We've spent the last couple of weeks on the road, visiting folks.
We stayed in a hotel and several housefuls of children and dogs. We had visits with uncles and aunts and cousins and random relatives from several sides of our families, and an old college friend to top it all off.
We went through seven-plus sleeping venue changes and forty-four people in less than fourteen days.
That count included four uncles, three aunts, five cousins, one niece, two nephews, at least fourteen children, my in-laws, a college friend, and various spouses, relatives, and associates. Oh, and not to mention three dogs, two baby pygmy goats, and approximately twenty-three cats and kittens.
It was a full trip.
The last morning on our way home, I started feeling kinda peckish. My stomach growled and gurgled. I put it down to being absolutely starved. We stopped for a late breakfast, and I ordered some of everything. But the food turned funny in my mouth, and the spinach in my omelet in particular tasted rotten. I didn't finish more than half. As we progressed further down the road, I felt more and more ill. Several hours later, we were finally home.
DH unloaded the car while I languished from room to room feeling disembodied. I felt compelled to sweep the floors, clearing out the dirt and grit that had accumulated while we were gone, but made little headway on the stack of mail or our luggage.
I did rouse myself to nurse between bouts of nausea, but then fell asleep at some indeterminate early-late hour on the couch with a small bowl in my hand. Even when my husband roused me in the wee hours to shuffle back to a real bed, I had to make a pit stop to heave into a wastebasket.
I fell into a deep, semi-dreamy sleep after forcing myself to visualize the faces of friends and family instead of the plate of spinach-laden omelet staring up at me.
When I woke, it was to the tune of cats vying for my ankles and my husband puttering in the front room. The little girl thumped her way down the hallway and into the bedroom to poke her head over the edge of the bed to smile at me. She saw the cats and started mewing at them. Miao, miao.
My husband came in the room. "She keeps saying appul or appun, and I don't know what she means," he said. "She's trying to say 'open,'" I muttered sleepily. She's using the cap on her new water bottle to learn about open and closed.
I sat up and felt, if not well, tolerably vertical. I sipped water, gingerly walked down the hall, and nursed the little girl.
I looked around curiously at the piles of baby toys and shoes, bags and boxes, and the stack of letters and bills still waiting for me. The suitcases hadn't even been unpacked yet.
Everything looked odd. It looked like somebody else's home. The next stop on the road.
Where was I again?
If it's Wednesday, it must be home. It is Wednesday, isn't it?
--
Showing posts with label travels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travels. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Monday, November 23, 2009
Travel Vignettes
Cows grazing on rollingly flat fields. Black and white, brown and white. A stream bed meanders through the landscape. Crows take flight in small flocks.
The sun slowly setting behind hills topped with winter-bare trees. Photographing knobby branches outlined by pale golden sunlight. Catching sight of the river.
Weathered out buildings. A barn with Mail Pouch Tobacco advertizement painted on. Old brick buildings, restored or boarded up.
Trucks thundering past on a winding narrow road. The SUV behind us tailgates, but where would they go? They couldn't pass those two tractortrailers either.
Over bridges with spans angled like Flying Geese triangles, brown, grey, green.
Baby tires of toys one after another and flings them to the side, over the car seat. There go the blocks, and the rattle. There goes the "sound machine." Still turned on, it gets stuck half way to the floor, a button pressed against the seat, - boingboingboingboing! and making us laugh until it's dislodged. There goes a burp rag too, and her blanket. Fling, flang, flung!
At gas stations, cars stuffed with families discharge to stop, stretch, recharge and refill.
A train passes in the distance, a homey, rolling sound with horns wailing and massive metal wheels rumbling on the tracks like a distant waterfall.
--
The sun slowly setting behind hills topped with winter-bare trees. Photographing knobby branches outlined by pale golden sunlight. Catching sight of the river.
Weathered out buildings. A barn with Mail Pouch Tobacco advertizement painted on. Old brick buildings, restored or boarded up.
Trucks thundering past on a winding narrow road. The SUV behind us tailgates, but where would they go? They couldn't pass those two tractortrailers either.
Over bridges with spans angled like Flying Geese triangles, brown, grey, green.
Baby tires of toys one after another and flings them to the side, over the car seat. There go the blocks, and the rattle. There goes the "sound machine." Still turned on, it gets stuck half way to the floor, a button pressed against the seat, - boingboingboingboing! and making us laugh until it's dislodged. There goes a burp rag too, and her blanket. Fling, flang, flung!
At gas stations, cars stuffed with families discharge to stop, stretch, recharge and refill.
A train passes in the distance, a homey, rolling sound with horns wailing and massive metal wheels rumbling on the tracks like a distant waterfall.
--
Sunday, November 22, 2009
The Good, The Bad, The Sleepless
So we survived the first night of our trip to enjoy the second.
The Sleepless:
Stayed up until nearly five am to prepare photographs of the baby for the grandparents photochip. Then after hours of singing to a non-sleeping baby in the car, found myself the following morning at four am, stepping in to put my daughter to sleep *again* after my husband had exhausted and exasperated himself on the same project. We had a very tired and very hungry little girl who was too tired to sleep or eat well. So that made three of us. I'm so tired, my eyes feel like they are about to shrivel up and fall out of my head.
The Bad:
We started the trip barely half an hour down the road with a suddenly fussy baby read: dirty diaper. We stopped at the best "travel center" we could find, and still had to change the little girl in a women's bathrooom in which the light bulbs were in imminent dancer of burning out, and NO changing station, necessitating using the tile floor (I have a cushioned changing mat, but still - Don't touch anything! I told her), AND enjoying the young ladies who came in and out in the dim light, washing hands, and using an incredibly loud and new-fangled "sheet of air" hand dryer, prompting the little girl to scream in terror. It was an inauspicious start.
At the end of the trip, after numerous misadventures and feeding-scheduling near-disasters, we found ourselves at our first stop - after midnight - in the worst "plush" hotel room I've ever had the misfortune to experience. The sufferings were slight but stinging. A nursing chair with no arms and too tall to put ones feet on the floor. What ergonomics? A heater that either ran continuously and noisily - when it wasn't putting out dry hot air, it was blowing cold breezes on us - or had to be turned completely off, which we did, preferring cold over noise. A bed that was ridiculously small for two people. Large, dark, fancy-ugly furnishings crammed into an already small room. Another interior designer's triumph over usability and common sense. A room that was not only NOT next to the lobby, but was located as far as one could possibly get from the lobby. Hellooo, end of hallway, fifth floor. Meanwhile, I haven't eaten in hours, and most of our travel food it too noisy to eat at night. I'm starving. And exhausted. Oh, a miserable night-day indeed.
The Good:
Hot showers that make me feel a little more alert and alive. Better feedings - several before noon - better nappings - little girl takes a nap on the bed for an hour before we leave. A modest travel day with good food, great weather and relaxed entertainments. Houston, we have a happy baby! The little girl entertains herself with red cylinders and teething links. I entertain myself by shooting scenery out the car windows with my snazzy new camera and feeding chocolate to Mr Sweetie. We eat lunch at our favorite reliably-decent-sushi-and-Asian-food-on-the-road, although I don't quite manage to stuff myself. Our next room is comfortable and convenient. The front desk offers to be of service and happily brings us more dental floss after we've run out. The duvet is plump and cozy. The pillows are poofy and self-re-fluffing, slowly rising up after each pressed hand. I set the little girl up on a bed with several pillows as bumpers, and she quickly learns the joys of sinking her face and arms into the fluffiness and Ummmming in delighted appreciation. I demonstrated how the pillows can be used to "bop" someone in the head, and she giggles wildly. We snack, we nap. We put the little girl on a soft play mat, and she "scootchs" off the mat and halfway across the room, adventuring at a snail's pace, looking back at us every so often for reassurance. Go, little girl! we say. I teach her how to call for Daddy and she practices calling for my attention, although she calls me Baba. She takes a one hour nap. I take a two hour nap. Mr. Sweetie troubleshoots dismantling a part of the travel bed. I read and write bloggy things. And then the little girl is down at a decent hour. I'm eating Nutella for dinner (hey, it's quiet!), my feet are going to sleep from kneeling in front of my husband's laptop on the floor, and it's still a good day. It's a good night for good sleep. Good night, all.
--
The Sleepless:
Stayed up until nearly five am to prepare photographs of the baby for the grandparents photochip. Then after hours of singing to a non-sleeping baby in the car, found myself the following morning at four am, stepping in to put my daughter to sleep *again* after my husband had exhausted and exasperated himself on the same project. We had a very tired and very hungry little girl who was too tired to sleep or eat well. So that made three of us. I'm so tired, my eyes feel like they are about to shrivel up and fall out of my head.
The Bad:
We started the trip barely half an hour down the road with a suddenly fussy baby read: dirty diaper. We stopped at the best "travel center" we could find, and still had to change the little girl in a women's bathrooom in which the light bulbs were in imminent dancer of burning out, and NO changing station, necessitating using the tile floor (I have a cushioned changing mat, but still - Don't touch anything! I told her), AND enjoying the young ladies who came in and out in the dim light, washing hands, and using an incredibly loud and new-fangled "sheet of air" hand dryer, prompting the little girl to scream in terror. It was an inauspicious start.
At the end of the trip, after numerous misadventures and feeding-scheduling near-disasters, we found ourselves at our first stop - after midnight - in the worst "plush" hotel room I've ever had the misfortune to experience. The sufferings were slight but stinging. A nursing chair with no arms and too tall to put ones feet on the floor. What ergonomics? A heater that either ran continuously and noisily - when it wasn't putting out dry hot air, it was blowing cold breezes on us - or had to be turned completely off, which we did, preferring cold over noise. A bed that was ridiculously small for two people. Large, dark, fancy-ugly furnishings crammed into an already small room. Another interior designer's triumph over usability and common sense. A room that was not only NOT next to the lobby, but was located as far as one could possibly get from the lobby. Hellooo, end of hallway, fifth floor. Meanwhile, I haven't eaten in hours, and most of our travel food it too noisy to eat at night. I'm starving. And exhausted. Oh, a miserable night-day indeed.
The Good:
Hot showers that make me feel a little more alert and alive. Better feedings - several before noon - better nappings - little girl takes a nap on the bed for an hour before we leave. A modest travel day with good food, great weather and relaxed entertainments. Houston, we have a happy baby! The little girl entertains herself with red cylinders and teething links. I entertain myself by shooting scenery out the car windows with my snazzy new camera and feeding chocolate to Mr Sweetie. We eat lunch at our favorite reliably-decent-sushi-and-Asian-food-on-the-road, although I don't quite manage to stuff myself. Our next room is comfortable and convenient. The front desk offers to be of service and happily brings us more dental floss after we've run out. The duvet is plump and cozy. The pillows are poofy and self-re-fluffing, slowly rising up after each pressed hand. I set the little girl up on a bed with several pillows as bumpers, and she quickly learns the joys of sinking her face and arms into the fluffiness and Ummmming in delighted appreciation. I demonstrated how the pillows can be used to "bop" someone in the head, and she giggles wildly. We snack, we nap. We put the little girl on a soft play mat, and she "scootchs" off the mat and halfway across the room, adventuring at a snail's pace, looking back at us every so often for reassurance. Go, little girl! we say. I teach her how to call for Daddy and she practices calling for my attention, although she calls me Baba. She takes a one hour nap. I take a two hour nap. Mr. Sweetie troubleshoots dismantling a part of the travel bed. I read and write bloggy things. And then the little girl is down at a decent hour. I'm eating Nutella for dinner (hey, it's quiet!), my feet are going to sleep from kneeling in front of my husband's laptop on the floor, and it's still a good day. It's a good night for good sleep. Good night, all.
--
Monday, November 9, 2009
And The Wall Came Down
I saw the Wall some twenty-four years ago, riding on the train between Frankfurt and Goettingen, en route to a Summer spent soaking up German culture and language. Off in the distance, I saw the pale gray line, peeking in and out of the hills. I didn't have to ask anybody; I knew it had to be the Wall. I wondered what it was like, living near the Wall. And how the forest felt with the Wall wending through it.
I saw the Wall at a little village near Wolfsburg, the pavement cut in two, even a house walled off at the back. The Wall cut through people's lives. And the village looked just as sweet and quaint as any with brick and cobblestone streets, neat houses with white and red and dark green cutely arranged, flowers in the petite shoebox gardens, as if it didn't have a scar marking across its face. We drove to where the road ended and sat on a bench in front of the Wall to take pictures. My friend mugged for the camera; he wasn't about to take this seriously in front of a foreigner. I could see the glint of guards moving inside the tower directly across. I wonder if they tired of tourists gawking at them, if they thought their job was a worthy one.
I saw the Wall in Berlin extending past the Reichstag to either side, covered in graffiti and paint. The paint ended at the ground. The green grass and neat pavement came right up to the wall on the West side. The base of the wall on the East side was a barren no-mans land of raked earth and barbed wire. The wall seemed like a piece of modern art, bending and angling seemingly at random. Who decided it would bend *there* and angle *there*? On that lovely Summer's day, we walked under the shady trees and out onto the plaza, into the museum that occupied the Reichstag building. My friends treated me to some ice cream in the cafe. No laws or debate in those halls those days, just velvet ropes and lump-sugar packets. They had seen it all before.
I saw the border where the lines of cars met the checkpoint booth, where lines of barriers threaded pedestrians through a convoluted path across stark concrete, which lead us through a prefab building where we presented our passports and told our story. I was going to visit as a tourist, yes, just for today, a few hours. Then I could go, and I wondered at the lack of ceremony. I was going behind the Wall, das Mauer. My West Berlin friends would pick me up in a couple of hours. They couldn't understand why I couldn't just take a tour bus.
I saw the divide when I went into East Berlin shops to look for books, children's toys, postcards, candy. The pages were slick and the ink was muddy and dark, the illustrations forbidding, the humor, dark. I casually said goodbye to the woman in a shop, and she stared at me oddly as if to wonder why I was so friendly and cheerful. I walked down sidewalks trying to find an art museum that was, of course, closed the exact day of the week I was there. Trying to find another bookshop, I strolled past a university and concrete bridges over a coffee au lait-colored river, and stumbled on a burnt-out synagogue with a plaque afixed to an ironwork fence: Vergiss es nie! I found the bookshop but they were inexplicably closed with an official paperwork fluttering on the door. I took a wrong turn trying to find my way back to the Centrum plaza and found myself on the greyest street, buildings crumbling and pocked with mortar wounds and time. I felt lost in this grey and dismal place. I glimpsed a small courtyard with laundry and bicycles parked inside, but there were few people about about to wonder who I was or what I was doing. Off in the distance, the radio tower "Alex" gleamed gold and silver. I stumbled back across the neighborhood into the comparative glitz of the central plaza and passed a man in military uniform, shyly averting my eyes hoping he wouldn't wonder too much about this young tourist wearing jeans and sneakers. I never did find the avenue of Linden trees before I ran out of time.
And then I asked where I could exchange the remains of my East German money. The lady at the bland border bank was a little stunned at the question, and tried to explain to me that I was not allowed to exchange money back to West German Marks.
I don't remember when the Wall came down. I'm sure I watched it on television back home from my own isolation of a remote corner of the state. I'm sure I rejoiced and cried tears to see people jubilant and emotional, hefting sledgehammers and shouting and crying. I'm sure I felt an oppressive cloud lift as the earth under the Wall groaned from the release. I'm sure I did not know how challenging the long divide would continue to be.
I see a footprint of the former wall cutting across cobblestones, delineated with brick and brass. The Wall says: I was here. I remain here a ghost. I am gone, but you cannot erase me.
On the twenty-year anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.
--
I saw the Wall at a little village near Wolfsburg, the pavement cut in two, even a house walled off at the back. The Wall cut through people's lives. And the village looked just as sweet and quaint as any with brick and cobblestone streets, neat houses with white and red and dark green cutely arranged, flowers in the petite shoebox gardens, as if it didn't have a scar marking across its face. We drove to where the road ended and sat on a bench in front of the Wall to take pictures. My friend mugged for the camera; he wasn't about to take this seriously in front of a foreigner. I could see the glint of guards moving inside the tower directly across. I wonder if they tired of tourists gawking at them, if they thought their job was a worthy one.
I saw the Wall in Berlin extending past the Reichstag to either side, covered in graffiti and paint. The paint ended at the ground. The green grass and neat pavement came right up to the wall on the West side. The base of the wall on the East side was a barren no-mans land of raked earth and barbed wire. The wall seemed like a piece of modern art, bending and angling seemingly at random. Who decided it would bend *there* and angle *there*? On that lovely Summer's day, we walked under the shady trees and out onto the plaza, into the museum that occupied the Reichstag building. My friends treated me to some ice cream in the cafe. No laws or debate in those halls those days, just velvet ropes and lump-sugar packets. They had seen it all before.
I saw the border where the lines of cars met the checkpoint booth, where lines of barriers threaded pedestrians through a convoluted path across stark concrete, which lead us through a prefab building where we presented our passports and told our story. I was going to visit as a tourist, yes, just for today, a few hours. Then I could go, and I wondered at the lack of ceremony. I was going behind the Wall, das Mauer. My West Berlin friends would pick me up in a couple of hours. They couldn't understand why I couldn't just take a tour bus.
I saw the divide when I went into East Berlin shops to look for books, children's toys, postcards, candy. The pages were slick and the ink was muddy and dark, the illustrations forbidding, the humor, dark. I casually said goodbye to the woman in a shop, and she stared at me oddly as if to wonder why I was so friendly and cheerful. I walked down sidewalks trying to find an art museum that was, of course, closed the exact day of the week I was there. Trying to find another bookshop, I strolled past a university and concrete bridges over a coffee au lait-colored river, and stumbled on a burnt-out synagogue with a plaque afixed to an ironwork fence: Vergiss es nie! I found the bookshop but they were inexplicably closed with an official paperwork fluttering on the door. I took a wrong turn trying to find my way back to the Centrum plaza and found myself on the greyest street, buildings crumbling and pocked with mortar wounds and time. I felt lost in this grey and dismal place. I glimpsed a small courtyard with laundry and bicycles parked inside, but there were few people about about to wonder who I was or what I was doing. Off in the distance, the radio tower "Alex" gleamed gold and silver. I stumbled back across the neighborhood into the comparative glitz of the central plaza and passed a man in military uniform, shyly averting my eyes hoping he wouldn't wonder too much about this young tourist wearing jeans and sneakers. I never did find the avenue of Linden trees before I ran out of time.
And then I asked where I could exchange the remains of my East German money. The lady at the bland border bank was a little stunned at the question, and tried to explain to me that I was not allowed to exchange money back to West German Marks.
I don't remember when the Wall came down. I'm sure I watched it on television back home from my own isolation of a remote corner of the state. I'm sure I rejoiced and cried tears to see people jubilant and emotional, hefting sledgehammers and shouting and crying. I'm sure I felt an oppressive cloud lift as the earth under the Wall groaned from the release. I'm sure I did not know how challenging the long divide would continue to be.
I see a footprint of the former wall cutting across cobblestones, delineated with brick and brass. The Wall says: I was here. I remain here a ghost. I am gone, but you cannot erase me.
On the twenty-year anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.
--
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Ah, Arizona
Looking through my Flickr site recently, I found a stream-of-conscious piece about Arizona, and thought I'd repost it here interspersed with a few images from that time.
--
Early Morning Sky in late July
Organ Pipe Morning Bloom
The entrance to the Desert Botanical Garden
always looks magical in early morning light.
Members are allowed in at 6 a.m. twice a
week. The light is so gorgeous, I don't mind
the heat so much, although it's already
starting to bake.
Ah, Arizona. Can't live there. Can visit.
Unfortunately, I can't include the full sensory experience here.
The heavy blanket of heat, the smell of creosote bushes, the pale feathery palo verde trees swaying in the hot breeze,
the sounds of native birds cooing, rattling or buzzing, the subtle change in humidity when the seasons shift, the sight of saguaro cacti in the pouring rain when the monsoon rains finally hit and the sudden burst of growth,
Ocotillo Leafing Out /o ko TEE yo/
the public art on every highway ramp and overpass, the taste of prickley pear candy, the tinkle of seed pods on the ground, and cookies made from them,
the fellowship of people, the native crafts that astound one everywhere, the sight of a tarantula spider running across the road on a reservation, the thrill (and terror) of having to pass someone on a two-lane highway at 100 mph, while seeing oncoming traffic two miles away,
the sheer grandure and scale of the landscape, trying to capture it all,
The Echo Cliffs between Flagstaff and Page.
staying inside all day because of the heat waiting for the temps to drop below 100F and the humidity to rise above 4%, then going out in the late evening to eat and check out the gallery scene,
spilled water drying on the floor in minutes, no cold water in Summer,
waiting and waiting for rainclouds to drop some moisture, arroyos or "rivers" of dry gravel, gravel desert yards,
the people in Scottsdale who insist on wasting water to grow green grass, the canals of water, the flavour of PHX water, the isolation and poverty of the reservations,
the vibrant creativity and skill of artisans featured at the Heard Museum, my lusting after turquoise I can't afford,
Contemporary work by Jesse Monogya at the Heard Museum
climbing up South Mountain trying to get there before dusk and my husband freaked out about the steep drop, avoiding heatstroke, sad histories, dry desert shifting colors at sunset...
Looking North, Phoenix is spread out at our feet. People of all cultures and ages, families and young people, come to South Mountain to enjoy the view and the warm evening breezes, a welcome respite from the relentless heat of the day. At dusk, the temperatures are dropping below 100F for the night.
It's hard to leave Arizona. Can't live there. Can't forget it.
--
--
Early Morning Sky in late July
Organ Pipe Morning Bloom
The entrance to the Desert Botanical Garden
always looks magical in early morning light.
Members are allowed in at 6 a.m. twice a
week. The light is so gorgeous, I don't mind
the heat so much, although it's already
starting to bake.
Ah, Arizona. Can't live there. Can visit.
Unfortunately, I can't include the full sensory experience here.
The heavy blanket of heat, the smell of creosote bushes, the pale feathery palo verde trees swaying in the hot breeze,
the sounds of native birds cooing, rattling or buzzing, the subtle change in humidity when the seasons shift, the sight of saguaro cacti in the pouring rain when the monsoon rains finally hit and the sudden burst of growth,
Ocotillo Leafing Out /o ko TEE yo/
the public art on every highway ramp and overpass, the taste of prickley pear candy, the tinkle of seed pods on the ground, and cookies made from them,
the fellowship of people, the native crafts that astound one everywhere, the sight of a tarantula spider running across the road on a reservation, the thrill (and terror) of having to pass someone on a two-lane highway at 100 mph, while seeing oncoming traffic two miles away,
the sheer grandure and scale of the landscape, trying to capture it all,
The Echo Cliffs between Flagstaff and Page.
staying inside all day because of the heat waiting for the temps to drop below 100F and the humidity to rise above 4%, then going out in the late evening to eat and check out the gallery scene,
spilled water drying on the floor in minutes, no cold water in Summer,
waiting and waiting for rainclouds to drop some moisture, arroyos or "rivers" of dry gravel, gravel desert yards,
the people in Scottsdale who insist on wasting water to grow green grass, the canals of water, the flavour of PHX water, the isolation and poverty of the reservations,
the vibrant creativity and skill of artisans featured at the Heard Museum, my lusting after turquoise I can't afford,
Contemporary work by Jesse Monogya at the Heard Museum
climbing up South Mountain trying to get there before dusk and my husband freaked out about the steep drop, avoiding heatstroke, sad histories, dry desert shifting colors at sunset...
Looking North, Phoenix is spread out at our feet. People of all cultures and ages, families and young people, come to South Mountain to enjoy the view and the warm evening breezes, a welcome respite from the relentless heat of the day. At dusk, the temperatures are dropping below 100F for the night.
It's hard to leave Arizona. Can't live there. Can't forget it.
--
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Traveling Retreat
for NaBloPoMo
Things to do in a hotel room for x hours.
A recreation
Figure out how to turn on the heat. Rearrange chair. Take 2 minute nap with feet up.
Look at the bathroom layout and check out all the free toiletries. Try out the hand lotion.
See whether the hotel has an exercise room/pool.
Debate whether the swimming pool is even open. Decide that, if it's this cold outside, probably not.
Eat some cheese and crackers. Eat some truffles. Eat an apple and some walnuts.
Test all the pillows. Bounce on the bed. Look for another blanket. Nap.
Read a new book. Debate whether to start addressing Christmas cards.
Figure out how to access free wireless internet.
Check email. Try to remember all your passwords. Check Facebook. Check Twitter. Check Flickr. Post for NaBloPoMo. Check world news.
Scroll through lots of excruciatingly bad television in search of intelligent life.
Watch three episodes of "Third Rock From the Sun" in a row.
Look for Tina Fey credits.
Google Tina Fey on free internet access. Realize that all this time, that you were confusing "Third Rock" with "Thirty Rock."
Finish reading the paper.
Nap. Snuggle. Carry on.
Find intelligent life on TV and decide to eat some cereal.
Think about grading papers.
Drink more water. Turn down heat.
Fret over swollen ankles. Prop up feet.
Take a long shower. Test all the free toiletries. Do yoga. Drink more water.
Listen to clock radio.
Clean coat where burrito sauce dripped.
Rearrange clothing in luggage.
Talk about the route/schedule for tomorrow.
Look at the clock.
Read more on the book.
Comb hair. Fret about how dry it is. Turn down heat.
Get ice. Drink juice. Rearrange food in cooler.
Check weather report. Notice that it's still cold. Tuck in fleece lap blanket.
Arrange pillows. Nap.
Pause to let child kick you (again).
Eat another snack. Drink water. Read. Check email.
Wonder where the last 10 hours went. Decide it doesn't matter.
Sleep.
--
Things to do in a hotel room for x hours.
A recreation
Figure out how to turn on the heat. Rearrange chair. Take 2 minute nap with feet up.
Look at the bathroom layout and check out all the free toiletries. Try out the hand lotion.
See whether the hotel has an exercise room/pool.
Debate whether the swimming pool is even open. Decide that, if it's this cold outside, probably not.
Eat some cheese and crackers. Eat some truffles. Eat an apple and some walnuts.
Test all the pillows. Bounce on the bed. Look for another blanket. Nap.
Read a new book. Debate whether to start addressing Christmas cards.
Figure out how to access free wireless internet.
Check email. Try to remember all your passwords. Check Facebook. Check Twitter. Check Flickr. Post for NaBloPoMo. Check world news.
Scroll through lots of excruciatingly bad television in search of intelligent life.
Watch three episodes of "Third Rock From the Sun" in a row.
Look for Tina Fey credits.
Google Tina Fey on free internet access. Realize that all this time, that you were confusing "Third Rock" with "Thirty Rock."
Finish reading the paper.
Nap. Snuggle. Carry on.
Find intelligent life on TV and decide to eat some cereal.
Think about grading papers.
Drink more water. Turn down heat.
Fret over swollen ankles. Prop up feet.
Take a long shower. Test all the free toiletries. Do yoga. Drink more water.
Listen to clock radio.
Clean coat where burrito sauce dripped.
Rearrange clothing in luggage.
Talk about the route/schedule for tomorrow.
Look at the clock.
Read more on the book.
Comb hair. Fret about how dry it is. Turn down heat.
Get ice. Drink juice. Rearrange food in cooler.
Check weather report. Notice that it's still cold. Tuck in fleece lap blanket.
Arrange pillows. Nap.
Pause to let child kick you (again).
Eat another snack. Drink water. Read. Check email.
Wonder where the last 10 hours went. Decide it doesn't matter.
Sleep.
--
Saturday, November 22, 2008
From the Road
for NaBloPoMo
Nice things along the way:
Reclined naps with pillow to cushion the bounciness of the road.
Black cows against snow-dusted hillsides.
Homemade ice cream in bitterly cold weather.
Walkable down towns.
Fleece lap warmers.
Getting off early in the day so we can get in early in the day.
Early vacation.
A clean kitchen to come home to.
Truffles for the road.
More relaxation than stress.
Free wireless access.
It's lovely.
--
Nice things along the way:
Reclined naps with pillow to cushion the bounciness of the road.
Black cows against snow-dusted hillsides.
Homemade ice cream in bitterly cold weather.
Walkable down towns.
Fleece lap warmers.
Getting off early in the day so we can get in early in the day.
Early vacation.
A clean kitchen to come home to.
Truffles for the road.
More relaxation than stress.
Free wireless access.
It's lovely.
--
Saturday, September 20, 2008
IKEAified!
So, I'd heard about this place from my far-off internet friends. Camelot! I mean, Ikea!
Some dreamland of inexpensive, well-designed home decor, both heaven and bane of decorators on the cheap. Heaven, because you can find the best cool home stuff for modest cash outlay, and the bane because there are so many good things, it's hard to get away without more than you planned on. Ir-re-sist-able! LIke a Swedish Target with better furniture. Or something.
I heard people speak with glee and satisfaction of putting together that new orange couch or finding the perfect thingie to organize or round out the room. You'd think it was the holy grail of "the rug that pulls the whole room together."
This remained a curiosity, though, because there are no Ikea stores in my area. None, nada, zilch. We finally got a few Trader Joe's last year, and oh, happy day! But no Ikea. Okay, I can deal.
Flash forward to this Summer when we decided we had to replace/expand kitchen cabinets and countertops this year. (Must. Renovate. Before. Baby. Comes.)* And somehow in the last 5 or 6 years, the price for replacing kitchen cabinets has skyrocketed. I have an old cost estimate I worked up in the Dark Ages. $800 dollars, people. Today's prices? About $5000. *gak* Worse, I frankly hated the stuff I was now seeing at H0me Dep0t and L0wes.
*We currently have a mere 8 cabinets and 2 small countertop spaces. Renovation would at least double that.
The neighborhood listserv gave me all kinds of ideas. Many people suggested custom-built, which, as we know, is doable, but (probably) not in our better budget. But! A couple people raved about their Ikea experience. I thought, wait, you mean Ikea does kitchen cabinets too????? It took that many question marks because I had that big light bulb over my head. I lit up with the idea that Ikea was going to save us from over-priced bad design (or even over-priced good design).
I did a g0ogle search, and found that the nearest Ikea was either in DC or Atlanta, or maybe Cincinnati. Never fear, we could also order cabinets online. I poked about on the website and it was definitely worth looking into. However, we have this thing called We-need-to-see-it-in-person-to-satisfy-quality-standards-and-design-ideas. Conveniently enough, we were supposed to go to Virginia for a work/social event. What's another few hours to DC? We could do this thing AND visit the Ikea. My husband was on board with this plan, so that's what happened.
This happened to be the Hurricane Ike weekend wherein gas prices shot up way past $4/gallon, and the weather was all hot and icky, AND I was a little stressed about preparing for the work thing. But luckily, at the last minute, I found my old kitchen floor plan and notes buried in the office (under "current" house projects - ha!), and my husband drove the whole way.
Thus it was that we did our work thing Saturday, woke up Sunday morning, visited some more, then headed up I-95 to Woodbridge. Thanks to those online maps, I even knew which exit to use to get to the mall (which, by the way, appears to cover a solid two miles of acreage).
Me in my current condition, I also had to eat every couple of hours. Never fear, I told my husband, I heard they have a cafe too.
I have to admit, I felt a little shiver of excitement as we pulled into the parking garage. "Oo! oo! Ikea!" And again when we entered the store. "Look, honey! They have a loading dock!" We tried to not look like hicks visiting the big city for the first time, but it's hard to remain cool when faced with such an iconic giant.
We deliberately did not follow the crowd, pausing frequently to get our bearings. I had warned my husband that it was known as a place to get lost. But first, we had to eat. We followed the sound of clinking dinnerware past the kids' play area to the cafeteria. I was chagrined to notice they had few vegetarian options, and amused to notice that they had the desserts on display first thing in line. But we opted for penne pasta with marinara sauce and either salad or mixed vegetables, and that turned out to be the perfect lunch.
During lunch, we reviewed the paperwork I had brought with me: One kitchen floor plan to scale and some cabinet piece counts. We also reviewed strategy. There would be a lot to look at, but our priority was to hash out some ideas of kitchen design based on what they had, and still have time left to drive all the way home that night, 5+ hours.
So after lunch and a quick bathroom break (Oo, look! A mother's room!) , we started in on the cabinetry.
Right in the front of the kitchen area was the cutest little 3-D model kitchen. The walls of the doll-house, I mean, model, were gridded with measurements and the floor was littered with wooden scale models of cabinet and appliances that you would rearrange to your satisfaction. The wee wall cabinets even had magnets that would make them cling to the sides of the model. It was so darling, I immediately wanted to play with it, but we were quickly distracted by a walls worth of models of all the door finishes. But first, I had to pry my husband away from the appliances! Yes, they have dishwashers, too.
I had already narrowed down our preferences via the internet, and we zeroed in on our top two choices, asking questions and taking notes. Mr. Sweetie was in his element, looking things over with a sharp eye and analyzing data. He took their estimated price for a 10-ft kitchen space and extrapolated what our space would cost... coming up with something very doable! Okay, then!
We quickly decided that the white old-fashioned look was both more to our preference and more economical than the one wood version that would go with our existing paneling, and within minutes, reassured ourselves that this would make sense for both our stylistic ideals and our budget.
I was surprised to realize how much I liked the wooden counter tops. That might tie in to all that existing wood in the rest of the room, and they looked great with our fav cabinets. My husband then spent some time asking about the difference between Corian stone and marble countertops, even though we had soon figured out that the Corian would run 5 times as much as the wood or laminate. The prices looked similar until I noticed that the wood was priced by the piece lengths and the Corian was priced by square foot. Sneaky!
Then I was entranced by a display that had all the cabinet widths displayed in sequence: 12", 15", 18", 24", 30", 36"... So many combinations of shelves or pull out drawers, my head was spinning. What I really wanted, I declared, was a brochure that had all options and prices and pictures together, so that I wouldn't drive myself crazy trying to write down every single available option. I found one product list and started checking my cabinet dimensions against the catalogue while the Mister started browsing amongst the drawer inserts. (I really like the wooden one. Yes, honey, but we have one already.)
Then Mr. Sweetie wandered off himself and found the sample kitchen for our favorite cabinet... Oooo!
This was bliss indeed. We wandered about that corner in a happy daze, absorbing the feel of the design, and gazing about as if we were living there. For a while, we ping-ponged around, opening cabinets and exploring, and saying, oo, I like that! How about *that* cabinet feature?
I finally started to focus and correlate the display in front of us with the catalogue, and cross-checking against our floor plan. It was then we discovered that the display showed all of the mid-to-large widths.
They looked fantastic, but since our kitchen space is rather restricted, our options were also limited. No fancy glass doors for us, alas, because they were only available in widths that did not fit in our space! A big bummer to adjust to that reality. As a consolation, I started taking pictures of the info tags and pieces that *would* fit in our kitchen plan.
It felt really important to be able to bring home the vision of what we wanted, so I was glad that nobody fussed at us for taking pictures. [insert pictures here] We also realized that we had enough ceiling height to put in the taller cabinets, making more use of the space we have, so at least that was a nice surprise.
After we had exhausted ourselves of all practical and feel-good activities, we realized we had been there almost two hours, and time well-spent indeed! We decided that we'd give ourselves only another 30-40 minutes to scan the *rest* of the store to see what was there was to see. There was actually a path with traffic flow arrows on it, but since the kitchen was near the end of the route, we were far from the starting point. We decided to continue in a clockwise direction, not realizing that we'd be walking against the rest of the customer traffic! D'oh! Call us nonconformists.
We walked through the rest of the kitchens and into bedrooms and into living rooms, offices, et al, skimming through the entire place.
Now, this was interesting. I did not expect my husband to be ultimately enamored of Ikea in the same way I heard my friends talk about it. But gradually, we both became really delighted with the place. Especially after trying out multiple chairs, we did find a living room reading chair/recliner that we both loved. This place was *so cool*, we agreed. We both noticed that the designs were not so overblown as to overpower our living space. Everything seemed sleek and modest rather than lavish and oversized. It must be a European thing, I concluded... and we like it! Living in a modest space, we were delighted to find furniture that would actually fit!
I was starting to get tired, but we rushed through the children's section long enough to note a few pieces of furniture for future reference. Not enough attention to really wander at that point. (Oo, look at that cute (and inexpensive) crib! And those darling little wall lamps! I want green kiddie chair!)
And then when we were leaving, Mr. Sweetie asked about getting the recliner. Um, can we get it into the car within half and hour, because I am fading fast... Can it even *fit* in our little car? No energy to contemplate, so we left the store tired but glowing, stopping only to eat some bento box sushi at one of the surrounding strip/clump malls. The food did us good, and we got back on the road by 5 p.m.
Of course, later, we were kicking ourselves for not attempting to get the box into the car, because the shipping charges would kill us. It really was a great recliner. It is. Maybe if we go up to haul the cabinets home, we can stuff the chair in the U-Haul as well.
And if we get the recliner, maybe we could get the matching chair and thereby have an even better excuse to get rid of the ugly 70s brown metal tubing chairs that I've had forever? Hmmm. And maybe a new couch someday? Oh, the possibilities!
Yup, it's official. We've been Ikeaified. And we *like* it.
Some dreamland of inexpensive, well-designed home decor, both heaven and bane of decorators on the cheap. Heaven, because you can find the best cool home stuff for modest cash outlay, and the bane because there are so many good things, it's hard to get away without more than you planned on. Ir-re-sist-able! LIke a Swedish Target with better furniture. Or something.
I heard people speak with glee and satisfaction of putting together that new orange couch or finding the perfect thingie to organize or round out the room. You'd think it was the holy grail of "the rug that pulls the whole room together."
This remained a curiosity, though, because there are no Ikea stores in my area. None, nada, zilch. We finally got a few Trader Joe's last year, and oh, happy day! But no Ikea. Okay, I can deal.
Flash forward to this Summer when we decided we had to replace/expand kitchen cabinets and countertops this year. (Must. Renovate. Before. Baby. Comes.)* And somehow in the last 5 or 6 years, the price for replacing kitchen cabinets has skyrocketed. I have an old cost estimate I worked up in the Dark Ages. $800 dollars, people. Today's prices? About $5000. *gak* Worse, I frankly hated the stuff I was now seeing at H0me Dep0t and L0wes.
*We currently have a mere 8 cabinets and 2 small countertop spaces. Renovation would at least double that.
The neighborhood listserv gave me all kinds of ideas. Many people suggested custom-built, which, as we know, is doable, but (probably) not in our better budget. But! A couple people raved about their Ikea experience. I thought, wait, you mean Ikea does kitchen cabinets too????? It took that many question marks because I had that big light bulb over my head. I lit up with the idea that Ikea was going to save us from over-priced bad design (or even over-priced good design).
I did a g0ogle search, and found that the nearest Ikea was either in DC or Atlanta, or maybe Cincinnati. Never fear, we could also order cabinets online. I poked about on the website and it was definitely worth looking into. However, we have this thing called We-need-to-see-it-in-person-to-satisfy-quality-standards-and-design-ideas. Conveniently enough, we were supposed to go to Virginia for a work/social event. What's another few hours to DC? We could do this thing AND visit the Ikea. My husband was on board with this plan, so that's what happened.
This happened to be the Hurricane Ike weekend wherein gas prices shot up way past $4/gallon, and the weather was all hot and icky, AND I was a little stressed about preparing for the work thing. But luckily, at the last minute, I found my old kitchen floor plan and notes buried in the office (under "current" house projects - ha!), and my husband drove the whole way.
Thus it was that we did our work thing Saturday, woke up Sunday morning, visited some more, then headed up I-95 to Woodbridge. Thanks to those online maps, I even knew which exit to use to get to the mall (which, by the way, appears to cover a solid two miles of acreage).
Me in my current condition, I also had to eat every couple of hours. Never fear, I told my husband, I heard they have a cafe too.
I have to admit, I felt a little shiver of excitement as we pulled into the parking garage. "Oo! oo! Ikea!" And again when we entered the store. "Look, honey! They have a loading dock!" We tried to not look like hicks visiting the big city for the first time, but it's hard to remain cool when faced with such an iconic giant.
We deliberately did not follow the crowd, pausing frequently to get our bearings. I had warned my husband that it was known as a place to get lost. But first, we had to eat. We followed the sound of clinking dinnerware past the kids' play area to the cafeteria. I was chagrined to notice they had few vegetarian options, and amused to notice that they had the desserts on display first thing in line. But we opted for penne pasta with marinara sauce and either salad or mixed vegetables, and that turned out to be the perfect lunch.
During lunch, we reviewed the paperwork I had brought with me: One kitchen floor plan to scale and some cabinet piece counts. We also reviewed strategy. There would be a lot to look at, but our priority was to hash out some ideas of kitchen design based on what they had, and still have time left to drive all the way home that night, 5+ hours.
So after lunch and a quick bathroom break (Oo, look! A mother's room!) , we started in on the cabinetry.
Right in the front of the kitchen area was the cutest little 3-D model kitchen. The walls of the doll-house, I mean, model, were gridded with measurements and the floor was littered with wooden scale models of cabinet and appliances that you would rearrange to your satisfaction. The wee wall cabinets even had magnets that would make them cling to the sides of the model. It was so darling, I immediately wanted to play with it, but we were quickly distracted by a walls worth of models of all the door finishes. But first, I had to pry my husband away from the appliances! Yes, they have dishwashers, too.
I had already narrowed down our preferences via the internet, and we zeroed in on our top two choices, asking questions and taking notes. Mr. Sweetie was in his element, looking things over with a sharp eye and analyzing data. He took their estimated price for a 10-ft kitchen space and extrapolated what our space would cost... coming up with something very doable! Okay, then!
We quickly decided that the white old-fashioned look was both more to our preference and more economical than the one wood version that would go with our existing paneling, and within minutes, reassured ourselves that this would make sense for both our stylistic ideals and our budget.
I was surprised to realize how much I liked the wooden counter tops. That might tie in to all that existing wood in the rest of the room, and they looked great with our fav cabinets. My husband then spent some time asking about the difference between Corian stone and marble countertops, even though we had soon figured out that the Corian would run 5 times as much as the wood or laminate. The prices looked similar until I noticed that the wood was priced by the piece lengths and the Corian was priced by square foot. Sneaky!
Then I was entranced by a display that had all the cabinet widths displayed in sequence: 12", 15", 18", 24", 30", 36"... So many combinations of shelves or pull out drawers, my head was spinning. What I really wanted, I declared, was a brochure that had all options and prices and pictures together, so that I wouldn't drive myself crazy trying to write down every single available option. I found one product list and started checking my cabinet dimensions against the catalogue while the Mister started browsing amongst the drawer inserts. (I really like the wooden one. Yes, honey, but we have one already.)
Then Mr. Sweetie wandered off himself and found the sample kitchen for our favorite cabinet... Oooo!
This was bliss indeed. We wandered about that corner in a happy daze, absorbing the feel of the design, and gazing about as if we were living there. For a while, we ping-ponged around, opening cabinets and exploring, and saying, oo, I like that! How about *that* cabinet feature?
I finally started to focus and correlate the display in front of us with the catalogue, and cross-checking against our floor plan. It was then we discovered that the display showed all of the mid-to-large widths.
They looked fantastic, but since our kitchen space is rather restricted, our options were also limited. No fancy glass doors for us, alas, because they were only available in widths that did not fit in our space! A big bummer to adjust to that reality. As a consolation, I started taking pictures of the info tags and pieces that *would* fit in our kitchen plan.
It felt really important to be able to bring home the vision of what we wanted, so I was glad that nobody fussed at us for taking pictures. [insert pictures here] We also realized that we had enough ceiling height to put in the taller cabinets, making more use of the space we have, so at least that was a nice surprise.
After we had exhausted ourselves of all practical and feel-good activities, we realized we had been there almost two hours, and time well-spent indeed! We decided that we'd give ourselves only another 30-40 minutes to scan the *rest* of the store to see what was there was to see. There was actually a path with traffic flow arrows on it, but since the kitchen was near the end of the route, we were far from the starting point. We decided to continue in a clockwise direction, not realizing that we'd be walking against the rest of the customer traffic! D'oh! Call us nonconformists.
We walked through the rest of the kitchens and into bedrooms and into living rooms, offices, et al, skimming through the entire place.
Now, this was interesting. I did not expect my husband to be ultimately enamored of Ikea in the same way I heard my friends talk about it. But gradually, we both became really delighted with the place. Especially after trying out multiple chairs, we did find a living room reading chair/recliner that we both loved. This place was *so cool*, we agreed. We both noticed that the designs were not so overblown as to overpower our living space. Everything seemed sleek and modest rather than lavish and oversized. It must be a European thing, I concluded... and we like it! Living in a modest space, we were delighted to find furniture that would actually fit!
I was starting to get tired, but we rushed through the children's section long enough to note a few pieces of furniture for future reference. Not enough attention to really wander at that point. (Oo, look at that cute (and inexpensive) crib! And those darling little wall lamps! I want green kiddie chair!)
And then when we were leaving, Mr. Sweetie asked about getting the recliner. Um, can we get it into the car within half and hour, because I am fading fast... Can it even *fit* in our little car? No energy to contemplate, so we left the store tired but glowing, stopping only to eat some bento box sushi at one of the surrounding strip/clump malls. The food did us good, and we got back on the road by 5 p.m.
Of course, later, we were kicking ourselves for not attempting to get the box into the car, because the shipping charges would kill us. It really was a great recliner. It is. Maybe if we go up to haul the cabinets home, we can stuff the chair in the U-Haul as well.
And if we get the recliner, maybe we could get the matching chair and thereby have an even better excuse to get rid of the ugly 70s brown metal tubing chairs that I've had forever? Hmmm. And maybe a new couch someday? Oh, the possibilities!
Yup, it's official. We've been Ikeaified. And we *like* it.
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