Posts tagged ‘Klondike’

What’s cookin’?

Confession time: I am a hoarder.

Let me be more specific. I am a recipe hoarder.

I rip them out of newspapers. I cut them off of food packaging. I print them from websites and I gather them from friends and family (especially my mom). I buy cookbooks. I have multiple files of recipes on my computers. I usually have a couple sitting in my printer waiting for me. I have a stack sitting on top of my microwave. I have a Longaberger basket (I know, right?) filled with recipe cards. And a few years ago I organized a big binder full of all those clippings and whatnot. Periodically I gather up all the strays littered around the house and add them to the binder.

This might lead you to believe that I cook a lot. Sadly, that is not the case. I’m kind of lazy, and cooking for one doesn’t often seem worth it.  Plus, when it’s just me the yield is such that it better be something that either freezes well or that I like well enough to eat for several days in a row.

However, a few weeks ago I was browsing for cookie recipes for Sunshine’s and my annual Christmas cookie fest, and I decided enough is enough. I need to make some of these things I’ve been clipping. In fact, given the timing of this, perhaps that should be a resolution for the new year. If I were feeling super inspired, I would aim for one new recipe a week, but who am I kidding. Based on how much I actually cook, that wouldn’t leave any room for recipes I already enjoy making (and eating). Howsabout once a month, a new recipe? Dig it, I can get on board with that.

Anyway, this epiphany of  “I should cook more” came when I was reading a page of brunch recipes I had torn out of the newspaper several years ago. And I thought ok, but who makes brunch for one? And then I said to myself, “Self, I’m gonna DO that!” There was a yummy sounding blueberry cream cheese French toast recipe that I determined I was going to make just for me on Christmas morning. Momentarily forgetting, of course, that Klondike was coming up on Christmas. But his arrival time was undetermined and I decided fuck it, I was making it for myself and if he was here, great, and if not, he could have leftovers. (Sorry, babe.)

As it turned out, he was here, and it was great, and it was decent the next day as leftovers, and I sent another big hunk of leftovers home with him. Perhaps next time I will halve the recipe. But hooray for new endeavors in the kitchen!

And since some of my friends asked for the recipe, here it is. (I snipped it from Eileen Goltz’s column in the Journal Gazette, eons ago.)

Blueberry Cream Cheese French Toast

  •  1 loaf egg bread, cut into cubes (I don’t know what “egg bread” is – feel free to enlighten me. I used one of those bake-and-serve loaves of Italian bread, except I didn’t bake it – it was fully baked, it just wasn’t browned and crispy, it was still a bready bread, and it worked great.)
  •  1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese, slightly softened
  •  1-1/2 cups fresh blueberries, tossed lightly with 2 tablespoons flour (The fresh blueberries were ridiculously expensive, so I bought some nice frozen ones and they worked just fine. I didn’t defrost them, since I knew they would have plenty of time for that, just coated them with the flour.)
  •  Cinnamon
  •  8 large eggs
  •  1-1/2 cups milk
  •  ¾ cup maple syrup (Please, for the love of god, use real maple syrup. Not just for this, but for every maple syrup opportunity you run across. You can thank me later if you haven’t already been using it.)
  •  6 tablespoons butter, melted
Midway through the layering - pretty!

Midway through the layering – pretty!

Coat a 13x9x2 baking dish with nonstick cooking spray. Layer one half of the bread cubes in the baking dish. Cut the cream cheese into cubes and scatter over bread. Layer the coated blueberries over the cream cheese. Cover the blueberries with the remaining bread. Sprinkle generously with cinnamon. In a bowl, combine the milk, maple syrup, eggs and butter. Whisk to combine. Pour the mixture over the bread and press the mixture into the bread with a spatula. This will help the bread soak up the egg mixture. Cover and refrigerate for at least 4 hours or overnight (I went the overnight route). Bake at 350 degrees for 45-50 minutes. Serves 8.

Next time I make it, I will use more blueberries – at least 2 cups (total), maybe more. Probably more. I really love blueberries. I also might use a little less bread on top. Like a handful less, maybe.

Hold me to the resolution, k? And if you have something delicious I should be making, please send the recipe – I’ll add it to the pile!

Ciao, babies! Happy New Year!!!

The best $30 ever spent

I like stuff. I have a lot of stuff. Shiny, sparkly, colorful stuff. It’s all over my house. And I can be an impulse shopper, but I try to limit the dollars spent on shiny, sparkly, colorful impulse purchases. You can get more shiny, sparkly, colorful stuff (impulsively, of course) if you don’t spend too much on one shiny, sparkly, colorful thing. This is, in fact, one of the benefits of living alone: you don’t have to worry about whether anyone else likes your shiny, sparkly, colorful things, and no one cares about your impulse purchases.

(I just walked past another benefit of living alone. There is a heap of laundry on the floor over there, some in a basket, some just on the floor. It’s been there for, oh, a while. And no one has to know, or be annoyed by it.)

The other day I was reveling in the awesomeness of one of my impulse purchases, and I thought, “This is the best thirty dollars I have ever spent.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m talking about my (shiny) purple toaster, which I impulsively bought one day for $30 at Target, even though I had a perfectly functional (and boring) toaster already sitting on my kitchen counter.

Haha! Wrong! I do love, love, love my shiny purple toaster, and someday I hope to have more purple appliancy friends for it in the kitchen. But no, the amazing $30 dollar purchase I was marveling over was my showerhead. Don’t go there, it’s not what you think. I have a light-up, LED, color-changing showerhead. And it. is. da. bomb.

I first discovered it, of all places, on the Facebook wall of a local seafood restaurant. (We can discuss their lousy use of social media another day.) It was apropos of nothing, just a cool looking picture:

I reposted it to my wall because, holy crap that was pretty damn cool (and shiny and colorful)! And before I knew it, a friend had Googled it and located it for sale. And it was ONLY THIRTY DOLLARS. And there were only THREE LEFT!!!! It was a shiny, colorful, impulse purchase perfect storm. I hemmed and hawed for a few minutes. I mean, come on. I’m a grown up. (Sort of.) Is a light-up rainbow showerhead really what I need in my house?

Answer: hells yeah!

I ordered it. It arrived. I kept my expectations low. Were the pictures online and on the packaging a little misleading? Yeah. Does it lower my water pressure a teeny, tiny bit? Yeah. Does any of that matter? NO. It’s soooooo awesome! Especially in the dark.

Which is what happened the other night when I had my Best Purchase Ever revelation. I came home from a less-than-stellar Zumba class (NOT your fault, Lori, if you’re reading!!!!), and I was cold and tired and kinda crabby. Hot shower would be a good remedy for that anyway, but add in the bitchin color-changing lights and it is impossible to be in a bad mood in the disco shower with all the other lights off. It also might be kind of impossible to shave your legs with all the lights off, and hazardous getting out after turning off the pretty light-up shower, but who cares???? I kind of want to go take a disco shower right now, even though I’m fairly clean, having just showered earlier today.

It’s spreading, too. For my birthday, Klondike got me a faucet for the kitchen sink that lights up. That one is temperature-indicative. Blue lights for cold, red lights for warm, green for in between. It pretty much rocks, also.

Someday I’m going to die, and my house will be a realtor’s nightmare. Perhaps in my will I should indicate where I put all the original, boring, non-light-up water features (the linen closet, in case you should be the one settling my estate). In the meantime, it’s my house. Colorful silliness prevails.

Mine 🙂

Thanks, 3Names, for the groovy pics.


UPDATED, 20 minutes post-publishing….

Um, yeah, so I might need to get this. Thanks, Krista.

That 10K Was My Bitch*

*This might be a slight exaggeration.

I am not a runner. I am never going to be a runner. I have perhaps, from time to time, explored whether or not this might ever change. It will not. And I am totally cool with that. I have embraced my non-runner status. If, someday, a bear or a zombie were to start chasing us, I would put forth some good effort, but you would have nothing to worry about; you will be able to escape while said bear or zombie feeds on me. You’re welcome.

So I have ignored the runners geeking out over the Fort4Fitness event that has taken this community by storm the last few years.

Except the route travels half a block from my house, and last year some friends wanted my dog to come out and cheer them on (what? that totally makes sense!), so I got up at the ungodly hour of 7:30 or 8 on a freakin’ Saturday, and trudged to the corner with Ms. Ruby and we clapped and barked and encouraged runners and walkers, and saw all kinds of motivated friends and strangers pass by.

The event features a 4 mile run/walk, a 10K, and a half marathon. And while I was sitting on the curb cheering on those 4-mile walkers at the back of the pack, an older woman went by. With a walker. Not as in a fellow walker in the event. She was using a walker. I was already sitting on the curb (in my pajamas), but somehow I think I shriveled up a little more. How pathetic was I, sitting there watching? I decided then & there that I would participate the following year (aka this year).

The 10K sounded like a good challenge. (As a walk. Nothing has changed about the not being a runner, never being a runner, ok with not being a runner status.) 10K was not scary like the half marathon, but clearly more than a good jaunt with the dog. I promptly rounded up some friends to participate with me, registered, and had good intentions to, you know, train. Which didn’t so much come to fruition. The preparing part, that is.

Nevertheless, this past Saturday I was up before sunrise (what the what??), bouncy and enthusiastic. That is not my m.o., in case that isn’t clear. Much like I’m not a runner, I also am not, nor will I ever be, a morning person. Especially on Saturdays. Klondike and I geared up and headed downtown to meet up with our walking pals.

The weather was perfect, the mood was strong, and despite my utter lack of preparation, I prevailed. I wasn’t able to maintain Sunshine’s exuberant pace, but I finished, and I wasn’t last, and that was pretty much my only objective. 🙂 And it was a total blast. I saw lots of friends, both participating in the various events and in the throngs of people along the way cheering and staffing water stations and being generally awesome. It was fun to be part of such a positive community event, and I especially love that it goes through my beloved neighborhood. And holy crap, they give you JEWELRY just for finishing!

I’m wearing this bad boy EVERYWHERE from now on!

Was I more tired and sore than I was expecting? Yes. Did I get a blister on the pad of my foot? Yes. Did that piss me off royally because I know better how to manage for blisters? Yes. Am I doing it again next year? Hell yes. Will I do a better job being prepared? I certainly intend to.  Which, I believe, is what those pesky event planners are hoping for – a general increase in our activity levels and, you know, making positive changes. Bastards.

It’s kind of hard to argue with the merits of that, right? And I’m always interested in walking buddies; give me a shout if you want some company.

So….see you out there next year?

Approaching the finish.
(Thanks, Amy H., for the picture!)

Ew, squishy!

I lean on my elbows a lot. I know this about myself. I have been aware for the last couple of weeks that my left elbow has been more….sensitive, or something. Like, bruised feeling. But apparently I haven’t actually LOOKED at my bruised-feeling elbow until last night, or I would have noticed that it was 2-3 times larger than normal. And not really elbow shaped. Much more bulbous than usual.

Gingerly, I touched it.

Not only did it not look like an elbow, it did not feel like an elbow.

It felt….squishy.


I am extremely squeamish about such things. I touched it again. Why, I don’t know. Because I’m like that. But the fact that it did NOT feel hard and bony and elbow-pointy made me freak the fuck out. (It made me think of that scene in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets when Gilderoy Lockhart removes all the bones from Harry’s’ arm. Ew.)

Clearly I had elbow cancer. I knew this because many months, or maybe a year ago, Sunshine (my non-biological twin) had wrist cancer, which ended up being a ganglion cyst, but when all she knew was that she had a bump on her wrist, she was convinced it was wrist cancer. Hence, squishy, bulbous elbow = elbow cancer.

We might have a tendency to overreact to things in my non-biological family. Maybe.

And apparently my elbow has been deformed for quite some time, because when I texted Sunshine to tell her about said elbow cancer, she responded with, “You know, I thought your elbow looked weird in yoga [on Saturday] and I forgot to ask about it!!”

But this is typical for me. I am accident-prone and a klutz and I frequently have bumps and bruises and scrapes that I don’t know where they came from. Yesterday I ran over my foot with my own chair. Today my foot will be sore and I won’t remember why. That is standard operating procedure for me. So I have no idea what I might have done to my elbow, if anything. Perhaps it just happened, got inflamed.

Once I stopped hyperventilating over my squishy, bulbous elbow, I took pictures of both the normal and the abnormal elbows and sent them to Klondike. Perhaps so he could prepare himself for my demise. Or so he could talk me off the ledge.

Normal elbow


Scary elbow

I knew it was serious when instead of texting me back, he CALLED ME. (Have I mentioned that we pretty much never talk on the phone? Maybe three times in eight months.) Obviously the situation was dire.

“It’s not cancer. Stop freaking out.”

Klondike’s assessment was that something was going on with the bursa in (around? who cares.) my elbow joint. After he talked me down from my panic, he suggested that I send the picture to Pandi, my nurse friend, for a more professional second opinion. Her response was similar to his, and she assured me I could wait till normal office hours to seek medical attention.  She also asked that I not sue her, should her long-distance diagnosis via iPhone pictures be inaccurate.

My biggest concern/reason for going to the doctor is that I am getting on a plane soonish for a quick trip for a wedding and I want to make sure it’s ok to get into a flying pressurized capsule and that it won’t make my elbow explode. Cuz that would just be gross. And fluid doesn’t really go with what I was planning on wearing to the wedding. Unless it’s in a wineglass. And we’re going to call THAT wine or liquid instead of fluid, because now I’m just thoroughly grossed out.

Fortunately, my doctor was able to squeeze my bulbous elbow and me onto his schedule this morning. Bert, the nurse, took my blood pressure. Typically she uses my left arm, but today she used my right. I’m pretty sure this was so my elbow wouldn’t burst, although she did start laughing when I asked if that was why.


I have bursitis. That just sounds like something an old person would have, right?

My doctor insisted that young people get it, and that old people get things like osteoarthritis.

He and the nurse did wonder how it happened, though. Did I whack it on something? Who knows. As I said, that’s just how I am – I bump into things. In college, I duct-taped a rag around the sharp corner of my bed frame because I got tired of the bruises and gashes on my leg where I walked into it on a regular basis.

Back to the bursitis….

In case the yoga has been exacerbating it, the Y kindly scheduled a two-week break (boo!), so the elbow happens to get some time off. And the doc prescribed some Prednisone. My elbow should be normal sized and bony again before you know it.

In the meantime, I’m going to use it as an excuse for everything. “I’m sorry, I’m late, but I have bursitis.”  “I can’t serve on that committee because of my bursitis.”  I may even need a support group. 😉

Note: a quick web search reveals there actually are bursitis support groups. Apparently it can be much more severe and painful than my mildly uncomfortable lumpy elbow, and I mean no disrespect to anyone experiencing pain.


Northeast Indiana was pummeled by a huge storm Friday afternoon.  We’ve been having a drought (as have you, probably) and I love thunderstorms, so when the sky started darkening I was rooting for a doozy of a storm. Pounding rain, booming thunder, the works.

Note to self, don’t wish for big storms.

Our storm was such a doozy, it even has a name, one I’ve never heard of before, and I watch Storm Stories. It’s called a Derecho. 500 trees were toppled by the wind gusts, creating havoc and taking power lines down with them.

I was very fortunate. Only one small branch fell off my already dead tree. All around my neighborhood, trees and tree bits littered yards and streets. Even now, almost a week later, a downed tree tangled with wires is blocking the entrance to my street, not to mention someone’s house. Tree shrapnel is everywhere.

This tree is blocking the entrance to my street, with a tangle of wires.

When the storm started up, I was at my desk in my office, and the lights started flickering. Uh oh. Flickering, followed by off. Klondike was in town, but not at the house, so Ruby and his two dogs and I sat in the dark and watched the storm through the front door. I wasn’t concerned about the power being out; it’s happened a couple of times before, and is usually back on in a matter of hours. I had no idea about the magnitude of the Derecho. (Cue ominous music.)

I was one of 119,000 people in the region who lost power.  Um, that’s a lot. It suddenly became painfully obvious that the electricity wouldn’t be back on anytime soon. Crap. Oh, and did I mention it’s been in the upper 90s for the last eon? Initial estimates were that power would be restored BY WEDNESDAY. And there was no way of knowing whose power would be restored first. We all felt so….powerless.

I like to think I’m a somewhat capable person, who has my shit mildly together. One of the quickest ways to prove me wrong is to take away my electricity.

Two people. Three dogs. Very difficult to invite that kind of entourage into someone’s home.

My dad lives in a magical house that never loses power (please don’t let me jinx him) even in the wake of a Derecho or the crippling ice storm of 2008, even when neighbors all around him have no power. It’s kind of amazing. And it’s my haven in times of need. Fortunately, he has a spare fridge, too. We spent a good chunk of time there over the weekend, running home to check on the dogs and to sweat. Oops, I mean sleep.

I took cold showers, followed immediately by breaking into a sweat from the simple act of getting dressed.

I went to get ice to put in the dogs’ water bowls, forgetting that my freezer was empty.

Every. Single. Time that I walked into the bathroom I flipped the light switch. Stunningly, it never worked. After about the third time, I started doing a little song & dance that looked a wee bit like me stomping my feet and shaking my fists, and sounded kind of like me screaming, “The goddamn light switch doesn’t DO anythinggggg!!!!!!!!!”

Neighbors across the alley and next door got generators. The noise was astonishing. It sounded like there was a running lawn mower in my house.

By Sunday evening I was hot and crabby and hot and whiny and hot and tired of not being able to live comfortably in my own home. I was at the end of my rope, and entering the work week as someone who works from home presented a whole new kind of mess. Klondike and his dogs went home, and I set up camp at Hotel Dad.

Through some wonderful fortune, a text from a neighbor late Monday afternoon informed me that my porch lights were ON! I was giddy with electricity. And felt so, so sorry for those who didn’t win the power-up lottery. Even as I write this (Wednesday night), I still have friends in the dark, with no a/c, and it was 100 degrees today. I can’t imagine how frustrated (and hot) they must feel.

It’s amazing, the things we take for granted, and how uncomfortable it is when our daily routines are turned upside down and modern conveniences are suddenly unplugged. But equally amazing were the kindness and generosity of those who were in a position to help. As I mention on a regular basis, I am a Facebook junkie. And while running down my iPhone battery keeping tabs on Facebookland, I saw invitation after invitation from people who had power: beds, freezer space, laundry. It was truly moving, and felt very genuine.

And now that it’s over (for me), I can appreciate the silver linings:

  • My refrigerator is GLEAMING. Before loading it back up, I scrubbed the hell out of it.
  • My basement freezer was defrosted for the first time in two+ years. And I finally threw away those leftover buns from the cookout in 2010.
  • I bonded with my friend and neighbor, Claire, who I really only knew through Facebook. She and her husband Ben kept me in the loop about the power situation after I fled to Hotel Dad. They were the ones who let me know when I could return home to a powered-up homestead. (Thanks, pals!)

That’s it, no more silver linings. Be real, those four days sucked. 😉

Of course, I recognize how easy my everyday life usually is, especially now that I can have perspective in the comfort of my air conditioned home. (I’m obsessed with a/c, aren’t I?) I’m so thankful that I had options, and for my family, friends and neighbors who checked in on me and made sure I wasn’t in need. While I prefer not to have to choose, I will take that kind of love and friendship over power any day. At the end of the day, even if the day was hot and I was crabby, I’m very, very lucky.

Klondike by a tree in my dad’s ‘hood.

The base of that same tree.

Miss Ruby, reveling in the cooler temps at Hotel Dad


Oh sweet Jesus….a completely unexpected, bizarro thunderstorm popped up at the end of the day today and wreaked more havoc. More trees down, people without power again. I now have “loaner mayo” in my fridge from a friend who had JUST finished restocking from the first power outage, and she’s without again. I feel for you people, truly. Holler if you need something.

It wasn’t a test, but we passed.

I started seeing someone a few months back. Astute readers might have picked up on it after this.  (He’s kind of awesome.) We’re gonna call him Klondike, ok? So Klondike & I went on vacation recently, and it was the longest time we’d ever spent together. He lives in Indy (and I do not) so we see each other roughly every other weekend, which actually works out nicely for this independent chica.  Anyway, we went on vacation. Aruba, nine days, just the two of us. That is a long-ass time for me to spend with ANYONE. I wasn’t anxious about it, but definitely was curious to see how it would be. And it was really, really good. He didn’t get on my nerves at all, which is kind of amazing. Although I wonder if anybody would get on my nerves if I had plenty of sleep every night and spent all day on the beach being decadent. I wonder if I could get a grant to fund a social experiment…oops, I digress.

We passed the non-test. We still dig each other. Even after he got exposed to my less-than-cheery travel self on the way home, when a seven-hour layover in Miami got extended by an additional five-hour delay. It wasn’t pretty, but he hung in there.

In fact, I think the likeiness part is what made the vacation so great. It certainly wasn’t the 5-star (HA!) all-inclusive resort telling us upon arrival that they were overbooked and were moving us to a Westin. (We politely declined.) It wasn’t the weirdly uncomfortable beach chairs that were too short even for not-remotely-tall me that made everything fab. It wasn’t the mediocre food at the resort. It wasn’t the high levels of noise in the pool/bar area that oozed into our room morning and night. It must have been the company.  🙂

I made some bloggy notes so you would know I was thinking about you. Consider this post the equivalent of the “wish you were here!” postcard I didn’t send. But look! I can make one now!



Floating in the ocean is the most peaceful thing in the world. The water here is ridiculously buoyant. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it. It’s impossible not to float. Even Klondike, who says he never floats, floats here.

For me it is effortless. I lie back in the water and my legs and feet rise and my entire being is supported by the ocean. Cradled. The water is calm unless something motorized zooms by, so I can drift without fear of a face full of saltwater. And I do. I see the sun and blue sky above me. I can hear muffled sounds, but mostly it’s those passing boats and jet skis, gentle humming that quickly dissipates. Usually when floating in a body of water it requires a tiny bit of work – some hand waving, or consciously lifting my legs to the surface, without which they’ll dangle below me. Not here. Everything rises to the surface. It’s like I’m lying down. Relaxed. Sometimes Klondike stands nearby and gently holds one of my feet, just as a reference point for me. It’s perfect.  🙂


88 steps down and 88 steps up.

We took a killer jeep tour of the island, and one of the stops was at a natural pool. It was quite a trek down some rocky steps (88 of them), and then we had to navigate through a narrow, wet, slippery, rocky little path to get to the pool, and then to get into the pool you had to maneuver across some wet, slippery rocks and sort of slide into the water. This is not my skill set. I am a klutz. I walk into things. I trip over my own feet. So it was tempting to take some pictures and observe from afar.  But I did it. I conquered my clumsiness, my klutziness, my insecurities, and I clambered (ha!) – ok – crawled – over the slippery rocks down to the edge of the pool and slid (deliberately) in. Kapow!

Klondike and I had been in the pool for a minute, maybe two, when he exclaimed, “That fish bit me!”

Uh huh.

A few minutes later, “Again! That goddamn fish bit me again!”

I might have been a tiny bit unsympathetic. I saw no fish. No tooth marks. No blood. No missing toe pieces. He got much more sympathy a few minutes later when he sliced his fingertip on a piece of coral.

Blood. Everywhere.

Ick. And I, who had brought every first aid ointment and pill in my medicine cabinet on the trip, had left everything, including bandaids, at the hotel. Oops.

Fortunately, he survived.

After paddling around in the pool for a bit I realized, oh crap, I had to get back OUT. Which involved scooting into a little “seat” in the rocks and pushing myself up out of the water. Which meant planting my hands squarely on “furry”, slimy, algae-covered rocks. Ew. Like, really, ew. But I did it. Shazam! And then I clambered (crawled) back over to the land side, to solid ground and no more slippery rocks.



I am obsessed with the lizards. We saw one the first day, a gigantic iguana, just hanging out, like it’s totally normal for iguanas to sit in the grass by the street. But we didn’t see any others that day, so it seemed like maybe it was an unusual thing.

The next day we saw one hanging out on some steps outside our hotel. I took a picture.

The next day, we saw bunches. Hanging out by the pool in the late morning. Then I discovered that was a daily thing. Breakfast, poolside, with lizards.

It doesn’t matter that we see them every day. I can’t stop being surprised by them. I have taken eight thousand pictures of them. And some video. I stop and stare. They bake in the sun on the rocks. They eat lettuce. They walk their funny lizard walk.

And then I wonder….when people from Aruba visit the US, do they obsess like this over squirrels?


The end

The desk in the room is littered with shells and coral and souvenirs and books and earrings and snacks and water bottles and sand. There is sand pretty much everywhere in spite of our best efforts.

It’s time to go home. We are still having fun and haven’t tired of each other’s company, but we’re speaking freely about the ridiculously uncomfortable bed (rather than trying to pretend everything is PERFECT!!!!) and I miss my dog and my shampoo and being on Facebook for more than 90 seconds a day and Klondike said he’s feeling rested and ready to get back to work.

We have one more day, to sleep in and soak up sun and play in the ocean and get covered with sand. Tomorrow night we pack and schedule our early morning shuttle to the airport, and then Thursday bright and early we head back to reality. And we’re ready.  🙂

It wasn’t a test, but we passed.

How you know you’ve found a good one

  • He brings you your favorite (and not locally available) cheese when he comes to visit. And he only got a glimpse of it once, for maybe 5 seconds, but he got the right one. And then he starts calling it Magic Cheese.
  • He tells one of your girlfriends that you’re the funniest person he knows.
  • He never complains about your dog being on the bed.
  • He drops in on one of your friends at work so they can meet. Wait. That sounds creepy. But it totally wasn’t, at all. She was the perfect person to do that to, and they both wanted to meet the other.
  • He makes your bed when you’re not looking, even though you never bother to make it yourself.
  • He loves your dog. And perhaps even more important, your dog loves him, and goes belly-up at his feet for a tummy rub.
  • He acknowledges that men are idiots. But doesn’t use it as an excuse for bad behavior.
  • He is interested in spending time with your friends and family.
  • His actions back up his words and vice versa.
  • He rubs your feet without being asked. A lot.
  • He thinks it’s funny when you crack jokes at inappropriate times…..like during sex.
  • He is a thoughtful gift giver. I don’t mean this in a materialistic sense. I mean he pays attention to what is meaningful and of interest to you and finds things that are special, will be appreciated, etc. Like Muppets DVDs.
  • He doesn’t hesitate to drop a well timed “Fuck you!” when you’ve been relentlessly flinging insults at his (poorly chosen) alma mater.
  • He lets you know easily and often that you are awesome.