Here in New England you never can use temperatures to decide what time of year it is. With a warmer than average winter (bad for allergies and getting rid of bugs, but a nice break after last year's crazy winter), it seems like spring has been around for months.
I know better than to let an 80-degree day in March fake me out with a premature promise of summer. An April snowstorm is always a possibility. Just today it was rainy and damp and cold outside. There's other ways to tell spring is here, though.
For one the birds are back. I spied a crow taunting a squirrel. The crow clutched what appeared to be a long reed of dried grass in its mouth. The squirrel got real close to the reed, only to have the crow fly out of reach. Then the crow landed back on the grass and let the squirrel approach. With a squawk, the crow hopped away again. This went on for some time, much to my amusement (those pesky squirrels are always stealing my unripe tomatoes, taking one bite, and leaving the rest for me to find) and much to the squirrel's dismay. I've also has a particular blue jay that seems to have made a nest in the forsythia bushes on the edge of the yard. And the distinct who-who-who lament of the mourning dove is back.
On Thursday, the hubby, the bro, The Boy, and I had our first ice-cream-for-dinner event at the Sundae House. The giant sign on their building reads, "It Must Be Spring, We're Open!" Signs never lie, so you know that it really must be spring!
On Friday as I was leaving work I drove toward what from afar looked like a couple of misplaced lawn chairs blocking the driveway. Turns out, it was a tom turkey strutting its stuff and peacocking (let me just point out what a fun word "peacocking" is) as it tried to court an indifferent lady turkey.
Lastly and most definitively I know it's spring because the little pea seeds are sprouting in their trays. My mom and dad both stopped by the house and saw the too-tall-for-trays pea plants on my kitchen counter and (independently of each other) said, "You've got to get those in the ground!"
What signs of spring have you seen lately?
Showing posts with label Anecdote. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anecdote. Show all posts
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Sunday, January 8, 2012
A Loud Conversation
Cough Cough
Yes, dear cough, I know you're still there. Along with the chest congestion, the runny nose, and the ear infection (yeah, ear infection, because apparently I'm five years old and like to stick crayons in there).
Cough Cough Cough
I have a new tactic for dealing with you, though. After--oh let's round up and say three weeks--I'm just going to ignore you. I'm not going to let you stop me from getting my work and writing done, from taking care of my chores (Have those Christmas ornaments really been sitting on the coffee table for a week now?), from going on that walk (because it's January in New England and it's in the 50's).
Cough Hack Cough
Did you hear something? I know I didn't (although I know all those people in the office heard you last week).
Hack Hack Hack
You see, I know something you don't. Eventually all colds will pass...and you know what, I'll still be here when you're long gone. So from now on, you don't bother me. That's it, end of story. You no longer exist. Now, please, please, please go away for real!
Yes, dear cough, I know you're still there. Along with the chest congestion, the runny nose, and the ear infection (yeah, ear infection, because apparently I'm five years old and like to stick crayons in there).
Cough Cough Cough
I have a new tactic for dealing with you, though. After--oh let's round up and say three weeks--I'm just going to ignore you. I'm not going to let you stop me from getting my work and writing done, from taking care of my chores (Have those Christmas ornaments really been sitting on the coffee table for a week now?), from going on that walk (because it's January in New England and it's in the 50's).
Cough Hack Cough
Did you hear something? I know I didn't (although I know all those people in the office heard you last week).
Hack Hack Hack
You see, I know something you don't. Eventually all colds will pass...and you know what, I'll still be here when you're long gone. So from now on, you don't bother me. That's it, end of story. You no longer exist. Now, please, please, please go away for real!
Thursday, November 17, 2011
"Don't stress, don't stress, don't stress"*
I will never apologize to you, dear readers, for going long stretches of time without writing on my blog. It's not that I don't appreciate you...I cherish each and every one of you (really, it's not that hard to send out a little love to five or so people!).
It's just that when I started this blog I did it for fun. I wanted to have a place to exercise my personal literary voice and my opinions and thoughts. I said to myself, "I'm not going to stress about this whole blog thing. If I feel like posting, I will, but if I don't feel like it or don't have the time, so be it; I won't stress about it."
So when I see day after day that I haven't posted anything since October 29th (and it was a short post about the weather of all things...with a picture that filled most of the space), I keep telling myself, "Don't worry about it." I've got plenty of good excuses as to why I haven't posted (I just had a baby a couple of months ago!).
Still, I hate seeing that same posting every time I click on my blog page to read all those other blogs that are listed on my sidebar. It makes me feel like such a slacker. It reminds me off all those journals I started as a kid and teenager and fell short on. I would write furiously in them for a few days in a row, then a week would go by, maybe a month, maybe even years before I would write again. And still, to this day, there are more blank pages than full ones in each one of those books.
And then it spirals into a reminder of all the things I haven't done in life, of all my shortcomings and failures. The dirty laundry in the hamper, the maternity clothes that haven't been packed away, that manuscript that needs to be revised, that e-mail I haven't responded to. It's enough to drive any sane person (and I'm not claiming to be entirely sane!) mad.
Now, though, I can breathe easy for another few days because there's a shiny, new post on my blog.
*Jesse McCartney
It's just that when I started this blog I did it for fun. I wanted to have a place to exercise my personal literary voice and my opinions and thoughts. I said to myself, "I'm not going to stress about this whole blog thing. If I feel like posting, I will, but if I don't feel like it or don't have the time, so be it; I won't stress about it."
So when I see day after day that I haven't posted anything since October 29th (and it was a short post about the weather of all things...with a picture that filled most of the space), I keep telling myself, "Don't worry about it." I've got plenty of good excuses as to why I haven't posted (I just had a baby a couple of months ago!).
Still, I hate seeing that same posting every time I click on my blog page to read all those other blogs that are listed on my sidebar. It makes me feel like such a slacker. It reminds me off all those journals I started as a kid and teenager and fell short on. I would write furiously in them for a few days in a row, then a week would go by, maybe a month, maybe even years before I would write again. And still, to this day, there are more blank pages than full ones in each one of those books.
And then it spirals into a reminder of all the things I haven't done in life, of all my shortcomings and failures. The dirty laundry in the hamper, the maternity clothes that haven't been packed away, that manuscript that needs to be revised, that e-mail I haven't responded to. It's enough to drive any sane person (and I'm not claiming to be entirely sane!) mad.
Now, though, I can breathe easy for another few days because there's a shiny, new post on my blog.
*Jesse McCartney
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
"Nothing's gonna change my mind"*
When I was a freshman in high school, my older sisters' best friend was the captain of my soccer team. She was kind enough to drive me to school, let me hang out with her in between school and practice, and drive me home from practice.
One day before practice we were driving around with some of our teammates and decided that we wanted to "make an entrance" as we drove down the small road that led to the field. We flipped through the radio, hoping to find either a rap song with a solid beat or a hard-hitting rock song to blast. The radio failed us.
So we went the complete opposite of what we had planned and blasted the lamest song we could find: Celine Dion's It's All Coming Back to Me Now. Let me tell you, we rocked that song like it's never been rocked before! And we made a hell of an entrance! Even though I couldn't stand that song before we rocked it out, I now listen to it fondly all these years later.
Then there was the time my sisters (all three of them) and I were at a wedding and Lady Marmalade (the Pink, Aguilera, Mya, and Lil' Kim version) came on. The four of us danced and lip-synced to that song like we were shooting a music video for it. I had thought that song was pretty good, but now I love it and always listen to it with a bittersweet mixture of pure joy and pure sadness (since one of my sisters died not too long after that occasion).
The point of all this reminiscing (contrary to what it may seem, I try to have a point to all my posts...even when the point is somewhat pointless). I consider myself something of a free-thinker. I'm often stubborn (a trait it seems The Boy has inherited) and don't like to think I'm easily swayed by others opinions. Not that I'm totally inflexible. On the rare occasion someone backs up their point with solid reasoning and proves me wrong, I'll totally give them props for it.
Yet, when it comes to sharing moments with people and music (as is often the case) or a movie served as a catalyst to that moment, my opinions are easily changed. That song that I hated, but my hubby loved became a cherished song for both of us when we listened to it in the car together during a vacation. That TV show that always used to make me roll my eyes because it was just so dumb became one I faithfully watched with my dad and brother because we just had so much fun mocking it. And you know what, I truly ended up liking it by the time the series was over.
There's the flip side of this too. Did you ever really like something and you mentioned it to someone and they were like, "Oh, I hated that. It was so stupid"? And then the magic of that thing was gone for you too.
I think what it comes down to is connections (and isn't that what so many things come down to?). If you can make a connection over something, that thing becomes more special, but if that thing is a source of a disconnect, then it loses its charm. I guess I'm not as badass stubborn as I thought I was after all!
*Puddle of Mudd
One day before practice we were driving around with some of our teammates and decided that we wanted to "make an entrance" as we drove down the small road that led to the field. We flipped through the radio, hoping to find either a rap song with a solid beat or a hard-hitting rock song to blast. The radio failed us.
So we went the complete opposite of what we had planned and blasted the lamest song we could find: Celine Dion's It's All Coming Back to Me Now. Let me tell you, we rocked that song like it's never been rocked before! And we made a hell of an entrance! Even though I couldn't stand that song before we rocked it out, I now listen to it fondly all these years later.
Then there was the time my sisters (all three of them) and I were at a wedding and Lady Marmalade (the Pink, Aguilera, Mya, and Lil' Kim version) came on. The four of us danced and lip-synced to that song like we were shooting a music video for it. I had thought that song was pretty good, but now I love it and always listen to it with a bittersweet mixture of pure joy and pure sadness (since one of my sisters died not too long after that occasion).
The point of all this reminiscing (contrary to what it may seem, I try to have a point to all my posts...even when the point is somewhat pointless). I consider myself something of a free-thinker. I'm often stubborn (a trait it seems The Boy has inherited) and don't like to think I'm easily swayed by others opinions. Not that I'm totally inflexible. On the rare occasion someone backs up their point with solid reasoning and proves me wrong, I'll totally give them props for it.
Yet, when it comes to sharing moments with people and music (as is often the case) or a movie served as a catalyst to that moment, my opinions are easily changed. That song that I hated, but my hubby loved became a cherished song for both of us when we listened to it in the car together during a vacation. That TV show that always used to make me roll my eyes because it was just so dumb became one I faithfully watched with my dad and brother because we just had so much fun mocking it. And you know what, I truly ended up liking it by the time the series was over.
There's the flip side of this too. Did you ever really like something and you mentioned it to someone and they were like, "Oh, I hated that. It was so stupid"? And then the magic of that thing was gone for you too.
I think what it comes down to is connections (and isn't that what so many things come down to?). If you can make a connection over something, that thing becomes more special, but if that thing is a source of a disconnect, then it loses its charm. I guess I'm not as badass stubborn as I thought I was after all!
*Puddle of Mudd
Monday, September 19, 2011
"It's a beautiful life, and it's a beautiful world"*
I believe I tempted fate with my last post because The Boy decided to make his appearance right in the middle of the hurricane! He was 17 days early (still full term, but his nursery wasn't quite ready for him!) and mommy and baby are happy and healthy. (And, no, if The Boy had turned out to be The Girl, we would not have named her Irene!)
What I learned during the whole labor and delivery process (don't worry, no gory details) is that it's great to have a plan, but expect that plan to be thrown out the window (and whisked away by hurricane-force winds). My doctor was on vacation (of course) and so the on-call doctor (who I had never met) was there for the delivery. She was perfectly competent and an experienced doctor, but let me just say that I wasn't used to her brand of bedside manner. It wasn't that she was necessarily rude or mean or uncaring, she was just a bit odd.
Case in point, the doc and her husband has purchased property a few blocks from us. We noticed this piece of land because what had been a tiny old, dilapidated house surrounded by overgrown plants was very quickly transformed into a huge, gorgeous house with a manicured lawn and nice cars in the driveway. It came as no surprise that a doctor had bought it. When we first learned she was the on-call doctor, my husband recognized the name from the property transaction in the local newspaper.
During the early part of my labor (when I was still coherent and interested in engaging in small talk), the doc mentioned that she was in the hurricane evacuation zone, but that her husband was going to stay in the house with the dog. I was like, "Oh, yeah. You live not that far from us." Then I went on to compliment her on her nice new home.
Big mistake! I realized it was kind of weird that I knew where she lived and quickly explained that we had noticed how quickly the house had been built and saw the property transfer in the paper. The doc was like, "It bothers me that anyone can see how much I was taken for a property by the water." The she went on a bit of rant about how a suspicious car was driving up and down her street recently and she didn't understand why she couldn't find out who it belonged to by looking up the license plate but it's posted in the paper how much properties go for.
It seemed like a weird time to vent about such a trivial thing (given that I was in labor 2 1/2 weeks early in the middle of a hurricane) and I wasn't really in the mood to debate what goes into public records and why. Yet she kind of has a point. I don't necessarily care that property transactions are listed in the local paper, but I do think that certain things should be kept private. Hence why I'm not posting The Boy's name or a picture of him on my blog. There's no way for me to control who sees it and I'm not interested in blindly pasting my precious baby's information for any old pervert to see it.
But it I know you and you'd like to see a picture of him (and haven't already), I'd be more than pleased to brag about my perfect little guy. Just let me know!
What I learned during the whole labor and delivery process (don't worry, no gory details) is that it's great to have a plan, but expect that plan to be thrown out the window (and whisked away by hurricane-force winds). My doctor was on vacation (of course) and so the on-call doctor (who I had never met) was there for the delivery. She was perfectly competent and an experienced doctor, but let me just say that I wasn't used to her brand of bedside manner. It wasn't that she was necessarily rude or mean or uncaring, she was just a bit odd.
Case in point, the doc and her husband has purchased property a few blocks from us. We noticed this piece of land because what had been a tiny old, dilapidated house surrounded by overgrown plants was very quickly transformed into a huge, gorgeous house with a manicured lawn and nice cars in the driveway. It came as no surprise that a doctor had bought it. When we first learned she was the on-call doctor, my husband recognized the name from the property transaction in the local newspaper.
During the early part of my labor (when I was still coherent and interested in engaging in small talk), the doc mentioned that she was in the hurricane evacuation zone, but that her husband was going to stay in the house with the dog. I was like, "Oh, yeah. You live not that far from us." Then I went on to compliment her on her nice new home.
Big mistake! I realized it was kind of weird that I knew where she lived and quickly explained that we had noticed how quickly the house had been built and saw the property transfer in the paper. The doc was like, "It bothers me that anyone can see how much I was taken for a property by the water." The she went on a bit of rant about how a suspicious car was driving up and down her street recently and she didn't understand why she couldn't find out who it belonged to by looking up the license plate but it's posted in the paper how much properties go for.
It seemed like a weird time to vent about such a trivial thing (given that I was in labor 2 1/2 weeks early in the middle of a hurricane) and I wasn't really in the mood to debate what goes into public records and why. Yet she kind of has a point. I don't necessarily care that property transactions are listed in the local paper, but I do think that certain things should be kept private. Hence why I'm not posting The Boy's name or a picture of him on my blog. There's no way for me to control who sees it and I'm not interested in blindly pasting my precious baby's information for any old pervert to see it.
But it I know you and you'd like to see a picture of him (and haven't already), I'd be more than pleased to brag about my perfect little guy. Just let me know!
Friday, June 24, 2011
“Somebody help me breathe”*
“Take it to breath” is something my yoga (one of the few sanctioned exercises for pregnant ladies!) instructor says during her classes. Now admittedly, yoga can be a little touchy-feely at times, but this phrase has resonated with me lately.
I interpret “take it to breath” to be a sort of mantra you can use when feeling stressed. For those things you don’t have control over or the things that stress you that can’t be changed, stop worrying about it, and “take it breath.” Breathe in and understand that this thing is stressing you out but there’s nothing you can do about it; breathe out and let it go.
Not that I really believe that you can just breathe away all your stresses, but I think having a way to identify the source of the stress and trying to rid your mind of it is helpful. And beyond visualizing this happening to have an action to go along with it (if you can even call breathing an action) solidifies the technique.
So to all my stress sources (worrying about being healthy for The Boy, getting ready for The Boy’s arrival, my hubby’s health and well-being, work, frustration over my writing, and all the million other little things that pile up over the course of days, weeks, and months), I am taking a deep breath in and now I am exhaling you all out Big Bad Wolf style (I don’t even think the third pig’s brick house would stand a chance with me!).
If that doesn’t work, surely a weekend away with the girls in Newport, RI should help. What do you do to relieve the stress?
*Nickelback
I interpret “take it to breath” to be a sort of mantra you can use when feeling stressed. For those things you don’t have control over or the things that stress you that can’t be changed, stop worrying about it, and “take it breath.” Breathe in and understand that this thing is stressing you out but there’s nothing you can do about it; breathe out and let it go.
Not that I really believe that you can just breathe away all your stresses, but I think having a way to identify the source of the stress and trying to rid your mind of it is helpful. And beyond visualizing this happening to have an action to go along with it (if you can even call breathing an action) solidifies the technique.
So to all my stress sources (worrying about being healthy for The Boy, getting ready for The Boy’s arrival, my hubby’s health and well-being, work, frustration over my writing, and all the million other little things that pile up over the course of days, weeks, and months), I am taking a deep breath in and now I am exhaling you all out Big Bad Wolf style (I don’t even think the third pig’s brick house would stand a chance with me!).
If that doesn’t work, surely a weekend away with the girls in Newport, RI should help. What do you do to relieve the stress?
*Nickelback
Sunday, June 5, 2011
"Insane in the Brain"*
I come across a lot of quotes in my day job as puzzle master (i.e. puzzle magazine editor). After a while, it seems I've seen them all. One in particular, though, always makes me think of my pursuit to be a published author.
"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results."
I've seen this quote attributed to Albert Einstein, Rita Mae Brown, and an Alcoholics Anonymous publication. Where ever it came from, I think it's interesting that this definition of insanity could actually apply to many writers.
As writers, we are constantly sending out work and getting rejections. Then we turn right back around and send that work out again and hope for a different response. Does that make us optimistic? Persistent? Confident in our work? Well, according to the above quote, it could actually make us insane.
True, because we don't keep sending our work to the same person over and over again that might not make us insane. Yet I still can't help but feel like the whole submission process, even when there is hope of an agent or editor who has never seen your work connecting with it, is insane (and masochistic!).
It's like saying, "Here is my manuscript, a snapshot of my heart and soul in words. I've been working on it for months, years, maybe even decades. Please take a look at it. I know you'll probably say it isn't 'right' for you. Maybe you'll even hate it. Maybe you won't even read it before rejecting it. No matter, when you reject me, I'll take it personally, even though I know I shouldn't, and I'll feel like my work isn't good enough...that I'm not good enough."
And we do this over and over again. INSANE!!!
Then again, anyone who has a big dream probably has to be a little insane. When it comes to big dreams, success is almost always a long shot. And where would the world be without big dreamers? So maybe a little insanity in the right places is a good thing. I'll just keep telling myself that anyway!
*Cypress Hill
"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results."
I've seen this quote attributed to Albert Einstein, Rita Mae Brown, and an Alcoholics Anonymous publication. Where ever it came from, I think it's interesting that this definition of insanity could actually apply to many writers.
As writers, we are constantly sending out work and getting rejections. Then we turn right back around and send that work out again and hope for a different response. Does that make us optimistic? Persistent? Confident in our work? Well, according to the above quote, it could actually make us insane.
True, because we don't keep sending our work to the same person over and over again that might not make us insane. Yet I still can't help but feel like the whole submission process, even when there is hope of an agent or editor who has never seen your work connecting with it, is insane (and masochistic!).
It's like saying, "Here is my manuscript, a snapshot of my heart and soul in words. I've been working on it for months, years, maybe even decades. Please take a look at it. I know you'll probably say it isn't 'right' for you. Maybe you'll even hate it. Maybe you won't even read it before rejecting it. No matter, when you reject me, I'll take it personally, even though I know I shouldn't, and I'll feel like my work isn't good enough...that I'm not good enough."
And we do this over and over again. INSANE!!!
Then again, anyone who has a big dream probably has to be a little insane. When it comes to big dreams, success is almost always a long shot. And where would the world be without big dreamers? So maybe a little insanity in the right places is a good thing. I'll just keep telling myself that anyway!
*Cypress Hill
Monday, March 28, 2011
"Mother Earth wants us all the leave"* Tsunami experience: Part 2
Okay, so sorry to leave you in suspense for so long...where did I leave off? Right, right...French Polynesia, island of Moorea, tsunami sirens blaring in the wee hours of the morning. The hubby and I throw on some clothes (I remember to put on a bra, but totally forget about undies!) and grab the essentials: passports, a large bottle of water, medication, and some peanut-butter crackers (a pregnant lady needs her snacks).
On the way to the lobby we hear some people talking about taking a car up to Belvedere Point. Given the high-stress situation, I managed to refrain from laughing at them, but going to Belvedere Point would have been some serious overkill. Even if we had gotten a tsunami anywhere close to as big as the one that hit Japan, we wouldn't have needed to go to one of the highest points on the island.
(This is the view from Belvedere Point. Way higher and farther from the water than necessary. When we had talked to the manager the night before, he had said worse-case-scenario, we would have to go up the resort driveway to the road.)
In the lobby, the manager makes an announcement that a tsunami is expected to hit about 6:00 a.m. and that all guests must go to the restaurant area. They don't specifically say it, but we get the impression that it's more precautionary than anything else, although some guests are starting to look very nervous. (Apparently, they didn't have the luxury of a prealarm freakout like I had!)
We are actually allowed to go back to the room where we stow our luggage as far up in the closet as possible (just in case). We pack all our valuable electronics and some books and stuff in our backpacks (I still haven't realized I'm not wearing any underwear) and head to the restaurant.
The next several hours are...well...pretty boring. I stare at the water, trying to detect any kind of measurable change, for so long that my eyes start to hurt. The resort staff gets the breakfast buffet ready as quickly as they can given that it's still early enough that breakfast wouldn't have normally started yet.
The only indication we ever get that an actual tsunami hit us (I think we technically got two tsunami "waves") was when the water level in the lagoon went down just enough for some coral too poke out of the surface. A group of self-proclaimed geologists were sitting near us and they got all excited when this happened and starting documenting it all on their camcorders.
(That stuff sticking out of the water to the right of the palm tree is the coral that normally is under water. That was our only visual cue that we were in the middle of a tsunami.)
By about 9:30 a.m. the warning was over and we all got to go about our day in tropical paradise (and I finally get to put on some underwear!). So, like I said in the last post, it was a lot of build-up with little payoff thankfully. I'm okay with having experienced a tsunami measured in inches instead of feet.
But there are still a lot of people suffering from the aftereffects of the earthquake in Japan. And that is why I've decided to donate $1 to the Red Cross for every person who comments on this blog post (up to $100). Thanks in advance to everyone who comments...I really hope to reach the maximum!
*Gorillaz
Saturday, March 12, 2011
"Mother Earth wants us all the leave"* Tsunami experience: Part 1
The wee hours of Friday morning. Sirens blare. Heart quickens. Body from dead asleep to pinpoint alert in seconds. I knew this could happen, but it doesn’t make my pulse pound any slower. I feel the hubby—it’s too dark to see—rise next to me. “Here we go,” I say, not exactly sure what we’re in for. I’ve never been in a tsunami before.
Now I’m not going to pretend like this is some harrowing tale of survival. It’s more a tale of apprehension and anxiety with not much dramatic payoff. I wouldn’t even call it a near miss. The hubby and I are alive and safe. Not like so many people in Japan. Still, I think our tale is one worth telling...if only to keep my mind from churning over the events and the television images over and over again. Writing this down is my therapy.
But let me go back to the beginning, where many—certainly not all—stories start. French Polynesia, island of Moorea, Thursday night. Some combination of jetlag, sun exposure, pregnancy—and yes, even the hubby has been extra tired from me being pregnant—and extreme island relaxation has lulled us into slumber at an early hour.
I wake around 10:00 pm to find the movie we were watching has ended, the television screen a blank blue screen. I flip to CNN, one of three English-speaking channels we have. 8.9 earthquake, Japan. My first thought Damn, that’s strong. At the time, I didn’t know that it was the strongest recorded quake in Japanese history. My second thought This is not good. Not good at all. Even a country so prepared for quakes must surely suffer from one so massive.
CNN already has footage of not only the earthquake, but also of a devastating tsunami that hit northeastern Japan. A 10 meter wall of water. Tsunami warnings up for countries all across the Pacific. Then I think Uh, oh. We’re in the middle of the southern Pacific on a tiny island. What does that mean for us?
The last tsunami to hit French Polynesia after the earthquake in Chili in February 2010 was measured in inches. I had looked it up because after I had heard tsunamis had been in the area, I had wanted to make sure my favorite tropical location was still intact. The remote location and the surrounding coral reefs had kept French Polynesia safe, but that didn’t mean we would get through this one unscathed.
I watched the coverage for about 30 minutes, my anxiety level rising with each development. Footage from the CNN newsroom in Tokyo. Deep breaths. Stay calm. Footage of the wave pouring into northeastern Japan. Keep breathing. Calm, cleansing breaths. Tsunami warnings for Russia, Indonesia, Australia, Hawaii, among other countries and islands. French Polynesia isn’t specifically mentioned, but my attempts to stay calm are failing. I’m in a foreign land. On an exposed island. A tsunami may or may not be approaching.
Time to get another opinion on whether or not I’m overreacting. Time to wake the hubby. He doesn’t seem to share my apprehension. Maybe he’s still half asleep; maybe I am overreacting. This annoys me. He’s supposed to be the one to freak out, not calm, collected, take-everything-in-stride me!
“Should we call the front desk?” I ask. “Or go down there and see what’s going on?”
I’m trying to hide my growing fear, to play this as if I’m curious and just want to be prepared, but a million things are running through my head that I don’t say. Do they even know what is going on down at the front desk? Does Moorea have modern tracking equipment for tsunamis? Do they have adequate warning procedures? The water is so close to our room. Will we have to evacuate? What will happen to all our stuff? Will we even know it’s coming, the water rushing in unannounced and we’ll all drown? Was it a huge mistake to come here while pregnant, putting my unborn child at risk?
The hubby seems mildly concerned. His calm demeanor only proves to grate on my already agitated one. He hasn’t been watching the coverage as long as I have. He didn’t see the list of countries under tsunami warnings. He hasn’t let his mind wander to dark places and worse-case-scenarios.
There’s no way I’m sleeping until we find out more information from the resort. I tell the hubby this. He says, “Okay. Let’s walk down to the front desk.”
I’m not sure if he’s humoring me or if he’s also concerned. Either way, I’m relieved to be on my way learning more. The manager at the desk is well informed of the situation. He explains how there are buoys off the coast of the islands that will give us adequate warnings, if we will even need them. He is the picture of calm. He doesn’t think there’s much to worry about. I feel better.
We go back to the room to sleep. We have a solid five hours before the alarms will sound. Sorry to end on a cliffhanger, but I only have limited access to a computer here. You already know that we made it out of this and are safe, so really, I’m not leaving you in that much suspense. Caveat: we are back to our regularly scheduled vacation of enjoying tropical paradise. Massages on Monday!
*Gorillaz
Now I’m not going to pretend like this is some harrowing tale of survival. It’s more a tale of apprehension and anxiety with not much dramatic payoff. I wouldn’t even call it a near miss. The hubby and I are alive and safe. Not like so many people in Japan. Still, I think our tale is one worth telling...if only to keep my mind from churning over the events and the television images over and over again. Writing this down is my therapy.
But let me go back to the beginning, where many—certainly not all—stories start. French Polynesia, island of Moorea, Thursday night. Some combination of jetlag, sun exposure, pregnancy—and yes, even the hubby has been extra tired from me being pregnant—and extreme island relaxation has lulled us into slumber at an early hour.
I wake around 10:00 pm to find the movie we were watching has ended, the television screen a blank blue screen. I flip to CNN, one of three English-speaking channels we have. 8.9 earthquake, Japan. My first thought Damn, that’s strong. At the time, I didn’t know that it was the strongest recorded quake in Japanese history. My second thought This is not good. Not good at all. Even a country so prepared for quakes must surely suffer from one so massive.
CNN already has footage of not only the earthquake, but also of a devastating tsunami that hit northeastern Japan. A 10 meter wall of water. Tsunami warnings up for countries all across the Pacific. Then I think Uh, oh. We’re in the middle of the southern Pacific on a tiny island. What does that mean for us?
The last tsunami to hit French Polynesia after the earthquake in Chili in February 2010 was measured in inches. I had looked it up because after I had heard tsunamis had been in the area, I had wanted to make sure my favorite tropical location was still intact. The remote location and the surrounding coral reefs had kept French Polynesia safe, but that didn’t mean we would get through this one unscathed.
I watched the coverage for about 30 minutes, my anxiety level rising with each development. Footage from the CNN newsroom in Tokyo. Deep breaths. Stay calm. Footage of the wave pouring into northeastern Japan. Keep breathing. Calm, cleansing breaths. Tsunami warnings for Russia, Indonesia, Australia, Hawaii, among other countries and islands. French Polynesia isn’t specifically mentioned, but my attempts to stay calm are failing. I’m in a foreign land. On an exposed island. A tsunami may or may not be approaching.
Time to get another opinion on whether or not I’m overreacting. Time to wake the hubby. He doesn’t seem to share my apprehension. Maybe he’s still half asleep; maybe I am overreacting. This annoys me. He’s supposed to be the one to freak out, not calm, collected, take-everything-in-stride me!
“Should we call the front desk?” I ask. “Or go down there and see what’s going on?”
I’m trying to hide my growing fear, to play this as if I’m curious and just want to be prepared, but a million things are running through my head that I don’t say. Do they even know what is going on down at the front desk? Does Moorea have modern tracking equipment for tsunamis? Do they have adequate warning procedures? The water is so close to our room. Will we have to evacuate? What will happen to all our stuff? Will we even know it’s coming, the water rushing in unannounced and we’ll all drown? Was it a huge mistake to come here while pregnant, putting my unborn child at risk?
The hubby seems mildly concerned. His calm demeanor only proves to grate on my already agitated one. He hasn’t been watching the coverage as long as I have. He didn’t see the list of countries under tsunami warnings. He hasn’t let his mind wander to dark places and worse-case-scenarios.
There’s no way I’m sleeping until we find out more information from the resort. I tell the hubby this. He says, “Okay. Let’s walk down to the front desk.”
I’m not sure if he’s humoring me or if he’s also concerned. Either way, I’m relieved to be on my way learning more. The manager at the desk is well informed of the situation. He explains how there are buoys off the coast of the islands that will give us adequate warnings, if we will even need them. He is the picture of calm. He doesn’t think there’s much to worry about. I feel better.
We go back to the room to sleep. We have a solid five hours before the alarms will sound. Sorry to end on a cliffhanger, but I only have limited access to a computer here. You already know that we made it out of this and are safe, so really, I’m not leaving you in that much suspense. Caveat: we are back to our regularly scheduled vacation of enjoying tropical paradise. Massages on Monday!
*Gorillaz
Thursday, February 10, 2011
"Say hello to your friends (Baby-sitter's Club)"*
My older sisters started reading the Baby-sitter's Club back in the '80s, and because I wanted to do everything my older sisters did, I was in second or third grade when I picked up book #1 Kristy's Great Idea.
At the beginning of every book, there was a portrait of each character. Now I would usually skip over this part, but there was one bit of information you had to stop and read: What outfit was artsy Claudia Kishi wearing? For example in BSC #2 Claudia and the Phantom Phone Calls, Claudia (each book is told from the title-character's POV) describes her philosophy on fashion:
"I think clothes make a statement about about the person inside of them. Also, since you have to get dressed every day, why not at least make it fun? Traditional clothes look boring and are boring to put on. So I never wear them. I like bright clothes and big patterns and funny touches, such as earrings made from feathers. Maybe this is because I'm an artist. I don't know. Today, for instance, I'm wearing purple pants that stop just below my knees and are held up with suspenders, white tights with clocks on them, a purple-plaid shirt with a matching hat, my high-top sneakers, and lobster earrings. Clothes like these are my trademarks."
I wonder what statement Claudia was trying to make with white tights with clocks on them and lobster earrings, but it sure was fun to read about her clothes.
"I think clothes make a statement about about the person inside of them. Also, since you have to get dressed every day, why not at least make it fun? Traditional clothes look boring and are boring to put on. So I never wear them. I like bright clothes and big patterns and funny touches, such as earrings made from feathers. Maybe this is because I'm an artist. I don't know. Today, for instance, I'm wearing purple pants that stop just below my knees and are held up with suspenders, white tights with clocks on them, a purple-plaid shirt with a matching hat, my high-top sneakers, and lobster earrings. Clothes like these are my trademarks."
I wonder what statement Claudia was trying to make with white tights with clocks on them and lobster earrings, but it sure was fun to read about her clothes.
(Yup, I've got a whole shelf of BSC books!)
My favorite BSC member was probably Dawn Schafer (who didn't join the BSC until book #5). I'm not sure why. She was a laid-back, tofu-eating vegetarian from California who wasn't particularly athletic and was often described as an "individual." Growing up, I was a picky eater who would never dream of eating tofu, I loved to play sports, and I had a pretty fierce competitive edge. The only thing we really had in common was our blond hair and blue eyes. Maybe our lack of commonality was what I liked about her.
Needless to say I was tickled pink to read this article about where the BSC members would be now. I was not surprised at all to read that Kristy is a lesbian, that Stacey doesn't talk to any of the BSC members anymore, or that Dawn went off the deep end. I found it interesting that Mary Anne attended my alma mater Sacred Heart University and that Mallory and Jessi wrote a children's book. I was quite disappointed to learn of Logan's crime-ridden fate. He was the only boy BSC member...what is that supposed to say for boys who baby-sit?
Okay, now I totally have to go read one of the BSC books this weekend. I think I'll go for one of the Super Specials (which are told in multiple POVs), so I can get a glimpse into more than one of the BSC members' minds.
*Written by Glen Roven (it's amazing what you can find on IMDb)
Saturday, December 18, 2010
"If there's a light in everybody, send out your ray of sunshine"*
I have a confession: I'm something of a sun junkie. And living in New England, I find myself jonesing for some of those good, warm rays as winter rolls around. By the time winter ends, I'm sure I'll be "looking all pale and tragic" (five stars for the first person to comment with the correct movie reference!).
When the sun is actually shining this time of year, I try to get outside for what I call my "15 minutes a day." It doesn't always happen, and when it does, it's not always in optimal conditions because I often have my head covered. I've read (and I can't for the life of me remember where I read this) that the back section of your head near the crown is the most absorptive part of the body.
There's just something about being out in the sun and fresh air a little bit everyday that invigorates me. And let's be honest, my self-esteem gets a nice boost when I have at least a little bit of a tan (as opposed to the aforementioned pale-and-tragic look). It's not only anecdotal evidence that supports my "15 minutes a day" theory, either.
Actual science backs this claim (and I'm not talking about overexposure to the sun...we all know skin cancer, sun spots, and wrinkles are bad...moderate exposure is key). The aptly named SAD (seasonal affective disorder), which can make you moody, tired, and depressed (admittedly, similar to the symptoms of PMS), usually occurs in conjunction with the lack of sunlight in the winter. Proper sun exposure also helps your body produce vitamin D, which is important for strong bones.
Okay, is this starting to sound too much like a commercial for sun? Well, I don't care. I really do love the sun. Without it, we don't have plants, food, animals, earth, life. I'd say it's about tied with water as the most essential element of life, so you really can't over emphasize its importance.
All this talk about the sun has made me a little twitchy. Unfortunately it's night right now. I hope it's not cloudy tomorrow. I need to get my fix before I start to go through withdrawal! My sun, my precious (please tell me someone knows this book/movie reference!).
*Jason Mraz
When the sun is actually shining this time of year, I try to get outside for what I call my "15 minutes a day." It doesn't always happen, and when it does, it's not always in optimal conditions because I often have my head covered. I've read (and I can't for the life of me remember where I read this) that the back section of your head near the crown is the most absorptive part of the body.
There's just something about being out in the sun and fresh air a little bit everyday that invigorates me. And let's be honest, my self-esteem gets a nice boost when I have at least a little bit of a tan (as opposed to the aforementioned pale-and-tragic look). It's not only anecdotal evidence that supports my "15 minutes a day" theory, either.
Actual science backs this claim (and I'm not talking about overexposure to the sun...we all know skin cancer, sun spots, and wrinkles are bad...moderate exposure is key). The aptly named SAD (seasonal affective disorder), which can make you moody, tired, and depressed (admittedly, similar to the symptoms of PMS), usually occurs in conjunction with the lack of sunlight in the winter. Proper sun exposure also helps your body produce vitamin D, which is important for strong bones.
Okay, is this starting to sound too much like a commercial for sun? Well, I don't care. I really do love the sun. Without it, we don't have plants, food, animals, earth, life. I'd say it's about tied with water as the most essential element of life, so you really can't over emphasize its importance.
All this talk about the sun has made me a little twitchy. Unfortunately it's night right now. I hope it's not cloudy tomorrow. I need to get my fix before I start to go through withdrawal! My sun, my precious (please tell me someone knows this book/movie reference!).
*Jason Mraz
Monday, November 22, 2010
"Happy birthday, beautiful"*
I've had birthdays on the mind lately (not my b-day...I'm a summer baby). My grandma celebrated her 75th b-day two weekends ago and the hubby's b-day is today. My family, like most others, has our own particular traditions. The hubby was born on Turkey Day, so always gets the Carvel turkey cake.
Another tradition is that we sing in an unique way, which means we sing very poorly. My family takes a similar approach as the students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry do when they sing their school song, i.e. we each sing to our own tune. I like to sing slowly in an ear-piercing pitch and an off-key falsetto.
Thanks to the infamous Mr. Anonymous for this great footage from my grandma's party. This isn't even that bad because we were in mixed company (not just family), so some of the guests are actually not trying to be awful. You may be able to catch a bit of my singing right at the end (I really like to hit a high note for the last "TO YOU!!!").
A few years ago for my niece's b-day, our singing was so terrible that she actually started to cry. Yup, we are that bad. I guess we take the approach that if you're going to be bad at something, you may as well embrace it and be the absolute worst you can be.
*The Innocence Mission
Another tradition is that we sing in an unique way, which means we sing very poorly. My family takes a similar approach as the students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry do when they sing their school song, i.e. we each sing to our own tune. I like to sing slowly in an ear-piercing pitch and an off-key falsetto.
Thanks to the infamous Mr. Anonymous for this great footage from my grandma's party. This isn't even that bad because we were in mixed company (not just family), so some of the guests are actually not trying to be awful. You may be able to catch a bit of my singing right at the end (I really like to hit a high note for the last "TO YOU!!!").
A few years ago for my niece's b-day, our singing was so terrible that she actually started to cry. Yup, we are that bad. I guess we take the approach that if you're going to be bad at something, you may as well embrace it and be the absolute worst you can be.
*The Innocence Mission
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
"A thousand people in the street, singing songs and carrying signs"*
Today I exercised the nineteenth amendment and voted. I think it's important to vote every chance we get because not everyone has that opportunity, and I'm always disappointed at the low voter turnout (seriously, our 40 year high in 2008 was 61.6 percent...what was the remaining 38.4 percent doing that day that was so much more important than voting?).
I think the perception of apathy in the nation (and in particular, in those my own generation) was what compelled me to exercise my first amendment rights and join the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear this past weekend. Apparently, I wasn't the only one because about 215,000 other sanity/fear-seeking people attended.
If I had to pick one word to describe the rally: crowded. Above is a small portion of the line to get tickets for the metro. The hubby, the bro, and I waited over an hour and a half to get our tickets and then we had to wait on the platform until we could find a car with enough room to literally squeeze onto the train (note to self: next time buy tickets in advance!).
Once we finally made it to rally (fashionably late), the crowds just got denser. There were lots of fun signs; people off all shapes, colors, sizes, and beliefs (I picked up some interesting Communist literature); and yes, there was the occasional waft of pot.
My favorite sign of the day was a campaign ad for Palin/Voldemort 2012. I'm of the short variety so I mostly heard the rally and didn't so much see it. I did see a black guy selling t-shirts that had a picture of George W. Bush on them and said "I SCREWED YOU ALL...BUT THANKS FOR BLAMING THE BLACK GUY."
Yes, it was crowded and overwhelming at times, and the truth is, I wasn't really sure why I went. I originally thought it was to have an experience and to observe (which is what I do), and I carried no real expectations at the start. But deep down, going to the rally was more than that; I just wasn't sure what.
And then he ended on a positive note (oddly enough, just as most YA novels do), "We know instinctively as a people that if we are to get through the darkness and back into the light, we have to work together. And the truth is, there will always be darkness. And sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel isn't the Promise Land; sometimes it's just New Jersey."
And I think that summed up my whole compulsion to attend: a chance to work together with others, no matter what their beliefs, to see through the darkness to the light at the end of the tunnel.
After the rally, we had a rowdy and fun dinner with my two aunts and cousins (when we finally found them in the crowd...note to self: 200,000 cell phones in a small area will compete for service and none of them will work). It's weird how sometimes it takes over 300 miles of travel to spend some quality time with the people you love. And then the hubby, the bro, and I were 'on the way' home.
Check out the rally's live feed for more coverage of what I saw (or more accurately, heard).
*Buffalo Springfield
I think the perception of apathy in the nation (and in particular, in those my own generation) was what compelled me to exercise my first amendment rights and join the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear this past weekend. Apparently, I wasn't the only one because about 215,000 other sanity/fear-seeking people attended.
If I had to pick one word to describe the rally: crowded. Above is a small portion of the line to get tickets for the metro. The hubby, the bro, and I waited over an hour and a half to get our tickets and then we had to wait on the platform until we could find a car with enough room to literally squeeze onto the train (note to self: next time buy tickets in advance!).
(Here's my view on the train. I particularly enjoyed the pithy advertisements for deodorant, which included a handy odor-meter.)
Once we finally made it to rally (fashionably late), the crowds just got denser. There were lots of fun signs; people off all shapes, colors, sizes, and beliefs (I picked up some interesting Communist literature); and yes, there was the occasional waft of pot.
My favorite sign of the day was a campaign ad for Palin/Voldemort 2012. I'm of the short variety so I mostly heard the rally and didn't so much see it. I did see a black guy selling t-shirts that had a picture of George W. Bush on them and said "I SCREWED YOU ALL...BUT THANKS FOR BLAMING THE BLACK GUY."
Yes, it was crowded and overwhelming at times, and the truth is, I wasn't really sure why I went. I originally thought it was to have an experience and to observe (which is what I do), and I carried no real expectations at the start. But deep down, going to the rally was more than that; I just wasn't sure what.
Even Jon Stewart, when he took a step back from the jokes and had a moment of sincerity, admitted, "I'm really glad you're here, even if none of us are really quite sure why we are here."
As Jon Stewart spoke his mind, my own mind became clearer. He said, "This was not a rally to ridicule people of faith or people of activism or to look down our noses at the Heartland or passionate argument or to suggest that times are not difficult and we have nothing to fear. They are and we do. But we live now in hard times, not end times."
Regarding the media and the 24-hours news channels, he said, "If we amplify everything, we hear nothing...the inability to distinguish terrorists from Muslims makes us less safe, not more. The press is our immune system. If it overreacts to everything, we get sicker."
And then he ended on a positive note (oddly enough, just as most YA novels do), "We know instinctively as a people that if we are to get through the darkness and back into the light, we have to work together. And the truth is, there will always be darkness. And sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel isn't the Promise Land; sometimes it's just New Jersey."
And I think that summed up my whole compulsion to attend: a chance to work together with others, no matter what their beliefs, to see through the darkness to the light at the end of the tunnel.
| Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c | ||||
| Indecision 2010 - Republicans Can Go to the Back of the Car | ||||
| ||||
After the rally, we had a rowdy and fun dinner with my two aunts and cousins (when we finally found them in the crowd...note to self: 200,000 cell phones in a small area will compete for service and none of them will work). It's weird how sometimes it takes over 300 miles of travel to spend some quality time with the people you love. And then the hubby, the bro, and I were 'on the way' home.
Check out the rally's live feed for more coverage of what I saw (or more accurately, heard).
*Buffalo Springfield
Friday, October 22, 2010
"Yeah, I can hear that"*
The hubby and I had our five-year anniversary this past weekend. To celebrate we went to dinner at the restaurant where we got married (it was the first time we had been there since we found out it was haunted), spent the night in a hotel, and got massages.
When it comes to massages, I find that sounds have a big impact on the overall experience. Hands down the best massage I ever had was in Tahiti. If you've never been to French Polynesia (and really, you should make a point of going there at least once in your life...trust me, it's worth the insanely long travel time), basically everything good thing you can imagine about a tropical paradise, that's Tahiti.
It was pouring the day we got our massages. The rain was relentless, and even though we got soaked walking to the massage place, the weather created the perfect atmosphere. The massage hut is kind of an outdoor/indoor building (like most of the structures in French Polynesia). So there are doors and a roof, but instead of regular floors, it has raised walkways and below is dirt and flowers, and, well, nature. Not all of the rooms have walls, and the ones that do often have walls that end halfway up. No rain gets in, though, because the thatched roof hangs far enough over the edge to keep the water away.
In addition to the ever-important sounds, was the awesome smell of of island. French Polynesia smells like flowers, but not sticky, sweet, perfumy flowers (I can't stand that); it has a subtle scent that permeates the island and becomes a part of what Tahiti is. For me, there's no other place that I so closely identify with by smell. The whole experience of my Polynesian massage was just incredible.
When it comes to massages, I find that sounds have a big impact on the overall experience. Hands down the best massage I ever had was in Tahiti. If you've never been to French Polynesia (and really, you should make a point of going there at least once in your life...trust me, it's worth the insanely long travel time), basically everything good thing you can imagine about a tropical paradise, that's Tahiti.
It was pouring the day we got our massages. The rain was relentless, and even though we got soaked walking to the massage place, the weather created the perfect atmosphere. The massage hut is kind of an outdoor/indoor building (like most of the structures in French Polynesia). So there are doors and a roof, but instead of regular floors, it has raised walkways and below is dirt and flowers, and, well, nature. Not all of the rooms have walls, and the ones that do often have walls that end halfway up. No rain gets in, though, because the thatched roof hangs far enough over the edge to keep the water away.
(This is what the island of Moorea looks like in the rain.)
The ladies gave us our pareos, which are basically small sheets that can be worn in a million different ways by both guys and ladies. Then we drank little shot glasses full of some kind of wheat grass drink, which tasted terrible, but is supposedly really good for you. Then the massage ladies brought us to our room.
My masseuse got started right on my feet, which were freezing from walking in the rain with sandals. As I got rubbed down with special Polynesian oil, the only sounds were the pattering of rain and the occasional rumble of thunder.
In addition to the ever-important sounds, was the awesome smell of of island. French Polynesia smells like flowers, but not sticky, sweet, perfumy flowers (I can't stand that); it has a subtle scent that permeates the island and becomes a part of what Tahiti is. For me, there's no other place that I so closely identify with by smell. The whole experience of my Polynesian massage was just incredible.
The strangest (I won't say worst because things are never bad when your getting a massage) one I ever had was by a guy who either had a cold or was a mouth-breather. The only time I didn't notice his heavy panting was when this really bizarre music started. Most massage places have that relaxing, new-age music, but the song that came on was what could only be described as creepy clown music. I kept imagining I was at a demented circus and scary clowns were stalking me (and I don't even have a fear of clowns).
And wouldn't you know, my massage this weekend started off with odd music. It was one of those nature tracks, which is usually fine, but these ducks kept quacking during it. I wanted to laugh along with the ducks every time I heard one cackle "quack, quack, quack."
Towards the end of the massage, the music turned scary. The best word I could find to describe it was diminuendo because it was like a soundtrack to someone falling down the stairs. Only in my imagination, the person was pushed down the stairs and the evil guy (maybe one of those demented clowns) who did it stood at the top, maniacally laughing. And this scene played over and over again in slow motion until the music changed and I remembered I was supposed to be relaxing and not letting my imagination run away with me.
Monday, May 31, 2010
"People are strange"*
This is the first installment of my People As Characters series.
The hubby and I met Christina and Don on a recent vacation in St. Lucia. I guessed Don to be in his sixties. He has a big belly, a loud, friendly voice, and graying hair, which he covered with a baseball hat that had some sort of presidential seal on it. He claimed that it had been given to him by President Bill Clinton. Christina appeared to be a bit younger. She's Portuguese and her soft, musical voice has a noticeable accent. They've been together for 10 years.
The hubby and I were on an open-air jeep/catamaran tour of the island with Don and Christina. Unfortunately for them, they had spent the first day of their vacation out in the sweltering St. Lucian sun...we're talking a mere 13 degrees north of the equator. Not only did they not wear sunblock, but they lathered themselves up with oil. Apparently they have an old-school view of proper sun exposure. Needless to say, they resembled a pair of lobsters.
Christina spent most of the day shrouded in light-weight shawls and a giant hat, shrinking away from the sun and rolling her eyes at Don. Don spent most of the day talking. He was good at pointing out the obvious, telling stories and jokes that nobody really wanted to hear, and spending his money (which no one on the island wanted to take because who has change for a $100 bill when you buy only a pack of gum and some suntan lotion).
I got the feeling they spend a lot of money on vacations because they were staying at an nice, but overpriced resort, most of Don's clothing was from a previous vacation destination (his sandals had the word "Hawaii" printed on them), and they bought everything from tropical trip essentials (like suntan lotion and shawls) to cheesy souvenirs while on the tour.
At one point, Don's special presidential hat went flying off his head and into the street (luckily it didn't fly off the side of the jeep and down the giant cliff that bordered the side of the road). Thomas, our good-natured guide, yelled to the driver to stop, jumped off the back of the jeep, and retrieved the hat...I hope Don used some of the change from his $100 bills (if he had any left by the end of the day) to give Thomas a good tip.
Despite Don's bad sunburn, he seemed up for anything. He was one of only a few people who actually stood under the big waterfall at one of the stops and he bought a giant conch shell and learned how to blow into it to make a loud horn sound.
Don works for a juice concentrate company, but he loves fresh-squeezed juice. I'm not sure what Christina does, but she has an apartment in Manhattan. Don has a house in New Jersey, where he grew up. Neither was willing to give up his/her residence since they've been together, so they kept both and share time between the two residences (like some sort of split-custody living arrangement).
Don and Christina were really fun to observe because they were just so full of personality.
*The Doors
The hubby and I met Christina and Don on a recent vacation in St. Lucia. I guessed Don to be in his sixties. He has a big belly, a loud, friendly voice, and graying hair, which he covered with a baseball hat that had some sort of presidential seal on it. He claimed that it had been given to him by President Bill Clinton. Christina appeared to be a bit younger. She's Portuguese and her soft, musical voice has a noticeable accent. They've been together for 10 years.
The hubby and I were on an open-air jeep/catamaran tour of the island with Don and Christina. Unfortunately for them, they had spent the first day of their vacation out in the sweltering St. Lucian sun...we're talking a mere 13 degrees north of the equator. Not only did they not wear sunblock, but they lathered themselves up with oil. Apparently they have an old-school view of proper sun exposure. Needless to say, they resembled a pair of lobsters.
Christina spent most of the day shrouded in light-weight shawls and a giant hat, shrinking away from the sun and rolling her eyes at Don. Don spent most of the day talking. He was good at pointing out the obvious, telling stories and jokes that nobody really wanted to hear, and spending his money (which no one on the island wanted to take because who has change for a $100 bill when you buy only a pack of gum and some suntan lotion).
I got the feeling they spend a lot of money on vacations because they were staying at an nice, but overpriced resort, most of Don's clothing was from a previous vacation destination (his sandals had the word "Hawaii" printed on them), and they bought everything from tropical trip essentials (like suntan lotion and shawls) to cheesy souvenirs while on the tour.
At one point, Don's special presidential hat went flying off his head and into the street (luckily it didn't fly off the side of the jeep and down the giant cliff that bordered the side of the road). Thomas, our good-natured guide, yelled to the driver to stop, jumped off the back of the jeep, and retrieved the hat...I hope Don used some of the change from his $100 bills (if he had any left by the end of the day) to give Thomas a good tip.
Despite Don's bad sunburn, he seemed up for anything. He was one of only a few people who actually stood under the big waterfall at one of the stops and he bought a giant conch shell and learned how to blow into it to make a loud horn sound.
Don works for a juice concentrate company, but he loves fresh-squeezed juice. I'm not sure what Christina does, but she has an apartment in Manhattan. Don has a house in New Jersey, where he grew up. Neither was willing to give up his/her residence since they've been together, so they kept both and share time between the two residences (like some sort of split-custody living arrangement).
Don and Christina were really fun to observe because they were just so full of personality.
*The Doors
Sunday, March 14, 2010
"She want the big bamboo"*
While in St. Lucia, the hubby and I did the Soufriere By Land and Sea adventure through Sunlink Tours. We traveled down the east side of St. Lucia by open jeep from Castries to Soufriere and back north by party catamaran. Al was our fearless driver and Thomas was our funny and knowledgeable guide (see below about bamboo for a taste of his trivia).
Here's our jeep. Al is all the way to right (and yup, that's the elusive hubby on the left). I'm very sad to note that I never did get a picture of Thomas. He was so busy making sure all of us tourists were taken care of that the only time he really sat down was when we were riding in the jeep.
The highlights included:
Here's our jeep. Al is all the way to right (and yup, that's the elusive hubby on the left). I'm very sad to note that I never did get a picture of Thomas. He was so busy making sure all of us tourists were taken care of that the only time he really sat down was when we were riding in the jeep.
The highlights included:
Getting pummeled by a waterfall, which was quite refreshing (yes, be kind...that's me in a bathing suit!)
Being entertained by the Captain (that's him jamming behind the wheel) as he sang along with Bob Marley and "Big Bamboo."
Every time I hear the word bamboo, it just brings me right back to St. Lucia. Did you know that bamboo was the national tree of St. Lucia? That is until they found out bamboo isn't a tree at all. Now bamboo is the national plant of the island and calabash is the national tree. All the Americans on the tour agreed that our country would have changed the status of the bamboo to a tree just to avoid having to admit being wrong!
*as performed by Horace Peterkin
Monday, February 15, 2010
"Let me crash upon your shore"*
Today the hubby and I were sitting on a bench at the beach (the same beach at which I did my listening exercise). We had just stood up to continue our walk when a woman hopped out of her running vehicle and said, "Excuse me." I had my hood on, so I didn't even hear her, but the hubby did. We stopped and she said, "I'm looking for Anchor Beach."
I gestured to the beach and around the corner and said, "I believe this whole stretch is Anchor Beach." (Apparently she didn't believe me because as soon as we turned the corner, we saw her asking someone else!)
It seemed weird that she was looking for a specific beach in the middle of winter, but we soon found out the real reason she was there. We rounded another corner and a news truck and a bunch of people were milling around. Cones and police tape had been set up and signs were posted.
At first I couldn't figure out why all those people were there. I turned to my husband and quietly asked, "Do you see anything?" Just as I asked, I realized the rock I was looking at wasn't just a rock. A baby seal was laying on it. He was so well camouflaged that he was hard to see. Can you see him lying there on the rock? (Scroll down to the bottom of the post for a hint.)
*Enya
I gestured to the beach and around the corner and said, "I believe this whole stretch is Anchor Beach." (Apparently she didn't believe me because as soon as we turned the corner, we saw her asking someone else!)
It seemed weird that she was looking for a specific beach in the middle of winter, but we soon found out the real reason she was there. We rounded another corner and a news truck and a bunch of people were milling around. Cones and police tape had been set up and signs were posted.
At first I couldn't figure out why all those people were there. I turned to my husband and quietly asked, "Do you see anything?" Just as I asked, I realized the rock I was looking at wasn't just a rock. A baby seal was laying on it. He was so well camouflaged that he was hard to see. Can you see him lying there on the rock? (Scroll down to the bottom of the post for a hint.)
At first he looked dead, but as we watched and listened we found out that he was just basking in the sun and wasn't hurt or anything. He was young but old enough to be out on his own. Our little visitor made the local news! Here he is.
*Enya
Monday, February 8, 2010
"Time to be a ghost"*
Let's start with a bit of a digression: links to three contests. One is to win R.J. Anderson's book Knife over at Cindy Pon's blog. A second contest is a book giveaway at the Class of 2k10 blog. The last is for a MG/YA agent contest over at Guide to Literary Agents. And now back to our regularly scheduled post!
The other night the hubby yelled to me from the living room, "You've gotta come see this!" I had just gotten out of the shower and was still in my towel, but it sounded urgent, so I dutifully obeyed. He pointed at the TV and asked, "Do you recognize this place?"
Without hesitation I said, "It's where we got married." I was thinking that it was pretty cool that the Nutmeg Restaurant was on TV...that is until I realized that it was being featured on an A&E show called Psychic Kids: Children of the Paranormal. Then I started thinking Okay, that's kind of freaky.
The other night the hubby yelled to me from the living room, "You've gotta come see this!" I had just gotten out of the shower and was still in my towel, but it sounded urgent, so I dutifully obeyed. He pointed at the TV and asked, "Do you recognize this place?"
Without hesitation I said, "It's where we got married." I was thinking that it was pretty cool that the Nutmeg Restaurant was on TV...that is until I realized that it was being featured on an A&E show called Psychic Kids: Children of the Paranormal. Then I started thinking Okay, that's kind of freaky.
Check out this video to see the episode of Psychic Kids (you might notice the above chandelier in it). The restaurant doesn't come in until the 9:28 mark, and the 11:22 mark is when things really start to get scary. The "loft" is where the girl says she feels a ghostly presence and that was where my bridesmaids and I got dressed before the wedding.
When I thought about it, I remembered we did have a bit of a ghostly experience in the loft. We tried to open the window and all of a sudden it fell out of the track. By all laws of physics, the window should've gone crashing to the ground, but it didn't. Something caught it and it teetered there, jutting out a weird angle. Here's one of the guys from the restaurant trying to put the window back in place.
Come to think of it, my whole wedding seemed kind of cursed. We had originally booked a boat on the Connecticut River, but six months before the date, I got a piece of certified mail with the deposit check (at least I got my money back) and note that said the docking site had been bought out and we'd have to find a new place to have our wedding. That was no easy task, considering we had already booked the D.J. and photographer and couldn't really change the date. (In wedding time, six months is like two days!)
Luckily the Nutmeg Restaurant was available, so we booked it right up. Then a few days before the date we found out the wedding planner there was "let go." That meant the main person we had been working with to plan our entire wedding was not going to be working there on the wedding day. It also poured for 13 (gotta love lucky 13) straight days leading up to the wedding. It poured so hard that the hotel we stayed at the night before had massive leaking. And that was just the big things, never mind the million little snafus that happened.
Oh, and I just remembered that my sister accidentally left her dress in the loft after the wedding. The hubby and I went back the next day to try and find dress and to pick up a few other things that had been forgotten. The dress was no where to be seen! (There was a wedding after ours, and it's possible someone from that wedding took it, but now that I know about the ghost, I'm blaming it on him.)
Turns out the actual wedding was awesome. The ceremony was personal (and brief), the food was delicious, and the dance floor was packed most of the day. The sun even came out in the afternoon. I guess it wasn't so bad having a haunted wedding site.
*Tori Amos
Sunday, January 17, 2010
"Could you take my picture?"*
I've made it onto the web again! You may remember (or probably not) that I've blogged about appearing the web before (check out this post and this one). Unlike those other posts, though, this new one is ALL ABOUT ME! Check out a great--if I do say so myself--interview of yours truly on Kimberly Sabatini's blog.
I love all my signed books (call me a bibliophile if you must), but here's a few that hold a special place in my heart:
I remember reading Bruce Coville's My Teacher is an Alien back in grade school and loving it, so it was a real honor to meet him in person. I saw him speak at the SCBWI LA Conference a few years ago, and it was great.
Sid Fleischman is one of the cutest men I've ever met. He was in a humor panel at the LA conference. He was one of the quieter contributors on the panel, but when he did speak, it was definitely worth listening to. I later told him that I enjoyed his subtlety, and he said to me, "I'm sure you have a great deal of subtlety as well."
I mentioned in the interview that one of the reasons I like to go to writing conferences is to meet authors and have them sign books for me. Here's my shelf of signed books:
I love all my signed books (call me a bibliophile if you must), but here's a few that hold a special place in my heart: Lisa Yee is a great writer and a really fun person. I've only had the pleasure of meeting her in person once, but we occasionally chat via her blog. It's cut off in the picture, but she crossed out Stanford Wong and put in Katie!
I remember reading Bruce Coville's My Teacher is an Alien back in grade school and loving it, so it was a real honor to meet him in person. I saw him speak at the SCBWI LA Conference a few years ago, and it was great. Sid Fleischman is one of the cutest men I've ever met. He was in a humor panel at the LA conference. He was one of the quieter contributors on the panel, but when he did speak, it was definitely worth listening to. I later told him that I enjoyed his subtlety, and he said to me, "I'm sure you have a great deal of subtlety as well." As I was looking at my signed books, I realized that I have given away all my signed picture books, but there was some good ones. My favorite is How Do Dinosaurs Eat Their Food? by Jane Yolen and illustrated by Mark Teague (it's signed by Mark Teague), which I gave to my little nephew. When you read it with him, he turns to the title page and says, "It's signed by Mark (my nephew has a funny little accent like he's from Boston or something, so Mark sounds like Mak) Teague and he drew a picture of a dinosaur." Then he recites the whole book for you.
And because there can never be enough links in one post, here's one more for you. Agent Mary Kole is running another contest on her Kidlit blog, so check it out here.
*Filter
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
"It's all about the wordplay"*
Girls' Christmas (my "sisters" and I get together every year for a girls-and-kids-only Christmas party) was relocated to my house at the last minute, so I requested that my guests create a sentence with the magnetic poetry kit on my refrigerator. Here's what we came up with (as usual, I put a space in between each magnet to show the creative combinations):
Poink has actually turned out to be very versatile. It can be a noun, as in the original sense: That needle has a sharp poink. It can be a verb, literally: Ouch! That needle just poinked me. It can be a verb, figuratively: Oh, you just got poinked. It can be an adjective: That needle is very poinky.
I checked out the urban dictionary and found some interesting definitions for poink and poinky. I recommend everyone tries to use poink in a sentence today.
*Jason Mraz (Yup, I'm kind of obsessed with his music lately!)
- love people like they a r e obedient prostitute s (I would think any obedient prostitute is easy to love, so this could be a new logo for world peace or something!)
- experience perfect pleasure through bald chicken rhythm dance ing (I'd like to see bald chicken rhythm dancing...or on second thought, maybe I wouldn't.)
- spark random inspiration speak every thought investigate precious emotion (lather, rinse, repeat)
- electric transgress ion s will burn holy fire (That's what she said!)
- the devil s skeleton is suck ing seed y sweet & sour soup (Nice alliteration...who knew the devil's skeleton liked Chinese food?)
Poink has actually turned out to be very versatile. It can be a noun, as in the original sense: That needle has a sharp poink. It can be a verb, literally: Ouch! That needle just poinked me. It can be a verb, figuratively: Oh, you just got poinked. It can be an adjective: That needle is very poinky.
I checked out the urban dictionary and found some interesting definitions for poink and poinky. I recommend everyone tries to use poink in a sentence today.
*Jason Mraz (Yup, I'm kind of obsessed with his music lately!)
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