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?
Wednesday, January 29, 2020
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?
Saturday, December 28, 2019
Default Cheese
Captain's bLog: 12 weeks.
So far we've spent four weeks in Italy and eight in France. Observation: there is a nearly endless variety of cheeses available, at a nearly endless variety of cheese shops, counters and market stalls. The variety in cheese is matched only by the varieties in bread (France), pasta (Italy) and wine (both). These meltable multitudes come in nearly every shape, size, smell and flavour imaginable - honestly, it's rather intimidating. I have no clue what I'd like to buy, or even to try, so I mostly grab something I've heard of before and scuttle away in gastronomic shame. (Chevre again? Tsk tsk.)
Would you like to know what I haven't seen here? Electric-orange cheese. And according to the 10,000 or so cheeses I have seen, electric-orange is not actually a normal colour profile for cheese. Blue, yes; grey, sure; and anything from winter white to bloomy beige to creamy yellow, absolutely. Does anyone know how it came to be that SO many of our cheeses/cheese-adjacent, dairy-derived food products (in Canada and the States, anyway) are so incredibly orange?
I honestly didn't know that I felt this way until about a month into our trip, and if you had suggested it to me I would have denied it and supported my argument with a tour of the typically well-stocked cheese drawer in our fridge, but in my heart of hearts I believed that cheddar was the default cheese. The perfect, all-occasion, stand-alone or pair-with-anything, One True Default Cheese.
I also thought it was... well, usually way more orange than I now know it really has any right to be.
I was wrong on both counts.
This has taken a bit of getting used to. (Not the 'wrong' thing, but the 'orange' thing.) (Okay, fine, also the 'wrong' thing, just a bit.) Small Fry is obviously missing some things from home, and Default Cheese - in all its many applications - is one of them. Its orangeness is part of its homey appeal; it just doesn't feel the same to eat white mac & cheese or white grilled cheese. (Or, as he calls it, girled cheese, which we have never bothered to correct 'cause it's so darn cute.) And non-orange nacho cheez?! I just can't even.
Honestly, of all the things we could be missing from home, I would not have guessed it would be orange cheese/cheez products. I might have guessed Slurpees, or maybe peanut butter, but I would have missed the mark because les sirops and Nutella have handily replaced those important kid commodities. If I don't find some secret French source of KD soon I plan to buy food colouring and try my hand at producing a pot of properly orange mac & cheese as a nostalgic treat for Small Fry. And perhaps a pot of properly orange nacho cheese as a PMS treat for me.
So far we've spent four weeks in Italy and eight in France. Observation: there is a nearly endless variety of cheeses available, at a nearly endless variety of cheese shops, counters and market stalls. The variety in cheese is matched only by the varieties in bread (France), pasta (Italy) and wine (both). These meltable multitudes come in nearly every shape, size, smell and flavour imaginable - honestly, it's rather intimidating. I have no clue what I'd like to buy, or even to try, so I mostly grab something I've heard of before and scuttle away in gastronomic shame. (Chevre again? Tsk tsk.)
Would you like to know what I haven't seen here? Electric-orange cheese. And according to the 10,000 or so cheeses I have seen, electric-orange is not actually a normal colour profile for cheese. Blue, yes; grey, sure; and anything from winter white to bloomy beige to creamy yellow, absolutely. Does anyone know how it came to be that SO many of our cheeses/cheese-adjacent, dairy-derived food products (in Canada and the States, anyway) are so incredibly orange?
I honestly didn't know that I felt this way until about a month into our trip, and if you had suggested it to me I would have denied it and supported my argument with a tour of the typically well-stocked cheese drawer in our fridge, but in my heart of hearts I believed that cheddar was the default cheese. The perfect, all-occasion, stand-alone or pair-with-anything, One True Default Cheese.
I also thought it was... well, usually way more orange than I now know it really has any right to be.
I was wrong on both counts.
This has taken a bit of getting used to. (Not the 'wrong' thing, but the 'orange' thing.) (Okay, fine, also the 'wrong' thing, just a bit.) Small Fry is obviously missing some things from home, and Default Cheese - in all its many applications - is one of them. Its orangeness is part of its homey appeal; it just doesn't feel the same to eat white mac & cheese or white grilled cheese. (Or, as he calls it, girled cheese, which we have never bothered to correct 'cause it's so darn cute.) And non-orange nacho cheez?! I just can't even.
Honestly, of all the things we could be missing from home, I would not have guessed it would be orange cheese/cheez products. I might have guessed Slurpees, or maybe peanut butter, but I would have missed the mark because les sirops and Nutella have handily replaced those important kid commodities. If I don't find some secret French source of KD soon I plan to buy food colouring and try my hand at producing a pot of properly orange mac & cheese as a nostalgic treat for Small Fry. And perhaps a pot of properly orange nacho cheese as a PMS treat for me.
Friday, December 6, 2019
Not a Travel Blog?!
Captain's bLog: 10 weeks.
It has come to my attention that my blogging habit is predicated, at least somewhat, upon my being unhappy in some way. Specifically, I seem to be at my creative best when I'm suffering from a smidgen of insomnia-induced mania. However, I've been sleeping really, really well on this trip. Like, eight or nine hours a night - sometimes ten! That is literally double the amount of sleep I usually get.
I can also be creative during bouts of overwork - my brain is always on the lookout for productive ways to procrastinate - or hormonal rage. But I'm not really working much at the moment, and my frustrations seem to fizzle out harmlessly on vacation, even during my regularly scheduled week of elevated anger levels. I did get pretty upset with DH after he finally read The Handmaid's Tale and then had "nothing to say" about it afterward, but I have filed that offense for some future date when I'm able to work up a proper lather again - I just can't be bothered with it right now. Passe le vin, s'il te plait.
So, yeah, like I was saying, unfortunately (??) it seems I've simply been too content to have much to say here (have I discovered the inverse Anna Karenina principle?). I try to inject my writings with a certain amount of real-ness, but I'm essentially living in a fairytale dream sequence at the moment, which makes everything I have to say fundamentally rather unrelatable. This is exactly why I hate travel blogs (... and Instagram).
Yet here we are.
I may, against my better judgement, be forced to sortof maybe actually write about traveling stuff in this sacred space, just to keep it from atrophying another six months. I'll do my best to be unhappy in some way, and thus thwart my reverse Anna Karenina problem, but the sun is shining and life is good and darn it, being this happy is just not conducive to blogging in my usual way.
It has come to my attention that my blogging habit is predicated, at least somewhat, upon my being unhappy in some way. Specifically, I seem to be at my creative best when I'm suffering from a smidgen of insomnia-induced mania. However, I've been sleeping really, really well on this trip. Like, eight or nine hours a night - sometimes ten! That is literally double the amount of sleep I usually get.
I can also be creative during bouts of overwork - my brain is always on the lookout for productive ways to procrastinate - or hormonal rage. But I'm not really working much at the moment, and my frustrations seem to fizzle out harmlessly on vacation, even during my regularly scheduled week of elevated anger levels. I did get pretty upset with DH after he finally read The Handmaid's Tale and then had "nothing to say" about it afterward, but I have filed that offense for some future date when I'm able to work up a proper lather again - I just can't be bothered with it right now. Passe le vin, s'il te plait.
So, yeah, like I was saying, unfortunately (??) it seems I've simply been too content to have much to say here (have I discovered the inverse Anna Karenina principle?). I try to inject my writings with a certain amount of real-ness, but I'm essentially living in a fairytale dream sequence at the moment, which makes everything I have to say fundamentally rather unrelatable. This is exactly why I hate travel blogs (... and Instagram).
Yet here we are.
I may, against my better judgement, be forced to sortof maybe actually write about traveling stuff in this sacred space, just to keep it from atrophying another six months. I'll do my best to be unhappy in some way, and thus thwart my reverse Anna Karenina problem, but the sun is shining and life is good and darn it, being this happy is just not conducive to blogging in my usual way.
Sunday, October 6, 2019
Something in the (Debon)Air
Captain's bLog: week 1.
Hi, friends. It's been a while, eh? Sorry for the prolonged time out, I just really needed to cinch up my to-do list as much as possible during the field season so I could get things wrapped up before we started off on our extended trip. I think my efforts at streamlining paid off, as it was a pretty low-stress lead-up to our departure. DH and I didn't even have to have our usual pre-vacation blowout. I had it pencilled in for the weekend before we left, but after a brief scuffle over the definition of plaid while we were packing, we found we didn't really have it in us and postponed the event indefinitely.
Anyway, it was a helluva commute, but we made it safely - and still blowout-free! - and are living happily in our home-away-from-home for the month in Colmar, France.
Never heard of Colmar? Well let me tell you, this town is charming. Charming as fuck. Like, so charming that if it were a dude Iprobably would have slept with it by now. Not against my will, exactly, but sortof... inadvertently, as sometimes happens when one is susceptible to an excess of charm. (I am.) And you couldn't even judge me for it. You'd be like, Yeah, I get it. I'd totally hit that town, too. It's like the Sean Connery of towns - a real panty dropper. Honestly, this town is so charming it's making me question some very fundamental things about myself. Like, am I... metrosexual??
Its charm is so powerful, so overwhelming to mere mortals like myself, that it would have impregnated me by sheer force of its attractiveness and I would have given birth to many equally charming baby towns, and scattered them across the countryside, and that is the origin story of the Alsace region. Sure, there were wars and land annexations and such, but in the beginning there was only me and this unreasonably sexy town and our dozens of charming baby towns. My only regret is giving them all such unpronounceable names. Alas, it was the fashion at the time.
Did you know France has the second-highest birth rate in the EU? I am convinced this is purely on the strength of Colmar's charm. Colmar: dropping panties since the 9th century AD. (Ireland's is the highest, by the way, which is obviously due to the prevalence of irresistible redheads.)
Welp, seems I have a proposal for a new town slogan to write up, so I'll sign off here. À bientôt!
Hi, friends. It's been a while, eh? Sorry for the prolonged time out, I just really needed to cinch up my to-do list as much as possible during the field season so I could get things wrapped up before we started off on our extended trip. I think my efforts at streamlining paid off, as it was a pretty low-stress lead-up to our departure. DH and I didn't even have to have our usual pre-vacation blowout. I had it pencilled in for the weekend before we left, but after a brief scuffle over the definition of plaid while we were packing, we found we didn't really have it in us and postponed the event indefinitely.
Anyway, it was a helluva commute, but we made it safely - and still blowout-free! - and are living happily in our home-away-from-home for the month in Colmar, France.
Never heard of Colmar? Well let me tell you, this town is charming. Charming as fuck. Like, so charming that if it were a dude I
Its charm is so powerful, so overwhelming to mere mortals like myself, that it would have impregnated me by sheer force of its attractiveness and I would have given birth to many equally charming baby towns, and scattered them across the countryside, and that is the origin story of the Alsace region. Sure, there were wars and land annexations and such, but in the beginning there was only me and this unreasonably sexy town and our dozens of charming baby towns. My only regret is giving them all such unpronounceable names. Alas, it was the fashion at the time.
Did you know France has the second-highest birth rate in the EU? I am convinced this is purely on the strength of Colmar's charm. Colmar: dropping panties since the 9th century AD. (Ireland's is the highest, by the way, which is obviously due to the prevalence of irresistible redheads.)
Welp, seems I have a proposal for a new town slogan to write up, so I'll sign off here. À bientôt!
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