What bothers me most isn't the lack of respect for my space... and time, and work, and boundaries... actually, yeah, it definitely is. But what also bothers me now that Small Fry is doing online schooling from home is the distinct sense that I'm not much more than an NPC in his life, providing well-timed snacks to help him get through his next challenge and doling out sage hints like, "Did you read the instructions?" "Hm, I wonder if the teacher gave any instructions...?" "Consider reading the instructions!"
I suppose I also narrate our lives in song quite a bit, although on consideration I doubt that's helping my cause.
So what's a gal gotta do to be recognised as A Real Human around here? Wishing on a star didn't work, and I've been all kinds of truthful and unselfish, to no avail. I tried changing my clothes but I think the only person who noticed was DH, on account of he's gotten accustomed to the low levels of weekly laundry afforded by Covid. My next attempt at attaining Real Human status in Small Fry's mind may have to be something drastic - perhaps I'll flip a table, or make him source his own snacks. Heck, maybe I'll make him get me a snack!
I once heard somewhere that raising a son would feel like the slowest breakup of my life. I'd argue that's true of parenting a child of any gender, but there's definitely something to the idea. Maybe our breakup is just starting and I'm feeling a little insecure - as one does sometimes during these protracted splits. But once again, I'm going to turn my gaze to the long game and hope that Small Fry - indeed, both my Fries - wake up one day and realise I was always so much more than a trusty, singing, food and money dispenser: I was A Real Human all along.
And, plot twist, so was the laundry NPC.
Thursday, November 19, 2020
Bog Body
Has everyone seen that video of a whole-ass bog* sliding away downhill somewhere in Ireland? (If not, here is the video - go ahead and watch, I'll wait.)
Like, WHAT in the actual hell is going on there, right?! Is that not the stuff of nightmares? I saw The Neverending Story as a kid and was thoroughly traumatised by the Swamp** of Sadness, so I'm already a leetle freaked out by floating fens; if I was in a bog that just up and strolled away I would seriously lose my shit. Don't get me wrong, I love floating fens, they're like nature's waterbeds or whatever, but you do have to admit they're a bit spooky. Like, where IS the ground, exactly? And where did Artax get off to...?
Fun side story, I really did have my horse disappear once while doing fieldwork. It was in the prairies, though, so he just ran off after a coyote rather than sinking in despair or some other as-yet unquantified Field Level Hazard. He eventually came back, which I attribute to the immutable bond between a girl and her (borrowed) horse. Or possibly to the oats I filled my pockets with every morning as an insurance policy against just such an occurrence.
I've had some pretty terrifying moments in the field and I'm still going strong, but I think if I got sucked into a floating fen or steamrolled by an Irish Wandering Bog* (assuming I survived) it would put me right over the edge. I'd have to give up fieldwork because I don't think I could come back, emotionally speaking, from being murdered by the actual landscape itself. Like, a cougar or something - fair enough, circle of life, blah blah blah. But if I'm ever a bog body in a back room of some piddling museum somewhere and people are marvelling at how well preserved my fucking chin hairs are, by golly I am gonna be choked.
Anyway, final fun side story for the day is that I am totally going to work despair into a safety form at some point in future. Watch this space for details.
* I have no idea about wetland classification in Ireland.
** Or Fantastica, for that matter.
*** Honestly, half the time it feels like a crapshoot just in Alberta. Most days I'm standing around in my mud boots wondering how the heck I got to this point (figuratively speaking; I have excellent spatial perception). Which is probably how Tollund Man feels, what with everyone going on about his whiskers all day long and him just wanting to be remembered as the hilarious, sexy genius he was in life. So frustrating.
Thursday, October 22, 2020
'Bones of Christmas Future
Small Fry started middle school this year. Over the summer, kids were allowed to select which options they most wanted, but then most option courses were cancelled due to Covid (who could've guessed?) so Small Fry got put in band. Then band was cancelled because they didn't want kids blowing their Covid all over each other (again, completely unpredictable, amirite?), but not really cancelled, the kids just have to learn their instruments online from home in addition to their regularly scheduled classroom time, during which they... I'm not sure what. Blow Covid all over each other, probably.
And now, as I listen to the mournful honks and bleats of Small Fry's new trombone issuing from my basement, all I can think is, "A FUCKING TROMBONE?!?!"
Whoops, that was the inside part. The more acceptable thing I'm thinking is how smart I am for buying a bigger house. Train wrecks I couldn't possibly have anticipated five months ago were averted by buying this house. Train wrecks like someone learning the fucking trombone in a 1,000 sq ft semi-detached home, just as a totally random example. They didn't even ask what the kids' living situations were before assigning instruments, by the way, so if you're out there wondering what kind of horrible people would allow their kid to learn the trumpet in your apartment complex, just know that they're probably dying inside over it way worse than you are.
I would like to take this opportunity to point out that several far more sensible alternatives to sending unwelcome instruments home with kids who never wanted to be in band in the first place spring to mind. I took a 3000-level music appreciation course in university that was basically 100% transferable to Grade 7 if you just made the essays a little shorter, for instance. Or - crazy thought here - are there not positively oodles of instruments that don't necessitate the blowing of the Covid? Or heck, switch everyone into art class and paint rocks** in the gym - as long as they don't send the messy parts home, I don't care. And IMHO, learning the trombone is a decidedly messy part.
Really, my point was less about painting rocks and more about how much smarter I am than everyone else in the world. Oopsie doodle, inside part again! Here's my real point: As salty as I am about the fucking trombone, I'm sure everyone is doing their best to deal with this craziness, so I'm gonna need to chill the F out. When Medium Fry first picked up the violin 13 years ago it was just before Christmastime so she was learning something festive - Jingle Bells, I think - and I remember joking with DH that it sounded like Santa had run over some cats with his sleigh. Now I like nothing better than making her play Christmas tunes for me all month long every December. So who knows where Small Fry will be with his trombone in a few years' time - maybe I'll be looking back fondly on these novice toots and braps while he begrudgingly plays me Christmas songs. (After all, he has often had some tricks up his sleeve at Christmas!) Regardless of where the current hoots and blarts take us in time, I've got the space - floorspace and headspace - to accommodate them now.
And in a real pinch, the garage has a heater.
** I say this as if I ever painted rocks in art class. My university music appreciation course was genuinely ridiculous, but my middle school art classes were awesome - not a painted rock to be found. Thanks, Ms. Ichino and Mr. Thibault!
Wednesday, September 30, 2020
Points System
My field season has wrapped up for the year (I hope), but I still have some
field thoughts saved up that I've been meaning to share here. First off: a
six-wire fence is excessive and annoying, but fuck right off with your
eight-wire fence. It's just ludicrous, and if this intrepid old fatty still managed to
get through - well, it's not actually any more effective than a nice, reasonable
three-wire, now is it?
Secondly, and not unrelated to my first point: keep your
tetanus shots up to date, everyone.
Now on to my most important thought: a field
points system. If you've ever done a points-based diet program you may associate
points with the relentless drawing-down of your calorie ceiling for the day
(i.e., in a generally negative light), but as a seasoned dieter I am SO over
that shit so the sky is the limit here - you can collect all the field points
you can stuff in in a day, and celebrate every delectable one. Taking back points, yeah!
Originally I had envisioned this as field Bingo, but realised my idea to have
Achillea millefolium as the free space might not translate well to all
field folks. With the points system, we can all share in some commonly
encountered outdoor delights while still tailoring the points to suit our
respective disciplines. And I say disciplines, but to be clear, outdoorspeople
of all stripes are welcome to participate - this is an equal opportunity game!
Common-ground points developed to date are as follows:
- Toss your shovel over a
fence and it lands sticking up out of the ground - 2 points
- Step over a
barbed-wire fence - under 5', 3 points; 5'0" to 5'6", 2 points; 5'6" to
6', 1 point; over 6', quit showing off, no points for you
- Pretend to wear an
antler shed on your head - with audience (including collection of photographic
or video evidence), 1 point; without audience, 3 points
- Perfect weather - 4 points
- Find a working pencil,
Sharpie, lighter, or other small, useful item on the ground and add it to your
kit - 4 points
- Eat a nice snack from nature (e.g., raspberries) - 2 points
- Eat a
nice snack from agriculture (e.g., peas) - 2 points
- Eat a not-very-nice snack,
any land use (e.g., silage corn, spruce needles) - hey, at least you tried! 3
points
- Eat a potentially dangerous snack from nature (e.g., psilocybes, roadkill) - no
points assigned for liability reasons, but I can't wait to hear about your
interesting life choices over drinks one day (my treat)
- Find a place that would
be *perfect* for outdoor sex - 3 points
- Make an interesting cross-disciplinary
discovery or observation (e.g., identify a cool beetle, decide you prefer sandy
loam to loam) - 2 points
- Past You saves Current You's ass by stashing exactly
the right contingency item for your present situation in your gear somewhere
(e.g., non-perishable food item, extra moleskin) - 2 points
- Pay the favour
forward to Future You by remembering to restock your field vest when you get
back for the day - 2 points
- Nerd completely out over something only you and,
like, twelve other people in the world would care about - 5 points
- A well-timed weather day in the middle of a long field stint - 5 points
- Particularly
scenic field pee - women, 2 points; men, 1 point (it's too easy for the
nozzle-equipped so unfortunately I'm unable to award full points here)
- Particularly robust, relaxing and/or scenic field poop - all genders, 10 points
This is a
living list so feel free to share your common-ground points ideas, and
definitely don't be shy about developing custom points to suit your own personal
or professional experiences. A botanical example: Find a rare plant while peeing - 3 points. You do you!
In the spirit of clearly
separating this points system from the dieting world I wanted to keep it super positive
so I've avoided negative points - I trust you to know the days when you really
deserve a second beer at dinner - but you can add them if you feel the need.
I've also considered whether there should be prizes for field points, but some of these things are naturally a bit subjective so the
accounting could get tricky. Unless you want to submit your field poops
to an oversight committee for official tallying I think we're going to have to
settle for the honour system.
Happy counting, field friends! I can't wait to
hear about your record-points days - and your second-beer days, too.
Tuesday, August 18, 2020
We All Scream
My fifteenth divine creation is churning away at this very moment. (French vanilla, in case you're wondering.) The ice cream machine has proven very popular with the whole fam, and likely Canadian dairy farmers as well. We've really come together around it - critiquing different recipes, flavours and textures. Ranking and reranking our favourites with every new batch. Complaining that Mom got to pick yet another flavour. Lecturing about being the person who does all the work so you bet your sassy ass I'm picking the flavours.
And there's still more: We've explored the botany of ingredients (tamarind, vanilla, tonka beans), the ethics of dairy, the chemistry of custard. I allow Small Fry to lick the churning paddle, which I feel is akin to a habitat enrichment activity in these self-isolating times. I've even grown attuned to the sounds of the ice cream machine, like a mother with a baby - I can differentiate between its contented liquidy whirrs and its distress cries when the ice cream is ready, from two floors away.
I think it's fair to say we've all bonded with the new baby ice cream machine. (Even DH, who you'll recall was not keen on the idea.) Gotta say, I think we're totally coming out on top of the suckers who only got Covid cats or dogs, and miles ahead of the poor saps who are due to welcome their new Covid humans in the next few months. Just really celebrating my wise life choices right now.
In fact, I'm so pleased with my recent decisions that I went ahead with another one: I purchased a mini in-home hydroponics cabinet. I figure it'll pay for itself in cilantro and arugula in about six months, however, it should be noted that I did this figuring (and purchasing) while DH is away camping and thus unable to object to my study methods. Surprise, dear! Still cheaper than a Covid baby! I think!
I yell, you yell, we all yell for... ba-sel? (Still working on the slogan.) I'll provide an update on my grow op in a few weeks when the herbaceous output projections are more refined. Fingers crossed that this turns out to be my next greatest mistake!
Wednesday, July 29, 2020
Life, the Universe and Everything
I've made loads of exciting mistakes in my life - no need for me to cross-link them here, I'm sure several good examples have already sprung to your mind - but to my recollection none have garnered quite the reaction my latest one has:
"Oh my gawd, dear. What have you done." - DH
"I'm... actually speechless." - Uncle Matt
*enthusiastic screaming* - my kids
That's right, I bought myself an ice cream machine for my birthday, and I think my family's respective reactions really bring home what a fun mistake this is going to be. The new house is just so darn spacious that the "bulky items that formerly lived in the basement" cupboard had room for all those chonky basement-dwellers, plus space for just one... more... thing...
Don't think I made this decision lightly, because I gave it a lot of thought: I thought about living minimally. I thought about my lanky college classmate who got a deep fryer for Christmas and by the end of the next semester resembled a pregnant snake. I thought about how my kitchen may have extra room, but my pants do not. And in the end, I also placed an order for a bunch of premium spices and extracts to make my homemade ice creams extra-special. But I'm 42 now, which has imparted upon me all the wisdoms of life, the universe and everything (that's how it works, right?), so it seemed like a fortuitous time to make some bold choices. YOLO and stuff.
I ordered wallpaper on my birthday as well, which now that I think on it may have elicited the exact same response from DH as the arrival of my ice cream machine... probably just a coincidence. Strangely, I had great confidence in my ability to wallpaper right up until the product actually arrived, at which point I searched my newly-imparted wisdoms and found the wallpapering section rather lacking. An unfortunate omission on someone's part, to be sure, but not mine, 'cause of the 42 thing.
But let's focus on the positives! So far I have churned up seven divine creations: cinnamon, PB &
chocolate, minted red fruits sorbet, chai spice, cantaloupe sorbet, mint
chocolate, chocolate chai, and haskap berry swirl. (Oh shit, that is eight creations! I should probably slow down - even God took a break after six.)
At this rate, my next big mistake may have to be acquiring a dairy cow - if it comes to that, I'll be sure to post DH's reaction for its certain entertainment value.
P.S. If anyone knows how to hang wallpaper, I can pay for your help with ice cream and sourdough. Please PM me.
P.P.S. OMG there have actually been NINE divine creations - I forgot about the coconut one! Eek!
Friday, June 26, 2020
Mnemorize
DH found a new plant in our garden this week, and although he figured it seemed weedy, he left it in to see if I knew what it was. As soon as I saw it, I knew exactly... that I had walked through a huge, prickly field of it with my field partner and friend - let's call her Long Tall Sally - on an overcast day in July 2015.
Could I remember something useful about the plant, like, say, its name? Nope, I spent five minutes dredging the depths to retrieve that, and even then I could only remember the scientific name and had to Google the English term to tell DH. But the colourful autobiographical memory - no trouble retrieving that! I have this problem all the time: 'Oooh, I remember keying this plant in a wetland in 2007! I was with so-and-so, and we found a duck nest with seven eggs!' But can I just pretty please remember the damn word for the plant? Buy a vowel, hum a bar, anything?
No.
It's as if my brain makes mnemonics even when I am not trying to make mnemonics, but regularly forgets what it was I was trying to remember in the first place. I'm going to name this mnemorizing, and it makes me mnental. It probably takes up ten times the brain space that a direct line to the information would, and lawd knows I could use that extra room on the ol' meat drive. If you've ever felt that I talk too damn much to say anything, then please understand it's honestly just how I'm wired: the train has to pop by all the stations, there is no least-cost routing, and we may make some unplanned side trips along the way. Whee!
Now that I've had this experience with the plant in the garden with DH in 2020 as well as in a field with LTSally in 2015, the next time I need to recall this species I guarantee it will have double the useless memories associated with it - maybe triple, since I'm writing about it here as well. Heaven forbid some poor soul accidentally asks me what it is in future, 'cause they are going to get an absolute earful of unrelated nonsense.
I've heard that brain fluidity decreases with age so maybe I'll get my routes all straightened out eventually. But in the meantime, just for the record:
Hello, future me. It's Galeopsis tetrahit, you high-functioning Hufflepuff. I cannot (but also 100% can) believe it was easier for you to look this up on your blog than it was to just fricking remember those words. So disappointed inyou me us.
Could I remember something useful about the plant, like, say, its name? Nope, I spent five minutes dredging the depths to retrieve that, and even then I could only remember the scientific name and had to Google the English term to tell DH. But the colourful autobiographical memory - no trouble retrieving that! I have this problem all the time: 'Oooh, I remember keying this plant in a wetland in 2007! I was with so-and-so, and we found a duck nest with seven eggs!' But can I just pretty please remember the damn word for the plant? Buy a vowel, hum a bar, anything?
No.
It's as if my brain makes mnemonics even when I am not trying to make mnemonics, but regularly forgets what it was I was trying to remember in the first place. I'm going to name this mnemorizing, and it makes me mnental. It probably takes up ten times the brain space that a direct line to the information would, and lawd knows I could use that extra room on the ol' meat drive. If you've ever felt that I talk too damn much to say anything, then please understand it's honestly just how I'm wired: the train has to pop by all the stations, there is no least-cost routing, and we may make some unplanned side trips along the way. Whee!
Now that I've had this experience with the plant in the garden with DH in 2020 as well as in a field with LTSally in 2015, the next time I need to recall this species I guarantee it will have double the useless memories associated with it - maybe triple, since I'm writing about it here as well. Heaven forbid some poor soul accidentally asks me what it is in future, 'cause they are going to get an absolute earful of unrelated nonsense.
I've heard that brain fluidity decreases with age so maybe I'll get my routes all straightened out eventually. But in the meantime, just for the record:
Hello, future me. It's Galeopsis tetrahit, you high-functioning Hufflepuff. I cannot (but also 100% can) believe it was easier for you to look this up on your blog than it was to just fricking remember those words. So disappointed in
Wednesday, June 3, 2020
In Like a (Hel)Lion
I have an irrational fear of getting caught in a bear trap. I suppose the fear of bear traps is fairly rational, but the low likelihood of my getting stuck in one is what makes it a bit silly. Regardless, whenever I'm wandering through the forest I always task a spare neuron or two with watching out for traps.
Now just imagine the ruckus a person would make if they caught a leg in a bear trap, and you will have come to understand the amount of fuss Small Fry makes about any given injury: a stubbed toe, for instance, or a neck twinge. He is a massive drama queen. Which you expect to an extent with a toddler, but this kid is twelve years old so at this point I've had approximately ten years too many of his theatrics. Yesterday afternoon he bumped his funny bone and started carrying on in a manner that I feel should be strictly reserved for life-threatening injuries, e.g., getting one's leg caught in a bear trap. Which I told him, and had told him for the previous night's neck twinge drama, and the previous day's whatever drama, and so on and so forth back through the ages. Naturally, he is Officially Butthurt by my largely unsympathetic responses to all the bumped elbows/twinged necks/bad haircuts/etc. that life so often serves up, much as any drama queen worth her/his salt would be expected to be. (I ignore that, too.)
Compare this to Medium Fry, who in retrospect was an incredibly stoic child. She quite peacefully suffered migraines her entire life, damn near cut her Achilles tendon in a bike accident and tried to fix it herself with a band-aid, and suffered menstrual cramps for years without a peep - to the point that I didn't know she experienced them at all. (Needless to say, she was pleased to learn that ibuprofen helps.) Also in retrospect, she was a champion sleeper as a baby, an utter camel when it came to potty training, and a natural-born quiet self-entertainer as a toddler and youngster. Whatever the opposite is of drama queen (Job comes to mind), she is that.
I know, I know - you're not supposed to compare your children. But the respective levels of drama I've gotten out of the two of them honestly begs comparison. I didn't even notice how easy Medium Fry was until Small Fry came along like a... I don't even know what, a very whiny and sleepless hurricane maybe? I say hurricane to be kind - I'm pretty sure he was actually possessed by demons as an infant, and still there are days I'm not convinced we managed to evict them all.
In all likelihood I chalked Medium Fry's myriad successes up to my ah-mazing parenting, when in reality it was just her own peaceable nature shining through. But that, as I now warn all new parents who have "easy" babies, is how they trick you into providing them with younger siblings. Small Fry was crystal clear right from the start that he wanted to be the centre of the universe, forever, and after only six weeks of his demonic existence ex utero, DH obliged by silently walking out the door one day... and coming home with a vasectomy. Under the circumstances I'm glad he came back at all, but Small Fry's er, exit, was also pretty demonic and I wasn't quite ready to relinquish my bag of frozen peas just yet, y'know?
We left Medium Fry to hold down the fort for seven months while the rest of us travelled around Europe this past winter. It wasn't quite "Mom clean" when we got back, but the plants were still alive and things were mostly in order so I'd call the whole adulting experiment a success. Compare this to the other day when DH and I attended an afternoon barbeque, and after only a couple of hours I started getting texts from neighbourhood parents, plural, about the sleepover party Small Fry was apparently planning in our absence. Why yes, what a grand idea - just bring your sleeping bag and your coronavirus when you come! Again: practically begs comparison, don't you think? So there went any foolish notions DH and I ever harboured of leaving Small Fry to take care of the house some day - he's already planning parties the moment we walk out the door, and he's only twelve!
I think I've been secretly clinging to that old saying about March coming in like a lion but going out like a lamb - perhaps my little early-March lion would grow up a bit more lamb-ish himself? Seems time to disabuse myself of that notion as well. After twelve years of very consistent messaging on Small Fry's part, it's high time I realised I'll probably always have to have at least a couple of spare neurons assigned to the task of watching out for his antics.
Now just imagine the ruckus a person would make if they caught a leg in a bear trap, and you will have come to understand the amount of fuss Small Fry makes about any given injury: a stubbed toe, for instance, or a neck twinge. He is a massive drama queen. Which you expect to an extent with a toddler, but this kid is twelve years old so at this point I've had approximately ten years too many of his theatrics. Yesterday afternoon he bumped his funny bone and started carrying on in a manner that I feel should be strictly reserved for life-threatening injuries, e.g., getting one's leg caught in a bear trap. Which I told him, and had told him for the previous night's neck twinge drama, and the previous day's whatever drama, and so on and so forth back through the ages. Naturally, he is Officially Butthurt by my largely unsympathetic responses to all the bumped elbows/twinged necks/bad haircuts/etc. that life so often serves up, much as any drama queen worth her/his salt would be expected to be. (I ignore that, too.)
Compare this to Medium Fry, who in retrospect was an incredibly stoic child. She quite peacefully suffered migraines her entire life, damn near cut her Achilles tendon in a bike accident and tried to fix it herself with a band-aid, and suffered menstrual cramps for years without a peep - to the point that I didn't know she experienced them at all. (Needless to say, she was pleased to learn that ibuprofen helps.) Also in retrospect, she was a champion sleeper as a baby, an utter camel when it came to potty training, and a natural-born quiet self-entertainer as a toddler and youngster. Whatever the opposite is of drama queen (Job comes to mind), she is that.
I know, I know - you're not supposed to compare your children. But the respective levels of drama I've gotten out of the two of them honestly begs comparison. I didn't even notice how easy Medium Fry was until Small Fry came along like a... I don't even know what, a very whiny and sleepless hurricane maybe? I say hurricane to be kind - I'm pretty sure he was actually possessed by demons as an infant, and still there are days I'm not convinced we managed to evict them all.
In all likelihood I chalked Medium Fry's myriad successes up to my ah-mazing parenting, when in reality it was just her own peaceable nature shining through. But that, as I now warn all new parents who have "easy" babies, is how they trick you into providing them with younger siblings. Small Fry was crystal clear right from the start that he wanted to be the centre of the universe, forever, and after only six weeks of his demonic existence ex utero, DH obliged by silently walking out the door one day... and coming home with a vasectomy. Under the circumstances I'm glad he came back at all, but Small Fry's er, exit, was also pretty demonic and I wasn't quite ready to relinquish my bag of frozen peas just yet, y'know?
We left Medium Fry to hold down the fort for seven months while the rest of us travelled around Europe this past winter. It wasn't quite "Mom clean" when we got back, but the plants were still alive and things were mostly in order so I'd call the whole adulting experiment a success. Compare this to the other day when DH and I attended an afternoon barbeque, and after only a couple of hours I started getting texts from neighbourhood parents, plural, about the sleepover party Small Fry was apparently planning in our absence. Why yes, what a grand idea - just bring your sleeping bag and your coronavirus when you come! Again: practically begs comparison, don't you think? So there went any foolish notions DH and I ever harboured of leaving Small Fry to take care of the house some day - he's already planning parties the moment we walk out the door, and he's only twelve!
I think I've been secretly clinging to that old saying about March coming in like a lion but going out like a lamb - perhaps my little early-March lion would grow up a bit more lamb-ish himself? Seems time to disabuse myself of that notion as well. After twelve years of very consistent messaging on Small Fry's part, it's high time I realised I'll probably always have to have at least a couple of spare neurons assigned to the task of watching out for his antics.
Friday, May 22, 2020
Pizza and Gratitude
I hate moving.
Like, I really, really hate moving. I used to move around quite a bit, in the way a young person without a ton of possessions does. Nothing a few McDonald's french fry boxes and a pal with a light truck couldn't handle. Get my phone switched over and tell my booty call(s) my new address - easy peasy! Done in a day! But now... now, moving is ugly. Now it's four people and thirteen years' worth of accumulated shtuff, and I have very seriously considered whether just lighting everything on fire would be simpler than putting it all in boxes to cart to the next place.
Oh, right - we bought a new house. Forgot to mention that. Why would I go and buy a new house if I hate moving so much? Let me start by saying that I love - LOVE - my current house. I truly believed I would live here forever. It's so darn cute and cozy! So why would I buy a new house if I love my current house and hate moving? Truthfully, it's all yet another unanticipated side effect of the Covid: about two weeks ago, it struck me that there is a very real, very terrifying possibility that all four of us could still be working from home come September. I thought of how the people didn't listen to the Amityville Horror House when it told them to GET OUT NOW, and just look what happened to those idiots, and if the prospect of all four of us trying to work from our 1,000 square foot home for the forseeable future is not at least the close relative of GET OUT NOW then I do not know what is.
Two weeks later, we have a new house. (I am a woman of action! ... sometimes.) Now we just gotta move into it.
So do I hate moving more than I hate living in the Amityville Horror House's second cousin (or so)? It's early days yet, so it's tough to say. I've resigned myself to not-arsoning everything, but I do have a new fantasy where someone comes in and loves everything so much they ask if they can keep my furniture and then I just waltz away from it all, no movers required. I think of this as the Pretty Woman scenario: dreamy, but highly implausible. My couch is no Julia Roberts, if you know what I mean.
Speaking of Pretty Woman, we are doing this moving thing way classier than I used to - not a french fry box in sight! I bought boxes this time around, which is actually really stupid if you think about it so let's not, and I'm going to pay people actual money - not just pizza and gratitude - to move my things around for me. I don't even have a booty call(s) anymore, which I think is pretty classy of me as well, given the circumstances; you're welcome, DH! I'll bet younger me would be super impressed with all this high classery. Very aspirational for a young pup with naught but some french fry boxes and a dream of tidy roommates!
Alright, time to stop with the productive procrastination and get back to packing. Wish us luck!
P.S. You're all invited to our housewarming party, if parties are ever allowed again.
Like, I really, really hate moving. I used to move around quite a bit, in the way a young person without a ton of possessions does. Nothing a few McDonald's french fry boxes and a pal with a light truck couldn't handle. Get my phone switched over and tell my booty call(s) my new address - easy peasy! Done in a day! But now... now, moving is ugly. Now it's four people and thirteen years' worth of accumulated shtuff, and I have very seriously considered whether just lighting everything on fire would be simpler than putting it all in boxes to cart to the next place.
Oh, right - we bought a new house. Forgot to mention that. Why would I go and buy a new house if I hate moving so much? Let me start by saying that I love - LOVE - my current house. I truly believed I would live here forever. It's so darn cute and cozy! So why would I buy a new house if I love my current house and hate moving? Truthfully, it's all yet another unanticipated side effect of the Covid: about two weeks ago, it struck me that there is a very real, very terrifying possibility that all four of us could still be working from home come September. I thought of how the people didn't listen to the Amityville Horror House when it told them to GET OUT NOW, and just look what happened to those idiots, and if the prospect of all four of us trying to work from our 1,000 square foot home for the forseeable future is not at least the close relative of GET OUT NOW then I do not know what is.
Two weeks later, we have a new house. (I am a woman of action! ... sometimes.) Now we just gotta move into it.
So do I hate moving more than I hate living in the Amityville Horror House's second cousin (or so)? It's early days yet, so it's tough to say. I've resigned myself to not-arsoning everything, but I do have a new fantasy where someone comes in and loves everything so much they ask if they can keep my furniture and then I just waltz away from it all, no movers required. I think of this as the Pretty Woman scenario: dreamy, but highly implausible. My couch is no Julia Roberts, if you know what I mean.
Speaking of Pretty Woman, we are doing this moving thing way classier than I used to - not a french fry box in sight! I bought boxes this time around, which is actually really stupid if you think about it so let's not, and I'm going to pay people actual money - not just pizza and gratitude - to move my things around for me. I don't even have a booty call(s) anymore, which I think is pretty classy of me as well, given the circumstances; you're welcome, DH! I'll bet younger me would be super impressed with all this high classery. Very aspirational for a young pup with naught but some french fry boxes and a dream of tidy roommates!
Alright, time to stop with the productive procrastination and get back to packing. Wish us luck!
P.S. You're all invited to our housewarming party, if parties are ever allowed again.
Monday, April 27, 2020
Love in the Time of Corona
Captain's bLog, Quarantine Edition: Week 2.
Remember that riddle about all the kits and cats in sacks that were (not) travelling to St. Ives? First time I heard it I was like, Why are all the cats in sacks?! Which was Not the Point, as things often are when you're a kid with lots of questions, so I never did learn how someone could be so cruel to 2,744 felines - not to mention this whole curious notion of multiple wives.
(And here I find myself again at Not the Point, but I usually make it to St. Ives eventually so just sit tight a while longer.)
I keep seeing family groups out my kitchen window, out doing their daily social distancing walks. It seems like people are huddling together more these days, as if the opposite of staying six feet away from others is never straying more than six feet from your isolation cohort. These tight jumbles of families out for walks - often with multiple kids, dogs, bicycles, wagons, strollers, and the occasional grandparent or two - keep reminding me of that old riddle. Rarely cats, never sacks, and modern society generally seems to frown upon keeping multiple wives, but still something about the little roving huddles of people and wheeled kid-transporters just has a 'kits, cats, sacks and wives' sort of energy to me.
I've been feeling a bit envious of these family huddle-walks I keep seeing. In all likelihood it's just that I haven't left my house for two weeks, but in my mind I've attributed it to wanting a slightly frenetic ball of family of my own to wander the neighbourhood with. It looks like fun, like they're a mild-mannered suburban posse of some sort. I can't wait until we're done quarantining so I can wrangle my family into daily walks. We have no pets, at least not in the typical sense, so to flesh out my own little walking gang I was thinking of bringing my sourdough starter along, and of course my hair, which is even wilder than usual since haircuts are no longer in the realm of the possible, plus washing and styling are, like, so two months ago. Bright side, should be easy enough to keep these pets on a socially-distant leash!
We're a bit of a socially-distant culture in the first place, but I've been thinking about just how weird it is to actively keep so far away from others - even adding physical barriers (masks, gloves, plexiglass dividers at tills, the occasional person sporting a full hazmat suit on the plane) to really drive the point home. I've decided to make a point of eye contact and friendly greetings as I navigate the new world order, just in case anyone is feeling lonely or shunned: It's not you, it's the Covid! (It's also really quite delightful to be able to interact confidently in the local language. How did I not appreciate this before?) Which in turn-in turn got me thinking: how long do you wager it'll be before there's a huge uptick in orgies?
(Don't worry - St. Ives is just up ahead!) What I mean by this is: humans fetishize the forbidden, and right now about the naughtiest thing you can do is be physically proximal to a bunch of other people. I had a prof who said that the first thing people did with photography was invent porn, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you the filthy things people have done with the internet, so I think it's well established that whatever humans think up, there is some immediate lizard brain instinct to try it naked. "Hey, y'know what would be really cool...?" Which I guess makes sense, since lizards are pretty naked.
Yup, I'd bet a shiny nickel that the next big thing is orgies, the pinnacle of naked multi-human close proximity. And because the next-most immediate lizard brain instinct humans have after trying something naked is to try and make money off of it, the only thing left for me to do with my genius insight is sort out how to invest in orgies - my RRSPs have taken a bit of a hit lately, and I want to get on this orgy train while the getting's good.
(Er, without necessarily getting on the orgy train, that is...)
Remember that riddle about all the kits and cats in sacks that were (not) travelling to St. Ives? First time I heard it I was like, Why are all the cats in sacks?! Which was Not the Point, as things often are when you're a kid with lots of questions, so I never did learn how someone could be so cruel to 2,744 felines - not to mention this whole curious notion of multiple wives.
(And here I find myself again at Not the Point, but I usually make it to St. Ives eventually so just sit tight a while longer.)
I keep seeing family groups out my kitchen window, out doing their daily social distancing walks. It seems like people are huddling together more these days, as if the opposite of staying six feet away from others is never straying more than six feet from your isolation cohort. These tight jumbles of families out for walks - often with multiple kids, dogs, bicycles, wagons, strollers, and the occasional grandparent or two - keep reminding me of that old riddle. Rarely cats, never sacks, and modern society generally seems to frown upon keeping multiple wives, but still something about the little roving huddles of people and wheeled kid-transporters just has a 'kits, cats, sacks and wives' sort of energy to me.
I've been feeling a bit envious of these family huddle-walks I keep seeing. In all likelihood it's just that I haven't left my house for two weeks, but in my mind I've attributed it to wanting a slightly frenetic ball of family of my own to wander the neighbourhood with. It looks like fun, like they're a mild-mannered suburban posse of some sort. I can't wait until we're done quarantining so I can wrangle my family into daily walks. We have no pets, at least not in the typical sense, so to flesh out my own little walking gang I was thinking of bringing my sourdough starter along, and of course my hair, which is even wilder than usual since haircuts are no longer in the realm of the possible, plus washing and styling are, like, so two months ago. Bright side, should be easy enough to keep these pets on a socially-distant leash!
We're a bit of a socially-distant culture in the first place, but I've been thinking about just how weird it is to actively keep so far away from others - even adding physical barriers (masks, gloves, plexiglass dividers at tills, the occasional person sporting a full hazmat suit on the plane) to really drive the point home. I've decided to make a point of eye contact and friendly greetings as I navigate the new world order, just in case anyone is feeling lonely or shunned: It's not you, it's the Covid! (It's also really quite delightful to be able to interact confidently in the local language. How did I not appreciate this before?) Which in turn-in turn got me thinking: how long do you wager it'll be before there's a huge uptick in orgies?
(Don't worry - St. Ives is just up ahead!) What I mean by this is: humans fetishize the forbidden, and right now about the naughtiest thing you can do is be physically proximal to a bunch of other people. I had a prof who said that the first thing people did with photography was invent porn, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you the filthy things people have done with the internet, so I think it's well established that whatever humans think up, there is some immediate lizard brain instinct to try it naked. "Hey, y'know what would be really cool...?" Which I guess makes sense, since lizards are pretty naked.
Yup, I'd bet a shiny nickel that the next big thing is orgies, the pinnacle of naked multi-human close proximity. And because the next-most immediate lizard brain instinct humans have after trying something naked is to try and make money off of it, the only thing left for me to do with my genius insight is sort out how to invest in orgies - my RRSPs have taken a bit of a hit lately, and I want to get on this orgy train while the getting's good.
(Er, without necessarily getting on the orgy train, that is...)
Saturday, April 18, 2020
Lean On
Captain's bLog, Quarantine Edition:Week 1.
Soooo... have days always had this many hours in them?
Not complaining or anything, it just seems they've gone a bit leggy since we started quarantine. The closets are organized, the house is spotless, and I've been cooking up an absolute storm, but if the days keep on being this goddamn long I'm going to have to start facing down the scary household projects that I've been shirking for... well, forever. So far I've been able to fend off the looming guilt-projects by never stopping moving, but as the days stretch out ahead of me it seems I may not be able to keep up my marathon hand-waving busy-dance indefinitely. At some point I'm going to have to put down my spatula and delve into the dark side of things: Updating my will. Facing the fact that I have not had time for art or crafts for years, yet have still somehow been accumulating supplies that are now beckoning me from their Rubbermaid purgatory. Gawd forbid, organizing the basement.
And so much more.
How many times in my life have I wished for more hours in the day? Well, now here they are, all in a big-ass row and staring me down expectantly. You called? Uh, yeah, sortof, but where were you needy bastards when I was attending university with a toddler? When I was working 60+ hours a week with two kids at home? Heck, even during the good times when I would have loved to linger over a conversation or a sunset or a much-needed vacation, but couldn't? It's not fair for you all to show up now that I have my shit (more or less) together and expect to be attended to in a meaningful way!
So, fuck it: I am officially leaning in - to leaning out. Eat that, Sheryl Sandberg. (Or at least eat some of this mountain of goodies I've baked? Please?) I'm going with the flow of board games and backlogged magazine subscriptions that have been defining my days lately. Maybe I'll get dressed, maybe I'll wear pyjamas, but I am damn well not going to work out either way.
If I get around to the basement, that's cool; if not, meh. After all, if the epidemiologists have it right, I'll get another stab at forced free time again sometime in my life.
And the basement will always be there, but this new cake recipe is not gonna bake itself.
Soooo... have days always had this many hours in them?
Not complaining or anything, it just seems they've gone a bit leggy since we started quarantine. The closets are organized, the house is spotless, and I've been cooking up an absolute storm, but if the days keep on being this goddamn long I'm going to have to start facing down the scary household projects that I've been shirking for... well, forever. So far I've been able to fend off the looming guilt-projects by never stopping moving, but as the days stretch out ahead of me it seems I may not be able to keep up my marathon hand-waving busy-dance indefinitely. At some point I'm going to have to put down my spatula and delve into the dark side of things: Updating my will. Facing the fact that I have not had time for art or crafts for years, yet have still somehow been accumulating supplies that are now beckoning me from their Rubbermaid purgatory. Gawd forbid, organizing the basement.
And so much more.
How many times in my life have I wished for more hours in the day? Well, now here they are, all in a big-ass row and staring me down expectantly. You called? Uh, yeah, sortof, but where were you needy bastards when I was attending university with a toddler? When I was working 60+ hours a week with two kids at home? Heck, even during the good times when I would have loved to linger over a conversation or a sunset or a much-needed vacation, but couldn't? It's not fair for you all to show up now that I have my shit (more or less) together and expect to be attended to in a meaningful way!
So, fuck it: I am officially leaning in - to leaning out. Eat that, Sheryl Sandberg. (Or at least eat some of this mountain of goodies I've baked? Please?) I'm going with the flow of board games and backlogged magazine subscriptions that have been defining my days lately. Maybe I'll get dressed, maybe I'll wear pyjamas, but I am damn well not going to work out either way.
If I get around to the basement, that's cool; if not, meh. After all, if the epidemiologists have it right, I'll get another stab at forced free time again sometime in my life.
And the basement will always be there, but this new cake recipe is not gonna bake itself.
Wednesday, April 15, 2020
Olive Wah!
Captain's bLog: 27 & 28 weeks.
(Surely even Picard missed the occasional stardate, right? Don't judge me.)
We decided to come home early to allow time to quarantine, and had a whirlwind last couple of weeks on our grand tour. Unlike many folks as of late, we had no trouble getting home, which I was honestly a bit sad about as I would have been happy to extend our final leg in the Netherlands indefinitely: Whaaaat, flights cancelled again? Welp, guess I'll just have to suffer this beautiful, cheery, cheese-eating and bike-riding country a little longer! Drat!
Small Fry, on the other hand, was thrilled to come home. He immediately ran to hug Medium Fry and reacquaint himself with his stuffed animals, with a brief stop along the way to huff the upstairs bathroom cupboard because he missed its "slightly musty smell." Ah, the comforts (and smells) of home! He has been plotting for months how we would all play board games together, and we have indeed had family games night every night since returning home... and most mornings and afternoons, too. He knows I have a particular weakness for Scrabble and has taken to shaking the tile bag like cat treats to entice me to the kitchen table. He's not all that great at Scrabble yet - it takes real commitment to train your kids into worthwhile opponents - so with all my "help" it's really more like I'm playing against myself, but I don't mind. It's all part of the training. Small Fry is as sore a winner as he is a loser (envision whatever the opposite is of crying onto one's Monopoly money), so I have to be careful not to beat myself at Scrabble or else I'd never hear the end of his gloating. It came dangerously close the other day - 314 to 311 - and even then he was boasting to Medium Fry about how he almost beat me. (Yep, it definitely defies logic, but whatever keeps him shaking the treats bag on the reg, y'know?)
Small Fry has quantified his Happiness to be Home at 90%, and to be honest I suspect he's faking the 10% Sad to be Done Our Trip for DH's and my benefit because we are obviously still in mourning over it. Grieving aside, I do have to admit that it's pretty great to not be wearing my travel wardrobe any longer, and to have access to my full suite of kitchen tools and pantry items again. I haven't huffed the cupboards, but it's been nice to burn my favourite incense and wear my favourite scents. My hair is - well, it's at least behaving in a low-humidity way that I'm familiar with. And when I can go to the store again, I will relish being able to understand what the hell I'm buying; in fact, I'm finding being able to communicate with better fluency than a crazed toddler in day to day life to be a massive relief. In short, everything is easy and familiar here, in so many ways. So I'm not sure that it's quite what I'd call good to be back, but it sure is comfortable, which has an undeniable charm of its own.
DH and I have already started plotting when we can do something like this again, and we're full of grand ideas about how we'll do it even smarter and better next time (Step 1: no pandemics allowed). Until then, we bid a fond farewell - or as Small Fry says, Olive wah! - to the wonderful places we visited. Perhaps we'll meet again one day!
(Surely even Picard missed the occasional stardate, right? Don't judge me.)
We decided to come home early to allow time to quarantine, and had a whirlwind last couple of weeks on our grand tour. Unlike many folks as of late, we had no trouble getting home, which I was honestly a bit sad about as I would have been happy to extend our final leg in the Netherlands indefinitely: Whaaaat, flights cancelled again? Welp, guess I'll just have to suffer this beautiful, cheery, cheese-eating and bike-riding country a little longer! Drat!
Small Fry, on the other hand, was thrilled to come home. He immediately ran to hug Medium Fry and reacquaint himself with his stuffed animals, with a brief stop along the way to huff the upstairs bathroom cupboard because he missed its "slightly musty smell." Ah, the comforts (and smells) of home! He has been plotting for months how we would all play board games together, and we have indeed had family games night every night since returning home... and most mornings and afternoons, too. He knows I have a particular weakness for Scrabble and has taken to shaking the tile bag like cat treats to entice me to the kitchen table. He's not all that great at Scrabble yet - it takes real commitment to train your kids into worthwhile opponents - so with all my "help" it's really more like I'm playing against myself, but I don't mind. It's all part of the training. Small Fry is as sore a winner as he is a loser (envision whatever the opposite is of crying onto one's Monopoly money), so I have to be careful not to beat myself at Scrabble or else I'd never hear the end of his gloating. It came dangerously close the other day - 314 to 311 - and even then he was boasting to Medium Fry about how he almost beat me. (Yep, it definitely defies logic, but whatever keeps him shaking the treats bag on the reg, y'know?)
Small Fry has quantified his Happiness to be Home at 90%, and to be honest I suspect he's faking the 10% Sad to be Done Our Trip for DH's and my benefit because we are obviously still in mourning over it. Grieving aside, I do have to admit that it's pretty great to not be wearing my travel wardrobe any longer, and to have access to my full suite of kitchen tools and pantry items again. I haven't huffed the cupboards, but it's been nice to burn my favourite incense and wear my favourite scents. My hair is - well, it's at least behaving in a low-humidity way that I'm familiar with. And when I can go to the store again, I will relish being able to understand what the hell I'm buying; in fact, I'm finding being able to communicate with better fluency than a crazed toddler in day to day life to be a massive relief. In short, everything is easy and familiar here, in so many ways. So I'm not sure that it's quite what I'd call good to be back, but it sure is comfortable, which has an undeniable charm of its own.
DH and I have already started plotting when we can do something like this again, and we're full of grand ideas about how we'll do it even smarter and better next time (Step 1: no pandemics allowed). Until then, we bid a fond farewell - or as Small Fry says, Olive wah! - to the wonderful places we visited. Perhaps we'll meet again one day!
Wednesday, March 25, 2020
Student Teacher
Captain's bLog: 26 weeks.
Lesson planning is a lot like meal planning.
I should clarify that this is in relation to the "home cook" only; I recognize that my experience with a single, fairly unfussy "diner" is a far cry from more industrial-sized applications. But at the scale of the home cook/teacher, I find there are a lot of parallels:
Specialization. I used to have this friend who managed to singe her eyebrows off every time she lit the barbeque, in memory of which I have assigned all grilling of things to DH. He also likes to roast things, puree things, and do my sous cheffery for me. My specialties include baking, soup wizardry, freezer management, and a savant-level ability to sense the right size of container to use for leftovers. From a homeschooling perspective, ELA, art, French, and basically anything requiring patience or enthusiasm (real or manufactured) fall to me.
Balance. I would happily have pastries/art class for breakfast, burgers/creative writing for lunch and perogies/biology for dinner every single day, buuuuut it's my job to be a responsible grown-up and make sure we get all our nutrients/subjects in, and that everyone's favourites are cycled through.
Leftovers. I'm definitely counting on having leftovers, even as I nag Small Fry to focus on finishing his schoolwork/dinner. Sweet, that'll get us through lunchtime tomorrow!
Enthusiasm. Bursts of utter planning genius. May be accompanied by delusions of viable alternate career paths.
Planning fatigue. Like, I have to do this every day?
Repetition 1. I wonder how many times I can rework this idea without anyone noticing...
Repetition 2. They've definitely noticed. I wonder how many times I can rework this idea without absolute mutiny?
Repetition 3. MUTINEERS WILL BE CRUSHED.
Marital conflict. Yes.
Lack of appreciation. Oh, all my care and planning and hard work wasn't to your liking today, Highness? It's not up to your refined tastes or something? Well, feel free to make your own goddamn...
Attitude adjustment. ...Yeah, sometimes the problem is me.
So, yeah. That's about it. When I started writing this I thought I might have something useful to offer the newly (abruptly) homeschooling families I know, but I've been meal planning for fifteen years or so and homeschooling for seven months, and looking at this post it seems all I can tell you for sure is that I cycle through a lot of very comparable mixed feelings about both things. I'd call it a love/hate thing, but it's more like love/fatigue - turns out I really enjoy homeschooling, I'm just a lazy slug who can't be arsed half the time. Or maybe I can only be whole-arsed, half the time...?
Anyway, it's nearly dinnertime here so I'm off to rustle up some nutritional balance after a hard day of fostering Small Fry's educational balance. It feels like a mostly-whole-arse kind of day so I'll throw in some extra veggies as insurance against my lesser self, whenever she turns up.
Lesson planning is a lot like meal planning.
I should clarify that this is in relation to the "home cook" only; I recognize that my experience with a single, fairly unfussy "diner" is a far cry from more industrial-sized applications. But at the scale of the home cook/teacher, I find there are a lot of parallels:
Specialization. I used to have this friend who managed to singe her eyebrows off every time she lit the barbeque, in memory of which I have assigned all grilling of things to DH. He also likes to roast things, puree things, and do my sous cheffery for me. My specialties include baking, soup wizardry, freezer management, and a savant-level ability to sense the right size of container to use for leftovers. From a homeschooling perspective, ELA, art, French, and basically anything requiring patience or enthusiasm (real or manufactured) fall to me.
Balance. I would happily have pastries/art class for breakfast, burgers/creative writing for lunch and perogies/biology for dinner every single day, buuuuut it's my job to be a responsible grown-up and make sure we get all our nutrients/subjects in, and that everyone's favourites are cycled through.
Leftovers. I'm definitely counting on having leftovers, even as I nag Small Fry to focus on finishing his schoolwork/dinner. Sweet, that'll get us through lunchtime tomorrow!
Enthusiasm. Bursts of utter planning genius. May be accompanied by delusions of viable alternate career paths.
Planning fatigue. Like, I have to do this every day?
Repetition 1. I wonder how many times I can rework this idea without anyone noticing...
Repetition 2. They've definitely noticed. I wonder how many times I can rework this idea without absolute mutiny?
Repetition 3. MUTINEERS WILL BE CRUSHED.
Marital conflict. Yes.
Lack of appreciation. Oh, all my care and planning and hard work wasn't to your liking today, Highness? It's not up to your refined tastes or something? Well, feel free to make your own goddamn...
Attitude adjustment. ...Yeah, sometimes the problem is me.
So, yeah. That's about it. When I started writing this I thought I might have something useful to offer the newly (abruptly) homeschooling families I know, but I've been meal planning for fifteen years or so and homeschooling for seven months, and looking at this post it seems all I can tell you for sure is that I cycle through a lot of very comparable mixed feelings about both things. I'd call it a love/hate thing, but it's more like love/fatigue - turns out I really enjoy homeschooling, I'm just a lazy slug who can't be arsed half the time. Or maybe I can only be whole-arsed, half the time...?
Anyway, it's nearly dinnertime here so I'm off to rustle up some nutritional balance after a hard day of fostering Small Fry's educational balance. It feels like a mostly-whole-arse kind of day so I'll throw in some extra veggies as insurance against my lesser self, whenever she turns up.
Thursday, March 19, 2020
Drums, Drums in the Deep
Captain's bLog: 25 weeks.
About a week ago the government of Canada issued a statement asking - politely - for Canadians abroad to come home due to the Covid pandemic. On the same day, the travelling contingent of our family came down with a bad case of either food poisoning or 'stomach flu' - we have no formal diagnosis so I'm just going to call it IDP, shorthand for intestinal demonic possession, which I hope tells you everything you need to know about our symptoms. We are now seven days into our collective bout of IDP and while the demon ranks seem to have thinned, they have not been driven out entirely.
Oh yes, and Small Fry developed a persistent (probably unrelated to intestinal demons) dry cough around Day 3 of the siege.
So what I'm saying is, we aren't going anywhere anytime soon. We have made what we feel to be the most socially responsible decision possible under the circumstances, and elected to self-quarantine in place in Portugal rather than trying to travel back to Canada. We've rented an absolutely stunning home near the ocean, with a private rooftop terrace and solar-heated pool, a Nintendo classic to help while away the long hours of quarantine, and three beautiful bathrooms so we can all violently expunge our demons simultaneously - no lineups! All for the exclusive pandemic price of €60 per night.
In case you're now worried about our health due to IDP rather than Covid, please note that I really do think we're on the mend. We're off of the rice cakes and chicken broth and back to eating "real" food - which the demons are still battling, mind you, although not quite so vigorously as a few days ago - and while we are still weak and tired, we're feeling cheerier and moving around a bit more. DH even made a joke this morning, which I actually had the energy to laugh at, which nearly caused me to shit my pants, but which I didn't do because I was right beside one of our three, blissfully unoccupied bathrooms at the time - win! (See what I mean? Three people who should definitely not be on an airplane right now.)
Basically, all the pieces are in place for us to have the best quarantine ever. We have the time, we have the means, and we have this sweet, sweetvacation staycation quaran-cation rental to do it all in style. We even have quarantine friends now: our French neighbours the next terrace over! We just met them this morning. Actually only one of them - the husband stuck his head over the terrace wall to say bonjour. (Yes, I realise my standards for declaring friendship have lowered substantially after six months of hardly interacting with other people, but trust me - this time it's for real.) They are also travellers who are self-quarantining in place, and they want to get together sometime, which seems like an endearingly French thing to want to do while in quarantine.
I wonder if it's considered good etiquette to bring your own wine glass to a quarantine date...? This seems like just the type of question the French would know the answer to, so I will be sure to let you all know as soon as we find out.
Be well.
About a week ago the government of Canada issued a statement asking - politely - for Canadians abroad to come home due to the Covid pandemic. On the same day, the travelling contingent of our family came down with a bad case of either food poisoning or 'stomach flu' - we have no formal diagnosis so I'm just going to call it IDP, shorthand for intestinal demonic possession, which I hope tells you everything you need to know about our symptoms. We are now seven days into our collective bout of IDP and while the demon ranks seem to have thinned, they have not been driven out entirely.
Oh yes, and Small Fry developed a persistent (probably unrelated to intestinal demons) dry cough around Day 3 of the siege.
So what I'm saying is, we aren't going anywhere anytime soon. We have made what we feel to be the most socially responsible decision possible under the circumstances, and elected to self-quarantine in place in Portugal rather than trying to travel back to Canada. We've rented an absolutely stunning home near the ocean, with a private rooftop terrace and solar-heated pool, a Nintendo classic to help while away the long hours of quarantine, and three beautiful bathrooms so we can all violently expunge our demons simultaneously - no lineups! All for the exclusive pandemic price of €60 per night.
In case you're now worried about our health due to IDP rather than Covid, please note that I really do think we're on the mend. We're off of the rice cakes and chicken broth and back to eating "real" food - which the demons are still battling, mind you, although not quite so vigorously as a few days ago - and while we are still weak and tired, we're feeling cheerier and moving around a bit more. DH even made a joke this morning, which I actually had the energy to laugh at, which nearly caused me to shit my pants, but which I didn't do because I was right beside one of our three, blissfully unoccupied bathrooms at the time - win! (See what I mean? Three people who should definitely not be on an airplane right now.)
Basically, all the pieces are in place for us to have the best quarantine ever. We have the time, we have the means, and we have this sweet, sweet
I wonder if it's considered good etiquette to bring your own wine glass to a quarantine date...? This seems like just the type of question the French would know the answer to, so I will be sure to let you all know as soon as we find out.
Be well.
Wednesday, March 11, 2020
The Traveller's Prayer
Captain's bLog: 24 weeks.
When I was 19 or so, two of my friends went travelling around Europe together. They came back with many stories, but what I remember most vividly is that they joked about experiencing terrible constipation in France "from all the cheese." Despite being a bit of a cheese fiend myself (okay, mostly just cheddar - at least at that point) I had never heard of cheese-induced constipation before, and it seemed pretty bananas to me. Like, just how much cheese does one need to eat to suffer weeks of constipation? What are you even doing with all that cheese?
I've long since lost touch with those gals, but I was thinking of them a lot as we planned our trip. Mostly to the tune of, 'I can't believe I am getting to do this thing that was practically unimaginable to me back then,' but when we got to France the ease with which one might overindulge on cheese truly hit me. I remembered my friends' story, and suddenly everything clicked: cheese is everywhere, and practising moderation while travelling is, like, really hard and sucky. Traveller's cheestipation is basically a foregone conclusion.
Constantly exercising restraint has been one of the hardest things about this trip. We want to immerse ourselves in our temporary homes, and a huge part of that is food! New foods, iconic foods, culturally significant foods, foods you think you already know but then you take one bite of a homemade lasagna in a little Tuscan hilltop town and realise your entire life has been a lie (I swear I heard someone welcome me to the matrix when I bit into that lasagna). All the foods! But several months of travelling is not the same beast as a ten-day jaunt, so we've really had to pace our culinary immersion... and then check our waistbands and pace anew. To be honest we started out doing a pretty shit job of restraining and were swiftly punished by having to buy Small Fry an entirely new wardrobe. (If I could offer one piece of travel advice, it would be to avoid at all costs the need to acquire "husky" kids' clothing in France. I shudder at the memory.)
Our current pacing seems to be working well, though. DH has even had to tighten his belt a notch, which is frankly one of his more irritating habits but I'm trying to let it slide. The only thing is, with all the pandemic madness going on, I'd just like to know all my admirable restraint isn't going to waste, y'know? I feel this particularly keenly in the mornings as I gaze out over the Tagus estuary with my daily pastel de nata and coffee, aka the world's second-most perfect breakfast; the MOST-most perfect breakfast being eating those fuckers 'til I pop. Estuary optional.
So I offer this small prayer each day to the gods of coffee-and-pastry-for-breakfast (if anything deserves its own department it's that, right?):
Dear divine spirits, if I am going to die of the Covid please let me know well in advance so I can eat truly unreasonable quantities of these tarts without having to worry about buying husky ladies' clothing in France.
Amen.
When I was 19 or so, two of my friends went travelling around Europe together. They came back with many stories, but what I remember most vividly is that they joked about experiencing terrible constipation in France "from all the cheese." Despite being a bit of a cheese fiend myself (okay, mostly just cheddar - at least at that point) I had never heard of cheese-induced constipation before, and it seemed pretty bananas to me. Like, just how much cheese does one need to eat to suffer weeks of constipation? What are you even doing with all that cheese?
I've long since lost touch with those gals, but I was thinking of them a lot as we planned our trip. Mostly to the tune of, 'I can't believe I am getting to do this thing that was practically unimaginable to me back then,' but when we got to France the ease with which one might overindulge on cheese truly hit me. I remembered my friends' story, and suddenly everything clicked: cheese is everywhere, and practising moderation while travelling is, like, really hard and sucky. Traveller's cheestipation is basically a foregone conclusion.
Constantly exercising restraint has been one of the hardest things about this trip. We want to immerse ourselves in our temporary homes, and a huge part of that is food! New foods, iconic foods, culturally significant foods, foods you think you already know but then you take one bite of a homemade lasagna in a little Tuscan hilltop town and realise your entire life has been a lie (I swear I heard someone welcome me to the matrix when I bit into that lasagna). All the foods! But several months of travelling is not the same beast as a ten-day jaunt, so we've really had to pace our culinary immersion... and then check our waistbands and pace anew. To be honest we started out doing a pretty shit job of restraining and were swiftly punished by having to buy Small Fry an entirely new wardrobe. (If I could offer one piece of travel advice, it would be to avoid at all costs the need to acquire "husky" kids' clothing in France. I shudder at the memory.)
Our current pacing seems to be working well, though. DH has even had to tighten his belt a notch, which is frankly one of his more irritating habits but I'm trying to let it slide. The only thing is, with all the pandemic madness going on, I'd just like to know all my admirable restraint isn't going to waste, y'know? I feel this particularly keenly in the mornings as I gaze out over the Tagus estuary with my daily pastel de nata and coffee, aka the world's second-most perfect breakfast; the MOST-most perfect breakfast being eating those fuckers 'til I pop. Estuary optional.
So I offer this small prayer each day to the gods of coffee-and-pastry-for-breakfast (if anything deserves its own department it's that, right?):
Dear divine spirits, if I am going to die of the Covid please let me know well in advance so I can eat truly unreasonable quantities of these tarts without having to worry about buying husky ladies' clothing in France.
Amen.
Monday, March 9, 2020
The Best Medicine
Captain's bLog: 23 weeks.
Beneath Small Fry's typically tweenaged exterior lies the heart of a raging hypochondriac. Probably slightly arrhythmic, or at least that's what he would have you believe.
I say this as he weeps on the couch with fear of going to bed and never waking up again, due to secondary drowning. Never mind his distinct lack of primary drowning lately; it's the secondary drowning that he's concerned about. I am tough - oh, so tough - but I burst out laughing when he told me why he was upset, which only added insult to injury and now he probably hopes to secondary-drown on his own tears just to get back at me.
But oh my gawd, this kid. How could I not laugh? It reminds me of when he learned about Terry Fox in Grade One and came down with all manner of toe, foot and leg cancers for months afterward. I don't even know where the secondary drowning came from - maybe he overheard me say something in passing to DH? Normally we're quite careful about mentioning any illness or disease around Small Fry; y'know, after his big cancer scare and all.
Oh yes, he also makes me check his hair for lice all the time. (Honestly, probably not the worst idea, but still.)
As you can surely imagine, he is quite distraught over Covid-19 these days. I was showing him a neat chart about the kinds of pathogens alcohol-based hand sanitizer is effective against (in an attempt to assuage his fears about not always having access to soap and water) when he noticed poliovirus on the chart and I had to interrupt myself with an emergency broadcast: BE ADVISED THAT YOU DO NOT HAVE POLIO. I REPEAT, PLEASE DO NOT WORRY ABOUT POLIO, I WILL DEFINITELY LAUGH AT YOU IF YOU DO. Since the Covid has become A Whole Damn Thing we've talked at length about immune systems, hygiene measures, relative vs. absolute risk, vaccine development, media reporting of science, and so on and so forth. Mostly while I'm checking his hair for lice.
Pro: potential epidemiologist in the family! Con: OCD is more common than epidemiologists.
Pro: the child has never had a cavity. Con: he's very young to be so... weirdly old.
Pro: he lacks the means to stockpile toilet paper (WHY oh why are we stockpiling toilet paper, people?). Con: he probably would if he could.
I guess I'll end this by wishing everyone safety, and sanity, and all the toilet paper your heart (?) desires, in these trying times. May your apples keep the doctors away, and may the odds be ever in your favour.
Beneath Small Fry's typically tweenaged exterior lies the heart of a raging hypochondriac. Probably slightly arrhythmic, or at least that's what he would have you believe.
I say this as he weeps on the couch with fear of going to bed and never waking up again, due to secondary drowning. Never mind his distinct lack of primary drowning lately; it's the secondary drowning that he's concerned about. I am tough - oh, so tough - but I burst out laughing when he told me why he was upset, which only added insult to injury and now he probably hopes to secondary-drown on his own tears just to get back at me.
But oh my gawd, this kid. How could I not laugh? It reminds me of when he learned about Terry Fox in Grade One and came down with all manner of toe, foot and leg cancers for months afterward. I don't even know where the secondary drowning came from - maybe he overheard me say something in passing to DH? Normally we're quite careful about mentioning any illness or disease around Small Fry; y'know, after his big cancer scare and all.
Oh yes, he also makes me check his hair for lice all the time. (Honestly, probably not the worst idea, but still.)
As you can surely imagine, he is quite distraught over Covid-19 these days. I was showing him a neat chart about the kinds of pathogens alcohol-based hand sanitizer is effective against (in an attempt to assuage his fears about not always having access to soap and water) when he noticed poliovirus on the chart and I had to interrupt myself with an emergency broadcast: BE ADVISED THAT YOU DO NOT HAVE POLIO. I REPEAT, PLEASE DO NOT WORRY ABOUT POLIO, I WILL DEFINITELY LAUGH AT YOU IF YOU DO. Since the Covid has become A Whole Damn Thing we've talked at length about immune systems, hygiene measures, relative vs. absolute risk, vaccine development, media reporting of science, and so on and so forth. Mostly while I'm checking his hair for lice.
Pro: potential epidemiologist in the family! Con: OCD is more common than epidemiologists.
Pro: the child has never had a cavity. Con: he's very young to be so... weirdly old.
Pro: he lacks the means to stockpile toilet paper (WHY oh why are we stockpiling toilet paper, people?). Con: he probably would if he could.
I guess I'll end this by wishing everyone safety, and sanity, and all the toilet paper your heart (?) desires, in these trying times. May your apples keep the doctors away, and may the odds be ever in your favour.
Sunday, March 1, 2020
Travel Memoir
Captain's bLog: 22 weeks.
Please enjoy the following guest post, written by Small Fry as a homeschooling assignment.
Memoir about my travels
Please enjoy the following guest post, written by Small Fry as a homeschooling assignment.
Memoir about my travels
I was always very close to my family. We laughed together, ate together,
and did everything together. But now, I'm away from my sister on a trip, and
alone with my mom and dad. In four and a bit months of travelling, me, my dad,
and my mom have made an even bigger connection.
I feel we got our connection from being forced to be together 24/7
without other family or our friends. We have better communication, and that
includes the adults in our house. We no longer fight as much, or snap as much.
It is more comfortable to be around each other with all the non-fighting
extra-peace going on. I feel we understand each other better and know when we
are sad, angry, or uncomfortable. We agreed to do things everyone enjoyed
because we recognized when we had left someone's ideas out for too long and
realized they were getting upset. For instance, we were going to a lot of
museums and churches and not doing things I enjoyed that much like visiting
parks. Then mom came up to me and said we should do things I liked more often.
We then began doing more park visits and other things I liked.
We began taking better control of our actions to preserve peace. If one of
us got mad, we tried to help. We began more snuggles, love, and less conflict.
We watch movies together and do not sit far from each other. We spend quality
family time together. During the day we are always not far apart and we do lots
like seeing sights. When it's later in the day we snuggle up and it’s slow,
relaxed, and peaceful. It’s then we are close and comfortable. We spend our
time together best in the evening.
I like knowing there is love between us. We were going to the Salvidor
Dali museum and instead of whining and complaining, I tried to get something
good out of it, something I enjoyed. I got, in return for trying to find
something good in the art, impressive abstract art which was interesting. He
had an interesting take on art.
This will change me forever. It will make me aware of the way I act. I
feel it will help me know when to help my family. I want to be careful of what
I do or say from now on. When we get home, I hope to make the connection with
my sister. I also hope to retain that connection with my family forever.
Sunday, February 23, 2020
House of Cards
Captain's bLog: 21 weeks.
We, the teachers, have officially designated the coming week as Spring Break. We have a car rented for the week and places to see, dammit! Plus we are not a little weary of school, and remembering we could just *decide* to do things like take breaks from it was like finding a forgotten $20 in a jacket pocket. Whee!
We - the teachers, that is - have been doing simply loads of very clever things like preparing assignments, then grading said assignments. Teaching things. Even making a report card, for goodness sake! Like, who do we even think we are? I think all children are a bit surprised when they realise their parents don't actually know everything (or anything, as the case may be), but Small Fry is gonna be pissed to learn we were faking it so hard. Maybe it's just my consultant side talking, but shouldn't I have provided a disclaimer somewhere? He can't sue me for teaching him Grade 6 without any training or credentials, can he? Who even let me have children in the first place?
Honestly, the whole thing is a house of cards. Best not to think on it too hard.
Unfortunately, my time in Spain has led me to believe my Spanish language skills are a house of cards as well. Even after poking fun at DH about his app-based French language proficiency, I went ahead with a learning app myself. And despite seriously questioning some of the claims DH's app was making about his progress, I was still fooled by my app into believing I was making useful, measurable progress, despite learning equally dubious phrases such as 'You are a genius!' Let's be honest here: the person I'm most likely to say that to is myself, so the learning of it gave me the illusion of progress while actually leaving me standing at the starting line with my thumb in my ass. The irony is not lost on me - Eres un genio, indeed.
Would you like to know who did teach me some useful Spanish?
First I'll set the scene: Imagine a leisurely, multi-course meal at a sidewalk cafe in atmospheric Girona. My belly is full and I'm feeling warm and buzzy from that extra glass of vino tinto I acquired by eloquently flapping my hands around my empty glass at the waiter, when a complete and lucid phrase comes burbling unbidden from the mysterious depths of my meat computer: Senor, la cuenta, por favor. I think the waiter was just as surprised as I was.
That's right, I learned my single most useful Spanish phrase to date from Weird Al's 1992 magnum opus, "Taco Grande." Honourable mentions go to "Pretty Fly (for a White Guy)" by The Offspring, although I am unable to count to seis without saying cinco twice, and Dora the Explorer's backpack. Basically, thanks for nothing, Memrise. Eres un genio. /s
Anyway, I've managed to pick up a few new useful phrases in the past seven weeks, and what I don't know I've been mashing together like a crazed toddler: Round with apple please! got me the pastry I wanted at the bakery, for instance, while Very fatso please! got me the dress size I needed at the store. It ain't pretty, but it is getting results and really, who can argue with that?
I only hope Small Fry can come to feel the same way about his Grade 6 teachers one day.
We, the teachers, have officially designated the coming week as Spring Break. We have a car rented for the week and places to see, dammit! Plus we are not a little weary of school, and remembering we could just *decide* to do things like take breaks from it was like finding a forgotten $20 in a jacket pocket. Whee!
We - the teachers, that is - have been doing simply loads of very clever things like preparing assignments, then grading said assignments. Teaching things. Even making a report card, for goodness sake! Like, who do we even think we are? I think all children are a bit surprised when they realise their parents don't actually know everything (or anything, as the case may be), but Small Fry is gonna be pissed to learn we were faking it so hard. Maybe it's just my consultant side talking, but shouldn't I have provided a disclaimer somewhere? He can't sue me for teaching him Grade 6 without any training or credentials, can he? Who even let me have children in the first place?
Honestly, the whole thing is a house of cards. Best not to think on it too hard.
Unfortunately, my time in Spain has led me to believe my Spanish language skills are a house of cards as well. Even after poking fun at DH about his app-based French language proficiency, I went ahead with a learning app myself. And despite seriously questioning some of the claims DH's app was making about his progress, I was still fooled by my app into believing I was making useful, measurable progress, despite learning equally dubious phrases such as 'You are a genius!' Let's be honest here: the person I'm most likely to say that to is myself, so the learning of it gave me the illusion of progress while actually leaving me standing at the starting line with my thumb in my ass. The irony is not lost on me - Eres un genio, indeed.
Would you like to know who did teach me some useful Spanish?
First I'll set the scene: Imagine a leisurely, multi-course meal at a sidewalk cafe in atmospheric Girona. My belly is full and I'm feeling warm and buzzy from that extra glass of vino tinto I acquired by eloquently flapping my hands around my empty glass at the waiter, when a complete and lucid phrase comes burbling unbidden from the mysterious depths of my meat computer: Senor, la cuenta, por favor. I think the waiter was just as surprised as I was.
That's right, I learned my single most useful Spanish phrase to date from Weird Al's 1992 magnum opus, "Taco Grande." Honourable mentions go to "Pretty Fly (for a White Guy)" by The Offspring, although I am unable to count to seis without saying cinco twice, and Dora the Explorer's backpack. Basically, thanks for nothing, Memrise. Eres un genio. /s
Anyway, I've managed to pick up a few new useful phrases in the past seven weeks, and what I don't know I've been mashing together like a crazed toddler: Round with apple please! got me the pastry I wanted at the bakery, for instance, while Very fatso please! got me the dress size I needed at the store. It ain't pretty, but it is getting results and really, who can argue with that?
I only hope Small Fry can come to feel the same way about his Grade 6 teachers one day.
Saturday, February 15, 2020
Sixth Base
Captain's bLog: 20 weeks.
I read a lot of travel guides before embarking on this trip, and if I learned anything from them it is that Rick Steves does not know what "through the back door" connotes.
Otherwise, I'm with him on the philosophy, and we have taken many of his handy tips to heart: we are trying our darnedest to shed our Canadian notions and habits and become "temporary Europeans" while we're here. I mean, we're definitely not succeeding in it, but at least we're trying.
I would even suggest going a step further than Rick Steves wants you to - let's call it sixth base - and try not only to live like a local, but to really suffer like one. Like, how can you fully experience regular life in a new place if you're sequestered in a private car? Get thyself some bus tickets and learn to sardine-can your way around town like a proper local. Unless you're in Italy, in which case the insanity of driving is a suffering unto itself, so definitely do rent a car for a few days. Count how many times a day you nearly die of a heart attack! Why are we all honking? Where even are the lanes?! (October 2020 update: P.S. Be sure to budget for the $300 traffic ticket you are definitely going to get in the mail six months after you get home.)
The locals don't have clothes dryers, so why would you? Learn to relish the lingering dampness of clothes you've line-dried in places where the humidity never dips below 80% - oh, and by the way pigeons have shitted on your clothes again.
The locals would never deign to eat anything other than their food, which is obviously the best food and should therefore be the only food, so learn to bear the frustration of having all the corn and tomatoes in the world, but none of the chips and salsa.
The locals live in old buildings that have been retrofitted into small and often awkward apartments, so stay on budget and really sink your teeth into the local experience of less personal space, no counter space, and a quarter of the plug-ins that modern, connected life requires. Surprise! The toilet is in a different room than the sink! Bonus like-a-local points if you somehow manage to perfectly align your menstrual cycle with all the apartments you've rented with this feature.
"Through the back door" is - well, I'll leave that definition to Rick Steves. But sixth base is all about getting past that fresh, sexy love it's so easy to have for a new place and developing a deeper relationship with it... discovering as much of the "warts-and-all" of a place that you can in the time you have, and then transcending the warts...
Or something like that. I'm still pretty sore about the pigeon shit so my transcendence might have to wait a few wash cycles more to kick in.
I read a lot of travel guides before embarking on this trip, and if I learned anything from them it is that Rick Steves does not know what "through the back door" connotes.
Otherwise, I'm with him on the philosophy, and we have taken many of his handy tips to heart: we are trying our darnedest to shed our Canadian notions and habits and become "temporary Europeans" while we're here. I mean, we're definitely not succeeding in it, but at least we're trying.
I would even suggest going a step further than Rick Steves wants you to - let's call it sixth base - and try not only to live like a local, but to really suffer like one. Like, how can you fully experience regular life in a new place if you're sequestered in a private car? Get thyself some bus tickets and learn to sardine-can your way around town like a proper local. Unless you're in Italy, in which case the insanity of driving is a suffering unto itself, so definitely do rent a car for a few days. Count how many times a day you nearly die of a heart attack! Why are we all honking? Where even are the lanes?! (October 2020 update: P.S. Be sure to budget for the $300 traffic ticket you are definitely going to get in the mail six months after you get home.)
The locals don't have clothes dryers, so why would you? Learn to relish the lingering dampness of clothes you've line-dried in places where the humidity never dips below 80% - oh, and by the way pigeons have shitted on your clothes again.
The locals would never deign to eat anything other than their food, which is obviously the best food and should therefore be the only food, so learn to bear the frustration of having all the corn and tomatoes in the world, but none of the chips and salsa.
The locals live in old buildings that have been retrofitted into small and often awkward apartments, so stay on budget and really sink your teeth into the local experience of less personal space, no counter space, and a quarter of the plug-ins that modern, connected life requires. Surprise! The toilet is in a different room than the sink! Bonus like-a-local points if you somehow manage to perfectly align your menstrual cycle with all the apartments you've rented with this feature.
"Through the back door" is - well, I'll leave that definition to Rick Steves. But sixth base is all about getting past that fresh, sexy love it's so easy to have for a new place and developing a deeper relationship with it... discovering as much of the "warts-and-all" of a place that you can in the time you have, and then transcending the warts...
Or something like that. I'm still pretty sore about the pigeon shit so my transcendence might have to wait a few wash cycles more to kick in.
Wednesday, February 12, 2020
Late for Supper
Captain's bLog: 19 weeks.
Remember how your Grandma used to say things like, 'Oh I just cannot get over...' and the thing she couldn't get over was something you felt she should definitely get over (and probably also stop talking about, like, forever)? Well, now pretend I'm your Grandma, and the things I just cannot get over are things like how people eat supper at 10pm in Spain. Seriously - I can't get over it. Restaurants don't even open until 8:30pm, and if you are there smooshing your sad, hungry little street urchin face against the glass at 8:29pm it is an obvious sign that you're a tourist. First of all, only tourists get hungry for supper at such an unreasonably early hour, and secondly, definitely only tourists would expect the place to open at the actual time the signage indicated it would. Silly tourists, with their quaint notions about time!
So if supper is at 10pm - way after Grandma's usual bedtime - then when the heck is bedtime? The answer is that I'm not entirely sure people sleep here. Nightclubs close down at 7am, yet school and work days seem to start at comparable times to back home. I understand that the schoolchildren and nightclub-goer populations are unlikely to overlap substantially, but since everyone eats supper so damn late the overall effect is one of no one ever sleeping. There was a drunk dude on the street outside our window the other day bellowing "Puta! Puta!" and rubbing his dick on a taxi window - at 7:30am. I don't know what your youth was like, but that seems distinctly more of a 2:30am activity to me - days just seem to blend together differently here. We sipped our morning coffee and thought to ourselves grandmotherly things like, If only that poor young fellow had eaten supper earlier.
It also occurred to me that this would have been a much different trip for me at 21-and-single than it is at 41-with-family-in-tow, and it surely would be different again at 61-and-who-knows. More tripping at both ends of the scale - ha! Taxi-dick guy reminded me that I'm not experiencing the (apparently) wild Spanish nightlife, but on the other hand, in my recollection the wild night life was overrated sometimes - pretty sure I've been in that escape taxi enough for one life. And maybe I'm spending more time lesson planning and cooking supper (at a stolid North American hour) than one might envision for a dream trip, but I've also never felt closer with DH and Small Fry, and we will always have this incredible shared experience on file. In short, it would certainly have been a different trip, but I can't imagine it being any more perfect, and I certainly would have experienced different stuff, yet I don't feel as if I've missed out on a single thing.
Basically, I just cannot get over how splendid it's been. And I hope to never get over it.
Remember how your Grandma used to say things like, 'Oh I just cannot get over...' and the thing she couldn't get over was something you felt she should definitely get over (and probably also stop talking about, like, forever)? Well, now pretend I'm your Grandma, and the things I just cannot get over are things like how people eat supper at 10pm in Spain. Seriously - I can't get over it. Restaurants don't even open until 8:30pm, and if you are there smooshing your sad, hungry little street urchin face against the glass at 8:29pm it is an obvious sign that you're a tourist. First of all, only tourists get hungry for supper at such an unreasonably early hour, and secondly, definitely only tourists would expect the place to open at the actual time the signage indicated it would. Silly tourists, with their quaint notions about time!
So if supper is at 10pm - way after Grandma's usual bedtime - then when the heck is bedtime? The answer is that I'm not entirely sure people sleep here. Nightclubs close down at 7am, yet school and work days seem to start at comparable times to back home. I understand that the schoolchildren and nightclub-goer populations are unlikely to overlap substantially, but since everyone eats supper so damn late the overall effect is one of no one ever sleeping. There was a drunk dude on the street outside our window the other day bellowing "Puta! Puta!" and rubbing his dick on a taxi window - at 7:30am. I don't know what your youth was like, but that seems distinctly more of a 2:30am activity to me - days just seem to blend together differently here. We sipped our morning coffee and thought to ourselves grandmotherly things like, If only that poor young fellow had eaten supper earlier.
It also occurred to me that this would have been a much different trip for me at 21-and-single than it is at 41-with-family-in-tow, and it surely would be different again at 61-and-who-knows. More tripping at both ends of the scale - ha! Taxi-dick guy reminded me that I'm not experiencing the (apparently) wild Spanish nightlife, but on the other hand, in my recollection the wild night life was overrated sometimes - pretty sure I've been in that escape taxi enough for one life. And maybe I'm spending more time lesson planning and cooking supper (at a stolid North American hour) than one might envision for a dream trip, but I've also never felt closer with DH and Small Fry, and we will always have this incredible shared experience on file. In short, it would certainly have been a different trip, but I can't imagine it being any more perfect, and I certainly would have experienced different stuff, yet I don't feel as if I've missed out on a single thing.
Basically, I just cannot get over how splendid it's been. And I hope to never get over it.
Sunday, February 2, 2020
Ode to Florence
Captain's bLog: 18 weeks.
Welcome, friends, to Florence
Home of the Renaissance
Where you will soon discover
A rather shocking lack of pants.
The modern folks of course have clothes
But nearly everywhere you look
You'll find peering, one-eyed, back at you
A knob in every nook.
The abundance is astounding
To be believed it must be seen
The sheer, profuse variety
Of artistic EuroPeen:
There's ivory and wood and bronze
Alabaster, plaster, paint
Assorted multi-media schlongs
Hercules' marble taint.
Endless paintings, untold sculpts
In the round and in relief
Countless gargoyles, every fount:
That classic trouser snake motif.
Jupiter, Neptune, Cupid, Pan
Hercules fighting All the Things
Angels, demons, Vitruvian Man
Even Jesus' holy ding-a-ling.
The work is lovely, I do concede,
So perhaps I'm just unsophisticated,
But does the world truly need
Another reprodicktion David?
Forgive my logical phallus-y
But all the pecker-centric art created
In the Renaissance sure makes it seem
As if folks then were just... really naked.
If everyone's firehoses were flying free
I have so many questions
Like, what did they ever do about
Spontaneous erections?
And if not while warring or wrestling lions,
I wonder, under what rare circumstance
Might they have felt exposed enough
To finally consider pants?
Whatever the answers, I can attest,
As I have thoroughly taken stock,
That romantic, inspiring, intellectual Florence
Is also chock-a-block with cock.
Welcome, friends, to Florence
Home of the Renaissance
Where you will soon discover
A rather shocking lack of pants.
The modern folks of course have clothes
But nearly everywhere you look
You'll find peering, one-eyed, back at you
A knob in every nook.
The abundance is astounding
To be believed it must be seen
The sheer, profuse variety
Of artistic EuroPeen:
There's ivory and wood and bronze
Alabaster, plaster, paint
Assorted multi-media schlongs
Hercules' marble taint.
Endless paintings, untold sculpts
In the round and in relief
Countless gargoyles, every fount:
That classic trouser snake motif.
Jupiter, Neptune, Cupid, Pan
Hercules fighting All the Things
Angels, demons, Vitruvian Man
Even Jesus' holy ding-a-ling.
The work is lovely, I do concede,
So perhaps I'm just unsophisticated,
But does the world truly need
Another reprodicktion David?
Forgive my logical phallus-y
But all the pecker-centric art created
In the Renaissance sure makes it seem
As if folks then were just... really naked.
If everyone's firehoses were flying free
I have so many questions
Like, what did they ever do about
Spontaneous erections?
And if not while warring or wrestling lions,
I wonder, under what rare circumstance
Might they have felt exposed enough
To finally consider pants?
Whatever the answers, I can attest,
As I have thoroughly taken stock,
That romantic, inspiring, intellectual Florence
Is also chock-a-block with cock.
Wednesday, January 29, 2020
Snack-Sized
Captain's bLog: 17 weeks.
I dreamed I was having a long-term affair with an animated superhero-type (specifically, Metro Man). He was always so busy with superhero stuff that we didn't get to spend much time together, until one day some shit went down at a big cocktail party and he scooped me up and flew me to safety atop a nearby building.
This was surprising to me, because if anything it's Megamind I have a crush on. One thing celebrity sex dreams have taught me, however, is that I do not get to pick my celebrities. Just one of life's little disappointments, amirite? We live in a time where I could almost certainly find sexy fan fiction about Megamind online if I were so inclined, but, like, hard no to that. (That so many people write terrible shit and post it online where it has the opportunity to infect other people's brains is IMHO one of life's big disappointments.)
I also thought I had already experienced every type of flying dream one could possibly have; the superhero scoop was a new one for me. Not quite so fun as self-propelled flying dreams, but still pretty rad. 8/10.
There was a third level of surprise in my Metro Man dream that does involve some elements of sexy fanfic, but saying even that much makes me feel dangerously close to infecting other people's brains with things they never wished to think so I will stop myself there - anything your brain conjures about sexy Metro Man after this point is entirely your own doing.
Anyway, the whole point of this is to say: I will never be famous. That was never my goal - in fact, it sounds pretty terrible - but notice how you don't ever hear famous people saying they dreamed they had an affair with a cartoon character, or got a free book with their grocery purchase, or bought a 4-pack of cigarettes. Famous people have big, juicy, meaningful dreams. They dream famous works of art, literature, cinema, music - I read that David Bowie was inspired to write the song Five Years by a dream of his deceased father, and I was like, now this is a dude who dreams in full-size packs of smokes.
I will never be famous because my dreams - literal and figurative - are simply not famous-sized. They are... snack-sized. Dare I say, blog-sized. But I'm not at all sad about this - I've searched around my brain and discovered that my smallish dreams are just fine by me. (And honestly, why can't you buy a 4-pack of cigarettes? That is precisely the level of commitment I appreciate in my life.) On that note, I will leave you with this final dream: I dreamed that DH whispered in my ear that he wanted me to eat his donuts. I was briefly concerned that this was some sort of disturbing innuendo, but lo and behold he was actually covered in small donuts! The tiny chocolate eclair he had stuck to his shin was particularly nice, but I also enjoyed a cinnamon-sugar Timbit from his chest and a mini powdered donut from his shoulder.
This dream was utterly meaningless and inspired exactly zero great artistic works, but it was fun and pleasant and about as perfectly snack-sized as those wee assorted donuts - or these blogs. Why not enjoy a few with your coffee today?
I dreamed I was having a long-term affair with an animated superhero-type (specifically, Metro Man). He was always so busy with superhero stuff that we didn't get to spend much time together, until one day some shit went down at a big cocktail party and he scooped me up and flew me to safety atop a nearby building.
This was surprising to me, because if anything it's Megamind I have a crush on. One thing celebrity sex dreams have taught me, however, is that I do not get to pick my celebrities. Just one of life's little disappointments, amirite? We live in a time where I could almost certainly find sexy fan fiction about Megamind online if I were so inclined, but, like, hard no to that. (That so many people write terrible shit and post it online where it has the opportunity to infect other people's brains is IMHO one of life's big disappointments.)
I also thought I had already experienced every type of flying dream one could possibly have; the superhero scoop was a new one for me. Not quite so fun as self-propelled flying dreams, but still pretty rad. 8/10.
There was a third level of surprise in my Metro Man dream that does involve some elements of sexy fanfic, but saying even that much makes me feel dangerously close to infecting other people's brains with things they never wished to think so I will stop myself there - anything your brain conjures about sexy Metro Man after this point is entirely your own doing.
Anyway, the whole point of this is to say: I will never be famous. That was never my goal - in fact, it sounds pretty terrible - but notice how you don't ever hear famous people saying they dreamed they had an affair with a cartoon character, or got a free book with their grocery purchase, or bought a 4-pack of cigarettes. Famous people have big, juicy, meaningful dreams. They dream famous works of art, literature, cinema, music - I read that David Bowie was inspired to write the song Five Years by a dream of his deceased father, and I was like, now this is a dude who dreams in full-size packs of smokes.
I will never be famous because my dreams - literal and figurative - are simply not famous-sized. They are... snack-sized. Dare I say, blog-sized. But I'm not at all sad about this - I've searched around my brain and discovered that my smallish dreams are just fine by me. (And honestly, why can't you buy a 4-pack of cigarettes? That is precisely the level of commitment I appreciate in my life.) On that note, I will leave you with this final dream: I dreamed that DH whispered in my ear that he wanted me to eat his donuts. I was briefly concerned that this was some sort of disturbing innuendo, but lo and behold he was actually covered in small donuts! The tiny chocolate eclair he had stuck to his shin was particularly nice, but I also enjoyed a cinnamon-sugar Timbit from his chest and a mini powdered donut from his shoulder.
This dream was utterly meaningless and inspired exactly zero great artistic works, but it was fun and pleasant and about as perfectly snack-sized as those wee assorted donuts - or these blogs. Why not enjoy a few with your coffee today?
Sunday, January 19, 2020
Grimace and Bear It
Captain's bLog: 16 weeks.
Instagram ruins lives. Or, at the very least, vacations. Not my vacations, because I hate Instagram and refuse to use it, but definitely the vacations of the photographer-boyfriends who trail sullenly behind their photographee-girlfriends, taking the photos or videos that will ultimately be posted to her Insta.
Exhibit A: DH, Small Fry and I were at a glorious outdoor thermal bath in Tuscany and saw one poor fellow film his girlfriend just entering the pool, over and over again. I don't know why the shot had to be redone so many times, but he would follow her in, iPhone rolling, then she would review the video, deem it imperfect, and they would start again. I am pretty sure at least one take was ruined by some random fat lady in the background making incredulous faces at them (it was me - I'm talking about me), but others seemed to be rejected over frolicking children, her hair not draping correctly, swimsuit adjustments, and who knows what else. Once that shot was perfected, they moved on to another area of the baths to take different photos. In the several hours we 'took the waters', I did not see either of them actually seem to relax and enjoy the pools.
Exhibit B: While the weather back home was especially frightful, we made a point of really getting our money's worth by spending a sunny afternoon at a sidewalk cafe located near a photogenic local landmark in Girona. It was basically a perfect storm for people watching: I saw someone's dog pee on their backpack - like, really soak it (both were sitting under the table while their owner dined). I watched a little old lady use a magnifying glass to read her smartphone (I am positive there is an app for that). And I watched a young woman set up props on the steps of the landmark - a stunning landmark, which certainly did not require further adornment - which she posed with while her sullen photographer-boyfriend took and re-took photos until she was satisfied. I could have forgiven this foolishness had they settled in for a drink and actually enjoyed the lovely setting for a few minutes, but instead they packed up their props and scurried off to "improve" the next piece of local history with some snazzy-coloured suitcases.
Exhibit C: Does anyone actually eat their food while it's hot anymore? I could start an Insta dedicated entirely to photos of other people taking photos of their food. Which, by the way, would definitely include a photo of a certain little old lady peering through her bifocals, through her magnifying glass, at her phone, trying to take a picture of her tapas and sangria.
Of course, I could just be too old to "get" any of these things (although not so old that I can't see my phone screen!) and Instagram might not be ruining vacations or lives to nearly the extent that I imagine. Let us consider some alternate hypotheses:
The sullen boyfriends could in fact be fully enjoying their vacations, and simply suffering a bad case of resting bitch face... Meh, seems doubtful.
Treating one's entire life like a photo shoot or potential monetization event could be a very fulfilling way to live... I think we all know on a gut level this is not true.
I could be secretly envious of people with dedicated photographer-boyfriends and wish I could experience all the benefits a photographer-boyfriend would bestow upon my own vacations. For instance, I wouldn't have to all but issue a formal proclamation that I would like the photo record to reflect the fact that I, too, was on the vacation... my body would never be cut off at my widest points (I happen to be #blessed with several of them) so it looks as if I continue to flow eternally outward, like Grimace... my photos would come pre-screened to ensure no one's eyes were closed, or mouths were mid-sentence, or heads were entirely obscured by their mother's right breast...
Ahem, as I was saying, it could be that my burning vacation photo envy has embittered me and I must therefore mock the Insta-obssessed and their sullen photographer-boyfriends to make myself feel better...
Nah. Couldn't be that either. It's definitely ruining lives.
Instagram ruins lives. Or, at the very least, vacations. Not my vacations, because I hate Instagram and refuse to use it, but definitely the vacations of the photographer-boyfriends who trail sullenly behind their photographee-girlfriends, taking the photos or videos that will ultimately be posted to her Insta.
Exhibit A: DH, Small Fry and I were at a glorious outdoor thermal bath in Tuscany and saw one poor fellow film his girlfriend just entering the pool, over and over again. I don't know why the shot had to be redone so many times, but he would follow her in, iPhone rolling, then she would review the video, deem it imperfect, and they would start again. I am pretty sure at least one take was ruined by some random fat lady in the background making incredulous faces at them (it was me - I'm talking about me), but others seemed to be rejected over frolicking children, her hair not draping correctly, swimsuit adjustments, and who knows what else. Once that shot was perfected, they moved on to another area of the baths to take different photos. In the several hours we 'took the waters', I did not see either of them actually seem to relax and enjoy the pools.
Exhibit B: While the weather back home was especially frightful, we made a point of really getting our money's worth by spending a sunny afternoon at a sidewalk cafe located near a photogenic local landmark in Girona. It was basically a perfect storm for people watching: I saw someone's dog pee on their backpack - like, really soak it (both were sitting under the table while their owner dined). I watched a little old lady use a magnifying glass to read her smartphone (I am positive there is an app for that). And I watched a young woman set up props on the steps of the landmark - a stunning landmark, which certainly did not require further adornment - which she posed with while her sullen photographer-boyfriend took and re-took photos until she was satisfied. I could have forgiven this foolishness had they settled in for a drink and actually enjoyed the lovely setting for a few minutes, but instead they packed up their props and scurried off to "improve" the next piece of local history with some snazzy-coloured suitcases.
Exhibit C: Does anyone actually eat their food while it's hot anymore? I could start an Insta dedicated entirely to photos of other people taking photos of their food. Which, by the way, would definitely include a photo of a certain little old lady peering through her bifocals, through her magnifying glass, at her phone, trying to take a picture of her tapas and sangria.
Of course, I could just be too old to "get" any of these things (although not so old that I can't see my phone screen!) and Instagram might not be ruining vacations or lives to nearly the extent that I imagine. Let us consider some alternate hypotheses:
The sullen boyfriends could in fact be fully enjoying their vacations, and simply suffering a bad case of resting bitch face... Meh, seems doubtful.
Treating one's entire life like a photo shoot or potential monetization event could be a very fulfilling way to live... I think we all know on a gut level this is not true.
I could be secretly envious of people with dedicated photographer-boyfriends and wish I could experience all the benefits a photographer-boyfriend would bestow upon my own vacations. For instance, I wouldn't have to all but issue a formal proclamation that I would like the photo record to reflect the fact that I, too, was on the vacation... my body would never be cut off at my widest points (I happen to be #blessed with several of them) so it looks as if I continue to flow eternally outward, like Grimace... my photos would come pre-screened to ensure no one's eyes were closed, or mouths were mid-sentence, or heads were entirely obscured by their mother's right breast...
Ahem, as I was saying, it could be that my burning vacation photo envy has embittered me and I must therefore mock the Insta-obssessed and their sullen photographer-boyfriends to make myself feel better...
Nah. Couldn't be that either. It's definitely ruining lives.
Sunday, January 12, 2020
Shaved Hams
Captain's bLog: 15 weeks.
Despite having over four years to prepare for this trip, I have found myself woefully un- or under-prepared for a great many things - not least of which has been my inability to get out of my own way when it comes to attempting to communicate. Most of the things have been relatively minor: I wish I had smuggled over a box or two of KD to alleviate Small Fry's loneliness for home, for instance. I wish I had spritzed my scarves with my perfume before packing them. I wish I had known that messy buns are not a "thing" in France so I could have tried to figure out a second hairstyle in my entire life.
These are all practical examples, but there have also been things for which I was not emotionally or - for lack of a better term - "psychically" prepared: The insane driving speeds and bewildering road signage in Germany. That I would become very bored, very quickly, with my mix & match travel wardrobe, and be unable to shake the daily dissatisfaction I feel at each rehash of the eight or so outfits I have on hand. The shocking number of pig legs on display in Spain.
You may think I'm joking about that last bit, but I truly cannot overstate how many pig legs there are here. They are hanging on walls and in windows, laid out on countertops, and standing on racks in the aisles at grocery stores like so many meaty guitars - display one on your own wall today! (Or: jam out with your ham out.) (I'm still working on the ad campaign.) I even saw one that had been 'planted' decoratively in a terracotta pot. Or at least I think it was a decoration - all of the legs are displayed out in the open, so it could have been a cool new way to serve it up for all I know. Given the abundance of open-air pig legs in the typically cozy quarters of wee old town shops, it feels as if there is a constant risk of snagging your scarf on a trotter. Not to mention food poisoning. I'm not convinced the air is even vegetarian in most of these establishments, which I guess would be cool if you were giving up meat for Lent and wanted to sneak one past God, but for the rest of the time, is inhaling that much cured meat... healthy?
No doubt about it, pig legs are as much a part of the scenery here as ham is part of the diet.
In French class in middle school, we each had to give a little presentation about how we got ready for school in the morning. One girl said she shaved her jambons every day, and as retribution for laying that bullshit beauty standard on a bunch of 12-year-old kids, for 30 years I have been joking "gotta shave my hams!" every time I need to shave my jambes. In the event I ever decide to enter into politics, I would like to preemptively apologize for my decades of cultural insensitivity in this matter: here in Catalunya, one just might shave one's hams every day.
Despite having over four years to prepare for this trip, I have found myself woefully un- or under-prepared for a great many things - not least of which has been my inability to get out of my own way when it comes to attempting to communicate. Most of the things have been relatively minor: I wish I had smuggled over a box or two of KD to alleviate Small Fry's loneliness for home, for instance. I wish I had spritzed my scarves with my perfume before packing them. I wish I had known that messy buns are not a "thing" in France so I could have tried to figure out a second hairstyle in my entire life.
These are all practical examples, but there have also been things for which I was not emotionally or - for lack of a better term - "psychically" prepared: The insane driving speeds and bewildering road signage in Germany. That I would become very bored, very quickly, with my mix & match travel wardrobe, and be unable to shake the daily dissatisfaction I feel at each rehash of the eight or so outfits I have on hand. The shocking number of pig legs on display in Spain.
You may think I'm joking about that last bit, but I truly cannot overstate how many pig legs there are here. They are hanging on walls and in windows, laid out on countertops, and standing on racks in the aisles at grocery stores like so many meaty guitars - display one on your own wall today! (Or: jam out with your ham out.) (I'm still working on the ad campaign.) I even saw one that had been 'planted' decoratively in a terracotta pot. Or at least I think it was a decoration - all of the legs are displayed out in the open, so it could have been a cool new way to serve it up for all I know. Given the abundance of open-air pig legs in the typically cozy quarters of wee old town shops, it feels as if there is a constant risk of snagging your scarf on a trotter. Not to mention food poisoning. I'm not convinced the air is even vegetarian in most of these establishments, which I guess would be cool if you were giving up meat for Lent and wanted to sneak one past God, but for the rest of the time, is inhaling that much cured meat... healthy?
No doubt about it, pig legs are as much a part of the scenery here as ham is part of the diet.
In French class in middle school, we each had to give a little presentation about how we got ready for school in the morning. One girl said she shaved her jambons every day, and as retribution for laying that bullshit beauty standard on a bunch of 12-year-old kids, for 30 years I have been joking "gotta shave my hams!" every time I need to shave my jambes. In the event I ever decide to enter into politics, I would like to preemptively apologize for my decades of cultural insensitivity in this matter: here in Catalunya, one just might shave one's hams every day.
Monday, January 6, 2020
Never Skip Leg Day
Captain's bLog: 14 weeks.
Given our travel itinerary, we did not sign up for language classes during our trip, and when we realized we had forgotten our phrasebooks at home it became even more clear that we were never going to become fabulously fluent in any new languages this trip. Truthfully, I was more or less planning to smile and say gracias a lot, relying on my abundant natural charm** to get by.
** More to the point: my tourist dollars. I'm not actually all that charming.
I am ashamed to report that I have failed to meet even this low bar. I'm so shy and afraid of making mistakes that the ugly reality has been frequent bouts of social paralysis. There were times early in the trip when I couldn't even bring myself to walk into a boulangerie and request a baguette - it seemed too overwhelming. Instead, I scurried home and breathed into a paper bag for a while.
Our side trips to Germany and Switzerland were freaking terrifying - I won't even talk about how badly I bombed my interactions in German. But just as I was starting to get my French language-legs under me (like sea-legs, but Gravol doesn't help), we moved to Italy. We practiced Italian words and phrases together until we were confident we could at least squeak out some basics, and I pep-talked myself and practiced scripts in my head endlessly, but in reality I mostly collapsed under pressure again. Looking back, I think it was the ambiguity of the term prego that initially threw me for a loop, and I never fully recovered. Again, just as I was getting the hang of things - even throwing around an occasional prego myself! - we headed back to France.
Oh my gawd was I happy to be back in France, because even if I sortof suck at French, my deep and profound suckage in Italian helped me realize that just mostly sucking at a language still leaves you something to work with. I began braving boulangeries with aplomb, and rarely had to retreat home to breathe into a bag. Baby steps, right?
Just as I was starting to gain some confidence - even patting myself on the back a bit here and there for my mastery of the brief retail interaction - a blind dude asked me for directions. That's not a joke: an actual blind man, who apparently noticed I was walking beside him by the sound of my footsteps because he definitely could not see the directions I tried acting out. He had passed his intended turn at the Rue du Chapeau Rouge by about five metres, but for the life of me I could not think of how to convey this simple fact in French in the moment. I panicked a smidge at first but recovered with some directional charades, then really panicked when I realised he couldn't see me at all, and my brain shut completely down. In retrospect, even without the right words I could have taken his arm and guided him to the turn, but instead I/we had to be saved by a local fellow who watched my entire shameful performance from his doorstep. (But not until he was finished his cigarette, of course.)
I'm sharing this tale of my pathetic-ness because it brought me to one of my New Year's Resolutions: putting myself out there. But for realsies this time, because telling funny little stories about times I did something silly in a controlled narrative that supports my idea of myself isn't ego threatening the way actually fucking up in real time, in person, is. My "out there" has to include the risk of genuinely looking stupid, with no way to airbrush the rough edges of the mistake out. To this end, I have thus far in 2020 completed the following bag-breathing scary tasks, all in French (with some supplemental charades as necessary):
- Helped an elderly couple with directions.
- Helped a woman figure out the machines at the laundromat.
- Braved Sephora in search of a new brow pencil.
- Braved the pharmacy in search of face cream appropriate for my sensitive skin.
- Braved La Poste to mail a parcel home. (Side note: Canada Post is SO helpful and SO cheap compared to La Poste and Poste Italiane - please hug a letter carrier for me.)
- Booked an appointment for and obtained a hair cut, which entailed making small talk for over an hour. (No paper bag, but I did feel like I needed a nap afterward.)
- Lied - presumably convincingly - about Small Fry's age to get him into a cat cafe.
As seems to be the trend, just as I am finally making real strides en francais, we are moving to Spain tomorrow, where we will be staying for eight weeks. But that's okay, because I am 100% committed to making these genuine efforts at communicating in a new language, fear of failure be damned. I am going to train my language-legs until they are as admirably solid, yet shapely!, as my regular meat-legs. And if they get a little hairy along the way at times, well that's just part and parcel of it sometimes, now isn't it?
Given our travel itinerary, we did not sign up for language classes during our trip, and when we realized we had forgotten our phrasebooks at home it became even more clear that we were never going to become fabulously fluent in any new languages this trip. Truthfully, I was more or less planning to smile and say gracias a lot, relying on my abundant natural charm** to get by.
** More to the point: my tourist dollars. I'm not actually all that charming.
I am ashamed to report that I have failed to meet even this low bar. I'm so shy and afraid of making mistakes that the ugly reality has been frequent bouts of social paralysis. There were times early in the trip when I couldn't even bring myself to walk into a boulangerie and request a baguette - it seemed too overwhelming. Instead, I scurried home and breathed into a paper bag for a while.
Our side trips to Germany and Switzerland were freaking terrifying - I won't even talk about how badly I bombed my interactions in German. But just as I was starting to get my French language-legs under me (like sea-legs, but Gravol doesn't help), we moved to Italy. We practiced Italian words and phrases together until we were confident we could at least squeak out some basics, and I pep-talked myself and practiced scripts in my head endlessly, but in reality I mostly collapsed under pressure again. Looking back, I think it was the ambiguity of the term prego that initially threw me for a loop, and I never fully recovered. Again, just as I was getting the hang of things - even throwing around an occasional prego myself! - we headed back to France.
Oh my gawd was I happy to be back in France, because even if I sortof suck at French, my deep and profound suckage in Italian helped me realize that just mostly sucking at a language still leaves you something to work with. I began braving boulangeries with aplomb, and rarely had to retreat home to breathe into a bag. Baby steps, right?
Just as I was starting to gain some confidence - even patting myself on the back a bit here and there for my mastery of the brief retail interaction - a blind dude asked me for directions. That's not a joke: an actual blind man, who apparently noticed I was walking beside him by the sound of my footsteps because he definitely could not see the directions I tried acting out. He had passed his intended turn at the Rue du Chapeau Rouge by about five metres, but for the life of me I could not think of how to convey this simple fact in French in the moment. I panicked a smidge at first but recovered with some directional charades, then really panicked when I realised he couldn't see me at all, and my brain shut completely down. In retrospect, even without the right words I could have taken his arm and guided him to the turn, but instead I/we had to be saved by a local fellow who watched my entire shameful performance from his doorstep. (But not until he was finished his cigarette, of course.)
I'm sharing this tale of my pathetic-ness because it brought me to one of my New Year's Resolutions: putting myself out there. But for realsies this time, because telling funny little stories about times I did something silly in a controlled narrative that supports my idea of myself isn't ego threatening the way actually fucking up in real time, in person, is. My "out there" has to include the risk of genuinely looking stupid, with no way to airbrush the rough edges of the mistake out. To this end, I have thus far in 2020 completed the following bag-breathing scary tasks, all in French (with some supplemental charades as necessary):
- Helped an elderly couple with directions.
- Helped a woman figure out the machines at the laundromat.
- Braved Sephora in search of a new brow pencil.
- Braved the pharmacy in search of face cream appropriate for my sensitive skin.
- Braved La Poste to mail a parcel home. (Side note: Canada Post is SO helpful and SO cheap compared to La Poste and Poste Italiane - please hug a letter carrier for me.)
- Booked an appointment for and obtained a hair cut, which entailed making small talk for over an hour. (No paper bag, but I did feel like I needed a nap afterward.)
- Lied - presumably convincingly - about Small Fry's age to get him into a cat cafe.
As seems to be the trend, just as I am finally making real strides en francais, we are moving to Spain tomorrow, where we will be staying for eight weeks. But that's okay, because I am 100% committed to making these genuine efforts at communicating in a new language, fear of failure be damned. I am going to train my language-legs until they are as admirably solid, yet shapely!, as my regular meat-legs. And if they get a little hairy along the way at times, well that's just part and parcel of it sometimes, now isn't it?
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