Living the Pura Vida

Again I am faced with the challenge of summing up an incredible, and full, week of vacation in a way that doesn't bore you to tears and yet captures the essence of our experiences.  Costa Rica was wild, amazing, beautiful, and adventurous.  Our group of six had an amazing time.  This entry will be long.  I can feel it already and I warn you of it now.  Here goes nothing.

The Players:

Felicia Baker

An American woman of loose morals who professes her love to strangers on the beach.

Heather Birky

An American woman of loose morals who kept trying to sell herself on the street corner.

Dan Buell

An American man who wrangles Costa Rican wild life and enjoys singing Lady Gaga in the shower.

Colin Shafer

An American man who enjoys long walks on the beach - without telling his companions where he's going.

Brian Showalter

An American man who holds on to his rafting oar in any circumstances.

Lisa Showalter

An American woman of loose morals who clearly looks like a pot-head as she was offered a toke from a hippie joint.

Day 1:  (a.k.a. The Never Ending Day, Take 1)

The trip begins at 12:00 AM on Sunday as we head to Chicago for our early flight to Costa Rica.  Many of us did not sleep due to excitement, even though we knew this would haunt us later.  Our flights go off without a hitch (except that Felicia's luggage is lost), we pick up our car, pack in like sardines and begin our 138 mile, five-hour car ride to Manzanillo, Costa Rica.  Exhausted and travel-weary, we had no idea what was in store for us. 

Manzanillo is literally at the end of the road on the Caribbean side of Costa Rica.  To the south of town is a wildlife refuge and then it's Panama.  Brian had to adjust to Costa Rican driving (and all of us had to adjust to riding with his adjustments), which involved:

• barely dodging bikers with no reflectors and pedestrians loitering on the streets dressed in dark colors who seemed to dart out in to the black night without warning
• passing slow moving vehicles in no-passing zones
• maneuvering roads that seemed to be more pot hole than road
• being sent airborne - time seemed to stand still as everyone soared through the air at one point, hitting their heads on various vehicle parts. 
• the Garmin singing "bing-bing" to warn us of dangerous bridges - bridges that are only one lane and sometimes impossible to see if anyone is coming from the other direction. 

We finally arrived at Cabinas Faya Lobi at 8:30 PM, unfolded ourselves from the vehicle, and began claiming rooms like we were on Big Brother.  We also discovered that the Cabina is the "Cabina of No Secrets."  The open roof allows us to have conversations with people while they shower.  There would be no vaulting of any secrets during the week.

Day 2:

The idyllic beach day.  The howler monkeys wake us up at 5:30 AM.  Dan discovers a sloth in our front tree.  Colin goes missing in the morning for a three hour walk down the beach.  The rest of us check out the little town of Manzanillo in the daylight.  (We spot Colin riding around on a bike later, safe and sound.)  The afternoon is spent on the beach where a massive sand-ball fight goes down (which is a rather painful game) and Dan and Brian engage in an endless game of coconut ball.  (This is a complex game involving a stick, coconuts, and the ability to dodge shards of exploding coconuts.)  Felicia, luggage-less, with the typical loose morals of an American woman, ran down the beach with me topless.  (She did have a towel wrapped around her.)

We enjoy a lovely dinner in town and then the gaming begins.  Lively games of Catchphrase were enjoyed many a night in our cabina (boys against girls) along with the occasional bout of euchre, rummy, and others.  We discover we have a fridge toad.  Some try to evict it.  Dan believes this is cruel and carries a urinating toad back to the fridge where it belongs.

It rained in the evening.  We at rice and beans.

Day 3:

Our zip lining adventure began with a bumpy ride in a bus and then a bumpier ride in the back of a pick-up truck.  Some of us were frightened, some of us were not.  23 zip lines, a LOT of uphill hiking, and one Tarzan swing, comprised our morning.  I have come to the conclusion that all the guides on these adventure excursions feed off of our fear.  They seem to be sort of sick individuals.  I wish that I could say that we all kept our language clean for the video that was made, but extreme fear will lead to salty sailor talk.  I loved it!  In general I think we all enjoyed it to some extent and were glad we did it.  However, I don't think everyone will be booking this on their next vacation.  When we arrived home Felicia's luggage had arrived!  No more topless beach jogging for her!

We discovered at lunch, after struggling with our Spanish all week, that Colin is apparently nearly fluent in Spanish and had been holding out on us.  He defended himself saying, "well you guys seemed to be struggling along alright."  Seriously?

In the evening we fed a leaf bug to our fridge toad (who we discovered had a wife under there with him). 

It rained.  We ate rice and beans.

Day 4:

We explored Puerto Viejo and did a little shopping.  At lunch Colin discovered his wallet was missing.  Here's where things get loopy.  We immediately send Colin to search for it while we settle up the bill with the insufferable American ex-pat who owned the place.  He thought he may have lost it at a bench we sat on earlier in the morning.  The whole gang splits up.  (Heather and I begin to worry about our teamwork for the next day's rafting adventure based on our disorganization.)  Our group canvasses the little town on a mission for the wallet.  I start worrying about how we're going to cancel his credit cards.  Heather starts trying to sell herself on the street corner to raise money for the rest of Colin's vacation.  Brian finds the wallet in our truck.  (Okay, Heather was just trying to signal Dan down the street, but it didn't look good.)  Meanwhile, Colin had discovered the wallet was in the truck and started looking for us.  He went into a pharmacy and liquor store to see if we were in there.  How much do I love that he thought that we would be so unconcerned with our traveling mate losing his wallet in a foreign country that we would just decide to buy some booze and take a load off while he searches. 

That night we grilled in.  Literally, we grilled in our living room. 

It rained.  We ate rice and beans.

Day 5:

Rafting the Pacuare River was on the agenda for this day.  I had very little trouble zip lining but am terrified of white water rafting.  I may be the only person on earth who has been white water rafting four times despite not really enjoying it.  Oh but the scenery on this river was amazing, something right out of Jurassic Park.  The Pacuare River is ranked as one of the top five in the world to raft.  So yeah, pretty neat. 

The river was very high from all the rain but we were tackling those rapids like pros, getting down in the boat when in danger, paddling forward and back when called upon.  Just as I was coming to terms with rafting, even sort of enjoying myself, disaster struck.  It was the last class IV rapid of the day, Dos Montanas, where it went down. 

All I remember is paddling air because I was too high up to reach water.  I fell down into the boat...and watched as one by one all my comrades fell into the raging rapid.  It was horrifying watching Brian slip out of the boat.  I thought the whole thing was going to flip.  I braced myself...but miraculously we didn't flip.  Bernie (our guide) and I remained in the boat.  But there I was, watching all of my friends struggling against the rapids.  I was pacing around in the raft wondering how to save them, counting heads, which was difficult because they kept bobbing down and coming up in different places, and watching them heading towards a sheer cliff wall.  I kept waiting on instructions from Bernie as I watched the terror in the faces of my friends but he was giving me nothing. (Okay, a few faces showed only exertion, the other two - pure terror.)  But in no time, everyone was rescued and put back in the boat.  I figured they would all dislike rafting as much as me now.  But no.  They all seemed to come alive from it.  Jerks.

We finished out the day successfully.  I might as well tell you that somehow this whole story has been turned on me.  While clearly, having stayed in the boat, I am the most skilled rafter in our group, some think otherwise.  And in fact have come up with a ridiculous conspiracy theory which involves me and Bernie plotting to get Brian's life insurance money and my leg giving Brian a swift kick out of the boat.  I'm sorry that they feel such shame that they have to fabricate stories. 

Also, on the ride back to our cabina we were reading the Costa Rica guide book and discovered that many Costa Rican men believe that American women have loose morals.  Hmmmm....

It rained.  We ate rice and beans...three times.

Day 6:

In the morning the men headed off with a local fisherman to catch us some dinner.  Us women tried to take in yoga but they didn't have a class going that morning so instead we ate pastries, chased a blue butterfly in our truck trying to get a picture of it, were offered marijuana and a jungle night-hike from hippies, and may or may not have married off Felicia to a Costa Rican life guard. 

Heather, Felicia, and I went to Playa Cocles to watch the surfers.  It was delightful...until Felicia decided to say "hola" to the life guard passing by.  He immediately came up and crouched down beside us.  Except, he didn't really speak English and we didn't really speak Spanish.  Felicia tried her best.  She really did.  He wouldn't go away.  It was getting awkward.  She kept trying though.  Eventually she said, "the only thing I really know how to say is 'te amo.'"  But you know that all he heard was probably "te amo."  So basically, she professed her love to Donny the lifeguard.  And when it appeared he was not going anywhere (what with his new-found love and all) we made an excuse that we were hungry and skedaddled. 

What awaited us upon our arrival back at the cabina was like a scene from the Jonestown Massacre.   Three lifeless, and sick men were lying around in various locations like beached whales throughout the cabina. Evidently the ocean didn't so much agree with them.  And it took A LONG time for those men to recover!  But they had caught us some fish and secured a cook from the local restaurant (who had gone fishing with them) to come and cook the fish. 

After our delicious supper the men went to a local poker game (that the owner of our cabina invited them to) at the home of a man who evidently has a $35,000 hit out on his family.  It sounds like there were other notorious characters there along with illicit substances.  I was glad they made it back home alive.  

It rained.  We ate rice and beans. 

Day 7:

The howler monkeys awoke us at 5:00 AM only for us to discover that we had lost power.  Heather feared that the jungle was working a hostile takeover of our property.  When we woke up for real, we headed out to the Jaguar rescue center where all of Brian's wildest dreams came true.

How do I begin to tell you about a man and his love for monkeys?  It would be impossible for me to describe.  All you need to know about the Jaguar Rescue Center is that there is a room that houses baby howler monkeys, AND THEY LET YOU GO IN AND PLAY WITH THEM.  It was unreal.  They jumped on your head and pulled you hair and cuddled up in your arms and sat on your shoulder.  It is nothing but pure joy.  And for my dear husband, having his head groomed by a monkey was more joy than his body knew how to handle.  He and Dan even snuck in for a second turn with the monkeys.  We also were able to hold the sweetest baby sloth.  I have fallen in love with the gentle sloth.  And for a real treat, we were able to see a defecating sloth.  (They only defecate once a week.)

We played around on the beach the rest of the afternoon.  Over dinner that night at Malbec's Argentinian Steak House (which was by far the best of our vacation) we shared our favorite moment of the trip.  For many of us it was rafting, for me it was time on the beach, while Brian - a bit chagrined - admitted it was the quality time he spent with the monkeys.  He declared that our guest room would be turned into a monkey room upon our return from vacation. 

I don't remember if it rained.  Surely it did.  However, we did not eat rice and beans on this day.

Day 8: (a.k.a. The Never Ending Day, Take II)

Always the hardest day, leaving paradise and heading back to the daily grind.  We were up at 5:00 AM and because of snow and wind at home, flights were delayed and we didn't walk in our front door until 8:30 AM the next day. There were calamity and shenanigans the entire time - and then utter exhaustion.  

As Brian and I headed up to Goshen for church this morning, we pondered how we could make a move to Costa Rica.  We both long for a simpler life, one that just doesn't seem attainable here and one that seems impossible NOT to embody there, and we lack the courage to make it happen.  We discussed selling all of our belongings.  I still didn't think we'd have enough cash to get started.  (And frankly I don't think the humidity of the rain forest is great for pianos so I doubt I'd find many piano students.)  Brian suggested we turn in the family that has the $35,000 hit on them.  If only we knew who to contact!

Pura Vida is a Costa Rican expression meaning "pure life."  How lucky the six of us were to experience it - at least for those seven days.

Daily Dose of Pathetic

So a few of you have wondered how our "second date" went, and I admit I have sadly neglected my dear blog.  To fill you in, the "date" went off without a hitch.  We had a great time.  We laughed, we ate, it was a very enjoyable and civilized gathering.  I don't think I made a fool of myself.  And I imagine we will see these people again socially.

But through that experience, and then a week in Costa Rica with five other people, I have had an epiphany about myself.  I care WAY too much about what other people think about me.  (Not really a new revelation for me.)  And I know that we all do it, but I'm realizing that I do it to the point of obsession.  I find that I change a bit of who I am depending on the person I am with and who I think that person wants to be around.  So, last week, around five other people, my mind almost exploded with the challenge of being who I thought each of those five distinct individuals wanted me to be.  Poor Brian had to walk me through a mental break-down one night half way through the vacation.  I literally ended up sitting on his knee crying.  (There's a pathetic image that I bet none of you particularly wanted.)  Don't get me wrong here, the vacation was amazing and everyone was fantastic (a trip report should be following soon).  This was just one "off" evening for me and it triggered baggage that I realized needed dealing with.  

As 2011 looms ever closer, I have decided that I need to "let go" for my new year's resolution.  I really don't know how I'll do it.  It's not like deciding to floss or exercise every day.  Those things are concrete.  But I may need to adopt a mantra for handling my unhealthy concerns - even though I'm afraid of becoming callous and mean.  I just need to do my best, and if others don't like it it's their own problem to deal with.  (Even typing that gives me hives and leaves me convinced I will end up friendless and alone.) 

Perhaps I should stick with the experts and adopt the daily affirmation of the wise and timeless Stuart Smalley: "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!" 

Second Date

I have said it before and I'll say it again.  It is HARD to make friends!  If you don't have several rug rats, a slew of co-workers, and you're not in college, how in the heavens are you supposed to make friends?  I see why people become regulars at the local pub because I think basically I would have to hang out at a bar and try to "pick up" friends.  I need to work on my pick up lines.  "Is your dad a thief?  Because someone stole the stars from the sky and put them in your eyes.  WILL YOU BE MY FRIEND?"

So tonight I find myself in a situation that has my palms sweating and my mind in a whirlwind of doubt and self-loathing.  Brian and I are going on a second date. 

Several weeks ago we were invited to a birthday dinner at some friends house (who are Brian's co-workers...thank God he has co-workers) and they had invited another couple and a friend whom we had never met before.  We had a fabulous time!  I mean the conversation was flowing, the group was clicking, we were laughing, the stories were titillating.  It was so much fun. 

And then Brian called me from work and the couple we had met that evening invited us to their house for dinner along with Brian's co-workers.  Now, I feel completely honored and a little flattered.  I mean, they liked us.  Enough to invite us to dinner at their home after meeting us only once. 

Oh no, I just had a thought.  Maybe they don't like us.  Maybe they think we're suckers and they're inviting us over to try to coerce us into a pyramid scheme.  I'm going to assume this is not going to happen.  They didn't seem the type.  One never knows though.

So, eliminating the above option, I'm back to assuming they enjoyed our company, which, after the initial rush of pleasure immediately made me panic.  Second date, we have to perform.  (Not put out or anything - that comes after the third date right? Oh gosh, what if they're into that kind of stuff and they're going to try to proposition us?  I'm also going to assume this is not an option.)  What if they deem that they're first impression of us was wrong, that we are NOT after all super cool, funny, or interesting but instead, we are real dullards?  I mean, we have to be charming, witty, engaging, intelligent conversationalists, and try not to smell bad.  (Did I put on deodorant?)  It is so much PRESSURE!  I don't know if I can do it.  As of this writing, I can't think of a single darn thing to talk about.  I haven't watched the news today.  I can't ask who they voted for yesterday.  I have done NOTHING interesting for days and weeks it seems.  I am thoroughly expecting disaster. 

Perhaps it is this kind of over-analysis that is the true reason I can't make friends.  Here goes nothing...let's hope I don't make a dolt of myself.

Of Rice and Men

Gosh this blog has turned into such domestic drivel.  I really need to get out more.  Or else I could just start pontificating about political ads or my supposed liberal religious agenda or some such nonsense.  But for now?  This entry is about rice.

A few months ago I cleaned out my pantry and it's always a little shocking to discover things in the pantry that I don't remember buying.  It's kind of fun to find that bonus box of rotini you had no idea was there or that extra jar of mayonnaise - but it also signals to me that I have probably overdone it in the grocery buying department.  First world over-consumption and all.

So I decided to put the brakes on the grocery buying for a while and try to use up the things in my pantry.  This requires an entirely different type of supper-time strategy.  It's like trying to eat more seasonally.  You have to craft a meal around ingredients you're staring at rather than deciding what sounds good to you and then pulling the items together.  (You are saying to yourselves, "duh Lisa, it doesn't take a master chef to figure that gem of kitchen wisdom out.")  But it's such an opposite creative process in my mind.  It's like pulling a McGuyver every meal.  Here is one wilted carrot, a piece of string, a can of cream of celery soup, a handful of Swiss cheese, and some peanut butter.  Now - CREATE! 

Frankly, I'm amazed at the variety of meals I've created with what I have on hand because when I first looked in that pantry I was all, "there is nothing in here to eat!"  And I'm surprised at how much food I clearly had all along, considering how long it's been since I actually went "grocery shopping."  

Now to be fair, I have a freezer full of beef and chicken thanks to my parents.  And I have had a lot of fresh garden produce up to this point along with everything my mother and I canned.  So I know that's a huge advantage right there. (And I really have tried to eat more seasonally this summer along with using things in my pantry - which has been fun.)  I have another huge advantage right now in that I'm not working outside the home.  So I have a lot of extra time and energy to think about how to put my suppers together, although I don't think my suppers are actually taking any more time to prepare than before.  

Here is the list of staples I have been purchasing:
Coffee (for obvious reasons)
Milk (to go with my coffee)
Butter (because life's not worth living without it)
Onions (because nothing's worth eating without them)

I ran out of pasta and potatoes ages ago.  But what I do have is a large bag of rice.  And dear sweet mother Mary, that rice WILL NOT END.  We have had nothing but rice for weeks it seems.  Chicken and rice, curry and rice, hamburger gravy over rice, rice pudding, rice soup, etc... And I feel like I have only put the tiniest dent in that jar of rice.  Every day when Brian gets home for lunch I ask, "well guess what we'll be having for supper tonight?"  I'm trying really hard to be thankful for this rice and its apparent longevity.  But frankly, I am riced out.  

*Update.  I started writing this entry on Saturday and Monday I broke down.  I was laying in bed watching the Today show to wake up when an Olive Garden commercial came on - and I found myself completely overcome with desire for what I saw.  I didn't have any lessons because of fall break and I had received a little money for a funeral I helped at on Sunday and I knew where that time and money was headed.  I went to the grocery store, loaded up on supplies and made an Italian feast for supper.  And maybe it was because of all the rice we have been eating, but Brian and I declared it the best meal I have ever prepared.  I wish I could tell you that the meal did not involve using 2.5 sticks of butter.  But it did.  And it was delicious.  So if the rice has accomplished giving Brian and I a better appreciation for food again, then it has been well worth it.  And if you'd like a super tasty chicken piccata recipe, click on this link.  Bon Appetit!

Slumber Party Friday Night

Yay!  It's slumber-party-Friday-night!

**This is a total aside.  Why can't people seem to spell "yay" correctly?  I see "yeah" (which is an informal way of saying "yes") and I see "yea" (which is an affirmative vote) when I know that what they are meaning to say is "yay."  Nobody seems familiar with "yay" (which is an exclamation of triumph or congratulations). 

And now I'm going to have to watch my grammar and spelling like a hawk lest I be found guilty of some vocabulary faux pas which shall render me a hypocritical fool.  (And I know starting a sentence with "and" is totally wrong and yet I love to do it because it's how I speak.)

Back to slumber-party-Friday-night.  It's my favorite night of the week.  Brian and I developed this little tradition about a year ago, maybe even longer.  This is a development that came about after we purchased our totally awesome napping couch.  One Friday night we were watching movies and we didn't want the fun to end but Brian, party-pooper that he is, informed me that he didn't think he could make it through another movie in its entirety without falling asleep.  So we decided we would start that movie anyway and just sleep on the couch so that we could drift off when the mood struck us without the drudgery of getting up and going to bed.  I exclaimed, with the joy of a six-year-old, "It's like a SLUMBER PARTY!" And it was such fun that we now do it every Friday night.  We have named it, you guessed it, "Slumber-Party-Friday-Night" and I'm not the only one who calls it that.  Brian came home from work today wanting to take a nap because he wanted to "be ready for Slumber-Party-Friday-Night." 

It's like a little vacation from the week for us.  It signals that the next day is not one of forced responsibilities but a day that we will live on our own terms.  We can get up when we want, we can do, or not do, whatever we choose - it's just totally delicious fun.     

So tonight we will be snuggling under some cozy afghans, pulling up the ottoman so Reggie will have a place to sleep near us, turning on a scary movie (only because it's October - November 1st I go back to hating them), fighting over foot space, and then peacefully falling asleep with the sweet promise of a free day ahead of us.  Ahhhhh.  Sweet dreams everyone.

Pride Goeth Before A Load of Laundry

Last week I finally ran out of laundry detergent.  I had been planning for months to attempt making my own because I am SICK AND TIRED of spending so much money on laundry detergent (I do not like what it does to my grocery bill).  And it sounded kind of fun in a productive "look what I can do" sort of way.

I got the recipe from the Grocery Cart Challenge lady.  (Check it out here.)  I gathered my supplies and whipped up my batch.  I was so proud of what I had done.

Then I went to my parents' home for supper to celebrate my dad's birthday.  And my mother just always has to one-up me.  Here's how it went down.  I informed them that I had made said laundry detergent and my mom asked how I did it.  I proceeded to tell the family how I had grated up a bar of fels naptha soap, dissolved it in hot water, added washing soda and borax and stirred the whole thing together.

My brother said, "Oh, well Mom used to make laundry detergent."  I had no memory of this so I asked her how she had done it - wanting to compare recipes and all - and she responded: "Oh, I kept all my kitchen grease, cooked it to remove impurities, combined that with lye, waited for it to harden and then ground it into a powder." 

Huh, so she created soap and I basically just mixed some soaps together.  I'm not feeling quite that excited about my detergent now; cheap lazy soap that it is.  No blood, sweat, tears, and planning required for this load of bologna. 

Someday I'll find a way to beat that woman at her game. 

Today's "Living the Life of Riley" Moment is Brought to you by...

Reggie the Dog

According to Wikipedia:  "The expression, "Living the life of Riley" suggests an ideal contented life, possibly living on someone else's money, time or work. Rather than a negative freeloading or golddigging aspect, it instead implies that someone is kept or advantaged." 

Huh, certainly seems fitting doesn't it?  I'm so glad I made the bed for him today so that he would have somewhere comfortable to enjoy his afternoon nap.

Evils of Gambling

So I'm not going to go gambling with Brian anymore because he is a HORRIBLE influence.  First of all, he took me to a casino.  So there you go.  Bad influence.  Secondly, he is a horrible gambler.  I play penny slots and I have a method.  I walk around.  I let the machines speak to me.  If they don't speak to me I don't play them.  Sometimes I try a machine and two pulls into it I realize it must have been speaking to someone else.  I pull my money out and I walk away.  When I have won a dollar or two (it's penny slots remember) I pull my money out and walk away looking for a new whispering machine.  And then, before I know it, I have gingerly turned my $20 into $34.57. 

Brian sits down at a machine and tries to manhandle it into giving him money.  He doesn't care about what the machine may or may not be saying to him (typical man) because he's got some words for that machine!  He sits there and pushes that button over and over willing it to take him to the sought after bonus round where he thinks the real money will be made.  And if the machine doesn't take him there immediately he thinks he's in too deep (you know, $2.50 or so) to just get up and walk away and therefore must keep playing on said machine until he wins and recoups his money.  Oh he has a sickness.  And that is how Brian aggressively turns his $20 into $8.33.  I remind him often that I am clearly a better gambler than he is.  He disagrees.  But the money doesn't lie. 

And then I don't know what happened.  He got in my head.  He manhandled my brain like he manhandles those machines, except I wasn't as strong as those machines.  One minute I tell him we should cash out, take our $15 profit and go get some lunch.  20 minutes later we walked out empty handed.  NADA.  So, I'm not going to go gambling with Brian anymore.

Not So Welcome

One of the fun outings I had this summer was attending Stitches Midwest, just outside of Chicago with members of my knitting group.  I referred to this event with friends and family as a "yarn convention" because it seemed easier for them to understand.  There were classes on various techniques available to take, but basically, we were there to shop.  And shop I did.  I was overwhelmed by all the yarn that surrounded me.  Beautiful yarn.  Lucious yarn.  Soft yarn.  Yarn that was hand dyed, yarn that was hand spun, yarn that was calling my name gently with its siren song.  And then there were all the knitting accessories: things to store your needles in, buttons, pattern holders, lint rollers, yarn stashers.  I wandered around like a country bumpkin who is spending her first day in the big city - wide eyed and a little lost - but knowing that her world will never be the same. 

But enough about yarn.  Because the real story here is about the fabulous weekend spent with my delightful yarn sisters in a lovely home in Hinsdale, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago.  Originally we were going to stay in the hotel attached to the convention center but then we were offered the home of Linda's son.  The family was out of town and they said we could stay.  And the home was absolutely lovely...and in a neighborhood I would never be welcome to live in.  It made the weekend absolutely fantastic!  We sat around and talked and LAUGHED and just enjoyed ourselves immensely as only a whacky bunch of knitters can do. 

I drove up with Linda on Thursday, arriving before the rest of the group, meaning I could have first pick of the bedrooms.  Now several weeks earlier Linda had mentioned that she had informed her youngest grandson, Neil, that her friends were going to be staying at their house and that someone would be sleeping in his bed.  His reply: "I don't like anyone sleeping in my bed."  Linda told him it would be fine.

So when we arrive Linda tells me to head upstairs and that I can choose from either Neil or Paul's (her oldest grandson) bedrooms.  When I entered the first bedroom I immediately knew that it was Neil's.  I laughed out loud, put my stuff in Paul's room and headed back downstairs.  I told Linda, "I think I'll be staying in Paul's room.  You should check out Neil's.  I think he was serious about not wanting anyone to sleep in his bed." 

This is what welcomed us:

A tiny army of soldiers was lined up pointing at the bed. 

The bed was being guarded by Imperial Walkers and you can see that the bed was covered with difficult to move Lego armies.

Here is another shot of the perfect semicircle of soldiers aimed at the bed.

A hill of canons and snipers.

Clearly, Neil had put a great deal of thought and energy into "welcoming" the lucky knitter to his room.  I can't imagine how long it must have taken him to line up all those little soldiers and to create this fortress of protection in his space!  All in all, it's quite subtle wouldn't you say? 

Bad Flashback

Currently my timer is set for 30 minutes (for my tomatoes in their merry little water bath...yes the tomato canning goes on).  My challenge: write, finish, and post this blog before that timer goes off.

Earlier this summer I decided, at Brian's behest, to bake a batch of monster cookies.  I'm not really much of a monster cookie person, but I love to bake and I love it when others love to eat my baked goods.  I was trying out a new-to-me recipe from my brother-in-law's grandmother that they touted as the best.  After using all the items that can be found in one's kitchen and then going to extraordinary lengths to mix the massive amounts of batter, it was time to bake the crazy things. 

The instructions had me using two timers.  The cookies had to bake for 13 minutes and then upon leaving the oven they had to sit on the cookie sheet for an additional five minutes before removing them.  So I constantly had a timer going for five minutes and one going for 13.  I wanted to be productive during the baking because, as I said, there was so much batter I could have a made a king-sized bedspread out of it, and I knew that baking was going to be an all-afternoon affair. 

It started innocently.  I thought to myself, "Oh I bet I could get the bed made before the five-minute timer goes off."  And I'd pad off and do it.  And then I had another eight minutes and so I'd think "huh, I can get the litter boxes scooped before my second timer goes off."  When that was done and I had five minutes remaining so I decided that I could probably water the plants out front before the timer went off. 

And that is when the monster awoke within me.  In those five and eight minute intervals I came up with dozens of tasks with which to challenge myself.  I literally ran from one end of the house to the other.  Sometimes I was running around outside.  My heart would be palpitating wondering if I could possibly accomplish each task before that timer went off.  I found that I was struck with panic at the thought of the timer beating me.  I cleaned out bird feeders, started supper, cleaned the toilet, dusted things, I mean the list could go on and on. 

At the end of that baking spree I was EXHAUSTED, but wow I had accomplished so much!  I decided I should always set a timer.  And then I started to have an uneasy feeling, remembering the panic the timer caused me to experience.  And then the flashbacks began.  Flashbacks to my childhood.  I knew, just knew, that timers had been set for me as a youngster in order for me to accomplish things.  I knew that my mother was the responsible party.

I thought perhaps it had been a fun game she had made up in order to motivate us.  It couldn't possibly be that my saint mother had set timers up for us that we had to beat in order to, well, not be beat?

So I called my mother and asked her if she had set timers for my sister and I when we were little.  She said yes.  I quickly asked her if it was a fun game or something we had to do in order to avoid punishment.  (As in, "You better get that room cleaned up before this timer goes off or else I'm going to......")  She laughed on the phone, and her laughter had a sinister and dark edge to it, and she replied, "Oh no, it was for punishment.  And it worked great.  I don't know why but you kids were so terrified of that timer." 

Mom, it's because I was six and I DIDN'T UNDERSTAND TIME!  Nine minutes could be any length of time and I had no idea how long nine minutes felt!  I barely knew how to count for the love of Pete!  Oh cruel, cruel keeper of the time.  I can just imagine her down in her "ivory kitchen" watching that timer: leisurely thumbing through a magazine and enjoying a soft drink, listening to our panic, our cries for mercy, as she plotted out which punishment she would dole out on her helpless children who just didn't understand how to tell time yet.  Would it be sitting on a chair, receiving the wooden spoon, the fly-swatter, taking a bath, IT COULD BE ANYTHING! 

I have the cold sweats right now knowing that my tomato timer could go off at any second and I might not have yet posted this blog.  And then I will have failed.  Please, parents, use caution when employing the use of the kitchen timer on your children.  Must go now...

P.S.  I made it within the allotted time.  Whew.  And you should also know that those monster cookies made a believer out of me.  They were every bit as good as Karen and Matthew let on.  If you'd like the recipe, let me know. 

Mexico 2010

I have been horrible about blogging this summer what with all the fun I've been having.  So I am going to try to "catch up" a little over the next few days, starting with my annual vacation with friends that I took to Troncones, Mexico in June. 

My friend Heather wrote on my Facebook page recently, "What no blog about our MX trip? Not up to par? You don't think people want to read about sweaty yoga, late night peril filled walks to the outdoor kitchen, hot soup on a humid day and Andrea's infamous ocean somersault? Guess I should have added a spoiler alert!"  This about sums up the trip...but I'll fill in some of the blanks. 



Day 1:

Heather and I found ourselves taking a little mini-vacation to Phoenix due to the fact that there had been a storm in Chicago the night before and the flight crew had to catch a few extra winks of sleep.  There was nothing we could do but make the best of it.  However, US Airways probably won't be getting much business from us in the future not because of the cancelled flight but because their customer service was ATROCIOUS. 

However, the Embassy Suites near the airport made our little layover a pure delight with their lovely pool, manager's reception, free shuttle around town, awesome free breakfast, and colorful staff.  Heather, of course, has an obsession with Indian Taco's and since we were in Arizona we felt we should be able to find one.  Not only did the front desk staff look it up for us, find us a restaurant, and offer the hotel shuttle to take us there for free, but they thought the tacos looked good so they came with us to grab supper.  The next morning a tiny little man made us delicious omelets and then we were off to Troncones!

Days 2-6:
After being verbally accosted by a flight attendant due to a seating fiasco (read, we won't be using US Airways again) we arrived in Troncones and were welcomed to our little bungalow at Casa Ki by our friend Andrea, whose flight arrived as scheduled the day before. 

And commence the relaxation.  Our non-air conditioned bungalow was directly on the beach looking out over the mighty Pacific.  We sat on our porch and talked, and read, and talked, and napped, and talked, and listened to the waves.  I don't know if I've ever had such a relaxed vacation.  I did not open my make-up bag and never once touched my hair dryer.  That, my friends, is way more relaxed than I've EVER been on vacation!

Here's the view from our bungalow.  The gate is meant to keep wandering dogs, cows, pigs, from entering the property.

It doesn't really stop the local herd of wild dogs from entering at will though.  They liked to come around in the late afternoon and we watched them jump right on over.  There were other run-ins with wild life.  It was the season for the crabs to come down from the mountain and lay their eggs on the beach.  This meant in the evening when we walked the paths to our community kitchen for beverages or to use the wi-fi, one had to exercise caution.  Heather and I nearly had our toes taken off by a large, clickety-clackety, red crab.  And unfortunately, I took the life of a small hermit crab trying to reach the beach. 

Here are Andrea and Heather who, oddly enough, both picked up "Mennonite in a Little Black Dress" to read on the vacation.  Reconnecting to the old Menno roots I guess.  It led to many interesting conversations though!

The Pacific was a little too mighty for us to enjoy a leisurely swim but we did find a few tide pools that we lazed around in quite a bit to cool off from the oppressive Mexican heat.  Twice we were referred to as mermaids by passers by.  I guess mermaids must hang out in tide pools?

I will say that the waves still got us a few times.  Notice Heather clinging to a rock.  And the aforementioned somersault was a result of a taking poor Andrea for a spin.  Luckily no major injuries were reported.

Also mentioned above was sweaty yoga.  We ventured down the beach twice to a lovely resort called Present Moments to take in some yoga on a platform overlooking the ocean.  Morning yoga was a bit more rigorous, lasting two hours and involving immense amounts of sweat.  It can be a little difficult to hold a pose when your legs and arms are slick with sweat.  Afternoon yoga was more relaxed and included some two-person yoga poses which may have broken the mood just a bit since Heather and Andrea made me giggle. 

Present Moments also hosted a movie night on the beach which we took in, watching "Blue Crush," a surfing movie.  How appropriate.  It was the only thing we watched all week, save some FIFA World Cup soccer games that were being aired at restaurants.  Literally, work came to stand still when there was a game on.  (Notice the taxi drivers at the airport glued to the soccer game on T.V.)

Mixed in to the sweaty yoga and the relaxation was a massage that we had on the patio outside our bungalow.  Despite the fact that Heather was having a "modest day," we all enjoyed the massage utilizing hot cups to pull the toxins out of our systems.  More about toxins later. 

We also walked down hot dusty roads to eat at delicious local eateries in town - places with tin roofs and dirt floors but with super tasty authentic Mexican food.  I knew that we were staying in a town geared towards surfers and a little off the beaten path, but WOW we were staying in a town where there were few snacks available (Heather nearly starved one day) and the local restaurants knew NO English.  Thank goodness Heather knew enough Spanish to get us by.  We ate guacamole every day but one.  Heather and I enjoyed a delicious hot bowl of soup on the hottest day of the year.  And we were able to partake of some elusive quesadillas from a lady who had a tragic story.  Mmmmmm.....

We went kayaking one day.  Kayaking is a whole lot of work and really, no fun at all.  Andrea was not feeling so well that day so we tried to heal her with hot rocks.  And Heather and I nearly had a run in with a large Mexican cow who was crossing the lagoon.  In the end Alejandro, gave us a local coconut to drink to restore our fluids and then we were well enough to go back and continue our relaxation.

 

We saw some federalis storm through town.  The locals didn't act nervous so we just kept eating our quesadillas.  The picture isn't so great because Andrea was trying to do it on the sly.  We didn't really want a direct run in after all.

I attempted to teach Heather to knit.  Nothing like holding a bunch of yarn when you're all hot and sweaty and there's a bunch of sand blowing in your face.

And we laid around in hammocks pretty much everywhere we went including all the local restaurants.

Day 7 and beyond:

After a mad dash around the Mexico City airport where moments of panic were upon us so greatly that I'm still having nightmares, we arrived home safely.  However, I brought back a little friend.  A bug of some sort.  I made it through the entire vacation with not so much as one digestive issue.  Ah, but Montezuma shall have his revenge.  Within minutes of getting home the bug hit.  I named my little parasite Charlie and within a few days were on such familiar terms he let me call him Chuck.  But that's all worked out now.  So I shall leave you with a few more pictures of our lovely little home for the week.