Default Cheese

Captain's bLog: 12 weeks.

So far we've spent four weeks in Italy and eight in France. Observation: there is a nearly endless variety of cheeses available, at a nearly endless variety of cheese shops, counters and market stalls. The variety in cheese is matched only by the varieties in bread (France), pasta (Italy) and wine (both). These meltable multitudes come in nearly every shape, size, smell and flavour imaginable - honestly, it's rather intimidating. I have no clue what I'd like to buy, or even to try, so I mostly grab something I've heard of before and scuttle away in gastronomic shame. (Chevre again? Tsk tsk.)

Would you like to know what I haven't seen here? Electric-orange cheese. And according to the 10,000 or so cheeses I have seen, electric-orange is not actually a normal colour profile for cheese. Blue, yes; grey, sure; and anything from winter white to bloomy beige to creamy yellow, absolutely. Does anyone know how it came to be that SO many of our cheeses/cheese-adjacent, dairy-derived food products (in Canada and the States, anyway) are so incredibly orange?

I honestly didn't know that I felt this way until about a month into our trip, and if you had suggested it to me I would have denied it and supported my argument with a tour of the typically well-stocked cheese drawer in our fridge, but in my heart of hearts I believed that cheddar was the default cheese. The perfect, all-occasion, stand-alone or pair-with-anything, One True Default Cheese.

I also thought it was... well, usually way more orange than I now know it really has any right to be.

I was wrong on both counts. 

This has taken a bit of getting used to. (Not the 'wrong' thing, but the 'orange' thing.) (Okay, fine, also the 'wrong' thing, just a bit.) Small Fry is obviously missing some things from home, and Default Cheese - in all its many applications - is one of them. Its orangeness is part of its homey appeal; it just doesn't feel the same to eat white mac & cheese or white grilled cheese. (Or, as he calls it, girled cheese, which we have never bothered to correct 'cause it's so darn cute.) And non-orange nacho cheez?! I just can't even.

Honestly, of all the things we could be missing from home, I would not have guessed it would be orange cheese/cheez products. I might have guessed Slurpees, or maybe peanut butter, but I would have missed the mark because les sirops and Nutella have handily replaced those important kid commodities. If I don't find some secret French source of KD soon I plan to buy food colouring and try my hand at producing a pot of properly orange mac & cheese as a nostalgic treat for Small Fry. And perhaps a pot of properly orange nacho cheese as a PMS treat for me.

Not a Travel Blog?!

Captain's bLog: 10 weeks.

It has come to my attention that my blogging habit is predicated, at least somewhat, upon my being unhappy in some way. Specifically, I seem to be at my creative best when I'm suffering from a smidgen of insomnia-induced mania. However, I've been sleeping really, really well on this trip. Like, eight or nine hours a night - sometimes ten! That is literally double the amount of sleep I usually get.

I can also be creative during bouts of overwork - my brain is always on the lookout for productive ways to procrastinate - or hormonal rage. But I'm not really working much at the moment, and my frustrations seem to fizzle out harmlessly on vacation, even during my regularly scheduled week of elevated anger levels. I did get pretty upset with DH after he finally read The Handmaid's Tale and then had "nothing to say" about it afterward, but I have filed that offense for some future date when I'm able to work up a proper lather again - I just can't be bothered with it right now. Passe le vin, s'il te plait.

So, yeah, like I was saying, unfortunately (??) it seems I've simply been too content to have much to say here (have I discovered the inverse Anna Karenina principle?). I try to inject my writings with a certain amount of real-ness, but I'm essentially living in a fairytale dream sequence at the moment, which makes everything I have to say fundamentally rather unrelatable. This is exactly why I hate travel blogs (... and Instagram).

Yet here we are.

I may, against my better judgement, be forced to sortof maybe actually write about traveling stuff in this sacred space, just to keep it from atrophying another six months. I'll do my best to be unhappy in some way, and thus thwart my reverse Anna Karenina problem, but the sun is shining and life is good and darn it, being this happy is just not conducive to blogging in my usual way.  

Something in the (Debon)Air

Captain's bLog: week 1.

Hi, friends. It's been a while, eh? Sorry for the prolonged time out, I just really needed to cinch up my to-do list as much as possible during the field season so I could get things wrapped up before we started off on our extended trip. I think my efforts at streamlining paid off, as it was a pretty low-stress lead-up to our departure. DH and I didn't even have to have our usual pre-vacation blowout. I had it pencilled in for the weekend before we left, but after a brief scuffle over the definition of plaid while we were packing, we found we didn't really have it in us and postponed the event indefinitely.

Anyway, it was a helluva commute, but we made it safely - and still blowout-free! - and are living happily in our home-away-from-home for the month in Colmar, France.

Never heard of Colmar? Well let me tell you, this town is charming. Charming as fuck. Like, so charming that if it were a dude I probably would have slept with it by now. Not against my will, exactly, but sortof... inadvertently, as sometimes happens when one is susceptible to an excess of charm. (I am.) And you couldn't even judge me for it. You'd be like, Yeah, I get it. I'd totally hit that town, too. It's like the Sean Connery of towns - a real panty dropper. Honestly, this town is so charming it's making me question some very fundamental things about myself. Like, am I... metrosexual??

Its charm is so powerful, so overwhelming to mere mortals like myself, that it would have impregnated me by sheer force of its attractiveness and I would have given birth to many equally charming baby towns, and scattered them across the countryside, and that is the origin story of the Alsace region. Sure, there were wars and land annexations and such, but in the beginning there was only me and this unreasonably sexy town and our dozens of charming baby towns. My only regret is giving them all such unpronounceable names. Alas, it was the fashion at the time.

Did you know France has the second-highest birth rate in the EU? I am convinced this is purely on the strength of Colmar's charm. Colmar: dropping panties since the 9th century AD. (Ireland's is the highest, by the way, which is obviously due to the prevalence of irresistible redheads.)

Welp, seems I have a proposal for a new town slogan to write up, so I'll sign off here. À bientôt!

Caution: Women Working

Yeah, so I'm pretty flat out these days. Thanks for checking in. I'll be back!

Who Gives a Fig Leaf

We had a kitchen table discussion last night about our most embarrassing experiences. DH told us how he choked on water in the middle of a lecture and cough/sprayed it all over himself and the room. Yup, moderately embarrassing, but in the big scheme of things probably only a 2/10 or so. I was going to give it a 1/10, but then Medium Fry told a story about how she was - I'm not really sure what - rummaging in her backpack at the bus stop? And people were judging her for being disorganized? At 7am? Yeah, nope. No one even noticed. 1/10 for entirely self-manufactured discomfort, which bumped DH's water story to a 2/10 by default.

DH anted up: he spilled coffee on his lap at work and spent an hour hanging out in his underwear with his pants tied to a fan to dry out. Sure it's a group office, but only one other fellow was there to witness the scene. If there had been a larger audience, or even if DH didn't have such excellent legs, I would give this story a 4/10, but even he wasn't all that uncomfortable about the whole thing. (His colleague, on the other hand...) 3/10 for semi-private, highly relatable clutziness, with solid pants-free-at-work plot twist.

Small Fry, who still runs around the house naked telling everyone to "squeeze my chubby buns!", surprised no one by not having any embarrassing moments to share at all. (I'm helping his future self get over himself by posting the chubby buns thing here. You're welcome, Future Fry.)

These people! It's like they've never lived! I sometimes say I'm not easily embarrassed but in reality I used to be like Medium Fry, imagining my way to mortification over every little thing. I've just built up a tolerance by repeatedly making an ass of myself. I think of it as being sortof like the flu vaccine in that it's demonstrably helpful in protecting yourself from embarrassment, even if not 100% effective against every strain you're likely to come up against, plus you have to keep doing it regularly to reap the benefits. Hence the repeat offences.

The family-friendly story I shared was about a time I was doing field work with a bunch of men (not unusual, but important here for flavour). I had a site map rolled out on the hood of one of the work trucks and I was being so boss babe, jabbing at the map, delegating and directing: you'll tackle this and we'll tackle that; we'll adjust the site to accommodate these issues; I'll check this out to make sure it's not a problem; etc. "Everyone on board?" Nods all around, so I pushed back off the truck and there they were: two enormous dust-free circles, obviously boob in origin. We all just... looked at them for a bit. The silence was such that you could hear my boss-ness deflate slightly. And then we went about our work and never spoke of it again. 4/10 for mild group discomfort coupled with unfortunate ego effects.

The not family-friendly story I didn't tell was about a time I accidentally left a "small appliance" in a hotel bed one morning when I was out for a field stint. (What can I say? Guess I'm just a roll-over-and-fall-asleep-after kind of gal.) I came back to my room that afternoon and the first thing - the only thing - I saw was my trusty travel companion on my pillow, tucked halfway under the blanket like it was having a li'l naparoo. I could literally see the housekeeper in my mind, torn between full pillow display acknowledgement and discreet tucked-in plausible deniability. I do not get paid enough for this shit. Is there anything in the training manual about this? Please let there be gloves in the cart somewhere.

This was day one of my week-long stay, and I honestly, truly considered packing my bags and leaving town. All my previous inoculations together were only like 10% effective, tops, so I had to fall back on a combination of, 'You'll never see these people again' and 'They're [profession] - they've definitely seen worse.' (Have they, though?)

The scars are still too fresh for me to rank this one accurately - personally, it's feeling like at least a 7.5/10, but I'll leave it to you to decide for yourself. Just as soon as I work up the gumption to press the Publish button...

Fortunately / Unfortunately

I redid my first aid certification recently. Actually over a month ago, but it's taken me this long to recover enough to talk about it.

In my experience (i.e., recertifying every three years for work), first aid class has gotten progressively more on board with modern notions like personal space - or, more likely, not getting sued for fostering any in-class molestation. This is cool by me; I'm from Saskatchewan, so a very generous amount of personal space is basically my birthright. Approximately 1.8 square kilometres will do most days. So with the exception of tying splints, in which case you still get control over any crotch-adjacent bandaging, first aid class is now more like first aid reiki - you sortof wave your hands around and pretend to do something useful for your patient's (similarly imaginary) ailments.

Unfortunately, this particular instructor was having none of that personal space business, and in fact insisted on walking us all slooowly through each individual, highly touchy step, as if to achieve maximum touchiness: "Now, gently press your partner's orbital bones to check for fractures." "Now, press along their jawline." "Now, open their mouth and look inside for blood or broken teeth."

Fortunately my partner happened to be a very obedient young fellow, so when I growled, "Do NOT touch my face," he sat promptly back on his heels with his hands clasped in front of him and did a straight-ahead stare at the wall until I gave the go-ahead to check my neck and shoulders for injury.

I mean, I don't want anyone touching my face at the best of times - it's plain creepy, plus what if there's a chin hair?

"Now, palpate your partner's abdomen." What the?! "DO NOT TOUCH MY ABDOMEN." *Straight-ahead stare.* "Okay, fine, you can check my legs now."

Okay, I really don't want anyone touching my abdomen. That fucking shar-pei disaster zone is no one's business but my own. It gets 5 square kilometres of personal space - I don't even want you seeing it through a telescope.

Unfortunately, the instructor had other tricks up her sleeve. Namely, constantly interrupting herself to tell stupid stories in the middle of our practice exercises. So you'd be standing there with your arms around your partner, with the absolute entirety of your personal-space-requiring being pressed against their back and your leg up their butt (that is, the-position-no-longer-known-as-the-Heimlich), and the instructor would interrupt the lesson to tell the class a little tale about something. And, like, should I keep hugging this stranger? Should I let go? How long is this fucking story? Worst of all, if I am unable to not-notice how firm this young fellow's abdomen is that I'm awkwardly hugging while this idiot goes on about this one time she saved someone from choking at a nursing home, it is surely inevitable that he will be unable to not-notice how not-firm mine is while she goes on about why it's no longer called the Heimlich Maneuver.

And finally, just when I thought I couldn't wish any harder for the ground to swallow me whole, came the point when she decided we should try out a modified j-thrust position "for pregnant women or very large individuals", which involves going under the armpits and doing compressions over the sternum. Or in my case, for poor Joshua (his name was Joshua) to have to stand there with his arms around me, trying his best to avoid making contact with my rather substantial bosoms while the instructor... told another story. We don't remember which story this was because we both literally died of embarrassment. Dead. I am writing this from beyond the grave.

I initially thought this post was going to follow the format of the storytelling game, Fortunately / Unfortunately, but now that I'm remembering it the whole thing was basically just a two-day death spiral of unfortunateness. My hope is that someone out there will glean even a tiny bit of sick glee from my sad tale, and maybe even the wisdom to always book first aid with someone you wouldn't mind heavily violating your personal space for two days. But I think the most fortunate ending of all would simply be if Joshua and I never see each other, ever again.

Canuda Triangle

LAKEWOOD, NJ 08701

Room 210, Third Desk from the Right, Operator ID #4516

January 22, 2019, 1:42:13pm

Pre-Shipment Info Sent to Shipper

LAKEWOOD, NJ 08701

Room 210, The Desk in the Corner by the Window with All the Plants, Operator ID #3371

January 22, 2019, 1:45:02pm

Shipping Label Created, Shipper Awaiting Item

LAKEWOOD, NJ 08701

Warehouse B, Door 6B, Lovingly Handled by Operator #0144

January 22, 2019, 1:52:00pm

Shipment Received, Package Acceptance Pending

LAKEWOOD, NJ 08701

Warehouse B, Rack 075B, Shelf 452, Fifth Box from the Left, Operator ID #3610

January 22, 2019, 1:52:00pm

Shipment Accepted at Warehouse Facility

LAKEWOOD, NJ 08701

Warehouse B, Door 9B, Fork Loader 5, Bottom Pallet, Operator ID #3511

January 22, 2019, 2:13:12pm

Shipment Shipped to Shipping Origin Facility

Safe Travels, Little Friend

TRENTON, NJ DISTRIBUTION CENTER

Warehouse 3, Door A, Fork Loader 12, Sixth Pallet, Employee #40849

January 22, 2019, 3:46:45pm

Shipment Arrived at Shipping Origin Facility, Package Acceptance Pending

TRENTON, NJ DISTRIBUTION CENTER

Warehouse J, Rack 61, Shelf 23, Operator ID #00946

January 22, 2019, 3:51:33pm

Shipment Accepted at Shipping Origin Facility

TRENTON, NJ DISTRIBUTION CENTER

Warehouse J, Door D, Fork Loader 4a, Top Pallet, Operator ID #18645

January 22, 2019, 4:25:58pm

Shipment Shipped to Shipper Regional Facility

JAMAICA NY INTERNATIONAL DISTRIBUTION CENTER

Main Warehouse, Door 5B, Fork Loader 12, Sixth Pallet, Operator ID #0144

January 22, 2019, 6:01pm

Shipment Accepted at Shipper Regional Facility

JAMAICA NY INTERNATIONAL DISTRIBUTION CENTER

January 23, 2019, 9:36am

Shipment Processed Through Shipper Regional Facility

CANADA

January 25, 2019

Your item has arrived in CANADA.

CANADA

Your item is in transit in CANADA.

CANADA

Still in CANADA somewhere, don't know where exactly or how long it might be.

CANADA

How big even is CANADA? Shame it doesn't have any cities or landmarks or anything one could track by.

CANADA

February 27, 2019

Your item has been delivered in CANADA. 

Good luck on the return shipping if you don't like it.

Skip to My Loo

I found an AirBNB with a disco ball in the bathroom. It's in Amsterdam, which might have made you say, "Of course!" - that's what I said, anyway - but on further examination I don't know why that's an "of course" kind of thing. I really don't know much about Amsterdam, it just seemed somehow less weird than a disco ball bathroom in - well, basically anywhere else that I can think of. All I can think of right now is Regina, but still.

As fun as it seems to have a disco bathroom, I decided that someone with more, er, "festive" travel plans would surely make better use of it than our family would. It's also the only bathroom in the apartment and with my small bladder I really can't afford Small Fry enjoying his famously leisurely sit-ins even more than usual.

In imagining the kind of traveler who would feel the need to pay a premium for a vacation rental with a disco bathroom, I began to wonder what kind of traveler I am. Obviously I'm not too fussed about how well my bathroom raves are going to pan out, and I'm never worried about curating my Insta feed (where disco WC would surely be a slam dunk), but if not those admirable objectives, what do I stand for as a traveler? 

I reviewed our pending European itinerary to see if I could find any overarching themes. The research suggests our overarching themes are generally a bit sedate, at least compared to my imaginary bathroom-rave-Instagram-vacation competitors. I'm not sure how I've allowed these imaginary people to make me feel like my vacations are boring, but whatever - they'll find out what it's like when they grow up and have kids. And insomnia. And laundry. Yeah, screw those guys; I'm still cool even if I select AirBNBs based purely on practical considerations like 2+ bedrooms and a washing machine.

Something I don't think I fully realized before my itinerary review is just how keen I am on balconies and terraces. We are staying in a lot of places with balconies or terraces. And, full disclosure, bidets. What can I say? I've watched the interweb videos and I am looking forward to experiencing the same, apparently life-changing magic of bidets that those brave netizens have enjoyed. I once had to use a public toilet that was stuck in a permanent, vigorous flush mode and frankly I found the ensuing cool mist quite refreshing on the ol' undercarriage. It was a little tricky getting my tights back on afterward given the general wide-scale dampness, but I have high hopes for a system that delivers a more targeted rinse cycle.

We have some home renovation goals for after we return from vacation, that may well be informed by our experiences during the trip. If you notice we've installed a disco ball in the bathroom, you'll know the grand AirBNBidet experiment turned out to be a wash.

My Monkeys, Myself

The past year has been a big one for milestones around these parts: my company turned 5, DH and I celebrated 15 years together, I turned 40, my kids reached milestone birthdays of their own, Medium Fry started university, and as if to tie a bow on the already bumper year, this week marks Frecklicious' 10th anniversary - and this, my 300th post. 300! Who knew I had so much to say? (Yes, that was a joke - we all know I can't stop talking.)

Talking about talking... you know what it's like when someone is planning a wedding and every conversation you have with them for like the entire year leading up to it has to revolve around seating arrangements, floral arrangements, "colours" and so on? (Heaven forbid they're doing an extended engagement 'cause then you have to hear about it for two years!) Well, I am currently planning a seven-month tour of Europe and although I'm really, really trying not to be all wedding-y about it, it is just so dang exciting (to me) that details of the trip keep bursting out of my mouth (to you) despite my best intentions. The worst part is that I've been planning it for four years so it's been like the extendedest engagement ever - ick!

So, yeah, couple of housekeeping items to address here: One, my sincere apologies to anyone whose wedding rambles I've ever rolled my eyes at. I get it now. (Sortof.) And two, more apologies to everyone who has had to listen to me vacation ramble for the past four years.

Actually, while we're here I might as well throw in a preemptive apology for the next few months before we fly away 'cause I'm prolly not going to magically become able to contain myself at this point.

What I can promise you, though, is that this will not suddenly become a "travel blog" and I very solemnly swear to never cause you to retch up your lunch by referring to myself as a "travel writer." I think there's no way to avoid acknowledging the context of traveling when I'm telling my little stories here, but I'm envisioning it being more about the monkeys than the circus, if you know what I mean. Previous experience suggests that no matter where we are I will find ways to embarrass myself, DH will find ways for me to (lovingly!) make fun of him, and Small Fry will continue to be a source of comedic relief and consternation, all of which I consider fair game for Frecklicious. (Medium Fry will be staying home to attend school while the rest of us travel, but who knows - she may guest star on occasion.)

I suspect an extended family trip will unlock parts of our personalities that we don't even know exist - like how DH used to believe he was laid-back before he had children. I'm excited and, honestly, not a small amount of nervous about the things we will learn about ourselves and each other, but I'm confident it will make for some ridiculous stories. Thank you for stopping by these past 10 years, and stay tuned for the next ones!