When shortcuts lead you astray

 
 
Dear Wangs,

You are my favorite take-out Chinese place in this decidedly non-ethnic town. Your Yu-Shan Chicken and Mandarin Hot Beef are just a two-block stroll away, and you'd better believe that we take advantage.

But, here's the thing:
I get it why you label your containers with what's inside. They all look alike on the outside. I even get why you would want to shorten "Yu-Shan Chicken", since that's a kind of long thing to write on a carton when you're all busy and trying to get orders out and everyone-wants-extra-egg-rolls-for-heavens-sake.

But dare I suggest a little more attention to detail?  You should carefully consider the cosmic implications before you write this on my dinner next time:




P.S. See how there's so much sauce that it's overflowing and everywhere? I like it like that - keep up the good work. And the sauciness. In all meanings of the word.

We look silly because we ARE apparently

Today I woke up in the living room.

To be fair, I was supposed to.

With our couches gone (mercifully without sweat stains as feared), our living room was nice and big and open and the coolest room in the house (no small thing in August in the desert) and completely empty.

When I say completely, I mean that there was a sorry pile of library books sitting in the corner and an old Chipotle receipt from October 2009 that came out of the couch cushions and fell on the floor and that was it. And let me repeat, this is the coolest room in the house.

So we did what any moderately creative being would do - we moved our bed into the living room.  The Mister even brought in the nightstands. Then we went on a manic light hunt, looking for any rogue sources of brilliance that would wake us up too early with beaming rays of cheerfulness.  We brilliantly pinned up blankets over the windows to make faux black-out curtains and got it all set up and then we were out (like the lights).

Twenty minutes later, the air conditioner kicked on.  And it sounded like we were suddenly in the middle of an airplane hanger, with a fighter pilot who was trying to revv up the engine for kicks because he wasn't loved enough as a child and wants to prove something to his buddies. Twenty minutes after that, it suddenly kicked off, and the noise ceased instantly like a guillotine had taken it on.

All night, you guys. All night.

Airplane hanger. Guillotine. Airplane hanger.  Guillotine.

I think they have a phrase for this.

I think it's "you can't win for losing".

I took this picture, but The Mister claims HE took it because he likes it

It's supposed to be a cloudy, (rainy?)  weekend here.  A good thing, since we are moving two couches out our front door, down the flight of stairs, onto a truck and to their new home tomorrow.  And otherwise it would be HOT and we would sweat all over the couches and the new owners would decide that they thought they were buying NICE couches, not SMELLY, SWEATED-ON couches and that if they had wanted to buy THOSE kind they would have paid 100 bucks for the one at that last garage sale.  And did they say 100 bucks, because they meant to say TWENTY because that's how much this gross thing is now WORTH.

See? Not a pretty scenario.




*The picture above is from another cloudy day, in Amman, Jordan last spring. It has a lot of dignity and class and probably deserves a more serious-minded post than the one it is now attached to.  Sorry, pretty ancient ruins picture.  You deserve better.

I will miss the lazy evening concerts

The Mister doesn't get to take his guitar to Spain.

Too heavy and bulky - doesn't travel well.

Le sigh.

I will miss this sight - and the sounds.  My favorite song that he plays is a slowed-down acoustic version of Elton John's "Rocket Man" - similar to the one Jason Mraz does sometimes in concert.

On the bright side, he wants to figure out how to play Spanish guitar.  And then I will be his flamenco girl (please note: this plays perfectly with my stated goals here *wink*)

In which I like to eat children

Isn't this the most delicious baby doll you've ever seen?

I want to pinch those cheeks.

And then slather them in jam and eat them for lunch.

Why we're moving to Spain

Deciding to move to Europe is like being 9 months pregnant: everyone you meet is full of "good luck!"s and good-natured questions and all the questions are generally of the same ilk (I swear that's a word).


Here are the general talking points - take notes, people.

Q: What are you going to do in Spain?
A: My personal goal is to learn to shake my hips like a flamenco dancer. The Mister has loftier goals. He would like to eat an entire pan of paella all by himself. Sexy, no?

In all seriousness, we will be employees of the Spanish Ministry of Education. We will be working as classroom assistants (called "auxiliares") in their bilingual education program. So we might be teaching English, or we might be teaching history, science, math (with a qualified teacher standing by, of course) to kiddos that are learning English.  I am in an elementary school and he is in a neighboring high school.

Q: Do you get paid? (you'd be surprised how often this gets asked) (really really often)
A: Yes. Really. Swear.

Q: Where exactly?
A: In the south of Spain, on the Costa del Sol

Q: Where will you live?
A: We'll stay in a hostel for the first few days as we look around for an apartment or a room in a house. Either one is fine with us. Having Spanish roommates would be sweet. And very good for the Spanish acquisition!

Q: Do you speak Spanish
A: Yes, we do alright for ourselves, or at least we rarely get the word for "bathroom" confused with the word for "beer". One of our goals though is to return basically fluent.  I would like to be able to converse with Antonio Banderas.  Over a glass of sangria.  On a date. Simultaneously, The Mister will be on a date with Catherine Zeta-Jones.  So, see,  it will all work out in the end.

Q: Will you ever come back?
A: Si! Our contract is for the school year, so we will be gone about a year, unless the economy stays in the tanker and we decide to wait it out one more year before entering law school, thereby pushing back graduation/must-get-a-job date. (kidding Mom!) (I think.)

Q: Will you have internet/email/cell phones/Facebook?
A: Actually, I think the internet in Spain can be much faster than the internet in the U.S. (side note: when you end a sentence with U.S., where do you put the period? Because U.S.. would be weird, right?). And we'll have phones and all that jazz. Beware the time change though!  3 a.m. calls = no bueno.


If you think of anything else that you are really, truly, wetting your pants to know (or just sort of want to know), tell me in the comments and I'll throw it up here later! (Throw up as in, "post it on the blog".  Not as in "vomit".  Important distinction.)

She went from three to eighteen overnight

Baby sister.

Off to college.

*tear*

I decided not to get my camera wet

This picture is not mine. It's theirs. Isn't it pretty?

Last night it rained.

I never understood the beauty of rain until I moved to the desert. Maryland rain is damp and chilly and outdoor-plans-killing.  Arizona rain is warm and musical and fragrant.  And often, sunny. Rainbow city. (side note: if you haven't seen this yet, do yourself a favor and give it a click)

Anyway, last night. Arizona. Rain.

The Mister and I really felt like we only had one option.  It involved bathing suits, cold adult beverages (natch*) and a nighttime swim under the raindrops.

But don't be fooled to think I didn't spend half that time in the hot tub instead.

*tbams, that one's for you!

If you look hard you can see Kafka over my shoulder

When I was a junior in college, I studied abroad for a semester in Prague.  Even now, few things can bring me to misty-eyed romanticism more than thinking about that dreamy city.  The German poet Goethe (don't even try to pronounce that) once called Prague "the prettiest jewel in the stone crown of the world"...and it is.  It really is.

Anyway, I was digging through photo archives the other day in an effort to cleanse my overburdened hard drive.  I just wanted to share.  And in the future, remember I told you: don't even get me started about Prague.

WHAT? HOW DID THAT LAST ONE GET IN THERE?

Oh well.

I have nothing to say for myself.

It was Europe.

And Oktoberfest.

And college.

A powerful combination.

Why you should really have a foodie friend

Here's my life advice for today: if you don't have a foodie friend in your life, you should get one. Stat.

My friend Kelley lives in Africa, and she and her family are back stateside for a few months, so we had a little reunion dinner at her house last week. We hadn't seen them in months, and yet, all I seemed to take pictures of was... the food.

Knowing Kelley though, she probably doesn't mind.

Well, you get the idea.

More here.

3 Reasons I Am Better than Gwyneth Paltrow

 
So as you all know, The Mister and I are getting ready to go to Spain in a month.  Our friend Kelley, who is an incorrigible foodie, recommended that we check out Spain: On the Road Again, which was a series that aired on PBS about the deliciousness of Spanish cuisine.  Mario Batali, Mark Bittman, an adorable Spanish chica named Claudia and Gwyneth Paltrow (I know, right? RANDOM) all road trip around Spain, trying new things and being fabulous.

After watching the first episode something was eating me. It was jealousy and it was green.

Okay, here's the thing.  Here in America, we like our celebrities to be a little on the intellectually limited side.  Their lack of ability to speak an intelligible sentence, carry on an interesting conversation, or identify whether a common food is tuna or chicken amuses us and makes us feel safe and secure.  We reason that we are not awesomely wealthy or ridiculously beautiful, but we know that Chicken of the Sea is a metaphor, yes sir we do.

Enter Gwyneth.  GWYNETH.

Turns out, she speaks perfect Castilian Spanish.  Seriously guys, her Spanish is really good.  And she knows a lot about food (although I would make it by business to learn a lot about food too if Mario Batali were my BFF). And she seems appropriately embarrassed by the fawning public whenever they appear, and she actually seems - get this - LIKEABLE.

This throws off my sense of balance in the universe.

I did what any sensible person would do - I started tallying up a list of why I am better than Gwyneth - since her list of why she's better goes like this:

1. I'm driving a Mercedes like it's no big deal because I'm fabulously wealthy
2. I reference Madonna in casual conversation because she's like my best friend
3. I can pretend to be a boy (see: Shakespeare in Love) AND still be better-looking than you all AND win an Oscar
4. I speak Spanish fluently and with a perfect accent and I am basically smarter than you are
5. oh, the list goes on.

Well.

I can make lists too, Gwyneth.

3 Reasons I am Better than Gwyneth Paltrow

1. She named her child after a fruit and I will not
2. Have you seen Shallow Hal?
3. She has shown her  ta-tas to the world and I have not (trump card!)

Take that, Gwyneth!

Actually though, you're beautiful and awesome and I really like Spain: On the Road Again.

(but it's against my better judgement, you know?)

New Design!

still working out the kinks...

but do you like it?

I felt the need for a revamp...something fresh and clean and cheerful!

Yin and Yang

What I will not miss:

paper pushing

What I will miss:

tortillas

By the numbers:

I only miss you at dinner time.

One-way tickets to Spain = 2

Items of furniture sold on Craigslist = 6

Creepy people met from Craiglist = 0

Nice people = 6

Places we now have to sit and eat dinner = 0 (sold table)

Weeks left = 5

Spanish flashcards in rotation = oh, thousands

It begins!

The way we were. Sniff.

And the moving has commenced!  Seeing as we're going to be gone for a while, we're taking the opportunity to get rid of all our stuff. All. Our. Stuff.

This makes The Mister jump to the rafters in delight.  He loves moving so much that he thinks everyone should be required to do it once a year, just so that they all clean out their crap and experience the lightness of spirit that comes with having just purged useless belongings.

I am not quite so enthusiastic (is anyone?) but I will confess that I have rarely if ever truly missed something after it's been gotten rid of.  And it definitely makes me consume less, as I think to myself: do I really want to buy this book? Or can I get it from the library? Or a friend?  Basically, is this thing worth packing it in a box and carrying it to a moving truck in 110-degree heat?  And if the answer is no, then it probably won't get bought, because sooner or later it will face the wrong side of that question and then I will have to decide what to do with it.

Last night we got sold our desks, which we loved until we both got laptops and found that the "desk" known as "the couch" is more comfy than the wooden ones, and also sold a pretty wall table that got a zillion responses on Craigslist.

And so it begins.