NOLA Is For Lovers … And You’ll Find Them Displaying Their Goods On Bourbon Street

If you like germs, you’ll love New Orleans!

I, on the other hand, am not so enthusiastic about those invisible microbes myself. I prefer for things to be not quite so sticky when I touch them, think having stall doors in the bathroom should not be optional, believe that being outdoors shouldn’t require plugging your nose, and foolishly, recklessly, I assume that I can just walk down the sidewalk without having to constantly leap over horse poo, vomit and murky water (which also rains down on you from above if you’re not looking up as well).

Nonetheless, without putting yourself into hotel quarantine far from the French Quarter, there’s just no avoiding those pesky, nasty little microorganisms in The Big Easy (a nickname that – based on no actual research on my part into the matter – I can only assume stems from the “easy” access one has to “easy” strippers, live sex shows and drunken ladies willing to do anything for beads – even when it’s nowhere near Fat Tuesday). So, of course, not having a very good immune system myself, I caught the Bubonic Plague (or some similar illness that was long since thought to be extinct in the rest of the world) during my visit (though I’m sure I could have potentially caught much worse if I had visited some of the aforementioned establishments). But, I also had fun. Probably enough fun to refrain from making a return visit to the bayou in the foreseeable future.

However, if I’m being honest in answering the question set forth by my last post (which ponders how authentic the “fake” versions of New Orleans replicated in the theme parks are in comparison to the real deal), the answer is – not very. And it’s mostly due to one specific problem with the theme park version of this city – it’s too clean. MUCH too clean. I mean, Disneyland’s New Orleans Square has the architecture right, but Disney isn’t about to let their customers walk through excrement, use toilets without running water and be left explaining to their children certain aspects of human anatomy they just discovered for the first time. And the little Cajun food stands set up during Universal’s Mardi Gras? While the flavor is comparable to what you find in NOLA, you can eat the theme park beignets without stifling your gag reflex from the stench that surrounds you.

While it is very fair to say that nothing compares to the real thing … the actual experience and immersion of it all … I also think that what makes the “fake” version so delightful is the ability to remove everything unsavory about the authentic version and focus solely on the best parts of Louisiana. And there are a great many good parts … and we enjoyed lots of them … in excess (as if there’s any other way to enjoy The Big Easy). And while I’m so very glad that I got to visit New Orleans and experience it myself, I think my liver and love handles will thank me if, now that I’m back home, I only indulge on hurricanes and fried po’ boys on occasion … when I’m enjoying faux Mardi Gras. And my immune system will thank me for kindly experiencing a slightly more cleansed and hosed off Disneyland version of the French Quarter. But, hey, New Orleans – thanks for the memories! I’ll be working to wash them out of my clothing and burn them off my waistline for at least the next month.

Here are some of my favorite bits from the trip (savory and not so much).

This green concoction I'm holding is called a Hand Grenade. The next morning I felt like it had exploded inside my head.

This is Anne Rice's house. She lives in NOLA ... so you know there's nothing seedy about the place.

Plus, they have beignets. I would post a photo of ME eating them, but all of those shots were just a blur of dough being shoved into a powder-covered face.

Believe it or not, we were actually there for a conference (GAR presented, not I). Here is proof that actual work took place.

They even sold his book in the conference bookstore. So proud!

Who knew we'd meet Mr. Peanut in The Big Easy? The wind swept up my hair, but his tophat stayed firmly in place.

We lucked out - Florida was playing in the Elite Eight while we were there and we got tickets to the game for a steal. Not so lucky was the fact that they lost to Butler in overtime.

I'm not sure why there's a bear in the arena since the New Orleans mascot is a hornet. But, then again, I'm wearing a beaded necklace featuring rubber duckies with teeny basketballs in their hands so who am I to judge?

Though we usually take a ghost tour when on vacation, this time we opted to look for vampires (did I mention that Anne Rice lives here?) and we saw this house - used in a scene in "Interview with the Vampire." Our guide was also very authentic - she was sporting some very real fangs.

After that we didn't feel compelled to drink blood, but we did stop off at an absinthe bar.

Our last day in town we tried to stick to the more reputable, historical sights, such as this church. I can only imagine the countless sins confessed within these walls.

And we even managed to sample some of the other types of "wares" offered on the streets in the French Quarter, thanks to a food festival that was in town.

Sure, bodies have been dumped and discarded in this river, but in the daylight it's as pretty as a postcard ... and I needed to lean against this railing to stay upright and fight the illness that was attacking me at this point in the trip.

(Almost) Even Better Than The Real Thing

One of my friends recently wrote me and said that, when looking at my photos, she can’t tell when I’m actually on vacation versus at a theme park that’s designed to look like somewhere else. In a way that pretty much sums up what it’s like living/working in the theme park capital of the world – reality can get a bit fuzzy.

I’ve told you before about the haters. But personally, I love it. I mean, in one trip to Epcot I can drink a litre of authentic German hefeweizen in a bier hall with a rousing oompah band, sample pizza with dough made from water imported from Naples, sway along with a Moroccan belly dancer and round out the day with a croissant in front of (the mock version of) the Eiffel Tower. And while a true African safari is a bit out of my budget right now, it’s no trouble at all to don all the gear and head out on a trek to see zebra, giraffe, hippos, gazelles and more at Disney’s Animal Kingdom. It might not be the real, deal but let’s be honest – how often do you actually travel to Kenya?

And if you can’t readily tell from my photos if it’s real or fake, then I say I’m getting a pretty good deal. We’re not totally fake like Vegas (where I’m also visiting this year – it seems I love synthetics). No one would ever mistake the Luxor for the Pyramid of Khufu (though given the turmoil in Egypt a poor representation is perhaps the best way to go … for now anyway). So until I can get the money and time to visit all these places in reality, I’ll settle for dining on authentic cuisine in a decently accurate replica.

Which brings me to this weekend – GAR and I will be visiting someplace that’s new to me, New Orleans. While I’ve eaten my fair share of crawfish etouffee and dined on more than a few shrimp po’ boys, I’ve never experienced it “for real.” And I’m curious to see how it compares. Currently Universal Studios is hosting their Mardi Gras celebration and I couldn’t help but attend last week (and sampled some of their beignets … as a point of reference, of course). Here are some of the photos I took that show off the “fake” representation of New Orleans offered in Orlando. I’ll let you know how they compare to the real “Big Easy” upon my return.

Café Du Monde – here I come!

I won't actually be in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, so I can't compare floats. But I will say that on these Universal Studios floats they were tossing the most beads to children, not large chested females. So that part I can assume is inaccurate.

We did manage to get our fare share of beads though – sans flashing (again, I'm assuming that is also not how things would play out at "real" Mardi Gras).

New Orleans is known for their jazz music. While they did have lots of that at Universal (as well as stands with yummy Creole cuisine), they also had this concert, which featured the Neon Trees.

Caught in the Crossfire of Gang Warfare

At our old house we were practically neighbors with Tiger Woods. While we didn’t live in anything close to a mansion, we did live in a nice, secluded, up-scale part of town. And when Elin started swinging golf clubs in her husband’s direction and TigerGate 2009 broke out, our previously quiet little section of town quickly turned into a paparazzi playground. But that was as crazy as it got in Windermere, and once the debacle was over and TMZ rolled out of town, things returned to normal and Ken Griffey Jr and Shaquille O'Neal went back to being highly watched celebrities in the neighborhood as well.

When we moved to another part of town, we knew we were taking a slight step backwards – celebrity-wise anyway. While we still chose to live in a very illustrious part of town, Dr. Phillips is really only attributed to being home to such B-listers as Joey Fatone, Wayne Brady and Johnny Damon (yawn!)  So, okay, the mansions here are not in as nice of gated communities as Tiger’s, but Justin Timberlake has been known to work out at our gym when he’s in town, so at least we’ve got that.

Of course, not being quite so highfalutin ourselves, we bought into our fixer upper knowing that we could only aspire to live like the former boy band members that populate O-Town. The first thing we did to live like a celebrity was to put up a nice, big (but attractive) fence around our property. Because, of course, every A-lister needs privacy. Oh sure, it did cause quite the ruckus in our cul-de-sac when the neighbors learned of it. Apparently the people next door to us have spent the last 25+ years claiming half of our yard as theirs and they were shocked and angered when the property assessment came back saying it was, in fact, our land. Gracious and understanding as we are, we went ahead and erected the white PVC fence wall between us anyway, making us the admitted “bad guys” on the block. But, let’s get real, I needed complete seclusion for swimming in the pool. I don’t want photos of me in my bikini showing up on Access Hollywood!

Little did we know then that this decision would land us smack in the middle of gang warfare.

It all started earlier this week. My fiancé awoke in the middle of the night and heard a knocking on the fence. Startled, he got up and turned the light on in his home office, which is closest to where he had heard this sound. He waited awhile, heard nothing else, and went back to bed assured that, if something had really been going on, the dogs would have barked ferociously (oh sure, they spend all day every day attacking our front door with fury every time kids roll by on scooters or the mailman drops something off. But someone knocking on the fence in the middle of the night? Eh, they’ll just keep sleeping through that). He told me about the incident the next morning but we both shrugged it off and forgot about it.

A few days later, GAR was out mowing the lawn (or, more accurately, mowing the weeds to a reasonable height) and, when he approached the side of the fence where he heard the knocking, he saw it – a message spray painted on our pretty white privacy wall.

The part of the fence that was damaged is, in fact, visible from the road, which does make it a rather perfect spot for one to express their rage in all its black spray can glory. While seeing it did produce some amount of anger in us (I’m not sure it made us feel rage per se, more of a quiet fury), we weren’t too worried. After all, it’s spring break right now and Orlando was just named the #1 most dangerous location for spring breakers (though what makes it “dangerous” was left up for interpretation … apparently you’re in “danger” of getting your property vandalized). However, when GAR called the police to report the incident they immediately transferred him to the division of their force dedicated to gang-related activities. Because, of course, random graffiti in a posh part of town could only be the work of some badass, gun touting criminals. There is no other explanation for this sort of devious behavior.

Granted I am not familiar with the “gangs” the roam the streets of Orlando. I’m only imagining that they must be loyal to various kingpins in the community. You know, there’s a gang that’s loyal to the mouse … one who backs the whale … and the gang who’s on the rise right now supports the boy wizard at Universal. That’s how I’m picturing it anyway. Since we live closest to Harry Potter land we must, of course, be in their territory and that would explain their aggression towards me since I work for a rival theme park. Yes, that explains it.

Or it’s GAR. I found these photos to support my theory that he’s secretly running in some gang circles. One of them even depicts him throwing up his Mickey Mouse gang sign. This could all be retaliation against him!

All I know is that this sudden attention to our abode means we’re moving up the celebrity ranks. I might even need to hire some body guards to protect me from my crazed stalkers. But, hey, it just comes with the territory of living the celebrity life.

If It’s Broke, Don’t Fix It

If we go a month in our house without something major breaking, it’s big news. You might recall the plagues we endured in just the first few weeks of moving in. But, wouldn’t you know it, nothing too serious has gone wrong in 2011 – until now.

I guess we were overdue because, let me tell ya, this one’s a biggie. It started with a minor fix – over the winter the pool filter broke and the whole thing got a little pond-like in terms of the cleanliness of its appearance. But once that was resolved we quickly learned that it was all due to a larger problem – the pool itself has sprung a leak.

Now don’t you go thinking we’ve got an inflatable child-size pool sitting on our lawn, or even some weak above-ground monstrosity. Nope, we’ve got a full-blown, nicely sized, comes complete with a built-in spill-over Jacuzzi, in-ground beauty. Or, rather, it used to be a beauty (or so we assume) … back when it was installed in the mid-80s. Now it’s a little worse looking for the wear, with dated tile and an eroding brown pool bottom, and the hot tub hasn’t actually heated up in years (so despite our penchant for calling it our “hot tub time machine” it is, in fact, more of a lukewarm bubble making machine). And, sure, we planned to fix it … eventually. But it was still fine to swim in and so we let it be. After all, when you’ve got as much broken stuff as we do you have to prioritize. And just because something’s broke, that doesn’t necessarily mean we’re going to fix it. It all depends on how broke it is in relation to the other things that are also broken.

But this leak … well, it offers us yet another reason to take action. Yes, we got it plugged. And that will hold us over for a little bit. But, to be honest, the whole operation is a little dangerous as it is. Want to turn on the filter or pool lights? Well, that involves very delicately flipping this rusty switch (which at nighttime is not illuminated for easy viewing) that is dangerously close to some dangling, exposed wires (actually, my fiancé is convinced that the husband of the house’s previous owner died by electrocution when he accidentally touched those wires. Of course he has no evidence to support this theory other than a dire warning to “please, please be careful” that was given to him by the “widow” – and, if I might add, I don’t even think she’s a widow, just an older lady who got divorced. However, we do know that the previous owner’s pet bulldog drowned in the pool, which is enough bad mojo to justify an overhaul right there … and it also explains why our pups stay far away from the water). And, getting the jets in the spa going is no easy task either. When I tried to turn the correct bubble-inducing dials one time last summer I made a small mistake that resulted in the entire contents of the hot tub shooting high into the air at great force – think of it as Old Faithful erupting in my backyard. Basically, to sum it up, the pool is a mess. And we can only put off fixing it for so much longer.

See now, a year ago we were living in a wonderful, low maintenance, brand new, built from scratch just for me, townhouse. And while GAR provided many reasons for wanting to move – proximity to his workplace, higher gas prices, the need for more space for an in-home office, privacy, etc. – his real reason for wanting to move could be summed up pretty succinctly: He wanted a pool. Not just A pool, but his own personal pool that he could swim in everyday without the threat of being whacked in the head by children clamoring all around with blow-up arm floaties and giant foam noodle play toys. And now that he has it, he wants to use it. So I can argue my point (which is basically the money for this vs. money for other things, such as a wedding and honeymoon, and how the combination of all such expenditures is harrowing) but, chances are, I’m not going to win this battle. The need is there and I can’t deny it anymore. All I can do is look at tile samples and colored pool finishes (oooh, this one is just like having real sand in your pool!) and throw in my two cents (which, oddly enough, is about all I’ve got left in my bank account now anyway) and be happy that it will be done in time to enjoy it this summer.

But this is breaking my strict “If it’s broke, don’t fix it” rule and something else is going to have to give. My car, which has been running on fumes and has been completely devoid of air conditioning for more than 3 years now, was the next “broken” item I was going to resolve. But it looks like I’ll be enjoying my fourth hot Florida summer without AC instead. But, hey, at least when I get home from work dripping with sweat from driving 30 minutes in a car that’s been baking on the pavement in my office parking lot all day at least I’ll have something to cool off in – my newly refinished pool!

Here's some photos we took of the pool when we moved in last year. This is as good as it gets folks.

And here is the (now unheated) hot tub time machine. I travel back in time every time I look at it.

 

A Modern Meet Cute

Eyes lock across a crowded room. The world stops as you spot him (or her) and you just know – right then and there – that this previously unknown person is the one you’re meant to be with. Music swells as you approach one another and witty banter continues throughout the night. The rest of the world disappears and suddenly you realize you’re the only ones left at the bar/party/eating establishment/café. You part with many promises of meeting again. The typical Hollywood “meet cute” has just occurred.

When you’re getting married it seems that everyone inevitably asks “How did you meet?” And, clearly, they all expect something along the lines of what I mentioned above. I get it – how cool is that sort of story, right? It totally validates you as a couple and makes a great tale for the future grandkids. And sure, my fiancé and I have many, many adorable stories about our romance. Sometime I’ll tell you about the prophecy foretold to us on our second date and you’ll be “awww”ing and saying “that’s so sweet” liberally throughout that tale. However, the story of how we met – I mean, actually, originally learned of each other’s existence – is no such cutesy-pie anecdote. Quite simply, we met online.

I don’t really know what it is about meeting in this way that still, in today’s world of social media and smart phones, has such a stigma associated with it. Is the fact that you met your life partner at a bar or work or through a blind date set up by a friend of a friend (of a friend) really a more valid way to do things? Based on the reaction I get from so many people when I tell them that I met my future husband on Match.com (which I have later learned is not considered as reputable as a site such as eHarmony, which chooses your mate for you based on 190,352,034 different variables of compatibility. Because, of course, a computer picking who you should date is more legitimate than choosing for yourself), there is still the widely held belief that you only meet serial killers and socially impaired, unemployable nerds with thick glasses and Spock t-shirts online.

But here’s the truth – I met the love of my life after less than a week of online dating.*
*Okay, so this is the part in the commercials that would have that little disclaimer that reads “Results not typical.” I have many friends who met their significant other online (and all of them seem to be well adjusted non-axe murderers) and I don’t think any of them did it quite that quickly. But, nonetheless, you can’t argue with results. After all, these sites give you easy access to thousands of singles in your area who are looking to meet someone else as well. Chances are that at least one of them will spark some sort of interest in you.

Compared to spending every weekend getting all dressed up and going to bars where you strain to hear bad pick-up lines between deafening techno beats, setting up an online dating profile is easy. You write a little about yourself, post a few photos and click some easy to understand boxes like “age,” “political views,” “smoking habits,” “religion,” “pets,” “hobbies,” etc. and you’re done. In my case all I did was post my bio one night after work and shut down the computer. The next morning I logged on to find 84 new messages waiting for me. Okay, some of them were not so clever one-liners and comments about my appearance. And, worse still, there’s a button that’s similar to the “Like” feature on Facebook that allows you to show interest in someone without saying anything at all (because I am interested in dating a guy who can’t even think of one single sentence to write me). However, I almost feel like those stupid comments and “likes” were equivalent to what one finds while prowling the bar scene. Instead, most of the guys who wrote to me on Match were, in fact, nice enough guys who made an earnest effort to talk to me (and I could actually hear them, not to mention judge them on their spelling and grammar). And, better yet, you can tell pretty quickly who you have legitimate things in common with and who seems to be less your speed – it’s all there in their profile.

And, unlike meeting someone in person, rejection is super easy. You don’t have to tell them to their face, you can just ignore their message. Which is what I did 99% of the time. In the end of one week I had hundreds of guys who expressed interest (and, better yet, I didn’t even initiate contact with anyone at all – I only spoke with people who reached out to me. That little “new” symbol they put next to your profile when you sign up is like a homing beacon that alerts guys that there’s new blood on the site and they take that opportunity to pounce). All I had to do was pick the ones I wanted to meet in person. How perfect is that? It’s window shopping at its finest, with lots and lots of options. Because, let’s be honest, when was the last time you got asked out that many times in one week? And, if you had that much interest, would you settle for going out for that excessively sweaty guy at your gym in the ultra-tight shorts who talks with a heavy lisp?

In total I went out on three first dates, two second dates, and a whole bunch of dates with one particularly handsome and charming professor after that. But, if you think that’s the end of the story – girl goes online, girl picks a guy out of a few hundred options, they have great dates and live happily after – then you’ve definitely been watching too many rom coms. It didn’t quite go quite that simply between us. In truth, after meeting online we did not start dating – that didn’t happen for another year or so ... actually I have Facebook to thank for getting us together. Hey, we’re real people here – and that’s how real love stories start. Nonetheless, we’d happily agree to be featured as a success story in a commercial. After all, Match.com has lead to more relationships and more marriages than any other site – or so it says on tv, and tv never lies.

Home Sweet Homewreck

In case you haven’t picked up on it by now – I’m addicted to home improvement television. Believe it or not, the mister and I purchased a home that needed fixing up on purpose. I blame this decision on spending too many hours glued to HGTV and other assorted DIY programming prior to our house hunt. We laughed at the completely clueless “House Hunters” who said things like “I like this house but the bedroom is yellow and I hate yellow” (ever hear of paint? They sell it in lots of easily attainable colors), mocked the overly dramatic disaster projects on “Renovation Realities” (still when we’re working on a project in the house we’ve been known to strike a frustrated pose for the invisible cameras and hum that catching, yet kind of menacing, music they play), and generally poo-pooed the design choices made on every single interior decorating program on the air. Clearly these hours of television programming made us experts on home renovating, and we obviously felt that we could do much, much better in our own home.

Confident in our newly obtained contracting knowledge (who needs practice when you have theory, right?) we set out to acquire a nice, inexpensive fixer-upper of a home. When it seemed that Sandra Rinomato was unable to assist us “Property Virgins” (okay, so this is my third house actually, but who’s counting?) we found some great local realtors and set out on our hunt. And we had some adventures while bargain shopping. There was the house that was listed with some insane number of bedrooms and, when we got there, we saw that they were actually all tiny little cell-type rooms … each fit for a very small child at the most … and each accessible only through one creepy circular room with endless doors all around. Was it some sort of horrible orphanage at one point? Not wanting to find out we moved on, where we then found a charming home tucked back in the corner of a neighborhood with black-out curtains covering every window in the house. Not fazed by this at all, we stepped inside this long “abandoned” home to find a stereo playing, Mardi Gras decorations hung and remnants of a recent party still looming. Rooms were locked, doorways were blocked by heavy, un-movable furniture, a duffle bag of someone’s clothing was found in one makeshift bedroom and I was pretty sure the secret room we discovered in the back of one of the closets was recently used to grow some illegal substances. As my realtor tried to pick the lock to what we thought was perhaps a bathroom I swear I saw someone moving on the other side of the door. I didn’t stick around the see what squatters were waiting to greet me behind there and I high-tailed it out of there.

And so we upped our price range. Just a little though – let’s not be careless.

And then we found it. I’ll never forget when our realtor sent us the listing for what is now our house with the message “I know it’s not pretty from the outside, but it’s in your top choice neighborhood so maybe we can just hope that the inside is better?” Jackpot! In fact, the inside was pretty sweet, and just needed a few “smaller” home renovations (like completely replacing everything in all 3 bathrooms, all new doors, trim, hardware, lighting, etc.) but the outside of it was, in fact, quite unattractive. Forget the dead grass, sandy lawn and weeds big enough to swallow our dogs, the outside of the house itself was decorated in blue and teal with fake columns on either side of the doorway. Nothing that a little paint and elbow grease couldn’t fix though, right? But, see, just a few things got in the way of taking care of that when, in those first few weeks of home ownership, our septic tank blew up, the air conditioning broke twice (in the middle of the hot Florida summer), the home got infested with fleas, wasps (or maybe they were hornets?) and I swear I discovered a tick or two as well, the garbage disposal caught fire and, of course, that resulted in pipe bursting and flooding the kitchen. And, well, I guess we never got around the fixing up the outside.

But that’s all about to change … I hope.

In the weeks ahead I’m devoted to painting the outside of the house, and I think we should do it ourselves. I mean (and this might just be too many hours of HGTV talking), isn't that part of the reason why we bought this place - for the adventure of fixing it up and making it ours? I really think that if it’s something we physically can accomplish on our own then we should tackle it by ourselves and save our money to pay people only for the things we aren’t capable of doing alone. Good enough theory, but we'll have to see how it plays out in practice. But first we need to agree on a color. And so far that just isn’t happening. Any suggestions?

Here’s a photo of the “before” for reference ... you can even see GAR's displeasure at the fact that it looks like someone from Miami Vice lives here.

GAR-isms

My husband-to-be, GAR, suggested that I write a post about him. He cleverly titled this proposed post “GAR-isms” and I’m sure that, in doing so, he pictured me babbling on about all the supposedly witty and subtly intelligent things he believes he says and does daily.

Sorry babe, that is not what this post is about.

Not that I don’t love him dearly. And, of course, I do find him to be very humorous and charming. However, with this week being his spring break (and that fact that a grown man still gets to enjoy an annual spring break is envy-worthy enough), there is at least one “GAR-ism” that I feel compelled to share here … and I’m certain it’s not what he had in mind when he suggested this topic.

Writer’s Note: Before going any further I also feel compelled to point out that, in case you are not aware of his profession, this spring break for Professor GAR gives him a break from teaching for the week. What’s most interesting to note is that this semester GAR only teaches one (1) course. So, in essence, this week he is not required to perform the 3 hours of work he generally is “forced” to complete weekly. Obviously you can see how this gives him oodles of additional extra time he normally doesn’t have.

What to do with an entire week off work? This question is a big one in our house, and GAR is always full of ideas on how to make the most out of these extra moments. But herein lies the problem – he is full of far too many ideas of how to spend this free time. In fact, he has so many wise ideas that, by the time March rolls around each year, his list of promised “to dos” is monumental in size and scope. Here are just a few examples of items he’s said he’ll get around to doing “during spring break”:

·         Make a dentist appointment

·         Go down to West Palm for a few days to golf

·         Paint the entire exterior of the house

·         Pick out a suit for the wedding

·         Work on the yard

·         Get new passport photos taken

·         Paint a second coat in the kitchen

·         Redesign his counseling website

·         Write academic articles

·         Review academic articles

·         Get caught up on grading his students

·         Redo the closet in his home office

·         Make me a home-cooked breakfast each morning

·         Clean the pool

·         Go shopping

·         Finish up any incomplete trim work in the bedroom

·         Buy records at the Salvation Army

·         Grab a bite to eat with friends he hasn’t seen in awhile

·         Go to Universal and ride the Harry Potter ride again

·         Work out every day at the gym

·         Join a NEW gym

·         Attend a Spring Training game

We’re now 5 days into spring break. The verdict? So far he’s done 3 of the items on this list – gone shopping, gotten new passport photos taken and made me breakfast (only twice though). A fourth item (attend a Spring Training game) should get knocked off the list this weekend. Overall I think this is a new record in terms of number of items actually accomplished during his time off.

As for the other items on this list – well, he’ll just have to get around to those during his 6-week summer vacation.

Daddy Day Care

After a successful 5K finish this past weekend, my father has left our abode and made his way home back North to my mother. After three weeks we’re glad to have our home back (though after spending all that time sawing, sanding and painting the house is now covered in a thick layer of sawdust – and other dust particles – that will likely take me a few more days to completely eradicate) but, believe it or not, there’s still so many projects I need his help with that I do (almost) wish he could have stayed longer.

See now, some of you might not understand. I bet in your house you have fancy things like toilets that flush, and working lights in your kitchen, and you probably have racks to hang your clothing on in your closets. You lucky dogs you. And I bet you even have exhaust fans in your bathrooms and backsplashes in your kitchens. Well aren’t you just living the high life! Because, you see, up until my Dad came to visit, we didn’t have any of those things. So, sure, it’s great to have my tv, and my couch, and my general routine of life back to normal again, but it’s not as great as having a bathroom door to shut for privacy sake (which we also did not have until Dad’s visit). So, obviously, I am very grateful … regardless of how long he stays.

Oh sure, his visit was not without its comically imposing moments … like when he casually informed me that he had invited a guest over to spend the night at my house (now Dad, you have to ask my permission before inviting your little friends over to play). And the words “Your stupid DVR won’t let me record all my shows because it’s already recording your junk. Which one of these programs of yours can I delete to make room for mine?” became a nightly occurrence. Oh, and never mind the fact that we didn’t have a bedroom door, or even curtains on our bedroom window, to provide any semblance of separation between us and him (and Dad, completely oblivious to that fact that we can see everything each other is doing, is prone to strutting around in just his tighty whiteys). But really I didn’t notice too much – not now that (again, thanks to him) we have a wall-mounted tv in our bedroom to help distract us.

So, now that he’s gone for at least the next 6 months, it’s all in my hands to keep the renovations going and on track. And after a few weeks of hard work it’s hard to stay motivated. I did manage to hem the bedroom curtains though. Or, rather, I took them to be hemmed elsewhere (the last time I did it myself it became abundantly clear why I got that C- in Home Economics class). And, considering the curtains came from IKEA, I’m pretty sure I spent more on the alterations than I did on the window coverings themselves. But, hey, at least now we have privacy … and that will really help the next time Dad comes back to town. I’m already making a new list of projects for him.

Stay tuned for photos of our projects. I'll take them as soon as the dust (literally) clears.

Forget Obama, Apparently My Dad Was Born In Kenya

Earlier this year I ran a marathon and a half (that’s 39.3 miles in case you’re counting). I quickly followed that up with the Warrior Dash – a 3.5 mile run that also included 12 obstacles, such as running through mud and water up to your waist; scrambling over top of hay bales, the hoods of cars, floating logs and cargo nets; jumping over fire and, my personal favorite, crawling on your belly beneath barbed wire (just to name a few examples).

I continuously sign up for these types of events, each time pushing myself farther physically and mentally. And, well, I think this has given people the false impression that I’m in any way athletic and/or in good shape.

Okay, fine, I will concede that it does take some kind of physical prowess to complete these events. But mainly it’s just endurance. You just have to be able to keep going even though you’d rather curl up roly poly style on the side of the course while you gently weep yourself to sleep. Or, in my case, you have to keep going when you’d rather make a break from the pack and steer towards the nearest beer-laden watering hole. And, well, I guess I do have a talent to just keep going (most likely because I know that, if I do, I will eventually get to some beer).

The question that remains to be answered is why? Why do I sign up for these things in the first place? I think it’s likely due to a misconception I have that training for said events will make me slender and buff – neither of which have proven to be true. In truth I don’t work out nearly as much as I should and, when I do bother to get off my butt and go for a run, I eat extra to “give me strength” (and negate all those burned calories). In fact, since my Warrior Dash in January I have run exactly one time. This run proved challenging due to the fact that my nearly ancient treadmill somehow got stuck permanently in the full incline position. Upon learning this I had my Dad (yes, he’s still visiting) haul the now-worthless (to me anyway – who want to constantly bother with running uphill?) treadmill to the curb for trash pick-up.

But now, with my wedding looming a mere six months away, I realize that perhaps I should be working a little harder at this whole fitness thing. And, to make matters worse, I have a 5K to run tomorrow. While in theory this is no problem for a long-distance runner like myself (this race isn’t even making me jump through fire! What a cake walk), I am running it with my Dad. And, well, I think he might kick my butt. Granted the man hasn’t run in the past 50 years (since he was on the track team in high school), but he assures me that his vigorous training in the basement of his house in Michigan has allowed him to now run a 6-minute mile. Yes, he claims that running a figure-eight pattern around the pool table and coffee table repeatedly each day for 2 months has granted him the type of speed that professional runners spend ages trying to reach … and he even bought a fancy track suit to befit his newfound skills.

Now, I’ve been watching his progress during the past 3 weeks of his visit and, somehow, since he got here his speed has dropped somewhere into the 10-minute mile pace. While I’m not sure how to explain this discrepancy I think I’d better beware – should he decided to unleash his true Kenyan-like running talent tomorrow then I’ll be left in his wake. Maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll take it easy on me. I’m sure he wouldn’t want to embarrass his marathon-running daughter by leaving her in the dust with his (dubiously reported and yet to be confirmed) speed.

Wish me luck!

UPDATE: The race is now over. Dad and I ran the whole thing together and it went well. Enjoy these photos, starting with one of us with GAR before the race.

And here's one of us running. You can see that Dad looks so at ease. See, I knew he was an expert runner.

We raised our arms in the air as we finished the race. Sadly they didn't get a great victory shot of us, just this crowded shot from above.

And finally, our group shot after the race. Great run Dad!

Roid Rage

The past few months have been exciting – an engagement, two cruises, a trip to Savannah, major home renovations, the holidays, family and friend visits, and a new doggy addition to the family. And, of course, our “older” doggy, Munchkin, went on steroids.

To explain this last point I think it’s best to start by not pointing fingers (or in this case, paws) at how we think Munchkin got injured, especially since we weren’t there to see how it happened. But, I think it is at least safe to say that the addition of a second dog into Munchkin’s previously solo-dominated territory led to a few instances of roughhousing. Doggy #2 is a bit larger than Munchkin and … well … I think it’s clear that we found out which one of our pups is less equipped for doggy wrestling. One thing is for sure – after many, many trips to the vet Munchkin was diagnosed with a neck injury and was given some steroids to help with the healing.

Munchkin is a rather cranky dog to begin with so I was worried that the addition of testosterone-riddled drugs would only increase his tiny puppy furr-ociousness. Assured that this was not the case, I started him on the meds and saw very quick results – no more whimpering or whining. The pain was gone, and my worries (and, if I’m being honest, my panicked meltdowns about how he was hurting and I didn’t know how to help him) subsided. But now, after 6+ weeks, he’s still taking the roids and, well, I can’t help but notice some changes in him.

Frankly, he’s beefy. Bulky. Muscular. His neck is the size of a tree trunk (or at least a sturdy branch) and his back is as plumped up as a quarterback’s. Think I’m exaggerating? Hardly! His weight at the vet 2 months ago was 9.8 pounds. Current weight – 11.8 pounds. That means that, thanks to performance enhancing drugs, my pup gained 2 pounds in 2 months. While that might equal one night at the all-you-can-eat CiCi’s buffet for you, that’s more than a 20% body weight gain for my Munchkin.

I know that once he’s weaned off the steroids this will likely all end, but I’m wondering how I can take advantage of his newfound heft until then. Sure, drug testing makes it impossible for him to enter into any professional sporting arena, but he could (at the very least) scare the poop out of those teacup poodles at the dog park with his enormous strength and size. I heard Arnold was thinking about going back into moviemaking, perhaps Munchkin could be his fierce doggy sidekick? I’ve got 11.8 pounds of unbridled fluffy fury pent up in my house just waiting for an excuse to beat up yorkies and steal their milkbones.

I’m open to ideas here … and I’m not afraid to exploit him “Toddlers and Tiaras” style. Lay your ideas on me!