Food

Today was a day of food. We planned our day around a restaurant. The restaurant is the one where Renoir painted Luncheon of the Boating Party. We read the book of the same title by Susan Vreeland and decided that we should visit the restaurant, which is still standing. Of course, times have changed and the restaurant may rely more on the fame of the location than the tastiness of the food. The restaurant, called Maison Fournaise, in Chatou, a suburb of Paris, was a train ride and a walk along the Seine away. We sat on the balcony and chose from the meager menu..
Asparagus in a mediocre sauce. The tip of the asparagus was tender and sweet. The thick stalk was stringy and should have been broken off, in my humble opinion. I had duck as my main dish which was not overdone and was quite juicy. Earl ordered sea bream, just praying that the fish wouldn't be looking at him when it arrived. It wasn't
The best thing about Earl's meal was the tiny, hollowed-out zucchini filled with carrots and peas and potatoes. Isn't it adorable? I don't think the taste knocked him over, but the presentation was spectacular..
Although the food at the Maison Fournaise wasn't great, we have had some yummy food experiences.
On Sunday, following an afternoon of walking and museums, we stopped at the Cafe des Beaux Arts for ice cream sundaes. This is called a Chocolate Ligeois. The ice cream was chocolate and the whipped cream, or chantilly as it is called here, was rich and only a tiny bit sweet.
After a disappointing meal at the Maison Fournaise, we took an afternoon stroll down the Champs Elysee and ended up at Laduree, the famous tea room. Earl tried the macarons the restaurant is known for while I opted for the lemon tart. The macaroons were interesting with a soft cookie shell and an almost jelly-like filling. The lemon tart filled my mouth with a burst of sweet and tart. Hmmm.
We also drank tea. It was all very dignified with little pots of tea in the hand-filled tea bags. When the waiter brought the two pots, he took the lid off and sniffed deeply from the steam arising. Then he put the lid on and sniffed the other one. One more smell and he pronounced the pot almond tea, while he poured for me. Then he gave Earl, what else, Earl Grey tea.
One adjustment that we are having to make as Americans is being patient in cafes and restaurants. I keep reminding myself that we are paying for the seat as much as anything. So when the waiter is slow to bring us a check, he is doing us a favor. The longer we sit there, the more we get our money's worth. And, frankly, we have no place else to go, so we may as well sit until we get tired of Paris.
Here's a view of the very fancy Laduree from the street.
And I may as well include a photo of Earl on the terrace where Renoir painted, because that meal was all about location, location, location.
Truthfully, Earl would have added a lot to that painting. Here's a copy of the original for anyone who doesn't recall.

Another Day in Paris Flown Away

We made the most of another day in Paris and I have stayed up late (for me) grading papers. That was how I convinced my boss to give me all online classes, by telling her what satisfaction she would get out of imagining me grading papers in Paris.
Earl and I headed over to the market on Rue Mouffetarde this morning.
Pretty much any food that could be imagined could be purchased. Here's a seafood stall where the creatures looked as if they would crawl off their ice beds. As we walked past the fromagier, the smell of the cheeses was so strong. It made me want to stop and buy cheese. I guess that's the point.
Another thing that made me salivate was the sight of this white asparagus. I had hoped to find asparagus for dinner, but maybe tomorrow.
The stalls were selling huge bunches of lilac, which must be in bloom. Strange because the lilac is in bloom at home too and I thought Paris was ahead of us as far as flowers and trees blooming in the spring. I do hope I get to see, and smell, some wisteria in bloom. I'm hoping someday for a trellis across our front steps at home with some wisteria draped across the trellis.
The strawberries for sale in the market were the reddest I had ever seen. People were walking and munching on the fresh strawberries. A teenager walked past eating a strawberry. She had the bluest eyes and the reddest berry. She was already past me when she stopped. I asked Earl to take her picture. He said he felt like a stalker, but he took it. I think nearly any picture of this girl would wind up looking enticing. Isn't she gorgeous?
After the market, we headed for the Seine, where all things touristique are happening.
When I first visited Paris, I stuck to the Metro, the subway system. It's easy to use and feels safe. What I didn't know, was that the bus system, equally easy to use and safe, is closer to most things and allows me to see many Paris sights that I might have missed underground.
Earl and I bought a Paris Visite pass that lets us travel all we want on buses and the metro. We frequently catch a bus and figure out where we want to get off once we are on it. Tonight we were going to get on a bus and just ride the entire route so we could see the sights at night, but I had a few more papers to grade so we came home.
Our first stop was l'Orangerie, which is a small museum that houses Monet's water lily paintings.

The paintings look deceptively easy. Couldn't any one paint blobs of color and say they're water lilies?
Apparently not, because no one has pulled it off besides Monet. Even as his eyes were failing and his paintings got darker and darker in color, his blobs look like water lilies.
We had planned to visit the Musee d'Orsay on another day, (Hey! I rhymed) but the tickets to l'Organerie were cheaper with a companion ticket to the Musee d'Orsay. This museum focuses on impressionism and it's hard to believe the number of paintings done by Monet, Cezanne, Manet, Renoir, Degas, Gauguin, etc... The sheer number makes your eyes go numb.
Here's what I learned while roaming through the Musee d'Orsay today (I rhymed again!), I want to be the kind of woman that Renoir painted, not the kind of woman painted by Degas, Cezanne or Toulouse Latrec. All of the women painted by Renoir seemed happy. They were enjoying life. They were nicely rounded and living life.
The Musee d'Orsay allows no pictures inside any more. What a shame because even the museum, a former train station, is phenomenal.
So I'll leave you with a photo of me and Earl on a footbridge across the Seine, and I promise a food blog tomorrow with lots of "food porn" as requested by Suburban Kamikaze, who needs to get her skinny butt across the ocean to visit France or Greece or Italy, or someplace and start living life before it passes her by!

Fashion News

Since I am in the fashion capital of the world, I have some sad fashion news to impart.
Apparently, harem pants are making a comeback.
I know! I know what you are thinking: But harem pants don't look good on anyone. Chubby girls wear them thinking they'll cover the excess bootie and thigh, but that never works. I agree, yet, what are you going to do when the evidence smacks you in the face over and over again?

I tried to explain to Earl the benefit for shorter women like me. They are tight at the ankle so you don't have to hem them, but then they can balloon down over your shoes and still look too long.
The tiny girls in these pictures who are wearing harem pants are going to be adorable no matter what they wear. It's just one of those things, but what about the larger women who opt for harem pants? And not just harem but many-layered harem pants? Is there any hope for her?
I think it just might be best if those of us over 40 and over 110 pounds opted out of this specific fashion. We had our chance in the 1980s and I'm betting most of us embraced the harem pants then.
The thing is, if we aren't going to wear the harem bra shirt and the veils, ala I Dream of Jeannie, the harem pants are not going to be sexy. And for some of us, even that won't work.

Dinner with French Friends

Last night we went to dinner with Danuta (who is Polish but married a Frenchman nearly 30 years ago), her daughter Agnes who is 27, and her son Vincent who is 19. This family is not typically French because -- one, they don't have a television, and two, they are passionate about music. Their entire family play instruments or sing. Vincent came to Paris to composer school when he was 14. We were visiting then when he took his exams, which required writing the part for different instruments and voices for some kind of classical music. The family has three other children and the husband, Michel, was not in Paris.
We met them for dinner at about 8:30 and we begin to wander down Rue Mouffetard in search of a restaurant. There are tons of restaurants but they did not meet the requirements of the French family. They are very picky about their food. Vincent has been this way since he was little. He would not eat the noodles that the other children were served, but wanted a grown up meal.
Inevitably, he argued with his mother at each place we paused. But this was not a real restaurant, this was only a bistro. He called a cousin who knew the area well to get her opinion. He spoke to his father.
Danuta rejected a number of places because they were winter foods -- fondue or raclettes. Those were for skiing season, she explained.
We finally settled down to eat dinner out doors a little after nine. Truthfully, it wasn't a great choice. The restaurants in France have different priced "Menus." Each menu has starters or entrees, then the meal or plats then dessert. Sometimes the "Menu" includes wine as well.
I wanted the goat cheese salad, but there wasn't a plat to choose from that looked great. I ended up with steak au poivre - that's a pepper sauce, but basically it was covered in gravy. The salad was terrific and luckily filled me up mostly. Also the dessert I chose was chocolate mousse -- lighter than air but much more scrumptious.
Earl had onion soup -- of course that was French onion, and Danuta didn't tell him he should have had a warm weather choice. He ordered turkey cordon bleu -- basically deep fried turkey. We were both pretty disappointed in our dinner choices. Earl's dessert was Tarte Normande, which is an apple tart with creme fraiche on the side. His dessert was good too.
Agnes got fish and it was like surgery for her to eat it. Yes, it looked like a real fish lying there on her plate. She used her knife and fork to carefully pul out the meat, looking for tiny bones.
The company was the point of the meal though and we enjoyed catching up on all of the friends and relatives.
Earl bought Vincent a coke because when he was 14 and we were having dinner near l'Opera (Oh, a truly great restaurant as Vincent recalls), Vincent and his father fought. Vincent wanted a Coca Cola but his father told him, "You'll drink wine like the rest of us." Our friends in the U.S. get a kick out of that story.
We left the restaurant after 11 and walked back to the apartment where Vincent and Danuta were staying for the night before catching the train back to Nantes in the morning. Vincent was going to play the piano for us, but since it was after 11:30 we cancelled the piano date
"Vincent plays very passionately," Danuta explained, and it was too late at night for such a raucous piano concert. He will play for us when we visit Nantes at the end of the week.
Agnes headed home to her Paris apartment while Earl and I walked back to our hotel.

Earlier in the day, Earl and I went on an excursion. We stopped for cups of hot tea to give us some energy. 9 Euros was the cost. That's basically $13 for two cups of tea. Then we went to Luxembourg Gardens to walk around. Everyone in Paris was there to enjoy the beautiful weather.

The seats and the benches and the walls were all full of people. The areas of grass in the center remained pristine. No one is allowed to walk on the grass, much less lay on it or sit on it.

That Famous Tower

Earl and I have visited Paris before and we have gone up the Eiffel Tower. The most recent time, Earl and Spencer went to the 2nd floor because the top floor was closed. When the kids were little, Tucker and I went all the way to the top while Grace, Spencer and Earl went to the second floor and then back down. Tucker claims now that he is afraid of heights, but I set him up on a wall and took a picture of him on the top of the Eiffel Tower, so I know he isn't really afraid. When kids have fears, like Grace's fear of elevators, they show even when they're little, like 9 months old.
So one of the things on Earl's list during our visit in Paris was to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower. It opened at 9:30 and we were pretty much walking underneath the tower as the gates opened and people began to move. We dodged young African men selling Paris scarves and Eiffel Tower key chains. Here's the view on the ride up the elevator.
Things worked out perfectly and in no time at all, we were on the troisieme etage staring down at all of Paris.
The day is perfect, a little hazy for taking pictures, but no complaints.


I tried two artsy pictures. Do you like either of them? The one with Earl's reflection is taken at the top of the tower. At various places around the summit, it lists different cities and the distance away. The photo on the left was taken from the second etage with Earl leaning over a rail and the rest of the Eiffel Tower behind him.
Since Earl claims that he doesn't mind heights but just doesn't like elevators, he decided we should walk down from the second floor, which shouldn't be that far. But here's a picture from the first floor, so you can tell the second floor is even farther up.
We went looking for a market, but I was sketchy on the location, so we ended up having lunch in a cute little street. Although it was nearly 12:30, no one was sitting down for lunch. When the waiter convinced us to try his restaurant, he thanked us by giving us a kir aperitif. Kir is champagne and cassis. Lovely way to start lunch.
We started with salads, goat cheese for Earl and avocado for me. Then Earl had beef bourguignon and I had lamb chops, both accompanied by carrot and green beans cooked in garlic and butter. We were swooning with joy. Another pichet of red wine helped round out the meal.
I guess you could say we're enjoying ourselves.
A Japanese girl took a picture of both of us. She didn't get the entire Eiffel Tower, but you can't have everything.

Finalement!

Guess where we are?
After all the cancelled flights and volcano dust, our plane left on time and arrived pretty much on time.
We didn't get a lot of rest and Earl definitely had a tougher time than I did. That's why he is snoring behind me right now. This was the smallest amount of space I've seen on an Air France flight. Here's a photo of Earl sitting as far back as he could. Can you see the metal that runs along the back of the seat that gouges into Earl's knees. When those guys in front of us laid their seats down, ouch! Also, the flight attendants banged his knee every time they came down the aisle with the food cart.
In spite of the small amount of sleep we got, we were determined to stay awake when we arrived. We made it to the hotel about 2. We showered and went in search of a Brasserie, which is a French restaurant that serves sandwiches and food all the time. Many restaurants only serve meals during normal hours, so dinner isn't available until 8 p.m. and no one is serving lunch at 3 p.m., except the brasseries.
We sat outside because the weather was in the mid-70s to 80. A breeze kept us cooled down.

I ordered a pichet of red wine, which is a small pitcher, and we both ended up having four glasses -- but the glasses were small, really. Considering that I hadn't had any alcohol the past three weeks, the wine really hit me. I would say I was tipsy, but I think it went farhter than that.
Then we ended our meal with little espressos. Earl doesn't even like coffee, but he agreed to drink an espresso in the hopes of staying awake.
After our lunch, we went walking. We took a bus and then walked down by the Seine and enjoyed the sunshine. And so did an old couple making out along the river. It seemed so French that this guy with a mane of white hair had his hands on either side of this older woman's face and they were, well, Frenching, right there on a bank beside the river.
I love that the sun was shining and the leaves are unfurling, which makes for much better photos than our last trip during March a few years ago, when everything was still pretty gray.
As our energy started to wane, we stopped at another cafe near Pont Neuf for a second espresso. We were setting small goals for ourselves -- if we don't
go back to the room until 7 then we can stay awake until 8... Finally, we caught a bus and returned to the room.
And there is one thing I hope everyone will agree on when they see these photos, and that is that the $25 I spent to have my hair blown dry and straightened on Thursday was definitely worth it. Even after a night on the plane, it still looks fabulous.

Red Toes, Will Travel

I decided to save some money by giving myself a pedicure. I planned to paint my toes an orangey gold, but my husband said he preferred red. I painted them red.
Just as a warning to anyone else who thinks about cutting corners by doing things yourself, rethink that self-bikini wax. Once you have the nerve to apply the hot wax down there, there is only one way to get it off. With a yank. And it hurts.
That's my tip for the day.

Dreams

I'm antsy this morning. My to-do list running through my head. The college's website that lets me grade paper not working from 5 to 7 a.m. The minutes tick by so quickly now when I need them to slow down.
I made myself go to the Y to burn off some energy.
There, I ran into the white-bearded man who first explained how to use the treadmill for interval training. He came and stood by my treadmill today, wishing me a good trip and filling me in on the latest news about flights to Paris.
"My understanding is that ticketed passengers have priority. Those who missed their flights have to wait." He's one of the guys who seems to be an expert on every subject, but in a sweet way not an obnoxious one.
I suggested that my trip to Paris might inspire him to travel some.
"No," he replied.
His wife wants to go to the Caribbean or Florida. He wants to go to the mountains and hike.
"So go," I told him.
He claims he knows no one who would go hiking with him.
"I'll just walk on my treadmill alone," he said.
He's in his 60s and in decent shape, judging from the amount of running and weight lifting that he's doing at the Y everyday. So why has he given up on travel? Why is he condemning himself to a lifetime of watching himself in the mirrors in front of the treadmill rather than mountain peaks and blossoming leaves?
My darling, handsome husband is in his 50s now, and I can't imagine that 10 years from now: A) he'll have a white beard down to his chest or B)he'll be content to walk on a treadmill that doesn't go anywhere.
I expect that 10 years from now, hopefully, with all three children through college, we'll be travelling more than ever.
I'll need to keep watch on the pilot light of our dreams and fan it to make sure it stays alive well into our 70s or 80s.

Vacation Drama

I scour news sites, airline sites, airport sites for a definitive answer. Will my flight to Paris go or won't it?
When I see that the flight for Sunday night hasn't been cancelled, and today is Sunday, I despair of learning ahead of time. The people who are scheduled to fly to Paris tonight are still scheduled. Imagine how panicked they must be. Packing, kissing kids goodbye, arranging sitters, changing dollars to Euros. Then they may arrive at the airport and be turned around.

That might be me too.
I look at my list of things to do before we leave and realize I must complete them all, just in case.

I hope and I despair at the same time. I long to go; I have my fears about leaving the kids for a week. Maybe it's worse now that they're older rather than younger.
I'm asking them to make sacrifices. They don't want to stay at their Aunt's house.
"That's like 10 minutes extra every morning on the way to school," Grace complains.
"Okay, 10 minutes a day to school for six days. That equals an hour. I'm asking you to sacrifice an hour for me and Dad."
Huff.
My stomach feels extra jittery as I sit through basketball games and measure the shot put at a track meet. .
Oh, to be in Paris, settled into a seat at a cafe, watching the people hurry past while I sip a teeny, tiny espresso. I drop the sugar cube in and stir it with the little spoon until it dissolves, half sugar/half espresso. Aaaah. The stress of life pools in a puddle at my feet and trickles down the sidewalk. I have left it behind.
I hold hands with my husband and walk along the Seine. We stop to admire artists at work and listen to his spattering of English as he tries to convince us to buy his art.
We linger at dinner, ordering things we aren't sure of then feeling our taste buds come alive again at the touch of the food on our tongues.
In the back of my mind though, that fear that if I do make it to France, I'll be worrying the whole time that I may not make it back. What if the volcano kicks up again and I am stranded in France? Oh, I know there are worse things in life, but the everyday banality of kids and work wait like a ticking clock.

Reading the Signs

Suppose you planned a dream vacation. Suppose you told all your friends about it and talked about it for months.
Then suppose you started having second thoughts. Maybe you shouldn't go. It was going to be expensive and you do have a child going off to college this year. Maybe it would be better to put off this vacation.
You looked for signs, other than the dollar signs.
Was it a sign when the airline said you couldn't get a refund? That meant you had to go.
Was it a sign when the hotel had a room available? Everything was falling into place.
Was it a sign when your friends planned to be in town that same weekend so you could see them?
All the signs seemed to be pointing to yes. Yes! This is the right vacation for you.
Perhaps, you were missing the smaller signs. Maybe even some medium-sized signs, because all of a sudden a large sign has shot from a glacier.
A volcano erupts in Iceland, stopping all overseas travel.
Now that's what I call a sign. A sign that no one could miss.
Don't worry, we have a backup plan.

Coincidence?

I rode my bike to work again today. The temperature was in the 80s.
Earl had the day off, so he rode his bike to the Clippers baseball game. The game started at 11:35 and I finished working at 1. I began to pedal home, and as I turned a corner, I see my husband on his bicycle headed home too. What are the odds?
He's trying to cross a busy intersection and is headed against the traffic.
"Hey mister," I call. "You're going the wrong way."
He ignores me.
He crosses the street and I follow him without even looking for traffic. That's the kind of leader he is, but the light has changed and a car is coming. It stops for me.
"Hey mister, what are you trying to do? Get us killed?" I call again.
"Shut up," he yells back at me.
He still hasn't looked at me.
"Hey, did you just say shut up?" I ask. "Cause I'm your wife."
He looks back then and sees me.
Later he tells me he thought I was some crazy bicycle harrasser. Well, I could be. But I'm still his wife and he can't escape that fact.
Photo of Huntington Park by Columbus Underground.

Blog Favoritism

My friend Sheila at her blog http://lifesmanycolors.wordpress.com/ keeps tracks of posts she writes according to topic. She has three kids, like I do, a girl and two boys.
She has written 30 posts about her daughter Bethany, 13 about her youngest son and nine about her oldest son.
I don't keep track of the topics of my blogs, but I'm sure that if I did, Grace would be one of the largest subjects of my blog. Not that the boys mind. They probably prefer not to be the topic of my blog. I just wonder if I write about Grace all the time because she is my oldest and everything she goes through is new, or if it's because she's a girl and I can relate to her growing up incidents.
Grace reads my blog and is quick to say, "I hate that photo of me" or "I totally agree." The boys don't read my blog, and it's a good thing. If Spencer had seen that photo of him asleep with his shaggy armpit hair sticking out, he would have been very embarrassed.
I was defending myself, thinking, what am I going to write about the boys. I sat through five basketball games this weekend. But I could've written about Spencer's new AAU basketball experience. We had no idea going in Sunday morning that if he won, he had to keep playing. They won two and finally lost the third. So much for a relaxing Sunday.
I could have written about Tucker's first track meet. I never thought he would stick with track. I mean, running that much is hard work and Tucker doesn't put hard work on the top of his "to do" list. But there he was last week, running in his first track meet. I don't know if it was a good time for him. I do know the wind was blowing and I was wearing a headband that covered my ears. My hair was curly and blowing in crazy strands all over the place. I was wrapped in a blanket and I took off as soon as he had run his last event. The bus would bring him home.
There are some things I haven't been able to write about, like inappropriate texting from a girlfriend, that ended Tucker in parent jail, even though, as he defended, "I didn't do anything." Just receiving that message was enough for me to become suspicious.
I'm not sure what I'll do next year when Grace moves nine hours away to go to school. Maybe I'll write a lot of posts about how much I miss her. Maybe I'll drive up there on long weekends and share some New England foliage with you all. Maybe my blog will fall silent as I am surrounded by two teenage boys, a husband and two male cats. At least the cats aren't exuding testosterone.

Livin' the High Life

Here's Grace coming home from her usual Sunday afternoon outing.

Well, truthfully, it was a special occasion in celebration of her friend Anna's 16th birthday. Her parents rented a limo to take 16 of them out to dinner. They drove around Ohio State and "partied" according to Grace. To clarify what this meant, I asked, and she explained they danced in their seats. She's a wild one, my oldest daughter.
But limos are a reminder that the prom season is sneaking up on us, so while I was shopping for vacation clothes yesterday, Grace searched for a prom dress and found this one.

I thought that it was too risque and that she was bound to feel exposed. The v is criss crossed with ties, but comes down well below the place a bra should be. She said she didn't feel exposed.
Her friend Emily pointed out that some boys might see down the neckline.
"Who'll see it besides boys who are actually taller than me?" she asked. Then ticked off on her fingers who that would be: "Jude, Chase, Sean."
After she'd tried on a dozen dresses, she returned to this green one.
"I really like this one," she said.
"You smiled the whole time you had it on," Emily added.
Now that's a good friend. The one who notices what makes you happy. I paid for the dress and took it home while the girls continued their shopping adventure. They didn't come home in a limo, but Em's Volvo isn't bad transportation.

Wardrobe Updates

Shopping is not something I enjoy. I like to go with a goal in mind, buy it, and come home. I know, weird.
Today I went to Macys in search of a dress for our trip to Paris. I didn't have a particular dress style or color in mind. I am getting better at choosing styles that look good on me -- smaller waist, full skirt. And I found this one with a swooping v-neck and a belt around the waist. I had to keep trying on smaller and smaller sizes, which says something about the dressmaker rather than any weight loss on my part.
The dress is a classic, Marilyn Monroe kind and Earl insisted I twirl while he took my picture. It's Jones of New York and its a polished cotton with a silky under liner.
The shoes I knew would be tricky. I want stylish shoes that feel good so I can walk for miles. Comfort and fashion just don't go together. I found these shoes called Jambu. Cute t-strap. Strap around the ankle as is the fashion this year. The shoe saleslady had a pair of this brand on and swears they are comfortable for working in. They feel very cushy on the bottoms of my feet. The verdict is still out on whether the leather tops will rub. I'm going to wear them around the house for awhile to test them.
Now my friends can stop worrying that I have nothing to wear in France. I have a dress and a pair of shoes. What else could I need?

Snooze Quandry

I'm one of those moms who has always gotten her kids up for school. Well, let's face it, they've only been in school for three years, so it isn't that long of a tradition. Now that Grace is 18, ready to go off to college, and Earl and I are preparing to leave for vacation, I've been letting them set their alarms and get up.
Grace is very reliable at this. She sets her alarm, gets up and jumps in the shower first.
Tucker also is fairly prompt at rousing himself.
I came back from the Y this morning at 7 and he was in the shower.
Spencer is another story. This boy sleeps hard. He always has. When I was waking him up, it became a yelling thing nearly every day. I'd start gentle. I'd call his name, shake his shoulder, turn the light on, throw a cat onto his bed. He might open his eyes, he might respond, but he wouldn't actually get up. Then 10 minutes before we were leaving, I'd be shouting and he'd be shouting back.
"You're going to have to walk to school. You're going to be late," I'd warn. Somehow, he always manages to stick his head under the shower, brush his teeth and run out the door to the car.
Most of the time he doesn't have time for breakfast. If I were 6-foot, 3-inches and 150 pounds, I'd want breakfast. Sometimes he'll grab a granola bar.
Now that he's in charge of waking himself up, he sets his phone as an alarm.
"I hit snooze four times," he explains. That's his plan. To wake up and turn off the alarm four times.
I just don't get it. Wouldn't it be better to sleep straight through until the absolute last minute you have to get up? Why wake up 15 minutes early, hit snooze, then five minutes later, hit snooze.
See, I just don't understand the appeal of the snooze button. It doesn't seem logical.
Can anyone explain it?

Happy is Boring

Yesterday it struck me that I am really happy. I have pretty much everything I want in life. Then this morning I received my sitemeter report and saw that the number of my blog readers has dropped this month. That's why I decided that happy doesn't make good reading. That's why artists must suffer.
Rebellious children, cheating husbands, floods, locusts...they all make good reading.
Happiness...not so much.
On our drive down to Florida, we listened to The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown. One of the characters in the book is studying a kind of science that determines that thoughts have mass, that they carry a kind of gravity that helps make things happen. Sound familiar? Yes, similar to the philosophy of the book The Secret.
That's when it struck me that last year, or was it the year before, during our runs we talked about intentions and whether our thoughts could affect our lives.
Two things I focused on increasing our income and going to France.
Hello. I just did our taxes and we made more money this year. And I'm going to France in two weeks. My intentions, my wishes, have come true.
That makes me feel powerful. Who knows what else I can accomplish? The tooth with the infected gum, the one the dentist said may need an implant, I began picturing little guys in there fixing the tooth, rebuilding bone. Now the gum isn't red and inflamed any more.
I've put behind my worries about college expenses, and since then I've been asked to sub for classes twice this week and had a call from a researcher at Vanderbilt who is going to pay me $20 to fill out a survey about the results of my knee surgery 7 years ago.
Of course, staying optimistic is especially easy when the weather reaches the 80s, the birds sing and I get to whiz along on my bike to work.
Oh, that's another thing. On Easter Sunday, at my sister-in-law's house, they pulled a bike off the wall of the garage and gave it to me. Now I have a bike to replace the one that was stolen last fall.
As I walked around campus yesterday with my bike helmet attached to my backpack, people kept commenting, "Did you ride your bike?" Traffic is awful near campus and parking is worse. So, I just smiled, so glad that I lived where I could ride my bike, so happy that the weather cooperated.
I can't help it. I'm just happy right now.

Prayer Interrupted

This morning after gorging on chocolate, our family schlepped off to church. We're Catholic and we made some dressing compromises to what we might normally wear, adding collared shirts for the boys and skirts for Grace and me.
By the time the service started, the church was crowded with people standing around every wall. I noticed a man with jaw-length, frizzy gray hair and a navy jacket come in a side door after the service had already started. I thought no more about him.
After the homily, which is the sermon, the priest sits down and we reflect on his words. Today he talked about expectations. He joked that expectations are just premeditated disappointments. Then he used an example of George on Seinfeld and how he decided to keep making the opposite decision of what he would normally do. It all tied back to the Apostles expectations after Jesus died.
Anyway, in the silence of meditation after the homily, the man with the frizzy gray hair yelled out, "Allah is great!"
Now, when I first heard his voice, I expected that this might be a new dynamic to the service. Our church has been known to put on plays, to have liturgical dancers, who was to say that this wasn't part of the Easter mass.
But when the man bolted from the church, we realized he wasn't a planned part of the service.
I thought it was strange, but we go to the Newman Center. Most people in attendance would probably have agreed with him. "Allah is great!" Then they might have taken it a step farther. "Yahweh is great!"
Our liberal church accepts other beliefs. We study our history which began Jewish and we've had Muslim leaders in to talk about their beliefs. The man wouldn't get a rise out of us for shouting "Allah is great."
But within a minute, I felt Grace's body trembling beside me. We no longer live in the kind of world where we can hear a man shout his belief in Islam without fearing that violence will follow.
I hugged Grace and told her that everything was fine. She asked me to come with her to get a drink of water and I did. Then I went back into church and she stayed in the outer rooms. I had just whispered to Earl that he should go looking for her before the Lord's Prayer. "I will after the Our Father," he said.
In our church we hold hands and then raise them on "the kingdom, the power and the glory." Before we reached that part, Grace came back in and slipped her hands to me and Earl.

Making a Mess

Ever notice how easy things look on television? My boys saw a commercial for Rice Krispie treats shaped into eggs and dipped in chocolate and sprinkles. They decided they would like to do that.
I have never made Rice Crispie treats. So I bought a box at the grocery and saw that I needed marshmallows and butter. I got out a heavy pan and the boys went to work.
Spencer melted the 3 tbsp. of butter then poured in a bag of miniature marshmallows. Tucker put some chocolate chips in the microwave to melt. Then they measured six cups of Rice Krispies and poured them into the pan.
This pan is cast iron and the whole thing gets hot, so one boy held the hot handle with a pot holder while the other stirred. The next step was to shape them into eggs shapes.
The commercial shows a mom with little children laughing and smiling as they pat the sticky treat into egg shapes. My boys quickly found out that more stuck to their hands than to the egg shape. And when they tried to dip it in chocolate, it came apart. They ate a lot off their hands and ended up running to the sink to wash them.
"Imagine if your hands were sticky like this all the time," Spencer said.
I suggested the gecko may have this problem.
"If you played Xbox with sticky hands like this, you'd ruin the controller," Spencer continued, mulling over the tribulations of sticky hands.
Spencer burned his wrist reaching into the hot pan and I think I didn't plan it very well.
"The commercial makes it look so easy," Spencer said.
"Yeah, but their mom was helping them," Tucker said accusing me. I laughed.
They ate a few and created eight Rice Krispie eggs that still remain.

Hangin' With the Teens

Since I have three teenagers of my own, I am well used to hanging out with teenagers, usually surly with high expectations, but sometimes surprisingly helpful and interesting.
I came to Florida with my daughter and her friend Sarah. Another high school friend was staying at St. Pete Beach a few hours away from us. His mother texted and asked if he could come spend the night. We were game and the kids spent some time in the pool and another few hours watching a movie on the patio television as it grew dark. We gave them the living room and I heard them laughing into the early morning hours.
We were driving to St. Pete Beach the next morning and I made plans to have lunch with a friend. I didn't count on the time it would take for these teens to drag themselves out of bed and get ready. I dropped them at the beach where the boy was staying with his parents and hurried to lunch with my friend. An hour late.
After I had a leisurely lunch and drive down the coast, the teens were ready for some action by the time I reached the hotel. They wanted to go to The Hurricane for grouper sandwiches. The parents opted not to come along and I immediately felt irritable. I'd just had lunch and I was going with the kids. Surely the parents could keep me company. I'd met the mother for drinks before to talk about all the happenings in our small town. In my own passive/aggressive way, I said nothing but headed out to the car with the three teenagers. I ordered a pina colada to assuage my grumpiness.
The Hurricane has long been one of our favorite restaurants on Pass-a-Grille beach south of St. Petersburg. When Earl and I worked for the Tampa Tribune we haunted the place. Then it was a little grubby but had the best grouper sandwiches ever. Now it has gone upscale and charges $16.95 for a grouper sandwich and a cup of coleslaw.
After the restaurant, I drove the kids to play miniature golf at a place with a giant Easter Island head. I sat in the car and read a book, wondering why I felt so grumpy when the Gulf of Mexico was on one side of me, the intercoastal waterway on the other and pelicans flew overhead. Surely I should just get over it.
I texted the mom to come pick up her son because we were driving back to my parents after mini golf. The kids sat on the curb waiting after they finished playing. Only two more days and they'd see each other back at home.
As we drove back, along an arching bridge, the girls squealed to see dolphins emerge in their slow arcs.
"That made my day," Grace said.
And, when I put aside my grumpiness, I have to admit it was a pretty amazing day.