I've been watching it silently for a while, just shaking my head as the leaders of our country are spiraling into debt and bailing out private companies. I can't help that it bothers me. And what it all boils down to is that these companies--particularly the people who are running these companies--don't have any accountability for their decisions.
I'm aware that my savings and retirement are hurting right now. That's how this all works. That's how the stock market works--it goes up and down. I'm no economist (I got a B in my class in college), but I am a parent. And this is what I understand:
If your child (let's name her AIG-gie) makes a mistake, she needs to suffer the consequences. She needs to learn so that she can correct the mistakes in the future and not let this happen again.
If your other child (let's name him Ford) sees you save his sister Aig, you're probably going to have to help him too. Because after all, we don't want to show our children unfairness. They will both be expecting subsequent help in the future too; when the next mistakes come because they never learned their lesson the first time.
This all seems so simple. But we are fast becoming the nation of no accountability. If you've been reaping the benefits of good investments (houses) for the last ten years, making $100,000 here and there, then it's all your profit. But if the market goes down and you lose $100,000, then someone should come in, buy your mortgage up and only make you pay for its current value. This is ridiculous. It's basic parenting--teach your children accountability. Make them suffer their loses; they're big kids now.
And as a side note, STOP dropping the interest rate: It's hurting those of us with savings and helping those who have high debt. What happened to rewarding your kids that made good decisions?
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Home Sweet Vacation Home
It was something that Bianca said when we were returning to the house on the water that we rented for the week in Bath, Maine. "Home Sweet Vacation Home." It was as comfortable as you can get being miles away from home--plenty of rooms, our very own dock, and a wood-burning fireplace (why do I want one of those so badly? the wood is so messy.).
We didn't fill our week up--rather, the highlight of each day was usually where we were going to eat our lobster for dinner that night. (Good thing that clam chowder is big there too; Bianca professes it is her favorite food.) We did go visit a lighthouse one day--you probably know it, it's the lighthouse that appears on Maine's state quarter. And surprisingly enough, there were waves swelling there which were the only waves we saw while we were in Maine that weren't produced from a windy thunderstorm.
We read a lot, slept a lot, picked through the rocky beach a lot, ate a lot a lot of lobster. And it was truly what I think a vacation should be--relaxing.
It's a common thing we do, though, when we visit some place we love: we plot how we're going to eventually move there. We decide how Eric will detach himself from his job (which is really never going to happen), how we're going to sell our house (which in this market, is never going to happen), how Bianca is going to go to a new school and have all new friends and will be able to play on the beach all day long (maybe in the summers, but that's never going to happen). It's okay. We like to dream about it. That's part of the fun of the vacation.
We're back now. At least I can look back on the pictures and remember how relaxed I was. I'm still reading my relaxing book about Cape Cod that lulled me to sleep every time I tried to read it in the cool Maine afternoon sun (the subtle waves on the dock didn't hurt things either).
After writing this, I'm feeling a little sleepy. I think I'll go take a nap now.
We didn't fill our week up--rather, the highlight of each day was usually where we were going to eat our lobster for dinner that night. (Good thing that clam chowder is big there too; Bianca professes it is her favorite food.) We did go visit a lighthouse one day--you probably know it, it's the lighthouse that appears on Maine's state quarter. And surprisingly enough, there were waves swelling there which were the only waves we saw while we were in Maine that weren't produced from a windy thunderstorm.
We read a lot, slept a lot, picked through the rocky beach a lot, ate a lot a lot of lobster. And it was truly what I think a vacation should be--relaxing.
It's a common thing we do, though, when we visit some place we love: we plot how we're going to eventually move there. We decide how Eric will detach himself from his job (which is really never going to happen), how we're going to sell our house (which in this market, is never going to happen), how Bianca is going to go to a new school and have all new friends and will be able to play on the beach all day long (maybe in the summers, but that's never going to happen). It's okay. We like to dream about it. That's part of the fun of the vacation.
We're back now. At least I can look back on the pictures and remember how relaxed I was. I'm still reading my relaxing book about Cape Cod that lulled me to sleep every time I tried to read it in the cool Maine afternoon sun (the subtle waves on the dock didn't hurt things either).
After writing this, I'm feeling a little sleepy. I think I'll go take a nap now.
Friday, July 25, 2008
A humane way to take care of garden pests--sort of
We have a garden. Not a very good one, I'll admit. It's covered in weeds and this year all we did was plant a couple tomato and sweet pepper starts, then let our strawberry plants and green onions grow again from last year.
But we seem to be bearing fruit. In fact, we usually get a bowl or so of strawberries each time we make the trek out to the weed-filled garden. Sometimes our strawberries are nibbled on. We found out recently that roly polies (or as most of you call them, potato bugs) have been the culprits. And I don't know what to do with them. But I figured out a way to get rid of our snails, who also happen to find strawberries delectable.
You see, Bianca loves bugs and critters of all kinds. And when I'm weeding (yes, I do try but I never seem to get very far), I call out to Bianca that I found a snail. She comes running. She's already named an entire family of snails--There's Sally, the mother; Stan, the father; then there's Sonya, Sam, and Sara. Just to name a few. We recycle the names each year. Sally appears to come back each year, along with the entire family.
But playing with the snails is somehow eliminating them. Bianca takes the snails and creates fun little snail camps on Bug Mountain, which is a big rock used in the landscaping in our neighbor's yard. Then she builds slides out of sticks and obstacle courses with smaller rocks. There are leaves for tents. It goes on and on. She even tried to organize a snail "day care" for the baby and toddler snails.
The weird thing is, she doesn't take them that far. But everytime we return to "bug mountain", it's littered with snail shells. Somehow the snails died. I don't know how or why this happens--maybe the salt from her hands, is that possible?--but it does. And it keeps our snail population down. Seems humane enough to me. At least no one's stomping onto the snail's shell or sprinkling salt on them.
I don't know what I'm going to do about the roly poly population though. I let Bianca play with them too, but it doesn't seem to kill them. Any ideas?
But we seem to be bearing fruit. In fact, we usually get a bowl or so of strawberries each time we make the trek out to the weed-filled garden. Sometimes our strawberries are nibbled on. We found out recently that roly polies (or as most of you call them, potato bugs) have been the culprits. And I don't know what to do with them. But I figured out a way to get rid of our snails, who also happen to find strawberries delectable.
You see, Bianca loves bugs and critters of all kinds. And when I'm weeding (yes, I do try but I never seem to get very far), I call out to Bianca that I found a snail. She comes running. She's already named an entire family of snails--There's Sally, the mother; Stan, the father; then there's Sonya, Sam, and Sara. Just to name a few. We recycle the names each year. Sally appears to come back each year, along with the entire family.
But playing with the snails is somehow eliminating them. Bianca takes the snails and creates fun little snail camps on Bug Mountain, which is a big rock used in the landscaping in our neighbor's yard. Then she builds slides out of sticks and obstacle courses with smaller rocks. There are leaves for tents. It goes on and on. She even tried to organize a snail "day care" for the baby and toddler snails.
The weird thing is, she doesn't take them that far. But everytime we return to "bug mountain", it's littered with snail shells. Somehow the snails died. I don't know how or why this happens--maybe the salt from her hands, is that possible?--but it does. And it keeps our snail population down. Seems humane enough to me. At least no one's stomping onto the snail's shell or sprinkling salt on them.
I don't know what I'm going to do about the roly poly population though. I let Bianca play with them too, but it doesn't seem to kill them. Any ideas?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
It only took me a couple days . . .
to undo a year's worth of work. When Eric returned last night from his trip to Dallas with his arms filled with my girls, I nearly exploded. I missed them so much. I plucked Portia from her stroller. She looked at me as if I was sort of familiar to her. But when Eric turned around to go back to get his luggage, Portia started crying. Like she used to do everytime I walked out of a room.
Yes, I guess that's what happens when he takes the girls for a weekend, to let me have a break. He covered diapers, feedings, holdings, everything that Portia demands. I missed them, but all the while I couldn't help but think there's no way he can do it. But proved me wrong. He did it. And he turned into the preferred parent in four days flat.
Maybe she knew the entire time I was relishing just lying on the couch, relaxing, not a thought or whiff of a dirty diaper even close to my mind. Eating out, shopping, being so relieved I wasn't hurrying back to anything or anyone. I feel a little guilty. My sister Susannah came without her kids. We talked and watched movies and went on long walks with more talking and ate out and shopped and then shopped again. I did make a discovery on Monday whilst at the mall--I'm officially off the Gymboree wagon. I actually think the girls clothes at Gap Kids are cuter than Gymboree's right now. Although my girls were far away, I couldn't help but relieve my guilt by buying them pretty new things. And yes, it helped.
The weekend is now over, all a distance memory. My leisurely afternoons laying on the couch writing and napping are long gone. I don't know if I'll ever get a kid break again. But already Portia's starting to warm back up to me. She didn't cry when Eric left for work this morning. I'll change a couple more diapers and I'll be back in the the preferred spot. So, yeah, I guess it was worth it for one stress-free weekend.
Yes, I guess that's what happens when he takes the girls for a weekend, to let me have a break. He covered diapers, feedings, holdings, everything that Portia demands. I missed them, but all the while I couldn't help but think there's no way he can do it. But proved me wrong. He did it. And he turned into the preferred parent in four days flat.
Maybe she knew the entire time I was relishing just lying on the couch, relaxing, not a thought or whiff of a dirty diaper even close to my mind. Eating out, shopping, being so relieved I wasn't hurrying back to anything or anyone. I feel a little guilty. My sister Susannah came without her kids. We talked and watched movies and went on long walks with more talking and ate out and shopped and then shopped again. I did make a discovery on Monday whilst at the mall--I'm officially off the Gymboree wagon. I actually think the girls clothes at Gap Kids are cuter than Gymboree's right now. Although my girls were far away, I couldn't help but relieve my guilt by buying them pretty new things. And yes, it helped.
The weekend is now over, all a distance memory. My leisurely afternoons laying on the couch writing and napping are long gone. I don't know if I'll ever get a kid break again. But already Portia's starting to warm back up to me. She didn't cry when Eric left for work this morning. I'll change a couple more diapers and I'll be back in the the preferred spot. So, yeah, I guess it was worth it for one stress-free weekend.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
My happiest place on earth
We went to California Adventures and Disneyland while we were in California. They have this two-for-one deal for southern California residents (which my sister is), so we spent one day at each.
But unfortunately, everytime I leave the state, my kids get sick. Susannah and I decided it's because our kids aren't "immune" to the specific germs at a specific place. So exactly three days after we arrived in California, both Bianca and Portia ended up with a cough. What's worse is that Portia was running a fever as well. But we forged on and went to the "happiest place[s] on earth" anyway.
However, it's not quite as happy when the kids are sick. It was a great week to go. Hardly any lines. We zipped through everything. On Monday, we started out at A Bug's Life at California Adventures. Portia really loved Heimlich's Chew Chew Train (I liked it too). And I loved that she could ride a lot of those rides. Around lunch time, we decided to split up. Bianca wanted to do Ariel's Grotto again (which is the restaurant where five princesses come to your table while you're eating and you can talk to them and have pictures taken). Last time, Susannah was with me and the princesses all tried to kiss Ethan on the cheek and he hated it. Never wanted to go back. The food is mediocre and costs an adult $27.99 and a child $15.99. But it was important to Bianca, so we went.
Unfortunately, Portia's fever started escalating as we sat at the table. And she sat there crying (the only time the crying stopped was when she was yawning). And everytime a princess came too close to us, Portia screamed uncontrollably. She wouldn't even eat the mashed potatoes she normally loves. After thirty minutes, I sat there in a daze and wondered exactly why I came here. My food was cold because I was agitated with all the crying. The music in the background was forcing Zippity Do Da into our ears, fighting against Portia's crying. (Portia: I'm not Happy. Music: You are Happy. Back and forth, back and forth, and so on.)
Finally, I got Portia to stop crying, she was lying against me and nearly falling asleep, when the server came up and asked me if we were ready for our dessert. I asked, Can I just hang out for a bit? I finally got my baby to stop crying. She responded, you have an 80-minute limit to this table. I sent her away. We weren't even close to our 80 minutes. I was ready to scream.
As everyone else was filing out, they stopped by, saying obvious things like, your baby hasn't stopped crying this entire time. I nodded my head, yes, and let them go on with their happiest day at the happiest place on earth. I paid for our mediocre food and was never so happy to be out of that "happy" place. Bianca said she never wanted to go back to the restaurant again either.
Portia was sick on and off until yesterday when I finally decided enough was enough. I packed my car and took off after a 20-minute stint at the beach. I drove straight through. The poor baby was feverish and uncomfortable and unhappy. I pulled in to my garage at 12:30 and took Portia's temperature. She was still teetering around 102 degrees. I've accepted that Disneyland will use whatever motto they need to make people believe they're happiest there, but I've never been so happy to sink into my husband's arms in my own bed at home, my happiest place on earth.
But unfortunately, everytime I leave the state, my kids get sick. Susannah and I decided it's because our kids aren't "immune" to the specific germs at a specific place. So exactly three days after we arrived in California, both Bianca and Portia ended up with a cough. What's worse is that Portia was running a fever as well. But we forged on and went to the "happiest place[s] on earth" anyway.
However, it's not quite as happy when the kids are sick. It was a great week to go. Hardly any lines. We zipped through everything. On Monday, we started out at A Bug's Life at California Adventures. Portia really loved Heimlich's Chew Chew Train (I liked it too). And I loved that she could ride a lot of those rides. Around lunch time, we decided to split up. Bianca wanted to do Ariel's Grotto again (which is the restaurant where five princesses come to your table while you're eating and you can talk to them and have pictures taken). Last time, Susannah was with me and the princesses all tried to kiss Ethan on the cheek and he hated it. Never wanted to go back. The food is mediocre and costs an adult $27.99 and a child $15.99. But it was important to Bianca, so we went.
Unfortunately, Portia's fever started escalating as we sat at the table. And she sat there crying (the only time the crying stopped was when she was yawning). And everytime a princess came too close to us, Portia screamed uncontrollably. She wouldn't even eat the mashed potatoes she normally loves. After thirty minutes, I sat there in a daze and wondered exactly why I came here. My food was cold because I was agitated with all the crying. The music in the background was forcing Zippity Do Da into our ears, fighting against Portia's crying. (Portia: I'm not Happy. Music: You are Happy. Back and forth, back and forth, and so on.)
Finally, I got Portia to stop crying, she was lying against me and nearly falling asleep, when the server came up and asked me if we were ready for our dessert. I asked, Can I just hang out for a bit? I finally got my baby to stop crying. She responded, you have an 80-minute limit to this table. I sent her away. We weren't even close to our 80 minutes. I was ready to scream.
As everyone else was filing out, they stopped by, saying obvious things like, your baby hasn't stopped crying this entire time. I nodded my head, yes, and let them go on with their happiest day at the happiest place on earth. I paid for our mediocre food and was never so happy to be out of that "happy" place. Bianca said she never wanted to go back to the restaurant again either.
Portia was sick on and off until yesterday when I finally decided enough was enough. I packed my car and took off after a 20-minute stint at the beach. I drove straight through. The poor baby was feverish and uncomfortable and unhappy. I pulled in to my garage at 12:30 and took Portia's temperature. She was still teetering around 102 degrees. I've accepted that Disneyland will use whatever motto they need to make people believe they're happiest there, but I've never been so happy to sink into my husband's arms in my own bed at home, my happiest place on earth.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Just a little drive . . .
with a six-year-old and a ten-month-old that lasted for ten hours straight. Okay, I did finally make it to California at midnight on Friday night, but it wasn't easy.
The first three and a half hours were nice, until we reached St. George where we stopped at Red Lobster for dinner. Only then did I realize that using the restroom was going to be a problem. How was I going to hold the baby (who screams if I step two feet away from her) and use the bathroom? Yes, I finally decided the only way was to have Bianca hold her. She sat on the floor (yuck!) and held her, and Portia still cried the entire time. I had to do it again at a gas station in Las Vegas (after getting stuck in horrible traffic that set me back an hour), but this time I would not let Bianca sit on the floor and the baby nearly slid out of her arms.
It was a scary gas station. When I walked in, a homeless man was yelling at the cashier about something being illegal (I never figured out what that was as Bianca was doing the pee-dance and really had to get in there). But I locked the doors of my car while we went in, got in the car, locked up immediately and then drove off. As we were waiting at the stop light to get onto the freeway, I realized one of the lights in the car was on. I had Bianca open and shut her door three times, but that clearly wasn't it. I had to get on the freeway, then exit again and pull off onto the side of the road. As I was going around the back of the car, I realized the back light was shining on. So, I opened the back quickly, shut it hard, then saw that the light went out. I got back onto the freeway again and started thinking--how did my back door get dislodged? I hadn't opened it when I stopped in St. George or at the gas station. Then I started to panic that someone had tried to break in. It wasn't until I called Eric and he sufficiently freaked me out by asking if I checked closely enough to make sure someone hadn't hidden in the back of the car. The next exit was Stateline where I pulled off yet AGAIN and parked in the lightest part of a casino parking lot, opened the trunk and found to my relief that it was packed with nothing more than the bags I put in there. I double checked both the girls who were sleeping soundly in the back seat to make sure they were okay. By now I was completely paranoid.
As I hung up the phone and felt completely alone, I realized how much I missed my dad. The last time I had driven to California was with him a year and a half ago. Not only that, but taking road trips with my dad is one of my favorite memories of him. He always used to fly out and drive with me when I'd drive home for summers in college. When we went to California two summers ago, he had flown out to Utah because I was planning on taking a road trip on my own. He was always so good about offering to come along on my road trips.
As I passed into California from Nevada, I looked into the empty passenger seat, my hands still trembling from fright, and asked if he was here with me. That gave me a little comfort. For surely he was.
I made it okay finally and am I glad to be here! But I'm not looking forward to the drive back.
The first three and a half hours were nice, until we reached St. George where we stopped at Red Lobster for dinner. Only then did I realize that using the restroom was going to be a problem. How was I going to hold the baby (who screams if I step two feet away from her) and use the bathroom? Yes, I finally decided the only way was to have Bianca hold her. She sat on the floor (yuck!) and held her, and Portia still cried the entire time. I had to do it again at a gas station in Las Vegas (after getting stuck in horrible traffic that set me back an hour), but this time I would not let Bianca sit on the floor and the baby nearly slid out of her arms.
It was a scary gas station. When I walked in, a homeless man was yelling at the cashier about something being illegal (I never figured out what that was as Bianca was doing the pee-dance and really had to get in there). But I locked the doors of my car while we went in, got in the car, locked up immediately and then drove off. As we were waiting at the stop light to get onto the freeway, I realized one of the lights in the car was on. I had Bianca open and shut her door three times, but that clearly wasn't it. I had to get on the freeway, then exit again and pull off onto the side of the road. As I was going around the back of the car, I realized the back light was shining on. So, I opened the back quickly, shut it hard, then saw that the light went out. I got back onto the freeway again and started thinking--how did my back door get dislodged? I hadn't opened it when I stopped in St. George or at the gas station. Then I started to panic that someone had tried to break in. It wasn't until I called Eric and he sufficiently freaked me out by asking if I checked closely enough to make sure someone hadn't hidden in the back of the car. The next exit was Stateline where I pulled off yet AGAIN and parked in the lightest part of a casino parking lot, opened the trunk and found to my relief that it was packed with nothing more than the bags I put in there. I double checked both the girls who were sleeping soundly in the back seat to make sure they were okay. By now I was completely paranoid.
As I hung up the phone and felt completely alone, I realized how much I missed my dad. The last time I had driven to California was with him a year and a half ago. Not only that, but taking road trips with my dad is one of my favorite memories of him. He always used to fly out and drive with me when I'd drive home for summers in college. When we went to California two summers ago, he had flown out to Utah because I was planning on taking a road trip on my own. He was always so good about offering to come along on my road trips.
As I passed into California from Nevada, I looked into the empty passenger seat, my hands still trembling from fright, and asked if he was here with me. That gave me a little comfort. For surely he was.
I made it okay finally and am I glad to be here! But I'm not looking forward to the drive back.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Much Ado About . . . Sleeves?
I'm reading Anne of Green Gables to Bianca--one chapter every night before bed (two if Eric isn't home from work yet to read Harry Potter to her). I'm also reading Romeo and Juliet [This one is because after I read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, the mom in that book always read to the main character from two books each night--The Bible and Shakespeare; after that, I decided that of course I had to implement this into our bedtime routine. Bianca gets to pick which "Shakespeare" she wants next. We've read Midsummer Night's Dream, Tempest, her namesake The Taming of the Shrew, and about eight others already. I'm sure she doesn't really understand what's going on, but it doesn't hurt anything to expose her to the old English while she's young.] But back to Anne, I admit that I've never read Anne of Green Gables before. And I'm loving it!
Okay, so lately, I've been enthralled with all the talk about puffed sleeves going on in the Cuthbert home. Bianca has a "Anne of Green Gables" coloring book that she fills in as I read to her that showed a picture of Anne's new dress with "puffed sleeves" Matthew Cuthbert insisted on. It had four bunches of puffiness--a quadruple puff--each accented with a bow! It made me laugh when Marilla told Anne that there was more material around the sleeves than around the waist. And I'm embarrassed to admit that I actually cried--yes, real tears--when Anne was so overjoyed on Christmas morning to see her dress with the puffed sleeves. It was all she ever wanted.
Which brings me another embarrassing point: I've been infatuated with sleeves lately too. I don't know what it is. Normally I don't care that much about clothes, as long as I'm not out of style I'm good. But I've been fixating on all the fun sleeves you can find on tops and sweaters right now--lantern sleeves, poet sleeves, Juliet sleeves. As Anne would say, they just sound so romantic. How can you not feel poetic while wearing poet sleeves--or better yet, more romantic than wearing Juliet sleeves? As I've been watching Masterpiece Theatre of the Jane Austen movies, the styles they wear is strangely similar to what's "in" right now. It's scary how much I've been buying for myself, and I can't seem to walk by the Juliet sleeves without stopping and looking, manytimes buying.
I know this is just a phase. I'll get over my fascination with sleeves, hopefully Anne does too. [We're not finished with the book yet.] Then I can get back to not caring about clothes and not spending so much on them.
But when these sleeves do go out--and I'm sure they'll date themselves so quickly it'll make my head spin--I don't think I'll be able to bear putting them away. Couldn't I just be that crazy Jane-Austen-loving lady who wears the Juliet sleeves all the time?
Okay, so lately, I've been enthralled with all the talk about puffed sleeves going on in the Cuthbert home. Bianca has a "Anne of Green Gables" coloring book that she fills in as I read to her that showed a picture of Anne's new dress with "puffed sleeves" Matthew Cuthbert insisted on. It had four bunches of puffiness--a quadruple puff--each accented with a bow! It made me laugh when Marilla told Anne that there was more material around the sleeves than around the waist. And I'm embarrassed to admit that I actually cried--yes, real tears--when Anne was so overjoyed on Christmas morning to see her dress with the puffed sleeves. It was all she ever wanted.
Which brings me another embarrassing point: I've been infatuated with sleeves lately too. I don't know what it is. Normally I don't care that much about clothes, as long as I'm not out of style I'm good. But I've been fixating on all the fun sleeves you can find on tops and sweaters right now--lantern sleeves, poet sleeves, Juliet sleeves. As Anne would say, they just sound so romantic. How can you not feel poetic while wearing poet sleeves--or better yet, more romantic than wearing Juliet sleeves? As I've been watching Masterpiece Theatre of the Jane Austen movies, the styles they wear is strangely similar to what's "in" right now. It's scary how much I've been buying for myself, and I can't seem to walk by the Juliet sleeves without stopping and looking, manytimes buying.
I know this is just a phase. I'll get over my fascination with sleeves, hopefully Anne does too. [We're not finished with the book yet.] Then I can get back to not caring about clothes and not spending so much on them.
But when these sleeves do go out--and I'm sure they'll date themselves so quickly it'll make my head spin--I don't think I'll be able to bear putting them away. Couldn't I just be that crazy Jane-Austen-loving lady who wears the Juliet sleeves all the time?
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wikipedia, the most accurate information because. . .
. . . anyone can add to it. I can't remember Michael Scott's exact words about Wikipedia on The Office, but it was something similar to that--it being the most accurate information out there. Ha ha.
However, I was told six months ago, by our close-up editor at the Tribune, that "Wikipedia is not a credible source for information in our articles." Hmmm, I wonder why.
But really, there is a lot you can glean from Wikipedia. I love using it to find out little tidbits of information while working on my novel, like did Julius Caesar's mother really have a C-section? On which street in Key West was Hemingway's house? There really is some good information out there--despite who's adding or changing stuff in there.
For example, Eric and I have been trying to figure out why our local deli can't order us Provel cheese. Provel cheese, what is that? you ask. Well, Provel cheese is the cheese they use on my favorite pizza in St. Louis, Imo's (and appears to be a processed mix of cheddar, Swiss, and provolone cheese--I know now, thank you very much to Wikipedia). You can buy it at deli's in St. Louis, even at Schnuck's. What I found interesting, during my search of Provel cheese on Wikipedia, is that the cheese is really only eaten in the St. Louis area. And the restaurants there use it A LOT! How could everyone else in the world not love it? Even Eric loves it (and he's a professed cheese snob--processed cheese doesn't ever belong on his plate).
After a good half-hour of learning about Provel cheese and whether I can order it online, I started getting the strangest feeling in my stomach. Okay, it wasn't that strange--I've definitely had cravings before as I've gone through three full-term pregnancies--but man did I want some Provel cheese (or an Imo's pizza would do) at that moment. I even dreamed of eating at Imo's last night and that my sister Susannah yelled at James Agne (a boy from grade school) for trying to take the last piece of pizza with the most cheese on it.
I dare you--try it. Is there anything you have a question about? Wikipedia probably knows the answer. Just use it as your starting point and not as your "credible" source.
However, I was told six months ago, by our close-up editor at the Tribune, that "Wikipedia is not a credible source for information in our articles." Hmmm, I wonder why.
But really, there is a lot you can glean from Wikipedia. I love using it to find out little tidbits of information while working on my novel, like did Julius Caesar's mother really have a C-section? On which street in Key West was Hemingway's house? There really is some good information out there--despite who's adding or changing stuff in there.
For example, Eric and I have been trying to figure out why our local deli can't order us Provel cheese. Provel cheese, what is that? you ask. Well, Provel cheese is the cheese they use on my favorite pizza in St. Louis, Imo's (and appears to be a processed mix of cheddar, Swiss, and provolone cheese--I know now, thank you very much to Wikipedia). You can buy it at deli's in St. Louis, even at Schnuck's. What I found interesting, during my search of Provel cheese on Wikipedia, is that the cheese is really only eaten in the St. Louis area. And the restaurants there use it A LOT! How could everyone else in the world not love it? Even Eric loves it (and he's a professed cheese snob--processed cheese doesn't ever belong on his plate).
After a good half-hour of learning about Provel cheese and whether I can order it online, I started getting the strangest feeling in my stomach. Okay, it wasn't that strange--I've definitely had cravings before as I've gone through three full-term pregnancies--but man did I want some Provel cheese (or an Imo's pizza would do) at that moment. I even dreamed of eating at Imo's last night and that my sister Susannah yelled at James Agne (a boy from grade school) for trying to take the last piece of pizza with the most cheese on it.
I dare you--try it. Is there anything you have a question about? Wikipedia probably knows the answer. Just use it as your starting point and not as your "credible" source.
Monday, January 28, 2008
How far is too far--for a habitual liar?
I had to hold myself back from calling her a pathological liar, but in reading the definition, a pathological liar tells lies that are "so bizarre and excessive" and I guess these aren't exactly that bizarre.
It's not the first time I've been connected to a "habitual" liar. When I was in college, I had a roommate that could not physically stop herself from saying things that weren't true. The example that stands out to me the most: One morning, my roommate Tammy heard her car starting out in the parking lot. She looked out the window and saw our other roommate driving off in her car. About a half hour later, Katherine comes back in with groceries. Tammy asked her, "How did you get to the store?" And she replied "My friend Abby drove me."
Now we have a tenant who lies. When you talk to her, you fall in love with her. She's so nice and sweet. But she lies. She lies a lot. She stole one of the other tenant's checks (along w/ the cash she left out for January's rent) and swears someone stole it. She didn't resist too much when we told her she was going to have to pay January's rent again. Almost like she expected it.
A week later, a guy was lurking around the parking lot at the fourplex asking for this tenant. She had bought a new car with a bounced check (I don't know what kind of dealership lets you buy a car w/ a check, but whatever.) Anyway, he was waiting around for her to come out (since the front door is always locked). I called her finally since two of the other tenants called me and told her someone was looking for her outside about the stolen car--I told her it was "something about her new car." She responds "Oh, the windshield has a crack. I had to give him the keys so he could fix it."
I've been fed up. I get calls every other day about her. I just want her gone.
But last night, she called me. She told me that one of the other tenants called her a thief. She proceeds to tell me that she doesn't want to be despised by her housemates and that she has just been diagnosed with cancer. Would we be able to let her out of the lease?
Now I'm stuck. I can't tell if I should believe her about the cancer or if she's just plain out lying and is trying to get out of her lease. I offered a simple truth about me--that I was diagnosed with cancer. I offered, "if you ever need to talk." She said she did, she's been crying all night.
What do you think? Is she lying again?
It's not the first time I've been connected to a "habitual" liar. When I was in college, I had a roommate that could not physically stop herself from saying things that weren't true. The example that stands out to me the most: One morning, my roommate Tammy heard her car starting out in the parking lot. She looked out the window and saw our other roommate driving off in her car. About a half hour later, Katherine comes back in with groceries. Tammy asked her, "How did you get to the store?" And she replied "My friend Abby drove me."
Now we have a tenant who lies. When you talk to her, you fall in love with her. She's so nice and sweet. But she lies. She lies a lot. She stole one of the other tenant's checks (along w/ the cash she left out for January's rent) and swears someone stole it. She didn't resist too much when we told her she was going to have to pay January's rent again. Almost like she expected it.
A week later, a guy was lurking around the parking lot at the fourplex asking for this tenant. She had bought a new car with a bounced check (I don't know what kind of dealership lets you buy a car w/ a check, but whatever.) Anyway, he was waiting around for her to come out (since the front door is always locked). I called her finally since two of the other tenants called me and told her someone was looking for her outside about the stolen car--I told her it was "something about her new car." She responds "Oh, the windshield has a crack. I had to give him the keys so he could fix it."
I've been fed up. I get calls every other day about her. I just want her gone.
But last night, she called me. She told me that one of the other tenants called her a thief. She proceeds to tell me that she doesn't want to be despised by her housemates and that she has just been diagnosed with cancer. Would we be able to let her out of the lease?
Now I'm stuck. I can't tell if I should believe her about the cancer or if she's just plain out lying and is trying to get out of her lease. I offered a simple truth about me--that I was diagnosed with cancer. I offered, "if you ever need to talk." She said she did, she's been crying all night.
What do you think? Is she lying again?
Thursday, January 24, 2008
My family book club
Over Christmas, when we were in Dallas, I bought Bianca book one of the Spiderwick Chronicles. The cover of the book seem like another Harry Potter book, something like that. She finished it in one day and asked for book two. So, instead, I just ordered the entire five-book set.
I never read Harry Potter--merely for the reason that everyone told me I HAD to read it--so I didn't think I'd read this either. I liked the pictures in the books, however, so I thought Bianca would definitely like them. And she did.
But during church on Sunday, while Bianca was reading book two, I leaned over her shoulder--out of boredom--and read too. Suddenly, I found myself scouring her backpack for book one, which Eric had just finished the night before. I then brought Portia home from church to get a nap she desperately needed and sat in front of the fire and finished book one.
We were all trying to convince each other to finish the books we were on, so that they could pass the books along so we could keep reading.
I admit these are not my typical type of book. But the strange thing is, at the beginning of page one, the illustrator thanks Arthur Rackham--an illustrator from the turn of last century who I've collected his books for years--for inspiring him. As I read along, I realized the author made this illustrator (who always drew a lot of goblins/fairies and such) as one of the characters in the book.
We devoured these books in a matter of days. Now we can't wait to get a babysitter for Portia, while the three of us have a "book club" (Bianca calls it) and go to see the movie when it comes out in a couple weeks.
I never read Harry Potter--merely for the reason that everyone told me I HAD to read it--so I didn't think I'd read this either. I liked the pictures in the books, however, so I thought Bianca would definitely like them. And she did.
But during church on Sunday, while Bianca was reading book two, I leaned over her shoulder--out of boredom--and read too. Suddenly, I found myself scouring her backpack for book one, which Eric had just finished the night before. I then brought Portia home from church to get a nap she desperately needed and sat in front of the fire and finished book one.
We were all trying to convince each other to finish the books we were on, so that they could pass the books along so we could keep reading.
I admit these are not my typical type of book. But the strange thing is, at the beginning of page one, the illustrator thanks Arthur Rackham--an illustrator from the turn of last century who I've collected his books for years--for inspiring him. As I read along, I realized the author made this illustrator (who always drew a lot of goblins/fairies and such) as one of the characters in the book.
We devoured these books in a matter of days. Now we can't wait to get a babysitter for Portia, while the three of us have a "book club" (Bianca calls it) and go to see the movie when it comes out in a couple weeks.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Open evenings, writer’s strike
I don't know why the writer's strike bothers me so much. I don't watch that much t.v. It just seems silly that people just stop working. I mean, let's face it, when you work and think you deserve more money, you ask your boss for a raise. If you don't like the answer, you either look for a new job or you just accept it. But a strike just seems so ridiculous. Almost barbaric.
I know what they're thinking: why is Jennifer Anniston getting paid a million and a half per episode and I'm just getting ----. I'm sure it's not that small an amount. And although the shows depend upon the writers, these people chose to be writers--not actors/actresses. They probably aren't pretty enough to be actors/actresses and you just accept whatever talents God's given you. And writers don't usually make that much money (except on the rare occasion like J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter, etc.)
The other reason I'm a little irritated about this is being this is Scrubs LAST season and what if they never finish it off and it's just left hanging. . . I guess I'll live, but it just seriously bothers me. Now, I find myself so much more interested in the presidential election merely because it's the only thing that interests me now [and even that I can only stomach for about 15 minutes]. I still can't handle reality shows. I'm also getting more reading done and have started on a new story.
I guess I should be thankful that they've stopped writing. Do we really need them?
Okay, yes, we do for when we want to stop thinking and just have things happen in front of us while we lounge on the couch. We all have those nights.
Aghhhhh! Stop the stupid strike already!
I know what they're thinking: why is Jennifer Anniston getting paid a million and a half per episode and I'm just getting ----. I'm sure it's not that small an amount. And although the shows depend upon the writers, these people chose to be writers--not actors/actresses. They probably aren't pretty enough to be actors/actresses and you just accept whatever talents God's given you. And writers don't usually make that much money (except on the rare occasion like J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter, etc.)
The other reason I'm a little irritated about this is being this is Scrubs LAST season and what if they never finish it off and it's just left hanging. . . I guess I'll live, but it just seriously bothers me. Now, I find myself so much more interested in the presidential election merely because it's the only thing that interests me now [and even that I can only stomach for about 15 minutes]. I still can't handle reality shows. I'm also getting more reading done and have started on a new story.
I guess I should be thankful that they've stopped writing. Do we really need them?
Okay, yes, we do for when we want to stop thinking and just have things happen in front of us while we lounge on the couch. We all have those nights.
Aghhhhh! Stop the stupid strike already!
Saturday, January 5, 2008
A lot of emphasis on emphasis
I've been learning Spanish. No, I'm not taking a community college class. I've been learning along with Bianca (who fortunately has Spanish once a week in her first-grade class). I figured, why not? Now maybe I can understand what the cleaning ladies are saying while they're cleaning and ensure it's not something bad about me or the cleanliness of my house. Plus, I need to help Bianca study anyway.
But there's one problem. All I see is a list of words in Bianca's homework folder every Monday. I quiz her from a sheet of paper where I'm destroying these words with bad pronounciation (and ruining Bianca's pronunciation in the process). I spent the greater part of the evening during our Christmas in Dallas asking my brother-in-law how to pronounce colors, months, body parts--you get the picture--in Spanish. I was embarressed to find out I'd been butchering the word nariz (nose) from not putting the emphasis in the correct place. It's amazing the difference that makes. It's like a totally different word.
It reminds me of the English word candelabra, which I'd butchered in college. The problem? I read. I read a lot of books (I'd read the word often). Yes, I knew what it was, but I'd never heard anyone pronounce the word. And having taken grammar classes in college, I knew that in the English language the emphasis is usually put on the third to last syllable. I was pronouncing it can-DEL-abra, instead of candel-A-bra. Kind of embaressing, really, when the truth came out. Which proves my next point--I think you can learn a lot, A LOT, from books, but unless you have smart people around you, talking to them about what you're learning, I think something will always be missing. I'm glad my husband's cerebral and talks to me a lot, even about grammar (as long as he's not making me feel stupid for not knowing it in the first place--not the grammar, I'll trump him anytime on that--but most other things, especially history).
Anyway, I feel like I'm starting to get the hang of it. As we were driving back through Dallas and stopped for gas in Amarillo, I laughed at the way we Americans were pronouncing the word yellow (amarillo) in our language. Amarillo, Texas--it sounds so blah. The Spanish way is definitely better, which is why I practiced my pronounciation all the way through the city. Amarillo. Amarillo. It's Yellow, Texas to me now.
But there's one problem. All I see is a list of words in Bianca's homework folder every Monday. I quiz her from a sheet of paper where I'm destroying these words with bad pronounciation (and ruining Bianca's pronunciation in the process). I spent the greater part of the evening during our Christmas in Dallas asking my brother-in-law how to pronounce colors, months, body parts--you get the picture--in Spanish. I was embarressed to find out I'd been butchering the word nariz (nose) from not putting the emphasis in the correct place. It's amazing the difference that makes. It's like a totally different word.
It reminds me of the English word candelabra, which I'd butchered in college. The problem? I read. I read a lot of books (I'd read the word often). Yes, I knew what it was, but I'd never heard anyone pronounce the word. And having taken grammar classes in college, I knew that in the English language the emphasis is usually put on the third to last syllable. I was pronouncing it can-DEL-abra, instead of candel-A-bra. Kind of embaressing, really, when the truth came out. Which proves my next point--I think you can learn a lot, A LOT, from books, but unless you have smart people around you, talking to them about what you're learning, I think something will always be missing. I'm glad my husband's cerebral and talks to me a lot, even about grammar (as long as he's not making me feel stupid for not knowing it in the first place--not the grammar, I'll trump him anytime on that--but most other things, especially history).
Anyway, I feel like I'm starting to get the hang of it. As we were driving back through Dallas and stopped for gas in Amarillo, I laughed at the way we Americans were pronouncing the word yellow (amarillo) in our language. Amarillo, Texas--it sounds so blah. The Spanish way is definitely better, which is why I practiced my pronounciation all the way through the city. Amarillo. Amarillo. It's Yellow, Texas to me now.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
So, it’s that time of the year again . . .
and by that, I mean it's HGTV dream-house time. Yes, I admit it: I actually think that one of these years I'm going to win it. I watch it every year and enter and think, this is definitely the year.
HGTV's dream house is more "New Year's Day" to me than football is, even though that goes along with it too--at least the sound of it somewhere in the background. And for some reason, Hickory Farm's beef sausage stick and cheese along with board games completes New Year's (I'm pretty sure that one came from my childhood though).
New Year's Eve was always eating chips with the top 100 songs of the year. That's what I remember most, anyway.
But back to my dream house. It's usually dreaming of living there that gets me though the bleakest days of January and into spring. And the perpetual entering and touring the house online. This year it's in the Florida Keys. Yes, I'll move. Anything. Just give it to me.
I know it's sad. I actually feel like I have a better chance of winning the dream house than of having my novel published. Yeah, I know, I have to submit it somewhere to have it published, but I'm not quite ready yet. I guess I'll keep entering to win my dreamhouse. One thing at a time. Next up, submitting my novel.
HGTV's dream house is more "New Year's Day" to me than football is, even though that goes along with it too--at least the sound of it somewhere in the background. And for some reason, Hickory Farm's beef sausage stick and cheese along with board games completes New Year's (I'm pretty sure that one came from my childhood though).
New Year's Eve was always eating chips with the top 100 songs of the year. That's what I remember most, anyway.
But back to my dream house. It's usually dreaming of living there that gets me though the bleakest days of January and into spring. And the perpetual entering and touring the house online. This year it's in the Florida Keys. Yes, I'll move. Anything. Just give it to me.
I know it's sad. I actually feel like I have a better chance of winning the dream house than of having my novel published. Yeah, I know, I have to submit it somewhere to have it published, but I'm not quite ready yet. I guess I'll keep entering to win my dreamhouse. One thing at a time. Next up, submitting my novel.
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