Of Civ and Consequences

When David gets together with his brothers he wants to play board games so he sent a box of games ahead to Granolaville. I helped him decide what to send: a few card and board games that wouldn't take up much space or time. I saw that David was desperate to send Advanced Civilization (Civ) and as I watched him lovingly cradle the box I told him, "You can't send Civ, there isn't enough time to play a good game. Not to mention Ed's only got the one table." I watched him set Civ aside and was satisfied that I had prevented calamity. 

The next day David mailed the box. Fast forward to the Tuesday of our arrival and I'm chatting up a storm while watching David unpack the box. I must have turned my head for a second when all the sudden I hear one of his brothers exclaim, "Oh dude, you sent Civ! Epic! Awesome! We've gotta play that!" My head snaps back and I scream, "YOU DID WHAT?! YOU SENT CIV! I THOUGHT WE AGREED NOT TO! ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE ME HATE YOU? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?" David just smiled. Now, before I continue let's just clear up a few misconceptions about me and Civ: 1. I do not hate Civ. 2. Yes, I do enjoy the attention paid to me if there is no Civ being played but that is not why I often steer away from it. 3. I am a mediocre Civ player and could play if I wanted and thus get more attention. 4. I do not hate Civ because watching other people enjoy themselves makes my skin crawl. I am not out to destroy fun (usually). 5. I believe there is a time and place for Civ. You just need lots of time and lots of space. They didn't play Civ right away. We had too many other things to do. We played some card games and the boys played two other board games. 

As the week flew by it started to look like Civ wouldn't happen. Then it happened and dragged on with no end in sight as our departure loomed on the horizon. Even with timed trading sessions and David rallying for all-nighters that were vetoed the game took 15 hours and they didn't even finish. They totaled up points and called it a game 20 minutes before David and I had to leave for Albany to catch our flight home. At this point I was crying and my paranoid/neurotic tendencies were in full swing. I was convinced we were going to hit bad traffic, a blizzard, crazy protesters at the airport and miss our flight. I had to pack for David because he was too busy trying to move his civilization into the next age. David's siblings must have thought I was the craziest bitch on the face of the planet trying to ruin their good time with my need to get to the airport. I tried desperately to control myself. For every symbolic pat on my head I said, "I know in my heart missing a flight is not the end of the world. I know we aren't going to miss our flight and we are going to arrive at the airport with not a comfortable amount of time to spare but just enough. I know all of this and more in my heart. I'm sorry I am so neurotic BUT RIGHT NOW MY BRAIN IS TELLING ME YOU ARE NOT ALLOWING ENOUGH TIME FOR CIRCUMSTANCES BEYOND YOUR CONTROL AND THE FATES SHALL MAKE YOU PAY WITH INCONVENIENCES!"

 I need to be in control and in situations where there is so much not in my control I get panicky so I take shelter in punctuality, order, law and reason. It just manifests itself in insane-looking ways. There was no traffic on the way to Albany. The drive was pleasant just like Ed said it would be. I am pleased to note Massachusetts looks just as New England-ly as imagined with Cape Cod houses and steeple churches. It started to snow gently once we crossed the state line and the airport remained the nice little hub it was when we flew in. 

We landed at Cleveland-Hopkins and when the attendant at the end of the jetway asked if we were transferring I said, "No sir, we're home. Home sweet home Cleveland." and I even smiled. So there. Since everything worked out I had to hear like a million "I told you so's" because my fretting was in vain. 

Furthermore, in my defense, I did not throw hissy fits when the boys played Diplomacy. Okay, so I was distracted by the most beautiful mall in the world that time. I didn't get all whiny during Russian Rails. Nope, I sat at the table and read while they played. I didn't even claw out my eyes during the first half of Civ. No, I sat around and made bad jokes, which are under appreciated among my in-laws.

In conclusion, I don't hate Civ. I only wish that Civ be played when conditions are optimal; when those who love the game can actually play to their heart's content. So I (with the help of my informal editor, Tom) have designed a handy-dandy flowchart to assist Civ players around the world, old and young, in deciding whether or not the time is right for Civ.

Granolaville Thanksgiving

We decided to spend our Thanksgiving holiday in Granolaville, Massachusetts: The Last Bastion of Indie-ness and home to David's oldest brother, Ed. In addition to Ed we got a bonus "Ed's girlfriend" and five more of David's siblings. Then we got a visit from five East Coast relatives which upped the total. So if you are counting on your fingers you should have run out by now as we're up to 9-14 people in a two bedroom apartment with one bathroom. Ed wisely rented a motel room for some of the guests to stay at during the week. Miraculously, the apartment is still standing, the neighbors aren't petitioning to evict Ed, we only broke the garbage disposal, and at the time of our departure there was still one roll of toilet paper left.

This was our second trip to Granolaville and as much as I would have loved to fly back to So-Cal it just wasn't feasible. However, the one hour flight to Granolaville was totally doable and besides is there anything more depressing than going from a cold climate to a warm climate? So off to New England we went.

Well, not quite New England at first. David decided to save some cash on airfare so we flew into Albany, NY about an hour away from Granolaville. Albany was a nice little airport to wait for Ed to pick us up. We had no problems at any airport arriving or departing. No TSA grope, no zappy-zap scan, no epic line of protesters. We even had enough time departing from Cleveland-Hopkins to stop at Great Lakes Brewing Company for Christmas Ale because I was going to be deprived of it for a week. David tried to tell me Sam Adams beer would fill the void where Christmas Ale should have been but I knew he was lying.

Ed had lots of surprises for us including a trip to the most beautiful mall in the world. This mall was gor-geous it had a Nordie's and a Lord & Taylor. It was fancy and heaven-sent and I'm sad I didn't spend more of David's money there. Then after a day spent at the fancy mall we had reservations at the fancy restaurant Ed works at as a bartender. I know it was fancy because the menu had courses instead of numbered combos and there were two forks on the table. It was excellent food and a great time but I was bit freaked out. If I had known we were going to a "fancy restaurant" I would have made David bring an additional pair of pants and nicer beanie. It wasn't a big deal that he was wearing jeans, a cheap beanie and a hoodie. It is an Under Armour hoodie which is like the priciest athletic wear you can buy. The fancy mall had an entire Under Armour store! But that's pretty much all he brought. David and I have slipped further into the depths of a blue-collar world and it shows when the collar isn't hiding beneath expensive outerwear.

Dining out once was probably a good idea because the next day was Thanksgiving and it was non-stop cooking. Ed and his girlfriend did the bulk of it; I watched football. That's safer because I have yet to burn a football game. The Patriots played the Lions in Detroit. How could I not watch the game? I was in New England! The Patriots are playing! All I needed was some buckled shoes and hat and it couldn't have been more traditional and American and what-not! The food was awesome and we ate tons and still had leftovers.

Unfortunately, where there is non-stop cooking there is also non-stop dishes. Washing dishes in this sort of situation is like fighting the Hydra. As soon as you think you are done someone waltzes into the kitchen, gets a glass out for juice and it makes you want to scream, "Look just drink out of the carton! I don't care! I'm not Hercules I'm not racking up labors here! Edith Hamilton isn't hanging around waiting to tell my tale to bore high-schoolers to tears!" It is even more difficult when you have been living with only one other person and just washing a small amount everyday. Suddenly you are washing dishes for nine and you are screaming and every one thinks you are insane. You adapt eventually but the road to clean dishes is still daunting.

You know what else is daunting? Sleeping with squirrels in the walls. At first I didn't know they were squirrels or other rodents. I thought the neighbors upstairs had a dog or cat running around so I slept fine. Then I overheard Ed telling the other brothers that the scurrying they were hearing might be squirrels. Ignorance is bliss and they should have lied to me, "No, Samina not in the room you are sleeping in, nope no squirrels there. The neighbors have a Pomeranian named Sparky...yeah that's it, a cute, harmless not rabid at all ball of fur. That is what you are hearing." Instead, I spent the night with my feet as far away from the walls as possible silently praying Slappy and Skippy Squirrel wouldn't chew my toes off once they busted through the wall. And to think I wanted to stay at the apartment and not the hotel because I wanted the privacy a door would provide. I should have known privacy was a pipe dream the minute I decided to lock the door against a horde of boys to shower, only to have my own husband pull on the door not ten minutes after I got the ancient plumbing to give water that would neither scald nor freeze. So it's fine, I'll just walk past all five of my brothers-in-law ages 32-16 wrapped in nothing but a towel so you can have the bathroom dear husband.

I love my brothers-in-law but I love privacy more. Sorry guys. Do you know what else I love? Being punctual, not inconvenienced or inconveniencing others needlessly, and not being stressed out. That's the next blog so stay tuned but first I have some dishes to wash. And since we are home and David drinks out of the carton I hardly have anything to clean, so back in two twitches of a squirrel's disease-infested nose.

My Week With Dave: Part Three the last

David's condition improved over the weekend. He was even able to go to the grocery store with me and the next day try to drive. His neck was still a little stiff while turning but he was confident about his ability to drive himself to his appointment. It was better for him to go by himself anyway because if the doctor gave him clearance to return to work he would go straight from there.

His appointment was at 9 AM and at about noon I sent him a text asking him to call or text me with any news. Time ticked on and I started to get worried. What if he had been in an accident because he wasn't healed and couldn't react quickly to avoid driving off a bridge into the lake? I wondered if the doctor had sent him somewhere else for x-rays or if he was still waiting to be seen. Finally at 2 PM I called him. He was at work.

I swallowed my anger at him not calling to at least give me a, "Hey, I am alive. The doctor said I can go back to work. I'll see you when I get home and tell you all about it." That's all I wanted. I didn't need a long story. I wouldn't have asked five million questions.

The doctor prescribed over the counter pain relievers and told him to be diligent about doing back exercises. David has been dealing with chronic back pain for years so all he can do is try to strengthen his back to prevent further injury. No matter what he does he will always be at risk for injuring himself again. Then we manage the pain the best we can. David's injuries aren't because he doesn't use proper lifting techniques in his warehouse or shouldn't be lifting anything at all. He has a bad back just like some people have bad knees or bad eyesight. To suggest anything else is absurd.

Life has returned to normal at our house. David is relieved to be mobile and back at work. I'm relieved that he's relieved. He's back to his old self which means not calling me to relay important information and assuming I don't need the car so it's okay to take it into the shop for brake work with no clear time frame when it will be returned, leaving me with no way to get myself to the one hair appointment I have scheduled in six months. The hair appointment I scheduled four feet away from him within hearing distance and then wrote on the calendar for the whole world to see: HAIR APPT 10 AM W/FAITH. The whole entire point of my learning to drive was so David wouldn't have to be my taxi. Well, guess who gets to go to work for two hours tomorrow, come home, pick me up, drop me off at my appointment, go back to work and then drive me home when I am finished? And I was really looking forward to being a big girl and driving myself to the salon. Never thought I'd see the day when I didn't want to be driven around by someone else.

My Week With Dave: Part Two

While we waited out the pain I did what David would call "fussing over him." Leaving him alone for an hour or so, going about my day, and then checking on him. I would force him to eat or get him a book. David hates to be "fussed over" but the only reason I was doing it was to try and train him to ask for help. I wasn't bothering him because I'm an overbearing and bored bitch. I was doing it because way out here 2,000 miles away from our families all we really have is each other. We have plenty of kind friends that helped us through the week. I tip my hat to them for all they did. But in situations like this hour by hour David has only me.

One thing I had to do was drive to David's work, pick up his assistant manager, bring him to the house and give him the van to use while David was on the injured list. David's assistant manager only has one car, which he shares with his wife, so it was a lot easier to loan him the van I can't drive to ensure there would be someone to hold down David's work fort. While I was gone David managed to crawl to kitchen for a beer, eat some pumpkin pie, watch NFL analysis and then make his way back to bed after exhausting himself. One would think that this shows improvement but I didn't see real improvement until days later.

Slowly, David regained mobility. He was moving faster, the pain shifted from his back to ribs. He even managed to go outside and walk, upright, to the end of the driveway. I took all of these as good signs. He was still in pain but I could see improvement even if he didn't feel 100% better. I kept telling him, "This is a process. You aren't going to be completely better right away. This is the worst I have ever seen you hurt your back and that includes the time you hurt yourself watching the NFL Draft. But you are getting better trust me when I say that. Just be patient."

David caught up on his reading during this respite. I saw that he was having difficulty holding books so I offered to read to him. David is fond of the most boring, esoteric works of non-fiction I have ever seen. I read aloud to him from History of the Persian Empire by A.T. Olmstead. Which Mr. Olmstead would have been better off calling: The Complete & Mothereffin' Unabridged History of PERSIA; It's Surroundings and Starring all Your Favorite Greeks, Barbarians, Mercenaries, Egyptians and Satraps with Unpronounceable Names
Does not include a pronunciation guide so if you aren't versed in the dead languages just give up. Buy a magazine and a can of Four Loko to help you forget about the failure of your pathetic public school education.

One of David's pet peeves is "people who stumble over words while reading aloud" so I understand why he declined the first few times when I asked to read aloud. Anyone would have trouble with names like Sopd, Artaxerxes, Xerxes, Tiribazus and Evagoras. I was so lazy I started to call Evagoras "Eva Longoria", Artaxerxes "Bob" and Xerxes "Bob's Dad". Whenever I came across a word I could pronounce I would get really excited. Maybe I wasn't so dumb after all! But then there would just be another name I couldn't say ready to strike me down. That's why I like the books I read, the fluffy chick-lit and quick memoirs. If you come across a word you don't know all you have to do is pick up a Barney's catalog. Words like "Blahnik","Louboutin" and "Hermes" are so much easier to understand when you can just substitute the word "shoe" or "scarf".

My Week With Dave: Part One

Last week I mentioned David spent the week at home, instead of at work, with a bad back. Here is an account of the first part of our week.

On Tuesday night David hobbled into the house bent over like a 99 year old man. He had injured his back at work by bending wrong. David went to his chiropractor, a very nice man who helps David keep his back healthy, but could do little to help with the pain and immobility. During this time we would learn that I was unprepared to help David as he was unused to asking me for help.

Throughout the night David's condition worsened. He couldn't sit and needed to lean on me to take mincing steps; even lying flat on his back was painful. I told him over and over again, "Do not hesitate to ask for help. Even if you are waking me up. It's just you and me and we are going to have to figure this out." David slept little and in turn so did I. Whenever David needed to change positions I had to move him. Moving a person who has at least 50 pounds more mass than me was challenging. I was forced to think back about seven years when I had a short stint in a hospital as a Radiology Clerk. My position was purely clerical but the techs showed me how to move a patient just in case there was ever an emergency and I was the only person around to help. Thankfully, I never had to assist the techs. To move David I used my weight against his and since he wasn't unconscious I told him to relax his body to make it easier. It would have been much easier if I hadn't spent the last six months losing 20 pounds. That was less weight I had to my advantage.

The next morning I walked to the drugstore to buy whatever they had that promised back relief, and a heating pad. David's van was blocking my car in the driveway or I would have driven. When I got home I saw that the neighbor had left so her driveway was open for an easier vehicle switch. It was absolutely necessary for me to get my car out because I can't drive the van. I grabbed David's keys, took a deep breath and started to mutter, "I can do this. I can do this. All I have to do is pull the van into the neighbor's driveway. Then back my car all the way to the end of my driveway and then pull the van into the spot the car occupied. I have to do this. There is no one to help me. This is a crisis situation and you have to do this." At some point I lapsed into third person while talking to myself. If only there had been a third person to move the cars.

Pulling the van into the neighbor's spot and backing my car up was easy. I felt confident. I hopped back into the van and within seconds was frantically searching for help. No matter what I did the van crookedly straddled our driveway and the neighbor's. I figured maybe I would just leave it haphazardly parked and apologize to our neighbors with cookies and beer. At one point I saw the son of one of the other neighbors get home and I almost launched myself from the driver's seat to beg him to move the van for me. He would also be handsomely rewarded with cookies and beer. But I forged ahead. The only way I was able to coax the van into a slanted but completely out of the neighbor's way was to get out of the van, walk around it, note the position of the tires and get back in and keep inching it towards home. It was a nightmare moving that van less than 6 feet. I hope there is never an emergency that requires me to really drive the van.

David made an appointment with an orthopedic doctor but the soonest they could see him was in a week. We had a feeling David would be close to healed by the appointment time but there were few other options. We could find another doctor or we could go the ER. I was against taking David to an ER. I was afraid that we would get there and they would tell us what we already knew. David's back muscles were inflamed and spasmodic, it wasn't a nerve or spine issue. There was no need for x-rays. So just take it easy, apply heat and cold, take ibuprofen and when you feel better do back exercises. The only thing a doctor could give us that we didn't already have was a muscle relaxer and what if they didn't give him pain medication? If I dragged an injured David to an ER and no pain meds weren't prescribed I would have torn the place apart. So we waited out the pain.

And Now for Something Completely Different

David has been placed on the inactive list after hurting his back so badly he could barely move. So I've been playing nurse and physical therapist which doesn't leave much time to sit around being all narcissistic and what-not. I'll write a more complete account of my week with David later. For now enjoy a blog (okay a link for you to click) from my informal editor, Tom. He's the best editor in the world because I never see him. We just trade insults and insight via chat.

Tom's blog about nerdy stuff.

Enjoy! And stay tuned next week for your regularly scheduled blog.

Tales of the Domestically Challenged: Recipes from the backs of cans

Like any intelligent, bored and half-ass housewife I get my recipes from the backs of soup cans, pasta boxes and cereal boxes. Basically anything with packaging probably has a recipe on it that I can muddle through. Also, I understand the importance of marketing to these companies so I assume that their recipes are tested and 100% guaranteed to work because if they don't you will never again buy their product.

Yesterday, I prepared "Red Beans & Rice" as instructed by the good people at Bush Brothers & Company. You know the people who brought us the nonsensical but memorable commercial with the talking dog that said, "Roll that beautiful bean footage." The recipe was easy. It involved chopping a few vegetables, sauteing them, adding the meat and beans then letting the whole thing simmer until done.

My first problem was the ingredient list it had "2 cans (16 oz) beans" listed. One can of beans is 16 ounces so did they want two cans of beans for a total of 32 ounces of beans or just one can for 16 ounces? I shrugged and figured I'd just add as many beans as I saw fit. I started the vegetables off in a wok and as they cooked I realized I had chosen the wrong-sized pan. I had yet to add the meat and beans. Not only do I always choose the wrong knife I always choose the wrong pan too. I heated up a big soup pot and transferred the vegetables so everything would fit.

I took the meat out of the fridge to slice. I was less than impressed and thought to myself "This better not be a glorified hot dog because that's what it smells and looks like." The recipe called for "andouille sausage" which I could not find at our local store. The butcher was wandering around when I was pacing the meat aisle but I didn't want to ask him because I didn't know how to properly pronounce "andouille". It's a French word so it's Latin-based, like Spanish, so is that double "l" silent? When did I get so stupid? Did it happen when I crossed the Mississippi or when I changed time zones? I could substitute any smoked sausage so I grabbed a store brand that was a "summer sausage" and went on my merry way.

After I dumped the meat in with the vegetables I consulted the recipe. "Cook sausage until done." Well, wtf does that mean "until done"? When it turns purple? When it stops screaming? Until I stop screaming? WHAT DOES IT MEAN? I peered into the pan and said, "Whatever, I can overcook this a bit, right?" But then the vegetables started to burn so I hastily added both cans of beans. I slammed the lid on the pan to wait for David to come home and reassure me. Then I screamed, "Oh eff! I need to add the Creole seasoning!" The Creole seasoning was a gift from David's brother after a trip to New Orleans and one of the reasons I cooked this dish was because we had the seasoning.

Then David came home, declared it done and delicious. I told him the problems I had with the recipe and he said, "Samina, food doesn't come in 8 oz cans. Duh. And you can't under-cook sausage it's already cooked. You buy it cooked. You are just heating it up." I always assume that the food I buy at the store, "fresh", is riddled with disease and must be sterilized. If I wanted prepared food I would go to the drive-thru of any fast food place and gamble with the prep part. I also assume the recipes on the backs of cans don't need to be re-written like this recipe. Next time I will cook the meat first and add the vegetables so they don't burn. Just like the other day when I tried to make Rice Krispy treats - another easy recipe off the box. They were edible despite melting the butter too fast and also burning most of the marshmallows as I tried to melt those too. The fault can't possibly lie with me. I bet the test kitchens of corporate America are just plain ol' lazy. Betty Crocker is the only one you can trust. Trust me when I say that.

No Humans were Harmed in the Making of this Posole

This was going to be an entry for Tales of the Domestically Challenged but I didn't meltdown in the middle of making dinner last night so I guess we can put it in the success story portion of the blog. Wherever that is.

A few weeks ago I picked up a copy of the NFL Game Day Cookbook by Ray Lampe aka Dr. BBQ. There were several recipes for wings and stuff I wasn't interested in making. The book did have a recipe for posole which is a traditional Mexican stew. Using a recipe for posole not handed down through my family might cause my ancestors to roll in their graves; but my ancestors aren't here right now so they are just going to have to roll with the punches. I don't even know how much, if any, Aztec blood I have anyway. According to a Wikipedia article posole was a special-occasion dish. The special occasion was the sacrifice of a human and that was the meat they used. Obviously, my ancestors would scoff at my use of pork and tell me to find a suitable sacrificial human.

Soups and stews have a lot of ingredients and that usually scares me. If I see a recipe that has more than five ingredients I skip it. Posole was no exception but after reading the recipe over and discussing it with David I decided I should try it. If pork shoulder or a cut similar went on sale that would be a sign that I would make the soup. Pork went on sale this week (99 cents a pound for shoulder. A sweet deal! ). The only ingredient I might have trouble finding is hominy.

Hominy is corn like grits. But it's a little different than grits. Hominy is puffier looking and sounds scarier. I figured our local store probably wouldn't have it but a store, even a chain, closer to Cleveland proper would carry it. David sometimes takes a co-worker home that lives nearer to Cleve so I asked him to stop by a store to look for it. David acquired two cans of hominy and that was my second sign that posole was a go.

There were several vegetables that needed to be washed and chopped so about an hour before prepping the meat I did all the vegetable work and shoved it in the fridge to hang out while I gathered courage to attack the raw pork. I can't stand working with raw meat; it doesn't matter what kind. I figure God invented butchers and freezers so there is never a need for me to work with disease-causing slabs of dead animal. I am so OCD about "working clean" that raw meat just sends me into an "OMG we are going to die of salmonella and E.Coli! Don't touch anything until you have scoured your hands and the counter with bleach!" tailspin. I know that eating under-cooked pork can give you worms in the brain or Trichinellosis.

Straight out of high school I had a job as a receptionist in the X-ray department of a hospital. A gentleman came in for a CT scan of the head. As I was walking through a workspace that had light boxes for the techs to check scans the CT tech pulled me aside to show me a scan. Since I was just an itty-bitty girl the techs delighted in showing me gruesome scans and film. Though the CT scan looked murky the tech assured me this man had worms in the brain. My jaw dropped as she pointed to the abnormalities and said "Poor sucker probably ate a bad carnitas burrito down in Tia-juana." You'd think I'd go vegetarian after that but no it's much easier to panic every time we cook meat.

Okay, back to the posole. The recipe called for the pork to be cut into 1/2 inch cubes. I dropped the amorphous slab on the cutting board and wondered how I was going to cut cubes out of it. I mean you can really only cut cubes out of things that are already cubed, right? I guess you can cut squares out of a circle but only the middle. Those round sides mess everything up. But this is a stew so if the pork is just cut up in edible bits I don't see the need to cut it into perfect cubes. Now no matter what I need to chop or slice I always choose the wrong knife. I'm like a culinary Goldilocks. This knife is too small, big, dull or serrated. So I end up hacking away with whatever knife I grab first using every knife in the block and mangling food as I go. The pork was no exception. As I did my best to chop the meat while not touching it I found myself sawing it. This prompted my father's voice in my head, "We don't saw our meat. We glide. Glide, glide, glide." I don't think table manners matter in the kitchen so I sawed away. Sorry, Dad.

I examined the pile of chunks I had cut and they started to look a little big. Suddenly, Tim Gunn was in the kitchen telling me he was concerned about the size of the chunks. Would they be chewable? My overactive imagination struggled for a response. Meat shrinks as it cooks, right? So that's what I told him, "Mr. Gunn, I assure you these bits are going to be 100% edible. They will shrink when I brown them in oil." Tim Gunn rested his hand on his tilted chin and said "Carry on." I breathed a sigh of relief and did just that.

David was busy getting a speeding ticket so he didn't arrive home in time to examine the meat I browned to assure me it was cooked thoroughly. So I carried on without David too. He was home in time to eat the finished product and that's the important part. Well, actually the important part is neither of us have worms in our brain and no humans were sacrificed. I'm so glad it's 2010 and not the 15th century; cooking is so much easier now.

Tales of the Motor Vehicle Challenged: Small Parking Lot

Hola! I'm back! Okay, so I never really went anywhere unless you count my own shell. Winter is coming what did you expect?

Tales of the Motor Vehicle Challenged is a new series much like Tales of the Domestically Challenged. It's another way to showcase that I am completely incompetent in performing every day tasks though I do try. I hope in trying that the world will see that I am indeed incapable and they will take the keys or electric mixer from my hand and hire someone to do this stuff for me or just forbid me from doing it by myself. I'm like the child who breaks dishes to show they can't be the dishwasher.

David and I have a perfect and glorious arrangement on Saturdays. He drops me off at the library, where I look at fashion magazines 'til my eyes bleed, and he goes the grocery store to do the bulk of the food buying. When he is finished he swings by, picks me up and we go on home to eat sandwiches. This is because I hate the grocery store. I especially hate going to the grocery store with David. He shops like a drunken food-loving snail and I can't stand it. If I did the bulk of the shopping it would be carried out like a military operation. I'd stalk the aisles screaming, "GO! GO! GO! MOVE! FAN OUT! GET IN & GET OUT ALIVE! TAKE NO PRISONERS UNLESS THEY ARE DELICIOUS!" But this isn't a story about the grocery store parking lot. That expansive, half-empty slab of pot-holes. This is a story about the library parking lot a tiny sliver of hell disguised as heaven.

One Saturday morning David abandoned me to play board games. He messed with the standard Saturday morning operating procedure leaving me angry and to my own devices. I wished he had asked me before he had agreed to go out because I really needed to go to the library. I had books to drop-off, pick-up and they were having a book sale. I thought we could go to the book sale together. Book sales are just about the only activity we can do without one of us bitching. But no; instead he left me and said,"I don't see why you can't go to the library by yourself. You can walk or drive. It's not that far," and then for drama's sake let's assume he slammed the door and sped away laughing. I knew perfectly well why I couldn't go by myself. It looked like it was going to rain any minute which meant no walking because when it rains it pours in Ohio. The library parking lot is small and a pain to maneuver into from the direction we live and I am still in the habit of parking far away from other cars because my parking skills are lacking.

After much pacing, fretting and insane mumbling I took a deep breath and decided to drive to the library. There are at least two larger, emptier parking lots near the library so if I panicked I could drive around the block and use one of these lots. Then I changed my mind and figured it was time to face the small parking lot fear. I successfully pulled into a spot next to a curb on the left and a car on the right. David has told me that if I don't hit anything pulling in then I won't hit anything pulling out so I was confident I'd have no trouble getting out.

I had trouble pulling out of the parking spot. I wasn't afraid I'd hit the curb. I was dangerously close to hitting the car parked next to me. This car belonged to a library employee. Luckily, it wasn't the employee outside helping with a car wash the teen group was hosting. Every time I backed out and then went into drive the front of my car came within inches of the back of the parked car. I must have pulled in and out of the spot a hundred times. I didn't think I could back out much further than I already was afraid that I'd back into the busy, main road. I started to shake out of fear and frustration. I thought about parking and going back into the library and warning the employee that I might hit her car so did she want to come out and move it or just watch me hit it? I felt the tears stinging my eyes and thought "This is it I am going to have to call David and he is going to have to come and back the car out for me." Don't ask me how or what I did but I managed to back out and not hit the car. I swear it was very close though. I don't think you could have slid a envelope between the front of my car and the back of the parked car. I wasn't embarrassed at this point because I was much too upset.

After I pulled into our driveway I called David and screamed at him for leaving me to fend for myself. He said what many of my friends and family have said since hearing about my parking lot adventure "Well, at least you managed to get out without hitting the car." Which is not comforting because I have no idea what I did. I did not succeed in that parking lot because I cannot explain how I got out. I don't think I could do it again if I tried.

That is one of my problems with driving. I know that I want to get from point A to point B but unless it's a straight line I don't understand how to maneuver the car around obstacles. In some situations I don't know how to go from reverse to drive and I still don't know how much space the car takes up or where the wheels are and if they are straight. I know I haven't been driving for long and with practice, as I have been assured, it will get easier. One thing is for sure it will get a whole lot easier when I have accident after accident and they take my license away. Then I won't have to worry about driving at all because it will be against a judge's orders. When David begins to protest about having to drive me around I can say, "Tell it to the judge!" and settle happily into the passenger seat.

Slowly being Driven Insane or Fear and Loathing in the Car

Learning to drive has been the most difficult task in my life thus far. I am more relieved than proud to say I drove by myself yesterday. It has taken me over four years to get to this point and now that I am here it's sort of anti-climatic. I wrongly assumed I'd get a cash prize or the heavens were going to sing when I finally learned to do something millions of people do everyday. I drove to a grocery store 15 minutes away, one tiny town over, to get bottled green tea (our super-close local store does not sell it). It wasn't the best I have ever driven but I didn't have to pull over and call David to come get me because I was having a breakdown of the nervous kind not automotive. I might have been screaming, "ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod"in my head but when I looked in the mirror I appeared calm. I was calm because I woke up, got in the car and said, "Fuck it, now or never," and I really needed that tea.

It's no secret that I fear and hate driving. I was issued a driver license and the how and why is still a mystery to me. I remember very little about my driving test except for pain, crying and then becoming very ill. This led a friend to comment that I talk about my driving test the way most women describe giving birth.

I hate driving for several reasons, some rational but most of them irrational. The irrational reasons are where my fear comes from. The number one reason: Driving is dangerous. Driving is a series of maneuvers that need to be executed with caution and precision at somewhat high speeds in a heavy machine quickly while the outside world moves around you at various speeds. Driving is like running with scissors. But even with scissors you get a safety pair in Kindergarten first. You learn how to use the tool properly long before you'll ever be given the "teacher's scissors" - those shiny blades with the cracked black handles. There is no "safety scissor" equivalent with cars and driving. Even in a car issued by a driving school with dual controls and a teacher the potential to have an accident is present. Accidents can be deadly and costly. Why would I want to put myself under that type of strain everyday? So I never did. I opted to be driven around by patient and kind friends and family or just walk whenever I could.


After I moved I no longer had those options. I spent a year watching the world from a window. There was hardly any place worth walking to and the weather was sometimes too bad to walk in. I relied solely on David to drive me around on the weekends. The time had come for me to learn to drive. Seriously learn. No crying and no false start, except that I cried a lot, much to David's annoyance. I had to face the fear of failure and accidents. I pushed myself from the nest and forced myself to fly. And every time I backed away from the car shaking, refusing to get behind the wheel, David pushed. We worked on driving until we got to this point: where I can drive by myself. Now, I don't drive very well. My turns are hesitant and shaky. I have trouble with going in reverse and thus parking. I still have a long way to go, but it's a start.


My other problem is with everyone else, other drivers. I don't like them because they make me nervous. Since I'm an unskilled driver I tend to drive the speed limit and brake sooner than necessary as precautions. Combine that with being in a new area and not always sure where I am going and that just angers other drivers. They swerve around me and honk. I can see them in the rear view mirror screaming at me. David tells me to not worry about them just worry about me. I wish I could just worry about me but driving means paying attention to yourself and the other drivers. What David really means is don't worry about what other people are feeling worry about how they are driving. This is a fixable problem. I just have to teach myself to be unapologetic about my driving.

This is difficult because four years spent in retail has beaten some of the apathy (not all) out of me. I wasn't always the nicest sales person but I had moments and now those moments and the training have messed with my head. I'm constantly wondering if the humans around me are happy and taken care of even if they aren't central to my being. If you talk to my parents they would say that wasn't the way I was raised. They raised me to worry about me and my well-being. But eighteen years of parenting can be undone in four years if there are screams, threats and a paycheck attached.

Another solution I considered was putting a sign in my rear window that said something like "New Driver". Hoping that people would see the sign and back off, slow down or just stop screaming at me. Everyone is so concerned with where they need to go and what they need to do that they forgot that there might be some drivers that aren't very skilled. In short, most drivers just need to chill the fuck out. It's not a race. I think the DMV should offer a "New Driver" license plate to any new driver for 1-3 years. That will never happen though because no driver wants to be outed as "new" or "unskilled". It's much easier for everyone to go around pretending they are good drivers than admitting that they are mistake-making humans. People will admit to being lousy cooks or not having rhythm before they admit to being a "bad" driver. Me? I don't care. I'm telling the world right now, "I am a bad driver. I'm not reckless, I just don't know what the hell I'm doing half the time."

Most drivers, at any skill level, don't like certain aspects of driving. Three-point turns, parallel parking, free-way driving, mountain roads or bridges are a few. Maybe because they aren't good at them, never really learned how, or are scared so they avoid those things. With the exception of going straight and sitting in the car there is no aspect of driving I am good at. Have I made that abundantly clear yet? From almost backing into our house to mixing up the gas and brake my driving just screams "accident waiting to happen". So I'll see you on the road, folks! I'll be the girl swigging green tea and driving the speed limit!

When in Rome

Yesterday I did something extremely stupid. Quite possibly even more stupid than getting on an Ohio-bound plane with no one but David over a year ago. I got on the back of a motorcycle without a helmet. I know! I know! I don't plan on ever doing it again so you can breathe now Mom and Dad and assorted friends and family who just read that.

So I was sitting in my lakeside cottage poking around the Internet, avoiding the sink of dishes, when I heard the unmistakable roar of bike engines in the driveway. "$#@$*%," I thought, "that's Jim and Rhonda. The house is a mess and more cussing!" Looking out the window, I see Rhonda on the sidewalk and Jim in the driveway. I greet them in the front yard and Rhonda says, "Get some shoes on! We're kidnapping you!" "I haven't brushed my teeth," I squeal. Jim says, "Well brush 'em, kiddo! Do you have some sunglasses? We're going for a ride down to the AMVETS for a burger". (So if you're keeping track Jim is a bike-riding, board-gaming veteran. I don't get it either.) I say, "Of course I have sunglasses. You don't have a helmet though? David would kill me if he found out I rode without one." Jim rides without one because there are no helmet laws in Ohio, a fact that David and I never cease to comment on when we see people on bikes not only without helmets but also no shirts, no shoes, no sleeves.

"Are these people crazy?" we ask. You can be the safest rider in the world but nothing is going to stop a deer from jumping in front of you or a driver pulling out into traffic and right into you. "These people are out of their minds and they certainly will be when they are lying on the pavement under a coroner's sheet," we "tsk-tsk", "What kind of person gets on a bike without a helmet?"

And then here I am minutes away from doing just that. Retreating into the house to brush my teeth and get shoes so the pipes of Jim's bike don't burn my feet. He'll let me on the back of his bike without a helmet but not without shoes and jeans that's where he draws the line. As I am shuffling around I hear the bikes start up and leave. I peek out the window and see that Rhonda's red bike is gone. "Phew," I think, "dodged a bullet there. They were playing a joke on me." I start to wash the dishes and then hear Jim's voice, "Hey are you coming or not? It's roasting out here!" I tell him I thought they were joking with me and he says, "No, why would we do that?" As if any of us know why Jim does what he does. Rhonda had ridden over to the store to pick up some groceries. That was the bike I heard leaving.

At this point I'm like, "When in Ohio ride without a helmet like the Ohioans do. Jim, you have to call David if I fall off and die. How do I get on this thing?" Turns out it's just like getting on a horse. Step on and up and then swing. We meet Rhonda at the store then on down the road for a burger. I was on the bike ten minutes round-trip down the highway against Lake Erie. I didn't die, or flail causing Jim to have an accident and was rewarded with a burger topped with provolone. It was pretty cool and less scary then I thought. Of course, it was just a quick uneventful ride so if something had spooked me I probably wouldn't be writing that.

Then we rode home and I waited for David to get home so I could say, "You'll never guess what I did today."

"Filed your paperwork with mine in our new file cabinet?"
"Nope."
"Became gainfully employed?"
"Nope."
"Drove a car by yourself?"
"Nope. You'll never guess."

He never did guess so I told him and he shook his head,"No way, well right on I suppose." The scariest thing about the whole situation is that if I can get on the back of a bike without a helmet and put my life in a fearless veteran's gloved hands. I should be able to do anything. I should be able to drive a car knowing I used up one of my nine lives and have at least eight to spare.

A War Game Widow goes to Columbus

Downtown Columbus from a hotel window.

For more than ten years the city of Columbus, Ohio has hosted the Origins Game Fair at the Greater Columbus Convention Center. Origins is the second largest gaming convention, or con as it's known colloquially, in the country. It is the premier convention by gamers for gamers. All types of board games, miniatures, live action role playing (LARP), collectible card games and game accessories are demoed, bought, sold and played at this convention. On the nerd scale, from one to ten, this convention is about an eight. It does not, I repeat, does not get much nerdier than Origins. How do I know this? I went. I have seen Origins with my own two eyes.

The board gamers are on the fringes of nerd society. They are cut from the same cloak cloth as the basement-dwelling D&Ders. Gamers spend inordinate amounts of time in their own heads so they often lack the social skills comic book nerds have cultivated. Even the comic book nerds need to whine about book-to-screen adaptations of their heroes which causes them to seek more nerds. Hero worship is an integral part of the Comic-Con nerd personality, while the gaming nerd needs only need to e-mail the game designer to clear up any confusing rules. This lack of real human interaction stunts the gamer even more. There is no hero worship in board gaming. There is no paragon to strive for just winning a monotonous game so you can play again...and again...and again.

One might argue that the nature of board gaming would mean the gaming nerd is more socially apt than the comic nerd. The social skills required to sit with a group of individuals and play a 1-4 hour game are essential for a good gaming experience. But with the advances in video games and computer games the traditional gaming nerd is practically extinct. He or she has become a video gamer who spends their time by themselves and only dabbles in board games when pressed by traditional board gamers.


David was born into a family of gamers. His father taught him and his brothers to play games like Advanced Civilization and Panzer Blitz (Avalon Hill). Games that looked like Risk to the lay-person. But if you likened Advanced Civ to Risk they would laugh and say, "Risk is a game for children. It is a toy. This," they would say sweeping their hand over the board like a king over their land, "is a game of skill and strategy. This is not a war game. This is not a game for the weak." And it's not. I learned how to play Advanced Civ. It's an ordeal that can take a whole weekend if you're playing with the max amount of players (7). If you are playing with an experienced set of players, like I was, turns can happen quickly and it's easy to get lost and never ever want to play again.

We would have never gone to a gaming convention had we been living in California. Gaming is just not as popular there as it is here. I think it has to do with the long winters and lack of anything better to do. David has met more gamers here than he ever would have back home. Including our good friends Jim and Rhonda. They have been to Origins numerous times and encouraged David and I to join them for a portion of the weekend. We said "Why not?" and made the two and a half hour drive to the capital.

I'm a city girl. When I am told it's a long drive I expect to drive a little ways out of town and immediately onto a freeway. Then take that freeway all the way to our destination. Our GPS took us out of our county into the neighboring county and then back through our county a few miles from our house. We went in a circle and then through teeny-tiny towns. Towns so small they didn't even have an official USPS mail truck. Just some dude in his beat-up old station wagon with a US MAIL thingamabob on the roof of his car. I kept asking David if he was sure we were on our way to Columbus because nothing about this route seemed right. A little ways down the road I turned to my left and out the window I saw a man in a blue shirt, black suspenders and a straw hat operating a rusty, ancient farm machine. "OMFG, we are in Amish Country!" Except I didn't say O-M-F-G. I cussed in God's Amish Country. "David, David I just saw an Amish dude! OMG, slow down! They drive buggies out here with real horses if you run into them it is so not fair." David just said, "See how awesome this trip is? Would you have ever seen an Amish person back in So-Cal or ever imagined you'd be on your way to Columbus?" "No," I replied, "and I certainly don't want to stop at Grandpa's Cheesebarn so keep driving."

We got to Columbus at about 2 o'clock in the afternoon. I was already tired and we still hadn't even arrived at the convention center yet. A long day was still ahead. When we arrived at the center I split from David to take a few laps around the vendor/exhibit hall and then out and from one end of the center to the other. I caught a glimpse of Brian O'Halloran AKA Dante of Kevin Smith's Clerks fame. He was a special guest at this year's con. I called David to see where he was and he told me he had forgotten to put on deodorant that morning and had gone in search of some. The stench of BO was so strong in the hall, whether from unwashed nerds or just because it was hot outside, it wouldn't have mattered if he was wearing deodorant or not.

Shouldn't my day pass bracelet have 12-sided dice instead of regular dice?

As far as cons go this one was pleasant. There weren't so many people that you couldn't get to see everyone or everything. (San Diego's Comic-Con comes to mind and now that the Twi-hards have taken over it's even worse.) The people were polite and there were very few dressed in costumes. People who dress up and go to conventions are often dragged into pictures with strangers. They want inordinate amounts of attention and I refuse to give them any. Rhonda wanted to gossip about the girl dressed as Catwoman and the half-naked Steampunk girls. Who cares if that girl is wearing a bikini top and chain mail skirt? Ignore them. I am more concerned about the people who can't dress themselves in normal everyday clothes. The guy with pants belted and pulled up to his ears or the girl who looks like she fell into a 90's time warp.

David bought a few games and I bought some Lego earrings. I took a look at the Geek Chic booth. Purveyors of the finest board game/dining tables. I helped Rhonda pick out a pair of earrings. We had dinner and drinks with Jim and Rhonda. It was a good time even if I didn't want to game and was foot-stamping angry and wanted to go home every five seconds. When we finally did decide to go home the sky opened up and poured rain in what is proving to be typical Ohio fashion. We had just made it to the car before we could get soaked. I was upset at this point. I was disoriented, cranky and sure we were going to hydroplane off the highway. We made it home by about 1 AM which really isn't that late. I don't know if we will go next year. I feel like we should. Like this was our "toe in the water" testing of Origins. The water may not be the finest but its definitely the nerdiest.

Nerd Accessories

Tales of the Domestically Challenged: Rice

The great comedian Mitch Hedberg once said,"I like rice. Rice is great when you're hungry and want 2,000 of something." David is often hungry for 2,000 of something and he likes rice. David knows how to cook Shrimp Fried Rice and I have mastered Spanish Rice but have yet to cook a successful pot of white rice.

Every time I try to cook white rice I burn a quarter of it making it stick to the bottom of the pan. I hate ruining food. I feel like a failure every time I cook white rice. David often comes home to find me in front of the stove angry and near tears. A barely salvageable pot of rice on the stove. He is always very nice about my failure. "I have trouble with rice, too," he says scraping the contents of the pan into a dish, adding lots of water to make it edible by nuking the rice in the microwave for a few minutes. I relinquish the kitchen at this point stomping to the bedroom where I attempt to slam the pocket door and crawl into bed to mutter to myself about the injustices of life and not having a rice cooker. I am convinced the pot we are using is not good for cooking rice. It's not a non-stick pan and I think it might be made from some cheap metal material. Boiling water is just about the only thing I can accomplish in that pan.

When I finally drag myself to the dinner table David continues to reassure me. He always wants to know why I am so upset over some burnt rice. "Rice is cheap," he shrugs. My response is the same no matter what culinary disaster I have wrought. "I have one job. My job is to make dinner and I can't even do that right. I've been sitting in this house for a year trying to learn how to be an adult and I suck at it. I suck at life. Do you understand what it's like to consistently fail at the one thing you are suppose to do?"

David thinks my problem has more to do with not handling failure rather than burnt rice. He may be right. I do seem to have trouble admitting wrong or making mistakes. I become frustrated when unable to complete a task efficiently and perfectly. Even tasks I've never done before. If I don't do something right the first time and every time, I stop doing whatever it is entirely. So I admit it right here right now. I've got some hang-ups. Some issues left over from whatever dark recesses of my childhood. Maybe I should revisit my childhood at least the rice was always cooked properly then.

Camping, Fishing, Raining and other -ing words

About a month has passed since our first Ohio camping trip. As far as camping trips go it was uneventful except for the rain and lightning. We didn't have a whole trip of bad weather, just enough to make me declare I was done with camping for the year.

David likes to say I "tolerate camping" which is an accurate description. I tolerate camping because it's an activity he likes to do. I tolerate several of David's hobbies: board gaming, computer gaming, reading boring books, watching depressing foreign films and sleeping. While he tolerates none of mine with the exception of my pursuit of being a bitch. I barely, just barely, tolerate not having indoor plumbing, a roof over my head, or a bed. There are probably lots of girls out there who love camping. I am not one of them. This isn't about makeup and shopping malls; this is about it being extremely difficult not being a boy with the ability to pee wherever the hell is convenient.

Anyway, we were gone for two nights and two days with our good friends Jay, Emmy and two other guys. I asked Jay, who had been to the campsite before, how far from civilization we were going to be. I didn't mean a Target, I meant a little general store, just in case. I also wanted to know about bears, which made Jay laugh even more. I wasn't asking because I was scared of bears. I asked because we have bears in California and when you camp food has to go in a bear bin after you clean the campsite every night. It turns out I didn't even need the general store while we were camping, but Emmy did. They had neglected to pack ketchup and Emmy insisted they run out for some to eat with the fish.

We sent our tent ahead with Jay and Emmy so they could set it up because we were going to leave right after David got home from work and wouldn't arrive close to nightfall. I did a large amount of preparation for this short camping trip. I made burritos, meat loaf, blueberry bread and this ham-cornbread dish just in case no one caught any fish. I made list after list of everything we might possibly need and packed it all so when David got home from work we could load and then hit the road. But when David got home he took of his shoes and wanted to sit for a bit which made me twitch. I was like "Do we or do we not have a 3 hour drive ahead of us?" so I loaded up the car while he sat around eating one of my burritos and checking the Internet. Fine, at least that way I know we have everything we need.

We made good time driving and arrived with plenty of daylight to unload at the campsite. Our site was on a little hill and it rained which wouldn't have been a problem normally but the rain made the hill muddy so unloading was an exercise in how not to fall into the mud thus rendering a camper disgusting immediately with no chance of a decent shower for 48-72 hours. Also a lesson in picking the path of least resistance so you wouldn't lose a shoe to the muck. Then since the ground wasn't saturated enough the sky opened up for an epic thunderstorm after we crawled into our tents for the night.

I don't like thunderstorms while I am in a house let alone a tent. The only reason I slept, in a tent under power lines while lightning ripped across the sky, was because of over-the-counter sleep meds. It poured the next night too. While I retreated to the tent before I could get sopping wet David proceeded to get sopping wet and then contaminate my dry sleeping area with his wet self. I was not happy. If it hadn't been for my full stomach courtesy of Jay's excellent fish-frying skills I would have been angrier. But it was thunder-storming again and I needed David to hold my hand while I panicked afraid we were going to get struck by lightning and die in the middle of nowhere Ohio. Luckily for us the RV park, also on this campsite, boasts its own cemetery so they could have buried us right then and there if need be.

After the storm it was beautiful and sunny allowing David a half-day to fish before we headed home. He didn't catch anything worth taking home but he did snag his first catfish a small one he threw back. I really should have snapped a picture. Jay was the one who caught lots of fish with Emmy coming in a close second. I don't fish so I read and visited with the people who were fishing. I thought about taking up fishing but if I take up one of David's hobbies I will be forced to do more camping and that is something I just am not okay doing more than once a year.

Busy but not so much

Over the last few days while I have been lying around, doing my best to not move because it's like 80 million degrees in the house, it occurred to me that I haven't blogged in almost a month. Not that I'm short on material (I still haven't written about our camping trip) but because I have been really preoccupied with learning how to drive and exercising at least an hour a day, five days a week.

While those two activities don't take up much of my day they both leave me mentally frazzled and exhausted. Well, the driving does. The exercising makes me feel pretty good after I catch my breath and crawl to the kitchen for a cheeseburger as a reward for doing a four mile workout.

So as soon as I am sane again (whatever sane is) I will post some snazzy updates. Until then here is a video of a Warehouse Sprinkler/Reach Truck Mishap. No one gets hurt so it's funny.

Warehouse Sprinkler Accident

This Midwestern Life just Wants a Real Tortilla

So let's just get one thing straight before we continue with today's blog: I am not offended or outraged about those tortillas being called "wraps". I am sad and angry because I JUST WANT A GOOD TORTILLA. FOR ONCE I WOULD LIKE TO GO TO THE GROCERY STORE, I DON'T CARE WHICH ONE, AND SEE AN AISLE DEDICATED TO NOTHING BUT TORTILLAS!

Why the people who made those tortillas decided to call them "wraps" instead of tortillas is a mystery. A wrap is a shawl not a food. Making them with olive oil must have drastically altered the make-up of the food they were selling so they could not call them tortillas anymore. I guess without manteca you don't have an authentic tortilla. And why do the tortilla companies always say, "Great for snacks and meals". You don't see Roman Meal or Wonderbread putting, "Great for toast and sandwiches" on their packaging. Anyone with a Taco Bell in their town can figure out how to use a tortilla.

I like to call things as I see them. Is decaf coffee still coffee? Yes, it is even without the caffeine. Those discs of flour in that bag are tortillas. Really bad ones but tortillas none the less. Now excuse me while I fill my "wrap" with rice and beans and magically transform it into a tortilla. Then the tortilla enters its final stage: the burrito. Then I will get my lazy ass to the nearest carniceria in Cleveland. There is one and when we get there, angels will sing and tortillas will fall from the heavens.

This Midwestern Life

In the wonderful land that is California there are no toll roads. Just blissful, uninterrupted (barring traffic) miles of freeway. Except for the toll roads I never saw because I don't drive and they weren't between me and Disneyland. That must mean they are up north in California or something. Unfortunately, here in Ohio and most of the Midwest there exists this toll road thing. I don't understand toll roads. We pay taxes to keep the roads maintained, right? So why do we need to pay extra money to use the road?

David and I do an extremely small amount of long-distance driving which means we don't use the toll roads often. The one time we did travel I made sure we were prepared with a plastic baggie of coins. I didn't want to be one of those motorists holding up the line while they struggle to extract 45¢ from a sticky cup holder.

Ohio has the granddaddy of toll road luxury: The Ohio Turnpike. I don't know if I have ever officially been on the turnpike. The Wikipedia article says it costs $10 dollars to use the turnpike. I think I would have remembered paying $10 to drive down a stretch of flat highway. But it doesn't matter if I have been on the turnpike or not because I have this nifty little piece of kitsch a friend in California found. She gifted it to me when I was in California.



Is that not the most awesome piece of souvenir crap you have ever seen? It's a tiny, spiral-bound book published by our friend's at the Howard Johnson Company describing the wonder and modernity that is The Ohio Turnpike "The World's most modern super highway".

Let's take a look inside:

"Interior of one of the Howard Johnson dining rooms. Here one may dine and relax in air-conditioned comfort."


Look at all the fancy white people eating in air-conditioned comfort! Jealous that you don't live in the Midwest in the 1950's or 60's or whatever by-gone era far better than the one we live in now?

Look at how flat and green Ohio is when it's not covered in snow! Marvel at the wonder that is the Strongsville-Cleveland Interchange. (If nothing has changed since the Complacent Era this might be the stretch of turnpike David and I traveled to get to NYC. No wait we went by Youngstown not Strongsville. Strong, young. Same difference.)

This concludes our short jaunt over the Turnpike. Obviously, I didn't show you all of the book. Mostly because my camera phone doesn't take the highest quality of pictures and let's face facts: If you have seen one turnpike you have seen them all.

If this journey has whetted your appetite for The Ohio Turnpike I invite you to to pack the kids into the station wagon and go for a long, boring ride into the Midwest. If you manage to make it all the way I'll greet you at the end with some pop and a sloppy joe.

This is Why We Can't have Nice Things

David splurged on a new vacuum cleaner the weekend before we left for California. I was super-excited for this new appliance to come home with us. I could vacuum the entire house before our vacation! I had been bitching about our old vacuum for over a year but was reluctant to drop a few hundred dollars on something we didn't really need.

Prior to the new bag-less Hoover vacuum we had been using a thrift store find (David bought it without consulting me) left over from the 1970's. It weighed a ton and had a "deep shag" setting. This thing was the Austin Powers of vacuums. I hated it. The attachments were difficult to use and it was so unwieldy it almost broke my foot a few times. The only thing I liked about it was the cord. The long cord allowed me to use one outlet and vacuum the whole house without ever having to change outlets. I know our house isn't very big but still!

We get the new vacuum home and David sets it up. I pull the old one out of the closet telling him to dispose of it at once. The new Hoover was like heaven! It was so light and easy to use. I was merrily vacuuming our bedroom when I smelled something burning. I turn the Hoover off, unplug it and scream, "DAVID! SOMETHING IS WRONG!" He walks in all mellow and methodical as I realize that I have sucked up something the Hoover was never meant to handle.

"It ate one of my socks!", I lament. David flips the vacuum over to assess the damage and he pulls out a broken vacuum belt. "Damn it all! I haven't even had the thing for 4 hours and I've already broken it." The happy vision of me and my new vacuum conquering dust and the world vanished in a puff of rubbery-smelling smoke. David takes the broken belt to the computer and searches the Internet for a replacement. He finds that he can get replacement belts for cheap from Hoover but they would take weeks to arrive. "But I wanted to vacuum everything before we leave next weekend," I whined. David pokes at discount store sites and home improvement store sites with no luck. We debate going out that night to a brick-and-mortar to search for a belt versus waiting until the next day.

I get on the Internet and use Google Maps to find out where the nearest vacuum repair store is located. I see there is a vacuum repair shop right down the main road. Gleefully, I inform David, "There is a local place! It's across from the car wash. You know, there's a big field right next to it. But it's 7:30 on a Saturday night I doubt they are open. They don't have a website but I'll call maybe they will have their hours on a recording." When I call a human being answers the phone! I am in shock, I can barely speak. I manage to ask when they close and the man says, "Eight o' clock." I hand the phone to David he tells the man what we need, they have the part and we tell him we will be there in less than ten minutes.

David eyes me, warily, and says, "You're sure you know where this place is?"

"Yes, I know where this place is. I may not know how to drive but I do have eyes that observe the world I am begin driven around. It's on the main road. We only have one main road. We can't get lost," I reply indignantly pulling on a sweatshirt. When we get to the little shop they have a beautiful, un-broken belt waiting for us at the counter. I pay for the belt with the last bit of cash I have - $3. Clutching it to my chest I skip out of the store and into the car. Me and my new vacuum belt; we are going to vacuum the hell out of our little cottage! I never thought I'd be the kind of girl who gets excited about vacuuming. Normally, that kind of energy is best spent at Beverly Hills Sample Sale not at a local vacuum store.


The vacuum's retractable cord in action!

California girls, this song is forgettable

Katy Perry - New Album Coming 2010

As a California Girl it is only fitting that I comment on the song,"California Gurls", linked above from Katy Perry. I will borrow a quote from my beloved Daria (Season One, Episode Eleven at about 2:55), "It has a beat and you can dance to it, if you have no shame."

As a summer anthem that Katy Perry song is about as boring as they come. I know what you guys are saying, trying to defend your precious Perry in her ill-fitting, gimmicky clothes, "But, Samina the song is soooo fun!" Yes, that may be true but it's also a terrible mess of California stereotypes. Perry is a California Girl (Santa Barbara) herself and I would expect her to know better. Not even an appearance from Snoop Dogg can save the song from mediocrity.

This isn't a post about how much I can't stand Perry. "Waking up in Vegas" was a solid track with a visually stunning video. Did any of her teeny-bopper fans even note the Penn & Teller cameo? However, "Hot N Cold" was a cookie-cutter track that I mistook for a Kelly Clarkson song until very recently. Plus, the ultimate California Girl, Gwen Stefani, already did the running in a wedding dress bit in a video. Baseball bats and weddings were also more artfully used in No Doubt's "Simple Kind of Life" video than in Perry's "Hot N Cold".

Fear not my friends. I don't always criticize without offering solutions. David and I picked through our iTunes and selected the songs we love about California. These songs are steps above Perry's "California Gurls". They may not all be summer jams that make you want to hit the beach but they speak volumes about the diversity, beauty and irony that is our home state.

Into the Great Wide Open- Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
California- Tom Petty
Free Fallin'- Tom Petty
Diamonds On My Windshield- Tom Waits
Blue Jay Way- The Beatles
California- Phantom Planet
Freeway Time in L.A. County Jail- Sublime
Tragic Kingdom - No Doubt
I'm from L.A- Go Betty Go
California - Joni Mitchell
Van Nuys (es very nice)- Los Abandoned
I love you, California (official state song)
California, here I come (unofficial state song)
Do-re-Mi- Woody Guthrie
Going back to Cali- The Notorious B.I.G.*
Ventura Highway- America
California Dreamin'- The Mamas and the Papas
Californication- Red Hot Chili Peppers
Hotel California- The Eagles
California Love- 2pac

There are songs we missed so here is a list on Wikipedia where some of these songs and more are listed.

*Biggie can say "Cali" because he is from the East Coast. Natives are bound by law to call it So-Cal.

California Edit

Soon after posting my ramble-y "back from So-Cal" update it occurred to me that there were some anecdotes that needed recording for posterity. So here is another oddly written break-down.

Over the winter, let's be honest entire year I've been sitting on my ass doing nothing, I put on a little weight. I knew some family members were going to comment on the gain. I thought for sure that would be the first thing out of my mom's mouth when she saw me but it wasn't. However it was one of the first things out of my godfather's mouth and grandmother's. I just put on a big smile and said, "Thanks for noticing. I am working very hard to lose some of it." Most people assured me I looked the same. Bless them!

I mentioned that we spent the week in two different houses. David at his parents' and me at mine. This confused several people. It prompted my godfather to ask, "Wait, aren't you guys married?" This was after he told me I'd gained weight. David replied, "I'm on vacation from work and Samina." Fair enough.

I know my in-laws were disappointed that I didn't spend more time at their house. I totally meant to spend at least one night at their house but that just didn't happen. Yet another slight I will have to correct when I visit again. It's probably a good thing I didn't spend much time at my in-laws because my two-year-old niece was there and for some reason I couldn't get it through my thick head that my sister-in-law didn't want her daughter going home with the vocabulary of a Quentin Tarantino film. I did my best to stop swearing but yeah... something to work on for next time. Well, if I'm not putting my foot in my mouth or offending people with my actions it wouldn't be a genuine Samina encounter now would it?

My mother had a few of my things. So I walked into the house grabbed a cardboard box, shook it at her and said, "This box I want all the stuff you have of mine in this box before I leave. You have a whole week. This includes but is not limited to: my black dress from Target, the Virgin Mary belt bought on clearance from Hot Topic when they were remodeling that goes with the dress, the Hello Kitty necklace I wanted to wear at my wedding party but couldn't because you had it, the gold chandelier earrings that look Indian, the white Lucky Brand Mexican jacket repro and my CD's."

A whole year went by without those items and I don't forget shit like that. I still didn't get my CD's back. I also bought stuff, added it to the box and shipped that box to myself. When the box got to Ohio yesterday two winter hats were not in the box. "Damm it all where the fuck did I put those hats?", I muttered and immediately called my mom. Blamed her and screamed, "Now it will be another year before I get my hats!". Everyone at home in So-Cal was on red alert for these hats. I spent all day kicking myself and retracing my steps. It took me eight hours or so but at midnight I got out of bed, shook out the extra sweatshirt I shipped and the hats fell out of the folds. I woke David and he said, "Lol. That's great. Now can you turn off the light so I can sleep?" I also texted my family so they would stop looking for my hats.

Let's see what else. Oh yes, when I went shopping with my mom and cousin I had to stop into the Hello Kitty store and say hello to the owner. Mom is an old-school HK addict and the owner knows I live in Ohio because they talk like old pals. So I'm probably the only girl who goes on vacation and has to add "Visit with HK owner" to the to-do list. Don't you visit shop owners on your vacation? You know it's right after, "See grandma so she can tell you that your ass ain't got nothing on Kim Kardashian's".

"California's been good to me..."

Is it really May? Really? Damn. Looks like I better fill all five of you who read this in on the last few weeks.

David and I just got back from spending a hectic (for me at least) week in Southern California visiting family and friends and SHOPPING (again just me). We only had one minor mishap: David forgot his boarding pass so he had to reprint it at Cleveland-Hopkins. But that is a major improvement considering the debacle the last time we flew.

David had it easy his family hung out at one house all week. I had to run across town and county visiting everyone and still didn't manage to squeeze in everyone. I broke some promises so the next time I visit those abandoned souls are a priority. I tried to spend as much time with my immediate family as possible. Especially my two godsons. Of course, that meant whenever we went to a store I took my two year-old godson to the toys or DVDs or books and told him to pick something out for "Auntie Samina" to buy. Godmother guilt: expensive for the godmother yet lucrative for the child.

We did take a family outing to the Aquarium of the Pacific. I didn't manage to get to Disneyland, the beach, In N Out, Jack in the Box or to the mall in Beverly Hills. Sigh, high class problems, right? I did get to my hairstylist for a cut and color! I really need to find someone in Ohio. Waiting a year between haircuts, then taking a four hour plane ride to my stylist isn't ideal for someone whose name isn't J.lo. But if I was a celebrity the stylists would come to me, right? Note to self: get rich and famous.

David is glad to be home in Ohio. I'm okay with it. Tomorrow I have to get back into my little bit of routine. I feel like I lost a week in a time warp being in So-Cal. If I could go back home every three months or so that would be awesome but the cost and the flying is too much for me. I don't know how David manages being away from his family for such long stretches of time. He must turn off a part of his brain and resign to the facts and fate. Something I have never been good at doing.

This Midwestern Life

The first time I saw the word "metropark" it was above the entrance to an indie/urban/hip-hoppy over-priced clothing store that had just opened in a mall in California. Metropark became one of my favorite stores to haunt because of their awesome clearance racks.

Imagine my surprise when I moved here and the locals boasted about the wonderful and well-maintained Metroparks Cleveland has to enjoy. A collection of 16 reservations totaling in 22,000 acres of bike trails, fishing spots and nature centers. The Cleveland Zoo is included in that total.

Wait...what? These are actual parks like with trees and bugs? But I wanted to buy a trendy hat and some over-sized hoop earrings. I'm sure some people must like these actual "Metroparks".

David does. He likes to fish and so does his coworker Jay. Often times after work they will fish in one of the parks just 30 minutes down the freeway. I have been to the park a few times but yesterday was the first time I went while they fished. The park really is a beautiful piece of land and every time I go I am impressed with its vastness. There is a marina and a multi-use trail that some of the bikers refuse to use because of the walkers. So the bikers use the street and get in the way of the cars which angers David and Jay.

David didn't catch much. At least nothing to write home about to the fishermen he left in So-Cal. David and Jay both caught little fish but threw them back. We saw some carp and lots of geese. It was like a ride at Disneyland but real. Next month I am supposed to go camping with Jay and Emmy down in Southern Ohio somewhere. That should be a real adventure with even more fishing and less civilization! God help me.

Scaredy Cat

David came to a realization last night. Most likely something he has known for a long time but chose to ignore. He realized that I am scared of EVERYTHING. My brothers call it "Axe Murderer Syndrome". One of David's little brothers is fond of telling me, "DON'T LIVE, YOU MIGHT DIE!" when he hears me panicking about something or other.

David challenged me to list all the things I am scared of. Generally, after making a list like that the scaredy cat would try to work on overcoming some of those fears. I don't think I am going to do that. We are just going to marvel at the number of my fears. This might take a few posts.

Thinking about all the things I am afraid of made me want to quantify my fears. Some of the things I am going to list are phobias. Some stuff I am semi-afraid of. A lot of the items are related but just because I am afraid of "natural disaster A" doesn't mean I am afraid of "natural disaster B". David mentioned some things he thought I was anxious about but really I just don't like. For instance: squirrels (they have diseases) and being pulled over (cuts into my shopping time).

This all makes me wonder how did I get to be so afraid? I don't remember being a daring or a scared child. I wouldn't say I lived a sheltered life. I guess fear is irrational. Especially when it can't be explained like most of my fears.

Phobias:

Hydrophobia
-drowning
-swimming in the ocean
-anything but shallow water

Arachnophobia
-mostly big spiders

Melissophobia
-bumble bees, wasps, yellow jackets
-anything with wings and a stinger

Agoraphobia
-traveling alone
-air travel, airports
-plane crashes
-walking alone
-crossing busy streets
-driving a car
-being away from home and my stuff for long periods of time

Severe Weather Phobia
-rain, hail, sleet, snow, ice
-wind
-thunder
-lightning
-tornadoes

Achluophobia
-mostly nighttime darkness

Acousticophobia
-noises at night
-sometimes loud music
-cars driving down the street (Then I get freaked out when no cars drive down the street so go figure.

I could go on and on and on with the phobias. Some of the listed items have their own phobia name like fear of crossing streets is "dromophobia". Whatever I did some condensing. Plus, you can make up your own phobia name by just adding "phobia" to the end of the word of your choice. For example: being afraid of Britney Spears could be called Brit-Britphobia.

We will continue this list tomorrow or later this week depending on how paralyzed with fear I am.

Highlights of Children: A Companion Piece to "A Case for Procreation"

Here is a belated, but brief, highlight reel of Tuesday's babysitting adventure:

The Three-Year-Old Boy:

Sat on the floor with me, crawled into my lap, gave me a hug and said, "I love you."

-Yeah, I bet you do you manipulative, little expletive deleted. For I am the giver of apple slices and peanut butter sandwiches and therefore THE GIVER OF LIFE. Fine, GIVER OF LIFE is a bit much just GIVER OF SNACKS then.

As I was changing the one-year-old's diaper, to prepare her for a nap, the three-year- old saw the bottle of milk waiting for his sister, grabbed it and said, "Oh no, this is much too hot for baby sister!" He then ran into the kitchen, out of my sight, and prepared to do God knows what to the bottle. I, of course, can't follow him. He returns, triumphantly, and I ask, "What did you put in the bottle?." I don't know why I asked he is going to tell me milk even if he put bleach in it. So I take everyone back to the kitchen and prepare another bottle for the napper. Better safe than sorry.

-FYI that bottle was NOT too hot.

I ask the boy, "Where is your brain?" and he points to his crotch. To be honest he could have been pointing to his stomach or liver. He was obscured by the couch.

-Not the first little boy I have seen or heard of doing this. I'm sure if you asked a little girl she would point to her head or if you want to get stereotypical and saccharine maybe even her heart.

After changing his diaper he tells me he needs another change not ten minutes later.

-Okay, that's just typical and annoying.

He kicked me or threw his shoe some act of senseless child-on-babysitter violence and I tell him, "That was not nice. It was uncalled for and you need to apologize to me right now." He throws himself on the floor and screams, "I CAN'T SAY SORRY TO YOU!"

-He might of meant he WON'T say sorry or he could have just not known how to pronounce my name.

Overall, the boy was a handful but manageable. There were few meltdowns and he came out of any hissy fit quickly. I threatened him with "time-outs" but he never actually needed one. I never threatened him with the age-old, "You better behave just wait until your father gets home."

The One-Year-Old Girl:

She was not a handful. Her worst offenses were: not napping, throwing her bottle out of her crib and thievery. Mostly, trying to pry my cell phone from my pocket and attempting to hijack whatever her brother was eating. She is at that stage when eating is fascinating and you can't feed her fast enough. The world is her restaurant. She'll have what you're having and she wants it RIGHT NOW! FASTER MINION! PICK UP THAT BOTTLE I JUST THREW AND GIVE ME THAT SANDWICH!

This exercise has still brought me no closer to a decision about having children of my own or not. Maybe I need another day with the three-year-old...nah, I'm good.