(Peter, Paul and Mary, 1969)
A year ago yesterday, Tyler and I left KC to rendezvous with Ron in Milano for a three-week trek through Italia. Our first night, we stayed in Parma, home to both the famous cheese and ham. We walked to a lovely restaurant and dined al fresco. It was there I made my first "I'm a dumb American" blunder. After our bread had arrived I asked Ron if I should dip my bread in the balsamic vinegar first or the olive oil. He gently pointed out the balsamic vinegar was actually the wine he'd ordered. In my own defense, it was in a squatty little carafe, not at all like the one we bought at Pottery Barn. The food was really divine. Tyler and I both had white rice with spring pea sauce and pancetta and Ron had rabbit, I think. We finished it off with some parmesan cheese. Not a big fan. Love the stuff grated on just about anything, but popping in a hunk of it is SO less satisfying than a double dipped chocolate cone from DQ. Italians aren't big dessert people, although tiramisu and profiteroles are pretty tasty. They tend to like their sweets in their pastries. Ron and I found a wonderful tiny bakery in Castelnuevo Beradenga, just a few miles down the road from our villa (doesn't that sound wonderfully pretentious?) We hit it a couple of times a week and brought home sackfuls of melt-in-your-mouth morsels to have with the morning shot of adrenaline.
The coffee is sta-RONG! I always had mochas, but Ron aways bellied up to the bar and once had a triple espresso. Actually it was a single - he just had three of them in a row. He would stir his quarter inch of black gold and then hand the spoon to me to lick. I thought I'd eventually get used to that bitter, slightly grainy taste. But, nope. Didn't happen. Made a face every time.
It's hard to believe that it's been a full twelve months since we were there. Ron opened our last bottle of Italian wine tonight and we're on our last bottle of olive oil we brought back. We have little reminders of our travels throughout the house. I have to say, though, that a half an hour ago I was sitting on the patio with Ron (watching bats again) and he said - for at least the hundredth time this year - that life doesn't get any better than this. And he's right. Italy was fabulous, but we have a pretty nice villa-ette, wine stateside isn't that bad, I make a mean pesto and grilled chicken pizza, and I can make a fool of myself just as easily here as I can abroad. And it's so much cheaper.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Paradise by the Dashboard Lights
(Meatloaf, 1977)
OK, I'm pretty sure it wasn't the same kind of paradise alluded to in the song and it wasn't by the lights of the dashboard . . . it was candlelight on the patio and it was more of a Eden-like paradise. Tonight Ron invited me to a show on the patio. It was a show of bats. About 8:45 every night these creatures of the night take flight in our back yard. Tonight it was only two, but Ron said he'd seen a flock of four earlier in the week. They fly really fast back and forth, in and out and it's really hard to figure out just how many there are. To see them, you really have to throw your head back, so there I am in our patio furniture, legs up on the table face to the sky with my mouth dropped open (it just seems to happen naturally when your head's at that angle). As soon as I realized that bats drop guano, I clamped my mouth shut, but after awhile gravity took over and it was gaping wide open. Fortunately, no guano glopped on me. I may have to get a surgical mask if this becomes a regular habit.
Bats . . . I used to be scared to death of bats. I was a rabid fan of "Dark Shadows," a 60's Gothic soap opera. In the summer I'd hide in our basement because we had a sub-zero window air conditioner and it was dark to watch Dark Shadows religiously, unbeknownst to my mom. The acting was horrible, even for a soap opera, and the plots were, of course, sinister and twisted (although I don't think there was any coffin-hopping going on). For awhile I totally believed that vampire bats could make the long trek from Transylvania to Missouri and end up in my bedroom in the dead of night. An updated version of the show re-emerged in the 80's and of course I watched it. I got Kate hooked on it and we used to threaten/tease Tyler with a visit from Barnabas, the main vampire, if he didn't behave. (We also use to tell Tyler that the stuffed buffalo head at the old Darryl's on Metcalf was going to come down off the wall if he didn't sit still in his chair. Sometimes the similarities between me and Roseanne Barr are eerily disconcerting . . .).
I was talking to my friend Steve tonight on the phone and said we were watching bats and he told that he'd been in a bat cave in the Ozarks where there were so many bats that when they started flying around they couldn't see the opening of the cave they'd just entered. And they were flying into him all the time - shuuuuuuuddddddddderrrrrrrrrr.
Anyway, I've since lost my fear of bats, at least when they number less than four. Or when they come with a Chris O'Donnell "Robin".
OK, I'm pretty sure it wasn't the same kind of paradise alluded to in the song and it wasn't by the lights of the dashboard . . . it was candlelight on the patio and it was more of a Eden-like paradise. Tonight Ron invited me to a show on the patio. It was a show of bats. About 8:45 every night these creatures of the night take flight in our back yard. Tonight it was only two, but Ron said he'd seen a flock of four earlier in the week. They fly really fast back and forth, in and out and it's really hard to figure out just how many there are. To see them, you really have to throw your head back, so there I am in our patio furniture, legs up on the table face to the sky with my mouth dropped open (it just seems to happen naturally when your head's at that angle). As soon as I realized that bats drop guano, I clamped my mouth shut, but after awhile gravity took over and it was gaping wide open. Fortunately, no guano glopped on me. I may have to get a surgical mask if this becomes a regular habit.
Bats . . . I used to be scared to death of bats. I was a rabid fan of "Dark Shadows," a 60's Gothic soap opera. In the summer I'd hide in our basement because we had a sub-zero window air conditioner and it was dark to watch Dark Shadows religiously, unbeknownst to my mom. The acting was horrible, even for a soap opera, and the plots were, of course, sinister and twisted (although I don't think there was any coffin-hopping going on). For awhile I totally believed that vampire bats could make the long trek from Transylvania to Missouri and end up in my bedroom in the dead of night. An updated version of the show re-emerged in the 80's and of course I watched it. I got Kate hooked on it and we used to threaten/tease Tyler with a visit from Barnabas, the main vampire, if he didn't behave. (We also use to tell Tyler that the stuffed buffalo head at the old Darryl's on Metcalf was going to come down off the wall if he didn't sit still in his chair. Sometimes the similarities between me and Roseanne Barr are eerily disconcerting . . .).
I was talking to my friend Steve tonight on the phone and said we were watching bats and he told that he'd been in a bat cave in the Ozarks where there were so many bats that when they started flying around they couldn't see the opening of the cave they'd just entered. And they were flying into him all the time - shuuuuuuuddddddddderrrrrrrrrr.
Anyway, I've since lost my fear of bats, at least when they number less than four. Or when they come with a Chris O'Donnell "Robin".
Monday, June 18, 2007
One
(Three Dog Night, 1969)
So here's a rundown of numerical things we saw in Colorado . . .
Three - number of coyotes we saw
324 - number of t-shirt shops in Estes Park
20 - a more realistic number of t-shirt shops in Estes Park
14 - number of bighorn sheep we saw
250 - estimate of how many elk we saw
Nine - number of baby elk we saw
One - number of ADHD baby elk we saw (he kept running in circles and kicking up his heels)
34 - number of new muscles I discovered
a billion - number of idiot tourists we saw approaching the wildlife
Four - number of idiot teenagers we saw hop onto a rock in the middle of a roaring river to get their picture taken, even though there was a sign that said "Swift Water - It Will Kill You"
Two - number of people we saw making out in the park
One - number of Hummers we saw painted to advertise a realtor who encourages you to fire her if you don't like her
Seven - number of people in a family with quads - they were the best behaved three-year old quads I've ever seen (like I have anything to compare it to). And the mom looked like a supermodel. Of course.
85 - number of times we drove through RMNP (at least)
Zero - number of times I fell into the water - a freakin' miracle
Five - number of times I almost wet my pants laughing with Tyler
Twelve - number of times Tyler went to sleep with "Lemony Snicket" playing
Three - number of layers a hornet made in his nest, located on our cabin doorframe, while we were there
Nine - number of fish Ron caught (but a TON more got away)
8,329 - number of times I wished aspens would grow in Kansas
So here's a rundown of numerical things we saw in Colorado . . .
Three - number of coyotes we saw
324 - number of t-shirt shops in Estes Park
20 - a more realistic number of t-shirt shops in Estes Park
14 - number of bighorn sheep we saw
250 - estimate of how many elk we saw
Nine - number of baby elk we saw
One - number of ADHD baby elk we saw (he kept running in circles and kicking up his heels)
34 - number of new muscles I discovered
a billion - number of idiot tourists we saw approaching the wildlife
Four - number of idiot teenagers we saw hop onto a rock in the middle of a roaring river to get their picture taken, even though there was a sign that said "Swift Water - It Will Kill You"
Two - number of people we saw making out in the park
One - number of Hummers we saw painted to advertise a realtor who encourages you to fire her if you don't like her
Seven - number of people in a family with quads - they were the best behaved three-year old quads I've ever seen (like I have anything to compare it to). And the mom looked like a supermodel. Of course.
85 - number of times we drove through RMNP (at least)
Zero - number of times I fell into the water - a freakin' miracle
Five - number of times I almost wet my pants laughing with Tyler
Twelve - number of times Tyler went to sleep with "Lemony Snicket" playing
Three - number of layers a hornet made in his nest, located on our cabin doorframe, while we were there
Nine - number of fish Ron caught (but a TON more got away)
8,329 - number of times I wished aspens would grow in Kansas
Talk to Me
(Robin Macy, 1994)
I was up late last night. Three in the morning, to be exact. Don't ask why. Ok, I was putting together a book of our Colorado pictures. If I got paid for all the books I've done on Italy, Tyler and now Colorado I could retire a semi-unimpoverished woman and buy that lovely Wyandotte mobile home we've had our eye on. Don't scoff. It's a double-wide, with built-in plastic flower boxes (and plastic flowers).
Anyway, I didn't wake up until Kate called me at 10:30 this morning. I stumbled into my office and answered the phone, mumbled a few words and hung up. Then I called Ron to see how his first day back at work was going. He, in turn, asked me how I was doing (because it's what I've trained him to do) and I mumbled some more words. "What did you say?" he asked. "I'm sorry, I don't have my contacts in and I can't talk when I can't see." "Good," he said, "leave 'em out. I'll throw away your glasses, too!"
Although I laughed at the time, I'm starting to get a little bitter about his comment. He may say I talk too much, but he'd miss this voice of mine. Maybe I'll go on a voice strike and not speak for a week, like Duane in "Little Miss Sunshine." Everyone who knows me is now rolling on the floor and holding their sides because of the uncontrollable laughter that's convulsing their bodies. I know I could do it. But I'd have to have some kind of accident to put me in a coma.
I was up late last night. Three in the morning, to be exact. Don't ask why. Ok, I was putting together a book of our Colorado pictures. If I got paid for all the books I've done on Italy, Tyler and now Colorado I could retire a semi-unimpoverished woman and buy that lovely Wyandotte mobile home we've had our eye on. Don't scoff. It's a double-wide, with built-in plastic flower boxes (and plastic flowers).
Anyway, I didn't wake up until Kate called me at 10:30 this morning. I stumbled into my office and answered the phone, mumbled a few words and hung up. Then I called Ron to see how his first day back at work was going. He, in turn, asked me how I was doing (because it's what I've trained him to do) and I mumbled some more words. "What did you say?" he asked. "I'm sorry, I don't have my contacts in and I can't talk when I can't see." "Good," he said, "leave 'em out. I'll throw away your glasses, too!"
Although I laughed at the time, I'm starting to get a little bitter about his comment. He may say I talk too much, but he'd miss this voice of mine. Maybe I'll go on a voice strike and not speak for a week, like Duane in "Little Miss Sunshine." Everyone who knows me is now rolling on the floor and holding their sides because of the uncontrollable laughter that's convulsing their bodies. I know I could do it. But I'd have to have some kind of accident to put me in a coma.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Papa Don't Preach
(Madonna, 1986)
My dad would probably be mortified to know that I've linked that song to him on Father's Day. Come to think of it, though, he probably doesn't know the song, so . . .
I had to use it because my papa was a preacher. And a pretty good one, at that. He was born right before the Depression (1928), the youngest of fourteen children. No, it's not a typo. His oldest sister was 18 when he was born. Let's see if I can name them all: Hazel, Marjorie, Garnett, Alice, Esther, Charlotte, Herbert, Jack, Dub (short for Double E "Elmer Enoch"), John and Jim (my dad). That's only 11, but I know two (maybe three) died in infancy.
His dad left the family when my dad was five, so my grandmother (whom I never knew) was a contemporary of the Old Lady Who Lived In A Shoe (with so many children she didn't know what to do). By the time my dad was in school, the older ones had left home. My grandmother, Stella, worshipped FDR because he instituted so many work programs which, in turn, provided the older kids with jobs so they could send money home to make ends meet. My dad has wonderfully poignant stories of growing up in a really poor household. One day his mom received some money from one of dad's siblings and was able to buy a couple of pork chops. She doled out the small portions to my dad, uncle and two aunts, cautioning them to not eat too much or too fast because they hadn't had much to eat in awhile and their stomachs wouldn't be used to such rich food.
Another favorite is that dad, already honing his preaching skills, would go downtown to the park and "sermonize" all the out of work old men sitting around. After imparting his words of wisdom (he was all of six or seven), he took up an offering. When he got home, his brother, John, was appalled and made him take it all back.
Despite the challenges he faced growing up, my dad went to college, obtained both a Masters and PhD and has had careers in the ministry, politics (first as a state representative and then as MO state treasurer for eight years), and education, serving as president of two colleges in MO. Not bad for for a kid who, for the first eight years of his life, thought his name was "Shut up." (I don't know if that's really true, but in a house with a zillion kids . . . ?)
One of my most vivid memories early in life was in the church my dad was pastoring in Marshall, MO. I remember singing "This Is My Father's World," totally thinking I was singing about my dad. I also remember going through a stage when I was TERRIFIED of robbers. My kindergarten boyfriend, Brett, told us at "show and tell" that the bowling alley his dad bowled at had been broken into. I had nightmares for months. I'd wake up and see a robber (dressed like a cowboy) in my doorway. My parents put an army cot in their bedroom and more often than not I'd wind up on it before daybreak. Sometimes my dad would take me for a walk in the middle of the night (it was probably only about 10:00) to try and show me that there wasn't anything to be scared of. When we got back, we'd sit on the porch swing and drink orange juice. I remember my mom telling my dad that he was making it too much fun. Who wouldn't want to roam around the neighborhood after all the other kids were in bed and have snacks afterwards? I finally outgrew my fear, but I missed those father/daughter walks and talks.
I have tons and tons and tons of great memories about my dad. And I let him preach to me any time he wants (which is never). Now that's a GREAT dad!
My dad would probably be mortified to know that I've linked that song to him on Father's Day. Come to think of it, though, he probably doesn't know the song, so . . .
I had to use it because my papa was a preacher. And a pretty good one, at that. He was born right before the Depression (1928), the youngest of fourteen children. No, it's not a typo. His oldest sister was 18 when he was born. Let's see if I can name them all: Hazel, Marjorie, Garnett, Alice, Esther, Charlotte, Herbert, Jack, Dub (short for Double E "Elmer Enoch"), John and Jim (my dad). That's only 11, but I know two (maybe three) died in infancy.
His dad left the family when my dad was five, so my grandmother (whom I never knew) was a contemporary of the Old Lady Who Lived In A Shoe (with so many children she didn't know what to do). By the time my dad was in school, the older ones had left home. My grandmother, Stella, worshipped FDR because he instituted so many work programs which, in turn, provided the older kids with jobs so they could send money home to make ends meet. My dad has wonderfully poignant stories of growing up in a really poor household. One day his mom received some money from one of dad's siblings and was able to buy a couple of pork chops. She doled out the small portions to my dad, uncle and two aunts, cautioning them to not eat too much or too fast because they hadn't had much to eat in awhile and their stomachs wouldn't be used to such rich food.
Another favorite is that dad, already honing his preaching skills, would go downtown to the park and "sermonize" all the out of work old men sitting around. After imparting his words of wisdom (he was all of six or seven), he took up an offering. When he got home, his brother, John, was appalled and made him take it all back.
Despite the challenges he faced growing up, my dad went to college, obtained both a Masters and PhD and has had careers in the ministry, politics (first as a state representative and then as MO state treasurer for eight years), and education, serving as president of two colleges in MO. Not bad for for a kid who, for the first eight years of his life, thought his name was "Shut up." (I don't know if that's really true, but in a house with a zillion kids . . . ?)
One of my most vivid memories early in life was in the church my dad was pastoring in Marshall, MO. I remember singing "This Is My Father's World," totally thinking I was singing about my dad. I also remember going through a stage when I was TERRIFIED of robbers. My kindergarten boyfriend, Brett, told us at "show and tell" that the bowling alley his dad bowled at had been broken into. I had nightmares for months. I'd wake up and see a robber (dressed like a cowboy) in my doorway. My parents put an army cot in their bedroom and more often than not I'd wind up on it before daybreak. Sometimes my dad would take me for a walk in the middle of the night (it was probably only about 10:00) to try and show me that there wasn't anything to be scared of. When we got back, we'd sit on the porch swing and drink orange juice. I remember my mom telling my dad that he was making it too much fun. Who wouldn't want to roam around the neighborhood after all the other kids were in bed and have snacks afterwards? I finally outgrew my fear, but I missed those father/daughter walks and talks.
I have tons and tons and tons of great memories about my dad. And I let him preach to me any time he wants (which is never). Now that's a GREAT dad!
Saturday, June 16, 2007
(They Tried To Make Me Go To) Rehab
(Amy Winehouse, 2007)
Yes, even the Martin family is not immune to the rehab scene. See, I've kind of been in rehab. The second week we were in Colorado, Tyler did an intervention on me (rather rudely, I might add, but then all interventions have a bit of a sting, don't they?). Apparently, I BANG the keys of his computer. Actually, I've been accused of BANGING the keys on my computer, too, making me a habitual BANGER. I argued that he was hearing the click, click, click of my beautifully polished acrylic nails. He insisted that I was BANGING too hard on his darling little Mac. I tried to say that it was just my style, but I said I'd quit if it was that important to him. And I tried. So, so hard I tried. I'd do okay for a little bit, but then I'd slip and end up BANGING again. We argued about it every day. It finally got so heated that I swore I'd never touch his precious computer again, not even if he begged and pleaded me to. That's when rehab came in. After a week of not BANGING, I'm back home. Don't tell anyone, but I'm BANGING the hell out of my computer right now . . . and it feels sooooooo good. Ok, that sounds really bad, but you all know it's just the keys, right?
I'm posting some of my favorite shots from our trip.
Yes, even the Martin family is not immune to the rehab scene. See, I've kind of been in rehab. The second week we were in Colorado, Tyler did an intervention on me (rather rudely, I might add, but then all interventions have a bit of a sting, don't they?). Apparently, I BANG the keys of his computer. Actually, I've been accused of BANGING the keys on my computer, too, making me a habitual BANGER. I argued that he was hearing the click, click, click of my beautifully polished acrylic nails. He insisted that I was BANGING too hard on his darling little Mac. I tried to say that it was just my style, but I said I'd quit if it was that important to him. And I tried. So, so hard I tried. I'd do okay for a little bit, but then I'd slip and end up BANGING again. We argued about it every day. It finally got so heated that I swore I'd never touch his precious computer again, not even if he begged and pleaded me to. That's when rehab came in. After a week of not BANGING, I'm back home. Don't tell anyone, but I'm BANGING the hell out of my computer right now . . . and it feels sooooooo good. Ok, that sounds really bad, but you all know it's just the keys, right?
I'm posting some of my favorite shots from our trip.
Monday, June 11, 2007
I Can See Clearly Now
(Johnny Nash, 1972)
When we're on vacation we always try and select one trashy show to watch. Most years it's been "Cops," but recently the plethora of trashy shows has given us a whole snorkle to choose from. The other night we happened upon "Dr 90210." It's about plastic women dying to become more plastic and who are willing to pay big bucks in an effort to achieve perfection. Silly, lost women. Don't they know all they have to do is come to Jesus? And then, when they die, they'll be perfection in ways they can only begin to imagine. That's what keeps me goin' and out from under the knife.
As they head into a surgery for a breast augmentation ON AN EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD Tyler and I notice that below the "Operating Room" sign is BRAILLE! Who wants anyone who is visually impaired in an operating room? Oy!
Which led me to question again why drive through ATM's have Braille? I suppose it's there for walk-ups, but I have to think that it would be a rare occurrence. I started thinking about all the other places I wouldn't want to see Braille. The only one I could come up with is a gas pump. And maybe the cockpit of an airplane.
When we're on vacation we always try and select one trashy show to watch. Most years it's been "Cops," but recently the plethora of trashy shows has given us a whole snorkle to choose from. The other night we happened upon "Dr 90210." It's about plastic women dying to become more plastic and who are willing to pay big bucks in an effort to achieve perfection. Silly, lost women. Don't they know all they have to do is come to Jesus? And then, when they die, they'll be perfection in ways they can only begin to imagine. That's what keeps me goin' and out from under the knife.
As they head into a surgery for a breast augmentation ON AN EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD Tyler and I notice that below the "Operating Room" sign is BRAILLE! Who wants anyone who is visually impaired in an operating room? Oy!
Which led me to question again why drive through ATM's have Braille? I suppose it's there for walk-ups, but I have to think that it would be a rare occurrence. I started thinking about all the other places I wouldn't want to see Braille. The only one I could come up with is a gas pump. And maybe the cockpit of an airplane.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)