By The Hubby Diaries
http://thehubbydiaries.wordpress.com
(RBU Join Date: 07/27/2010)
‘Twas the week before Christmas, and all through the kitchen
There was crap everywhere and I couldn’t stop bitchin’
Dirty dishes were stacked on the counter with care,
As hubby ignored them, I gave him a glare
The laundry sat piled in mounds on the floor
I had started sorting, but there still was much more
Hubby started to grumble, and I started to nag
We had just discussed cleaning, as I picked up a rag
When down in the basement, arose such a clatter,
I ran down the stairs, to see what was the matter.
Away to the Man Cave I flew like a bird
I worried and wondered about what I had heard
I braced myself as I made my mad dash
Perhaps something was broken, it was a pretty loud crash
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a loud movie playing, and a cup filled with beer!
I stood for a moment, unable to think
Was he watching a movie and having a drink?
More rapid than eagles, mean thoughts came to mind
As he grinned and retreated and cowered in kind
“I’m sorry, I’m stupid, I’ll clean & I’ll scrub”
“I’ll vacuum, I’ll launder, I’ll scour the tub”
I promise I’ll help you, I’ll help clean the house
He muttered and stammered as meek as a mouse
He grabbed the remote and shut off the TV
He arrived in the kitchen and stood beside me
He sheepishly smiled and picked up a dish
The magic of Christmas, I was getting my wish
And then, as I baked, and started to cook
I heard hubby humming, so I just had to look
The vacuum was running, the dusting was done
If I do say so myself, he was having some fun
The laundry was folded, the beds were all made
The cookies were baking, the bills were all paid
As a team we can do more, I had to decree
And, as much as he fought it, he had to agree
That evening we snuggled, the chores were all done
Our home was now ready for holiday fun
I told him I love him and he said, “love you too..”
“But, don’t expect cleaning, when there’s man stuff to do!”
Feel free to check out my relationship humor blog: http://thehubbydiaries.wordpress.com/
8/27/10
8/25/10
Th Last Holiday
By Jess
http://typedink.com
(RBU Join Date: 06/27/2010)
Holidays... holidays never go well in my house, at least not in my opinion. There is always a fight the either night before or on the day of whatever holiday it may be but either way, there is some hostility in the air. I've been trying to think of a 'good holiday' but I can't think of one that was, a good happy holiday, so I want to talk about one of the hardest.
It was the Christmas of `95 I believe...yes, 1995...any way...I was 11 years old and excited that it was Friday night, the last day of school before Christmas break. I was sitting in the living room with most of my family watching TV(you know I've tried to remember what we were watching many times but have not been able to remember what it was, it’s like right there waiting to pop out of my head but something's holding it back) either way I was there watching TV. It was late at night and I suddenly did not feel too well, so I got up and headed to the restroom and ended up throwing up. Nasty I know, but that’s life. However my mother did not see it that way and took me to the ER.
We went and I got checked out and nothing could be found. They took x-rays, and sent us on our way (actually I think we had to go take X-rays another day but it’s been a long time so I don't really remember, I just know X-rays were taken). After said X-rays, I remember we had to set up an appointment later for a CAT scan because the X-rays apparently did not provide the info they were looking for. After the CAT scan, what do you think they wanted? More X-rays, at least that’s what they told my mother when they called, and they wanted them immediately. We went to the doctor’s office immediately or maybe the day after (again, another detail my memory fails to recall).
I remember very clearly sitting on the doctor’s table; my memory isn't failing me here. I was sitting on the bed; my legs hanging down and my mother and father standing next to it when the doctor came in. My mother asked why they needed more X-rays if they had done a CAT scan which obviously is more powerful than regular X-rays. The doctor told her that a trainee or a specialist in training (dang memory), had been going through scans as he liked to do, just to see what he could spot (hey, whatever floats your boat I say), when he noticed something on mine. Yep, I was the winner of a tumor floating above my air tube at 11 years old...about 2 weeks before Christmas, Merry Freaking Christmas to me right? Wait...that's not all, they wanted to operate...the next morning. Geez, how bad was I that year?
Now I got to give it to myself, after the initial shock and cry, I did fairly well I must say...until that morning and I was about to be led from my hospital room to the operating room...that's when fear hit me and I remember looking one of my cousin's in the eye and seeing her shocked face at my tear covered face. I was always a tough kid so I don't think they had ever seen me cry. To add to my stress and fear, they wanted to inject me with something to knock me out. But I don't like needles and I refused so the gas mask it was. However, that added another obstacle; my mom said she'd stay with me until I fell asleep only you can't do that in the operating room. I remember being wheeled away looking at my parents scared as hell (me, not them...no, them too, I suppose).
I remember the room being big but I was 11 so this could be one of those "it looks big cause I'm a little kid" type of thing. I remember at least 3 people in there and the table, bed, whatever you want to call it was cold. As they laid me down I had the idea of going to the bathroom, I told them, "I need to use the bathroom," I was gonna try and escape, their reply? A bedpan. I did not want a bed pan, I wanted to get the hell off that table/bed and out of that white metal room and the bathroom plan had failed. On to plan B. What was plan B? I was going to lie there and hold my breath and pretend the mask was putting me to sleep and then make a mad dash for the door. Damn that gas mask! They tell you to count backwards from 100...I don't even remember "pretending" to count past 90.
I came out of the surgery with flying colors, or as the doctor said, "color in my cheeks." They said they removed a non cancerous tumor the size of my fist, well the size of it at 11 years old. They asked me if I wanted to see it and I said no, although now I wonder what it looked like. Coming out of surgery is a crazy hard experience. I remember trying desperately to open my eyes and keep them open, but every time I opened my eyes after closing them for what seemed like just a second, someone different was standing over me. People I wanted to see, people I didn't want to see, and people I didn't even know. I hated being there, and I made it known.
And during my recovery I was not in the children’s ward, rather the "old people" floor. The floor that dealt with heart related stuff and it was weird for not only me but the nurses who would come in to my room and did a double take. "Are you sure she's on the right floor?" they would ask. Yes, sadly we were sure I was, in fact, on the right floor. This was floor where I threw my nasty hospital food off my table; angry that I was there. And it was on this floor that I tried to kick the doctor. I was nice, wasn't I?
Part of my recovery was walking around the nurses’ station, the more I walked and the faster, the sooner I would get to go home. When I finally did it, it was about 2 days before Christmas I believe. Was I happy to be leaving the hospital? ABSOLUTELY. Did my issues end there? No. The one thing I wanted for Christmas and that I had picked out before all this had happened was a pair of roller blades. Well, obviously since I could not even stand up straight the roller blades went back to the store, and I got an original Nintendo instead.
But none of that, not the surgery, not the roller blades, nothing I've mentioned is the reason why this was the hardest Christmas. It was the hardest because this one was the last Christmas that my grandfather was well enough to enjoy with us. I remember him going to the hospital all the time to see me, I could tell he did not like being there and seeing me like that.
I was his side kick, always with him day or night. I truly adored him, (believe it or not Music Choice 90s channel just started to play Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You"). He was the one who bought me those roller blades in March for my birthday, he was the one who did anything I asked, and he was the one who I did not get to say goodbye too before he died. I was 12 and I hated to go see him at the hospice, which, I for one, did not know that’s where patients go when things aren't turning around.
I thought he was getting better, I thought he would be home soon and we could forget about places like hospitals and hospices. I saw him the 3 days before he died, 3 days, and he always went to see me when I was in the hospital. I can't get over that, I don't think I ever will. I was 12, I didn't know that 3 days could turn into never again...until his funeral, that is, and which went terribly.
There are many people I'll never forgive for the chaos that occurred the night he died, but the person I have the hardest problem with is myself for not seeing him every day. That Christmas I had my surgery, that Christmas is the last holiday I can remember having been looking forward to. That is the holiday I remember as being the last time I ever wanted to celebrate anything, the last holiday I didn't dread. I've never looked forward to a holiday since. Now I go through the motions but it’s not like it was before. I'll get gifts for the kids, I'll paint Easter eggs with them (even though I hate Easter because he died April 13th), but I'm doing it for the kids rather I do it because it’s something you have to do. I like Halloween though, but I think that’s because of what Halloween represents. ‘All Hallows Eve’ where I can dress up as something else, something that maybe shows on the outside what I feel on the inside...
http://typedink.com
(RBU Join Date: 06/27/2010)
Holidays... holidays never go well in my house, at least not in my opinion. There is always a fight the either night before or on the day of whatever holiday it may be but either way, there is some hostility in the air. I've been trying to think of a 'good holiday' but I can't think of one that was, a good happy holiday, so I want to talk about one of the hardest.
It was the Christmas of `95 I believe...yes, 1995...any way...I was 11 years old and excited that it was Friday night, the last day of school before Christmas break. I was sitting in the living room with most of my family watching TV(you know I've tried to remember what we were watching many times but have not been able to remember what it was, it’s like right there waiting to pop out of my head but something's holding it back) either way I was there watching TV. It was late at night and I suddenly did not feel too well, so I got up and headed to the restroom and ended up throwing up. Nasty I know, but that’s life. However my mother did not see it that way and took me to the ER.
We went and I got checked out and nothing could be found. They took x-rays, and sent us on our way (actually I think we had to go take X-rays another day but it’s been a long time so I don't really remember, I just know X-rays were taken). After said X-rays, I remember we had to set up an appointment later for a CAT scan because the X-rays apparently did not provide the info they were looking for. After the CAT scan, what do you think they wanted? More X-rays, at least that’s what they told my mother when they called, and they wanted them immediately. We went to the doctor’s office immediately or maybe the day after (again, another detail my memory fails to recall).
I remember very clearly sitting on the doctor’s table; my memory isn't failing me here. I was sitting on the bed; my legs hanging down and my mother and father standing next to it when the doctor came in. My mother asked why they needed more X-rays if they had done a CAT scan which obviously is more powerful than regular X-rays. The doctor told her that a trainee or a specialist in training (dang memory), had been going through scans as he liked to do, just to see what he could spot (hey, whatever floats your boat I say), when he noticed something on mine. Yep, I was the winner of a tumor floating above my air tube at 11 years old...about 2 weeks before Christmas, Merry Freaking Christmas to me right? Wait...that's not all, they wanted to operate...the next morning. Geez, how bad was I that year?
Now I got to give it to myself, after the initial shock and cry, I did fairly well I must say...until that morning and I was about to be led from my hospital room to the operating room...that's when fear hit me and I remember looking one of my cousin's in the eye and seeing her shocked face at my tear covered face. I was always a tough kid so I don't think they had ever seen me cry. To add to my stress and fear, they wanted to inject me with something to knock me out. But I don't like needles and I refused so the gas mask it was. However, that added another obstacle; my mom said she'd stay with me until I fell asleep only you can't do that in the operating room. I remember being wheeled away looking at my parents scared as hell (me, not them...no, them too, I suppose).
I remember the room being big but I was 11 so this could be one of those "it looks big cause I'm a little kid" type of thing. I remember at least 3 people in there and the table, bed, whatever you want to call it was cold. As they laid me down I had the idea of going to the bathroom, I told them, "I need to use the bathroom," I was gonna try and escape, their reply? A bedpan. I did not want a bed pan, I wanted to get the hell off that table/bed and out of that white metal room and the bathroom plan had failed. On to plan B. What was plan B? I was going to lie there and hold my breath and pretend the mask was putting me to sleep and then make a mad dash for the door. Damn that gas mask! They tell you to count backwards from 100...I don't even remember "pretending" to count past 90.
I came out of the surgery with flying colors, or as the doctor said, "color in my cheeks." They said they removed a non cancerous tumor the size of my fist, well the size of it at 11 years old. They asked me if I wanted to see it and I said no, although now I wonder what it looked like. Coming out of surgery is a crazy hard experience. I remember trying desperately to open my eyes and keep them open, but every time I opened my eyes after closing them for what seemed like just a second, someone different was standing over me. People I wanted to see, people I didn't want to see, and people I didn't even know. I hated being there, and I made it known.
And during my recovery I was not in the children’s ward, rather the "old people" floor. The floor that dealt with heart related stuff and it was weird for not only me but the nurses who would come in to my room and did a double take. "Are you sure she's on the right floor?" they would ask. Yes, sadly we were sure I was, in fact, on the right floor. This was floor where I threw my nasty hospital food off my table; angry that I was there. And it was on this floor that I tried to kick the doctor. I was nice, wasn't I?
Part of my recovery was walking around the nurses’ station, the more I walked and the faster, the sooner I would get to go home. When I finally did it, it was about 2 days before Christmas I believe. Was I happy to be leaving the hospital? ABSOLUTELY. Did my issues end there? No. The one thing I wanted for Christmas and that I had picked out before all this had happened was a pair of roller blades. Well, obviously since I could not even stand up straight the roller blades went back to the store, and I got an original Nintendo instead.
But none of that, not the surgery, not the roller blades, nothing I've mentioned is the reason why this was the hardest Christmas. It was the hardest because this one was the last Christmas that my grandfather was well enough to enjoy with us. I remember him going to the hospital all the time to see me, I could tell he did not like being there and seeing me like that.
I was his side kick, always with him day or night. I truly adored him, (believe it or not Music Choice 90s channel just started to play Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You"). He was the one who bought me those roller blades in March for my birthday, he was the one who did anything I asked, and he was the one who I did not get to say goodbye too before he died. I was 12 and I hated to go see him at the hospice, which, I for one, did not know that’s where patients go when things aren't turning around.
I thought he was getting better, I thought he would be home soon and we could forget about places like hospitals and hospices. I saw him the 3 days before he died, 3 days, and he always went to see me when I was in the hospital. I can't get over that, I don't think I ever will. I was 12, I didn't know that 3 days could turn into never again...until his funeral, that is, and which went terribly.
There are many people I'll never forgive for the chaos that occurred the night he died, but the person I have the hardest problem with is myself for not seeing him every day. That Christmas I had my surgery, that Christmas is the last holiday I can remember having been looking forward to. That is the holiday I remember as being the last time I ever wanted to celebrate anything, the last holiday I didn't dread. I've never looked forward to a holiday since. Now I go through the motions but it’s not like it was before. I'll get gifts for the kids, I'll paint Easter eggs with them (even though I hate Easter because he died April 13th), but I'm doing it for the kids rather I do it because it’s something you have to do. I like Halloween though, but I think that’s because of what Halloween represents. ‘All Hallows Eve’ where I can dress up as something else, something that maybe shows on the outside what I feel on the inside...
8/23/10
A Last Grand Adventure of Youth
By Dan Winfield
Edited for RBU by L. Avery Brown
http://anythingatanytime.blogspot.com/
(RBU Join Date: 06/04/2010)
This is going to be a bit different so I need to set a few things straight before getting into the story.
1. I Love Dragons - have since my early teens and I have a bunch of them around my part of the house (roughly a 2' x 2' x 8" shelf/cabinet…the guy always gets the smallest section when in a house full of "girls"!!!!!)
2. When I was younger I drank like a fishy sailor and the story I’m going to tell happened a few months before I joined the Navy.
3. I love castles - the old European fortress kind – and of course the ones you always associate with, you guessed it, dragons.
4. This all happened 22 years ago come this September so I may not get everything right and all people can have complete denial rights. There will only be one other name mentioned in here and he will have complete denial rights with his folks, too, if they read this.
5. And if you haven't figured it out yet this little bit is about a dragon, a castle and drinking.
6. This was inspired by a gentleman in Wales that I spoke with yesterday and brought back memories. Tip a pint of Welsh bitters back for me tonight please.
One day, out of the blue, I got a burr under my saddle and do not remember exactly what triggered it…but I went down to the main US base there in Frankfurt and decided to enlist in, of all things, the Navy. Up to that time in my life I had lived around the Army and the Air Force and had no clue about the Navy.
Anyway, when I got back to my folks place up north, I let them know I had enlisted. Really, still to this day I’m not sure what the reaction was; sort of a mix of WTF? and congrats! During the discussion we had I decided to take the money I had saved and take a vacation (holiday - for my European friends) to visit family friends that are actually like family (you know those friends that are not family but once you become true friends they become family).
Well, I called and set it all up with them, went and got my Euro Pass for the rails and commenced my journey.
Chris Dugdale (who was the oldest in the ‘friend family’) met me in London and we had a couple of interesting days there and I actually stayed in my first hostel; and no, it was nothing like those freak movies.
After a couple of days we boarded the rails and headed for Criccieth, Gwynedd in Wales.
On the way, we stopped at another family friend’s place near Worcester (I think), and had one of the most fantastic meals. Man could that lady cook! The meat just melted in your mouth. After dinner they took us to their local pub so they could "show off" the American. No money out of my pocket that night; boy was I toast!!!!
The next day we got on the rails again and also got several beers, larger, suds whatever you want to call it. Oh, and when I say several I mean several. You know those little tables between the seats on trains? We had the entire length and width of the table covered with cans. And by the time we got to Criccieth, we were goners.
This is where it happens…in Criccieth.
Criccieth is a quaint little village in Wales on the west coast of the United Kingdom and has some of the most beautiful scenery around that I can recall. Not to mention that out on the Point is an old castle, Castell Cricieth, flying the Welsh flag (white over green with a red dragon overlaying the field).
Ha! You were wondering where the dragon and castle were coming in, weren’t you? Now how do I work them in? You'll see…
The next day we wandered about the village stopping and meeting and being introduced to everyone. We had a good day and soon to find out a better…and worse night.
Chris and I ran into some friends of his and they invited us to join them at one of the local pubs and we had a repeat of the previous night. Again, no money out of my pocket. While playing billiards (pool for us Americans not educated in the game) and putting down a few pints of bitters, the subject came up that I liked castles and dragons. Well, the discussion got pretty lively about the old tales that the dragon still lived in that Ole Castle on the point.
And he only came out ‘wot to bugger Yanks’ like me!!! We all had some good laughs at that and a few more pints and then, of course, a few more pints. By this time I was ready to go show that Ole Dragon what us Yanks was all about. The bravery of drink (smirking and remembering).
Well, it was getting about closing time for the pub and we all went up and bought a couple extras, the others all knew the pub-tender and he was kind to the Yank and let us take the pints out with us on the honor of not driving. We did not drive. But we ran like Hell to the gates of the castle!!!!
You can probably figure where the conversation was with us at the gate of the castle. Now I am pretty sure at that time we all knew there was no dragon but then again we were all certain the dragon was there.
We got one guy up and over the fence and then another and then another until I was the only one left on the other side. Here was my dilemma: I am an American in Wales about to invade a Welsh castle to find a dragon; what kind of punishment would I face if I got caught?
But in my state of drunken bravery I said to hell with it! The Yank is a’coming! And I was up on top of that fence before you could blink. The getting down was the problem because it was a crazy drunken height of 20ft (in reality, all of maybe 8ft). But I was drunk and up there…man it was high!
I jumped anyway and about halfway down I knew I was in trouble. My balance shifted and I landed funny and to catch myself when my feet hit I pushed off and boy did I push; like a defensive lineman in American football or one those guys in a proper scrum in rugby and I launched myself…straight into the rock wall. And the rock wall won, hands down.
Talk about sobering up a crowd. In an instant we all knew the hunt was over; I had a gash in the top of my head and it was bleeding profusely. We finally got me back over the wall and back to Chris' mom and dad's house. When she saw the bleeding, his mother was all over us like you know what. But we had already figured out what we’d tell her; I jumped out of the way of a car because I forgot that the English drive on the other side of the road and I fell and hit my head on a rock wall. It was almost the truth. We just fudged where and why about the jump. She patched me up and to this day I still have that scar.
And even though I never got to see my dragon that will always be a fond memory of A Last Grand Adventure of Youth.
Maybe, just maybe, someday I will be able to take my wife and daughters to the place I hunted dragons and had a blast.
Edited for RBU by L. Avery Brown
http://anythingatanytime.blogspot.com/
(RBU Join Date: 06/04/2010)
This is going to be a bit different so I need to set a few things straight before getting into the story.
1. I Love Dragons - have since my early teens and I have a bunch of them around my part of the house (roughly a 2' x 2' x 8" shelf/cabinet…the guy always gets the smallest section when in a house full of "girls"!!!!!)
2. When I was younger I drank like a fishy sailor and the story I’m going to tell happened a few months before I joined the Navy.
3. I love castles - the old European fortress kind – and of course the ones you always associate with, you guessed it, dragons.
4. This all happened 22 years ago come this September so I may not get everything right and all people can have complete denial rights. There will only be one other name mentioned in here and he will have complete denial rights with his folks, too, if they read this.
5. And if you haven't figured it out yet this little bit is about a dragon, a castle and drinking.
6. This was inspired by a gentleman in Wales that I spoke with yesterday and brought back memories. Tip a pint of Welsh bitters back for me tonight please.
A Last Grand Adventure of Youth
It started out in a place called Hessisch Olendorf, Germany back in ‘88 (yes, for you younger ones that is 1988). I had just spent the summer with my folks in Germany and was in that no man’s land we sometimes find ourselves in sometime in our late teens; just bombed at college and not knowing or having a clue as to what or how I was going to do anything. One day, out of the blue, I got a burr under my saddle and do not remember exactly what triggered it…but I went down to the main US base there in Frankfurt and decided to enlist in, of all things, the Navy. Up to that time in my life I had lived around the Army and the Air Force and had no clue about the Navy.
Anyway, when I got back to my folks place up north, I let them know I had enlisted. Really, still to this day I’m not sure what the reaction was; sort of a mix of WTF? and congrats! During the discussion we had I decided to take the money I had saved and take a vacation (holiday - for my European friends) to visit family friends that are actually like family (you know those friends that are not family but once you become true friends they become family).
Well, I called and set it all up with them, went and got my Euro Pass for the rails and commenced my journey.
Chris Dugdale (who was the oldest in the ‘friend family’) met me in London and we had a couple of interesting days there and I actually stayed in my first hostel; and no, it was nothing like those freak movies.
After a couple of days we boarded the rails and headed for Criccieth, Gwynedd in Wales.
On the way, we stopped at another family friend’s place near Worcester (I think), and had one of the most fantastic meals. Man could that lady cook! The meat just melted in your mouth. After dinner they took us to their local pub so they could "show off" the American. No money out of my pocket that night; boy was I toast!!!!
The next day we got on the rails again and also got several beers, larger, suds whatever you want to call it. Oh, and when I say several I mean several. You know those little tables between the seats on trains? We had the entire length and width of the table covered with cans. And by the time we got to Criccieth, we were goners.
This is where it happens…in Criccieth.
Criccieth is a quaint little village in Wales on the west coast of the United Kingdom and has some of the most beautiful scenery around that I can recall. Not to mention that out on the Point is an old castle, Castell Cricieth, flying the Welsh flag (white over green with a red dragon overlaying the field).
Ha! You were wondering where the dragon and castle were coming in, weren’t you? Now how do I work them in? You'll see…
The next day we wandered about the village stopping and meeting and being introduced to everyone. We had a good day and soon to find out a better…and worse night.
Chris and I ran into some friends of his and they invited us to join them at one of the local pubs and we had a repeat of the previous night. Again, no money out of my pocket. While playing billiards (pool for us Americans not educated in the game) and putting down a few pints of bitters, the subject came up that I liked castles and dragons. Well, the discussion got pretty lively about the old tales that the dragon still lived in that Ole Castle on the point.
And he only came out ‘wot to bugger Yanks’ like me!!! We all had some good laughs at that and a few more pints and then, of course, a few more pints. By this time I was ready to go show that Ole Dragon what us Yanks was all about. The bravery of drink (smirking and remembering).
Well, it was getting about closing time for the pub and we all went up and bought a couple extras, the others all knew the pub-tender and he was kind to the Yank and let us take the pints out with us on the honor of not driving. We did not drive. But we ran like Hell to the gates of the castle!!!!
You can probably figure where the conversation was with us at the gate of the castle. Now I am pretty sure at that time we all knew there was no dragon but then again we were all certain the dragon was there.
We got one guy up and over the fence and then another and then another until I was the only one left on the other side. Here was my dilemma: I am an American in Wales about to invade a Welsh castle to find a dragon; what kind of punishment would I face if I got caught?
But in my state of drunken bravery I said to hell with it! The Yank is a’coming! And I was up on top of that fence before you could blink. The getting down was the problem because it was a crazy drunken height of 20ft (in reality, all of maybe 8ft). But I was drunk and up there…man it was high!
I jumped anyway and about halfway down I knew I was in trouble. My balance shifted and I landed funny and to catch myself when my feet hit I pushed off and boy did I push; like a defensive lineman in American football or one those guys in a proper scrum in rugby and I launched myself…straight into the rock wall. And the rock wall won, hands down.
Talk about sobering up a crowd. In an instant we all knew the hunt was over; I had a gash in the top of my head and it was bleeding profusely. We finally got me back over the wall and back to Chris' mom and dad's house. When she saw the bleeding, his mother was all over us like you know what. But we had already figured out what we’d tell her; I jumped out of the way of a car because I forgot that the English drive on the other side of the road and I fell and hit my head on a rock wall. It was almost the truth. We just fudged where and why about the jump. She patched me up and to this day I still have that scar.
And even though I never got to see my dragon that will always be a fond memory of A Last Grand Adventure of Youth.
Maybe, just maybe, someday I will be able to take my wife and daughters to the place I hunted dragons and had a blast.
8/21/10
The Beach
By “Goose” Quill
http://goosequill.net/blog/
(RBU Join Date: 05/26/2010)
Fingers entwined,
We walked slowly.
Sand sifting in our shoes,
Sun warming our shoulders,
An unfamiliar feeling in our hearts.
Rekindled love
From too long ago,
Like a sunset over the bay
Burning into us,
Warm and brightly.
Laughing, we collected shells
And memories.
A warm sadness touched me
When she found the sand dollar,
Broken.
I traded the ocean
A coin from my pocket
For a small white pebble.
And she smiled at me.
The ocean breeze kissed us
As we watched the eternal surf
Caress the beach,
Giving up its beauty to us.
And we held each other,
Together with the sand,
Dreaming of happy things.
We gave our deepest thoughts
As gifts to each other,
Needing to share.
And the realization
Of this wonderful encounter
Touched me then.
I had discovered
My best friend.
Copyright © July, 2010 [“Goose” Quill] All Rights Reserved
http://goosequill.net/blog/
(RBU Join Date: 05/26/2010)
Fingers entwined,
We walked slowly.
Sand sifting in our shoes,
Sun warming our shoulders,
An unfamiliar feeling in our hearts.
Rekindled love
From too long ago,
Like a sunset over the bay
Burning into us,
Warm and brightly.
Laughing, we collected shells
And memories.
A warm sadness touched me
When she found the sand dollar,
Broken.
I traded the ocean
A coin from my pocket
For a small white pebble.
And she smiled at me.
The ocean breeze kissed us
As we watched the eternal surf
Caress the beach,
Giving up its beauty to us.
And we held each other,
Together with the sand,
Dreaming of happy things.
We gave our deepest thoughts
As gifts to each other,
Needing to share.
And the realization
Of this wonderful encounter
Touched me then.
I had discovered
My best friend.
Copyright © July, 2010 [“Goose” Quill] All Rights Reserved
8/19/10
Gales, Whales and Fairytales!
By Paul Wilson http://magicdartsblog.blogspot.com
(RBU join date 04/09/2010)
Many moons ago, on a German language summer course in Mannheim, I became good pals with a Norwegian chap. We stayed in touch and a couple of years later back in 1994, I took up his offer to come and visit him in Bergen, where he was studying at University.
Affectionately known as the Gateway to the Fjords, for centuries, Norway’s second largest city of Bergen has been an internationally renowned trading port. Its historic and breathtaking harbour front featuring the World Heritage listed “Bryggen” - in essence a unique collection of colourfully painted and beautifully preserved wooden houses - helps ensure its status as an extremely popular destination for tourism.
I’ll be honest from the outset. Frankly, as an unattached 24 year old setting out on a week’s adventure, fully hoping to help a succession of fresh faced, blond Scandinavian students to fine tune their English language skills, the historical nuances of the city were never going to be at the forefront of my thinking.
Every once in a while being an impoverished student can have its small compensations, and in my case, because I could only afford the most basic of cabins, my room was so far down the pecking order it was below the car deck. To my surprise, when I finally made it to my bunk bed, when I lay down the rocking motion at this depth was actually quite pleasant and so I managed to eat up a whopping 15 hours of the journey sleeping.
So when we finally made it to port the next morning, whilst the vast majority were looking green around the gills I was like a giddy spring lamb ready to embark.
At the mouth of the harbour, you can see dozens of market stalls lining the promenade, and as you walk a little closer, the intoxicating waft of fresh seafood fills up your senses. But with all manner of sea creatures are being traded here, and the sight of large pots of water densely packed with live crab, crayfish and lobsters, and sealskin furs and rugs, it doesn’t make particularly comforting viewing. What really hit home for me were the trivial objects like pencil cases that were made from baby seal skins – call me an old softie but that really seems too much.
Being an international traveler of limited sophistication and budget, I ended up in the McDonalds just across the way from the markets. Knowing how bland the menu choices can be across the world I was pleasantly surprised to see a local option in the Lachs Burger – made with a salmon fillet. As I hungrily devoured said burger I did a snap survey on the number of blond ladies I could see milling around the place and was more than a little shaken to discover a good number of brunettes and darker shades.
When my host Peter arrived, naturally I was looking for reassurance on this front, perhaps it was a case of the tourists mixed in with the real locals. Alas no, after 26 hours on the ultimate big dipper, it turns out I’d come to completely the wrong Scandinavian region for flaxen haired lovelies – according to him they’re all in Sweden or Finland. I needed a drink!
Later that evening, I certainly wasn’t complaining about the quality, and then my good pal unveiled the ultimate ‘Viking cheap night’ tactic. As part of the brewing process, a small by-product of 60-70% proof pure alcohol is left over. And rather than spending an hour or two sipping back the drinks at home, he simply mixes a tiny sliver of the strong stuff in with a Sprite, and instant Viking power confidence is guaranteed.
Clearly with my older and hopefully wiser 38 year old head on, I certainly wouldn’t plan on repeating the technique anytime soon, but suffice to say it did the job extremely effectively and before you knew it I was in the thick of the action down at the student bar. Just like I’d hoped, as word got around that there was an Englishmen in the midst, before long I was centre of attention. Trouble was…initially it was all of Pete’s male housemates, determined to let me know just how great the English Premier League is and how they follow it avidly every week on live Saturday broadcasts. There was one bloke who could name pretty much every single current player in league 2, which was much more than I needed to hear.
Then she started talking “that’s awwww-some, great to meet you, have a nice….” I’d heard enough – she was talking in an almost incomprehensibly artificial American accent almost as if she’d accidentally swallowed a teen prom movie. As luck would have it, our taxi arrived right on cue, and before I knew it I was heading out with Pete, Arne and Bjorn down to one of Bergen’s top (well probably only) night spots.
I’m reasonably ashamed to say that at no point did I interject any sense of objection to her viewpoint here, due to being entirely mesmerized by her every word. So much so that I’d entirely failed to notice the other lads and lasses having headed to the dance floor.
On some flimsy excuse of (me) having to be up early for lectures in the morning and (she) going back with the girls, we parted, though being good gentlemen we walked them to the bus stop, while I desperately pretended not to feel the arctic chill having left my coat back at the student bar, giving her one last chuckle at the “crazy” English guy.
No, not Maria…my little princess Anne, and she had even rescued my abandoned coat from the student bar. This was Cinderella in reverse. The Prince now found her accent quite charming, as it turns out she was able to stay out way past midnight, she did possess a couple of well placed pumpkins, and so we got chatting. She’d au paired in the States for 3 summers, but she much preferred English culture. We went back to hers for coffee, she got out her geography books, I showed her where Scunthorpe was on the map, and our fairytale romance began via a good old snog, a quick fumble, before I fell asleep still wearing that coat…
Now Bergen also happens to be known as “The City between the Seven Mountains”, and Pete decided that I needed to sample the ultimate Norwegian hangover cure. So with barely time for a Valderi, let alone a Valdera, we set off, minus the knapsacks, into the hills out the back of the campus. He assured me, a couple of oranges, and a quick hike to the top of Mount Floyen would sort us out in no time.
Despite the blinding sunlight and heavy terrain, I didn’t think we were doing too badly until at one point a couple of 70 plus years olds went skipping past us with ease like a couple of spring lambs. Shamed into picking up the pace a little, we finally made it to the top, and to the relief of a café. Whilst enjoying the spectacular views across the city, at the same time I was desperately trying to summon the strength to head back downwards , Pete pointed out we could just take the Funicular railway – known locally as the Floibanen.
Seemed like a great idea, we took our seats and down we went. Now it was a wee bit steeper than I’d anticipated, and clearly not everything had worn off just yet. So I can’t say I was particularly absorbing much of the view as we came down, in fact suffice to say I was far more concerned about what was coming back up if you get my drift…
Hang on what’s that I hear you say, if this is a fairytale are we going to get the happily ever after bit. Plus where’s the real detail, so far you’ve told us “Berger” all about the place really.
Just so happens I can help on both fronts.
10 years on in 2004, I was fortunate enough to return to this beautiful city with wife and mother-in-law on our midnight sun cruise up the Norwegian coast. The fish market was still thriving with all its dubious offerings, and this time around we got a proper guided tour around the Bryggen including the Hanseatic museum where you get a fascinating insight into how the merchants lived and worked. Here you’ll also find the oldest surviving building, the 12th century Mariakirken church (don’t laugh - do you know to this day, every time I hear Bob Marley and the “Whalers” – No woman, no cry it still sets me off!!)
Our local tour also took us up into the hillside, and lo and behold, as the Fates would have it, right opposite that very same University campus. This was the leafy woodland setting for the ancient, all-wooden Fantoft “stave” church, which was totally gutted by fire in 1992 and had been painstakingly rebuilt using the original architects drawings.
It’s a truly remarkable building, layer upon layer of intricate carving, reaching like a house of cards high into the deep blue sky above. Inside it’s so homely and yet serene, there’s an indefinable sense of spirituality. The original wooden font had been salvaged and restored, and our guide told us that it had a reputation locally as an aid to fertility, with reports of women falling pregnant not long after touching it.
Little known to us, (though we’d been privately trying for a baby for over 3 years by this point), Mum-in-law made a secret wish on our behalf, not knowing whether we wanted to try for children, but just in case we did. And almost a year to the day after our visit my wife finally fell pregnant – and we got our precious little boy.
Now, I ask you, is that or is that not the ultimate in happy endings?
And, before you ask, no we didn’t christen him Berger…..
(RBU join date 04/09/2010)
Many moons ago, on a German language summer course in Mannheim, I became good pals with a Norwegian chap. We stayed in touch and a couple of years later back in 1994, I took up his offer to come and visit him in Bergen, where he was studying at University.
Affectionately known as the Gateway to the Fjords, for centuries, Norway’s second largest city of Bergen has been an internationally renowned trading port. Its historic and breathtaking harbour front featuring the World Heritage listed “Bryggen” - in essence a unique collection of colourfully painted and beautifully preserved wooden houses - helps ensure its status as an extremely popular destination for tourism.
I’ll be honest from the outset. Frankly, as an unattached 24 year old setting out on a week’s adventure, fully hoping to help a succession of fresh faced, blond Scandinavian students to fine tune their English language skills, the historical nuances of the city were never going to be at the forefront of my thinking.
~~~~So Ferry, cross the North sea…~~~~
First things first, I had to make the sea crossing first, which I must confess, being a stereotypically Nordic looking blond and blued eyed fellow myself, did feel a teensy weensy little bit like a return to my Viking heritage. There again, I wasn’t feeling quite so noble half an hour or so after departing Newcastle on the Ferry as howling gales whipped up the North sea into a frenzy of 40 foot waves. The next 25 1/2 hours were like some kind of perpetual theme park pirate ship ride. You literally couldn’t walk around the ship without feeling like lead weights were hanging from your guts, what a nightmare.Every once in a while being an impoverished student can have its small compensations, and in my case, because I could only afford the most basic of cabins, my room was so far down the pecking order it was below the car deck. To my surprise, when I finally made it to my bunk bed, when I lay down the rocking motion at this depth was actually quite pleasant and so I managed to eat up a whopping 15 hours of the journey sleeping.
So when we finally made it to port the next morning, whilst the vast majority were looking green around the gills I was like a giddy spring lamb ready to embark.
~~~~Something fishy going on here~~~~
Now as I had an hour or two to kill till my mate got out of his lectures, I found a place at the port to store my meager belongings and took a stroll around the harbour front. The first thing that strikes you is the breathtaking harbour and surroundings, lined by a series of colourful painted houses, with dozens of sailing vessels of all size and description bobbing their way gently on the morning breezes.At the mouth of the harbour, you can see dozens of market stalls lining the promenade, and as you walk a little closer, the intoxicating waft of fresh seafood fills up your senses. But with all manner of sea creatures are being traded here, and the sight of large pots of water densely packed with live crab, crayfish and lobsters, and sealskin furs and rugs, it doesn’t make particularly comforting viewing. What really hit home for me were the trivial objects like pencil cases that were made from baby seal skins – call me an old softie but that really seems too much.
Being an international traveler of limited sophistication and budget, I ended up in the McDonalds just across the way from the markets. Knowing how bland the menu choices can be across the world I was pleasantly surprised to see a local option in the Lachs Burger – made with a salmon fillet. As I hungrily devoured said burger I did a snap survey on the number of blond ladies I could see milling around the place and was more than a little shaken to discover a good number of brunettes and darker shades.
When my host Peter arrived, naturally I was looking for reassurance on this front, perhaps it was a case of the tourists mixed in with the real locals. Alas no, after 26 hours on the ultimate big dipper, it turns out I’d come to completely the wrong Scandinavian region for flaxen haired lovelies – according to him they’re all in Sweden or Finland. I needed a drink!
~~~~Drinking, Viking style ~~~~
Now it’s a widely recognized fact that the alcoholic drink prices across Scandinavia are heavily burdened with tax, so much so that back in the mid 90’s the standard price for a beer was already a staggering five pounds a pint even in the dingiest of bars. Luckily the locals are a highly resourceful bunch and as I arrived back at Pete’s student digs he revealed his own personal home brew collection, with rack after rack of his patented Mondschein wine (you do the translation!) each complete with a knock-off black and white picture of a scantily clad Cher swinging from a lamppost in Moonstruck for that added authenticity.Later that evening, I certainly wasn’t complaining about the quality, and then my good pal unveiled the ultimate ‘Viking cheap night’ tactic. As part of the brewing process, a small by-product of 60-70% proof pure alcohol is left over. And rather than spending an hour or two sipping back the drinks at home, he simply mixes a tiny sliver of the strong stuff in with a Sprite, and instant Viking power confidence is guaranteed.
Clearly with my older and hopefully wiser 38 year old head on, I certainly wouldn’t plan on repeating the technique anytime soon, but suffice to say it did the job extremely effectively and before you knew it I was in the thick of the action down at the student bar. Just like I’d hoped, as word got around that there was an Englishmen in the midst, before long I was centre of attention. Trouble was…initially it was all of Pete’s male housemates, determined to let me know just how great the English Premier League is and how they follow it avidly every week on live Saturday broadcasts. There was one bloke who could name pretty much every single current player in league 2, which was much more than I needed to hear.
~~~~Fairytales can come true, it can happen to you~~~~
At last my salvation arrived in the shape of a pretty little blond lass who arrived at the bar – Pete gives me the intro “Hey Paul this is Anne Christin Hansen” ( I swear that really was her name) she’s an au pair , loves any chance she gets to practice her English. Despite my already blurry state of mind, a little Terminator style processing chip managed some quick calculations – affirmative target match, with a name bearing remarkable similarity to Hans Christian Andersen – could it really be that I had found my fairytale maiden? (yeah, yeah, I know he’s technically from Denmark – work with me people!)Then she started talking “that’s awwww-some, great to meet you, have a nice….” I’d heard enough – she was talking in an almost incomprehensibly artificial American accent almost as if she’d accidentally swallowed a teen prom movie. As luck would have it, our taxi arrived right on cue, and before I knew it I was heading out with Pete, Arne and Bjorn down to one of Bergen’s top (well probably only) night spots.
~~~~Strangers in the night (club)~~~~
The lads had quickly cottoned on to the fact that the English stranger was a great conversation opener. Before long, we got talking with a new set of ladies, and suddenly my blond ambitions were consigned to the history books. One of the girls, Maria, had the most entrancing light blue eyes, effortless smile and jet black hair flowing to her shoulders. She had always wanted to visit the UK, she was incredibly articulate, gloriously unattached and miracle of miracles she was genuinely laughing along with my little quirky tales of my Britishness. Just one small problem, she turned out to be a passionate advocate of the practice of Whaling, telling me all about the 4 generations of whaling in the family, how it has always been part of the true Norwegian heritage, how Norway sent the EU packing when they wanted to get it banned…I’m reasonably ashamed to say that at no point did I interject any sense of objection to her viewpoint here, due to being entirely mesmerized by her every word. So much so that I’d entirely failed to notice the other lads and lasses having headed to the dance floor.
~~~~No Stairway!!~~~~
A rocking number came on, Maria was up on her feet, and naturally I seized the moment and lead her downstairs. I could hardly hear her as she shouts “I love Led Zeppelin” while we’re bouncing around the place, then it hits me. In that same instant, the pace slows down completely. It’s only the never-ending “Stairway to heaven” what a tactical disaster! Neither of us wanting to leave the dance floor early, we went into an ultra awkward where do I put my hands slow dance clinch discomfort , and somehow all the magic disappeared in that embarrassing final couple of minutes.On some flimsy excuse of (me) having to be up early for lectures in the morning and (she) going back with the girls, we parted, though being good gentlemen we walked them to the bus stop, while I desperately pretended not to feel the arctic chill having left my coat back at the student bar, giving her one last chuckle at the “crazy” English guy.
~~~~Someday my Prince will ….kip~~~~
Momentarily inconsolable, I soon revived on the back of a bottle of home brew vintage back at the digs, and before long we were heading to a party on the campus. And like it was written in the stars, there she was again….No, not Maria…my little princess Anne, and she had even rescued my abandoned coat from the student bar. This was Cinderella in reverse. The Prince now found her accent quite charming, as it turns out she was able to stay out way past midnight, she did possess a couple of well placed pumpkins, and so we got chatting. She’d au paired in the States for 3 summers, but she much preferred English culture. We went back to hers for coffee, she got out her geography books, I showed her where Scunthorpe was on the map, and our fairytale romance began via a good old snog, a quick fumble, before I fell asleep still wearing that coat…
~~~~Funiculee, Funicul--eeeurgghh~~~~
The next morning , ok I’ll admit it, afternoon, I awoke with a monumental throbbing head (oh please behave - I’m talking strictly in the hangover sense here!). We said our heartfelt farewells and I returned to Pete’s flat to find him in a similar state of disgrace. Now Bergen also happens to be known as “The City between the Seven Mountains”, and Pete decided that I needed to sample the ultimate Norwegian hangover cure. So with barely time for a Valderi, let alone a Valdera, we set off, minus the knapsacks, into the hills out the back of the campus. He assured me, a couple of oranges, and a quick hike to the top of Mount Floyen would sort us out in no time.
Despite the blinding sunlight and heavy terrain, I didn’t think we were doing too badly until at one point a couple of 70 plus years olds went skipping past us with ease like a couple of spring lambs. Shamed into picking up the pace a little, we finally made it to the top, and to the relief of a café. Whilst enjoying the spectacular views across the city, at the same time I was desperately trying to summon the strength to head back downwards , Pete pointed out we could just take the Funicular railway – known locally as the Floibanen.
Seemed like a great idea, we took our seats and down we went. Now it was a wee bit steeper than I’d anticipated, and clearly not everything had worn off just yet. So I can’t say I was particularly absorbing much of the view as we came down, in fact suffice to say I was far more concerned about what was coming back up if you get my drift…
~~~~Fairytale ending~~~~
So there you have it, Paul’s extremely rough guide to Bergen. Job done!Hang on what’s that I hear you say, if this is a fairytale are we going to get the happily ever after bit. Plus where’s the real detail, so far you’ve told us “Berger” all about the place really.
Just so happens I can help on both fronts.
10 years on in 2004, I was fortunate enough to return to this beautiful city with wife and mother-in-law on our midnight sun cruise up the Norwegian coast. The fish market was still thriving with all its dubious offerings, and this time around we got a proper guided tour around the Bryggen including the Hanseatic museum where you get a fascinating insight into how the merchants lived and worked. Here you’ll also find the oldest surviving building, the 12th century Mariakirken church (don’t laugh - do you know to this day, every time I hear Bob Marley and the “Whalers” – No woman, no cry it still sets me off!!)
Our local tour also took us up into the hillside, and lo and behold, as the Fates would have it, right opposite that very same University campus. This was the leafy woodland setting for the ancient, all-wooden Fantoft “stave” church, which was totally gutted by fire in 1992 and had been painstakingly rebuilt using the original architects drawings.
It’s a truly remarkable building, layer upon layer of intricate carving, reaching like a house of cards high into the deep blue sky above. Inside it’s so homely and yet serene, there’s an indefinable sense of spirituality. The original wooden font had been salvaged and restored, and our guide told us that it had a reputation locally as an aid to fertility, with reports of women falling pregnant not long after touching it.
Little known to us, (though we’d been privately trying for a baby for over 3 years by this point), Mum-in-law made a secret wish on our behalf, not knowing whether we wanted to try for children, but just in case we did. And almost a year to the day after our visit my wife finally fell pregnant – and we got our precious little boy.
Now, I ask you, is that or is that not the ultimate in happy endings?
And, before you ask, no we didn’t christen him Berger…..
8/18/10
Festive Rebellion
By ChickenFreak http://chickenfreaksobsessions.blogspot.com/
(RBU Join Date: 03/24/2010)
Holidays.
Holidays always have their traditions, especially the winter holidays. Turkey, sweet potatoes, the tree, that little angel ornament. And celery. I hate celery, but it seems to belong with Thanksgiving and Christmas, so there it is, one rib chopped into the stuffing, the rest sitting in the crisper drawer until I toss it out in February.
Sometimes holiday traditions are shiny happy things. And sometimes they're, well, not.
The gift march, for example. The desperate search, the Eureka! decision that I'll buy everyone a box of See's candy and a pair of red wool socks, the weakening of my resolve, the reminder that no one will commit holiday suicide if the package arrives on the 27th, the re-weakening, and the overnight shipping fees.
As a holiday variant on the traditional dream about reaching the end of the semester without ever remembering to go to class, I regularly have a dream about reaching Christmas Eve without buying, much less shipping, a single gift. I end up wandering through a dream-landscape drugstore at twilight, with the lights clicking off, one by one at closing time desperately trying to buy everyone a twelve-pack of Scotch tape, but unable to find the checkout.
Waking to the real world, there's the turkey, and the associated suspense. Will it thaw? Will we be able to find the roasting pan? Will it fit in the oven? Will it cook before the crowd gets surly? Will it be tough? Did the stuffing cook through or have we already killed everyone and we just don't know it yet?
Holidays.
Yeah.
For me, it seems to be escape from tradition that makes the best holidays. Violating expectations is a luxury with that holiday feeling that chopped celery and oversized poultry just can't achieve any more.
There's the traditional Christmas afternoon movie, the classic escape of teenagers bored to despair by a half-day's interaction with the extended family. Watching helicopters explode when your real duty is to stay home and perch on the chair with the wobbly leg and respectfully agree that, goodness, yes, you _have_ gotten big, is one of the very brightest of holiday moments.
Or you can have your rebellion at home. For a while, Himself and a friend and I spent Thanksgiving eating Chinese takeout and playing Call of Cthulhu, a horror role-playing game in which 1920's-era investigators slowly lose their health and sanity battling cosmic evil. _That_ was a holiday tradition. No cooking. No Salmonella. No celery. Nothing whatsoever that one could describe as heartwarming.
Shiny.
Due to a post-submission editing issue this entry has been reposted. The comments that follow are as seen on the original posting.
Goose said...
Hah! Thanks for that! It reminds me of cranberry sauce & my brother.
My brother asked where the cranberry sauce was when he visited for Thanksgiving one year. The next Thanksgiving he visited, we had it on the table. My wife asked him why he wasn't eating any, since he asked for it the previous year. He said, "Oh, I don't eat it - I just wondered why you didn't have any since it's a traditional side dish..."
August 17, 2010 6:56 PM
Glen said...
I don't think I've ever heard of Christmas celery before! sausages wrapped in bacon - yes, celery - no! nice work, I'm feeling all Christmassy now :-)
August 18, 2010 4:04 AM
Thank you for understanding.
(RBU Join Date: 03/24/2010)
Holidays.
Holidays always have their traditions, especially the winter holidays. Turkey, sweet potatoes, the tree, that little angel ornament. And celery. I hate celery, but it seems to belong with Thanksgiving and Christmas, so there it is, one rib chopped into the stuffing, the rest sitting in the crisper drawer until I toss it out in February.
Sometimes holiday traditions are shiny happy things. And sometimes they're, well, not.
The gift march, for example. The desperate search, the Eureka! decision that I'll buy everyone a box of See's candy and a pair of red wool socks, the weakening of my resolve, the reminder that no one will commit holiday suicide if the package arrives on the 27th, the re-weakening, and the overnight shipping fees.
As a holiday variant on the traditional dream about reaching the end of the semester without ever remembering to go to class, I regularly have a dream about reaching Christmas Eve without buying, much less shipping, a single gift. I end up wandering through a dream-landscape drugstore at twilight, with the lights clicking off, one by one at closing time desperately trying to buy everyone a twelve-pack of Scotch tape, but unable to find the checkout.
Waking to the real world, there's the turkey, and the associated suspense. Will it thaw? Will we be able to find the roasting pan? Will it fit in the oven? Will it cook before the crowd gets surly? Will it be tough? Did the stuffing cook through or have we already killed everyone and we just don't know it yet?
Holidays.
Yeah.
For me, it seems to be escape from tradition that makes the best holidays. Violating expectations is a luxury with that holiday feeling that chopped celery and oversized poultry just can't achieve any more.
There's the traditional Christmas afternoon movie, the classic escape of teenagers bored to despair by a half-day's interaction with the extended family. Watching helicopters explode when your real duty is to stay home and perch on the chair with the wobbly leg and respectfully agree that, goodness, yes, you _have_ gotten big, is one of the very brightest of holiday moments.
Or you can have your rebellion at home. For a while, Himself and a friend and I spent Thanksgiving eating Chinese takeout and playing Call of Cthulhu, a horror role-playing game in which 1920's-era investigators slowly lose their health and sanity battling cosmic evil. _That_ was a holiday tradition. No cooking. No Salmonella. No celery. Nothing whatsoever that one could describe as heartwarming.
Shiny.
The image is public domain, from Wikimedia Commons. (The Wikimedia Commons page is at http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Frances_Brundage_Thanksgiving.jpg, but I've cropped the image.)
Due to a post-submission editing issue this entry has been reposted. The comments that follow are as seen on the original posting.
Goose said...
Hah! Thanks for that! It reminds me of cranberry sauce & my brother.
My brother asked where the cranberry sauce was when he visited for Thanksgiving one year. The next Thanksgiving he visited, we had it on the table. My wife asked him why he wasn't eating any, since he asked for it the previous year. He said, "Oh, I don't eat it - I just wondered why you didn't have any since it's a traditional side dish..."
August 17, 2010 6:56 PM
Glen said...
I don't think I've ever heard of Christmas celery before! sausages wrapped in bacon - yes, celery - no! nice work, I'm feeling all Christmassy now :-)
August 18, 2010 4:04 AM
Thank you for understanding.
8/15/10
Say what?
A snip-it taken from my recollections about
“The Best Worst Vacation Ever"
By L. Avery Brown
Founder, Real Bloggers United
Editor-in-Chief, RBU-The Group Blog
Back in 1994 my husband was asked by his employer to go to their facility in Dublin, Ireland along with some of his fellow coworkers. I was so jealous. But I didn’t let it show…too much. But my husband, whom I’d been married to for less than 6 months knew how badly I wanted to go. So he did a bit of calculating and was able to find enough money so that I could come along with him for 10 days.
10 days! Wow. I was so excited. I packed and repacked and then repacked again. And on the day we were set to go, I was a big bundle of excited nerves because I’d never been out of the country. Heck, I’d only been on an airplane 2 or 3 times and this was going to be a long flight over the Atlantic. And as soon as I boarded the plane I knew this was going to be the trip of a lifetime. Of course, as is usual with most trips, not everything went quite as planned.
In fact, if I’m being honest lots of things went utterly and terribly wrong. So wrong that to most people, they might think it was an absolutely horrible trip. But, it was, in truth, the very best trip I’d ever been on in my life and it still, nearly 20 years later, ranks up there in my personal top 3.
However, to set the record straight, not everything that happened on our trip, which essentially was like a 2nd honeymoon went haywire because some things that happened were just out right hilarious. Take, for instance, the day when I learned an interesting fact about the not so subtle differences between the American version of the English language and everybody else’s version…
One evening, after I picked up my husband at the factory in Dublin, we and his American coworkers went to a pub in the city to meet some of their Irish coworkers. They’d said it was one of their favorite spots because they played old school American music. And as soon as we stepped inside, I too took a shying to the place because the song ‘Up on the roof’ by the Drifters was playing.
Yes, it was my kind of place. And when our waitress, Molly, who sounded like an American that had picked up a bit of the Irish lilt, asked where we were from. We told her South Carolina.
She said, “Neat. I’m from North Carolina.”
My husband and I smiled as I asked, “Where in NC?”
She said, “It’s a little town. You’ve probably not heard of it. It’s called Salisbury.”
I said, “I know where that is! I’m from Concord. And my husband is from Kannapolis.”
Molly said, “Wow, really? Where’d you live in Kannapolis?”
I replied for my husband, “Off of Irish Potato Road” (Seriously…it’s called Irish Potato Road and follows the Irish Buffalo Creek)
Molly exclaimed, “My parents live ON Irish Potato Road!” And from there she and I got on like peas in a pod.
As we nibbled on food and the others had a few beers I said something about liking the music they played in the pub. The Irish guys at the table all agreed and said that was why it was one of their favorite spots to hang out after work. And then I said, “I just love shag music!”
To wit all the Irish eyes at the table and a few from a table nearby stared at me as if I’d said something totally out of line. Whereupon I asked, “What? I thought you said you liked shagging music?”
The Irish guys all smirked and started laughing as a few of them said, “Oh, we do. We do.” And then they laughed a bit heartier as they drank down their beers.
But apparently it was a joke that neither I nor my husband and our American friends got or weren’t willing to admit they got. And so I kept right on chatting about shagging. I said, “Did you know it’s the official state dance for South Carolina?”
They chuckled, chortled, and snorted.
But I didn’t understand and kept right on with my knowledge of shagging. I said, “Oh and you know what? There’s a movie that came out a few years ago called, “Shag, the Movie” but it didn’t really have anything to do with the dance at all.”
And that’s when the Irish guys at the table had hit their giggling breaking point and erupted into all out laughter.
About that time Molly popped over to hand the guys some more brews and asked what was so funny?
That’s when one of the Irish guys said, “Laura here likes a bit of shagging music.”
Another fellow said, “Yeah, did you know it’s the official state dance for South Carolina?” Then he said, “She says there’s even a movie in America about it.”
Whereupon a guy at the end of the table said, “I’ve really got to go to South Carolina.”
And once again the Irish crew laughed as I sat there looking a bit bewildered.
Molly sighed and shook her head and said to the regulars, “Hey, be nice now. She doesn’t know what that means.” Then she turned to me and said, “Over here the word shagging means to have sex. But not just sex though. It’s a bit dirtier than that.”
I suppose at that point my eyes must have gotten as big as saucers and my face probably turned a shade darker than the garnet color on my sweatshirt. Oh dear Lord! Talk about a major word faux pas! I was so embarrassed. But I could tell from the looks on the faces of my husband and his American coworkers that while they saw the humor in the conversation they weren’t too pleased that the Irish guys didn’t tell me straight up about the loaded mine field I was blabbering my way through.
Needless to say, I now refer to that style of music as ‘Beach Music’.
And that is but one of the 20+ things that went totally awry on our trip to Ireland. But to be honest, I wouldn’t change it for the world because I knew they weren’t trying to be mean or anything…they were just having a bit of fun with my American naiveté.
8/11/10
Patagonia: Pesos, Pussycats, & Petrol
By CK Wagner
http://thefallenmonkey.com
(RBU join date 03/06/2010)
This memoir is a direct transcription from my 2007 travel journal, when my husband (fiancé at the time) and I traveled to South America’s Patagonia. This particular entry involves our roundtrip road-trip from El Calafate, Argentina to Torres Del Paine, Chile.
El Calafate, Argentina, 29 March 2007
The Blackberry calleth us to consciousness early yesterday morning, but we waketh not early. Both needing sleepy long-time, we snoozed a bit longer until, rriiiipp! Off had to go the Band-Aid of blissful sleep so we could ready for our next adventure. Off we went around 10:30am to seek out Ruta 40. Missing our intended turn, we luckily remained on route to Esperanza, which was a longer, but easier way to take—paved all the way until the border, whereas approximately 70km of our originally mapped journey would have been unpaved in addition to the 100km or so leading into Chile and to Torres Del Paine national park.
Once past Esperanza, just as the guidebook promised, we could see the jagged torres on the horizon for the rest of the drive in. Between us and that wicked vision looming in the distance was a vast openness of dry plains and low hills, much like the American West. Turning onto a gravel road to cross the border, the Argentinean immigration/customs site came out of nowhere—a couple white buildings standing solitary in an ocean of uncultivated, unpaved land, making its sister Chilean border patrol seem like a bustling metropolis in comparison.
Feeling lame that we naïve, Starbucks-and-ATM Americans had not thought of withdrawing more Argentine pesos or exchanging to Chilean ones in preparation for our border-crossing, the park guy at the administrative office let us pass on the condition that we’d pay on our way out. Reaching our campsite off Lago Pehoe after more twists-n-turns, we were ecstatic to leave the car and stretch our legs in the presence of such awe-inspiring natural wonder.
Prior to finding fuel that evening, we had—after a brief hike around our new surroundings—walked a kilometer to the neighboring hotel in hopes of exchanging cash or using a credit card. No. So we walked back to our site, hopped into the car and drove the other way to the other neighboring hotel. Si. I was able to exchange 120 USD for 60,000 Chilean pesos, 30,000 of which would cover our park access. The remaining 30,000 had to be budgeted carefully, a concept with which neither my husband nor I am very savvy.
It was at this hospitable location that we were directed to our fuel source 15 minutes up the road to take care of Desperate Need #2. Before we left the hotel, I had befriended a baby gato that was killing me with its cute mewing in the parking lot until we nearly killed it when it crawled under the freaking car when we needed to back up and leave.
The rest reads like a hybrid drama/horror movie: I had to tempt the kitty far from the car so my husband could start it up and maneuver it for exiting, at which point my guilt-ridden goodbyes to el gato were replaced with the shrill yell, “Open the door! OPEN THE DOOR!!” as I ran to the car to out-chase the kitten running after me. You see, the door on the passenger side of our ancient VW Polo always had to be opened from the inside because it was broken. Regardless, when I looked back in the midst of screaming bloody-murder, the kitten had since stopped following me a great distance off; it was instead preoccupied with new people who’d just driven in and likely thought I was an American Psycho not only ditching a poor kitten but running screaming from it and trying to hop into a moving vehicle. The pièce de résistance would have been if my husband, in trying to make a speedy getaway, had dropped the transmission right there.
Ah, but returning to the Gas Quest, we drove to where the hotel had directed us. The owner of whatever that establishment was informed us this wasn’t where we could get gas, yet at the last-minute called out to offer to sell us some. We took his word on the price, and our 4 litres were delivered to us in a juice bottle and “pumped” into the tank with a jerry-rigged device that likewise appeared to be made of some sort of beverage container…
When we got back to our site with a tank filled in unorthodox fashion, we found there were slim pickin’s at the wee campsite store for dinner, so we thought long and hard about how to allocate our remaining pesos: 14,000 to dinner at the restaurant since there was zero available we could cook ourselves (unless we desired a Starburst/marshmallow/M&M bouillabaisse), and I think another 12,000 to water, oatmeal, marmalade, and firewood in prep for that night’s warmth and this morning’s breakfast. This newfound necessity for frugality, however, didn’t stop us from investing good American dough in a bottle of wine (Chilean merlot) to have with dinner, the very tonic that probably contributed to the Fight-Heard-Round-the-Camp, which eventually unfolded during said meal.
Well, once we awoke this morning, packed up our tent, and ate our most delicious oatmeal/marmalade-combo, we washed our dishes, got the auto packed, resigned ourselves to a 2nd day without showering, and set out around 9:30-10:00am Argentine time to retrace our steps out of the park—but not without making a wee side excursion for a brief and easy hike to a nearby waterfall. Well, easy in the wide-gravel-path-and-low-incline sense, fierce in the wind-is-so-strong-it’s-as-though-the-wicked-mountains-don’t-want-us-here sense. The spattering rain was actually painful, and the lake waters whipped upwards in broad plumes of spray…not a bad day to not spend in the park. The hovering clouds prevented the fantastic views of the torres we had yesterday, so perhaps it was just as well we had to leave…
We had just barely enough gas to reach Esperanza, the next town with ever so slightly more commerce than the “towns” we’d been through—indeed, the beacon of “hope” (the town’s namesake) we relied on to employ automated machines accepting credit cards, perhaps.
Instead, as we rolled into our 2nd station of the day (the 3rd fuel source of the previous 24 hours), why no, in fact, they do not accept credito and apologize for the inconvenience.
We drive to the café across the street, with persisting hope that they will exchange cambio or accept the plastic, but our situation became increasingly hopeless. And we still had almost 300km more to drive.
As we walked out to the lot, a tour bus just unloaded its human cargo for leg-stretching at the café. I told my husband they might be our only hope; that we would have to beg for “money, honey” (yes, I used those words in a time of crisis). I wouldn’t have considered it had I not seen it successfully executed so many times on The Amazing Race after non-elimination rounds. Sadly, reality TV differs significantly from “reality” when you don’t have a cameraman running around with you. Who knew what leverage that could be internationally, when good Samaritans will come out of the woodwork for their 15-minutes of fame.
After asking a tour member for cambio given our predicament, he insisted that the station would offer credit as an option. This was seconded by another man, despite our insistence that they didn’t. We got back in our car, pooled our cash and held our breath; I pondered anything that we could possibly pawn. Though we saw a credit card machine on the station counter, just beyond loomed the same sign we saw before stating cards wouldn’t be taken. It is not often that one finds oneself in the situation of slapping down 3 different denominations of currency on a gas station counter, asking for the attendant to please accept. He and a coworker thumbed through our combined 4,000 Chilean pesos, 2 Argentine pesos, and 4-odd U.S. dollars (barely exceeding 10 USD in total, and our U.S. coins no doubt being worthless to them), which they somehow deemed acceptable and worth 15 litres to us.
With assurance that this would bring us back to El Calafate (and an actual 17 litres added to our malnourished tank out of the goodness of their hearts), we were on our way with sighs of relief, a grin on our faces, a sense of adventure, and not a little lesson learned on not taking modern alternatives to cold, hard cash for granted.
The tranquility of yesterday’s sunshine and low winds, though, remains at the forefront of my mind when I think of Torres Del Paine. I think of its aqua-grey lakes and how their waves sounded like a million pearls tapping and colliding as they cascaded and rolled over one another in crashing to the shore. I think of the twilight looked upon through a teardrop-shaped tent window. The experience wasn’t restful, but the memories already are.
And that much more so three years later. We can’t wait to return…with a wallet loaded with local currency and tank filled with fuel
8/9/10
"Mad" Air to Paradise
By Pierre Le Roux http://gaywarfare.blogspot.com/
(RBU Join Date 02/02/2010)
2009 was without a doubt a long and difficult year. Therefore, during August I decided that hubby and I needed a holiday destination that was remote, beautiful and affordable. We needed to go to an island! So my search began for the perfect location. Every spot I found either was too populated, too expensive or really rural, and we don’t do the roughing it thing. Finally, I heard about the coup d’état that happened in Madagascar during January 2009 that lasted until November. My first reaction was “Fabulous, so it will be cheap!” After searching several lodges on the surrounding islands I found the perfect spot, a place called Sakatia Lodge and made my booking and so our adventure began.
On Boxing Day we were scheduled to fly to Madagascar on “Mad Air”, so nicknamed due to their lack of keeping flight schedules, lack of English and warning passengers that smoking and lying in the aisles of the plane drunk is strictly prohibited. Our flight was delayed by an hour, which was a good thing because our luggage was overweight. I was horrified as I am incapable of travelling light and every item in our luggage I viewed as absolutely essential. So we sat on the floor, redistributed some items and voilà we ended up checking 3 bags into cargo instead of 2. Having also had to catch a national flight from Antananarivo to Nosy Be, I was seriously concerned that we would miss our 2nd flight, but was assured that they would keep our flight grounded until we arrived there. On arrival I was pleasantly surprised to find that this was exactly what they did and we made it safely to Nosy Be along with 40 other annoyed passengers who were delayed 2 hours due to us. So you can imagine the stares we got.
On arrival at Nosy Be we were transferred by taxi to the pickup spot where the boat would take us to Sakatia Island. We arrived there with a young newlywed couple, a mom and her son and a group of 13 people. While waiting for our luggage to get loaded onto one of the boats the woman asked me and my hubby whether we were there on our honeymoon, I just giggled and told her no we have been married now for 3 years and this was just a normal holiday. I could tell some of our group was taken aback by her frank nature and we were in for some interesting times. Eventually everything was packed and we boarded our boats and set off to the Island. We were welcomed there by the couple that runs the lodge and much needed rum cocktails. We were briefed on the workings of the lodge, then finished a delicious dinner and fell into bed to be roused the next morning by the awakening forest and the gentle sounds of waves licking the shore - we woke up in paradise!
Our 1st day was spent lounging around, swimming and snorkeling - a perfectly relaxing start. Then it was suggested we go scuba diving, something I have never done before. The dive was appropriately called “baptême de qc” French for baptism. The 2 dive masters would do practically everything for us; the only thing we had to do was breathe and swim, sounds simple enough. However, once I hit the water and got strapped into my scuba gear, the 1st thing that went through my mind was “O God, am I really going to do this?” Descending to the 2 meter drop was hysterical to watch. I was bobbing around, first on my back almost hitting my head on the bottom of a boat then on my stomach and keeping vertical seemed impossible.
Eventually the one dive master took over and I successfully made it to the bottom. Once there I was relaxed and completely enthralled with the wonderland below the surface that so few people get to appreciate. After an hour of diving I returned to the surface hooked on the sport, and we had a second dive later. The only drawback of the 2 dives was that my left ear got blocked and I was practically deaf in that ear. So every now and again I had to remind hubby and other people to speak into my “good ear” if they wanted any chance of coherent conversation.
On our 2nd night a British woman and her friend arrived at the lodge that had a striking resemblance to Meryl Streep, and she was aptly nicknamed “Meryl”. The next day we were scheduled to visit Nosy Komba (Lemur Island) and go snorkeling on Nosy Tanikely (a Marine Reserve) to swim with wild sea turtles. It would be a short drive to the harbor and then 3 boat trips. On our way to the harbor we made a stop in Hellville in order for some folk to change currency. I was under the impression we would visit a bureau de change and we did, it just was not what I expected. We visited a human ATM who climbed into our taxi with her purse, it was odd and I later heard it was also illegal. While the human ATM was doing her thing I took a short walk through Hellville and counted up to 6 chickens being slaughtered right on the sidewalk. I guess they don’t call it Hellville for nothing, and chickens, ducks and zebus can attest to this!
While waiting for our boat to Lemur Island, hubby said he needed to pee, after enquiring from both our guide (Kiki) and the police I had to inform hubby there were no toilets and he would have to hold it. The 45 minute boat ride was pure torture for him and seconds after the boat hit the shore he sped off and returned to the group much more relieved. Lemur Island was fascinating, we got to feed the Lemurs, saw their indigenous chameleons and I even faced my fear and held a snake. The only bad thing was the heat. I was sweating like a fat chicken in Hellville, and was dumbfounded by some of the other tourists who were walking around with long sleeve shirts and jeans. After some shopping, we left for the 2nd Island. An hour later we arrived and were amazed to discover the most beautiful and unspoiled beach. We could not wait to get our snorkeling gear on and find those turtles. I didn’t have to search far before I spotted my 1st wild sea turtle. They are amazing and graceful creatures and I was completely mesmerized and spent the next few hours swimming with them. We had a short but delicious picnic on the beach that included some uninvited guests, lizards, and they really seemed to enjoy the rice. We then headed back to Hellville where we were returned to our Island by boat and were spoiled with the most breathtaking sunset.
On New Year’s Eve the theme at our lodge was black and white. The lodge was nicely decorated and everyone was in the mood for a party, and needless to say the champagne was flowing. After a feast that included crayfish, huge langoustines and much more, we were ready for the countdown to 2010. As 2009 ended and well wishes for 2010 were concluded, the natural thing to do was go skinny dipping, which the majority of the lodge did, this is also how I lost my pants. Whether I misplaced it or it was hidden still remains a mystery. As they say, what happens on Sakatia stays on Sakatia.
The next morning, being slightly hangover, hubby and I found some relief with Bloody Marys and the rest of the day was lazed away in the warm and calm water. This would be our last day there and we were sad to leave. That evening, while packing our bags, we reminisced on all our great experiences and vowed to return. As our final flight departed and I looked out of the window watching the island I have now become so fond of become smaller in the distance, I knew that the experience left me relaxed, gave me a new energy and a positive outlook for the year to come. Sakatia Island (Cat Island) and Sakatia Lodge was just what the doctor ordered and I hope to be back there soon.
Till next time.
(RBU Join Date 02/02/2010)
2009 was without a doubt a long and difficult year. Therefore, during August I decided that hubby and I needed a holiday destination that was remote, beautiful and affordable. We needed to go to an island! So my search began for the perfect location. Every spot I found either was too populated, too expensive or really rural, and we don’t do the roughing it thing. Finally, I heard about the coup d’état that happened in Madagascar during January 2009 that lasted until November. My first reaction was “Fabulous, so it will be cheap!” After searching several lodges on the surrounding islands I found the perfect spot, a place called Sakatia Lodge and made my booking and so our adventure began.
On Boxing Day we were scheduled to fly to Madagascar on “Mad Air”, so nicknamed due to their lack of keeping flight schedules, lack of English and warning passengers that smoking and lying in the aisles of the plane drunk is strictly prohibited. Our flight was delayed by an hour, which was a good thing because our luggage was overweight. I was horrified as I am incapable of travelling light and every item in our luggage I viewed as absolutely essential. So we sat on the floor, redistributed some items and voilà we ended up checking 3 bags into cargo instead of 2. Having also had to catch a national flight from Antananarivo to Nosy Be, I was seriously concerned that we would miss our 2nd flight, but was assured that they would keep our flight grounded until we arrived there. On arrival I was pleasantly surprised to find that this was exactly what they did and we made it safely to Nosy Be along with 40 other annoyed passengers who were delayed 2 hours due to us. So you can imagine the stares we got.
On arrival at Nosy Be we were transferred by taxi to the pickup spot where the boat would take us to Sakatia Island. We arrived there with a young newlywed couple, a mom and her son and a group of 13 people. While waiting for our luggage to get loaded onto one of the boats the woman asked me and my hubby whether we were there on our honeymoon, I just giggled and told her no we have been married now for 3 years and this was just a normal holiday. I could tell some of our group was taken aback by her frank nature and we were in for some interesting times. Eventually everything was packed and we boarded our boats and set off to the Island. We were welcomed there by the couple that runs the lodge and much needed rum cocktails. We were briefed on the workings of the lodge, then finished a delicious dinner and fell into bed to be roused the next morning by the awakening forest and the gentle sounds of waves licking the shore - we woke up in paradise!
Our 1st day was spent lounging around, swimming and snorkeling - a perfectly relaxing start. Then it was suggested we go scuba diving, something I have never done before. The dive was appropriately called “baptême de qc” French for baptism. The 2 dive masters would do practically everything for us; the only thing we had to do was breathe and swim, sounds simple enough. However, once I hit the water and got strapped into my scuba gear, the 1st thing that went through my mind was “O God, am I really going to do this?” Descending to the 2 meter drop was hysterical to watch. I was bobbing around, first on my back almost hitting my head on the bottom of a boat then on my stomach and keeping vertical seemed impossible.
Eventually the one dive master took over and I successfully made it to the bottom. Once there I was relaxed and completely enthralled with the wonderland below the surface that so few people get to appreciate. After an hour of diving I returned to the surface hooked on the sport, and we had a second dive later. The only drawback of the 2 dives was that my left ear got blocked and I was practically deaf in that ear. So every now and again I had to remind hubby and other people to speak into my “good ear” if they wanted any chance of coherent conversation.
On our 2nd night a British woman and her friend arrived at the lodge that had a striking resemblance to Meryl Streep, and she was aptly nicknamed “Meryl”. The next day we were scheduled to visit Nosy Komba (Lemur Island) and go snorkeling on Nosy Tanikely (a Marine Reserve) to swim with wild sea turtles. It would be a short drive to the harbor and then 3 boat trips. On our way to the harbor we made a stop in Hellville in order for some folk to change currency. I was under the impression we would visit a bureau de change and we did, it just was not what I expected. We visited a human ATM who climbed into our taxi with her purse, it was odd and I later heard it was also illegal. While the human ATM was doing her thing I took a short walk through Hellville and counted up to 6 chickens being slaughtered right on the sidewalk. I guess they don’t call it Hellville for nothing, and chickens, ducks and zebus can attest to this!
While waiting for our boat to Lemur Island, hubby said he needed to pee, after enquiring from both our guide (Kiki) and the police I had to inform hubby there were no toilets and he would have to hold it. The 45 minute boat ride was pure torture for him and seconds after the boat hit the shore he sped off and returned to the group much more relieved. Lemur Island was fascinating, we got to feed the Lemurs, saw their indigenous chameleons and I even faced my fear and held a snake. The only bad thing was the heat. I was sweating like a fat chicken in Hellville, and was dumbfounded by some of the other tourists who were walking around with long sleeve shirts and jeans. After some shopping, we left for the 2nd Island. An hour later we arrived and were amazed to discover the most beautiful and unspoiled beach. We could not wait to get our snorkeling gear on and find those turtles. I didn’t have to search far before I spotted my 1st wild sea turtle. They are amazing and graceful creatures and I was completely mesmerized and spent the next few hours swimming with them. We had a short but delicious picnic on the beach that included some uninvited guests, lizards, and they really seemed to enjoy the rice. We then headed back to Hellville where we were returned to our Island by boat and were spoiled with the most breathtaking sunset.
On New Year’s Eve the theme at our lodge was black and white. The lodge was nicely decorated and everyone was in the mood for a party, and needless to say the champagne was flowing. After a feast that included crayfish, huge langoustines and much more, we were ready for the countdown to 2010. As 2009 ended and well wishes for 2010 were concluded, the natural thing to do was go skinny dipping, which the majority of the lodge did, this is also how I lost my pants. Whether I misplaced it or it was hidden still remains a mystery. As they say, what happens on Sakatia stays on Sakatia.
The next morning, being slightly hangover, hubby and I found some relief with Bloody Marys and the rest of the day was lazed away in the warm and calm water. This would be our last day there and we were sad to leave. That evening, while packing our bags, we reminisced on all our great experiences and vowed to return. As our final flight departed and I looked out of the window watching the island I have now become so fond of become smaller in the distance, I knew that the experience left me relaxed, gave me a new energy and a positive outlook for the year to come. Sakatia Island (Cat Island) and Sakatia Lodge was just what the doctor ordered and I hope to be back there soon.
Till next time.
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