I'm ready to be done with the French postcards. Austria and Spain await!
This morning we went to brunch on the condition that it would be somewhere new. This led to Main Street Station downtown where, I might tell you, the parking garage is free - no need to even validate. And the buffet is very pretty, and the food is decent. (For 10 bucks a head, you're not getting the fresh bakery of Paris - hah, France again, grrr - or the delicate partakings of the Wynn, but you do get ease and grace instead of grease, plus really attractive cinnamon rolls.)
Then we spent a few hours downtown, the first time there in daylight since our vacation in '01, and had some kicks finally getting to go to the old El Cortez hotel/casino thanks to the extension of the tourist area. We even walked a block on Ogden, but this ended up being something we wouldn't do twice, especially after Mike failed to catch-and-latch-on to...
(scary guy, who is the reason I don't pause to take a photo at the Gold Spike, starts gaining on us from behind - I decide to make "don't eff with us, it would be noticed" conversation)
"Hey! This is where he works, can you see him through the glass?"
(we slow down to look in the pawn shop window, making ourselves visible to all within, but as far as Mike is concerned, we're just suddenly and inexplicably browsing for used guitars)
"Who?"
"Tim! Should we go in and say hi?"
"Tim who?"
(the scary guy slows down, almost hovers, and finally begins to pass us)
"Tim! The guy I've been talking about for the past half hour!"
(playful punch, delivered with wifely emphasis)
"OH. TIM. Uh, it's up to you?"
(the scary guy is going really slowly now, barely ahead of us)
"Hm. It might be rude to just show up. Can you see him working?"
"Er.. I can't tell?"
(the scary guy has sped up and is moving on... and I notice the Fremont security guys now on the corner, dealing with a ranter)
"Yeah, you're right. Let's go."
And sadly, Mike didn't even know what was going on; he just eventually got the hint that he was supposed to play along. ("Oh? I didn't even see that guy behind us.")
I'm not sure who that "sadly" is for - probably for Mike because a) he unknowingly entered a marriage where you're timed on how fast you can get seated in the car when parked in dodgy areas and b) he knowingly entered a marriage where playing along with crazy talk is simply and regularly expected.
But we're here to talk about Grenoble. Why do I know that name?
Wikipedia says it is surrounded by mountains, and one of the nearest ski stations is Le Sappey-en-Charteuse. Please add that to the "Sounds Made Up" list.
Oh, do I know it because of the Bastille? Hm.
Speaking of this, does anyone else have Stupid Dates They Can't Forget? Well, no, not stupid dates, but dates that stick in their heads when similar, or perhaps even more pressing, dates do not?
Like, the way Mike and I reminded each other for TWO WEEKS that Blue Oyster Cult tickets would go on sale today. And what were doing at 10 a.m.? Spending ninety minutes forgetting that - COUGH! - BLUE OYSTER CULT TICKETS GO ON SALE TODAY.
(By the time we remembered, only second row was available. Dude. As if. You can't go back. Not even after finding out that Eric Bloom plays World of Warcraft.)
But, I always remember Bastille Day. And I never forget Flag Day, and I remember this guy I liked in 10th grade was born on Flag Day. January 8? David Bowie and Elvis born. I'm a fan, sure, but a really garden variety one. August 8 - Shirley Jackson died. May 18, March 15, and October 11 are my "blood" aunt birthdays (one is easy because it's also my dad's), but I might only be able to tell you the month for two of my five uncles. Today's date? I prefer not to know, and if we can ixnay the imetay as well, lendidspay. (My fingers are itching to look up whether it's standard practice to split dipthongs in Pig Latin.)
(Answer: both splitting and keeping are acceptable, and what you do may vary geographically. Well, there's something I can sort out with some old playmates if they ever get time travel going.)
Written 12 January 1990, postmarked 16 January 1990, and anything 199* seems like just a stutter of heartbeats ago.
When this person (checking), er, Shom, wrote the card, the youngest chess grandmaster was being born a few countries over. Why are the eastern Europeans so notably good at chess? (And how about that Bobby Fischer dying? More unresolved issues there than my Pig Latin dilemma.)
To Miss M. Pue, Gluverdene, Peverell, Plymouth, Devon.
I think I'm misreading "Gluverdene," but the internet keeps dying here, and I can't blog / read postcards / comment on Flickr / shop eBay / impulsively click through Wikipedia / gape at the Pioneer Woman archives / make a photo calendar (inspired by the amazing PW) / tastefully border-stitch a scrapbook page with beads and ribbon (using a self-sprung idea, which means it is unnecessarily laborious and mediocre in appearance) / figure out how to spend the last $5 on my expiring classroom supply card (Amazon was blocked, so I ended up getting the speakers for the kiddos after all, along with some swanky liquid highlighters for me - they're OfficeMax's new "high end" store brand) / peer into the pantry / do stupid things in Photoshop then scrap everything and pine to do pretty things in Photoshop (thanks, again, to PW) / peer again into the pantry, just in case any of the soup cans have become muslin-wrapped packages of lemon tarts / reconstitute the dried out Swiffer cloths / try to quietly pack the Christmas tree while the surprisingly sentimental Mike sleeps... AND use Google Maps? I just can't.
"Dear Margaret,
"Well how's my favourite Aunt? As you can see I'm enjoying myself in France. My friend has a house in a village 20 km south of Grenoble - lovely scenery. Walking has been great - pity I can't stay out here.
"God bless
"Love, Sho(squigglesquiggleunderline)" (Maybe's it's not so much Shom as an untidy Sharon.)
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