The Marvelous Misadventures of Miss Rebecca

Gone tumbling

2011-05-25T07:55:00.000-04:00

As you may have noticed, my interest in long-form blogging has waned.

Since I still have the itch to share good things as I come across them, tumblr seemed like the perfect solution.

Many thanks for reading and please join me at infinite donut - where the goodness never stops! :)

Photo by: Xtina Lam

Baked chicken chimis

2011-02-01T11:26:00.000-05:00

Baked Chicken Chimis

2 cooked chicken breasts, diced
2 cups shredded cabbage (slaw mix works fine)
2 chipotles in adobo, diced
1 T chili powder
8 oz tomato sauce
Salt and pepper
2 cups shredded Monterey Jack cheese
6 whole wheat tortillas (8 in)
Olive oil
Sour cream

Preheat oven to 400.

In a large bowl, mix chicken, cabbage, chipotles, chili powder, and tomato sauce. Salt and pepper to taste.

Fill each tortilla with the chicken mixture, top with shredded cheese, and roll.

Brush the bottom of a baking sheet with olive oil. Place chimis on baking sheet, and brush tops with olive oil.

Bake for 15-17 minutes or until tortilla begin to brown.

Serve with sour cream.

Easy dinner: Greek pasta

2011-01-29T21:17:00.000-05:00

Greek pasta
serves 4

1 box whole wheat penne (13 oz - give or take)
1 12 oz jar artichoke hearts, rinsed, drained and chopped
1 large tomato, seeded and chopped
1 cooked chicken breast, diced
3 T olive oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
juice of 1 lemon
1.5 t dried oregano
pepper to taste
4 oz crumbled feta cheese

Cook penne.

While penne cooks, saute garlic in olive oil until golden, 1-2 minutes.

Mix all ingredients except the feta with the drained pasta.

Top with feta and serve.

Photo by GothPhil

The three A's of awesome

2011-01-27T11:46:00.002-05:00

Almost millionaires

2011-01-24T17:58:00.002-05:00

The following story is 100% true. Cross my heart and all that.

Last February, Kurt and I were visiting Florida and staying at a hotel in Atlantic Beach. This is a few months after the Tiger Woods drama broke, and he was scheduled to give his first press conference the following day at PGA headquarters just down the coast in Ponte Vedra.

Since he had been in rehab and hadn't been seen for a while, this was a Big Deal. Even the tabloids hadn't been able to snag a picture of him, and the rumor was the first shot would go for big money, possibly even a million dollars.

So we're in Atlantic Beach, enjoying our stay, and Kurt decides to go grab lunch down the street. He returned with more than lunch. He had a story.

Now, unlike me, Kurt is not one to have stories that require sitting down and paying rapt attention while he relates every detail. That's my job.

So when he had me sit down so he could relate every detail, I knew it was big.

On the way home from the restaurant, Kurt saw ... wait for it ...

TIGER WOODS!!!!

I know! I KNOW! Seriously!

Our conversation went something like this:

Me: Are you sure?!?!

Kurt: I'm sure. He's a distinct looking guy.

Me: But are you sure-sure?

Kurt: I'm sure.

Me: Wait. He'll be 20 minutes south tomorrow for the press conference. Whoa. It probably was him.

Kurt: Probably?

Me: Ok, ok, it was him.

(giant pause)

(lightbulb goes off in my head)

(dollar signs flash before my eyes)

Me: So ... you got a picture right?

Kurt: Um ...

Me: Seriously, that's a million dollar shot. Even if it's all cell-phoney and grainy.

Kurt: Well ...

Me: Tell me you got the shot.

Kurt: He saw me looking at him. And he glared at me. Hard. Like 'Don't mess with me' hard. And before I knew it, he got in a Mercedes and was gone.

Me: Noooooooooooooo!

As you can imagine, we have revisited this moment many times (last night among them - which is why it's in my head). We think of what might have been. The grainy photo of a scowling Tiger, our check from the National Enquirer for a cool million, the fab beach house we could have bought.

Granted, a bodyguard probably would have jumped Kurt and beat him up, but getting pummeled for $1 million isn't the worst trade ever (says the girl who isn't getting pummeled).

The moral of the story? The old cliche: Shoot first. Ask questions later.

Photo by Degilbo

Beautiful insanity

2011-01-22T18:38:00.001-05:00

Mark Visser surfing Jaws (huge surf break off Maui) at night.

Mark Visser Rides JAWS at Night! from Fortrus Sports on Vimeo.

Ode to a Bloody Nose

2011-01-20T10:59:00.000-05:00

Feline ESP

2011-01-17T23:16:00.001-05:00

In my last post, I mentioned how our cats thwart my every effort to get a good picture of them.

Nelson must read the blog because today, in another effort to prove me wrong, he decided to model for me.

He sat. He posed. He defied my every expectation.

He delighted in making a liar of me.

I'm tempted to try some sort of reverse psychology on him in the future, but I don't think I have a chance.

Feline ESP wins every time.

Ernie knows best

2011-01-14T16:41:00.004-05:00

I'm trying to do the Daily Shoot assignments as much as possible this year.

Today's assignment is 'Motion' and after an embarrassing attempt with the neighborhood fountain, I decided to focus on the pets. The cats were out since, well, they're cats. They move on their own terms and have some kind of feline ESP that makes them do the exact opposite of what I want.

Ernie, on the other hand, is loyal, obedient (mostly), and above all, eager to please. He is the Anti-Cat.

My brilliant (?) idea was to put Ernie in a sit-stay down the hall, set up in the living room, and capture him running toward me when I called for him to come.

Ernie did his part. He sat. He ran. His ears flopped, and he looked suitably dogly.

Mommy, on the other hand, managed to flub the focus several times, forgot to up the ISO, and generally kept causing the poor little dog to repeat his big moment because of one snafu or another.

To reward Ernie for his patience, I took him into the kitchen for a treat. While he ate, I made sure everything was in place. I was certain the next set of shots would work out.

What I forgot was the Ernie Factor.

Having realized that there were treats in the kitchen ("Oh boy! Oh boy!"), the little man didn't want to play our sit-stay-run game anymore. Instead, he ignored my every command and sniffed endlessly around the spot where the magic bite of kibble had appeared.

After minutes of commanding and begging and finally nudging, I got him back by the door in his sit-stay.

I assumed my position in the living room and yelled for him to come.

I heard pawsteps down the hall, followed by nails clicking on the kitchen tile, and then obsessive sniffing.

"Ernie!", I yelled impatiently. "Come to Mommy!"

He peered at me around the corner and, realizing I was serious, slowly sauntered toward me ... through a wonderful patch of bright sunshine.

Just in time, I snapped a shot and caught him rounding the corner (looking not the least bit contrite, I might add).

Voila! Mission accomplished.

I may have found my new art director.

Waffles = happiness

2011-01-12T10:14:00.000-05:00

A day that begins with waffles is destined to end well. It can be no other way.

My favorite waffle recipe is slightly sweet with a hint of vanilla and (the best part!) incredibly easy. We like it with berries and cream or (my favorite) fried chicken and honey butter. They're even good reheated in the toaster and topped with peanut butter.

Easy waffles
(makes 8 waffles)

1 3/4 cups all purpose flour
2 T sugar
1 T baking powder
2 eggs, beaten
1 3/4 cups milk (lowfat is fine)
1/2 cup melted butter
1 t vanilla extract

Mix all ingredients and let rest for 2-3 minutes. Cook in preheated waffle maker until lightly browned.

To be a dog in Japan ...

2011-01-11T17:23:00.000-05:00

Quiche me, you fool!

2011-01-10T12:57:00.001-05:00

I love quiche. It's light, there's pie crust, you can flavor it up any way you want, and the leftovers are delicious straight from the fridge. Plus, it manages to be both easy and elegant. What more could you want?

Here's my recipe for quiche with turkey bacon and Swiss. Feel free to substitute other meats, sauteed veggies, herbs, and cheeses. You really can't go wrong.

Bacon-Swiss Quiche

1 unbaked pie crust (store-bought or homemade)
5 strips turkey bacon, cooked crisp (3:30 in the microwave on a stack of paper towels will accomplish this)
1.5 cups grated Swiss cheese
1.5 cups milk (1% works fine)
4 eggs
2 T flour
salt and black pepper
a pinch of cayenne pepper

Preheat the oven to 375. Mix the milk, eggs, and flour until well blended. Season with salt, black pepper, and cayenne pepper. Line the bottom of the pie crust with the cheese. Sprinkle crumbled bacon on top. Gently pour in egg mixture. Bake for 35-45 minutes or until center is set. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Merry Christmas!

2010-12-24T11:34:00.002-05:00

My stalker

2010-12-23T13:23:00.001-05:00

I have a stalker.

He's a short, white male with dark brown eyes and a high pitched voice.

And he's obsessed.

I go to bed. There he is.

I wake up. There he is.

He follows me from place to place, and I can hear him crying when he can't get to me.

He's been to jail, but upon release, he just tracks me down like nothing ever happened.

I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't move without his beady eyes on me.

Send help.

Not so a-maze-ing, really

2010-12-19T23:17:00.000-05:00

I love labyrinths.

Wait, let me amend that.

I love labyrinths, in theory.

In practice, what is advertised as a labyrinth is often of the contemplative nature rather than the ... say ... Jack Nicholson in The Shining with an axe nature. (I'm looking at you, Brookgreen Gardens!)

Awesome:

Not awesome:

Yes, I know meditation and contemplation and all that spiritual stuff is good for you.

I got it. You walk, you contemplate, you become a better person.

Whatever.

I want a true hedge maze. With high walls and mystery lurking around every corner.

I want a minotaur in the center devouring young adventurers.

I want danger, the unknown, the potential to get hopelessly lost.

I want Jack Nicholson with an axe, darnit!

Enlightenment has got nothing on that.

Photo by allatan

My life in one week

2010-12-18T14:54:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Kat for sharing the link on Facebook!

Night of 1000 Candles

2010-12-17T11:58:00.000-05:00

Last night, Kurt and I went to the Night of 1000 Candles at Brookgreen Gardens in Murrells Inlet, SC.

No idea why they call it Night of 1000 Candles when there are actually 5000 candles (and 145,000 twinkle lights!). If I'm lighting that many candles, people are gonna know about it, but maybe that's just me.

In addition to the gorgeous lights, we got to enjoy live music - everything from a classical quartet to an acoustic guitarist to a surprisingly good rock band - while we strolled through the gardens drinking our hot chocolate. That the evening was 60 degrees and breezy made it all the sweeter. It was truly magical from start to finish.

The event runs through tomorrow evening, opening at 3pm and closing at 10pm, so there's still time for those in the Carolinas to come visit.

The pictures don't do the evening justice, but at least those of you far away will get a taste. I will admit, this is the first time I've been in the Christmas spirit this year. If they can convert a grinch like me, you know they've got something special going on.

Lion and wildebeest

2010-12-16T12:58:00.002-05:00

We have two cats.

There's James: quiet, gentle, and more than a little nervous. And Nelson, the kind of ornery playground bully who has been giving wedgies to the Jameses of the world since the beginning of time.

In our house, the wedgie comes in the form of Nelson's favorite game: lion and wildebeest.

You can guess who is the wildebeest.

Since Nelson is declawed, he never actually hurts James. I'm not sure he even wants to. It's more a game of psychological warfare. James never knows when Nelson will strike and spends a good bit of his time peering around corners and tiptoeing through the house.

Kurt and I decided to combat this situation with a program of feline behavior modification. (I can almost hear the cat owners laughing right now ...)

Every time Nelson attacked James, he would be put in jail (his cage), with his sentence varying by the severity of the attack. A swat of the paw might yield a ten minute stay, but the full monty - a flying leap onto poor James's back - could land him in the slammer for an hour.

We've been diligently following the plan for a couple months now. And there's definitely been a change.

Now, after Nelson attacks James, he walks to his cage.

And sits down.

And looks defiant.

There's a reason he's the king of the jungle.

Photo by will.huen

We're all just rats in a maze ...

2010-12-13T10:02:00.002-05:00

Apologies for the cell phone picture, but ...

2010-12-11T23:02:00.000-05:00

Is this not the pinkest store EVER?

To paraphrase Steel Magnolias: That shop looks like it's been hosed down with Pepto-Bismal!

(It's on King St. in Charleston, SC, for those of you wanting to make a pilgrimage.)

Focaccia for the yeast impaired

2010-12-10T12:50:00.000-05:00

I have a bad track record with bread baking.

There were the donuts that took 4 hours (!!!) to make and then sank to bottom of the fryer, the country loaf that managed to be both burnt and raw all at once, and more batches of dough that refused to rise than I can count.

While I can cook most anything and bake sweets all day long, I accepted the obvious truth: Yeast was my nemesis.

Recently a friend mentioned an easy bread recipe. It ended (of course) in more unrisen dough being thrown away, but this time my ornery streak kicked in. I was going to make bread, darnit. I didn't care how much time and flour and misery it took.

I would make bread!

Success finally came with an easy focaccia recipe and a good bit of trial and error on my part. Below is the formula that worked for me. I use a stand mixer due to ... well ... general laziness, but those who like a workout could knead by hand.

Focaccia

4-5 cups bread flour
1.5 t salt
2 t yeast
13.5 ounces water
cornmeal (optional)
olive oil
herbs

Mix 4 cups of flour with salt in the bowl of a stand mixer.

Heat water to 100 degrees. Dissolve yeast and let stand for 10 minutes. While the water can be a notch warmer, do not exceed 120 degrees - that will kill the yeast.

Add yeast-water mixture to flour.

Using the mixer attachment, incorporate the water into the flour until a sticky dough forms.

Switch to the dough hook and knead for 5 minutes.

Ok, this is where it gets interesting. This is a sticky dough, so don't be overly alarmed by that. The goal is to reach a consistency where the dough sticks to the dough hook but can easily be peeled off of it. I've needed to add anywhere from an extra 1/4 cup to an extra cup of flour to achieve this state. Knead in the flour in 1/4 cup increments, checking after each to see if you've reached the desired consistency. The dough ball that forms will be a little shaggy and not the smooth round ball that other recipes require.

Warning! Many recipes mention the 'window pane test'. This is where you stretch your dough and a thin, semi-transparent area forms. This dough does not pass the windowpane test. Don't worry. It will taste fine. Just keep going with the gloppy dough ball. It'll all work out in the end.

Place the dough into a floured bowl, cover with a towel, and let rise for 1 hour.

Tips on rising: This is where I've run into trouble before. Most recipes say to let it rise in area that is around 80 degrees, but no place in my house fits the bill. My solution is to preheat the oven to its lowest setting (150 in my case) for 3-4 minutes, turn it off, and let the dough rise in the warm oven. For later rises, I preheat for around 30 seconds more to keep a nice level of heat in there. The goal is to get the oven warmer than room temperature but not hot.

Oil a pizza pan and sprinkle with cornmeal. You can skip the cornmeal if you'd like, but I find it makes it easier to remove the bread after baking and adds a nice texture. Stretch the dough and spread it out to fill the pizza pan. Let rise for another 30 minutes.

Once the dough has risen a second time, use your finger to make indentations in the top of the bread (1 indentation every 3 inches or so). Brush with olive oil and sprinkle with herbs. Thyme, rosemary, and dill all work well.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees and bake for 25-30 minutes or until golden brown.

Photo by bookgrl

Probably not for the vegan on your Christmas list

2010-12-09T16:50:00.000-05:00

Actual conversation with my husband: Dream edition

2010-12-03T11:12:00.000-05:00

Me: I had a bad dream.

Husband: Mmm.

Me: Seriously. BAD!

Husband: What happened?

Me: I had a demon following me around.

Husband: (raises an eyebrow)

Me: And he didn't hurt me, but whenever my back was turned he wreaked havoc.

Husband: (suspiciously silent)

Me: At one point, he tried to suffocate you when I was out of the room.

Husband: Was he grey?

Me: No.

Husband: Long haired?

Me: No, he was short and bald.

Husband: Mmm hmm.

Me: Why are you looking at the cat?!

Husband: No reason.

The emperor's new wig

2010-11-30T11:43:00.001-05:00

Kurt and I watched Bottle Shock last weekend. Since this isn't a movie review, I won't get into the plot (good!) or the execution (bad!). Instead, I'll focus on the movie's most memorable element:

Chris Pine's wig.

Now this isn't just any wig. This wig is epic.

Imagine the lovechild of Garth from Wayne's World and Dolly Parton with a broken curling iron.

What boggles the mind is that many people were involved in making the movie - actors, directors, editors, camerapeople - and no one ever said what they must all have been thinking:

What the heck is on his head?!?

Forget the Bay of Pigs, this takes groupthink to a whole new level.

It was hard to focus on the story because I couldn't stop contemplating the dead animal on Chris Pine's noggin.

Who made it? Did they mean for it to look ridiculous? Was he mortified about it? Did someone in the costume department really hate him?

The shame is that he's a handsome guy. One glance at him strutting about as young Kirk in the Star Trek remake will show you that. And his character is supposed to be a ladies' man, so it's not that the wig was an attempt to tone down his good looks.

The most absurd scenes were those in which his character wasn't being taken seriously. Um ... let me guess why!

The whole thing is inexplicable.

I'll offer up some screenshots, but be warned that they don't do it justice. The wig in motion (or not in motion, given how stiff it was) is a wonder to behold.

Amen, sistah!

2010-11-27T10:40:00.000-05:00

That's Life by Mike Twohy

1-900-HAWT-TSA

2010-11-21T13:13:00.002-05:00

My people

2010-11-20T11:18:00.002-05:00

When I moved to South Carolina, I fully expected to be emerged in a new culture.

What I didn't realize was that the new culture wouldn't only be a southern one. By choosing to live east of the intercoastal, we had moved not just to South Carolina but to Long Island, south.

New York (and New Jersey and New England) accents dominate the area, often seeming more prevalent than southern ones.

While my new neighbors are unfailingly friendly, their more brusque way of speaking has taken some getting used to. If someone uses that tone in Indiana, they are seriously unhappy with you. It always takes me a second to override my initial "Uh oh!" reaction.

I hadn't realized how foreign things felt until I went to book club the other day. As we went around the circle and said our names and where we were from, my heart actually fluttered when two women said they were from Wisconsin.

Wisconsin! Big Ten country!

My people!

It only got better as we encountered Illini and even a fellow Hoosier (from Danville! That's almost Indianapolis!).

These were the first midwesterners I'd encountered since moving down here, and it was amazing the kinship I felt for them. And they for me, given the reaction I got when I said I was from Indy.

Since there are so few midwestern transplants around here, it's a special moment to run into one. Rather like being in a foreign country and bumping into another American.

While I know it's illogical, I can't deny the comfort that came from talking with these women during book club. They're not nicer or friendlier than others I've met, nor do we have more in common per se. I think it's simply the lack of difference that puts my brain at ease, the sense of normalcy and "getting" one another.

Plus, I don't feel like they're yelling at me.

Photo by Diamondduste

The first rule of book club

2010-11-18T11:25:00.005-05:00

DO NOT TALK ABOUT BOOK CLUB!

Wait, no, that's fight club.

The first rule of book club is, quite obviously: read the book.

This doesn't sound so hard, does it? Four weeks, one little book. Piece of cake.

Of course, I had already read this month's selection a couple years ago, so I had it in the bag. Just pop to the beach the afternoon before, give it a skim and ... have absolutely no memory of any of it.

#%^&!@$!

So there I was, on the beach, realizing that while I know I've read the book, not one word or character remains in my (apparently addled) brain.

I did the only thing I could and started skimming like a crazy woman. I assumed that once I got into it things would start to stick and the story would come back.

Never. Not once.

The whole experience made me wish I'd taken one of those cheesy speed reading courses advertised on late night tv.

Instead I skimmed and skimmed and skimmed until I finally fell asleep and then woke up the next morning to skim some more. I got done with 25 minutes to spare.

While this may not be an A+ result, I thought I was in solid B territory, ready for any discussion that didn't get too terribly detailed.

I arrived and took a seat, introducing myself to the woman next to me.

I asked her what she thought of the book.

Her response, "Oh, I didn't read it."

Photo by REMY SAGLIER - DOUBLERAY

Move over mocha

2010-11-15T17:39:00.001-05:00

I am a mocha-holic. I start each day with one, and they're my standard coffee shop order. This morning, however, I decided to abandon my beloved mocha in favor of something more exotic: Thai coffee.

Authentic Thai coffee is made with Oliang Powder Mix - a blend that contains coffee, corn, and soy bean. Given that all I had on hand was decaf Starbucks, we're going to call my version Thai-ish coffee.

Feel free to cut back on the milk and increase the sweetened condensed milk. From my reading, a dessert-like sweetness is authentic (but also more than I can handle first thing in the morning).

I seasoned with cardamom, but other flavorings such as cinnamon and almond extract may also be used.

While it won't replace my morning mocha, I enjoyed my Thai-ish coffee. It's definitely something I'll make again. I think anyone who likes chai tea would probably enjoy it as well.

Thai-ish iced coffee

4 oz. coffee concentrate (from cold brewing) or strongly brewed coffee
4 oz milk
2 T sweetened condensed milk
1/4 t ground cardamom
optional: cinnamon, almond extract

Blend all ingredients and serve over ice.

Photo by moominmolly

The Ladies' Dog

2010-11-14T10:28:00.000-05:00

Ernie made his first trip to the beach yesterday. While he wasn't a fan of the water (it took about 10 minutes to even get a paw in), he did like one thing about it: the ladies.

Ever since he was a pup, Ernie has preferred women to men. The minute he hears a female voice, he perks up. And when he sees a lady, he really turns on the charm. Ears back, eyes wide, head cocked. He even starts batting his lashes as he looks up at them, the little player. He treats every women he meets like they are the mostly special, wonderful person he's ever encountered.

Of course, this works like a charm. I've yet to meet a woman - even one who claims not to be a fan of dogs - who didn't coo and praise and pet and baby talk him. He, of course, eats up every minute of it.

This isn't to say he doesn't like men. Ernie pretty much likes everyone. Men just get different treatment. He wants to follow them and be part of what they're doing and strut beside them, but they don't merit the full charm assault.

Kurt and I have often said that all a single man needs to meet some girls is an afternoon out with Ernie. If we were more entrepreneurial, we'd rent the little guy out. Of course, the man in question would have to be open to meeting all kinds of women. Ernie's charm doesn't discriminate, and everyone from little girls to 90 year old women are drawn to him. (There's also the issue of a heterosexual man explaining why he's out with a purse dog, but that can be worked out.)

So Ernie is a fan of the beach, if not for the reasons we expected. I think in his mind, it's the ultimate pick-up joint - a buffet of fine ladies ready to shower him with love.

My boy may not do tricks or even obey half the time, he may be short and a bit lacking in the survival department, but there's one thing no one can deny: Ernie's got game.

Passion fatigue

2010-11-10T11:37:00.002-05:00

My twitter feed has a theme this morning: passion.

People are passionate about internet marketing and realty and small business development. They want to know if I'm passionate about photography and impoverished women and my own personal growth.

Passion seems to be a buzzword these days, a meter by which you measure the depth and sincerity of your actions. Of course, sincere people don't tend to spout off about their sincerity, but that's another story.

What was I passionate about this morning? Well ... I wanted a mocha. I'm not sure I'd call it passion as much as thirst though. Post-mocha, I did my work by editing yesterday's scene before adding two more. Did I feel passionate about this? Hardly. I wasn't even in the mood at first, but then that's why they call it work.

I wonder if the people spouting off about passion really feel what they claim or if they just like something well enough and want to get a bit of attention for it. I mean, passionate about internet marketing? Really? Someone feels that? I guess it's possible but certainly outside the realm of my experience. Passionate about sending your kids to college or putting dinner on the table? Now that I understand.

The ubiquity of the term also leads to a pressure to claim feelings that one might not have. It's like the Martha Stewart Christmas Special of emotions - you can't help but compare yourself to all these self-actualizing, vocally passionate people and wonder what you're missing.

There are things I'm passionate about, of course. Faith, family, values. But I'm a bit burned out by the expectation to experience high emotion about so much else.

Nonetheless, I will admit to feeling quite passionate about one thing right now: a nap.

Big Heart of Art by qthomasbower

Actual conversation with my husband: Blog edition

2010-11-08T11:31:00.000-05:00

Me: Can I blog about {charming thing he does that will remain nameless}?

Husband: No.

Me: But it's funny!

Husband: No.

Me: But not in a bad way. Good funny. Charming funny.

Husband: No.

Me: But ... but ... the people would enjoy it. Think of the people!

Husband: No.

Me: (pout)

Husband: You're pouting.

Me: (nod)

Husband: (sigh)

Me: So I can blog about it?

Husband: (pause)

Husband: No.

He paused! At the end there. This is a good sign, I think.

Like a rat with a book

2010-11-03T19:11:00.001-04:00

I started reading a book (that will remain nameless - you'll see why) a couple weeks ago. It's from a series I usually enjoy and gets a 4.5 star rating at amazon.com.

My take?

I've struggled through 50 pages and have no inclination to pick it back up again. Ever.

Logically, I would return it to the library, choose something else, and get on with my life. Instead, I marked my page, put it aside, and ... haven't read anything for nearly two weeks.

Oy.

I did this without thinking of course. For me, starting a book - especially a well reviewed one like this - creates a compunction to finish it. Same with movies. A movie has to be truly offensive for me to stop partway through (I'm looking at you Natural Born Killers).

One might say I have relentless optimism, always assuming that something is just about to get good if only I'd stick it out a little longer. One might also say I have a failure to learn because seriously, how many books get better after 50 or 100 pages? Or movies after the 45 minute mark?

A few do. And therein lies the problem.

Psychologists will tell you that animals don't manage these situations any better than I do. Unpredictable rewards are a sure way to get a rat or a dog or a Vegas gambler to do more and more of what you want.

Somehow that doesn't make me feel better.

So will I weigh things logically, put the book aside, and move onto something I'll enjoy more?

Of course! Right after the next chapter ...

Skinner box diagram courtesy of Andreas1

Cold brew (on the cheap)

2010-10-27T14:19:00.001-04:00

Cold brewed coffee has been a revelation for me. All the flavor and none of the bitterness, plus it makes an iced coffee that you actually want to drink (instead of the watered down mess you get when you ice hot brewed coffee).

There are several methods for cold brewing at home.

1) The contraption method: I've gotta say, I'm not a fan of gadgets, so this holds little appeal for me. But if you have plenty of cabinet space and/or want the easiest method, this is probably for you. There's the original Toddy system and a cheaper version by the always awesome Ron Popeil called the Coffeetime Cold Brew system.

2) The French press: Coffee can also be cold brewed in a French press. This is good for those who want to brew hot coffee at home as well. Caveat: start with a medium grind or coarse grind for best results.

3) The cheap method: This is where I landed. I didn't see the point in buying something new when I had everything I needed already here. The downside is that you have to filter yourself which can take time and be a bit messy (but not bad once you get the hang of it). The upside: cheeeeeap! Plus, you can try cold brewed coffee without much investment to see if it's for you.

You will need:
1 glass jar/bottle with a lid (preferably something easy to pour from)
1 mesh colander (the finer the better)
Another bottle or large container (a Pyrex measuring cup would work well)
3-4 paper coffee filters

Add coffee and water to the glass jar with a lid at a 1:4 ratio (4 times as much water as coffee). Let sit 12 hours in the refrigerator. Pour the coffee into the second bottle/container, filtering through the mesh colander. Discard grounds. Rinse out original bottle, and pour the coffee back through the colander that you have lined with a coffee filter. I find I go through 3 to 4 filters depending on how much coffee I am brewing (yes, I do get impatient and squeeze it through - why do you ask?).

Voila! You now have coffee concentrate! Dilute it with water or milk and warm it in the microwave or serve it cold over ice. I dilute at a 1:2 ratio of coffee to milk, but you can make it as strong or weak as you'd like.

Photo by JcOlivera.com

Enjoying it while it lasts

2010-10-26T20:30:00.000-04:00

Jumped into first last night. Wahoo!

Submitted without comment

2010-10-19T15:48:00.000-04:00

Impaired

2010-10-18T15:30:00.001-04:00

I have a confession. While I am a decent enough cook, there is one dish that I have attempted for decades and have yet to make successfully. Even worse, it's one of the most "simple" dishes out there.

My nemesis? Steamed rice.

I know, I know. For those of you who are not rice-impaired, this seems absurd. You will tell me (as I've been told before), "You just ** insert simple instructions here **, and it will turn out fine!"

I have heard you. I have obeyed (or at least tried).

I have failed.

My results are either hard little rice grains or sticky glop but never the evenly cooked, fluffy side dish I had envisioned.

My workaround has been to use other methods to cook rice. I make baked rice and curried rice in the oven. I use a Fannie Farmer method for boiling rice on the stovetop. It all turns out great. Why simple steaming eludes me remains a mystery.

I have considered a rice cooker, but my aversion to kitchen clutter (and small appliances in general) has always kicked in and steered me away. Until, that is, I read about "The Pot."

"The Pot" is what Roger Ebert calls a rice cooker in his blog post and book: The Pot and How to Use It.

According to Ebert, the simple appliance is more than just a rice cooker, it is a one pot meal factory. He cooked a variety of full meals in it - including oatmeal for breakfast and even chili - and claims they are easy, tasty, and won't leave your kitchen a mess and your sink full of dishes.

Am I skeptical? Of course. If there was ever someone the "idiot proof" rice cooker wouldn't work for, it's me. But ... the idea of steamed rice (and more!) - without mess and drama is awfully tempting. This appliance may be worth a look after all.

Photo by Tamaki

So horrible, so funny.

2010-10-15T22:57:00.000-04:00

She's fine and ended up giggling at the memory. In case that makes you feel any less guilty for laughing at this ...

10 signs that I am old

2010-10-11T15:52:00.001-04:00

1) When the radio lands on the smooth jazz station, I no longer flip away.

2) I do not understand Lady Gaga.

3) I use the phrase "kids these days".

4) High school students look far too young to be driving.

5) Staying up all night is no longer an option (without mass quantities of Excedrin).

6) I have sent one text in my life. It was to a wrong number telling him to stop texting me.

7) I don't understand why one would want to send a text in the first place.

8) Upon seeing a dvd player inside of a minivan, I launch into a semi-coherent rant about the character building effects of boredom.

9) I don't know who half the people in the gossip mags are these days.

10) I get most of my electronics to work by randomly hitting buttons until the right thing happens.

The Gift

2010-10-08T10:18:00.002-04:00

Life is beautiful. Life is hard. Repeat.

2010-10-06T18:34:00.001-04:00

My dad came to visit us in South Carolina this week. We've spent our afternoons on the beach, soaking up the sun and watching the waves roll in.

Life is beautiful.

A fine lady and good friend had surgery last week. She didn't wake up and is now on life support. All prayers for her are appreciated.

Life is hard.

I celebrated another birthday recently ~ in good health, with a wonderful husband, and in a new town by the ocean that I love.

Life is beautiful.

Another friend's daughter is undergoing chemo. I read today that she's very weak and struggling with this round of treatments. Please send your prayers and good thoughts her way.

Life is hard.

My heart soars ... and breaks ... and soars again. And I wonder why, since we're all in this crazy cycle together, we can't go a little easier on one another along the way.

Nelson: 1, Rocky: 0

2010-10-04T09:18:00.000-04:00

My dad's dog Rocky came to visit yesterday.

Rocky is a ... um ... joyful dog. And he expresses his joy by yipping and bouncing and running around non-stop.

Basically, Rocky is a handful. But a happy one, so it's hard to mind too much.

Ernie (our shih tzu) tolerated Rocky pretty well. He spent most of the visit following him around "his" house to make sure, well, I'm not sure what he wanted to make sure. Possibly that Rocky didn't make off with the silverware.

Nelson (our cat/evil genius) spent the visit on the back of the couch, eying Rocky with contempt and waiting. For what we didn't know.

His moment came when Rocky climbed in his cage and sat down for a minute. Nelson got up, walked over, and looked Rocky square in the eye.

Then he shut the door in Rocky's face and walked away.

Of course, Nels neglected to lock the door. I'm sure he's working on that for next time.

I heart Food Lion

2010-10-03T23:05:00.000-04:00

Where else can you get soda that sounds like a plastic surgeon?

And then there were giblets

2010-10-03T16:25:00.003-04:00

Last night, I tackled #96 on my life list: roast a whole chicken.

This may not sound like much to most people, but I am a bit squeamish about raw meat (ok, more than "a bit"), so tackling a whole bird was daunting to me.

Translation: I was gonna have to touch the thing. Bleh.

I settled on a recipe that involved roasting a 5-6 pound bird atop a bed of veggies. It looked simple enough: rinse bird, stuff bird, season bird, bake bird. How bad could that be?

Things even started out pretty well. I covered the bottom of a casserole with veggies and got the bird out of the package with little trouble.

Then it came time to stuff the bird. I looked in expecting to find a wide open cavity and instead found ... parts. Giblets, I think they're called. I recognized a heart and a liver before I put it down in horror.

Once I calmed down, I decided to upend the bird over a plastic sack and dump whatever the heck was in there out. I flipped the bird and gave it a good shake.

Nothing.

Another shake. Still nothing.

Apparently the opening wasn't large enough, and the giblets were wedged in there. I knew what I had to do. The only way the awfulness was leaving was if I stuck my hand in and pulled it out myself.

I took a breath, closed my eyes, and reached in quickly, pulling out a handful of who knows what. I threw it in the sack before my mind could figure out exactly what I was touching.

After a couple handfuls, the bird was clear.

And then I saw it: the neck.

I've bought rotisserie chickens before, and I know that the end result should definitely not have this bit of bone and spine flopping off one end. The question was how to remove it. I don't own a cleaver, so I hacked and pulled and twisted (and gagged) until the vile thing was gone.

The rest of the process was fairly smooth. Unless you count the lemon I stuffed in falling out the back end at one point. Compared to what I had been through, that was nothing.

When I told Kurt and my dad about the horror, they were surprised. They thought giblets were usually in some sort of bag, and neither ever remembered seeing a raw chicken with a neck still attached.

Apparently, I got a rustic style bird where they chopped off the head and feet and called it good. At least they plucked the thing.

Next time, I'll see if they have a city girl version.

** Yes, the bird is upside down. No, I didn't mean to cook it that way.

It's important to have goals

2010-10-01T17:54:00.002-04:00

Goals are important.

Some are lofty. Some are noble.

And some are dreams that tug at your heart and won't let go.

I have such a goal. Not noble perhaps. Not lofty, but mine nonetheless.

My dream? I never want to wear real shoes again.

That's right. No sneakers, no flats, no heels, no loafers. Nada. Only sandals and the sweet joy of going barefoot.

I took a step in the right direction by leaving the midwest for South Carolina. So far, I've been here six weeks, and nothing but sandals have graced my feet.

Unfortunately, my new Southern paradise doesn't enjoy summer all the time, and temperatures may dip soon into the 60s, 50s, and (heaven forbid!) even the dreaded 40s.

Then it will become a question of my fortitude, my desire, my sheer strength of will.

Can I do it? Or will I sell out and succumb to blue toes and frozen piggies (or even worse - social pressure to dress like a grown-up)?

As the old saying goes, "The heart is strong, but the toes are weak." Or something like that.

Only time will tell. Feel free to place bets, if you'd like. Right now, my money is on lasting until Thanksgiving or possibly Christmas (any trips to the deep freeze of the midwest are exempt, of course).

Who knows though, maybe I'll go the distance. Does Tony Robbins have a program for this?

Photo by PR

The Great Flood of 2010

2010-09-30T16:51:00.000-04:00

I didn't have 'be in a flood' on my life list, but I think I'll add it just so I can cross it off. I've gotta say, it's an awful thing. You feel so helpless watching the water creep up and the rain come down. Thank goodness the house stayed dry and everyone is ok. We're lucky that the worst we got was being stuck for a couple days.

Waterfront property!

Trucks were making it through, but cars couldn't.

The entrance to the neighborhood

The welcome center

Upside(?): You can fish right on your own lawn!

Live tweeting my demise

2010-09-29T14:34:00.001-04:00

We're having rain in South Carolina.

Lots of rain.

We're talking Biblical, grab-some-animals-and-ready-the-ark rain.

Tonight, Tropical Storm Nicole will pay us a visit. Bringing (you guessed it) more rain.

The canal behind the house is making its way up the not-so-steep banks. The street out front is covered in water. And today's downpour has only just begun.

The property manager assured us that the neighborhood has a system in place to manage the water - pumping from one pond to another and ultimately into the Intercoastal Waterway.

I hate to be skeptical, but driving through flooded streets and watching the pond creep toward the house doesn't inspire confidence in their rainwater-management skills.

Nonetheless, I will soldier on. As I told my husband, "We may get flooded, but I'm gonna tweet every minute of it."

Noah would do the same, I'm sure.

My favorite rice

2010-09-26T21:34:00.001-04:00

Curried rice with raisins and almonds

1 yellow onion, diced
3 T olive oil
1 c long grain white rice
2 t curry powder
1/2 t salt
2 T butter
1/2 c raisins
1/4 c sliced almonds
2 c chicken broth

Preheat oven to 375.

Heat olive oil over medium heat. Add onions and cook until soft. Add rice and cook for 3 minutes. Add raisins, almonds, curry powder, salt, and butter. Cook for an additional minute.

Transfer to buttered casserole dish. Add 2 c chicken broth and stir.

Cover and bake for 1 hour.

(adapted from The Fannie Farmer Cookbook)

The 21st century has its moments

2010-09-25T16:50:00.000-04:00

Kurt's new car came with an XM radio trial. This isn't a feature I thought I'd care about until one evening I was scanning channels when I found it, the holy grail of radio:

Bollywood and Beyond!!!

They weren't playing cheesy Indian restaurant music either. Instead it was one Indian pop hit after another - all with incomprehensible lyrics and wicked beats. I still wonder why P. Diddy or JayZ or whoever the latest rap mogul is hasn't sampled the heck out of this stuff.

Since I wasn't too keen to buy an XM receiver and shell out $13/month for one station - even one as fab as this - I went looking for streaming Bollywood radio on the internet.

Within minutes, I was sitting in South Carolina, listening to the Indian top 40 being broadcast from Paris.

I know the 21st century has had a rough start, with the recession and wars and general gloom, but I've gotta say that was a very cool moment. Perhaps this new millennium won't be so bad after all.

The mighty durian

2010-09-24T13:34:00.002-04:00

Mooncake madness

2010-09-23T14:46:00.008-04:00

Kurt brought home mooncakes last night to celebrate the Chinese Moon Festival. We had one with the traditional bean paste and salty yolk center and six wee ones filled with durian.

For those of you who haven't had (or smelled) durian, it is known to be stinky. Very stinky. Like illegal to have in public, people wonder where the rotting corpse is stinky.

When I cut open a durian mooncake, Kurt took a whiff and immediately threw it down, jumped away, and said things I can't repeat on a family blog. Oh, how I wish I had my video camera!

I smelled one and didn't think it was so bad really. Kurt claims this is proof that my sniffer is dead from years of sinus trouble.

Clearly he wasn't eating one, so the job fell to me. I managed to down a couple small pieces. It wasn't good exactly but not awful either. It had a rotten fruit taste, possibly with a hint of onion.

The bad part came when Kurt got a whiff of my breath.

And threw up.

I am not kidding.

Next year, we'll keep it Southern and stick to moonpies.

Driving Mr. Lurch

2010-09-21T14:11:00.027-04:00

For our honeymoon, Kurt wanted to rent a convertible for part of the trip. Given the rain and vog (volcano fog) on the Big Island, we decided to get one for our week on Maui.

This sounded fine until it came time to price convertible rentals. The cheapest I found at a major company was over $500 for the week. A regular car: $130.

Um ... heck no!

Being the ~~miser~~ recessionista I am, I decided to go bargain hunting. My dad said he'd gotten good deals at local car agencies, and while the cars weren't always brand new, there was nothing wrong with them.

I hunted through the local Maui agencies and finally settled on one that shall remain nameless (you'll see why soon enough). They offered a weekly convertible rental for half the price of the big guys.

The choices were a Sebring or a Mustang, and you could almost hear Kurt's heart murmuring, "Mustang, Mustang, Mustang" on the drive to pick it up. When we arrived, we were presented with the keys to a not-so-shiny, not-so-new Chrysler Sebring. Poor Kurt.

Upon a (lengthy) inspection, it was determined that amid the dents and scratches and general aesthetic scariness, the ol' Sebring had a malfunctioning convertible top. Jackpot!

Before we knew it, we were ushered into the white Mustang that Kurt had been eying the whole time and were heading off to Kihei. Granted, the seats looked a little off and the car was hardly pristine, but with the top down, the seabreeze blowing, and the radio on, how could we go wrong?

We were so naive.

When we turned onto the main road, we noticed something odd. We got dusted by ... a Corolla?!? Not even a new one at that. Before we knew it, several cars had passed us, and we were barely getting up to speed. What kind of Mustang was this anyway??

Honeymooners, meet Lurch.

Not only was Lurch not the peppiest car on the block, he also made some disconcerting sounds. At one point, I turned to Kurt and warned that from the sound of it, the passenger door might fall off at any moment. It didn't, thank goodness, but I was ready.

When we got out and inspected the seats more closely, we noticed some stains. Concerning stains. Quite possibly blood stains. The pattern on the back seat inspired jokes about a mafioso who met his end back there (clearly a midget mafioso since leg room was sparse). We spent the rest of the trip tugging our shorts down to avoid making contact.

Lurch also had rust in unusual places. Like inside the car. While Maui is humid, it seemed like Lurch might have spent some time in the Pacific at some point. Snorkeling perhaps (or see above re: mafioso).

Lurch hobbled along fairly decently for a while, rattling, shaking, brakes squeaking until one evening midway through a left turn when he decided he didn't feel like going any farther. Maybe he was tired, or he'd had a bad day, or he was feeling put out from the 600 turns on the Hana Highway. I don't know. He just coasted to a stop, and we sat on the side of the road in the dark wondering what we should do.

We sweet talked Lurch a little. Pounded .. er ... patted his dash a bit. Before too long, we were up and moving. We never knew what the problem was.

Our most troubling moment with Lurch came driving up Haleakala to see the sunset. As we navigated the hairpin turns with steep drop-offs to the side, I turned to Kurt and asked, "He will be able to make it back down, right?"

Silence.

"Kurt?"

More silence.

Finally, Kurt said, "Probably."

We did make it down - slowly and with lots of protesting and squeaking on Lurch's part (and in the center of the two lanes since there was no one else around).

It was almost sad to say goodbye when we dropped him off at the airport. If nothing else, he had personality.

But next time? We'll spend the $200.

The High Church of Cheese

2010-09-20T08:51:00.000-04:00

Healthy (and yummy!) dinner: White bean and veggie soup

2010-09-17T10:22:00.004-04:00

White bean and veggie soup

1 carrot, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
1/2 yellow onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 T olive oil
1 cup corn (fresh or frozen)
2 14.5 oz cans white beans (Great Northern or cannellini), drained and rinsed
2 14.5 oz cans vegetable broth
bay leaf
salt and pepper

Heat oil over medium heat. Add carrots and onion and cook for 5 minutes. Add celery and garlic and cook an additional 3 minutes. Add corn, broth, beans, and bay leaf. Bring to a boil and simmer gently for 15 minutes. Remove bay leaf. Puree to desired consistency (I often remove 1/3, puree the remainder, and then add it back in). Salt and pepper to taste.

Serve with brown bread or top with croutons.

Serves 4

The perfect balance

2010-09-15T10:36:00.002-04:00

Enlightenment fatigue

2010-09-13T12:55:00.000-04:00

Breakfast with Topper

2010-09-12T16:40:00.024-04:00

Kurt and I stayed at a bed and breakfast on our honeymoon. Everything was going well - the setting was lovely, the room was comfortable, the location was good.

Then came breakfast.

Things started out well enough. There was a gorgeous spread of tropical fruit and Hawaiian sweet bread. Jackpot!

As I was loading my plate with pineapple and papaya, I noticed that the conversation at the main table was a bit ... strange.

On the surface, everyone was just talking about what they had done on vacation and their plans for the day. But there was an edge ... an urgency even ... that felt a bit odd. I placed my waffle order and went to eat on the lanai. Better safe than sorry.

Kurt joined me, and I was soon glad I'd veered away from the main breakfast room. The "friendly" conversation had turned into a pissing match. The goal was to see who had done the most extreme, unusual activities and brag about them without appearing to do so. It was all done with a smile, but the meaning was clear: My vacation is better than your vacation.

Since the conversation was loud (why brag softly after all?), I resolved to eat my waffle and get back to the room as soon as possible.

Then they sat down. Pisseurs extraordinaire: Mr. and Mrs. Topper.

It was like Muhammad Ali vs Pee Wee Herman. We had no shot.

"What all have you done?" they asked. This was politeness only, of course. A set-up to allow them to ~~bore~~ share with us their many exploits.

We went to Volcano National Park. Well, they hiked 11 miles, uphill both ways, into a steaming caldera.

We drove to South Point. They braved the turbulent waters of the Pacific to swim with hot lava.

Blah blah blah.

You get the idea. If I hadn't already ordered a waffle, I'd have been out of there in minutes.

The kicker came when they asked our plans for the day (after telling us of their itinerary which involved naked boar wrestling or something along those lines).

"Well," I said, "we're going to a botanical garden and then to the Waipio Valley."

"Will you be hiking it? We are riding down on mules tomorrow. Bareback."

"Um ... no. No, we're just gonna look."

"Look?" they asked.

"Yup. And after, we're getting donuts."

"Donuts," they said, unable to hide their contempt.

Of course, I didn't tell them they were the sixth best donuts in the world. That they were hot and fresh and as close to fried dough perfection as man has achieved. And I certainly didn't tell them to stop by the Tex Drive In to see for themselves.

No, I respected them as the hard core adventurers they claimed to be. And I reveled even more in our mornings sleeping in, our leisurely drives, our days lazing on the beach, and most of all, in some fabulous mango donuts.

Sorry Tom!

2010-09-09T21:12:00.013-04:00

I cursed Tom Brady.

I didn't mean to, if that helps.

It started in the fall of 2008 when I was drafting my fantasy football team. It came time to pick a quarterback, and he was the highest ranking choice left. As a Colts fan I knew better, but in a moment of weakness and lust for fantasy football glory, I did it anyway.

I drafted Tom Brady.

So began the downward spiral for Tom and me. It was announced in early September of that year that Tom would need knee surgery and would miss the entire season.

While I acknowledge that this took a harder toll on Tom than on myself, it was still a rough year for my poor Hapless Hedgehogs (I know ... I put "hapless" in the name. What did I think was going to happen?!?). No other viable quarterback was available, and my team limped through the season to finish last in the league. A distant last at that.

I had fallen from first place to tenth in two short years, and I had only myself to blame.

The moral of the dark saga: Colts fans don't draft Patriots. I heard the message loud and clear, and Tom and I both had a more successful 2009 season for it.

Flash forward to 2010. I signed up for auto-draft and logged in yesterday to see which players I'd be working with this season. Things were looking good - Adrian Peterson, Steven Jackson, Jason Witten - and then I saw it. Quarterback: Tom Brady.

Noooooooooooooooo!

Of course, Tom once again had it worse than I did. Check out this morning's headline:

Tom Brady in car accident Thursday

Um. Sorry Tom.

Photo by Keith Allison

Update: The $8 experiment

2010-09-07T23:08:00.014-04:00

I recently ordered a couple pairs of prescription glasses from Zenni Optical (story here). They arrived today after only a week's wait, and I am beyond pleased with the results.

The styles are cute, the quality is as good as at a "normal" store, the prescription is right, and they came well packaged and protected. I couldn't be happier.

And all this for under $30. Amazing!

Buying tips:

~ Call your optometrist to find out your pupillary distance. It's often not listed on the paperwork they give you after your eye exam, but they're required by law to tell you and it's not something that expires like the rest of the prescription.

~ When ordering sunglasses, remember that higher percentages represent darker tints. I ordered 80% grey, and it's very dark. Perfect for the bright sun at the beach, but not something I can see well with inside.

~ Grey tints will give the world a blue cast. Amber tints will improve contrast and amplify greens.

~ Check your current frames to learn the size you need. The numbers inside the arm represent the lens size, bridge, and temple length. You have a little wiggle room (as much as 5mm in temple length), but try to stay close to what you already know looks good.

I have a simple prescription, but my dad has ordered a more complicated pair with bifocals and transition lenses and also had good luck. Hopefully your experience will be as good as ours!

** Zenni has no idea who I am. I just took a chance on some cheap frames, had a good experience, and wanted to share.

If Mama ain't happy ...

2010-09-06T13:49:00.018-04:00

Kurt is car shopping. We decided not to bring his previous car down to South Carolina (no a/c was sort of a deal breaker), and the time has come to get something new.

Buying a new car sounds like it would be a fun task. Heck, for what cars cost these days, it ought to be a fun task. We were even fairly excited about it ... at first.

Then came the salesmen.

One had a road rage incident and yelled at another driver during a test drive. One called Kurt a "tirekicker" because he wasn't ready to buy a car right then. Another told us a car with 1700 miles was "identical" to one with 15 - and got irritated when we didn't agree.

My personal favorite not only knew the going rate of heroin, he also shared his insights on area strip clubs and how tourists "drive up the price of p***y." (Yes, that is a quote.)

Even the relatively better ones were unable to answer basic questions and were prone to stretch the truth (if not outright lie) if it might help make the sale.

One of their most irritating strategies is to make it difficult for you to leave without taking a car for an overnight test drive (whether you want one or not) or buying something. Normal, honest, sane responses fly right past, while they continue to talk and push and act as if you hadn't spoken.

On this front though, Kurt has a secret weapon. He found the one thing he can say that will stop them in their tracks and end the madness.

The magic phrase?

"My wife doesn't like it."

That's it. If a man on a car lot utters those words, it's game over. They have an answer on price, on miles, on style and performance. They have an answer to everything except the unanswerable: an unhappy wife.

So after enduring hours of frustration and lies and general insanity, Kurt feels free to use this trump card - whether it's 100% percent accurate or not. As the salesmen themselves would say, "You gotta do what you gotta do."

Photo by Brandon Doran

Actual conversation with my husband: Heavy metal edition

2010-09-05T00:30:00.007-04:00

On tv: a Def Leppard video

Me: Oh! Def Leppard! Are they the group with the midgets?

Husband: The what?

Me: The midgets!

Husband: *long pause*

Me: Seriously, there's a heavy metal group with midgets.

Husband: *long pause*

Me: They wear shorts! Midgets in shorts. That group.

Husband: You mean AC/DC?

Me: Are they midgets?

Husband: No, but they wear schoolboy shorts.

Me: And suspenders?

Husband: I think so.

Me: That's them.

Husband: But they're not midgets.

Me: Huh. But they're short, right?

Real cats wear pink

2010-09-03T11:22:00.023-04:00

A couple weeks ago, someone stopped by our home and met our cat Nelson for the first time.

It went something like this:

Visitor: She's a pretty cat!

Nelson: *preen*

Me: It's a "he". That's Nelson.

Visitor: *looks at Nelson*

Nelson: *preen*

Visitor: I just thought ... with the pink collar ...

Me: Oh yeah, that's his favorite color.

Visitor: *silence*

You could practically hear her thinking, "Cuckoo!" I can't blame her. You put a baby pink collar on a cat, and people are gonna think it's a girl.

And cats having favorite colors? Do cats even see in color?

Of course, Nelson is no ordinary cat. He can open drawers and cabinets and even the occasional closed door. He knows how to start a scuffle between his brothers and then run to us wide-eyed (always wide-eyed!) to get credit for being "the good one". He knows to pull keys off of Daddy's laptop and never ever touch Mommy's MacBook. He's basically a cat genius.

And he has a favorite color: pink.

When he lived at the mini-shelter in the Castleton PetSmart, the staff knew that he would only play with the pink toy, never any of the others. They even sent it home with him since he had such a strong preference.

Nothing has changed. He still loves his original pink rope, and his second favorite toy is a fluffy pink flamingo. He turns his nose up at non-pink options as if they are unworthy of him.

The cat loves pink.

I caved to social pressure and made him wear a turquoise collar for years. I might buy him pink toys, but I wasn't ready to deal with issues of feline gender confusion. Would a pink collar make him a transvestite? This was not a question I was ready to contemplate.

Kurt helped change my mind when Nelson's turquoise collar broke. "He should have what he likes," Kurt said. "Who cares?"

And he was right. I've gotta let Nelson be Nelson. Pink collar and all.

Am I a crazy cat lady? Quite possibly. Anthropomorphizing beyond all good sense? Almost assuredly.

But he's my Nelson.

And he loves pink.

And I'm ok with that.

I love mongeese ... er ... mongooses

2010-09-02T15:07:00.003-04:00

Change overload

2010-08-31T21:26:00.015-04:00

I love South Carolina. Love the herons that fly behind the house, love the Carolina pines, love the warm weather, and of course love the beach. The decision to move here has been overwhelmingly positive. (And I didn't even mention Cheerwine and fish shacks and the delightfully quirky Southern ladies!)

That said, today was a little more change than I wanted. Nothing big, mind you, just one small thing after another until I found myself in the Food Lion parking lot thinking, "I just want to go home!" As someone who prides herself on embracing change, I was surprised to find myself chafing against it.

Everything worked out in the end (as it usually does). The new groomer does things differently, but Ernie ended up looking great. I couldn't find exactly what I was used to at the grocery, but I'll make it work. Traffic here is a little different, but it's nothing I can't handle. Who knows, some things may even turn out to be better.

Still, I wish we had technology that would make it possible to live in SC but pop back to Indy when my psyche needs a break - something along the lines of Star Trek's transporter beam. Then I could drop Ernie off at his normal vet, swing by Trader Joe's for some goodies, grab a kebab in Castleton, and be back on the beach before sunset. That's not too much to ask, is it?

Image courtesy of Marvin01

Pimp your ride: Girl-car edition

2010-08-29T12:17:00.000-04:00

Even Snowball isn't this girly ...

The $8 experiment

2010-08-28T20:59:00.019-04:00

One upside to moving is that it forces you to sort through everything and makes clear what you do not own. In my case: a back-up pair of glasses.

Last fall, my dad ordered a pair of glasses from Zenni Optical and said they were a great deal. He claimed that I could get a pair of basic prescription glasses for only $8.

$8!

Since my glasses normally run $200+ per pair, I was skeptical about a pair this cheap. $8 is the cost of two lattes or a cheap t-shirt. At the very least, I assumed the selection at that price would be limited and/or scary.

Wrong! They have well over a hundred frames at each price point ($8, $9.95, $12.95, and $15.95) and many cute styles, even in the $8 section. I favorited a few pairs, narrowed it down by size, and settled on a pair of red cat's eye shaped frames. I figure for $8, I might as well have some fun.

Since shipping is only $5 for the entire order, I decided to add a pair of black Jackie O sunglasses for a whole $12.95, tint and all.

In searching for reviews about Zenni, I discovered that there's a whole world of discount internet eyeglass sellers. Not everyone has them for $8, but even at $19 or $39, they're a steal compared to the traditional options. Some sites even allow you to upload a picture and "try on" frames before you order. Who knew?!

My glasses should arrive in about 2 weeks. I'll post results when they get here. Stay tuned!

Photo by Grace

Retro photos for the iPhone impaired

2010-08-27T15:21:00.033-04:00

I do not have an iPhone. This isn't a fact that would bother me were it not for one thing: Hipstamatic.

Hipstamatic is an app that mimics the results of low-quality toy cameras of the past. Translation: it takes some really groovy retro photos (and costs only $1.99!).

Since one wee app doesn't justify an iPhone purchase, I've been looking for ways to get Hipstamatic-like results during post-processing on my Mac. GIMP was moderately successful once I got past the (steep) learning curve, but the process was more time consuming than I wanted and the results were good but not stellar. There are a few options for Lightroom but nothing entirely satisfying. Since I don't use Photoshop, I can't speak to the quality of the actions available for it.

I tried several Polaroid knock-offs with varying degrees of success. Often these come with limited choices and strong color casts that yielded sometimes-interesting / sometimes-awful results. My favorite of the clones was Poladroid which I found to be fun and easy to use. You simply drag a jpeg to the icon, wait, and a Polaroid emerges. Rather like the real experience I remember from my childhood (only with less shaking).

Here's a sample image I created with Poladroid:
The top contenders to mimic the Hipstamatic seem to be Toycamera AnalogColor and CameraBag.

Toycamera offers the most control with 7 processes, 2 lens options, and the ability to add flare and Polaroid framing. You can adjust 9 additional variables including blur, contrast, color, and noise. It's essentially a mini-Lightroom aimed at creating toy camera results. While you can achieve striking results, more is demanded of the user in terms of experimenting and choosing well.

Here are samples processed with Toycamera AnalogColor:
CameraBag is a simpler system. There are 10 filters, 3 black and white and 7 color. Other than cropping and adding borders, your primary means of control lies in how you choose to layer the filters atop one another. While this can yield great results, I often found myself coming close to the image I desired and wishing I could make small tweaks in contrast or color to achieve it. This program gets points for authenticity since it better mimics the "take what you get" nature of inexpensive cameras. However, I found it frustrating to come so close at times and be unable to get the exact image I wanted.

Here are samples processed with CameraBag:

My verdict: those experienced with post-processing (and the control freaks) will probably enjoy ToyCamera AnalogColor more. Those who want simplicity and the ability to achieve Hipstamatic-like results with only a few clicks will find CameraBag to be a good option.

"I walked in with you alone. I'm walking out with you alone."

2010-08-26T15:14:00.003-04:00

Two words: Get. Kleenex.

Danny & Annie from StoryCorps on Vimeo.

Thanks to Kat for sharing the link!

Zen and the art of bubble wrap

2010-08-26T13:38:00.022-04:00

Moving stinks.

Like, really stinks.

I thought boxing everything up was bad until I got to the part where I have to unbox everything. (I don't know where this stuff goes! Who do you think I am, Martha Stewart?)

There is, however, one upside to moving. One small ray of light in the dark sea of crates.

Bubble wrap!

The happiest part of the packing process was when I got to sit on my kitchen floor and mindlessly wrap dish after dish, sealing each with blue painter's tape. Unlike the rest of my to-do list, it was a clear task. Simple, straightforward, and with neat and tidy results.

It was meditation without the sore back.

Plus, hearing a hundred little pops each time Ernie trotted over was music to my ears.

While the unpacking experience is a bit less Zen, stomping bubble wrap is far cheaper than breaking dishes to vent frustration (like when I can't find the tv cable or my sandals or pretty much anything else I made a point not to lose).

So for all of the moving tips out there - packing necessities last, labeling your boxes, blah blah blah - the best one is this: invest in bubble wrap. Lots and lots of bubble wrap.

Your sanity will thank you.

Photo by ElizabethGreen

The Swanfather

2010-08-25T08:48:00.032-04:00

I was worried about two things upon moving to South Carolina:

1) Alligators - particularly ones that eat shih tzus for dinner

2) Snakes

These are rational enough fears given that a gator was found in the pool of a neighborhood we considered and that there are five kinds of venomous snakes in the area.

As is typical in my life, my fears were misdirected, and I was oblivious to the real danger at hand. In this case: swans.

Yes, I know. Swans are beautiful. Graceful, elegant, and all that. What everyone fails to mention is how nasty these birds are. I don't just mean temperamental; we're talking full on aggressive. When it comes to "fight or flight", these birds pick fight and relish it.

I didn't think much when I first saw the swans swimming in the canal behind our house. I assumed they'd do their thing, we'd do ours, and life would go on peacefully.

Then on the night of August 17th, I noticed something large ... and white ... and angry staring in the window.

Ernie and Nelson ran to investigate and were issued several hostile warnings letting them know who was boss around these parts. (Unfortunately, Ernie doesn't speak hiss, and he remains under the delusion that he made a new bird friend that night.)

The swan hung around for a good 10 or 15 minutes. Maybe he expected to be allowed inside for a visit and a sample of our tasty little mammals? I didn't know, and I didn't want to find out.

When he finally left, we noticed a steaming black present on the patio. The whole thing was like the scene from a mob movie where the new business in the neighborhood is paid a visit and politely but firmly informed how things are going to work.

The meaning was apparent: don't mess with the swan mafia.

Message received, loud and clear. I've since taken to walking Ernie in the front yard and keeping alert when I spend time on the patio. I've noticed they do swim-bys and pause to stare at the house every afternoon. I was outside during yesterday's and found myself making a mental calculation of how quickly I could make it inside should they dart up the bank.

Gators and snakes? Child's play.

They go together like chicken and waffles

2010-08-24T12:32:00.017-04:00

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who love chicken and waffles and those who have never tried chicken and waffles (but will surely love it when they do).

A dish with a long history, chicken and waffles was popularized by Roscoe's chain in Los Angeles and pops up frequently on menus around the country. I first sampled the dish at Maxine's Chicken and Waffles in downtown Indianapolis.

How good was it? Good enough that we had our engagement dinner at Maxine's. It took only a handful of bites for our perplexed families to understand why.

For the uninitiated, chicken and waffles is the pairing of fried chicken with waffles and syrup or, in the case of Maxine's, peach butter. Each bite is a study in contrast - crispy and soft, savory and sweet. While your arteries may not thank you, your mouth definitely will.

What brings chicken and waffles to mind was learning that today is National Waffle Day. I unpacked the waffle iron that I barely knew we had and will fire it up to make a batch for dinner tonight in celebration.

While I've never made waffles at home before, the dish deserves better than Eggos from the freezer section. I'm even thinking some honey butter is in order. This has the potential to supplant Thanksgiving as the best food holiday of the year.

Happy Waffle Day!

Photo by Nate Steiner

Dream on

2010-08-22T11:47:00.027-04:00

I have what one might call an active dream life. I dream vividly, nearly every night, and wake up clearly remembering (and feeling!) what was going on.

Normally, I enjoy the bizarre output of my subconscious, especially on those rare occasions when I experience a lucid dream and can take control and do whatever I want (inevitably this means flying - dream flying is AWESOME).

One experience that I don't enjoy is called a false awakening. Thankfully, these are rare, with the last instance happening a few nights ago.

For those who haven't experienced a false awakening, let me walk you through my latest one:

Step one: Have nightmare.

Step two: Awaken from nightmare. In bed, at home. No problem, right?

Step three: Go about your day until something terrible happens (in this case, someone jumping through a window).

Step four: Awaken from nightmare. Bed, home. See where this is going?

Step five: Cycle back to through steps three and four until you're convinced you're losing your ever-lovin' mind.

Step six: Wake up. Bed, home. But this time you know to check! Go about your day looking for any sign that things are amiss. In my case, I noticed my husband was sitting in a chair we don't own. The jolt will cause you to ....

Step seven: Wake up. Check reality. Probably fail. It took me three times once I knew what was happening. The second time, I caught it because the stones on my wedding ring were wrong. The third because I couldn't read something I should have been able to.

Step eight: Scream "WAKE UP!" and try to force yourself out of the dream and back to reality.

Step nine: Wake up for real (hopefully). You can usually tell when you have snapped out of the dream, but I always do a little reality checking anyway since the other awakenings seemed real when they were occurring. Once life passes the "test", breathe a huge sigh of relief.

What the steps don't capture is the awfulness of the experience. Not only is there a sense of foreboding and often a scare with the false awakenings, but there is also an enormous sense of powerlessness. You are trapped in your dreams, and your force of will isn't strong enough to shake you from them.

I always have trouble going back to sleep once I'm "free" since I don't want to risk it happening again. Finally, I do go back to sleep, and then I can go years without another occurrence.

Of course, for all I know, I'm dreaming right now.

Illustration by kaneda99

Just what every woman wants ...

2010-08-21T10:57:00.003-04:00

An embellished strap-on burqa! Someone tell me this is a hoax.

Actual conversation with my husband: Lawn edition

2010-08-20T19:36:00.012-04:00

Me: Did you get the lawn mowed last night?

Husband: Yup.

Me: Wow. I'm surprised. I thought it got dark on you.

Husband: Nope, I got it done.

Me: There were geese in the back. Maybe they were eating the trimmings.

Husband: Oh, I didn't do the back.

Me: You didn't do the back?

Husband: Nope.

Me: What about the sides?

Husband: Nope. Just the front.

Me: Just the front?

Husband: Yup.

Me: That's not getting the lawn mowed.

Husband: Yes, it is. The front's the important part.

Me: (long pause) So you didn't really get the lawn mowed.

Husband: If you make dinner and there's no salad and dessert, can I say that you didn't really make dinner?

Sigh ...

Goin' to Carolina

2010-08-11T09:26:00.005-04:00

Apologies for the lack of blog action lately. We've been knee deep in a move (two weeks to move two houses 800 miles - EEEEEEK!), and I can barely form a coherent thought, let alone a blog post. In the meantime, enjoy a little James Taylor, and I'll be back soon with some marvelous Carolina misadventures.

The more they talked, the less I cared

2010-08-03T10:01:00.000-04:00

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

Wedding of the Decade of the Century of the Millennium

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show Full Episodes

Political Humor

Tea Party

My not-so-marvelous moonpie

2010-07-29T13:53:00.055-04:00

I recently went to the BMV to update my address and get the new SecureID. Once they had sorted through my many pieces of identification and determined that I am indeed who I claim to be, it was picture time.

Now I may have been lucky, but I've never had a truly awful photo ID. It's not that I'm super photogenic and every shot is stellar, but I had always managed to avoid appearing like a criminal or terrorist or psych ward escapee.

Until this time.

I think the problem started when I wasn't allowed to smile showing teeth. This left me to choose between looking stern and trying to muster a not-too-moronic grin. The result? She caught me mid-decision, and I'm sporting a smirking half-smile that makes even me want to slap the smirk off of my face.

It goes downhill from there.

I was mid-blink when she took the shot, so I give the appearance of having shown up at the BMV in a drunken stupor. Plus, she cropped it so tightly that my face fills the frame, giving me a decidedly moonpie-esque appearance.

So there it is: drunken, smirking moonpie. Not three words that I want any part of.

It's bad enough to see the picture myself or show my id at the airport, but what I truly fear is that something will happen and my horrible, round face will be on the nightly news. If I were wanted for a crime (not that I expect this to happen!), I'd look guilty as sin, and if I were missing, I'd look like someone society could decidedly do without.

I've never thought of myself as overly vain, but I've become obsessed with somehow getting a new ID. Maybe this one needs to be lost in a fire or "accidentally" fall into the shredder.

Of course, I could stop worrying about something so trivial, grow into a person who doesn't care about appearances, and wait until it expires in 2012.

Hmm ... where are the matches?

I knew it!

2010-07-27T10:34:00.003-04:00

Pearls Before Swine by Stephan Pastis

The bug superhighway

2010-07-19T14:06:00.001-04:00

Burnin' down the house

2010-07-18T23:07:00.018-04:00

We had an adventure tonight. As Kurt and I were finishing a late dinner, my dad called and said his fire detector was going off and his house smelled like smoke. Kurt rushed down to see what was going on, and I put the pets up and followed him a few minutes later.

I got there to find the entire living room and hallway filled with smoke and a horrible burning smell in the air. It seemed to be coming from ductwork leading down from the attic, but we couldn't pinpoint the source.

Kurt and I were alarmed.

My dad? Cool as a cucumber. Disturbingly so. Maybe the idea of his house being on fire was too extreme to register as a possibility to him. Maybe he's a closet Zen master. In any case, he was too calm for his own good.

I grabbed family photos, while Kurt helped convince Dad that calling 911 really was a good idea. Before too long three fire engines and various support vehicles lined the street. Men in full fire fighting gear carrying axes (!!!) started roaming the house and climbing into the attic to see what was going on.

Several neighbors stood in their driveways watching. I can't blame 'em. It's not everyday we get this kind of excitement in the burbs.

I noticed a red sportscar and an SUV driving up and down the street slowly. The SUV even stopped to openly gawk at the scene. I'm guessing he was a reporter (or lawyer perhaps?) who had been listening to the emergency band hoping for a story.

Alas, we let him down. No flames shot out of the attic, and the house is still standing. Turns out there was no fire, just a burned out electric box putting out a surprising amount of smoke. The only trauma was a shaking maltese who couldn't figure out what was happening.

Major thanks to the Castleton and Lawrence fire departments for their quick and professional response!

Photo by Daniel Y. Go

No brainer dinner: Grown-up franks and beans

2010-07-18T00:33:00.007-04:00

Grown-up franks and beans

2 T olive oil
7 oz turkey smoked sausage, sliced
1 can cannellini beans, rinsed and drained
1 1/4 c spaghetti sauce (I used Barilla roasted garlic)
1 T red wine vinegar

Heat olive oil over medium high, and cook sausage until browned. Add beans, sauce, and vinegar. Stir well and heat through. Serve hot.

I know it sounds weird, but it works. Kurt called it "quirky but good."

This man is not happy

2010-07-17T18:03:00.012-04:00

I've been doing some genealogy research lately (hurrah ancestry.com!) and discovered that the gentleman to the left was one of my great-great grandfathers.

Take a look.

Exactly. This is not a happy man. In fact, he'd be a shoo-in to play Ebenezer Scrooge in 'A Christmas Carol.'

Looking at some old pictures my mom had of her grandparents doesn't yield better results. Her grandmother's expression says less "Have some cookies!" and more "I'll cut a bitch." Nice.

These were rural people at the turn of the last century, so I understand that life wasn't exactly easy. I probably wouldn't last a week (a day?) with the manual labor required. Still, you'd expect that for the rare, big event of having a picture taken they might want to, you know, smile or something.

I'm no historian, so I have no idea if a severe expression was the norm of the time in portraits, a product of a worldview that frowned on frivolity, or if I come from a long line of grumps. Maybe all three.

I wonder what they would make of the hundreds of pictures Kurt and I have taken. We're usually dressed casually, often celebrating or traveling, and inevitably smiling like we're having the time of our lives.

Would they think we were childish? Manic? Not to be taken seriously? Or would they just say, "Of course they're smiling! They're playing on a beach and haven't done a real days work in their lives."

Would they be surprised to learn that while we're blessed beyond measure, we may not be as uniformly thrilled as the pictures imply? Given great-great-grandpops expression above, I'm sure he'd have a thing or two to say about it.

The pig is wise

2010-07-15T11:41:00.002-04:00

Pearls Before Swine by Stephan Pastis

Bad day in Detroit

2010-07-14T11:46:00.009-04:00

To the left is a screenshot taken from the Detroit Free Press website last night showing their most popular news stories.

Let's see ... woman has sex with her son. 15 year old stripper busted (again). Man shot. Former mayor arraigned. Two men keep a sex slave. Punk rockers accused of rape.

Oh, and a grandmother killed someone with an ax.

Yikes!

I knew Detroit had problems, but this is enough to shake one's faith in humanity. At least there's U of M football to lighten things up.

Charlie the chickpea?

2010-07-12T23:08:00.007-04:00

Late last night I had a craving for tuna salad but couldn't find a can of tuna in the pantry. (Of course, I found it this afternoon. Sigh.) I recently received a recipe for "mock tuna salad," and since I could find the chickpeas, I decided to give that a go.

I use the term recipe loosely. It's really as simple as replacing the tuna with smashed chickpeas and then proceeding as you normally would for tuna salad. In my case, this meant adding 2 T mayo, 1 T Dijon mustard, 1 t sweet relish, salt, pepper, and a little onion to one can of rinsed, drained, and smashed chickpeas.

The dish certainly looked like tuna salad - eerily so! While the taste wasn't exactly the same, the texture was very close. Spread it on toast, add a slice of lettuce, and you've got a remarkable facsimile of the original. Next time I'll add a slice of cheese and try it as a not-tuna melt.

Photo by Endless Simmer

From the mouths of cats

2010-07-10T16:26:00.004-04:00

Get Fuzzy by Darby Conley

Mocha madness

2010-07-08T11:58:00.014-04:00

I made it over 30 years without coffee. Somehow, within months of having my first iced mocha, I've become hooked on the stuff.

It started in Hawaii. We were passing through the Kona coffee fields, and I wanted to try a sample to see what the fuss was all about. We stopped in at a local coffee shop, and I ordered an iced mocha, thinking that the cold and dash of chocolate would make the bitterness more palatable.

To my surprise, there was no bitterness to be found. Instead, this coffee tasted like coffee smelled (translation: delicious!). I found myself wishing for less chocolate and more of the intriguing taste of the Kona beans. Heresy!

Only after ordering some iced coffees back home did I realize how special the Kona version was. Either the bitterness had returned or the flavor was flat or, in the case of mochas, it was essentially chocolate milk with barely a hint of coffee. Add to this the mounting calories (300+ in some cases!) and $3-4 price tag, and my new habit was getting less appealing by the second.

But I still wanted more.

My idea to solve the problem by buying Kona beans and making my own drinks came to a screeching halt when I learned that 100% Kona coffee sells for upwards of $30 per pound. Um. Yeah, that's not gonna work.

Plus, making iced coffee wasn't as simple as brewing a cup and adding ice cubes. Apparently, chilling hot brewed coffee brings back the dreaded bitterness. No wonder my iced drinks were so loaded up with milk and chocolate. Hiding beneath the additions was a pretty unpalatable cup of coffee.

Bah!

My friend John referred me to a New York Times article on cold brewing. As I read more, I realized that this might be my solution. Not only is the method (essentially "add coffee and water to jar, wait, strain") easy, it doesn't require fancy equipment and is perfect for iced drinks. Even better, the process removes both acidity and bitterness from the coffee.

While purists say some subtle flavors are lost, most reviews claim that cold brewing creates the best cup of coffee they've ever tried. If you don't like cold drinks, you can add water to the coffee concentrate you create and microwave it. Super high quality instant coffee!

Now that I've solved that issue, all I need to decide is which brand to try. And whether to grind myself. Oh, and what kind of grinder I need to do the job.

Who knew coffee was so complicated?

Photo by CurryPuffy

What lies above

2010-07-07T22:25:00.016-04:00

The previous owners of our house were smokers.

Heavy smokers.

While we never met them in person, one step into our master bathroom made their habit abundantly clear. Remember when bowling alleys allowed smoking, and merely walking in was an assault on your senses? Yeah, it was something like that.

Since the smell hadn't spread to the rest of the house, we figured it wouldn't be that hard to handle the master bath and restore things to normal. This involved priming and painting the yellowed ceiling, removing some discolored insulation, and replacing the yellowed bath fans and duct work. Unfortunately the darkened beams in the attic would have to stay.

Things didn't get scary until we removed the bathroom fans and several brown globs fell to the floor. Upon closer inspection, we realized they were what can only be described as nicotine fur. Yes, you read that right: nicotine fur. Imagine clumps of dark brown hair from an animal, only powdery and reeking of cigarette smoke.

Oy!

Kurt filled a plastic grocery bag with what was in the fan alone, and more stretched into the existing ductwork. The sheer mass of it was disturbing. We said, 'What must their lungs look like?!?' more times than I can count.

I wonder if the couple who lived here had any idea just how much gunk they were inhaling. It's one thing to know that smoking is dangerous and another to pull handfuls of debris out of the ceiling.

In retrospect, I wish we'd videotaped the process. Not only as an anti-smoking tool for the kids in our life, but also to document the sheer weirdness of it. Hopefully 'nicotine fur' is something we'll never encounter again.

Photo by Lanier67

The handyman blues

2010-07-05T23:33:00.029-04:00

Every home has its issues. Kurt and I thought we'd chosen one with relatively few. We acknowledged upfront that we were definitely not fixer-upper types and tried to choose a home that was move-in ready.

The inspection showed a few problems but nothing that couldn't be resolved in a couple days by a competent handyman. Of course, no one told us what an ordeal it would be to find a competent handyman!

It all started with ... well ... let's call him Ted. Ted was recommended by our realtor as we were negotiating the deal. His estimates were reasonable, and she vouched for the quality of his work. What she neglected to tell us was that Ted has to be "managed". Translation: Ted does nothing without several daily texts (he won't return calls) and much haranguing.

Not knowing this, we left for our honeymoon having given Ted a key to our vacant home and a list of items that needed to be completed before our return at the end of June. We were clear that we wanted these items done before we moved our furniture in.

So off we went to paradise, only to return to find ... nothing. Not one item from the list had been completed. Not only that, but Ted's roofing crew had left a giant dumpster on the drive. Once it was removed, there was an enormous rust stain left on our concrete drive. Ted truly was the gift that kept on giving.

Ted's response to all this: I had no idea you were in a hurry.

We weren't in a hurry! We gave him a whole month to do two days work. How could we fathom that he would consider that a rush job? Added to a couple doubts we had about Ted from our roofing experience, we decided to look elsewhere. Neither of us had the patience to doggedly pursue him to get a few simple things done.

Handyman #2 entered the scene through a recommendation from a well respected local business. We'll call him Troy.

Troy is a nice man, friendly and honest. Unfortunately, Troy is no spring chicken and seems to have a particular aversion to heat. Given that several items to be fixed are located in the attic, this should have given us pause.

One month and five visits later, we have maybe 5% of the items on our list complete. Somehow, Troy usually manages to forget a needed part and ends up putzing around our house without actually accomplishing anything. And forget going into the attic after 9am (which is the earliest he'll come - good luck figuring that one out).

The last straw came on Saturday when Troy failed to show up for his afternoon appointment. Given that he'd removed both bathroom fans and left us without a light and with two gaping holes in the ceiling, this was a problem.

The news (and attitude) when Kurt called him were discouraging at best. No, he wasn't coming. His last job went late, and he was tired. He didn't feel like working anymore this weekend. Maybe he'd see us next week.

You got it. No call to tell us he wasn't coming. No apology. Nada.

Plus, knowing that we currently live out of town (waiting to get the work done before we move furniture in), a postponed date means another 3 hours spent driving for us.

AAARRRRGGGGHHHH!

Kurt came home from the hardware store tonight with a new list of handymen and contractors to call. Surely one of them can show up for two days, bring the necessary equipment, and handle our list of supposedly simple tasks. It can't be that hard, can it?

If nothing else, this whole debacle has convinced me of one thing: I need to become handy. If I have my way, this will be the last time I am beholden to someone else to get simple things done in my own home. While I may never do large projects or heavy lifting (or anything in the crawlspace - yuck!), I can learn simple wiring and plumbing and how to diagnose common problems myself.

With a handy father and father-in-law, I won't want for teachers. In fact, my dad spent the first eighteen years of my life trying to teach me just these skills. If only I'd paid attention.

Photo by simone-walsh

Don't step on my green (not) suede shoes

2010-07-03T11:39:00.019-04:00

I need a new pair of sneakers. My Chuck Taylors from 1990-something have finally reached the point of no return, and I am ready for a new pair.

Yes, Chuck Taylors on a 30-something have a certain "aging wannabe hipster" quality to them that is definitely not me. Nonetheless, they have never given me a blister, and when it comes to finding shoes for my difficult feet, that is decisive. Plus, the darn things last forever.

I went to the Converse website to check out my options, only to discover that you can get these shoes in pretty much any color or design you want. You can even custom design a pair and choose everything from the inside liner to the stitching.

I didn't face this decision back when I bought my last pair because then I lived by a simple rule: Navy blue goes with everything. Thus, any "all purpose" accessories were in navy blue. And they did go with everything! Safe. Conservative. Yawn.

Thankfully, my thinking has evolved a bit. While I'm not exactly outlandish, I don't care so much if things coordinate or blend in. Life is short, and I'd prefer vivid colors that make me smile. Thus the bright red iPod and the closet full of vibrant t-shirts.

So I sorted through the options for Chucks. Yellow would be fun, since it's the one color I must absolutely never wear near my face, or maybe orange since it's so relentlessly cheerful. Grape was tempting until I saw Ali wear a pair on The Bachelorette. Somehow, it lost its pizzazz after that.

I finally whittled it down to what should have been obvious from the start. I'll just get my favorite color: green. I mentioned my idea to Kurt, and he got his "skeptical but indulgent" expression. (I see this often.) The term "clown shoes" came into play.

Huh.

A decade ago, this would have driven me back to navy or charcoal, but I decided I don't really care anymore. If clown shoes make me smile, clown shoes it will be.

The only thing left to decide: kelly or piquant?

Photo by SEOULMAN66

The best advice I ever ignored

2010-06-30T14:40:00.017-04:00

When I left college and moved into my first house, the seller gave me some parting advice: Start getting rid of stuff now.

He was heading to Florida after nearly 30 years and was overwhelmed at how much he'd accumulated. Even with garage sales and kids coming to town to take some of it, he still had more than he knew what to do with.

Of course, I was young (and stupid) and paid no heed. 14 years later, I am paying for my mistake.

As I pack up to move to a new home with Kurt, I am shocked at how much stuff I've acquired. When it's spread throughout the house, it doesn't seem like much, but consolidated into boxes, it reaches absurd proportions.

And I'm only one person! And not even a shopper! I can't image how much a family of four must have to deal with if they're ever crazy enough to move.

The problem isn't so much the boxing up and hauling off (although that's no fun), it's the deciding. Do I want to keep this? Is it worth moving? I know I haven't used this in five years, but someday it might be handy! Would Goodwill even take this?

Aaarrgggghhh!

The upshot of this experience is that the bar has been raised for me to buy something in the future. Stuff is clearly the enemy, and I want no more of it than I truly need.

Maybe someday I can tell this to a young person buying my home. No doubt they'll pay no attention.

Photo by mpopp

Psychoanalysis in a cone

2010-06-28T15:22:00.026-04:00

Who knew that ice cream could be so revealing? A couple recent trips out for dessert have been very telling about Kurt's and my personalities.

Our differences are first apparent when it comes time to choose a flavor. I take a glance, see something intriguing, and call it done. Kurt ... mulls. And mulls. And then mulls some more. Then he asks for a sample. And, you guessed it, mulls.

The upshot to all this mulling and sampling: he orders vanilla.

Haw! I think the fact that I find this charming bodes well (both for our relationship and my sanity).

I never order vanilla. I know what vanilla tastes like. I want Hawaiian tropic (which I had at Ono Gelato in Paia, HI - heaven!) or coffee toffee or cantaloupe. Something I've never tried before. And no sampling - the surprise is half the fun!

My Kurt wants a sure thing, something familiar and delicious that he knows he'll enjoy. He's all about life's simple pleasures. Thus, vanilla. (He does step out now and then and more often than not says, "I shoulda had vanilla.")

On our trip to Huddles last weekend, another difference emerged. Huddles offers 8 flavors of frozen yogurt in a self-serve fashion and a couple dozen toppings ranging from coconut to M&Ms to fresh raspberries.

Kurt added a few berries and called it good. Me? I raided the bar. Gummi bears, mochi, chocolate chips, berries. I'd have added more, but a line was forming.

Again, Kurt keeps it simple. Reliable. Alright .. and healthy. Me? I unleash my inner five year old.

While we may never be able to share a dish of ice cream, I think these differences are healthy. He's the responsible one who advises caution and makes sure things work out well for us. I lighten things up and make sure we have spontaneity and new experiences. He reminds me of the simple pleasures of daily life. I take us on great adventures. We're both better for the balance, I think.

Photo by roboppy

Getting my geek on

2010-06-26T00:08:00.002-04:00

Worth a look?

2010-06-24T21:25:00.019-04:00

A sign caught out eye when we were in Hawaii last month: Coming soon ~ Braco and His Healing Gaze. There was a picture of a man with long hair, staring into the camera with a small, faintly creepy smile.

Reading on, I learned this was a Croatian healer named Braco, and for only $8, I could spend 6 minutes staring into his eyes in a hotel ballroom. Um ...

Sign me up!!!

Not that I believe that Braco can heal me, but what a wonderfully bizarre ~~scam~~ experience. What would the other gazees be like? Does Braco ever bust out laughing? Unfortunately, Kurt didn't think extending our time in Hawaii for my 6 minutes with Braco was a good plan. Husbands.

So I googled, hoping Braco might make his way to the midwest. What was I thinking? He'll be in Honolulu, Kona, and Maui. Braco is no fool.

Photo by katharina_z

Maui must-do: Haleakala

2010-06-22T12:21:00.023-04:00

The Haleakala volcano is the most beautiful pain in the butt you'll ever encounter (unless you run into Naomi Campbell on a bad day). You drive two hours up a winding road with occasional guard rails to 10k feet only to experience bitter cold, relentless winds, and unpredictable weather. The fact that you just left the glorious warmth of the Maui beaches makes the experience all the more harsh. In spite of the difficulty, I can wholeheartedly say that our trip to the summit of Haleakala was one of the highlights of our stay in Maui.

My tip to maximize the fun and minimize the pain?

Skip sunrise and take in the sunset! Everyone talks about sunrise on Haleakala. It's (in)famous, and tourists get up at 3am (!!!), drive up a mountain in the dark, fight through crowds, and don protective gear just to experience the first rays of light peeking over the caldera. While I have no doubt that sunrise is beautiful, sunset is also stunning and offers several advantages.

1) Sleep ~ Unless you've just arrived and are still on mainland time, a 3am wake-up on vacation is probably not your idea of a good time. By going at sunset you can have lunch, enjoy the afternoon in Kula, and still arrive in plenty of time.

2) Traffic ~ Since the crowds want to see the famous Haleakala sunrise, the two lane road is often backed up all the way down the mountain. Some people never make it to the top and get to enjoy the sunrise over the switchbacks in bumper to bumper traffic. Definitely not worth getting up early for.

3) Parking ~ Even if you make it to the summit in time for sunrise, you will need a place to put your car. The lots fill up early, especially at the prime lookout points. In contrast, on the day we visited at sunset, the main lot was less than half full.

4) Warmth ~ By no means is sunset on Haleakala warm, but standing outside during the last warmth of the day sure beats standing out during the coldest part of the night. By the time the temperature starts to drop, you will be back in the car with the heater cranked up, heading down to dinner. Regardless of when you go, plan to bring long pants, closed toed shoes, and a jacket, preferably with a hood. Some hotels have blankets they will loan you as well. This isn't paranoia. With temps 30 degrees below the beach communities and winds up to 40mph, you will need all the layers you can get.

5) Wind ~ The wind generally comes from the east at the summit. This means those wanting to view the sunrise must face into the wind, while those there for sunset have the wind at their back.

Good luck if you choose to go! I hope you are rewarded with conditions as wonderful as we enjoyed and a view as beautiful as this:

Breaking news: Snowball is a girl car

2010-06-21T13:34:00.005-04:00

Can't say I didn't see this coming. A recent study found that Honda CR-Vs (like my beloved Snowball) are more apt to be registered to women than to men. Other "girl cars" were the Volkswagen Beetle, Hyundai Tuscon, and Nissan Rogue.

While none of this was exactly news, a couple of the findings were surprising to me. First, where's the mini-van? Surely, the ultimate "mom car" would have more female registrations than male ones. I bet this is because only 36% of cars in the US are registered to women, meaning not all drivers are technically car owners. Perhaps families like to keep it simple by having all of the car registrations in one name? Maybe men are more apt to "take one for the team" and handle the unpleasantness of car buying for the family?

The second fact that surprised me was that the Bugatti (a sportscar - for those of you like myself who had never heard of one) was owned exclusively by men in the US. 100%. You don't see numbers like that very often. I wonder how long until a woman with $200k to spare changes that.

Even vegetarians need a little love (and hot dogs!)

2010-06-20T23:00:00.016-04:00

I've blogged before about my life list - my compilation of things I am intent on experiencing (not so much accomplishing, it's not that kind of list) before I go paws up. One item on the list is "have a hot dog at the ballpark". Given that I don't eat mammals, this one seemed unlikely. I thought I might stumble upon a turkey dog at the ballpark, but it never occurred to me that a veggie dog was an option.

Until my father-in-law mailed me PETA's list of the Top Ten Vegetarian Friendly Ballparks. Not only do parks serving veggie dogs exist, I could even get one on my annual visit to Comerica Park (#7) in Detroit. Wahoo! The past two years I made do with nachos or chicken gyros (good, but not exactly traditional) when the whole time there were veggie dogs waiting to be found.

Last weekend, I visited Comerica to watch the Tigers beat the Pirates and knock #92 off my life list. Before the game started, I headed to the Brushfire Grill along the third base line where the dogs were supposedly sold. I'll admit I was skeptical. The Detroit crowd just didn't seem like a veggie dog lovin' bunch (I still wonder how many they sell during a given game - I'm guessing single digits).

Not only did the Brushfire Grill have veggie dogs, they also had veggie burgers and vegetarian Italian sausage. I had found the promised land! I ordered a veggie dog basket (2 dogs, not-so-delicious cole slaw, and chips), loaded the dogs up with mustard and relish, and headed to my seat.

Other than a few flecks that you wouldn't find in a beef/pork/random parts dog, the veggie dogs were indistinguishable from the real thing (confirmed by my carnivorous husband who snagged a bite). They also felt more right than chicken gyros ever could.

Handwriting fail

2010-06-19T15:38:00.016-04:00

We had a power outage last night. 14 hours with no lights and no water (since we're on a well). While it was fun at first, around hour 12, we were no longer amused. To pass the time, I decided to write out a story that Kurt and I came up with in Hawaii. Not wanting to burn through my last hour of battery life, I chose to handwrite the tale and type it up later.

No one told me that handwriting falls into the 'use it or lose it' category of skills. About halfway through the first page, my hand was uncomfortable and legibility was fading fast. As I thought about it, I realized that other than signing my name (given the scrawl, it can only loosely be called "writing"), I hardly ever write anything by hand anymore.

This got me wondering if they even teach handwriting to kids these days. Obviously, you need to know how to write, but I don't see the value in spending hours perfecting one's cursive.

Of course, handwriting lessons were questionable even in my day. It only took one look at the teacher's signature page of our yearbook to see that teachers didn't write in the formal script they were teaching us.

In second grade I took this as license to write however I darn well pleased. My reward: a "C" in handwriting. Despite my valid reasoning that if you could read it, how "wrong" could it be, the ~~fascist~~ teacher wouldn't budge and my C stood. Instead of fighting the power, I sold out and jumped through her hoops (I was only 8!) and got As from then on. If she could only see me now.

Image by AndrewBuck

Pointless loyalty

2010-06-18T11:47:00.011-04:00

This afternoon, Kurt and I are heading to the Michigan State Campus. As always, we'll feed the ducks and then head to the Dairy Store for a cone.

In addition to several rotating flavors, the Dairy Store stocks a selection of flavors named after Big 10 (Big 13? 57?) teams, such as Buckeye Blitz, Nittany White, and Purdue Tracks.

Being an IU alumna, I feel compelled to order the Hoosier Strawberry. Not because strawberry is my favorite (it isn't), but out of some warped sense of loyalty to ol' IU.

Does it matter? No. Does anyone care? Clearly not.

Still, I can't quite pass up the chance to represent the alma mater, even in a completely meaningless way. Maybe they will run out, and I'll try something new. Anything but Purdue Tracks ...

Photo by kern.justin

La-di-da-di-da

2010-06-17T14:09:00.014-04:00

There are two ways to approach life. One involves planning and analyzing and taking control of situations. The other involves heading off blindly in pursuit of whatever catches your fancy, assuming things will work themselves out along the way. It goes without saying that my academic, detail-oriented husband favors the first method. Me? Not so much. While I obsessively stake out Things I Must Do (or Eat or See) on vacation, I forget details like operating hours and addresses and maps. Kurt calls it the "La-di-da-di-da method". To his chagrin, my system, which should absolutely not work, manages to work like a charm.

Case in point:

We were returning to Kailua-Kona for our last two nights on the Big Island. I had made reservations (See, I can plan!) at a cute little inn called the Hula Girl. As we arrived in town after dark, Kurt turned to me and asked, "What's the address?" Me: "Um ...." I scrambled through my bag with my plane reservations and lists of Things We Must Do, but there was no address to be found. In my defense, I did print out an email from the Hula Girl. Unfortunately, it wasn't quite the right email and contained no address or directions. Even when I try to be organized, my subconscious thwarts me.

At this point, we were tired from a long day of sightseeing and horseback riding and wanted nothing more than to get out of the car and settled in our room. We tried the number listed at the bottom of the email but got voicemail. While Kurt considered the situation (and looked chagrined), I said, "No worries! We'll just drive until we find it. How hard can it be?"

He stared at me.

"Seriously," I said, "It's yellow. Yellow! No problem. How many yellow houses can there be?"

He stared some more but finally started driving down the nearest major street. As we turned down a residential street, I could tell that he wasn't feeling my plan.

"Ok," I said, "Let's turn around and go to the internet cafe. We can get the address from the website there."

He instantly perked up and headed to the nearest point where he could turn around. As he was driving, he said (half joking, half exasperated), "It could be anywhere! I mean, it could be that house." He pointed at a nearby house.

Wait. That house was yellow. And three stories. And had shutters.

"Turn in!" I yelled. "I think that's it!"

He pulled into the drive, and we both gawked up at the house. Surely, it couldn't be .. and yet ....

A man approached, and I rolled down my window.

"Rebecca?" he asked, smiling. Kurt gaped.

Me? La-di-da-di-da.

Photo by incurable_hippie