pseudostoops

We spent the weekend in Quebec City, at the lovely wedding of one of John’s closest college friends.  The wedding was held at the Chateau Frontenac, a small, rustic, casual, no big deal kind of place:

You know, just like my house.

This was my first trip to Quebec, and it raised some questions for any Canadians in the audience:

1.  As you likely know, they speak French in Quebec.  I also speak French, in a sort of vaguely above-average schoolgirl kind of way.  Thing is, I LOVE speaking and practicing French, which makes a trip to Quebec particularly appealing.  But: Canadians also speak English, typically WAY better than I speak French, and I struggle sometimes to understand the Quebecois accent, so my French skills are even less sharp in Canada then elsewhere.  So I ask you, francophone Canadians: is a friendly, enthusiastic American girl who wants to practice her French charming, or tiresome and annoying?  I couldn’t quite decide whether everyone I talked to was happy to see me trying, or simply resigned to put up with my amateur efforts.

2. When we were driving from Montreal to Quebec City, we encountered several traffic lights that would blink green for a while before turning to solid green.  What does that mean? We kept worrying we were violating traffic laws when we just treated them like regular green lights.

3. During the wedding reception, there was a large video screen assembled over the dance floor.  It was first used for a slideshow of childhood pictures of the bride and groom (awwww) then for a running slideshow of photos that had been taken of wedding guests during the cocktail hour (cool).  But then, when the dancing portion of the evening started, the screen started showing the music video for whatever song the DJ was playing at the time.  Have you ever seen the music videos for We Like to Party, or 500 Miles, or Celebration?  I have!  (Who knew “The Gang”in Kool & the Gang was so large?)

I have to admit, I found it a little distracting- instead of dancing my fool head off, I ended up watching a lot of really strange music videos.  “Like a Prayer” might be a fun song to play at a dance party, but the whole burning crosses/ black Jesus imagery was a little much for a wedding reception.  Is this “showing of music videos” thing normal at Canadian weddings?  Am I the one who is out of the loop, that I have never seen a DJ who brings his own video feed before?  I mean, yes, I was distracted, but on the whole I would have to say it was a good thing, if only because it led me to the following video, which I had never seen before, which I demand you all watch immediately.  There are so many good parts! The fur suit! The dancing on the seat of the motorcycle! The earnest fist pumping in the shiny blazer!  If it weren’t for Canadian wedding DJs and their extensive music video collections, I’d still be in the dark!  So thank you, Canadian DJ.  My life is richer because of you.

About a year and a half ago, Jess and Torsten visited Chicago, and Nilsa and I had the pleasure of meeting them in person.  It was March, and Chicago was experiencing a freak spring snowstorm.  Poor Torsten in particular looked miserable, and as he and Jess were getting into a cab at the end of the day, she confided in me: “Chicago used to be on our short list of cities we might move to, but after this weather, there’s no way Torsten would ever move here.” So instead, they moved to Denver.

I spent the last several days in Denver, which happens to be home to my dear friend Pookie.  I also caught up with Jess for a fruitless shopping trip in search of boots that fit my narrow calves.  Note to bootmakers: PLEASE SOMEONE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD MAKE BOOTS THAT DON’T LOOK LIKE GALOSHES ON NARROW-CALVED GIRLS.

Ahem.

The day after the boot bust, I decided to take myself on a hike.  I was in Denver mid-week, so Pookie was working, and I thought “this is what vacation is all about! Relaxing! Hiking! Taking in the scenery!”  I researched hikes in the front range/Boulder area, picked on that was a moderate-sounding 4.5 miles, and set off.

I drove out of Denver towards the hills.  After about 20 minutes, I noticed something strange about the landscape:

What is that white stuff dusting the side of the road?  Isn’t it still summer? Yes, technically it’s the final day of summer, but still.  SUMMER.

As I drove on, it became clear that the mountains had not gotten the “it’s still summer” memo.

I found the trailhead and parked.  There were probably 6 inches of snow on the ground. I was wearing jeans and running shoes.  This was not going to be pretty.  But, I thought to myself, I drove myself this far, and I’m on vacation in Colorado, and I’m going to HIKE, goddammit.  Through the snow.

Also, um, my feet are going to be a little wet.

So I hiked the 4.5 mile hike through the snow.  Large menacing clumps of snow kept falling off the trees and scaring the bejesus out of me as they landed with a loud whump. But when I got to the top of the loop and saw the view, I was pretty glad I had done it.

On the way back to the car, I encountered a group of four women and eight dogs, hiking together.  I could tell they were actually from Colorado, because they were wearing boots and snowpants. I had not thought to pack such things for my summer trip.

“Wow, you feel safe enough to hike this trail alone?” one of them asked me.

“Well, I did, until you said that!” I said. “I’m from out of town, maybe I just don’t know any better?”

“Well, I would never hike a trail like this alone,” she said, and then walked off.

I didn’t ask her what she meant by “a trail like this.”  I’m choosing to believe she meant “one covered in unexpected summer snow” rather than “one where the military has been testing land mines” or “one located in such close proximity to the breeding ground for angry badgers”.

So, hiking in the snow: good times. But Jess, I have to say: a full on SNOWSTORM in SUMMER is way way way more extreme than the weather in Chicago, and yet you guys moved to Denver anyway.  Just sayin’.

I was eating lunch with John a few days ago and complaining.

“Nothing interesting happens when you’re not working,” I said. “I have nothing to talk about. I am boring.”

Oh, famous last words.

(Heads up: what I’m about to tell you veers dangerously into TMI territory.  If you’re the squeamish type, best turn away now.)

Recently, as I mentioned, I was diagnosed with a sinus infection.  Sinus infections mean antibiotics.  Antibiotics do many good things (like cure sinus infections), but they also do some not so good things (like reducing the efficacy of certain once-daily medications designed to prevent babies).  So when one is on antibiotics it’s best, if one is not in the baby-making business, to call in some backup protection.

So I needed to make a trip to CVS.

Mercifully, our local CVS has a self-checkout line, to minimize human interaction.  Now look, I realize I’m a full-grown married adult and should feel no embarrassment whatsoever about making such a purchase.  But seriously, who wouldn’t avail themselves of a self-checkout line when one’s entire purchase consists of items of the prophylactic variety?

So I made my selection, checked myself out, put my CVS bag inside my purse, and went on my merry way.

On the way home, I decided to stop by a store in our neighborhood to check out fall sweaters.  Innocuous, no?  I walked in right as another woman was walking out, and as we passed, the store’s metal detectors went “beepbeepbeepbeepbeep” the way they do when they forget to take the tags off something.  The store associate came over, checked the woman’s bag, saw it was all fine and there were no errant plastic security tags, and let her go.

I browsed sweaters,  decided they were all frumpy looking, and made for the exit.  As I walked through the metal detectors, it happened again:  “beepbeepbeepbeepbeep!”

“I don’t have anything!” I say.  “It beeped on my way in, too, I don’t know why.”

And then I realize: there’s a substantial number of college kids who frequent our local CVS, and to prevent shoplifting of products popular with college kids, CVS puts those magnetic anti-theft stickers on a lot of their more valuable, oft-shoplifted items.

Items like condoms.

“Really!” I tell the sales associate who’s coming over.  “I don’t have anything from this store!”

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to look in your bag,” she said.

“No, truly, I didn’t take anything.  Didn’t you hear the thing beep as I came in?”

“Ma’am: your bag,” she said again, holding out her hand.

“I know what it is that’s beeping, it’s just something I bought at CVS.  I swear to you.”

“Show me,” she says.

“Um,” I say.  “I’d really rather not.”

“Then I’m going to have to look in your bag.”

“Um, okay, fine.”  I reach into my purse and hand her the CVS bag.

She opens the bag, and her eyes widen a little, and she giggles.  She walks through the metal detector holding the box, and sure enough, “beepbeepbeepbeepbeep!”

“Alright, ma’am, you’re fine,” she says, barely holding back her laughter.  “Go on ahead.”

“See?” I said.  “Not a shoplifter, just a responsible adult.”

I grabbed the box from her, stuffed it back in my bag, and made a hasty exit.  I can only imagine the laugh that the sales associates had at my expense.

So, as I’ve mentioned a few times, I have some time off between the end of my last job (which wrapped up right before we went to Egypt) and the start of my new job (in 2 weeks.)  The first two weeks of this time off I spent glued to the couch, battling the great non-swine-flu of 09.  But I am finally feeling better, and the weather is gorgeous, and now I’m…well, I’m a little bored, truth be told.

I don’t do well with unstructured time, you see.  I begin to feel guilty for not being “productive”.  I worry that I’m not doing it “right”.  For example: I love to go to movies by myself, I love to sew and have plenty of projects pending, and I love to cook elaborate meals without time pressure.  There, that’s all my time filled up right there, right?  Well yes, except it’s shaping up to be a gorgeous week in Chicago, and it feels like such a WASTE to be sitting inside watching movies, sewing, or cooking.

So I think I’ve got today covered: I’m going to go for a super long bike ride, followed by reading a book on the beach, followed by some very necessary grocery shopping.  But I’m looking for more inspiration.  Having a few weeks off is such a luxury and a rarity, I really want to take advantage, but I’m a little short on ideas of things to do solo, in the middle of a weekday, without spending too much money.  Help me! If you had a day or a week or a month off, what would you do?

Day 1:

Crap. Wake up with sore throat, and the deeply unpleasant sensation of snot running down the back of my throat.  Crap.  Really don’t want to waste a few days of my blissful time off having a sore throat.  CRAP. Sigh. Pop an Advil and head out on the errands I was planning anyway.

afternoon:

Snurfle. Snort. Dear god, this post-nasal drip is like someone is slowly, repeatedly massaging the back of my throat with a cheese grater.  Loathe.  Go to CVS to purchase decongestant.  YES, smug pharmacy tech, I want the real stuff.  The stuff you keep behind the counter.  The stuff that requires me to show 15 forms of ID and swear an affidavit promising I’m not running a meth lab in my basement.  That stuff.

evening:

More drugs.  Moooooooore druuuuuugs.

Day 2:

Sore throat improvement. Dramatic uptick in snot production. Begin rapid progress through family-sized box of tissues.  Proceed through day as normal, albeit at a slightly slower pace.  Fall asleep on couch at 8pm, sleep for 12 hours.

Day 3:

Still snotty. Sore throat has, maddeningly, returned. This feels unfair. Rhapsodize passionately to husband about my view that once a symptom has passed, it should stay gone. Finish family-sized box of tissues, begin carrying around a roll of toilet paper for nose-blowing purposes.

Day 4:

Snurfling continues, but marked improvement in number of nose-blowings and throat discomfort.  Experience a few delicate bouts of coughing.  State smugly to husband that I have “turned a corner”.

Day 5:

Lingering congestion.  Coughing has moved from “delicate” to “full-on consumptive,” but at least it’s bringing up the yuck that’s stuck in the lungs.  Sore throat gone. Decide I’m well enough to attend friends’ wedding this evening.  Yes, I’ve definitely kicked this.

4:30 pm, driving to wedding:

Hm. Throat is beginning to hurt again.  But! Wedding! Power through!

10pm:

Um, not feeling so hot. Well, more precisely, feeling far TOO hat. Demand husband test forehead using age-old back of hand technique. “Very hot,” he reports.  Room’s a little fuzzy.  Perhaps this is the moment to make our exit.

10:25 pm:

Not going to make it. Shivering. Teeth chattering. Pull over when I feel like I might pass out.  Make husband drive the rest of the way home as I sit in a ball on the front seat, hallucinating.

11pm:

Fever is 103.  Husband makes up bed on couch to avoid sleeping with wife who now appears to be dying of plague.

Day 6:

Death’s door. More fever.  More drugs. Sleep much.

Day 7:

Hack hack hack fever hack hack hack praying for death.

9pm:

Receive email from friend who reports that three of our mutual friends have been diagnosed with swine flu. Begin frantically googling swine flu symptoms. Become convinced I am dying of swine flu. Impose self-quarantine. Send husband back to couch-bed so as to protect him from deadly swine flu (from which I am clearly dying).

Day 8:

Wake up and discover that snot has turned dark, menacing green.  Call doctor.  Miraculously get appointment right away. Doctor, strangely, seems unimpressed by my recent exposure to many swine flu victims, does not think I have swine flu.  DOES think I have raging sinus infection. Receive antibiotics. Spend day on couch, catching up on very important tv reruns.

Day 9:

Finally start to feel human again.  Sort of.  Realize I’m hosting a bridal shower in 48 hours. Commence stone cold panic.

Oh hi! I went to Egypt and got back almost a week ago! And have yet to write anything about it!  There are reasons for this.  Specifically: (a) we had no internet until Wednesday night; (b) I brought home with me some sort of unpleasant King Tut’s Revenge-style stomach ailment about which we shall never speak again; and (c) as soon as that cleared up I was felled by a massive headcold.  PLUS I got ANOTHER terrible Jennifer Anniston-style haircut, and while that is not technically a reason for delay in posting, it is still clouding my outlook today, so I thought I should mention it.

Ahem.

So I went to Egypt!

I saw pyramids:

It's so big it doesn't fit in the frame!

I rode a camel:

Me, on a camel. No big deal.

I allowed myself to be photographed with my husband while he was wearing a neckerchief:

Christmas Card 2009

But I wasn’t pleased about it:

Neckerchief? Really?

Perhaps we should look at the camels again.

awwww. camel.

My camel was non-plussed at being ridden. He made loud bellowing noises of displeasure the entire time, which caused all the other camels to look at us in alarm, like I was doing something to HURT my  camel, like  perhaps wearing jagged spurs instead of innocuous sandals.  As soon as I dismounted, my camel threw himself to the ground and started flailing dramatically, as if to illustrate how annoyed he was:

Diva.

John looked so comfortable on his camel that his camel-handler let go of the lead rope and let John go off on his own.  John’s camel promptly took off at a trot towards some distant hills, away from the group, as John tried calmly and rationally to instruct the camel to go back the other way. It was hilarious.

I still can’t really believe it.  I went to Egypt.  I saw the great pyramids, and the sphinx. I endured 113 degree heat. I sailed on the Nile.  It seems so unlikely that I would do these things, and yet, there is photographic evidence indicating that I did.

That feeling of disbelief was with me for much of our time in Egypt, actually. The scale of the pyramids and temples is awesome (in the literal “awe-inspiring” sense as well as the “cool, dude!” sense). How could a these possibly have been built 4000 years ago, with no modern machinery? Seeing the burial mask of Tutankamen in real life was totally surreal.  Looking at the unbelievable riches that were found in his tomb, it’s hard to imagine the workmanship and time and effort that went into preparing these items that were always intended to be buried with him. (And he was a minor pharaoh! Major Pharaohs would have had much more!)

After two days of touring temples and tombs I realized that I was becoming inured to the heiroglyphics and carvings and paintings and sculptures in these amazing sites because there were just so MANY of them.  It’s not unlike the feeling you get in the Met or the Louvre, where there is so much amazing art that it’s impossible to appreciate it all, and one can start to get a little cavalier about it- “oh that old thing? Just some 4,000 year old carvings that are full of rich meaning and tell the history of an ancient culture.  No big deal.”

I am SO GLAD that we went on this trip- without saying too much about Things Which Shall Not Be Blogged, we went with  a group, and I initially felt some trepidation about tagging along with this particular group, but I am very glad I talked myself into it. They were lovely people, and I saw way more with the tour than I would have been able to see on my own.  And in case you were worried that the culture shock would be too much, and that we would feel lost and adrift, fear not:  American culture has been successfully exported and is alive and well in Egypt:

McArabia

(As much as I hate to admit it, it was delicious.)