Do we have enough gas to get there?

If there’s one thing I can probably bank on it's that my son will never run out of gas.

He watches his fuel gauge like a mother frets over a new baby that first night home. As a matter of fact, it’s a sure bet that he checks the fuel gauge of any car he gets into within moments of entering the vehicle.

This obsession with proper fuel levels is a result of one of those parenting fuck-ups that traumatize your kid FOREVER.

About ten years ago we were on vacation in a small Adirondack mountain town. Toward the end of the trip our 4-year-old daughter got really sick with fevers spiking to 104 and copious vomiting. We took her to one of those little mountain clinics to have her checked over and this very young, very nice doctor scared the living hell out of us.

After examining Giggles, this very nice, very young doctor told us that there had been several recent cases of meningitis in the area and she recommended we immediately take ourselves off to the local hospital, over an hour away, to have our daughter tested for meningitis.

We all know that the test for meningitis is a spinal tap? This very young doctor was telling us to go to an unfamiliar New York Mountain hospital to have some unknown doctor/facility perform a spinal tap on our little 4-year-old baby.

A SPINAL TAP. 4 Years old. Let’s let that sink in for a few moments.

We did what all rational parents do in these situations. We panicked, called our parents for advice and made the decision. We thanked her profusely and said we were going to drive home right away and bring her to the doctors we knew. She was very frowny at this idea, sternly telling us what a mistake this was as our daughter’s high fevers could cause seizures and she was at risk of dehydration. I’m sure she was thinking we were total buttheads and possibly unfit parents. She was not entirely wrong, but for other reasons.

In what had to be speediest pack up and vacate EVER, we headed south as fast as possible. The trip was fraught with high anxiety - were we doing the right thing, Giggles periodic vomiting fits required a few brief stops for clean up and to coax her into small sips to keep her hydrated and cooled down, and easing our son’s anxiety because he was feeding off of our angst.

You know where this is going, right?

We ran out of gas around midnight. On a very dark NY Thruway. Far from ANYTHING. Because when you run out of gas in these situations, it is always far from exits, rest stops, HUMANITY. Also, 10 years ago = no cell phone.

Look, when you’re really concerned that your 4 year old could have meningitis, it’s amazingly easy to forget to check the gas when stopping to clean up puke and keep the feverish child cool. Also, our seven year old had to eat and pee occasionally.

As the car sputtered to a halt on the side of the road, my husband and I looked at each other. We were both thinking the same thing,  OH HELL NO and WHAT THE FUCK NOW. Both kids were asleep thankfully, Giggle’s fever was down a bit and she had not puked in over an hour. This was a good sign we thought. We also knew that getting help was going to take some time and a minor miracle. SuperHubby grabbed a flashlight and said he was going to walk a little ways down the road to try flagging down a truck or something.

I did not like this idea. But you know, NO GAS. My brain continued to short circuit from anxiety while my head swiveled between watching my daughter to watching my husband. Let me tell you that it is dark as the deepest depths of hell on the NY Thruway at midnight far away from civilization. The only lights were our flashlight, the blinking hazards and the rarely seen passing car or truck. To this day I hate that clicking sound Hazard Lights make when they are used in a silent car. Tick…tick…tick…tick

And did you know that when a large truck soars by at over 70 mph an SUV at rest will shake like hell? Well, that very wind driven rattling is what woke the 7 year old from his slumber to discover himself stranded on a dark road with no gas and his father NOT IN THE TRUCK. He handled it very well for the first ½ hour as Hey! New Adventure! By the end of the first hour he was getting on the anxiety train. When my husband got back in the car and said he was thinking of walking to the next exit, Ace went full on frantic about being left alone without his Dad. We ditched that idea because I agreed with Ace. Dark roads, no knowledge of how far next exit even was, and sick baby in car. We went back to the flashlight alert signal and hoping for the kindness of passing strangers to stop and save our asses.

Thankfully as we were about to head into hour three and rethinking the walk to the next exit, a service vehicle came rolling up behind us. It seems a concerned truck driver had called in a stranded vehicle emergency and they had gotten to us as quickly as possible. A little gas and cash later sent us back on our way. I have never been so happy to see anyone as I was that night. By the time he arrived, Ace was afraid we were going to be stuck there until dawn and that Giggles was never going to get help. It was not our finest moment.

In the first two years after that episode, Ace checked the gas gauge EVERY TIME he got in the car and asked if we have enough gas. Even if we were only going to the supermarket in town. If we took a trip any longer that that, he checked the gas level and asked regularly. If we stopped to pee, he asked about gas. If we switched roads, he asked about gas. EVERY TIME. He has his own car now and barely lets the gas gauge slip below half full before refilling. It’s his very special paranoia.

He’s looking forward to discussing this phobia in his Psych class this semester. And blaming it on his parents.

Giggles did not need a spinal tap or have meningitis, just the flu. She doesn't remember anything but I'm sure we've traumatized her in a million different ways.

random vacation pix

water water everywhere

The cruise ship we were on, the Carnival Fascination, has a small waterpark on the upper deck, with one of the big curving water slides and a couple of smaller ones.

Among the slides, there were plenty of other gadgets designed to spill, dump or spray water on you unexpectedly while romping in the area.

I'm still trying to figure out why the water in the slides aws so damn cold given we were in the Caribbean!

  

That water? Was COLD.

As opposed to this water.

We spent a lot of time sitting in these chairs eating ice cream and watching the water go by.

Pretty water. So blue and sparkly under the sun.

filling the void

My bloggy brain seems to be on hiatus. It didn't leave a note as to when it's expected to return from its sojourn, which I find somewhat discourteous actually.

I think it stayed here:

Wouldn't you, given the choice?

The trip with my daughter was most excellent. An experience that brought us closer together and created simple fun loving memories that will always be just ours. A road trip and vacation with your kid, one on one, is something I highly recommend.

And I think that is what I'm struggling to convey in writing. That depth of emotional connection, the simple joy of spending time with my daughter, just us, singing, laughing, talking and sharing pieces of each other, away from everything and everyone we know. Putting those feelings and thoughts into words seems beyond my abilitites.

While I want to share all the laughter and joy in my heart from this trip with her, I also want to keep them close, hold fast to those memories and cherish them for what they gave me, and I hope, gave her as well.

dia-bo-lical sabotage

April, thus far, has been a complete bitch. And we’re barely at the half way point. To be honest, not a complete bitch. The flowers are in bloom so that balances things out somewhat.

Let’s just tick off some the chaos, shall we?

Husband takes a wrong step and feels a muscle pull in his calf. After several days of manly chest pounding pain resistance, stoically soldiering on at work in the face of discomfort when he could barely put any weight on the leg without whimpering, he finally caved and went to the doctor when his calf turned a delightful kaleidoscope of purple, green and red.

Turns out he ruptured one of the muscles entirely and severely tore two others. Doctor says stay off the leg, keep it elevated and iced. How long you might ask? Six weeks or more, depending on how well he follows orders.

Vacation was scheduled for next week. In Disney.

The day after we went to the doctor, a speed sensor on the brakes in the minivan imploded, causing the ABS brakes to go into DANGER WILL ROBINSON!! mode, vibrating frantically under my feet, lighting up the dashboard with a cacophony of light and sound. I didn’t know the minivan could be emotive. At least I know there’s nothing wrong with the warning system.

Two days ago the frames of my glasses fell apart while I was cooking. The ear piece just randomly popped off and almost landed in the sheperd's pie I was making. I took them to the eye fixer upper place and of course they couldn’t fix it but suggested a lovely set of replacement frames for two hundred bucks. I fixed it with $1.89 super glue.

The vacuum cleaner brush just randomly stopped rotating and will not restart no matter how many times, or how hard, I kick it. I wonder if I can fix that with super glue.

The last wind storm? Finished the destruction of the awning that is no longer on the back of the house. It is pieces.

You know what I think? That we have GREMLINS.

Like this guy.


photo courtesy of warner brothers and the internet



That’s really the only explanation I can come up with. Unless it’s all been an alcohol fueled hallucination. Last time I checked though, SuperHubby’s leg was still purple, green and swollen, and the booze level in the house indicates I haven’t been drinking nearly enough for hallucinations, so I’m back to Gremlins. Or someone dropping acid in my tea in an effort to deliberately push me over the edge.

Vacation plans have changed more than once in the past week in a frenzied how, where, who and will it cost a small fortune search by my sofa restricted industrious husband. It became a challenge for him to find a cost effective vacation that he cannot participate in. He’s alleviating his boredom with travel plans and watching the entire Soprano’s series.

It’s our daughter’s thirteenth birthday next week and we were going to celebrate that day in her favorite place on earth, Disney. My guy carefully planned this vacation months ago, down to restaurant reservations and Disney park visits. It was going to be an epic birthday/family vacation. And then April rolled around. Luckily, the Gremlins overlooked vacation plan details and we were able to cancel those plans without penalties.

Initially SuperHubby wanted me and kids to go without him, but the 15 year old said he wasn’t going on vacation and leaving his crippled father alone. His words, but it’s nice to know he’d give up vacation without a moment’s hesitation. That instant reaction, without thought or hesitation showed that his heart, always so open and caring, remains true and strong.

Finally, all said and done, plans are in place.

Husband and son are staying home. Together. Alone.

Giggles and I are going on a 5 day Caribbean Carnival cruise. Just us girls. This is going to rock so hard. SuperHubby hooked us up with a big surprise for the girl during the cruise that will absolutely thrill her.

Needless to say, since those plans were finalized, it’s been a whirlwind of laundry, shopping to stock the guys up for the week we’re away, cooking so they have frozen stuff to reheat, cleaning so the house is acceptable upon my departure and last minute errands that my husband usually runs but can’t. And packing because we’re leaving for Florida in two days.

I’m afraid of what the house will look like when I get back after leaving my partially broken husband and teenage son alone for a week.

But I’m not going to think about that at all when I’m romping in a cruise ship pool with my laughing daughter, celebrating her thirteenth birthday.

That said, if I find that Gremlin, I'm going to beat him with a giant sledgehammer anyway.

when fantasy takes wing

A week ago tomorrow I was strolling along a sunlit dappled wooded path near a mountain lake, chatting with my daughter about the high-epic fantasy daydreams I used to engage in during the hours I spent roaming the woods near my house when I was her age, which just goes to prove what a complete dork I used to be, envisioning (hoping, really, since high school was such a boring place to be) faeries, elves, dwarves and dragons cavorting in the wooded hills of northern New Jersey. I mean seriously, everyone knows the Fey live in Ireland, Elves have taken over the forests of New Zealand, dwarves really prefer the Himalayas and since the dragons were banned from snacking on stray humans, they've sulkily retired to the Caucasus Mountains, sustaining themselves on mountain goats and the occasional rock climber.

A week ago tomorrow my daughter and I emerged from a shadowy stand of pines into a bright meadow that was clearly an abandoned farm as it was full of rogue corn stalks, sunflowers, milkweed, cattails and wildflowers. Tall stalks of plants swayed together as a gentle wind teased them and the colors gleamed green and gold and yellow in the bright sunlight. Dragonflies and butterflies flitted among the flower heads, delirious in their bounty.

It was an enchanted place, filled with the sounds of crickets and birds and rustling leaves.

For a few moments we stood there, amazed at the unexpected surprise. A farm gone wild.

As we began walking on the over grown path, our steps in the tall grass disturbed the silence and suddenly dozens of monarch butterflies lifted from their hidden perches among the stalks to circle and dance around our heads. With every step we took, dozens more, along with other colorful butterfly friends that had been hidden in the foliage, took wing.

We giggled and twirled around, drinking in the wonder of the flashing colors, as butterflies and dragonflies danced on the air.

Fantasy may be hard to find these days but sometimes, if you're lucky, it finds you.

Pittsburgh Ho! or how not to see Pittsburgh while on vacation

There has to be a little back story here or you’re going to ask me why the hell sane people would travel to Pittsburgh just to see a Mets game, especially since the Mets are…well, The Mets.

A few years ago my husband decided to surprise Ace with a birthday trip to Pittsburgh to see a Mets game. They are huge Mets fans and a new tradition of seeing a Mets game in an unfamiliar stadium every year began. Sort of. Ace fell in love with Pittsburgh and wanted to go back there every year. I mean this kid loves visiting this place, going to the museums, walking downtown, traversing the river walk and he talks about Pittsburgh and going back regularly. Wouldn’t surprise me if he ends up there for college.

So, in keeping with tradition, we scheduled the first leg of our vacation with another surprise trip to Pittsburgh for the requisite Mets – Pirates game and then an extra day and a half to wander around and see the sights with Ace pointing out all his favorite places to me and Giggles, who have not been to Pittsburgh before. That was the plan. Until Ace jammed his foot against the door frame and fractured his toe near the growth plate on his birthday. SURPRISE!

At first we thought it was just jammed and bruised. Ace decided to unjam it by pulling on the toe and relieve the pressure, turns out that was a good idea actually. When the swelling hadn’t gone down by Thursday and the top of his foot was turning that sickly eggplant purple color, it was time for the doctors. Diagonal stress fracture base of toe near growth plate. Not terrible, just inconvenient for a time. Splint on the toe and he has to wear a surgical recovery boot to keep his foot flat and not walk on it too much. This, of course, happened the day after he had been signed up for Fall Baseball and also will impinge on his swimming season some. The worst of all to him was that he would not be able to participate in vacation as…rambunctiously as he normally does, which is usually at full tilt.

No strolling around Pittsburgh. No hiking along the rocky mountain trails in the Poconos, no long walks in the woods, no diving into the lake, etc etc. Do you know how hard it is to keep a 15 year old boy subdued on vacation? I do now so just ask. I’ll supply the bottle of wine you’ll need.

One of the best parts of the trip out was that Ace didn’t even know we were heading to Pittsburgh until we were about an hour from the city. We just kept telling him we took a different route to the Poconos. Sometimes it’s nice to have a kid who closes himself into a book or audio book in the car and doesn’t bother to surface and take in his surroundings. 

We got into Pittsburgh for the Friday night game on the 20th, in time to check into our lovely room at The Renaissance Hotel, a room SuperHubby had scored on priceline several months back for an awesome price, by the way! The hotel was beautiful and is definitely a great place to stay with fabulous service and atmosphere. The only issues I had was that the bed was uncomfortably firm and the roll away bed they brought in for the kid was so old and used that the springs were clearly evident.

The hotel is right across the bridge from the baseball stadium so we headed over for the game. The view from the bridge as sunset began was fabulous. I pulled out my camera, loaded in fresh batteries and when I went to take the first picture, the camera told me to change the batteries, but no matter how many new batteries I fed that little bastard, it kept repeating the same message. Then it stopped working.

STOPPED WORKING! IN PITTSBURGH! The city with the rivers! The bridges! The architecture! The hills! The people! AND MY CAMERA DIDN’T WORK. The Universe just bitch slapped me, people. Hard. Oh Canon, we’re going to have a talk.

Our seats were in the second row a few sections past first base. I had a wonderful unobstructed view of Ike Davis’s ass. (I would show you, but MY CAMERA BROKE. I’m not bitter or anything. Not at all.) Ace’s spirits were lifted when he scored a foul ball late in the game. During warm ups, Giggles was waving at Jose Reyes and she got him to smile and wave back so she was happy. The Mets won which made both of my guys happy.

Having been told it was one of the top spots we made our way to Pamela’s for breakfast. The crowd milling about waiting for a seat seemed to confirm it. After about a 20 minute wait, we stuffed ourselves to the gills with eggs, sausage, bacon and waffles. The kids only grunted and kept shoveling waffles into their faces when I asked them how the food was, that has to count for an approval as much as the empty plates, yes? I’m glad they didn’t list the calorie count on the menu as I think there might have been a stick of butter melted in the potatoes I devoured. The chorizo sausage patties had enough kick in them that my mouth sizzled for a time after I was done.

While we waited for a cab to take us back to the hotel, I noticed this very tall man walking toward us and he looked familiar. As he drew closer, I realized that he looked exactly like the Mets pitcher. It was in fact Mike Pelfrey,  the MetsMets for his birthday and having a broken foot and Pelfrey strolled over to where we were sitting, signed Ace’s Mets hat, shook his hand, asked about his foot and chatted some about the game. (There would be pictures proving such an encounter but my CAMERA BROKE. I am aggrieved. Deeply.) I have to say that Mike Pelfrey was such a gracious man, especially after pitching for 8 innings the night before in over 90 degree heat and being accosted on the street by nerdy excited Mets fans before he could get breakfast. He made a slightly grumpy teenager happier than he had been and that’s no easy task.

Since Ace was restricted in his activities, he and SuperHubby hung out at the hotel, eating, reading and renting movies on demand before deciding to go see the Saturday night Mets-Pirates game. Giggles and I checked out the RiverWalk, the Carnegie Science Museum and SportsWorks.

We strolled back along the RiverWalk, playing some in the cascading water of the Riverfront Fountain. Giggles thought it was super cool that she could just dance in the fountain waters and climb up & down the large square blocks the water tumbled over. Lucky for us it was warm when the rains came and soaked us through as we walked back to the hotel after a “just girls” day. We finished that off with some pizza and ice cream while the guys waited out the rain delay at the baseball game.

Vacation, despite a broken toe and camera, was starting out pretty damn well.

up around the bend

Okay. There's some Creedence downloaded to the mp3 player along with two brain candy audiobooks, a new batch of homemade gluten free chocolate chip cherry vanilla cereal bars, as well as regular homemade chocolate chip granola bars, cooling on the counter and all the laundry is done, as in washed and available. Folded...well that's not in my agenda. I'm good with that.

We're off early Friday morning for vacation. Glorious VACATION. One more day at the office and then I'm unplugging. No work phone, no laptop, no email for nine glorious days.
The suitcases haven't made an appearance in the house yet but I swear the dog KNOWS we're going away and leaving her at the kennel. She's been moping around here for two days now. 

My vacation plans involve relaxation, crafty jewelry creating, maybe some writing and a considerable amount of naps. A ridiculous caloric intake is also on the horizon, I'm certain. I'll have to balance that out with walks, in the woods, along the river, around the lake...I'm not sure if I can stand it. I'll let you know.

I plan on leaving the whiny mood I've been in recently somewhere in the dirt on one of those walks. Because I'm getting sick of my groany moany self. Life is not so bad when there is vacation on the horizon. 

do it ourselves, mostly done

The best part of nine 12-hour days spent doing hard physical labor? Losing 8 pounds. Okay, that’s really just a bonus. The best part is getting it done, mostly, and seeing the fabulous results of focused hard work.

The worst part of 12 hour days spent doing physical labor when one usually rides a desk 8 hours a day? Just about every muscle in my body aches like hell.

Including my fingers, which still hurt from manhandling the wires to hook up new recessed lights while SuperHubby, with help from the kids, spent the better part of two days on his knees putting in the new oak laminate flooring.

Friday the 9th we started yanking down sheet rock so we could reinsulated the outside walls of the house, which had been colder than usual this past winter. When we finally got the drywall off we found the old insulation was mostly falling down and when I reached in to grab a piece to stuff into a trash bag, the paper flashing literally disintegrated into dust. It smelled musty and dusty and while this was a huge pain in the ass to do, I feel so much better now about the new stuff we used to re-insulate, Roxul, an insulation made from rock.

After we got that miserable task dealt with, it was time to put up new sheet rock and spackle. This part sucks hugely and I went waaaaay over board with the joint compound. I was led astray by the Internet. There is misinformation out there, who would have known? Several credible reference sites said the first coat of joint compound should be put on somewhat thick and I BELIEVED THEM. Those Bastards.

That decision cost us a full day of sanding to smooth off the majority of compound that I had insisted on, despite my husband maintaining the less is more theory, and was totally unnecessary. I insisted the experts said so and it must be true. And then a neighbor, who does contracting, came over and told me I used too much compound and it had to go. My husband will be reminding me of my stupidity in this area for years and well, it was the internet’s fault, I SWEAR!

Do you have any idea how much dust is generated and spreads around the house, despite a double plastic curtain barrier? Mountains, I’m telling you. I’ll be cleaning it up for a year. I’m surprised my air conditioners are still functional. It was a dicey for a day with the main unit. It’s 2:15 am. I’m buck naked, just about to step into a desperately needed shower to wash off the dust coating from the day of sanding off the nasty compound. My husband yells from the living room that there’s water coming from the wall AC unit and come help him. Still buck naked, I climb onto a chair and find the filter is beyond clogged and the unit is overloaded and frozen and water is dripping on my new desk. Go figure. We didn’t think about cleaning out this one. 45 minutes later the dust is gone (from the AC unit), the excess water is being absorbed by a small towel and I’m still naked & dusty. I finally crashed after a shower @3:30 am. Only to get up at 8 the next morning to start painting.

It is possible to prime and paint three rooms in two days. I know this as truth, especially if two extremely tired people decide to paint until 2 am. Because we are insane.

We let the kids pick their colors and do most of the painting of their rooms themselves. This way they took more ownership of the outcome and when they’re hanging out enjoying the new digs, they’ll take pride in what they see, flaws & all. And there was no way SuperHubby and I were painting all three rooms by ourselves. We picked out bright happy colors that remind us of the Caribbean and they make the rooms glow. I think Behr paints need to revisit some of the names they give their paints. I chose Fresh Peaches, but I'm telling you it looks more like Papaya on the walls, which is just fine. Sweet Rhapsody would be better named Calypso Surf. Tropical Waters is just fine as it is.

I’m a messy painter and no matter the number of showers I’ve taken and scrubbing I’ve done since we painted the rooms, I keep finding spots of paint on my fingers, my toes, in my hair and on my glasses. At least the color palette matches. During the compounding and sanding and priming and painting stages, I must have climbed up and down the damn ladder a gazillion times and the screaming of my glutes just reinforces the abuse they have been subject to during this job.

Somewhere in this chaos, the television stopped working. That hour, between finishing work for the night, cleaning up and crashing into bed, was necessary downtime for just staring mindlessly at some show or catching up on how the Mets game went. Why does this kind of crap have to happen when the house is basically a construction zone and the only normal thing working is the TV? Really, why? I mean I’m perfectly capable of dealing with 1/3 of my house in various stages of renovation, with supplies and tools taking over every available space, with a little help from my friend xanax, but the little inconvenience of the TV flaking out just about sent me over the edge. In between finishing the painting and putting in floor and lights, several frustrating phone calls to Samsung and Cablevision determined that the problem was the HDMI port on my cable box. It's probably the dusts fault.

The only time we left the house it seemed was for food and another trip to Home Depot. I swear every time I opened my wallet I could hear my credit card whimper and bleed a little orange. I have to admit, there were moments, just a few, when the day was long and the task seemed overwhelming, that I just wanted to put my head down and cry, to give up, but then I'd remember that I am no pansy-ass, and I'd suck back those feelings of doom and finish what I was working on.

A savvy blogger would have taken pictures of the before and after for posting and showing off said doityourselfittude but this particular blogger was so obsessed with the do, Do, DO! of it all that taking a few minutes for photo’s NEVER crossed my mind. So you’ll have to take my word for it that the bedrooms look much better now. Except for that damn dust. And the fact that 90% of the tools we own are strewn across the living room and kitchen. And down the hall. And in the bedrooms. And on the deck.

You get the idea.

There are still a few details to close up, like the trim around floor & windows, a last electician visit, hanging a door and retrofitting Ace's bed into a loft bed for space issues. But the majority of house disrupting work is complete, satisfactorily so, and that's a powerful feeling.

This whole thing was a full on family project. Except for shuttling the kids to my in-laws while SuperHubby and I handled the drywall removal and insulation overhaul, the kids were part of every step, learning necessary life skills and taking responsibility for their space. It was also pretty cool to work in one room with my son, and over hear snippets of SuperHubby and Giggles tackling a project in one of the other bedrooms. It felt good.

My guy and I spent 24/7 together for nine days, working side by side on this common goal. It had its moments of friction and frustration and there were a couple of blow-ups but for the most part, we did it the way we do everything else, sharing the task and working together. We’ll be married 17 years this Friday and navigating this renovation together certainly proves we’ve got a solid foundation and structural integrity.

Despite my insistence on extra joint compound.

do it yourself delusions

What day is it? I've lost track.

Supposedly I'm on vacation, but really it's the home upkeep kind of leave your day job for a few days and work like a dog to fix stuff that got waylaid by life happening vacation.

Ten days, three bedrooms. Gut, re-insulate, new drywall, prime & paint, new pergo-type floors.

Can it be done? I'll let you know sometime next week.

What I do know is that my husband and I have been together 24/7 since Friday afternoon, renovating bedrooms, and as we cruise into seventeen years of marriage next week, we haven't taken sharp implements to impale each other, we've made progress, of a sort, we've even laughed about it and found a productive rhythm most days. That is love and commitment. Or committed. Depends on who you ask at which point in the day.

I've got drywall compound dust in places it's only acceptable to talk about in strip clubs or with a gynecologist. Can I even begin to tell you how much I fucking hate putting up and taping sheetrock? So help me, If I ever have to install new sheetrock again it's going up with that liquid nails stuff and I'm forgoing all of the screws and spackling. And hiring some damn professionals to do the taping while I'm at it. I'd rather reinsulate the attic. Which we did, last weekend, in 90 degree weather. That was a breeze compared to the drywall installation.

I'm taking about a ten minute break right now because I think I'm getting high on joint compound fumes. Which is not as fun as it sounds. Or it could be sleep deprivation.

I haven't listening to my voice messages, checked email or read the news since Friday morning. Being out of touch is not such a bad thing. If you've called me and expect an answer this week, you are bound to be disappointed. Send a text if it's urgent. I might answer that. If you tell me I need to. Maybe.

See you on the flip side of home improvement. If I survive.

there are worse places to be stranded

The sound of screaming, yelling, and cars honking are rising above the roof tops. SuperHubby opened the front door of his Aunt's house after the Porter interception and touchdown to the cacophony of celebrating. There's a block party going on one street over, projection screen TV in the middle of the road for all to watch and dance outside.

We're currently stranded in New Orleans as our flights back to BWI have been cancelled twice.

The city, and surrounding area, is alive with excitement. I'm going to go back and participate in the madness.

More about the flight delays and extended stay in New Orleans later.

pissing off the weather gods

I can count the number of times I've been up in an airplane on one hand.


Twice I went up in a little two seater Cessna with a friend who had his pilot's license, back in the days when you could fly around the Statue of Liberty without being tracked by the military defense system, risking getting blown out of the air by a long range missile that was just waiting for someone stupid enough to get up in one of those little death traps and zip around Manhattan, buzzing historical landmarks. Just for fun. I mean we were so close I could have picked Lady Liberty's nose. She's got green boogers, by the way.


Twice we flew down to Florida for vacation, once for a cruise and once for Disney. That first time on a big commercial airliner down to Florida for the cruise? Could have been a deal breaker on further travel by air had I not been an intrepid spirit, willing to do what must be done for the family to maximize our time in that Happiest Place On Earth when we flew the second time.


Why a deal breaker, you ask? Ice and Snow, my sympathetic friends. Ice and Snow. And a sinus infection. Sometime life is a punch to the head.


The ground? She is my friend. Ask me to drive anywhere, go ahead, ask. Seriously. I will drive just about anywhere, except maybe Manhattan because those people are insane, but I love to travel by car. So much to see, unless one is driving on some isolated superhighway where the only thing visible are trees, and there are stretches like that in Alabama, which makes me think I never actually travelled through Alabama and it was just a dream. So yeah, I'd prefer driving across country than flying. I get the logistical downside to that preference, but I am okay with that. Sometimes on road trips adventures happen when you least expect them.


That first commercial flight? Snow storm. The first snow storm of that winter. Yes, on the day I am going to fly in a big plane. The flight? Delayed.Twice, 2 hours. Ice on wings. I'm sitting in the plane, on the tarmac watching some men spray liquid on the wings to get rid of the ice so we don't fall out of the sky. It's a good thing I took some Xanax. And some cold medicine for the sinus infection that had been raging when we left. Normally these two things do not mix well, Xanax and cold medicine. I think they make the perfect cocktail for pre-flight jitters, and potential air disasters. Finally, the take off and descent just about blew my eardrums out of my head and I could feel my inner ear splitting under the pressure.


Flying is so much fun.


We're flying in just a few days now and a recent weather report caught my attention. Possible snow storms for parts of the East Coast this coming weekend. Once again, snow storms. On fly day. Temperatures hovering around freezing. Have I pissed off the weather gods? Flip off the Universe somehow?


Because I really don't see the humor in a snow storm on that particular weekend. Can I reschedule the snow storm with the weather advisory?


Failing that, I'm calling the pharmacy tomorrow to refill my Xanax and buying some Nyquil.

Nature Inspired

he beauty of nature that surrounds us constantly inspires me, be it big bold splashes of color in the sky at sunset, the shape of a leaf, the curl of a flower or the minute finely wrought details of a butterfly wing.

This guy was having a feast of flower nectar on Tom Sawyer Island in Disney back in 2007.

This my GreeblePix entry.

where's my survival kit

Being the overly dramatic, worst case scenario death is IMMINENT kind of gal, Holy Fucking Hell, we are on vacation in two weeks and I've already started to feel queasy because I hate flying more than I would hate to be locked in a small space with a bazillion tarantula's crawling on my body...WHOA! Okay, not that much, but you get my drift.

SuperHubby was recently watching something on TV about the plane that landed in the Hudson River last year and I made him turn it off, because we ARE FLYING in 12 days and I don't want to know anything about planes falling from the sky. Nothing. At. All.

*Fingers stuffed in ears LALALALALALALALALA.

During my daily blog tour one day last week, and why shouldn’t the day be spent reading stuff? ohhh, work. That's right. I read one bad landing story, one sick passenger layover and a bazillion reminders about the Hudson River plane landing, thought this is it, we are surely going to fall out of the sky like a giant fucking stone. This doom scenario was not helped, not one little bit, when I got home to find my husband talking on the phone with his mother as she grilled him about our travel plans, the power of attorney for the kids while they are staying with them, how to reach us on the ship in case parts of New Jersey come under alien attack and they are forced to flee into the wilderness, the kids passports in case my in-laws need to sneak them out of the country, information on our life insurance policies, you know, in case WE CRASH. I kid you not. These conversations happened.

My mother-in-law totally has the disaster scenario disease or is subversively feeding mine in an effort to drive me batshit crazy. But at least they are prepared for something just this side of Armageddon while caring for the kids. We, on the other hand, are completely screwed.

I am so hiring Sully Sullenberger to fly our asses down to New Orleans, because if there is ever a pilot more trusted right now, I do not know about them.

SuperHubby asked me which Mayan Ruin tour would be most appealing when we pull into Mexico, perhaps by hiring a local to take us to a destination it would be 1) cheaper than arranging it through the cruise ship and b) allow us more time at the site. Most people would think YAY! Adventure!

Me? Here’s what played on the big screen inside my head: we might get kidnapped by the local cab driver, dropped in some backwater Mexican town and robbed of all our belongings, never to return to the ship on time, stranded. My Spanish? It sucks. We will never get home, because as we travel on dusty roads, with barely enough water to survive under the sweltering February sun, we will surely run into a truck load of banditos who will sell us into white slavery or we will be thrown into jail by the local police for being ignorant Americano's, to rot in some hellish local prison because the cab driver stole all of our money and we don’t have enough on us to pay the traditionally required bribe. So I just told him to choose one or my internal dialogue would never stop repeating Danger! Will Robinson, Danger! while my arms flap about in total indecision.

Mostly I keep this disaster crap buried inside my head, usually with the aid of Bourbon, because I like to do fun stuff and really, there is only so much disaster paranoia that a person can handle. Sometimes I think menopause has completely fucked with my ability to be a rational sane woman, as these kinds of thoughts never occurred to me when I was younger and my friend Gina and I annually went off on some new travel adventure, just because we wanted to go explore. Or having kids disrupted my brain chemistry that much. I may never know.

On a good note, Hey Vacation! Just SuperHubby and me, on a cruise ship, in the Caribbean. Hot stuff.



OH. MY. GOD. PIRATES!

Molten Breath

Some years ago I stumbled across pictures of glass sculptures that were so different than anything I had ever seen, I was mesmerized. Glass blowing has always fascinated me, breathing form into molten glass, using fire and color. The ability to create, in any medium, is an incredible gift as far as I’m concerned. But the art of glassblowing remains mysterious and mystical to me.

Breath, fire, sand, color…Art. How amazingly spectacular.

I spent time researching the art of Dale Chihuly online after that first glimpse. I pulled up images online, devoting quite a bit of time reading up on the artist and the techniques. Not to mention oohing! and aaahhing! over the colors! The forms! The styles! My fandom is encompassing and geeky. I may not idolize, but I will certainly know as much as possible about the new thing that has captured my attention. It’s my own particular brand of obsessive crazy.

Imagine my surprise when this was one of the first things I encountered when we went to Atlantis for the aquarium tour during vacation. (Atlantis, by the way, is massive and pretty and ridiculously overpriced.) ((No, we didn’t stay there, just visited.))We were headed, at a crisp pace, toward the main hotel to get tickets and as I walked into the room, I just stopped and stared. SuperHubby and Giggles had to come back for me because I just stood there, taking pictures, looking and looking. They didn’t even know I stopped.

This is called Crystal Gate. It just shimmers in the light, right there in one of the main hallways. It’s really breathtaking, like an explosion of crystal water surging from the floor, glimmers of rainbow light dancing on each tendril. And huge. I could just hang out right in that room for a few hours, thank you very much. Just bring me food and drink.

Here are the Sun and Moon, standing tall atop monolithic pedestals smack in the middle of a casino. Which disturbed quite a bit actually, as the noise was loud and clanging and I wanted quiet to take in the color and light of these. And to remind my husband and daughter that I NEEDED TO ADMIRE THE ART, THANK YOU VERY MUCH and now stop rushing me!! The aquarium can wait.

The colors and detail, well, they speak for themselves.

I know there’s a chandelier in the hotel, but either I was too clueless to find it or too rapt in what I did encounter to see it. It’s supposed to be very detailed, and elegant, and flowing with sea shapes. Internet, do you know that that means? It means SuperHubby has to take me back there so I can take pictures for you.

Yes? YES!

There’s more about Chihuly's work here

inspiration provided by mother nature

Yeah, so this is really what I spent most of my time gazing at from the balcony of the ship while on vacation last month.

My version of a mental health break.

my creaky old bones

The last few times we've slept in hotel rooms, the beds have felt like those concrete slabs Fred & Wilma used to sleep on in The Flintstones. I suppose the bed we slept in for two nights at the Hyatt, when we went to Virginia to visit family last month, was better than most, but they demand a lot of money to sleep in a relatively comfortable, but not so yielding mattress. They dress the discomfort up with lots of fluffy pillows and super soft blankets.

When we were on vacation in November, the bed was TERRIBLE. Truly. No give in that sucker at all. I could feel my hip bones pressing on the springs, and let me tell you, these hips are padded. SuperHubby and I woke often and groaned with the effort of just turning over on the rack we were stuck with for the week. At one point I considered the possibility that the floor would be more comfortable than the bed. As I got ready to climb into the torture devise every night, I could feel my spine and neck tightening up in protest.

Maybe it's because we're older and like our comfort, but gone are the days we can sleep on any damned mattress, in any damned hotel room we dropped onto. I know when we're away, forced to sleep on unforgivingly hard beds, my creaky old bones crave the memory foam bed we left behind at home. I just wish there was a way to vacuum seal that sucker and take it with us.

Leftover Rain

I love Autumn. Crisp air, crunchy leaves, wonderful colors.

Berries with dew

Found these while strolling in Nockamixon State Park. They're pretty.

While on vacation this week...

The Catutes Family is on vacation this week and it's been a busy one so far.

~Barack Obama was elected President, which was , in my humble opinion, meant to be at this time and place and no forces could have prevented it from happening. All the words have been said and thus, I have little else to add to the dialogue, except, KEEP THE YARD SIGN. I have the satisfaction of getting the President.

~ Took the kids on a two hour Mule ride up and down rocky trails, across craggy plateau's and cold streams. The kids loved it and the scenery was beautiful. Let me mention a note of caution for those willing to entertain embarking on a similar vacation event. When the guide says you should stand in the stirrups while trotting, it is best to head that advice. My ass still hurts, two days later.

~ I enjoyed a lovely visit with a good friend I see way too little of most of the time. Life getting in the way is no excuse for not keeping in touch with those you care about.

~ The resort pool has apparently been treated with some sort of caustic chemical as Giggles skin looks desiccated when she emerges from the watery depths for any length of time. She's a moisturizing fool in the evenings now.

~ My skill at billiards is woefully inadequate and loosing to SuperHubby does not take the sting out of loosing.

~ Why is it so damn difficult to get a prescription filled while one is on vacation? Really? I'm not looking to get major narcotics, just migraine medication to relieve SuperHubby's back spasm migraine and it's taken almost an hour to find a pharmacy that carries the meds and get to them to agree to fill the prescription when the Doctor's office calls it in. Maybe the surburban mom look is the new junky fad.

Ciao!