"

Peter replied, "Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. The promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off—for all whom the Lord our God will call." – Acts 2: 32, 36-39

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Elevators

2008-03-19T10:15:00.003+01:00

Here are guidelines to keep in mind when building elevators, because it would be neato to make elevators for a living:

1. An elevator without a mirror is a waste of metal. The real reason to ride in an elevator is so you can look at yourself in the mirror, and, preferably, make funny faces.

2. Elevators should have chandeliers. If I owned an elevator manufacturing company, I would name it Otis Chandelier Transport, because the word “Otis” just fits perfectly with the word “Chandelier”.

3. If you’re going to carpet an elevator—puhleeze—everyone knows you should use orange shag.

Here are some fun things to do to make elevator rides more enjoyable for everyone in the elevator with you:

1. Bring a basket of laundry on and fold it, making little piles here and there.

2. Just keep blowing your nose and throwing the crumpled tissues in the center till you have a nice little pile for someone else to pick up.

3. Take off your right shoe and sock, then sit in the corner cross-legged and inspect your ring toe, picking at it every once in a while.

4. Walk on with a boom box playing Barry Manilow and sing along “I write the songs that make the young girls cry.”

5. Take a poster of Elvira and unfurl it. Then, look at it as if you’re inspecting a great work of art. Every now and again, grunt as if to say, “Hm. Not sure about this.”

I’m pretty sure that whatever I write is going to be completely lost in the cacophony of cackling that will be drizzling down the page from my husband’s section. I walked by the office this morning and he was downloading photos and laughing. How am I supposed to compete with that?

So, a question: do you think it’s true that if you are in a falling elevator and you manage to jump up in the air just when it hits bottom, you’ll be saved? This is indeed a troubling dilemma.

I actually don’t ride in elevators that often. We live one floor up, so we usually walk. Partly for exercise, and partly to escape the inevitable face contortions (and ensuing cackles) that my husband and my son are genetically required to perform whenever there is a mirror in sight. Meg and I get tired of having to roll our eyes at them.

When I work at Red Hat, I do have to ride the elevator and this requires much more decorum (thank goodness!) One must stand in the lobby after pushing the call button and watch for which one of four elevators will be arriving next. Then one must shuffle in with the herd, being careful to greet the others in a not-too friendly way while trying to get in the right position, taking into account the numbers that have been pressed to find one’s proper place in the exit order. Upon exiting, one must mutter “’Ta logo.”

Happy riding.

Socks

2008-03-17T17:43:00.007+01:00

Heather’s feet are not much larger than our 11-year-old daughter’s so I often mistake her socks for Meaghan’s. Frequently I put Heather’s socks in Meaghan’s drawer and vice versa. When this happens, they never miss a chance to have a good laugh at my expense.

The other day, however, Heather looked at Meaghan’s feet and said, “Hey, those are my socks!”

Meaghan looked down and then looked up with a sheepish grin.

Caught!

So, this is me doing my little Dance of Vindication. It looks a little like the hokey pokey, where I put my right bosom in and out and then shake it all about. Yes, poetic justice.

Now that I’m on the topic of socks I should mention a few other interesting points.

1. I hate it when I step on so much as a droplet of water in my socks, so most days I’ll change my socks at least once (and sometimes, twice).

2. I wore footies that had pink yarn balls that protruded out the back ankle when I played tennis in high school.

3. I was told once that, to be “in style”, I needed to match my socks with my shirt, so I often wore green socks with gray trousers (or socks with argyle patterns) during high school. Yeah, I was one hep cat.

4. I also think someone could make a lot of money if they designed socks for giraffes to wear.

I was going to go in a whole different direction, about how Troy can’t figure out which socks are mine and which are Meg’s, but then I remembered this joke, told me by our dear family friend Roberto years ago. And I know Troy isn’t expecting ME to tell a joke. So here we go:

“A recent arrival to New York, a Spanish-speaking-man needed to buy some new socks. So he wandered through the neighborhood where he was staying until he happened on a likely little shop. It was small, and manned by a lone elderly gentleman behind the counter.

Now the lone clerk only spoke English, and our visiting friend knew not a lick of English. So the visitor began to mime and in vain, trying to get his point across. The clerk dragged out item after item, but no socks appeared on the counter.

Both parties began to get increasingly agitated and annoyed with the other. Miming turned into flailing arms and frustration.

Finally the customer tried one last valiant mime and a virtual light-bulb seemed to go on over the clerk’s head. He shuffled off to the back room and re-appeared with a bundle of dusty socks.

Seeing the socks, the customer exclaimed “Eso si que es!”

And the clerk glared at him balefully and asked curtly “Why didn’t you just spell it for me in the first place?”

The end.

(If you don’t get it, say what the customer said out loud. Spanish is phonetic, you can do it!)

Snow

2008-03-14T14:46:00.002+01:00

Most of my favorite memories as a child involve snowy days.

For starters, snow means ice and ice means hockey. Playing pick-up games down at the local ice rink (with boards, lights, warming houses and nets furnished by the Parks and Recreation Department) was a childhood staple. I was known as “little Cady” since I had two older brothers whose friends I played with.

And there was sledding. We’d make snow ramps and see who could go down the slope standing up the whole time. We’d play so hard out there that we’d sweat and shiver at the same time, no kidding.

Another memory: grabbing hold of the back bumper of cars with unsuspecting drivers, taking a free ride down the length of our icy street.

Whenever we visited Grandma’s for Christmas, we’d play a game called “Pie”. We’d make snowy tracks that formed a pie shape and then play tag on the outlines. Once, my grandma played with us and we got her laughing so hard she peed her pants.

Sometimes heavy snows would hit while we were at Grandma’s and a handful of us kids would go knocking on neighborhood doors, offering to shovel their walks—for a price. Those days, we’d rake in the dough, only to squander it all on Twinkies, Bubble Yum, licorice, Lick-M-Aid, and orange juice later that evening.

I miss the snow. When I heard New York got pounded recently, it called forth thoughts of joyful, slobbering childhood. Oh, for a snowsuit again.

I grew up without snow. Living on the equator means you don’t get much contact with the stuff. I’ve always been able to enjoy it from afar (ie on top of the beautiful mountains miles and miles away) but rarely had to live with it on a daily basis.

Don’t ask me why I chose to go to college in Minnesota of all places! I guess the Canucky in me won out after all and I endured three years of cold Minnesota winters where the inside of your nose would freeze the minute you went outside.

I do love snow in small doses though. I love it best when it’s quiet and deep and the whole world grinds to a halt. It’s great to go out for a tramp in it, then come home, drink something warm and observe it from the window! I do love to sit and watch it snow, as long as I know I don’t have to go anywhere in it if I don’t want to!

Every once in a while, I get a hankering for a good snow, but that doesn’t happen too often. (And I’m always careful not to tell Mary I’m hoping for it, because if it DID snow, she would be very angry with me!)

I do not like snow down my neck, or up my sleeves, or in my boots or in my face. So basically, I like snow on my own terms! Which makes living in Madrid perfect!

Puttering

2008-03-12T08:29:00.003+01:00

Troy and I relax in very different ways. I prefer to lounge on the couch like a total slug with a book. He prefers to putter. He is actually the king of puttering. Just now he said “I’m restless, what should I do?” And I said “PUTTER!” Puttering happens only during free time.

Puttering means that while I’m doing absolutely nothing, Troy will mop the kitchen, do the dishes, replace lightbulbs, go the hardware store to get supplies to fix something, fix the something, put away everything so that I have to ask him about eleventy billion things I can’t find, etc.

I can’t remember exactly when this puttering started, but for awhile it made me feel very guilty. It wasn’t my idea of relaxing AT ALL, but I felt bad because I wasn’t being productive. I would sit on the couch and stew, assuming that Troy was puttering with a bad attitude, enjoying bitter thoughts about his slacker wife. It was a wonderful way to spend our time off.

Eventually though, he clued me in to the fact that he was very relaxed while he puttered and that he was not harboring ill feelings toward me. So I could enjoy my couch time while he enjoyed his putter time.

He’s a good man though, because sometimes when he is into serious putter, I’ll shoot an enquiring glance his way, to make sure I’m still in the clear. He just grins at me and says “Don’t worry, I’m relaxed!”

PUT-ter-ing: the act of milling about the house, doin’ this n’ that, pickin’ up stuff n’ puttin’ it where it goes. It does not involve passing gas, though the word “puttering” seems to onomatopoetically suggest as such. It can, however, drive one’s wife crazy, even if one is not puttering in the aforementioned sense.

The act of puttering generally takes place on a day when one is supposed to be relaxing. Puttering, by its nature, is a way of passing time, and though it looks like one is busily working, it is not to be regarded as “work”, in the strictest sense. It is relaxing to…

-fold a load of laundry
-wipe up toast crumbs
-unload the dishwasher
-put a dinosaur, stuffed puppy, baseball cap, three rocks, seven cars, a blankie, and a piece of yarn where they go
-bundle up the recycling
-play a fun matching game consisting of loose DVD’s and their empty cases
-put away the remote controls
-search the dog’s mouth for the missing remote control button
-apply duct tape to a laundry basket that should be buried
-put away the slippers I keep tripping on
and
-push in the couch cushions.

It is pointless to attempt to explain why one finds this activity relaxing but it is. Those who do not understand this may be deemed “out of their minds”. Or is it “out of their mind”, singular? Hm. Have to think about that one the next time I’m puttering.

Spaghetti

2008-03-10T08:08:00.003+01:00

When I was growing up, spaghetti was kind of our family’s “we’re getting to the end of the groceries” meal. We always made it with ground beef, which was cheap in Ecuador. But by the time I left home, I wasn’t that fond of spaghetti anymore. And I NEVER understood people who would go out to an Italian restaurant and order it.

For awhile after we got married, I just used Prego straight from the jar.

Now that we live in Spain, I have perfected spaghetti that my family and I both like (it’s actually one of Meaghan’s favorites). Instead of ground beef I use hunks of sausage, lots of onion and garlic, and mushrooms. I also never use actual spaghetti noodles, so I suppose I should have called this post just “pasta” but oh well. For a long time I used tri-color vegetable rotini noodles, and lately I switched to whole wheat veggie rotini which not only tastes great but is healthier as well.

Sometimes when I am trying to get more veggies in the kids, I will throw zuchinni and carrots in the blender, grind them up and sauté them with the mushrooms etc. It makes the sauce nice and thick as well.

There is one problem: I can no longer cook spaghetti in the States because I don’t know what ingredients to buy! Last time we were on furlough I made lunch for our hosts and it was seriously the worst spaghetti I have EVER made.

Heather makes the best spaghetti sauce I’ve ever had. There is little else to say. She has shown me how to make it, but I forget just now. One of these days I need to get her to write the recipe down, because if she ever dies I want her life to be survived by her recipes. I know, I know…I’m a hopeless romantic.

Rarely do we actually use spaghetti noodles as a pastal base for her sauce, however. “Pastal” is an adjective meaning “of or pertaining to pasta”. It’s a real word…in, uh, my world.

I have never had “spaghetti and meatballs”. Instead, we use bits of sausage chopped up into lop-sided pieces. I’ve always wanted to have spaghetti and meatballs, however, so that I can sing the song that goes to the tune of “On Top of Old Smoky”. Here are the lyrics:

On top of spaghetti,
All covered with cheese,
I lost my poor meatball
When somebody sneezed.

It rolled off the table
And onto the floor
And then my poor meatball
Rolled right out the door.

I like the song because it’s so realistic. I often sneeze with such force that it can blow meatballs right off my plate onto the floor and out the door.

Has anyone out there ever sneezed while masticating on a glob of spaghetti? I think that would be neat. It’d be interesting to see what it looks like when spaghetti noodles come out your nose.

Par-TAY

2008-03-07T09:23:00.007+01:00

Troy and I are actually not very good at parties. We aren’t great at small talk or meeting billions of new people in one evening. We’re much better at small gatherings, and we like to keep things pretty casual. Since we’re also getting old, we don’t stay up late either, so we don’t par-tay all night for sure.

A couple of weeks ago one of our neighbors had a birthday party, and at 5:30 in the morning they were still outside on their balcony talking. VERY LOUDLY. Troy and I just shake our heads at each other and say “Why?” Yeah, we’re the life of the party.

When we DO have people over, we feed them yummy things. Here is a recipe for one of my favorite dips. Everyone loves it (even if they don’t like artichokes!) Usually I don’t tell people what’s in it until they have tried it. It’s not exactly health food!

Artichoke Dip:

1 large can artichoke hearts

1 cup parmesan cheese

½ cup mayo

½ cup sour cream

1 large package of cream cheese

Garlic salt and dill weed to taste, about ½ tsp each

Chop artichoke hearts in small pieces, mix all ingredients together. Pour into greased pan. Bake at 350° (170° C) until bubbly. Serve with bread, crackers, veggies or any other dippable thing! (I also like to eat it cold the next morning!)

When I was a kid, one of my favorite movies was “Saturday Night Fever”, starring John Travolta.

In those days, I always wanted to be John Travolta and honestly thought I could pull it off. I even had the silk shirt to prove it. It was blue, red, green, yellow and silver. And, of course, I looked a lot like John Travolta.

See? Exactly, um, identical. In fact, many times people mistook me for his son cuz we looked so much alike: “Are you John Travolta’s son cuz you look just like him! Except for, of course, that lily white mop on your head, the albino complexion and the, uh, buck teeth and dorky smile.”

Anyway, when my sister was 13 she had a party and a certain 8-year old attention-starved waif was given permission to hang around with my sis’ friends.

We had this porch out back that was lighted and coated thickly with a high gloss green paint. My sister put on some DISCO and I beheld the group of sprouting girls like a crow among tall, ripe stalks in a corn field. They were just waiting to be picked. I strolled to the center of the floor with my silk shirt on and started shaking my “perky little jive box”. Within seconds, all the girls were around me, clapping and laughing. Now I realize: they were actually laughing AT me. Meanwhile, my sister went inside and cried her eyes out. I had ruined her party.

Linus

2008-03-05T20:00:00.000+01:00

Linus is the President of the organization we work for (Christian Associates). He came to Madrid on Monday for a three-night visit. Last night, we had him over to our place for dinner.

In 1995, Heather and I heard about an organization called Christian Associates. My father-in-law (Ken) was being interviewed for a position with another organization, and the person who was doing the interview (Bruce) got curious about Heather and me. As Ken told Bruce about us, Bruce said that he was on the board of Christian Associates. “And,” Bruce said to Ken, “your kids would be a great fit.” Bruce gave us some details to contact a person called Linus at the Christian Associates office in California. That was on a Sunday.

I planned on calling Linus later that week. But on Wednesday Linus beat me to the punch. The last thing I expected was a phone call from the President of the organization.

Linus began, “Bruce tells me you’re interested in using drama in ministry. Tell me how you would go about doing that.”

The phone conversation lasted about two hours. To this day, it amazes me that a man like Linus, with all that he has to do, still takes time to listen to and care for “the little people”.

This may sound strange, but one of the things I admire most about Linus is the fact that he almost always volunteers to wash the dishes when he’s had dinner in someone else’s home. When I think of Linus, the first word that pops into my head is “humility.” Linus, thank you for your humble leadership. I appreciate you greatly and am one of your biggest fans.

Even though Linus is the founder and current president of our mission, there is not one ounce of superiority in his body. He’s one of the most down-to-earth people I have ever met, and also one of the wackiest.

For instance, today while he was here for lunch, he decided that he was going to steal Kelly’s spot on the couch and promptly did a flying nose dive over the back of the couch. Such dignity and grace in a leader is a beautiful thing to behold.

He also will wrestle you for the space on the arm-rest between airplane seats, if you decide to take more than half of your allotted space. He’s tenacious, and he WILL win.

Linus has recruited more people into our mission than the rest of us combined, probably. We joke that he will recruit anything that moves. Thing is, people always say yes to him. He is a very winsome person. Yesterday our friend Mary met him and later said that he had a very friendly face and that she wanted to pat him on the head but didn’t because she didn’t know if that was allowed.

The best thing about Linus is his incredible heart for people. He is one the most compassionate, empathetic people I know.

He’ll also bring you jelly packets he picks up for free in random places.

Toast

2008-03-03T18:00:00.000+01:00

Toast is a mindset, a lifestyle, a worldview. I have it at least once a day. I like it with butter and I put varied toppings on it such as:

-honey
-cinnamon and sugar mix
-jam
-peanut butter and honey (rarely with just peanut butter)

Last Tuesday, Heather and I left for Portugal to attend a conference. That morning, our toaster stopped working. This is a major deal, since our kids like toast a lot and, uh, I do too, just a little bit—okay, a lot bit.

This morning I took the toaster off the counter to throw it away and paused to reflect on the many months we’d spent together. Yes, she was crummy and the numbers on her dials were faded, but I will miss her.

As I walked her to the rubbish bin outside, it occurred to me: “Heather gave up blogs and Facebook for Lent and I didn’t give up anything. Maybe this is God’s way of putting that right. Maybe God figured I needed to give up toast for Lent and this was God’s way of making it happen.”

I thought of laying hands on the toaster, anointing it with oil, and praying for the toaster, but I wondered if doing so would get me electrocuted, so I just accepted my short fast from toast as part of God’s plan. Oh well.

Goodbye for now, toast. I will miss you and hope you come again soon.

It’s a sad week in the Cady house, because the toaster is broken. Which wouldn’t be THAT big of a deal, except that we have a couple of large bills to pay this week so getting a new toaster is going to have to wait until at least next week. This makes Troy, who regularly says “I haven’t had any toast today” very sad. It also made office hours before staff meeting today kind of sad and pathetic because we almost always consume large amounts of toast.

We love our toast, that’s for sure. Troy is very exact when it comes to making toast, especially cinnamon toast (which we sometimes eat a whole platter of, with a pot of tea, for dinner on Sunday nights). The butter must be evenly spread to each edge so that the cinnamon & sugar mixture (please, no lectures about healthy foods) will stick to the toast the way it’s supposed to.

I like toast too, but Troy is the king. Quite often he will eat peanut butter and honey toast for dessert or for a light snack while we are watching a movie.

I hope that if you can make a piece of toast today, you won’t take that privilege for granted. Eat a piece or two for us.

CA

2008-02-29T18:26:00.006+01:00

CA, as we like to call it, is the organization we work for in Europe. It is short for "Christian Associates." This week Heather and I have been in Portugal for an annual Leadership Summit held by CA and today is the last day of the conference. We thought it would be appropriate and timely to write our thoughts on our organization.

Some snapshots as to why I love CA.

1. Last year at this time, I took our Founder/President to task for something and he actually apologized. This year, the first words out of his mouth were, “Troy, I want to say again how sorry I am for blowing it last year.” I love CA for its authenticity, humility and respect for people.

2. Yesterday afternoon, during one of the sessions, they set aside time for four people to do a little role play up front. The scenario was to have a debate on a certain topic—in the style of the Jerry Springer Show. CA is an organization of laughter and I love that.

3. Just a few hours ago, Rogier Bos, a professional photographer who could charge us an arm and a leg, just volunteered about an hour of his time to take a bunch of snaps—for free. He’s done this for us many, many times. CA is invariably generous.

4. This morning in a presentation I introduced myself this way: “If Alan Hirsch is a sexy Einstein and Wes White is the unsexy Einstein, I aspire to be a medium-build, pot-bellied Heisenberg.” CA is informal. What’s more, they laugh at my jokes. We won’t be leaving any time soon.

5. CA lets us experiment. They’re willing to take risks, and they don’t always get it right, but they always let us try what’s on our hearts. CA believes in its leaders and I love that.

One of the ongoing aspects of my life that gives me joy and frankly just blesses my socks off is the group of people that Troy and I are privileged to work with. We don’t get to see them all too often since we are spread all over Europe, but when we are together it’s like coming home. There is something so amazing to me about being with a group of people that I resonate with so much.

Right now we are in Portugal with a group of leaders from CA, and it has been such a refreshing, encouraging, challenging week. I can hardly believe that’s it is Friday already and that tomorrow morning we have to say goodbye to these great people.

I think the reason I love the people of CA so much is that I can “do” so much of life with them. We laugh, cry, pray, confess, discuss, ponder, eat, play, work and all sorts of other things together. I don’t see eye to eye with all of them, or have the same personality traits, hobbies, interests as they do, but they are my family.

This week I discovered that one of my classmates from Capernwray Bible School, which I attended 20 years ago, is now church-planting with us in a new church plant in Holland. Talk about a small world!

Anyway, to all you CA people out there, you rock! I am privileged and deeply blessed to know you all.

Math

2008-02-27T17:09:00.000+01:00

I am not good at math. At all. To the point that when Troy is out of town and Nic brings home 2^nd grade math homework, I break out in hives. Never mind that it’s been a LONG time since I was in school, or that they do math completely differently now, or maybe just in the British schools. Plain and simple, I am bad at math.

Poor Troy, not only does he have to help Nic with his math homework, he has to help Meg as well. And Meg, poor girl, has her Mother’s inadequate head for math. I sit and watch Troy try and figure out how he could possibly come up with one more way to explain it while Meg just looks at him like “Huh?”

When I took high school geometry, I got a D (not a very not normal grade for me.) And that was only because I had a tutor! I The ONLY math class I have ever done well in (I got an A!) was Business and Consumer Math, which I took my Senior year of high school. It was great. I learned to do a budget, payroll, balance a checkbook and all sorts of other useful things. I actually LIKED that class.

Even then, I went to college and bounced checks because I was staggered by the huge size of the numbers when my student loans came in from Canada (a big mistake to give them to me instead of directly to my school!)

I’m the designated “math person” in our family. If Heather dies, I won’t know how to run a computer; if I die, Meaghan and Nic won’t know how to add or subtract.

Over the years, I’ve had a number of interesting math teachers.

First, there was Mr. Grootenhuis in 8^th grade. I remember that he called lunch “dinner” and once grabbed a kid by the scalp and propelled him out the classroom door with one powerful thrust of his hand.

For 9^th grade algebra, I had Mr. Wagner. I remember him because he often burst out unexpectedly “BONUS!” when a kid got an answer right. He also would often scowl and say, “Some people’s kids…” when someone got an answer wrong.

For 10^th grade geometry there was Mr. Ski. Yes, that was his name, but we called him Lurch, because he looked like the pale behemoth featured on the macabre television program “The Addams Family”. Mr. Ski was also an athletics coach. I suspected he was some kind of cybernetic life-form, because he could draw a perfect circle without a protractor, and that is no exaggeration.

I always got “A-plusses” in math, and I never studied and never did any homework, no kidding. My classmates hated me. Until 12^th grade calculus. I only got a C and I did have to study. That’s when my “beautiful mind” began to fade.

Traveling without kids

2008-02-25T10:07:00.000+01:00

Tomorrow morning, (Tuesday) Heather and I board a plane to Portugal. We are traveling without our kids.

Traveling without the kids is always a bittersweet experience for me. Before we leave I try to think of every last detail I need to take care of to make sure that everything runs smoothly. Now that the kids are older, those details have changed quite a bit, but it’s still a brain-bending chore. I have moments of “I don’t wanna go four days without seeing my kids” and “What if something happens to us while we are traveling?” Honestly, I think one of the worst things in the world is thinking about someone else raising my kids.

Once all the prep work is done though, and I’ve actually said goodbye and left the house, I start to enjoy myself. Here, in random order is a list of things I’ll be looking forward to while we are in Portugal this week:

Navigating an airport and only worrying about my own personal belongings.
Sitting on a plane and not having to get out someone’s backpack/tell them not to kick the seat in front/tell them to stop messing with their tray table/window visor/seat position.
Meals where I can eat what I want without having to make sure smaller people are eating too.
Not having to answer the eleventy billion “Moooooooooooooooms”. (Well, maybe once a day on the phone.)

By the time I’m eating my Egg McMuffin© in Terminal 4 (the only place in Spain you can get them as far as I know) on Tuesday morning I’ll be ready for the four days away.

This sounds morbid, but Heather and I always think “What if” when we travel without kids. Specifically: “What if the plane crashes and our kids are left orphaned?”

We made plans before moving to Europe in 1998 as to this question. Currently our kids would go to a couple that we love dearly, but whom we feel our kids hardly know now, so our existing plan worries us a bit. Over the past year or so Heather and I have often said, “We really need to update our will, and renew what would happen to our kids in the event both of us die.”

The problem is we always imagine someone taking care of our kids and we think we would like someone who would do it like us, but we realize that, no matter who we choose, that is just not going to happen. Nevertheless, it makes the decision that much harder to make.

I must say, however, that traveling without kids is much easier than traveling with kids. It provides us with a nice break to just be “Heather and Troy, husband and wife”. I will…

-read a book uninterrupted or
-just hold Heather’s hand or
-tell her some jokes.

In each of those cases, Heather will be my counterpart:
-scrolling on her PDA to read her book (see our post on Gadgets) or
-holding my hand or
-rolling her eyes (see Heather’s #3 here).

Guess I’ll stick to simply holding her hand. That suits me just fine.

Gadgets

2008-02-22T10:57:00.005+01:00

I admit it, I am the gadget geek in our family. But it’s not my fault, because I inherited the Grant Gadget Genes © (not really copyrighted, but it should be) from my Dad. He is the patriarch of the gadget genes. It does run in the family; my brother just sent me a message from his new wireless Ipod. I didn’t even know such a thing existed. But he has way more money than me.

I can’t remember exactly when I really owned these genes, but they are in full bloom now. Troy and I have a standing joke that if I die before he does, he won’t know how to fix computer stuff etc. I have more gadgets than he does; I have a PDA, he still uses a good old fashioned Dayrunner. The thing about the gadget genes is that they force me to want to keep up with technology. Not to the point that I have to upgrade all my gadgets constantly, but I keep my eye on what is out there.

For instance, I recently got a new phone for 10€ all because I always check the Vodafone publicity that comes in the mail. When I saw that I had enough points (and a 20€ euro credit) I jumped on the chance. Now my phone has a camera (it even films video, which even I think is a bit excessive) and will play MP3’s. At least my gadget genes have not cancelled out my cheapskate genes.

My views on gadgets are simple: If I don’t need it, I don’t want it. Some people, who shall remain unnamed, take the view: “I want it if I don’t need it.”

In fact, I have only held Heather’s palm pilot a handful of times. The most “techie” I get is in figuring out how to use an alarm clock. When I was in the States recently, I stayed in someone’s guest room. They provided a clock-radio. I noted it was set to the time, breathed a sigh of relief that I did not have to figure out how to set it and spoke to it nervously: “Stay, clockie. Good, clockie. Be nice, clockie.” I pulled out my travel alarm clock, grateful that it was already set and went to bed, thoroughly jet-lagged.

Midnight hit and “Night Moves” by Bob Seeger and the Silver Bullet Band blared out in full volume. Apparently, the alarm had been turned on but not set to any particular time yet. I scrambled out of bed in such a fashion that would make both Jerry Lewis and Jim Carrey envious, trying to turn the darn thing off. I couldn’t even figure that out! In the end, I followed the cord and attempted to unplug it from the extension cord. Still, no luck; the two seemed glued together. Finally I reached under the bed and pulled the extension cord out of the socket with such force that I could have easily taken the outlet with it.

Sunglasses

2008-02-20T15:30:00.001+01:00

I don’t wear contacts. If I did, I would’ve started wearing sunglasses long ago. I’ve tried wearing clip-on shades, but I couldn’t find any big enough, since my previous glasses could have doubled as crystal serving trays. Behold:

(I showed you this image on Monday, but I’m posting it again today in hopes of etching it into your psyche like a hellish nightmare.)

Anyhoo, Madrid is super sunny, so it annoyed me that I didn’t have sunglasses to wear. So, summer 2006 I got a pair of prescription sunglasses.

When I selected them, I was viewing them through my regular glasses. But, when I’m wearing my sunglasses and looking at myself in the mirror in the elevator (which Heather says I have a habit of doing), I don’t really like the way they look. When I say this, Heather just rolls her eyes at me (which, I tell Heather, she has a habit of doing).

I think my stylistic self-doubt has made me reluctant to be photographed in my sunglasses, since I could only find this one pic on file.

What do you think? Do I look studly?

Actually, I prefer this look. Meet my alter ego: T-rizzle.

Here I’m saying, “Yo, homey, whazzup? I be so down wit’ da DC Talk, fo’ shizzle.” I think I can pull it off, don’t you?

I’m also trying to take a few style pointers from my son. Observe: pyjamas, wooden cross and shades. If only I could be so cool.

I have owned approximately eleventy-billion pairs of sunglasses in my life. (I won’t be surprised if my husband feels the need to point this out in his post.) I refuse to spend more than $10/10€ on a pair, because without fail I will lose them/the dog will eat them/a child will break them/someone will sit on them in the car.

This cheap-skateness causes problems however because I also have difficulty locating my sunglasses quite frequently (and no, they have never been on top of my head. I don’t think. But perhaps.) I suppose it would better to spend $2/2€ on several duplicate pairs that I could scatter around the house in strategic places.

Several years ago I bought a little clip thingy that I attached to the visor in the car, so I would always know where my sunglasses were. But then I was faced with the dilemma of what to do if I wanted to go out with my sunglasses without the car. You can see the problem. And now, the car sits down in the parking garage most of the time, so what am I supposed to do with that?

I think the pair of sunglasses I have now is more than a year old, which is a world-record in my book. I bought them at Decathlon. So I guess I’ll know where to get the next pair when I lose this pair/the dog eats them/a child breaks them/someone sits on them on the bus or metro.

Hairstyles

2008-02-18T09:30:00.011+01:00

In this post, I shall seek to prove that men are just as obsessed with their hairstyle as women. Behold, the evolution of style...

Here's me as a baby--in the newspaper. You can see I wasn't happy with my hairstyle. The caption says: "ALL THESE WOMEN!--Troy Cady, minus his trousers, looks a little bewildered and distressed by all the females around him." I think I was upset because I couldn't have hair like theirs.

Then came "the flat look". Not parted, just combed straight, flat.

My hockey, unkempt look:

Next, the flippy look.

I have wings here. This was intentional and it took a bit of work to get it to look like that. Here are instructions in case you want to do this yourself: after showering, keep your hair wet. Comb it straight, then, WHILE IT IS STILL WET, flail your hands about underneath the fringe of your hair as if you are attempting to fling a booger off the end of both index fingers by the sheer power of centrifugal force. Voila! Hair that drives the babes nuts.

Okay, next: the curly phase. This was junior high, by the way. Think "hormones raging". Uh huh.

Emerging out the other side of puberty, this is me in high school. Behold, the next mutation in STYLE.

Normally, however, my hair was not so straight. Usually it had a little wave to it. Here's an example.

And now: the bald me. Such a hairstyle deserves a serious pose.

I think Troy picked this topic because I recently got my hair cut, in an ongoing saga wherein I have been trying to get a cut I found on a Pantene model. The fact that the girl modeled hair, professionally, perhaps should have dissuaded me from such pursuits. But I am nothing, if not persistent. So, last week, having summoned my courage, and enough discontent with my hair, I went forth again.

I went to see “J” (for his privacy he shall remain nameless) because Mary recommended him. He proceeded to bombard me with straight-forward comments/questions about my hair.

“You have really fine hair.” Yes, I know.

“You have lots of grey hair.” Yes, I know. Sometimes I color them away, lately, not so much.

“Where did you get your last haircut?” Mumble name of cheap chain hair salon, of which he clearly disapproves.

“How long ago?” Um, more than six months? I avoid telling him the part where I may have trimmed off some bits at home myself. Does he really need to know?

Finally, the kicker: “You can never have that hair.” (Referring to said photo.) He explained that since I have such FINE hair, I could never reach the heights of that hair glory. OK, fair enough, at least someone finally told me straight!

So now we shall see, if I choose to maintain the lesser version of said hairstyle or if I give up and let it grow out again. The jury is still out.

Pizza

2008-02-15T08:49:00.008+01:00

It seems like every stage of life comes with a favorite pizza. I have a long relationship with it.

When I was growing up, my Mom and I used to make homemade pizza together and we’d often have friends over. It was a whole day process because we made homemade sauce and did the dough from scratch and cut up all sorts of yummy fresh ingredients. One of our little friends would say “Let’s go to Heather Hut” so I guess it was good.

We did have Pizza Hut in Ecuador, and they made the most amazing romana cheese salad dressing. That’s random, I know.

In college, our (Troy and I) favorite was Rocky Rococo’s. Just looking at the logo made me instantly hungry for pizza. In Chicago, Giordano’s stuffed pizza, of course. When we moved to Colorado Springs, we discovered a small family business called Home Bake Pizza, which was before the whole Papa Murphy’s craze (love their creamy garlic chicken pizza) . They put more ingredients on their pizza than I have ever seen, and they had funky things like red onion and garlic and herb mix. Yum.

Meg and I are also big fans of barbecue pizza, which I started making when trying to use up leftover turkey. I do make homemade quite often, but the short version with bread maker dough and sauce from a jar.

And I think my current favorite (only when in America, sniff) is the Greek pizza at California Pizza Kitchen. Yum. eee. Hungry yet?

Heather makes the best home-made pizza ever. I cannot describe it here, however, because…

1. ...it is impossible to describe, like the beauty of the sky at dusk reflected on an Etruscan urn or vine or something else Etruscan, because the word “Etruscan” just sounds so magnificent, doesn’t it?

and

2. ...describing Heather’s pizza would degrade it, in the same way that describing my first kiss in scientific terms (lots of saliva) would degrade the magic of that moment.

I like Heather’s pizza because she lets me sprinkle bacon bits liberally throughout. It can not be said enough, nor strongly enough, that “bacon makes everything extra special.”

There is a pizza company here in Spain called Telepizza. Telepizza is to Spain what Domino’s is to the States. At first, we did not like Telepizza, but now we do like it because they have improved. (Translation: their crust evolved from the shoe leather phase).

I prefer two kinds of pizza: pepperoni and double pepperoni. I think someone should come up with a triple pepperoni pizza. And don’t kid yourself thinking Pizza Hut’s Pepperoni Lovers pizza is the equivalent of a triple pepperoni pizza. It is most emphatically not. In my opinion it barely qualifies as a cheese pizza. I. Love. Pepperoni.

Heather, on the other hand, likes to mix it up a little (translation: goat cheese and elderberries). So now Heather gets Telepizza’s BBQ chicken pizza. This, in my opinion, is a waste of dough, in both senses of the word.

14 Reasons

2008-02-12T17:57:00.003+01:00

Tomorrow is February 14: Valentine's Day. In honor of this holiday, today we're posting 14 reasons we love each other.

14 Reasons I love Heather:

1. The other day she was talking with someone, and I was struck by her laugh. I do not remember who else was in the room. I only remember her smile.

2. I love her because she takes me just as I am.

3. I mess up a lot and I say insensitive things to her. She always forgives me.

4. I love holding hands with her when we go ice skating.

5. She loves God with her whole heart.

6. She cheers me on, more than I can tell.

7. I love that we can’t stay mad at each other for long.

8. She looks great (translation: sexy) in black.

9. She lives for her morning kiddie cuddles in bed. She is a great mom.

10. Okay, I’ll admit it: she is a better driver than me.

11. She holds me when I cry.

12. If you ever have the chance to be her close friend, count yourself extremely blessed. She teaches me a lot about being a good friend.

13. She taught me to like coffee and to wait before digging in to dessert.

14. She is as real as they come. What you see is really what you get. No hypocrisy here.

Fourteen reasons (in random order) I love Troy.

He doesn’t “keep score” about anything in our relationship. Not about whether I have walked the dog as much as he has, or who won the last argument or how many times he’s had to eat frozen pizza in a given week.
He still thinks I’m beautiful despite the wrinkles, extra pounds and grey hairs.
Even though I don’t laugh at his jokes very often, he still tries to make me laugh every day.
He cares about what I think.
He is an amazing Dad.
He is the spiritual leader of our home.
He is passionate (in every area, get your mind out of the gutter!)
But, he still gets my motor running! :)
He is my best friend.
He gets better and better with age. He’s kinda like a fine wine that way.
We make a really, really good team, and he likes that as much as I do.
He puts up with all my quirks graciously.
He admits when he is wrong, and accepts my apologies when I am.
He is absolutely most definitely the man I want to grow old with.

Multi-tasking

2008-02-11T10:00:00.000+01:00

Being a 39-year-old woman, I have honed the art of multi-tasking. Just yesterday I put lunch (if you can call boiling noodles to go with the leftover sauce Paul made –thanks Paul! –making lunch) on the stove, kept an eye on it, prepared my Godly Play lesson, and participated in a deep discussion at the same time without flinching. The pasta did not burn or boil over, I was ready for Godly Play, and I was fully engaged in the conversation.

I sometimes read a book or read blogs while we are watching a movie, particularly if I have seen it before. This used to drive Troy crazy, and he would pepper me with random pop quizzes, to see if I knew what was going on. I always did and eventually he stopped.

Troy, on the other hand, in the way of many males, cannot do more than one thing at once. Sometimes he’ll ask me a question, but remains intent on what he is doing. So I will answer said question, and get no response. Answer again, and he says “What?” Excuse me, but if YOU ask a question, shouldn’t you listen for the answer? He finally told me to just ignore the questions, because he is usually just verbalizing them to get them out there (he is an external processor). Oke doke!

I have to admit, sometimes my multi-tasking gets me in trouble, like when I flooded our apartment in Barcelona because I left the water running in the kitchen laundry tub. Oops!

As I write this, I am listening to an instrumental jazz album entitled +3 by Miles Davis. Listening to wordless music while typing is the closest I get to multi-tasking. At this point, our dog is either hanging out with Heather in our room while Heather talks on the phone or (equally probable) swallowing her third snot-filled tissue in 45 seconds. The point is: I don’t know what she’s up to because I do not have the capacity to do more than one or two things at once.

This drives Heather crazy when she needs to tell me something important. I’m sitting there typing and Heather says, “After you see Kelly this morning, could you visit the Vodaphone office and see if we can change the bank they bill us at?” I’m quiet while she’s speaking, so she figures I heard her. What she doesn’t know is that what I actually heard was, “Can you give the dog an enema today?”

Now, I learned a long time ago: “Don’t argue with Heather’s instructions, no matter how crazy they seem.” So, I just mutter “Uh huh” and go on with my day, hoping to delay the inevitable.

Later she asks, “So, did you visit the Vodaphone office?”

“Huh?”

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

I smile guiltily and say, “Sorry. I’ll remember to do it tomorrow.” And then sigh in relief that she was not asking me to do that nasty thing with the dog after all.

Dreamin'

2008-02-08T13:29:00.000+01:00

Every family has at least one story that everybody knows. Often it elicits cackles, snorts and eye-rolling, and needs only a phrase uttered for everyone to know what you are talking about. In our family, that phrase is “water polo”. We recently told the kids this story and now Nic dissolves into helpless giggles if you say water polo to him.

One night, when we lived in Barcelona, I was peacefully sleeping next to Troy. The next moment, I was rudely awakened by his arm slamming down across my midsection. When I demanded an explanation, he blearily explained “I was just playing water polo!” Apparently in his dream water polo world, he had seen the opportunity for a perfect spike. But it had to be hard, and it had to be fast. No matter that his wife would suffer the consequences.

Another time he tried to push me out of bed. Apparently, I was driving down a highway in the middle of the night, stopped in the middle of the road, and someone in the car parked next to us was sticking their arm through our partially open car window. He was only trying to save us. By pushing. Me. Out of bed.

By far the most frequent issue though, is me waking in the middle of the night because the bed is shaking with laughter. Uncontrollable, unrelenting laughter. Probably at a joke he just told. Either way, I have to wake up and say STOP LAUGHING.

No more pepperoni pizza before bed!

Once, Heather and I were cruising down the highway (in Spain) during the middle of the night. She was driving. We were the only people on the road. Suddenly Heather says, “OH, MY GOODNESS, WE’RE GOING TO RUN OUT OF GAS!” So, she stops right in the middle of the road and turns off the engine. We’re just sitting there, when a big Amurican truck stops right next to us. I glance to my right. There are two red-necks in there. They have a filled gun rack (cuz that’s what Amuricans tend to have on hand when traveling in Spain). They have been drinking Coors beer and four-wheeling, so their truck is mud-caked, even though they have mud flaps the size of Rhode Island. The guys are sweaty, yellow-toothed and string-haired. I can make all this out with one sideways glance.

I start thinking, “Uh, hon? Now would be a good time to get out of here.” But she makes no move to start the car again. So, I think, “Okay, Troy. Just lock your door. But do it so they won’t notice.”

I lock it, but my window is open so the red-neck driver can reach into the car. He’s trying to unlock my door now. So, I start hammering, HAMMERING, HAMMERING on his arm AS HARD AS I CAN. I’m wailin’ on that sucker.

That’s when I wake up. Turns out, I was wailing on my wife next to me in bed and almost pushed her out.

Music

2008-02-06T23:11:00.000+01:00

We have a CD rack with actual CD’s. My colleagues likely find this a curiosity, since their music collection consists of mere 1’s and 0’s. I, on the other hand, download internet music and promptly burn it to a CD. Yes, I’m that old-school. (I can remember the days when I owned vinyl and resisted tapes because—duh!—“I can always record an album to a tape.” And now? Well, let’s just say I do like me some liner notes, lyric sheets and thank you lists.)

Heather and I are quite varied in our musical taste. I juxtapose now, in alphabetical order. We have…

Abba and Audioslave
Barry Manilow and Barenaked Ladies
Chicago and Counting Crows
Diana Krull and Dave Matthews
Gloria Estefan and Gin Blossoms
Huey Lewis and Howie Day
Jon Secada and Jack Johnson
Mr. Mister and Mat Kearney
Paul Potts and Pearl Jam
Steve Winwood and Switchfoot
Toto and Train

(And did I mention she enjoys *sigh* singing along with The Carpenters?)

I must say, though: when it comes to musical taste, I feel that she is at a slight disadvantage, because, though I do in fact enjoy listening to everything on her list, she does not like listening to Creed (or anything on my list, for that matter).

Yes, it’s true, even I have been known to purchase Burt Bacharach, Frank Sinatra and, dare I say, Jim Croce. With lyrics like “meaner than a junkyard dog”, you simply “don’t mess around with Jim.”

Troy and I have musical tastes that overlap somewhere in the middle and then spread out in opposite directions. I purchase things like Abba, The Carpenters, Gloria Estefan, David Crowder Band and Barry Manilow (on a recent binge when I found a site where I can buy MP3s for $.09! I don’t care what you say about Barry, dang it, he does write the songs that make the young girls cry. The nostalgic almost 40’s too.)

Troy likes the Cranberries, I hate the way the lead singer “yodels” in some of her songs. He rolls his eyes when I listen to the Cars. Whenever we go on a road-trip, we have a music rotation. Kids get to pick one, Mom gets to pick one, Dad gets to pick one. It keeps us all from going nuts. Of course, now that Meaghan has her own little pink MP3 player, she can listen to what she wants. Problem is, she likes to sing along!

Troy will tell you that I’m the picky one; that he “likes” all my music and that I just don’t like his. True, I only tolerate the soundtrack to “Cats”. However, in my defense, I can tell you that he has NEVER EVER gone to the CD rack and willingly taken out my ABBA Gold CD and pressed play. No sirreebob.