Take me to Malaga, please

When I was living in Spain I made a trip to visit my favorite British ex-pats and it was an escape from the heat of the city, from tasteless food my body hated, and the whir of a foreign language constantly slipping through my ears. Homesickness had taken over and all I wanted to do was find some ruby slippers to click. Apparently hopping on a RyanAir flight to see Gerald, Liz and Lizzie would be just as good.
In Malaga, my bed had fluffy bedding, not thin, worn blankets. Instead of having to fight the heat without even a fan as a weapons, I got to sleep in a room with air conditioning and a cat curled up under my chin. The TV showed programs in English, even some American sitcoms. Doors opened up to an ocean view instead of a busy plaza and then there was the food. Porridge, fresh fruit, roasts, potatoes, vegetable soup, cherries on ice cream, shrimp cocktail: extravagant and comfort food all at once.
While the physical accommodations were priceless, it was getting to be with people I consider family that really made my short trip the most relaxing vacation I took during my six months abroad. I got constant hugs, pats on the shoulder, linked arms and hours to catch up on years apart over tea. Palm trees, fresh picked oranges, a house full of cats, and surrogate family; I need to plan a trip.

"Late" night confusion

Phone rings.

I automatically assume it is Mom and Dad calling to report problems with their transatlantic flight.
Forget to check caller ID.
Answer in a panic.
It is Kelsey.
CONFUSION.
Check clock--9:57.
How can I be asleep? I just went to bed ten minutes ago, or was it 12 hours ago?
MORE CONFUSION.
Is it AM or PM?
Weekday or weekend?
Look out the window, it is bright but I can't tell if it is from the sun or my paranoid neighbors 1 million plus flood lights.
SO CONFUSED.
Where am I?
Kelsey keeps talking...something about a show, next week.
"Does dinner at Rockbottom Brewery work? I think I get off of work at about 5 and then I'm going home to pick up my aunt and my little cousin so if you want to meet us the reservation..."
NO IDEA WHAT IS GOING ON.
I finally interrupt her.
"Kels, I'm sorry. What?"
She repeats.
EVEN MORE CONFUSED.
"You know what, I can't do this...I think I was asleep."
"Ok, I just need to know if you're in for dinner."
"Sure. Ok. Tomorrow. Call me." and I hang up.
WHAT JUST HAPPENED?
I sit up, trying to get my pounding heart to slow down.
For some reason, am still thinking about parents flight to Europe and something going wrong.
TOO CONFUSED TO SLEEP.
Wake up the next day and see missed text at 10:07pm.
Apparently I wasn't too confused to sleep...I don't think? Hard to say. I'm still confused.

Yawn

I couldn't agree more, Miss Ebbie. The rain is telling me to go back to sleep but my watch is saying I am going to be late for work. It is a yawning kind of a day.

More old lady moments

Kelsey: Do---you----leave----bar?
Me: Huh?
Kelsey: ---said---when---you---to---bar?
Me: Kels, I can't hear you!
(she leans over toward me)
Kelsey: I said, when do you want to leave for the bar?
Me: Oh, sorry, yeah whenever.
Kelsey: Do they have to turn the music up so loud?
Me: I know! I can barely hear myself think.
(pause)
Me: Also, could we sound more like our grandmothers?
Kelsey: I'm thinking no.
Me: Kids these days...
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Walking to my parking ramp I noticed traffic was backed up but not at the light, in the middle of the block. Getting closer I could see the cause of the slow down. Frat guys were playing catch over the street between their lawns. As one missed the ball and ran out into the street I thought to myself, "Ok they need to stop or someone is going to get seriously hurt." Then I thought to myself, "Wow. I'm old."
-----------------------------------------------------
Over our coffee cups I could see him doing the math in his yead. "You're 23? I never would have guessed it. The way you carry yourself I'd put you more at, 70. Maybe 75."
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What is your halloween costume?
I'm not sure yet. Something warm and comfortable, those are my only requirements.
Don't you want to look cute? What if you meet a cute guy?
Warm. And comfortable. That's it.

At the polls '08

Perched on her dad's shoulders, the heels of her pink cowboy boots bounced against his chest as she looked up and down the long line. Her stream of questions never stopped as we waited outside for an hour. Walking in the doors at the rec center polling center she asked another one, "Daddy, is that where the girls vote?" I turned, along with others nearby in line, and looked to see where she was pointing: the women's bathroom. We all suppressed chuckles, not wanting to discourage her interest in the election.
"No, honey, the girls get to vote in the same place as the boys."
"Why, Daddy?"
"Well," he explained, "because everyone has an equal right to vote so we all get to go to the same place."
Forehead scrunched in concentration she said, "That's good because I'm a girl and I want to vote. But, Daddy?" She paused as at least ten people looked up at her dark curls, waiting to hear her next question. "I don't know who I am going to pick."
"That's ok." He smiled, "You have a few years to decide."
"Good," Sighing she wrapped her chubby arms around him and rested her chin on his head, "because I have a lot of thinking to do."

Choices: tiles and candidates

Over Thanksgiving I am getting a new bathroom. My current bathroom isn't awful, but it is close. The built in tub has no tile around it so instead there is a metal bar that circles it from the ceiling and a shower curtain has to go all the way around in order to protect the walls. Add a 60 year old drafty window to the equation and showering feels like standing in a cave wrapped in saran wrap. The tub floor looks coffee stained, the toilet back and base are cracked and my peeling pedestal sink provides no storage. Since there is some insurance money left from the roof blowing off fiasco, the bathroom is going to be re-done.
Work schedules and strange tile shop hours forced me to go by myself to pick out the floor and wall tiles and after perusing three different stores I was feeling a little hopeless. Plus, Mom said that I needed to make the choice by myself because it was completely a matter of personal taste. Every time I got close to making a decision I panicked. Picking scared me! It isn't like paint, I couldn't change my mind once it was up and just go get a new color. Once the stuff was installed I was going to be stuck with it. Every day I would have to see it, walk over it, stare at it in the shower. How could I possibly make a decision this big? And by myself, too!
As I stood in front of aisles and aisles of displays and got increasingly overwhelmed I realized picking out tile felt the same as picking out candidates this election. Don't get me wrong, I am well aware that casting a vote for the next president is much more significant than selecting tile for my bathroom. On the other hand, both result in outcomes I am going to have to deal with constantly and for at least four years. The tiles I'm going to have to see, walk over, and stare at in the shower every single day. The president? He is going to be present in my every day life, too, with changes in tax policy among many other issues.In the end, I chose my tile on my own and am thrilled. I've made my choices for the elections tomorrow as well and am prepared to live with my choice for the next term(s).
As I've said before, I'm not one to publicly discuss who is going to get my vote. I just think it is a personal choice. Even more personal than choosing bathroom tile. So, if I have to reveal one decision or the other...
Wall (4x4 tiles):

Floor (12x12 tiles):

Halloween kitty

"Trick or treat!"
With the cat under one arm and candy in the other I said, "Here you go, what would you like?" Her little blonde head swiveled between the treats and the kitty and finally without taking her eyes off the cat she turned to her mom.
She whispered, "Can I have the kitty cat?" Her mom and I laughed.
"No honey, the kitty cat lives here. It can't come home with us."
"But Mom! I want it!" Trying to work every angle she finally looked up at me and pleaded, "But I would name her Spooky." After a few more "No, honey" lines clucked by her mom, she grabbed a snickers and walked away, head down, hoping for better luck at the next house.

The Artist's House at Argenteuil

A woman stopped me in the hallway, "Caley, right? Frank's daughter?"
"Yes," I said, "That's my dad, when I claim him." Interning at the same place my Dad had worked for 30 years forced me to have an answer ready for this inevitable question.
"We haven't met since you were a toddler, but I'm Julie. I remember when you were born." That one I hadn't heard before so I sputtered before answering.
"Oh, thank you. That's--" I searched for the right word, "--sweet." Walking in the same direction we got past the awkwardness and continued our conversation.
After a few hallway chats I started stopping by Julie's office to talk. In the middle of a divorce and as the primary caretaker of her terminally ill father, she had plenty to discuss. A few months later her youngest son moved out, leaving her living alone for the first time ever. I, too, was on my own and we shared stories of getting scared over suspicious noises that turned out to be the pipes knocking or the wind on a metal overhang.
At the end of my internship I wrote notes to the people who I had gotten to know during my year at the company and when it came time to write Julie's I got a little choked up. Telling her how impressed I was by her strength I tried to leave her with words of encouragement. I'm ashamed to admit that I haven't thought of her in the six months that have passed since I started my new job but then I got an email from her with the subject, "The Monet card you gave me when you left."
Julie wrote that she has kept the card that I gave her tacked up in her cube. Since I left, her divorce became final and a few weeks later her father passed away after sharing one last dinner with her. Julie said that after the divorce she finds herself having to redecorate on a serious budget and was at a second hand store when she found resting on the ground a framed print of the same Monet painting on the card I had given her. As she looked at it a store worker stopped by and said, "Isn't that lovely? I just priced it and put it out about two minutes ago. It must be meant to be yours!"
She bought that print right up and dashed home to write to me saying, "I see God’s hand in my life everywhere blessing me, and somehow you are the conduit for this one."
When I wrote those notes half a year ago I just used a hodge podge of cards and didn't give much thought to who got which one. I had no idea that giving the one with "The artist’s house at Argenteuil" to Julie would later bring her a moment of knowing God's love, but I get the feeling Someone did.

Traffic tale

Driving down 94 in rush hour I noticed a stream of cars passing someone in the right lane. As I got closer I saw an old, classic 60's thunderbird in baby blue. As I pulled up next to it I looked over, fully expecting to see the original owner, probably a little old lady with a scarf tied around her set curls. Instead, I saw a 50 year old man with a scruffy beard, a camo hat, plaid flannel shirt and a Carhart jacket. I think he might have seen me laugh.

Winter hours

I don't understand how it works but somehow with winter hours I am always late. For summer hours I am supposed to start at 7:30 but I usually get here at 7:15. Winter hours have me starting later, at 8:00 but I always feel rushed and barely make it in on time. I blame the dark. Or maybe the cold (the four inches of skin that were exposed between my Uggs and my trench got so cold that my kneecaps almost fell off.) Either way, rushing around = less time for writing so if I am MIA here and there it is because it is winter hours.

First snow-slush

It snowed yesterday but not with the fat flakes that somehow look warm as they hug the grass. No, it was slushy snow, just like the kind that gets stuck in the cracks of boots and leaves grey streaks in every entryway. To recognize the first snowfall I had spaghetti for breakfast, stayed in my pjs until 4pm, took a nap on the couch, sofa chair, and in my bed, baked apple crisp and didn't leave the house until it was time for pork roast at the parents. It was perfect. Except for the part where it was freezing cold outside. And snow-slushing. In October.

Premio Daros Blog Award

My first ever blog award! Ms. Sharon Rose has awarded me the Premio Daros Blog Award, isn't she sweet? Here is the description of it:

This award is given for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing. (Loose translation)
Here it is in its original Portugese form: O conceito deste prémio passa por reconhecer valores culturais, éticos, literários e pessoais, transmitidos de forma criativa e original nos pedacinhos rabiscados por cada blogueiro que o receba.

The best part of blog awards is getting to pass them on so, here we go!
1.) Victoria of Agnes and Henry: the stories about her beautiful kitten cats always make me smile and her photography is so beautiful it makes me jealous
2) Mykala of Unicorndog: perhaps I'm a bit biased since I've know this lady for a while now and she is one of my favorite people in the world, but her writing rocks.
3) Hammie of Hammie's Blog: part of what I love about this sweet lady is that she can be as rambly as me but still makes perfect sense...she is full of wisdom and I feel lucky to get some of it!

Thank you, Sharon Rose, for making my heart go pitter patter on a cold, windy, rain filled day.

Procrastination

Not sure if I've mentioned this before but it turns out I'm just as much of a procrastinator in grad school as I was in undergrad. Last night I put off writing my Governance and Management of Non-profit Organizations paper by reading a magazine. For some odd reason, this quote stood out to me:

Procrastination is a way for us to be satisfied with second-rate results; we can always tell ourselves we'd have done a better job if only we'd had more time. If you're good at rationalizing you can keep yourself feeling rather satisfied this way, but it's a cheap happy. You're whittling your expectations of yourself down lower and lower. - Richard O'Connor, PhD in Happy At Last: The Thinking Person's Guide to Finding Joy

Did my professor plant this for me? Or maybe it was my mother. Or my therapist. Hmm, well, I got my paper done in plenty of time to email in before class (if a few hours counts as plenty of time) so I guess I'll start taking his advice into consideration next time I have a paper due. No harm in putting it off, right? ;)

Hello, FBI agents!

Hellooooooooooo FBI agents at my office.
Is there any way I could borrow one of your suits so I can be you for Halloween? The sunglasses would help, too.
No?
I would give you credit and everything, "Costuming by Agent Smith." It'll be great for your resume.
Still no?
Well how about this, I'm sure you have more than one dark, ominous looking suit. I'll just wear one of your spares and we can go to the party together as the MIB. Ooo, and bring your dog, that'll make it even more realistic.
I cannot believe you aren't going for this. "Official business" does not count as an excuse in my book.
Oh another thing though, one of my co-workers said it is their dream to be tackled by the FBI. Do you think we could at least hook that up? I promised to take video of it on my cell phone and put it on youtube.
Fine, then I'll keep your face out of it if you'd like.
You're a tough one. I suppose I'll let you get back to sweeping the building.
Wait! Do you think Hil would let me borrow her suit for this years costume?
Of course "Senator Clinton" wouldn't mind that I call her Hil. She's cool like that. Unlike some people I know who are a little bit uptight...
Noooo, of course I wasn't referring to you.
Gotta go, Agent Smith. Have a great day!

Sidenote: This conversation did not actually happen. Well, it did, but only in my head as I watched safely from the 5th floor windows as the FBI agents swept the entrances for Hillary Clinton's appearance in my office building last night.

Sweet, sweet music

"I'm going to the mall this weekend. I need some retail therapy."
"Nice, I can't. I have to save my money. I'm buying a piano this weekend."
"What? I was thinking a cute top, not a musical instrument that doubles as a piece of furniture!"

For hours Saturday afternoon I visited old pieces of music that hadn't been played in years. The cat watched from the top of the corner built in cabinets, confused by the new sounds bouncing around the living room.
Sunday I told myself I couldn't play until all of the leaves were cleared from the yard. Fifteen trash bags later, which is an impressive number considering I don't actually have any trees in my yard, I started picking up my tools with one thing on my mind: the piano. With my fingers distracted by Pachelbel's cords I didn't even notice when they closed around the bee sunning itself on the roll of leftover bags. I did notice when the little bugger, excuse the pun, stung me right in the middle of my palm. I yelped, Ebbie came running, and the bee flopped death flops on the floor.
My first bee sting. Mom told me to use baking soda, Google said toothpaste, and John the paramedic swore by meat tenderizer. The only thing that worked was ice. Of course, my makeshift icepack, aka a plastic baggie with ice cubes in it, burst in the middle of the night and I woke up in a puddle. Yesterday was no better but today, today I think I might be able to practice again. I hope. Stupid bees.

Empty head

Not much going on in my head today, at least not much worth writing. I don't seem to have any words! Maybe Mykala cut out my thoughts when she gave me my haircute last night (sidenote: haircute is a term coined by Kala on her blog. Fitting, since she gives a darn good one herself!)
Here are a few articles written by people who did have words and used them quite nicely, too.
First an article by Ryan Reynolds about running the New York City Marathon in honor of his father who has parkinsons diseason.
And then, a funny one I read in Oprah's magazine (I know, I know but my mom subscribes and since I'm too cheap to pay for my own magazines I just read other peoples leftovers). It answers questions women often ask from a man's perspective and it made me laugh out loud and go "awww."

And here are two cop-out quotes! My friends are funny.

Me: Did you know that women blink almost twice as often as men?
(pause)
Katie: Sorry, that made me blink.


Kelsey: I just read on msn that mpls-st. paul is rated 3rd in best cities for single people... YA right
Me: 3rd best in what...MN?!?
Kelsey: apparently in the us.... however, I beg to differ
Me: do they tell single people how to take advantage of that?
Kelsey: No, they don't tell us how. Apparently you have to go stand on a street corner naked
Me: That could work if you were holding a sign with your phone number on it
Kelsey: Well, I'm thinking that might it not be a bad option right now.

That's all I've got!

p.s. This morning for the first time since I got my un-haircute almost a month ago I actually smiled at my reflection. Thanks, Mykala, for loving me even though I "get a little sassy sometimes" and for making me feel pretty again.

Complimenting strangers

I firmly believe in complimenting strangers. People I know, too, but there is something special about telling the woman walking toward the parking garage that her red shoes are to die for, or the barista that her earrings are lovely. I thought the middle aged woman in the red shoes was going to hug me she got so excited and she launched into a story about shopping in Chicago with her daughter. The barista with the simple citron earrings told me she made them herself and has been crafting jewelry since she was a little girl. Granted, I really only compliment other women because I have this fear that guys will think I am hitting on them when really I just like their hat/jacket/shoes/etc. Regardless, I love the stories people share with me and even the occasional confused shying away when I tell them something they are wearing is beautiful. It's as if the anonymity makes it a little more true because I'm not a friend saying it "just because I have to." I'm just a stranger, noticing a bold pair of shoes or some graceful earrings.

tea talking

My tea talks to me. It says things like:

our intuition lies
in our innocence



~there is~
~~no love~~
~~~without~~~
~~~~compassion.~~~~



There is nothing more precious than
the self.

I'm not sure that I agree with it, but those are some of the things it says to me every morning.

Recipe for disaster

Fall foods make me go MMMM. While I don't do a ton of cooking (it is hard to get motivated to do it for just one person), I do like to whip a yummy up every once in a while. Last week I decided to make baked apples like my grandma Maggie used to do when the weather started changing. Looking up a recipe online I found one and got started. It told me to core the apple using an apple corer but if I didn't have one I should simply use a paring knife, simply being the key word there. By the time I was finished trying to decoreify my lovely local apples, they looked like victims of the chainsaw massacre and my hands were not in much better shape. I had so many little cuts on my fingers I had to do the second half of the project with gloves on to keep it all sanitary. For some reason I didn't think to take a picture of them when they were done. Perhaps that is because they were brown, smooshed and disgusting looking. But let me tell you, they were DE-LISH-OUS.

This weekend I decided to be brave and try another fall favorite: butternut squash. Mom said it is pretty much the easiest thing in the world and I foolishly believed her. Cut the squash in half, put it in a pan with a little water in the bottom, cover with aluminum foil and bake for 30-40 minutes at 350. What she failed to mention is that squash is not easy to cut in half. In fact, it is near impossible. Instead of two halves I ended up with a 1/3 and a 2/3. The edges almost looked like I had intentionally tried to make them scalloped but no, no that is just as close to a straight edge as I could get. After slamming the oven door shut with the squash inside I surveyed the damage. Little orange pieces were all over the kitchen, there were three dirty knives on the counter because I kept thinking, "Maybe this one will make it easier," and I was practically shaking from frustration.

I sent my mom this picture accompanied by a text that said, "I almost died trying to cut the squash in half. Easiest recipe ever? I think not." Her response was, "Save that photo for a cookbook." Thanks, Mom.

Winning the lottery

I got an email last night informing me I had been selected to win the British International Lottery! All I have to do to get my prize money of 500,000.00 pounds is send all of my personal information to Mr. Richard Moore at his very official hotmail email address. What a deal! Oh, and "For security reasons, we [sic]advice all winners to keep this information confidential from the public until your claim is processed and your prize released to you.This is part of our security protocol to avoid double claiming and unwarranted taking advantage of this programme by non-participant or unofficial personnel."
This is kind of like the time I got a letter personally signed by President Bush asking me to vote for him. Right. Not so much.
Sidenote: I have automatically disqualified myself by breaching the confidentiality policy. Oops. What a shame.