And There Will Be Unicorns and Sparkles and Ice Cream Sundaes

There will be ice cream sundaes, actually.

Samosas plated, tamarind chutney warmed up (thank you, Mike), and Big Love's finale about to roll, we continue the prattle of anticipation about the next cruise.

Normally typing during Big Love would be absurd, but let's face it: Bill Hendrickson may have lost my vote. Implausible, jumpy plot lines and a now unlikeable lead this season has pushed me a step back from one of the most interesting shows of recent years. (Please don't even mention the newey gooey intro.) Still, the premise is so good, and the wives are still fun, so we'll see. We all have our offsies.

(Ooo! Bill gave them money to buy dresses at Dillard's and someone was burned alive! Nice!)

Speaking of dress shopping, until a few days ago I could have honestly said the last dress I bought was at Dillard's. Such were the student teaching days. Those dresses, business casual if you're feeling generous, are folded in boxes somewhere, waiting for me to take up quilting. Which, to continue from the last post, brings us to...

Elegant Night.

We didn't do Elegant Night on the first cruise. Castoff bridesmaid dresses? Straitjackets? Three-night cruise? What? The second time we knew more... and knew enough to say, nah, rather not shop or bring extra luggage. No one here eats lobster anyway.

But after that, and especially after seeing the variety of outfits (nothing decidedly casual like shorts, like some people complain about, but just a range from business casual to tuxedos) that make up "Elegant (Not Formal Anymore) Night," a little something was triggered. I think it's called "I really don't want to miss another delicious meal in the dining room for lack of an outfit that doesn't have to be once-in-a-lifetime fancy after all."

So, we vowed that next time we'd suffer the extra luggage and try it. Oh, look, here comes next time.

Now, these resolutions will all end up useless if we end up assigned to, say, a table for four. Or, as I call it, "a table for two at the buffet instead." Mike and I, happy homebody nerds that we are, are known to avoid foursome dinners with friends, so having to make small talk and watch our dinner topics when we're dying to be in a deeper level of conversation with each other as we enjoy one of the highlights of the ship, the dining room cuisine, is hellish to us.

It's a different world now, and while I'm glad assigned seating is still out there (for so many people do love it), I'm also glad that the cruise lines are recognizing that it's a very connected world, and meeting new people isn't the exciting opportunity it used to be. These days, perhaps, we look more for a chance to sit with our existing companions without distractions.

Unfortunately, Your Time Dining is booked up for our cruise, so there goes our plan to just wait for a table for two. On Splendor (which as of this writing doesn't have YTD yet), we were so-so-so-so lucky to be assigned a table for two. (In the words of the excellent Maitre d', Miguel, "You got bloody lucky.") Nevertheless, we plan with optimism to attend our first formal nights. I know Carnival does try to make people happy, if they can, so let's cross our fingers for "can."

Which means new clothes!

What is acceptable wear for Elegant Night is one of the most contentious topics over on Cruise Critic. You have the extremes: "It's my vacation! I'll wear what I want!" along with "It doesn't matter what the rules say, if you don't wear a jacket, you are ruining the cruise for everyone!" (You have to say the last bit in your Major Hoolihan voice.)

Somewhere in the middle are people seeking clarification. Carnival does have a dress code, but the problem lies in the unsaid bits. Sort of. And sometimes the problem lies in the said bits (although that problem doesn't lie with Carnival... get it?).

Brushing aside the fact that, on our last cruise, Miguel twice announced to the dining room that we could wear very neat jeans with polos if we didn't bring elegant wear (no one on Cruise Critic seems to believe Mike's posts on this), and our waiters tried to talk us into coming to Elegant Night with the same argument, I knew I needed a dress. So, off to get a dress.

First I checked online, of course. Do you know what's funny about the people who model plus-size clothes? Most of them are normal size. They have waists and things. Doesn't really give one a realistic idea of how well the tarty little cocktail dress scales to muumuu widths. (Actually, I'm one of those fatties who kept her waist, albeit kept its expansion proportional to all other ballooning parts, but my pillows like to be arranged in a low hammock, so to speak, which means a defined waist is a dangerous fashion concept around here. Think of Keira Knightley in King Arthur. But not in a good way.)

Second, we went to Avenue, the plus-size shop around the corner. They had two nice dresses. Just two. And I'm being nice when I say "nice." ("Long and dressy" might be the better description. You've seen the Oscars. You know the circles in the Venn diagram don't always meet) The dresses were all size 18. All of them. Interesting. Way to go, plus-size store, in doing the one thing you are supposed to be doing. (Yes, size 18 is plus-size, but I thought the mission to serve those not served elsewhere was a little, ahem, broader than that.)

Then I said to Mike, the two of us perambulating out on this crisp and lovely day in just another parking lot surrounded by depressing big box stores, "let's go into Ross Dress for Less."

I'd never been. I knew they were installing one on the Strip (next to Wollensky and Smith, I poop you not), so how bad could it be, right?

Let me say right now that it's not that bad. It's a novel concept, and it's probably very fun to shop there, if you like shopping <i>competitively</i> for low-end to mid-range clothing, because the inventory is always changing. It changed between the time I went into the dressing room and came out again! Which is how I snagged my dress.

My perfect dress. A little big (rare!), but I like roomy. Dark but with a subtle paisley print. Flowing but not see-through. Long. Not cankle-obscuring, alas, but long enough to avoid stares. (Because it's all about me, right? Pft. Except, well, after reading the boards, I know that some people really are insanely worried about how other people look. And don't even mention those who gripe about who has a right to wear a swimsuit...)

When I tried the dress on, I was so pleased and confident that I actually left my dressing cubicle to look in the longer mirror outside. For just a second, I was thirteen again, enjoying shopping, what with having to squint to see any character flaws. (Because, of course, fatness is a sign of weak character... okay, I need to stop reading those threads.)

At the time I thought, "Yes, this is completely appropriate, based on what we saw people wearing on the various Elegant Nights." Later, at home, photos of other people's Elegant Night attire across the web put me at ease, as did most CC threads on the subject. Ah, good. Look at my flounce!

But, you know... look at the hem. Crochet? Elegant? And the neck, it's so plain and clearly not really well made, although it will certainly last for a couple of one-off dinners...

I started overthinking. Carnival's dress code says, "Cocktail dresses, pantsuits, elegant skirts and blouses; if you‘d like to show off your evening gowns, that's great too! [... No] shorts, T-shirts, beach flip-flops, bathing suit attire, jeans, cut-off jeans." Could my swishy ensemble qualify as a cocktail dress? I only know about cocktail dresses from the movies. This is more of an upscale church dress. At least, given my brain's vague memories of church in the 1970s combined with a peripheral sense of what has happened with fashion since. So, maybe not what my Mom wore in the seventies, but something more feminine than the business suit look that swept the early 1980s. (Sorry, Mom. You deserve a whole gallery of your many beautiful dresses, including than stunning sequin number you wore on your cruise. Sorry again.)

Actually, now I think it's way too breezy for church. Unless you're Queen Elizabeth at her son Edward's wedding. Remember how everyone was commenting on how feminine her dress was? That's what mine is like. Except, hers was also very glamorous and expensive. So, not really like mine at all. Not that we've established that "church dress, possibly more upscale, but not like a church dress in a time when I ever attended church, unless for a wedding, but not for Prince Edward's wedding" even qualifies for Cruise Elegant apparel. But if blouses and skirts, the lowly lifetime runners-up to dresses, are allowed, then c'mon. And it's definitely not a t-shirt or jeans, even though Miguel did say we could wear jeans, so... Oh, I'm so confused.

And this is how, despite Carnival stating the dress code, people end up starting threads that end in tears. It's not that we want reassurance in our efforts to skirt (ha!) the system, but that mileage varies so much these days in our interpretations of the provided adjectives.

So there I was, overthinking, despite having people-watched at length for three Elegant Nights and knowing that my new dress would not make me feel self-conscious (but then, I'm me), nor would it stand out, not based on what we saw before. I even put it on for Mike and asked him seven or eight times if he was sure it was okay. And also if he was sure it wasn't see-through.

We're probably okay, so long as I don't accidentally leave a lamp tucked into my bra. But then, when taking that photo, I noticed something on the tag:

It says "Casual" right there on the tag. Shari, you nit.

Except-except-except then I went looking for the dress online. And I found it! At Amazon! Except in pink! Ew! And what it says there is...

"Victorian elegance fit for a queen!"

Did you see that? E-l-e-g-a-n-c-e. Also, q-u-e-e-n. So, there was no reason not to invite me to Edward's wedding. Other than I didn't have this dress yet. Which was probably the whole reason for the snub.

Now just picture it in black with maybe - maybe - a necklace, and we're all good and happy again.

Oh, but we need shoes.

No problem. Mike, desperate to be out the door and away from the awful shopping and, worse, the long, thoughtful consideration and revision and new pondering and questioning that is part of the awful shopping, called upon unknown resources of adrenaline and metrosexuality to quickly complete the remaining objective: finding the perfect pair of shoes.

These are they.

And now here we go again.

Mike said, "What about these?" Such genius, this man o' mine! The shoes are black. They have no backs to them. (I blister if anything touches my heel. Socks. Moleskin. Various methods of breaking in. Double socks. Nothing works. It's a damn near orthopedic issue.) They aren't beach flip flops. They aren't even really flip-flops, even though they're backless sandals. They're size 8.5W, and although maybe a touch too wide, no big deal. I even liked them!

But then I got home. And I read the boards. Oh, Shari, stop reading those boards. (But they're so fun and informative otherwise!) Turns out there is a whole cadre of cruise passengers who feel that backless shoes are The Devil. And not the devil in Prada.

However, their main complaint seems to do with squeaking. These do not squeak. They're velvety. They even have a bit of lift. I'm wearing them. Nyah.

That's me settled, now what about Mike?

We used the cruise as an excuse to finally go to "Casual Male," which is a big and tall store, and Mike is both. He doesn't have much trouble finding clothes to take care of the "big," but the "tall" means it's always a worry if he wants to raise his arms above elbow height.

Huh. I didn't know jealousy until Saturday when we stepped into the store.

The entire shop is what women's plus-size stores should be, except ours should be called "Round and Twee," or something, because all chubbies-n-then-some know the sorrow that is getting a shirt that fits... and it fits all the way down to the knees.

Mike's store didn't have only two dressy dresses, and those only in one size. He could have bought enough clothes - attractive clothes - in there to go the rest of 2010 without repeating an outfit. Plus, the salesman was extremely knowledgeable (here's a shout out to Shawn at the Flamingo store) and barely had to touch the tape measure to get Mike perfectly fitted with exactly the kinds of clothes he likes. Like, say, shorts with an elasticized waistband that aren't jeans shorts. Do you know how hard that is to find elsewhere?

Not that Mike's planning to wear shorts to dinner. (Not even on "Cruise Casual" nights, but let's not bring up that flamewar.) But he did find some everyday items for himself plus what he needed for the cruise.

Carnival says, "Dress slacks, dress shirts. We also suggest a sport coat. If you wish to wear suits and ties or tuxedos, by all means we invite you to do so. [... No] shorts, T-shirts, beach flip-flops, bathing suit attire, jeans, cut-off jeans, sleeveless shirts for men, sportswear, and baseball hats."

Yes, a sport coat is suggested, but it's not mandatory. Maybe the tie will make up for it?

Nice, yes? Originally it was going with his "British tan" pants (at Casual Male we learned the difference between "khaki" and "British tan" - it was like that belt scene in that movie I referenced some paragraphs back, where Meryl Streep schools Anne Hathway on the difference between azure and cerulean, and would you believe I actually have a really long and boring anecdote about a time Mike and I were caught in the middle of an azure/cerulean drama? Of course you would.), but now we're thinking his black pants will be so much snazzier, provided he finds the right black shoes.

And do you know about these zipper ties? They're like a marriage between bolos and traditional neckties. At first we were kind of offended that the salesman seemed to be insinuating that Mike couldn't knot a tie (he may boggle at the way Americans wear shoes everywhere, but he's still a manly man), but these were just too cool to ignore. (Not to mention on sale: originally $30, now $9.99.)

Perfectly straight and nice and never chokey, every time. (And, this being Casual Male, long enough to boot.) I even looked up the patent. (I guess it's old news. Still nifty as a box of carefully folded-up million dollar checks made out to "Cash," though.)

This mostly concludes the wardrobe planning section of our next cruise. Unless they make us sit with strangers. Then I guess we'll save our outfits for the Queen's platinum jubilee. (I hear she's really good about not lingering over the small talk.)

Previously: The Gift of Planning (Keeps on Giving)

The Gift of Planning (Keeps on Giving)

Horrendous week at work - you don't even want to know - but it seems to have had a happy ending, so who's complaining? Not I, butterflies.

Somewhere in the midst of the "I AM GOING TO QUIT" texts and the "HA! VINDICATED BEYOND BELIEF" texts, and the cursing at certain parties for being indirectly responsible for me only having 21 anytime minutes left of my cell plan for the next 10 days, we booked a cruise for later this year.

Now, I know this sounds like sulk shopping, which is meant to be a thing of the past in these uncertain times. And it was a bit sulky to seize the moment in the middle of a week full of drama (which also saw Mike put on three new medications - but he's fine, so no complaints - and Mike's grandmother passed away, which deserves far more than an aside, but some things just don't easily translate to blog content), but the deal was in the price range we'd been waiting for (love those Past Guest rates) with all the other chinks in place, and I chose to take this as a sign to book.

"That's the signpost, up ahead. Your next stop, the HAPPY ZONE!"

Except the signpost is more "down the road" than "up ahead," but that's not going to stop me from jabbering on with cruise planning blabber in the interim.

(A more specific sign might have been Carnival's press release that summer fares would be going up on March 22. That, and the shareholder letter specifying the need to recoup the losses experienced due to the swine flu/recession/depression in 2009.)

(Yep, we're sticking with Carnival. I know some people hate the "fun ships," sometimes just on principle, and sometimes due to legitimate complaints, but we were so impressed with the first two cruises, and the price/itinerary/time is right, so why switch? Plus, as sworn cruising converts, getting to platinum status - 10 cruises - is becoming a bright gleam in the eye.)

Our cruise will take us to the more southern parts of Mexico's west coast than we visited before, specifically Acapulco, Manzanillo, and Zihuatanejo and Ixtapa. As always, for us it's not about the ports. (If it were, it would be more sensible to fly there and really immerse ourselves in the culture.) However, the ports are fun diversions, like we get to stay in a giant hotel in the middle of the ocean, and new sights are delivered to the door like sci-fi room service. Oooo.

Mike and I were giggling yesterday over some of the planning excitements we had for our epic Disney World trip in 2001. Like, we thought DisneyQuest was going to be this amazing experience, on par with the parks themselves, like live-action Tron roleplay with catering from the Cheesecake Factory, and of course it was laughably sucky. Emphasis on laugh - we still had more fun on the trip than we expected.

So, as we plan for the cruise, and I torture myself with reading all of the cruise boards and blogs that I'd been denying myself since July (the longing was just too much), I thought I'd note the things we're looking forward to or worried about. Later, maybe it will be funny to reread and provide some updated comments.

Pasta station. We will be on a Spirit-class ship (Spirit herself, actually), which apparently means there is a pasta station at the 24-hour pizza bar. (Elation had very decent pizza; Splendor's was a bit weird but not bad. Something about how the cheese tasted/held.) Yip-yip!

Pasta stations have become a refreshing addition to many of the Las Vegas buffets since I moved here. Pick the "mix-ins" (I like garlic, black olives, onions, mushrooms, and sometimes tomatoes), watch the chef saute it all nicely, pick the fresh pasta, and pick the sauce (Mike and I both usually get "pink" sauce - a combo of alfredo and the American version of marinara). The chef does it all up in front of you, nom at will.

Boards say that what Spirit offers is a three-sauce, three-pasta type deal, with the mix-ins, and I know I'm risking jinxing it by saying "how badly could they mess this up?", but this is exciting news, especially if it's available around the clock like the pizza. Not that there isn't plenty of other food, but by the third day, variety gets a little slim at times for vegetarians when not in the main dining room.

Saying om-PEER. So, the restaurant aboard Spirit (you're forgiving me for not italicizing the ship names, right?) is called "Empire," but apparently is pronounced the French way because it was named for a style of architecture. I learned about this on someone's excellent trip report. But don't look, because the photos are wonderful and drooling can lead to chapped lips.

Releasing baby sea turtles. I hear this can be highly underwhelming. I also hear it can change your life. Having nothing better to do (one cannot slurp pasta all day) while on vacation, we have decided to risk enjoying a life-changing experience.

All along the coast, people are looking out for the sea turtles. Some are looking out for their well-being and trying to improve the 1-in-100 survival rate, and others are looking out for the eggs, hoping to sell them for top-pesos to men who are insecure about their own virility. For those who wish to join the former camp, there are several locations (hotels, sanctuaries) that gather the eggs and later release the turtles to the sea at sunset, when predatory birds are less likely to gobble them. (If the turtles survive, they will come back in five years to mate. Aww. And yet, I'm so glad this instinct isn't found in humans. The sisters at the hospital where I was born might find their patience tried.)

On our cruise, we have three options if we want to participate in a sea turtle release: 1. Arrange transportation to a hotel down the coast that is doing it on a day we're in port. 2. Arrange transportation to a sea turtle sanctuary - I hear the one near Manzanillo is excellent. 3. Take the "Birds, Turtles, and City" tour in Acapulco for a higher cost, albeit for more sightseeing.

If I were of braver stock, I would go for Option #2. It would take less time than a tour, leaving us more time to explore the Fort in Acapulco. The cruise boards are full of good advice on how to get great deals from reputable tour and taxi operators in port.

But Option #2 is never going to happen with us. (I still can't believe we simply hopped on a tour bus in Ensenada with nothing but a general sense of trust because other cruisemates were doing it. Such newbs.) The boards are also filled with "almost didn't make it back to port in time" horror stories. True, those stories are the minority of cruising tales, but the thought of literally missing the boat because we wanted to save thirty bucks (it's just the two of us, after all) makes my breath hitch. If you take your tour with the cruise line, they will wait for you if your (air-conditioned, bathroomed) tour bus throws a shoe on a jungle backroad. Sold.

Extended balcony. Feh, it was only 10 bucks more. Not even kidding. So, we look down at the lifeboats instead of the sea when standing at the rail, but we'll never notice when sitting in the chairs with 50% more balcony for legroom. (Or at least that's my hope.)

Volcanoes! The city of Colima has its own diorama of snow miser (Nevado de Colima) and heat miser (Fuego de Colima) in the form of two volcanoes, one inactive, one not. (Thank you, Wikipedia, for teaching me that the Greek roots "pyro" and "clast" make a word.) We won't be going up to the volcanoes themselves, but if we're lucky, it won't be too hazy to see them when visiting Colima and La Campana pyramid on our Manzanillo "Colonial Tour." (And if we're really lucky, maybe the active one will blow us some smoke rings.)

Having visited Chichen Itza and Uxmal, my hopes for the pyramids on this tour are scaled down considerably, but I think it will be interesting. As tour name suggests, we'll also visit a colonial village (Comala, 500 years old, not to be confused with the Copala of our last "colonial" tour) and see some museums and architecture in Colima. This tour makes zero mention of being made to spend an hour at Diamonds International, unlike last time, so we're already ahead of the game.

Free crap. But if we do end up in any tourist shopping area, I'm snagging every "come inside for a free bracelet/charm/earring/geegaw" deal they offer. Smiling, asking for the gift, and shamelessly leaving despite the following echoes of hard sells is worth a hundred bucks in assertiveness training.

Somehow it's 5 p.m. on a Sunday and I'm still thinking in the back of my mind about sorting out what I'll get up and make for breakfast "soon." Oops. Planning is just so tasty. More later!

Previously: Judith

Judith

Well now, who was a fine, fine hammie?
Judith.
Judith was a fine, fine hammie.
Thanks for sticking around, little dove.
Thanks for everything.

Our Silken Sweetheart
October 2008 - 1 March 2010

Previously: Hash House a Go Go? No, Don't Think So.

Hash House a Go Go? No, Don't Think So.

Mike was in the mood to try a new restaurant today, and after much consideration (Swiss Cafe is closed? Bobby Flay wants Business Casual? Tapas don't start until dinner?), we decided on Hash House a Go Go. It gets rave reviews on the various food and travel networks, and the menu looked inventive and tasty, especially the watermelon lemonade.

Around 1 p.m. we arrived at the Sahara location, only to be told it was a 50 minute wait. Between this and the pushy, edgier-than-thou-even-with-a-baby-stroller clientele, and the b*l*a*r*i*n*g music, we decided to look for chow elsewhere. "Do you want to try the Imperial Palace location?"

I can't say I met this suggestion with clamoring agreement. The Strip? On a Saturday? Imperial Palace? With its narrow, industrial parking garage that butts right up against its "Capri" rooms, aka the old Capri Motel that at some point folded into the casino next door.

But I was up for something different, so why not endure a little extra fuss?

Imperial Palace did not contradict our past experiences, with its urine-soaked stairwell in the garage and less-definable smells and stains once inside. However, the casino was decent, if smoky, although as we waited for the elevator to HHAGG, I did wonder what a lauded joint like Hash House was doing in one of the Strip's more enduring yet not endearing dives.

(As always, apologies for the cheap-cheap-cheap-and-sad camera on my cell. The pocket camera's batteries were dead.)

The elevator opens directly into the Hash House waiting area; in fact, it opens behind the podium, so you have to either tap a shoulder or go out the exit and U-turn to queue to give your name. The wait was only 20 minutes, and the music seemed a little quieter, so we decided to stay. The other diners-to-be were no less trendy, but that in itself isn't a crime (just a curious note), and as long as they weren't depressing me with their pushiness and their obvious sense of self-importance, who cares?

(I'm rereading Catcher in the Rye, having spontaneously assigned it when the planned books briefly went missing. I reread it enough as a young adult, and the last time I tried to do so, I thought I was over it for good, too old now to relate so well to Holden's angst. But, damn if it isn't speaking to me all over again. Those phonies, they get to me, they really do.)

The two gentlemen making up the hosting staff were very congenial; they seemed to be - unobtrusively but observantly - paying close attention to everyone's happiness, coming or going.

We were seated at a table for two in what Mike calls "center stage." That's what he calls anything not cozy against a wall. The traffic out front had all but gone, but why should they offer us a booth when a wave of parties of three and four could arrive at any time? No problem. We were ready to enjoy this place.

The first disappointment came when we looked at the drink menu. No watermelon lemonade! Oh, wait, here was kiwi watermelon lemonade... maybe we were just missing it?

We asked Jessica, our server, if watermelon lemonade was available. Alas, no. So, as much as we'd been willing to shell out five bucks each for lemonades (non-refillable?), we decided to just have water instead.

Maybe that's why we got such subpar service thereafter? I never get that, those waiters who punish you for getting water. Sure, if the bill's lower, they get tipped less, but if the service suffers, they're getting tipped even less than that. Why screw yourself over further? Maybe we were going to order dessert, but your "fuck the water drinkers" mentality killed it? Nice.

(I'm not saying that Jessica did this; I'm only suggesting it as a possible reason for the poor service. We have only experienced water-hating waiters once or twice before, and that was after reading about them with incredulity. God I hate our broken tipping system.)

We considered the menu again, despite having looked at it online and again at length in the lobby, So many promising choices! A quesadilla stuffed with potatoes and eggs and goodies, served on a bed of mashed potatoes? Weird! Interesting!

Mike chose the "Big O' Crispy Pork Tenderloin Sandwich." (I have no idea if it is the Irish son of Crispy, or if someone just decided that all conjunctions are created equal, and 'N was so passe.) I asked for the Corned Beef Hash without the corned beef. Even as Mike explained that I'm a vegetarian, Jessica seemed stumped on this, which surprised me: it's 2010, it's Las Vegas. If waitresses at Denny's in hideaway parts of Texas get it, why the pause? I mean, not that it's a crime to pause or anything. Or to say, "You mean... just cheese? and onions? with the potatoes?" I was just surprised that a place that lines its walls with celebrity autographs (Lindsay Lohan! Some rapper! Some other person apparently from recent pop culture!) wasn't more used to this kind of omission.

One reason we finally got a proper dining room table (delivered yesterday!) is because we love having nice conversations while eating together. It's too easy to get a little lazy when part of your mind is on the computer, the television, work, the project at hand. For us, the charms of dining out are good food, new experiences, and raising the level of companionship.

Unfortunately, our wait for the food was spent mostly in silence. That is, silence from us. Not so much the stereo system. Honestly, why do certain eateries crank up the volume so high? Does anyone ever go to a restaurant and say, mmm, yummy, but damn it's too quiet in here?

And why is it that the trendier the restaurant is, the louder the music? (Exhibit B: Serendipity. Exhibit C: BLT Burger.) Is it to drown out the posturing? Protect Incredibly Important Conversations? To make people believe they're somewhere fun and full of life?

I'm thinking that the guy in charge of the volume knob is not sitting still for very long and not trying to talk to anybody.

We nursed the near-ends of our waters, the wait for the food (which we expected and accepted to be long, per the warning on the menu) dreary as we chose not to shout across the table at each other.

Sometimes we played with the congealed matter in the pot on our table, pictured above. Backwashed caramel? Lumpy-honey? Once-preserves? I don't know.

My dish arrived first, delivered - of course - by someone other than Jessica. I can't fault HHAGG for this as everyone seems to do it these days, but I do wonder why? Why do so many places now have some person you've never seen before and will never see again bring your food? I'm used to the server doing the serving, and upon serving, ask, "Is there anything else I can get you? No? Enjoy your meal!"

Or whatever. I looked over my plate while we waited on Mike's. It looked pretty good.

After awhile, I couldn't resist a bite. "Go ahead," Mike said, "your cheese will get cold." I tried some. Hm. Mike, now informed that his would be out soon, was talked into a bite. Hmmm.

Seemed okay. Mike's arrived.

Wow - do they serve Flintstones vitamins with that? Pork, or porkasaurus?

We began to eat. Later, when we were able to share our thoughts openly and without raised voices, we discovered that we were both thinking the same thing. "I don't really like this, but it's so clever, I wouldn't mind coming back and trying something else."

Maybe conversation is overrated, because our thoughts stayed in step through the rest of the meal and beyond. (We're just lucky all of the toilet trips later were less synched.) "Will we ever get more water?" "Should I even keep eating?" "Should we bother with to-go boxes?" "Whatever happened to Jessica?" "Isn't it ironic that we, the fatties, find all of this heavy, greasy food disgusting, but the skinny people around us are shoveling it in?" "Is a **% tip too much?" "Ugh, how nasty does the car smell now?" "Let's just throw these to-go boxes away and not bring them into our home, okay?"

(I used ** for the tip amount because tipping is a very sensitive, and strangely subjective, issue, and to reveal the precise amount is to risk detracting from my other points. Plus inviting a lot of guff from vocal waitstaff who think you should tip 25% regardless of quality of service. Google around. They're there. And loud. And they also hate the idea of a fixed service charge. Hm.)

To be more specific, my potatoes (in addition to being greasy/heavy) were burnt and completely lacking in seasoning. I rationalized this at first, thinking, "well, maybe the corned beef would have provided that missing taste." Then, when I got to my completely flavourless scrambled eggs, I was less charitable. Seriously, maybe I'm getting spoiled on the cage-free/organic eggs we eat at home, but I don't think so. Not when plenty of buffet eggs still make my fork-fingers dance. It was like I was strictly eating texture. Salt, salt, salt. Pepper, pepper, pepper.

The biscuit was tall and decent, but man, dry. You know, like a biscuit will be on its own. "Why," I asked Mike, "do servers tell you their name, 'in case you need anything', when knowing their name doesn't help much if they disappear?"

Later, I overheard another server asking the group of girls at his table if they needed anything more for their biscuits, more butter? More honey? By the time I shook myself out of the shock that the tall biscuit with six inches of rosemary bush stuck in as garnish wasn't meant to be artfully dry, the server was out of poaching range.

The fruit, I'll say, was nice. I shared my pineapple wedge with Mike. Poor Mike.

Maybe if Hash House didn't make up phrases like "Big O' Crispy," Mike would've known what he was in for. He expected a lean pork loin, perhaps pan-seared to a crispy exterior, and instead he basically got chicken-fried something. I say "something" because any taste of pork was lost under the grit of the sand-clumped breading.

The steak fries were likewise a mistake, tasting like they'd soaked in oil for the week before, just to make sure it permeated to the center. ("And they weren't steak fries anyway," Mike adds now. "Steak fries are flat and broad. They were just regular fries.")

After we'd given up eating, Jessica brought us more water for our four-inch-tall glasses. "Sorry!" she said, in the voice of someone who was only a minute late. Mike had the Visa card out before she could finish her "Here's the check; I'll take care of this whenever you're ready" line.

I'm glad we had the new experience, but we're both sorry to have eaten more than a few bites of Hash House a Go Go's complete spring line for the emperor.

Are we that peculiar in our tastes? This place is hugely popular on print and screen. A guy seated next to us, a repeat customer, was about to wet his pants in anticipation of getting to eat at Hash House a Go Go again.

Later, on Yelp, we would see that the Sahara location averages 4 stars (out of five), whereas the Imperial Palace branch merits only 2.5. Perhaps IP puts its taint on everything, but will we try the Sahara location now? Perhaps ordering something different?

I can't say that we will. As always, this is Las Vegas. Too many restaurants, not enough time nor dining budget for many second chances. Hash House a Go Go is a No-Go.

Previously: Two Nights at the M Resort

Two Nights at the M Resort

If you play a little at the locals casinos, every month you look forward to The Offers, the mailer with the calendar of goodies for the next month. These days, in this economy, The Offers often Suck, but I don't feel like putting Station "Here's $2, yes $2, in free slot play for Shari and nothing, nothing!, for Mike" Casinos on the witness stand right now. I'd rather talk about the M resort.

Is the M resort really a locals casino? It's as pretty as a new Strip casino, convenient to all of the incoming California traffic, has high-end dining and spa, and they offer no movie theatres or bingo hall. (Even South Point, which stopped wooing locals a few years ago and still is trying to make "South Strip" happen, has a cinema and bingo.) But at the same time, they're on Facebook offering ongoing incentives for locals, offering Wednesday deals for casino-hopping seniors (retirement communities run regular shuttles), and they do send out The Offers, with gifts, slot play, and coupons.for every week - sometimes every day of the week.

Thanks to an evening out with visiting friends last November, in January, Mike got The Offers.

Now, some things on the calendar we just ignored. Sure, free wine every week is always handy for cooking, but our kitchen is already busting with free wine (and glasses) from back in South Point's heyday, and even though the M is close, most days we're not making a special trip for a bottle of booze to stick in the cupboard. Likewise, who needs a free two-night stay in one of their hotel rooms? We live here! We'd miss the hammies! (And the World of Warcraft.)

But when the end of the month came, some nagging spirit of adventure - the one I usually try to suppress until such a hazy future date when I'm rich and don't have to hug myself to avoid touching any seatmates on a plane - said, ooo, let's book our free room!

If nothing else, we could at least have fun swiping the toiletries, right?

Mike called, the casino swore that, yes, everything was absolutely free, no resort taxes, no surcharges, no expectations. We booked Friday and Saturday night. After work on Friday afternoon, we giddily threw a few items into a bag and drove down the road.

Check-in was easy. We skipped a little to have a room on the 11th floor (out of 15? 16?), but even the lowest floor with rooms is high enough for good views, and we skipped a little higher to have a king bed and a Strip view awaiting us.

(It's hard to say how much of the pie chart "King Bed" claims under "Reasons to Travel." But I'm not in a cheery enough mood to even think about our bed issues right now.)

Let's start the bar low with a very blurry but important photo. (Yeah, I brought the big camera bag - and forgot the tiny tripod.) In order to get power in your room at M, you have to put your key card in this special slot, shown above. Clever, eh?

After ooo-la-lahing in the bathroom (we'll get to that in a minute), the main area did not disappoint:

I love how the bedside phone looks like a cell. Hey! I live in 2010!

Looking back from the bed, you can see one of the more interesting features of the room. Specifically, you can see into one of the more interesting features - the bathtub with the view.

At first I was all "ew, unfortunate Japanese businessman stereotypes" in my head, but later I came to understand firsthand why being able to see into the bathroom was novel, not creepy.

Speaking of the view, let's ignore the desk area with the flat screen TV and the hidden cupboards of Pringles and M&Ms, especially since I just have this one blurry photo:

And let's look at the view itself:

You can kind of tell that I had already turned around one of the (heavy!) chairs. Later we would eat supper (takeout from Vig's deli downstairs - kind of mediocre, but I don't think we ordered well) facing a long view of the Strip at night. GORGEOUS. If we look up from the pool a bit, you can begin to get an idea (such as a the shakyhanded camera will allow):

(The pool again - where the Steve Miller Band is playing in May?)

Now, let's talk about the amazing bathroom.

Actually, first let's talk about the one problem we encountered in the room, other than dampness by the floor lamp, because it seems like the carpets have been damp in our last ten hotel stays, the Long Beach Hilton excepted. (I'm not exaggerating. It's pretty bad that one of the first things we noticed about the Hilton was that, hey, the floors aren't damp!)

Once some of the "oooooo!" factor wore off in the bathroom in our room at the M, we noticed this ring on the counter:

Bleh. Did no one wipe the counters? Sadly, the rings (which did not seem to be permanent) were still there after maid service the next day.

Ew.

As with the damp carpet, it's too bad that not assuming your room is clean is part of the modern hotel experience. Who hasn't seen the current affairs programs showing how glasses get "washed," how bedspreads don't, and let's not even mention the bedbugs. (Seriously. Don't. I'll never leave home again. Use the luggage stand, people!)

I'm not saying the room was unclean. In fact, it seemed very clean... except for the unwiped counter. And if they aren't wiping the counter, are they wiping door knobs? Phones? Remotes?

Or was it just a stubborn stain?

I don't know, but the rest of the bathroom was gorgeous. Here I am, standing in the shower stall, taking a photo of Mike:

(Tub to the right, sinks to the left, toilet behind the door in the back.)

I mean, the bathroom has a television built into the mirror!

And now, the best part, the fun of taking a bath in your room at the M resort:

Nice, huh? I was impressed. (And Mike was asleep, just out of frame to the right.)

Okay, so the bath crystals were bland (just crystals, no scent), and I got a huge bruise on my inner thigh (softball sized!) from trying to get in and out of the tub without slipping, but it was still deep and h-o-t. Mmmm.

If modesty should become an issue, just press a button and down comes the shade:

See the grooves along the side of the tub? Perfect for resting your arms as you soak. One of those things you never know you want until you have it.

Later I also had a shower. (Stupid grubby hair.) I had a really hard time squeezing anything out of the shower amenities:

Mike, with his superior upper body strength, was able to get enough out to almost finish up the tubes. (Whereas I just resigned myself to another shampoo at home later.) Nice enough product, though. Not noticeably abrasive.

And finally, above is a photo of a glass (on a coaster! where it belongs! and won't make rings aka evidence!), just because I thought it was kind of pretty.

(If that's not enough, the rest of the photos can be seen here.)

We left that evening, after baths and naps and showers and dindins, hit Fresh & Easy for some Pringles (the minibar was too inspirational), and slept that night at home. The next day we lunched at Mt. Everest (so holy it has yet to get its own post), swung by Palace Station for a little free slot play, then went back to our room to grab the bath stuff and properly check out.

It was hard to say goodbye. Our room! The bed! The view! That bath!

But we did, somehow, after taking a little video:

Previously: Things More Pleasant, Too Quiet

Things More Pleasant, Too Quiet

Posts to write, posts still unwritten:

• Our free weekend stay at the M resort (because of a casino promotion, not because - with my now even slower posting of gripes and rambles - I've somehow attracted paid advertising).
• We finally get a dining room table!
• (After some shitty-then-superlative-and-noteworthy customer service from R.C. Willey.)
• My birthday iPod saves the day as part of a nifty lesson plan.
• Great moments in DVD rental: matching some on-location scenery in the background of a Love Boat episode to our summer vacation photos.
• Koda - unstoppable or what?
• Judith - palsied now but what a little nestbuilder.
• Mary - who knew nipping could be painless and adorable?
• Evelyn - served with two sizes of dessert spoon.
• What's on the Kindle, or Why are you rereading that Marion Zimmer Bradley book about the Trojan War again, jeez?
• How I had an actual Stylish Thought come to me in the shower, and as a result we no longer live with butt-ugly mirrored closet doors in our dining room.
• Coriander is chocolate is really good. Where can I easily get some more?
• Have you seen the fuzzy chicks in Easter bonnets at Cost Plus World Market?
• I made a Moodle!

I don't remember what else. Honestly, I'm only posting this so there will be something more positive on the front of this site than the last post. I think I'm going out for doughnuts. Winchell's has the lemon-filled.

Previously: Stamping Due Dates in the Borges Library

Stamping Due Dates in the Borges Library

One, it was a rough day today at work. Probably the roughest of the year. Not the roughest of all time, but pretty distinctive. Let me give you the misleadingly short, hyper-condensed version:

Student A, upon being told to go to the deans' office, him refusing, and me insisting that he leave: "(Abusive invective stream about my stupidity, my bitchiness, and my fatness.)"

A few minutes pass.

Student B, his comrade, because she cannot STFU after this and doesn't want to take a time-out in another teacher's room, decides to go home, and leaves me with: "(Extended remix of abusive invective stream, but pretty much the same old commentary on my stupidity, my bitchiness, and my fatness, with ample trillings of 'fuck you' for variety).

I report Student B for walking out. Campus monitor comes by with both kids in tow within 10 minutes. Says I have to send paperwork for "these students" ASAP. (Never mind that one of them was never told to leave.) I say I'm working on it as fast as I can, as I already have yet another referral for Student A in progress, never mind that I'm trying to facilitate one of my best lessons of the year while needing to document this ordeal properly - aka word for word - so it doesn't just result in a couple of days off for the student - but, I tell the monitor, Student A cannot be in my room. As a bit of a personal favor, it feels, she takes them back to wherever.

Can I yell? For just a paragraph?

A STUDENT WHO HAS MISSED 75% OF FIRST SEMESTER AND 40% OF THE SEMESTER SO FAR CAN STILL BREEZE IN TO DISRUPT AND DELAY MY CLASS, RUDELY MAKE COMMENTS ON HOW WE "NEVER DO ANYTHING," BRAZENLY REFUSE TO LEAVE THE ROOM, THEN - UPON LEAVING - YELL AT ME IN FRONT OF THE CLASS ABOUT HOW I'M STUPID, SOOOO STUPID, A STUPID FAT BITCH, JUST A STUPID FAT BITCH WHO IS (no clue about the rest, his volume decreased as he left his audience) - - - - - -

- - - - And I have to deal with the aftermath of not having the paperwork done while he was still talking, or not keeping him there until a monitor could come (which would still mean delaying class for the paperwork), when it was okay two days ago for the kid to walk out of my class to the deans' office for some cuddles because I didn't give him the seat he wanted.

(I'm not saying the deans' office provided the cuddles, just that he went there in search of some justice and was apparently admitted without special paperwork or anyone talking to me. I sent an email followup, but no one replied. So, he can give himself a time-out, but I can't send him to the same room to chill while I fill out the paperwork as quickly as I can while trying to read to the class and explain frickin' literature.)

And never mind Act II with his friend, which was actually far worse and far more inane.

WHY CAN WE NO LONGER KICK "STUDENTS" OUT OF THE ROOM?

Caps lock is hard to stop. The backspacing, the deleting afterwards. Suck in. Suck in. Suck in. Survive.

I have been so pleased with my 6th period lately. But some days, those kids who are rarely here show up, and it's a perfect storm.

Storm, apocalypse, you know what I meant.

Two, and I bet anyone reading this sighfest has forgotten that all of the above was "one," I have actually forgotten what two was.

I know this was supposed to a post with a fun little list of everything we've been up to lately. Then I felt like I just had to mark the wretched occasion a little, frame my glee in a "boy howdy, what a day" aside, and now here we are - the very-very short version, and I wonder in what human world it is "professional" or "desirable" to be the sort of person who can shake off being badly and publicly abused while stripped of the power to react reasonably?

Dad says write a book. I think that would kill me.

I love to teach. I love my schedule this year. I love most of my students, much as its not reciprocated.

I hate my job.

Previously: Writing Thank-You Notes for Donkeypunches

Writing Thank-You Notes for Donkeypunches

Powerful headache here. Here I am, with the usual great long list of Things I've Been Meaning to Post But Somehow Don't, Despite Having Photos and Everything, and what sets off the typing fingers is the fact that I'm in no mood to type.

Here comes the sudden close-up for the dramatic line, then the cutaway: "That's how it is when you've been sleeping in hospital recliner for three days."

(In the same pair of jeans, with the vinyl chair seat guaranteeing a sweaty bottom every time you shift an inch in search of comfort.)

Dum dum dum!

(And now the cutaway while I stagger to the bathroom. I think it's all hitting me, gale force peakyness.)

I'm going to leave out a bunch of details. I've already written enough emails, rang enough numbers, thumbed enough texts, and updated enough Facebook statuses (mine and Mike's) to where the story is now in danger of changing, and what was once the tale of a man who woke at 7 a.m. one Saturday morning with a tummyache is in danger of becoming a legend about a magical unicorn (don't you hate the plain kind?) who had to beg Zeus for a new horn after his was crumpled in a parking lot swerve-by.

I haven't gotten into the codeine, I swear. We don't even pick up the prescription until tomorrow.

Also, as much as I want to talk about all of the good things and people about our hospital stay (if only because the list too short to be strenuous), I couldn't possibly do so without mentioning all of the bad things, and I can't really mention all of the bad things when we staying in peaceful relations with our nearest hospital is important. Sorry, it's true. Bloggers aren't necessarily journalists.

Let us breeze through the short version, with a few photos.

The really short version.

Mike woke up with stomach pain. He tried some indigestion remedies and tried to ignore it. When I woke up, the ignoring didn't seem to be working. We went to Urgent Care. Things got urgent. We transferred to the emergency room at a nearby hospital. About an hour and a half after going through triage, getting a curtained ER cubicle, and starting some tests, with Mike near tears and thrashing and biting back moans this entire time, he was given morphine.

That helped.

Chest X-ray, EKG, blood work. Doctor goes "Hm." Ultrasound. Bingo. Gallstones.

And there's me, always with the lame joke. "Mike! Gallstones are my thing! You always level past me!" (I don't know if that last sentence makes sense if you don't play level-based computer games, but if you do, you totally got that.)

Honestly, it was like being hit by the Transoceanic Karmic Orwellian Express. Except, if I can claim one good trait about myself, it's that I would never be like Winston and yell "Do it to Julia!" I realize the entire point of that book is that everyone thinks they would never say that, but I would never wish my woes on Mike, really. A control freak like me? Never.

So, here I've been quietly ignoring my own gallbladder issues for the past few years, taking the odd codeine as rarely needed and giving up most fried foods, and WHAM out of NOWHERE here is Mike in the hospital with a gallstone attack. Pretty sneaky, universe.

With all else eliminated (see, here is where I don't even snark out a story about how incompetent the people were about the urine testing), Mike was admitted to the hospital.

The morphine still helped.

 
And so Saturday night passed. I was given a little recliner and allowed to come and go at will, for which we were both very grateful. I came home for a short nap and to gather some things.

Like the striped blanket my dog used to sleep on. We slept at right angles, my striped legs to his hospital-issue burgundy ones.

On Sunday morning, Mike was off the morphine and surgery didn't look so imminent. Just as well - they couldn't get enough people to come in on Superbowl Sunday to do it that day. (I have these huge, juice, imaginary blisters by my ears where the metaphorical steam is coming out now, holding back from a diatribe on how much I hate football, misplaced cultural priorities, etc.)

The surgeon visited. Mike said he was going to wait on the surgery. (Oh, believe me, this is definitely the short version.) Mike's doctor visited. Nope, no surgery, not yet, decision final, could we go home?

Alas, no. Mike's white blood count was too high. The original course of antibiotics wasn't working. Mike had to stay for a new dose and more observation.

(You see how it is. He can't just pass me up with a gallbladder attack that lasts 2x or maybe 4x as long as one of mine. He can't just require morphine where I only need codeine. He has to get a gallbladder infection as well.)

Visions of hamsters and the comfort of one's own bed slip away. Sadness.

At least plain "real" food was allowed. We feasted on Subways without cheese or sauce. (I lie - I asked that they put Mike's cheese on my sandwich. Hey, maybe I could have a gallbladder incident at the same time. We could entwine our morphine drips. Que romantica!)

The Subway was okay, but it surely had to be better than the sausages they served Mike for breakfast.

(Emperor Michaelus, pictured above, is not impressed. Select kitchen staff are at risk of decapitation by discus. To that list we should add whoever said, "What's the best thing for a gallbladder patient. Sausage? Eggs? Got it!")

Equal time for looks of despair:

Or we can play "too grim to pull off kittenish":

And so another night passed. Mike felt fine, except for the IV and where the ultrasound paddles had squished him. He really wanted to go home. I really wanted to go home. Or sleep comfortably.

At 2 a.m. Monday morning they took more blood to check his WBCs. By 8ish we had the results: normal WBCs. Now it was just a matter of waiting for Mike's doctor to show up and release him.

About four hours later, the surgeon shows up. "So, how's it going?" Um, fine? No change? Still don't want surgery? Still want to go home? Why are you here? He leaves again, having relived yesterday's conversation. (And if we get charged for that "consultation," there will be a problem, I tell you.)

Hours continue to pass. The nurse says our doctor will come when he's done with his (office) patients. What? The "financial counselor" from billing comes to say the hospital co-pay (as opposed to the emergency room co-pay) is so-much for two days, but that-much much for three days, if we say. I say that if we're here a third day, we're going for a lawsuit, as we've been sitting around for twelve hours since the blood was taken and, according to what the doctor said yesterday, have no reason to stay if the WBCs are fine.

She takes our Visa card and charges a lot of money on it, because we are lucky to have health insurance.

Mike has a fit, completely boggled once again, wondering why we pay steep insurance fees every month then still have big co-pays plus whatever fees will come from the various tests, drugs, and consultations, which we won't know about until the hospital sends the surprise "and this is what your insurance company didn't pay" bill. And then Mike has to see me be grateful for this, because - compared to the average bear - we "have it good."

(So many rants deleted.)

Another hour passes. The nurse comes in with a new dose of antibiotics. Wait, what? We're going home - we don't need another drip. No, no, until discharged, the orders for daily treatment must be followed. "But if your doctor comes in and discharges you, we'll just take the antibiotics IV out."

What? Does the "must finish the course" rule of antibiotics not apply if it's trickling through a hose?

Another hour passes. Mike's doctor shows up. "So, what did you decide about the surgery?"

WTF. I said I wasn't going to tattle and burn bridges, but WTF. And Mike says, "I told you yesterday. No surgery for now."

"Oh, okay. Well, let me find out what your white blood cell count is."

"Doctor, it's 6000-something. We've known that for, oh, nine hours. When the lab results came in this morning. From the blood taken at 2 a.m. It's now four o'clock. In the afternoon."

While the doctor went to sort out the discharge papers and prescriptions, we waited - me on the bed, Mike in my chair. Too bad it was only in the last few hours of our stay that Mike discovered he really liked the recliner better than the bed, whereas I thought the bed was wonderful.

(I have so many stories. I can't believe I'm going to sign off without the full version of the nurse who said, "Oh, they forgot to give you XYZ drug last night. Be sure to remind them to give it to you tomorrow." That tale was such a keeper that I couldn't hold back on sharing when the kind charge nurse came by to ask how our stay was. Made the stories of waiting 20-30 minutes for call buttons to be answered look right puny. Oh dear, now I've "gotten started.")

The important thing, of course, is how the big story ends. It seems to end with Mike home, safe, comfortable, and better informed, perhaps buying time and/or perhaps making the most of it. A happy ending, if a cautious one. And me, I feel like poop, but poop is acceptable, and it's what sick days are for. Tomorrow morning we'll go pick up Mike's five prescriptions but not any lovely paneer in creamy sauce, but first, sleeeeeep.

Previously: You Can't Even Be Upset About 91, You Really Can't.

You Can't Even Be Upset About 91, You Really Can't.

One of the things that surprised me most about Salinger's death is that I wasn't expecting it.The crumby guy was 91, for chrissakes! (Okay, I'll stop my weak Holdenizing here.)

My reaction to the news moved quickly through what I now understand as the five stages of Salinger grief:

1. Nooooo! When will the shocking deaths of cultural icons stop??!! (<30 seconds)
2. He was 91? Why wasn't this on my radar? (10 seconds)
3. Woohoo. Now maybe we'll finally see some more writing! (a few hours)
4. I hope it's not all like "Hapworth 16, 1924," though. (fleeting, guilty seconds)
5. I'm trying not to think too much about his personal life, with all the urine drinking, teen chasing, and speaking in tongues. (intermittently, as the internet eulogized throughout the night)

I first read Catcher in the Rye when I was around 17, only because a classmate - when we were all sharing our favourite books - said his favourite (Catcher) was banned at our school. (Later I would notice it with all the other paperbacks, on one of those rotating spindles. As someone who regularly had to request the witchcraft books from behind the counter to check them out, I was a little underwhelmed. Of course, now I'm surprised that a public high school in Texas even had mass-produced pre-Wiccan hoke.)

My Creative Writing teacher read us the beginning of Franny and Zooey one day - I wish I could remember how she framed it - but I don't think I clued in that this was the same guy. (I just remember how she kept saying that Franny had "the Love Experience," and I thought she meant sex, but what teacher would bring that up? These kids today - they don't know how good they have it when the English teacher next door to me has them conjugate "to orgasm.")

I loved Catcher, of course. I was a miserable teenager myself, constantly bewildered by Why People Suck So Much. I also loved Franny and Zooey, maybe even more from the gut, maybe because if Catcher helps you point a finger outward (Phoneys! Creeps!), F&Z turns the finger around to yourself, looking for a cure, hoping and dreading that Franny's muttering-without-ceasing on the sofa will come to something.

Nine Stories was total catnip from the first moment that I realized the other Glasses were waving at me from most of the tales. That said, I am the one person, I think, who didn't wet my pants over "For Esme, with Love and Squalor." I didn't identify with Esme, despite my own precocious maturity, and I definitely didn't identify with the moonstruck soldier. If anything, although there's no way I could articulate it at the time, I felt like the third wheel while reading.

"A Perfect Day for Bananafish" was terrific, though. That I got. That I foisted upon my own students when I started teaching. (And so my heart is broken now, to see one of them - nearly done with college now - commenting on another teacher's wall about how they never read any Salinger but perhaps now will.) My photocopy of the story (copied and pasted from some long-gone site online, although for Salinger I might have retyped it all) was front-and-back sided, but with the last few paragraphs on a page by themselves. I ripped this last page off and gave all the Modern Lit students yellow butcher paper. Cut out fish, I said. Write the ending to the story, I said. (And this is how we get the classroom decorated.) Then I gave them the sheet with the proper ending. No one saw that coming.

And of course, after all that, Raising High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction couldn't be anything but aces. Oh, would there ever be more?!

I don't reread Salinger any more; I know it too well. It would be like reliving instead of living. I wish I could say that it's Buddy or Zooey that stayed in me, but at least it's not Franny anymore. (For years my nickname on BBSes was "Franny" or, if they insisted on a "real" name, "Frances Salinger." With at least one sysop, this had all the subtlety of when Audrey Horne tries to work in the brothel as "Hester Prynne," but I played dumb anyway.)

No, my heart is a mix of Seymour and BooBoo, and I like to think it's mostly BooBoo now, but Seymour shows up when the idiocy of the world is so great that I'm sure it's all a play, and if I oversnark, well, I'm just following the script. (I enjoyed "Poor Uncle Wiggly in Connecticut" as much as the average J.D.-lovin' bear, but c'mon, nobody dresses up as Walt or Waker at the internal SalingerCon.)

After Salinger's death my mind raced to think where I could wedge Catcher into the AP Lit schedule. The crazy things you do in grief, right? As if I would ever risk all the baggage that comes with an assigned book. ("Bananafish" was risky enough. I stopped teaching it not just because I stopped teaching Mod Lit so I could be part of our short-lived Sophomore Teaming - shudder - but because the kids didn't like the story, and that was harder for me - with my visions of being the Coolest English Teacher Ever - to handle that it was for them to endure.)

I feel unoriginal and immature these days when I say how much I loved Salinger's work. I feel like I have to explain that I feel in love as a teen, of course. But, if I had never read Catcher, and if I picked it up for the first time today, I am certain it would still rock my socks.

I'm not sure I want to be the catcher in the rye any more. In fact, it's probably for the best if I get out of the rye field entirely and distract myself with a can of Pringles or something. But if you ever wanted to be the catcher, and if you never got that far, then there is no better way than Salinger to find sympathy for the madness.

Previously: As Blue as the Ocean after Somebody Drowns

As Blue as the Ocean after Somebody Drowns

The title of the post comes from an exercise the freshies did on Friday. It's my third year for doing it, and the kids really liked it this year. Mind you, they've liked everything this week, what with the massive amounts of rain that have kept out whole handfuls of freshmen while subduing the rest. Perhaps there is something about having to literally - and I mean literally literally - wade through flowing icy rivers to get to class. (Did I mention that most of my department moved to portables during Winter Break while our wing is fixed up? Alas, our trailer park lies on low ground.)

This is going to be one of those posts where I just leave the window open all day and throw up things that come to mind, like a patchwork quilt called "Saturday, When in Front of the Computer."

Not that I should breathe a word about quilts, having spent a little too much time with "Electric Quilt" software this week. See, I've been staying one step of the quilting bug, aka "I can't possibly dabble in one more hobby" for over twenty years, ever since my aunt got into quilting and sent me a packet of photocopies and possibilities. But then someone on Facebook (always with the FB, sheesh!) pointed to a study where Nevada is now #50 in education. (Take heart! Because of Washington D.C., we're 50 out of 51!) Kvetching started, and I suggested we (local teacher-friends on FB) make a quilt of 50 blocks, and each of the 50 blocks details a problem that has led to us becoming #50.

This is probably everything that's wrong with me. Just like how when I was recently making a scrapbook page in honor of Christmas Break, and I cut the letters for "Christmas 2009" exclusively out of Vagisil packaging.

(Hey, I already broadly hinted about my "special antibiotics reaction for the holidays." Don't look so squicked out. Or do the math to figure out how much packaging you need to prettily spell out "Christmas 2009.")

In other words, I don't know what happened back in Girl Scouts, but I can't do arts and crafts like the normal kids. Or with the normal kids.

As if I even regularly do craftsy stuff, which is Reason Numero Uno not to let me get into quilting, or it's going to be 1,080 hours of research followed by one quilt block per year and a lot of fabric stacked neatly in the closet.

On the other hand, the sooner I admit I like the research and the dabbling parts the best, the sooner I will become the Buddha and reincarnate into a planet with golden streets and eighteen virginal sister-wives who hand-mix milk-n-honey smoothies all the eternal day.

As soon as I thought about quilts, I was plagued with inspiration. One with a block for each hammie ever! (63 + Raisins the Mouse + the three fish.) A small throw of cotton batiks, and a block for each Indian dish I love. Great moments in cruise ship living! All of my World of Warcraft characters! Genealogy/ancestors! Favourite novels!

This led to hours with "Electric Quilt," including time spent importing fabric samples from Fabric.com for maximum authenticity. This also led to hours looking into sewing machines, a passion that fizzled quickly when the machine I decided to get my heart set on revealed itself to cost $3500. (What's really bad is that at first I thought it cost $1300, and I was all, whoa. I didn't even know whoa yet.)

Then I read a quilting-related novel on the Kindle, which just made things worse because it furthered the quilting bug while also re-igniting the "surely even I have enough skill to write this kind of Lifetime network crap" bug, which leads very directly to the "could you be more lazy, missie?" full-on virus, which then gets exacerbated by remembering all the stressy things that lead me to time spent goofing off instead of curing cancer, 

Luckily I know where the reset button is. 

The way things stand now, I just want to "drop in to Joann's" and "have a look." (Joann's and not some nicer, specialty fabric/sewing machine store because I don't want any questions. Or advice. Perhaps thanks to the internet, I have a very hard time taking advice from just one person.) Even though I have already burned out on quilting - just the idea of quilting - several times this week, I know this is very dangerous.

And Mike is not to be trusted, because if he thinks something will make me happy, all he does is encourage me to do it, offering ideas and never saying things like, "why not just make one quilt block and see what you think?", or "why not hand-sew a block instead of buying a machine with all the computerized muckery?" (The nerve of the man, right?)

And unfortunately I've learned about these "quilt as you go" techniques, so you don't have to make an enormous quilt-top that then needs to be pinned to an enormous quilt-back and then is tediously sewn together while taking up the entire carpet as you stage a multi-month quilting bee for one. (What with not having any big tables.)

Ooo, this post has made me tired. Maybe now I can escape creamy sunflowers (hams love their sunflower seeds) - on sale! (danger, danger) - and get sucked into leveling my priest in World of Warcraft instead.

(I better close this window after all. This conversation never happened. I shall not quilt. I shall not quilt. I shall not quilt. UNLESS! Maybe Bernina will give me a tryout model of their Aurora 440qe machine and a stack of fat quarters - noooo, I'm already learning the lingo! - and I can blog a series of inspirational posts called "My First Quilt" - or perhaps something less insipid - and the posts can be all about how, with the friendly assistance of $3500-worth of sewing machine, even a newbie can create beautiful textile experiences. I could even make the Jane Austen quilt, a la Julie and Julia, and presto-bango, a book deal, a film deal, and no more herding freshmen, for this is the desert, and the quelling rain will not last.)

(Click, and close.)

Previously: Heidi

Heidi

October 2008 - 13 January 2010

This morning she was sitting in the sand bath, working on a Milkbone, and we could relax.
She was having a good day.
Good night, Heidi.

Previously: My Pocketwatch

My Pocketwatch

This time yesterday, I didn't know anything about pocket watches, other than I inherited one about 15 years ago, and I think about it every time we watch Antiques Roadshow. (Not that I'd ever sell it.)

I also didn't know anything about reset buttons on hot water heaters, despite distractedly flipping through the manual, so when faced with the icy drink of a busted heater yesterday, I took all of the storage boxes out of the closet so the water heater could be serviced.

In one of the storage boxes was my great-great-grandfather's watch. (With no mantle or spare inch of bookshelf here, I'm at a loss for display options.) Aha, I thought, time to take some photos and see what the internet says. (Research buzz! Research buzz!)

First, though, let's introduce my great-great-grandfather, Henry Clay:

H.C., as he was sometimes known, is the one on the right. I can't think of anyone in the family who looks even a little like him, but since his son gave me the photo and identified him in writing, I guess that's my dad's dad's dad's dad.

Henry Clay had five sons, the youngest of which was my Uncle Pat. I've mentioned him here before. Not every young lady gets an 80-year-old great-grand-uncle for a best friend, but I did for awhile. Below is not a great photo of Uncle Pat - I took it from the passenger seat as my grandfather (his nephew) drove away from Pat's house - but if you can tell that Uncle Pat is sticking his tongue out at me, you can tell that we had a mutually impish respect for each other. (To be fair, I stuck mine out first.)

At some point in our correspondence (we first met when I was 25 and sent him a letter to the effect of "holy crap, one of my great-grandfather's brothers is alive?"), Uncle Pat said he wanted to give me his father's watch. Here I'm tempted to open one of the other boxes I brought out yesterday, the one with all of Uncle Pat's letters and short stories, but that 18" box is too deep a well for a school night. But If I remember correctly, Henry Clay was doing some painting work with one of his sons (not Pat) for a widow. She was so impressed that, when the job was done, she offered H.C. her husband's watch.

I don't know when that was, but Henry Clay died in 1931 at the age of 55. (He had a stomach ailment. Later in our friendship, Uncle Pat voiced some suspicion toward H.C.'s second wife in this matter. But then, Pat idolized his mother, who died when he was a child, and Pat was barely a teenager when Henry Clay died. It all makes for good Irish drama, right down to the part where, if it weren't for Henry Clay's stories to Pat, I wouldn't even know we were Irish, for the genealogical research that led to me meeting Pat remains at a dead end.)

Uncle Pat inherited the watch, and apparently some family members (including my grandfather) expressed a direct interest in having it. But Pat held on to it for almost 70 years before slipping it to me in a brown paper bag at my Uncle Billy's funeral.

This is the watch:

Like I said, 12 hours ago I didn't know anything about pocket watches, other than they feel so solid and trustworthy in the hand. The smooth heft makes me wish I could take it to school, disarm the soulless wall clock, and make a big show of drawing it out of my pocket to check the time. (Such is the power of the timepiece, that briefly I imagine I teach in a classroom where the kids would even notice this gesture. Meanwhile, I used to be annoyed when students would openly look at the clock, but lately I'm just so pleased with the ones that can still read an analog clock interface. Enough digression...)

Later I would learn that the splotchy back is from where the gold has rubbed off and the brass is showing, but first I began my knowledge-trek by looking up the name on the dial: "Waltham."

Wikipedia has an entry on the company, which led me to the Waltham serial number database.

Juicy! Except, in order to see the serial number, I would have to open the watch. Yikes. Attached to the watch is a chain (not original) and my great-great-grandfather's old pocket knife. "Is this what the knife's for?" I wondered. Then I whimpered a little, my intense curiosity now at war with the horror of sticking a knife into an antique pocket watch.

So I Googled some more, finding a page full of watch-opening possibilities to try. Including, say, just unscrewing the back.

That worked.

Amazed that it was that easy, I now beheld the stylish workings of my Waltham watch, and the gateway to all the watch's (production) secrets.

Before I could find the serial number, I paused to gasp at the word "ADJUSTED." I had just read that these were special watch movements that were more valuable. "Adjusted! Oh my gosh! Adjusted! Look!" (Then I went on to discover that adjusted watches - ones adjusted for better timekeeping in various temperatures, positions, etc. - weren't more rare, just more accurate. Oh. Still!)

The serial number is 12,051,042, dating it from around late 1902 (per this chart), and - per the link above - identifying the watch model as 1892 (named for the year it was introduced).

I could also now throw around terms like "21 Jewels" and "Vanguard" (which I learned is called the "grade"), and "open face" and "size 18." And, later, "Railroad Standard quality."

Somewhere in this I discovered a Mr. Schneider who has a whole website devoted to the 1892 model. But then my face started twitching as I drowned in terms like "pallet arbor" and "escape wheel." It's nice, though, to know there's more out there for when I'm ready for the next leap in pocket watch smartness. (I was still just psyched to see that old-fashioned font inside: "Vanguard, Waltham Mass." Shivers.)

Speaking of what's in the case, this is the inside of the case back:

Another thing I learned is that people would almost always select the case and the watch mechanism ("movement") separately. As several sites point out, some people would choose a high quality timepiece, but not worry about getting a fashionable luxury case. Others would pick a fancy case, but not care so much about the workings inside. Either way or inbetween, the watch-buyer did not point at a finished timepiece and say, "gimme." Instead, they selected the case and movement, and the jeweler would put the two together. (It also wasn't unusual to change cases as one became worn.)

One link led to another, and I came upon this catalog page from 1903, showing 21-jewel Waltham Vanguard watches, size 18. Maybe someday I'll be able to tell whether my watch has jeweled main wheel bearings or gilded plate screws, or if it's non-magnetic, or maybe some kind soul will happen upon this page and delight in making me smarter?

Whatever the finer points, it appears that the watch originally sold for 50-60 dollars. Using MeasuringWorth.com, that's around $1200 in today's money. (As far as these things can be reckoned.) But to buy the watch today, in today's money, it looks like you would need no more than about half that - $600 - or at least that's what some (seemingly) similar watches are listed for, and other auctions would lead me to believe that those sellers are a mite wishful. (Nothing but wild guesses at this early stage of Learning Stuff about Pocket Watches, but it's not like Antiques Roadshow is coming to Las Vegas anytime soon.)

(OMG! Antiques Roadshow is coming to San Diego this summer! Tickets requested!)

Back to the back of the case, this case was made by Fahys and is the gold-filled "Montauk" variety, guaranteed not to be mottled for 20 years. Interestingly, in 1924 a law was passed saying that case makers were no longer allowed to put guarantee stamps on their work (see here). I guess some manufacturer's weren't honoring the warranty? And they wanted a clearer indication of the case materials? I don't know. It's easy to see why some people were particular about their cases. Alas, Fahys was a casualty of the Great Depression.

One thing I noticed, once some of the stars cleared from my eyes, were the scratches and little numbers around the serial number on the case. (By the way, it seems that case serial numbers tell us very little.) It turns out that whenever the watch is cleaned or repaired, the jeweler will make a mark inside the case (and scratch out previous marks). There is absolutely no standard method of marking - could be a name, a date, the phone number of a hot redhead with her own Model T... Below is a collage of 10 of the 12 "jeweler's marks" that I have found so far on the case:

Two of these I didn't even find until I zoomed in on the photo. (I was unsure about the one that ends just under the "4" in the serial number, which is why I wrote "9-10," but now I'm convinced.) One just looks like the letter "M" crossed out.

I dimly recall Uncle Pat mentioning having the watch serviced... or maybe it was just cleaned. The various online guides would have me believe that it's time to go into the shop again, but that's a decision to make further along the learning curve. I'm trying to picture myself letting go of the watch long enough to have it cleaned. Ha ha ha. That's a good one. On the other hand, I'm scared to wind it if there isn't any new oil in there.

This weekend I learned that our hot water heater has a reset button, that you need a reservation on a Saturday night for Don Vito's at South Point (I guess everyone else got those coupons, too), that you should just trust that CiCi's Pizza is not an acceptable dining alternative for a childfree couple (and not prove it in the name of something "fun and new"), and that pocket watches are as interesting as they are pretty.

(Thanks, Uncle Pat, for giving me the time of day.)

Previously: The Third (Official, Legal, Documented, Stamped) Anniversary

The Third (Official, Legal, Documented, Stamped) Anniversary

So, I woke up yesterday evening much less maudlin - to keep using that word - since my last post. Ah, sleep. The world is such a fretful place without it. Why is that, I wonder?

Mike received quite the promotional mailout from the M Resort for this month. Thanks to his friend who visited in November (and shared Mike's slot card), we had $50 in free slot play for the start of the month. No strings attached. Wow.

No, "wow" is more like "and we have another $250 in guaranteed free slot play throughout the month, plus four bottles of wine, plus some bookends, plus a set of fleece wear, plus $100 in dining vouchers, plus several days of 'mystery free slot play,' plus a free two-night stay, again with no strings attached."

Which is more like, WOW.

And it's not like Darren did that much play. Wow. Thanks Darren.

We drove over to M and, after living it up on Super Jackpot Block Party (the newest one), The Time Machine, and some stupid (sorry honey) actual reel (the paper was peeling!) slot with pandas and bamboo, we walked out with $28.50, having only used their slot play and not a cent of our own money. (We also earned enough points to cover petch for the trip. See how I'm trying to make Mike's word for "petrol" work? Instead of saying "gas," try saying "petch." It's fun!)

We wanted to eat there, but the cafe now closes at 10 p.m. Yes, even on busy holidays. Biz-arre. Now the deli is open almost 24/7, but honestly? It's like a tiny, depressing food court. Maybe the food is great, and I do love sandwiches, but the dining area is not conducive to relaxation.

The Italian restaurant was open for another hour, but the decor was too off-putting for our be-jeaned selves. Yeah, even though the joint appeared to be empty. (Why couldn't they have reduced the hours on this place instead?) Never mind that the website says it offers spaces for "casual dining"; the place just looks too trendy.

We had decided, earlier, to eventually use some of our free dining there, claiming it would be impossible to be intimidated by a place whose web page leads with a header reading "More then just Plain Pasta." (Emphasis mine.) I can handle the weird capitalization, as if Plain Pasta is an actual dish, but "More then just Plain Pasta"? And the fact that the error remains there days after I (sweetly, I swear!) mentioned it on their Facebook page? Ha! They don't scare me!

Except then when we looked at the place, and it just didn't look comfortable. Not physically, and not psychologically. I can do upscale with ease, but trendy? It's iffy. Is the staff going to make you feel welcome, or if they're going to be vacuous or snooty because they think it makes the experience more elite? And the decor - is it conducive to relaxing and tasting some interesting food over great conversation, or is it designed to facilitate perching and posing?

I'm not saying we're not going to try Marinelli's, but those orange semi-stool chairs didn't speak to me last night. And, metaphorically? Those fussy chairs, combined with the unfixed typo, the one that suggests that my students are right when they say that nobody cares about these things, made me feel like Marinelli's is the popular girl who gets by in life despite not caring about her homework while in high school. My head explodes!

(Somewhat related: I need to post about how I came to love "The Big Bang Theory" television show over this Winter Break.)

So, we tried to give M some of their money back, but the cafe was closed, Marinelli's was a mindtrap, and Vig's Deli wasn't really a dining experience. We swigged the last of our free lemonades (well, I tried to, but someone picked up my glass before I could reach for the last sip) and hit the road.

South Point? Silverton? "Hey, what about that Italian place we read about a few years ago? The one that's open around the clock, but somehow is a real restaurant and not a grimy video poker joint? The one we've never been able to find?"

It must not have been meant to be before, because this time we easily found it, right there by the Outlet Mall on Las Vegas Boulevard, just a little south of the "Welcome to Las Vegas" sign.

I could tell you about the history of this restaurant... or just link to their site. Short version: the owner's family has been running a restaurant in Las Vegas since the 1940s. She was a singer-performer on the Strip back in the day. She was also lieutenant governor for a long stretch. The place is popular with Vegas entertainers who want something other than IHOP/cafe fare after their late shows. It has just the sort of cozy, romantic, Italian restaurant lighting that you might deliberately book for your anniversary dinner. Fate, I tell you!

There's Mike out in front of the Bootlegger Bistro, probably around the time he was telling me that no way could we be underdressed for a 24-hour eatery in a(n elegantly bricked, but still) strip mall.

He was right, but the restaurant was still much nicer than you'd expect from such a casual description. In fact, it's very nice. Creative layout, welcoming (but not annoyingly gregarious) host, and a subdued but luminous atmosphere that suggests thought and a long-term commitment to existence. (The heavy leather booths come to mind.)

I'll be honest; our waiter started out aloof. As Mike said later, he seemed to warm up to us as the meal progressed, but at first I wasn't really comfortable service-wise, despite the comforting grin of Wayne Newton over our table. (The walls are covered in neatly framed photos of visiting celebrities, some poster-sized black-and-whites going back to the days of their first restaurants.)

I'll be honest again; Mike wasn't thrilled with his main course. He chose to get the "create your own dish" pasta: rigatoni with meat sauce and meatballs. Mike felt like the rigatoni tasted like it came from a box, and the meat sauce wasn't very meaty - which may just be their style, plus the sauce was a little sweet for his taste. Mike also likes his pasta cooked just a smidge past al dente, and I guess this didn't make it there. (Or went too far? I didn't pay enough attention, because I kept interrupting my poor spouse to say, "You're kidding! Mine was so perfect! I am a joy to be with.)

And yet, it was a really nice meal, and Mike is happily willing to go back again to try something else, and not just because he's a swell guy. Bootlegger just inspires that kind of confidence, that maybe it's you, not them, and you and the menu shouldn't give up on a love match.

Mike was the first to say that the house salad was delicious. Salad doesn't come with your meal, but we were both were in the mood for something lighter than the heavy pastas we usually get and decided to start there. (We ate at Brio last week, home of the "here's your trough of beautiful ravioli.")

Mind you, maybe I shouldn't have eaten so many of the complimentary little bread pillows and dipping sauce they brought to our table, nor agreed when they asked if we wanted more, but they were yummy and original. (And our eyes both followed the runty piece left on the plate as the waiter cleared it away to make room for salad. Nooo!)

I agree, the salad was great, and deceptively large. I actually started to fill up on it. The dressing are made in-house, and I felt like I could really taste the freshness there. We both even ate our garbanzo beans, and don't get me started on how picky I am about garbanzos. (Is it hummus? Is it curried? Then get it off my plate!)

I had the capellini al pomodoro, and it was absolutely delicious. The angel hair twirled right up onto the fork and into my mouth, where it delivered perfect proportions of olive oil, tomato, and pasta.

Mike was also disappointed that, when they offer you Parmesan, they don't shred it at the table. Instead, we got an attractive glass bowl heaped with powder. "I'm sure it's not from the green canister. It's probably fresh." But Mike doesn't like the powder, even when fresh; he likes the strands. I was surprised, too, but I like the powder, so I was fine.

We didn't save room for dessert. In fact, our main courses seemed barely dented. (Mike still has a meatball left over. He did like the meatballs.) Despite Mike's dissatisfactions (which sound worse here than when he was listing his impressions on the drive home), we were both happy to have finally found this place.

And that is the story of our third anniversary dinner. Now perhaps Mike will wake up and go eat Indian buffet with me. Or, I may collapse into zzzz's. C'est la me.

Previously: Numbercissism

Numbercissism

This post exists because I'm too long-winded to use Twitter for the #10yearsago topic. (Some of my students and co-workers think I avoid Twitter because it's new and I'm old, or because it's hip and techie, and clearly I don't know about that. Really it's because expressing myself in under 140 characters is the opposite of fun for me.)

5 seconds ago I was wondering why I have a bad habit of writing one sentence then putting the rest of the paragraph in parentheses.

5 minutes ago I was reading some horrid article about how to write gay characters, which I won't even bother dissecting. I don't care; I only followed the link from MetaFilter out of curiosity. It's not like I'm going to start writing gay pulp fiction... no matter how cute the covers are.

5 hours ago I was grading essays that - GEEZ SELF - reallyreallyreally should have been graded at the start of Break. I knew that then. I really know that now. I hope I will know and believe next year.

5 days ago I was boohooing about how Break was halfway over. I did not know the meaning of "boohoo" then. Boohoo!

5 weeks ago I was boohooing about the three solid weeks until Break, which are always so hard after a fall semester full of little holidays, staff development days, and "here come the new cooties" sick days.

5 years ago I was in Texas, with my Texas teaching license, waiting on my Nevada teaching license so I'd be eligible for the next stage of interviewing, excited about my two online grad school classes (taken from UNLV at full out-of-state price) and being so gown-flappin' academic, but - as my family's business washed away with the hurricane from five months before - nervous to be facing the days ahead on a student loan income, and hoping that they really were desperate for teachers in Las Vegas. I didn't know that in five (five!) days I would have a phone interview. In twenty-five days, I would be up-n-moved across country to a city where I didn't know a soul.

5+5 years ago I was in the happy throes of being a 24/7 Internet junkie/drone/helpmeet/champion, still some weeks away from converting my five(five!)-year-old website into a blog, and I was a few days away from using an online bookstore coupon to buy an "irreverent" guide to Disney World. It was just a whim. A whim that led to a plan that led to Mike coming Stateside for the first time, which led to us joining our paths in an unexpected love/admiration for certain things Disney.

(Maybe I should have done this post in threes. Three years ago, we finally got married, after waiting three+three+three years, plus three+three+three-ish months. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY MIKE! I hope that old scold you married is nice to you today. Maybe you should butter her up by grading those quizzes over on her craft table. In the folder. With the key on top. And the explicit guidelines for how to mark incorrect answers. And the clear example of how to write the score on top of each student paper. Plus the red pen nearby. Sorry, the glittery red pen. Because you are worth it.)

5+5+5 years ago Hm. Oh. Okay, well... I lived in Austin. ... Yeah, I just deleted two paragraphs about that. There's a reason that only one of my friends from that time is on my Facebook friends list. (Hey, Mike? Don't worry about the grading. I was kidding.)

5+5+5+5 years ago Why couldn't I just go on Twitter? It's a new year; I should be challenging myself. So, 20 years ago I lived in Houston. I have two friends from my Houston years on Facebook. This reminds me of the nerdy pie-chart post I've been thinking about. That's right, I'm changing the subject.

5x5 years ago This would probably be easier if I wasn't incredibly sleep deprived right now, as I try to flip-flop my sleep in anticipation of returning to work on Monday. Sleepy = maudlin. Do you know what else makes you maudlin? Too much time travel. I learned that from reading the first half of Connie Willis' To Say Nothing of the Dog (as recommended by one of my Houston FB friends, in fact). No spoilers, please! I haven't read the second half.

Am I the only person who doesn't want to time travel? For all the "ugh, let's skip that" in my life, I just couldn't risk things not working out as they are now. 25 years ago, though, I'm sure I'd be thrilled with time travel. I'd probably set the machine dials for when Duran Duran was formed, or for the year/month/week before (and all the bad diet decisions in between).

Wherever I went, I wouldn't travel in five-year increments. Five is proving to be kind of lousy for reminiscing. I never trusted five, honestly. Not with all that grandstanding of Fiiiiive Goooolden Riiiiings.

5x5+5 years ago I actually looked up "order of operations" to make sure I was expressing "30" and not "50." Thirty years ago I was - what's my adjective again? maudlin? - well, let's say, unnerved because the 1970s were over, and I felt like I hadn't appreciated them, and now they were gone forever. I wrote as much in my diary, at length, after we returned from New Year's Eve at the Haases. I also wrote in my diary that I knew I wouldn't live to 30 - it just wasn't in my nature to deal with the world. Even now it sounds like a plausible prediction - how did I get to 40?

5x5+5+5 years ago No idea on the specifics, but there would have been a lot of snow. Michigan. 70s. Snow.

5x5+5+5+5 years ago No snow, just white.

(However lovely, dark and deep, may there be miles before we sleep.)

Previously: Of Squishables, Smoochables, and the Judith Miracle

Of Squishables, Smoochables, and the Judith Miracle

Yesterday felt like a good time to change my Facebook profile picture. Not having any new photos of me (and not interested in taking any, although we do all seem to be mostly well around here again, so long as we don't talk about Mike's new broken tooth, when does it stop?), I decided to use a photo of our Judith.

It wasn't this one:

You can hardly see Judith in that one, although it's not a bad view of our new sheep Squishable, with the ladybug Squishable behind it.

As mentioned before, I wanted a Squishable for almost two years before a coupon came up on Facebook that loosened the Visa card strings, and for most of that time I was particularly drawn to the sheep.

However, when the moment came, there was just something charming about the rooster; we got it instead. It was such a hit that Mike got the ladybug for my birthday, which proved to be every bit as delightful as the rooster. And so we seemed set.

Then, a few weeks ago, another coupon appeared on Facebook, and Christmas was sorted out with the arrival of three new Squishables: a rhinoceros, a snail, and - at last - the sheep.

That's a total of five Squishables, and having them all on the bed at one time takes me back to the days of cat ownership, in that there's not very much room for sleeping, but you're happy all the same.

As we have five hamsters, we decided to match one to each Squishable. I'm not sure if the hamster is the guardian of the Squishable, or vice versa, nor do I know if this is a permanent appointment or merely a lifetime one. (The fine print of hamster estate law is convoluted even when just dealing with, say, relocating a wheel.)

Judith was paired with the sheep. The sheep is one of the softest Squishables (we thought the rooster was unspeakably soft until we got the ladybug, then thought the ladybug was the softest thing ever until we got the sheep), and its white plush has a sort sheen to it, much like Judith's fur. Seriously, I'm not sure I've ever seen a dwarf hamster as shiny as Judith. (Completely unreflected, so to speak, in the photos, alas.) She is also winsome yet understated, much like the sheep.

Here is a better photo of her atop her Squishable:

So, I changed my FB profile to the photo above. It wasn't an hour later that I heard small cries coming from Judith's habitat.

What followed was ten hours of manual dosing, hand-wringing, and reconciliation with the grand inevitable.

Judith first showed signs of diabetes about six months ago. It's a common ailment in the Campbell's Russian dwarf hamster, and we've certainly had our share of afflicted critters. Mostly you just watch and supplement the diet, up the number of water sources, and hope you can keep up with the pee. (Judith is potty trained to two sand baths, which helps immensely.)

What happened last night, though, seemed to perhaps be a hypoglycemic episode. (Based on experiences with Mike's diabetic cat.) Mike fed Judith honey-water, and regular water, plus we made sure she had millet (tiny food, easy to open), tofu (good for dehydration/quick protein), and peanut butter (because it was there, we were desperate, and most hamsters love it). Somewhere in there we threw in a dose of antibiotics, too.

Judith stopped crying, but after that she had no energy. For hours we watched her periodically shuffle to a new space, as if she couldn't find a place to relax. She stayed utterly still out in the open, sometimes listing in exhaustion, not snuggled up into a hideyhole like usual.

Our spirits were very low. Mike went to have a lie-down and napped for two hours. It felt like we were just waiting.

Fourteen months is a few months shy of the far-left border for "average lifespan" in a dwarf, but it's not bad for a diabetic hamster. Still, we had been playing with Judith just that morning. She was frolicking! Where did this come from?

In the ten hours of vigilance and water droppers emerged a few flashes of hope ("She's hugging the dropper!" "She's gone into her cottage!" "She's pulled in some fluffins!"), but it was mostly ten hours of considering the statistics. I'd only ever seen one hamster recover from something similar before (Brian, who returned for a valiant two-week encore). The odds were not with us.

But ten hours later, Judith got into Mike's hand. She stood on her back legs. She looked around. She trotted over to see me. She shucked and calmly ate a big sunflower seed. JUDITH!

It's been almost a day now, and the important thing is that she seems to be comfortable, happy, and even normal. We dare not hope for more, but of course we do. Second chances are in the air, with no unpleasant monkey paw baggage, either.

Just as there is something special about Judith, there must be something special about the sheep, too. Above you can see Evelyn defecting from her ladybug to give the sheep a big hug.

And here is Evelyn atop her own Squishable. The ladybug was a natural match for our "Gazey" - they both have the same friendly stare. (As always, not that you can tell from the photos.)

In the "hugging" photo, you can see the horn of the rhinoceros Squishable. This one probably called to me because my lit class just read Ionesco's play of that name. The kids handled the whole Absurdism unit quite well, and for about 48 hours I had grand plans to find plastic rhinoceroses and some baby food jars and make a commemorative snowglobe for each student. (Then I got hypothermia and other excuses.)

The rhinoceros is perfect for Mary. Not only for their shared hues, but because both are a little scary and difficult to get to know.

I do have to wonder if rhinos like oats, though, because recently we discovered that Mary loves oats. No need to wear gloves anymore when invading her habitat, now we just rub oats over our hands, and we are welcome visitors. She is a queer, queer thing, that Mary... but content in her absurd rhinoceros ways.

Then we have Mary and Judith's sister, Heidi.

Or as I've started calling her, "possum face." Lilac hamsters carry the black gene that causes silvering, and the white markings now showing up on Heidi's face make me think of a possum. Except even if there was a possum Squishable, it wouldn't be right for Heidi, because she is just way too zippy and never plays dead. Trust me, if you disturb her outside of play hours, you better have a good reason why.

I've always liked possums, though, so to me, Heidi still has a sweet face, and the snail's face (not really visible here, so peek here) is what led Mike to say that this was next on our list of Squishable Acquisitions.

Faces aside, Heidi is definitely the snail. She stays in her shell for very specific periods of time. She might come out to leisurely nibble or fuss with a Milkbone, but this doesn't mean you're allowed to engage her yet. Expect a corrective nip, an offending jump, or just a very cross look.

When play hours start, though, she's a different girl. She hops in and out of the hand, runs around, runs up the arm, and is most agreeable to snarfling. Okay, so snails aren't speedy... unless you compare them to rocks. Which, I'm sure, is what snails are thinking as they do laps around pebbles. It's all very much on their terms, just like with Heidi.

Above is a bonus photo of Heidi, caught in mid-run on Mike. (Mike, my original Squishable.) What you don't see in this photo, thanks to that photographic magic called "take a billion photos and throw out all the ones you don't like," is the enormous alien-sac of a tumour on her belly (old news), or the rash/fur loss on her neck that suggests some recent failed attempt at decapitation.

So, Judith is not the only one whose clock tick-tocks a little louder than we'd like, but Heidi seems quite pleased with the world (although maybe not so much with the antibacterial cream).

Finally, we have Koda, and of course our one boy got the rooster. And of course, like Evelyn, he defected to the sheep. What is it about the sheep?

I think we have enough plush friends - synthetic and natural - for now... until I convince the Squishable people to make a dwarf ham product.

(Just imagine Koda there, but 100x larger. Pure snuggling profit!)

Previously: Cold (cold) As (as) Ice (ice)... I Know

Cold (cold) As (as) Ice (ice)... I Know

It's not like I've spent the entire Winter Break on the sofa.

Or the entire month of December.

Not the entire time, no.

So, I had a bug right before Thanksgiving, then either the same bug, or a new bug, but a bug bad enough that I missed two days of work in the last week before Break, which is one of the easiest weeks of the year, so you know I was really sick, and I would have missed three days, but I had to show up on the last day before Break for mandatory schoolwide duties that I won't get into here, but suffice to say that they ended up getting canceled, so there's a gripefest you are narrowly escaping right there.

With the second (round of the?) bug, I actually went to the doctor, what with being concerned when I couldn't get my temp above 95. (It was at 93.6 that I caved.) "Oh, yes, hypothermia. Very bad. Fever, bad. Hypothermia, bad."

But apparently normal? Who knew? Me, I was all HYPOTHERMIA??!! And here I thought I was only metaphorically drowning in an icy lake.

It was only after I left the doctor's office that I realized he never took my temperature, the thing I specfically went in to see him about. We did talk about it; at one point he said the low temp could be because I wasn't leaving the thermometer in long enough. That's when I pointed out that a) the thermometer was digital, b) my husband had normal readings, and c) I always had normal readings when I was well. So, it didn't seem to be instrument or pilot error.

But whatever he heard through the stethoscope or saw in my mouth led to a 10-day course of antibiotics, for he said that an infection was causing the hypothermia.

As with all colds/flus, I started getting better at the normal pace. My temp settled in 96-range, but I could get it to go into the 97s if I wore socks around the house. (I hate wearing socks.)

Then I had some side effects from the antibiotics. Like, extreme sleepiness. As in, I would take a nap, and all I could dream about was being too tired to move. Have you ever had dreams where you can't finish sentences because you are falling over from lack of sleep? Where you try to move from one spot to another, but it's all molasses because you're exhausted, and you can't even explain to the dream people what's up, because you're too tired to move your mouth? That was interesting.

Then I would wake up from my nap tired, with an ice pick throbbing through my skull, and grumpy. Ah, the holidays!

And there were other side effects of the antibiotics... which I would prefer not to talk about. Or think about. Ever again. Is it possible to die of itching? Some of you know what I mean.

Last night was the last antibiotic. The cold/flu has long been over. My sleep is more normal. (Odd hours, but that's normal.) The itching is subsiding, or else I have trained myself that SCRATCHING = BAD to the point where I have managed to finally rise above the itch. (Mind over maddening matter first came into play after overdosing on hydrocortisone cream, a subplot I won't even explore in this story, for I'm sure the swelling will go down eventually, and you really don't want to know.)

And, after so much work to overcome the "HYPOTHERMIA??!!", my temperature is sticking around 96.7. I give up. Clearly, my cold heart has outed itself.

The point is, I've had a bad cold. Then Mike had a bad cold. Then, just when he got better and it felt like we were alive again,  I had a bad reaction to the medicine given to me for some presumed infection that went with my bad cold.

So, as much as I was looking forward to the outlet of rambling at the keyboard over Winter Break, there have been no posts on our new Squishables, our sweet hamsters, our disappointment in City Center/Aria (especially the buffet), how I rearranged my craft area, the stuffing Mike made, or the "hazelnut chocolate egg nog" milkshake I tried to make. I even have photos!

On the other hand, there have been no posts about itching, itching, itching, itching, SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP, itching, itching, itching, CRY CRY CRY, itchitchitch, snifflesobwail, itch, either.

So, apparently my cold-bloodedness does not extend to torturing visitors (beyond the usual). That's nice.

(The Squishables are pretty cute, though. Maybe I'll put on some socks and post about them soon.)

Previously: Up Early

Up Early

I'm up. Judith's up. Koda was up for a wee but went back to sleep. Evelyn was up and running, but now she's going back to bed until the human turns the horrid light off. Mary is up, but as usual I'm supposed to pretend otherwise, like I didn't just see her cranky head stick out of the ceramic log. Heidi is not up, but I did the "Heidi! Wake up! Are you alive?!" check last night, so I'll leave her alone now. (Her tumour has broken the surface a little, which leads to occasional polka-dots of blood in the hamitat, which leads to me fearfully annoying her.)

I want to read, but the Kindle is somewhere in the bedroom, and I'm afraid I'll wake Mike up if I go back in. I have dim memories of him tossing and turning in the night, and at some point getting very exasperated and resigning himself to Tylenol P.M. Then I have another memory of getting up at 11 p.m. and he was working on networking our computers. All I know is that when I got up at 3 a.m., I was fervently hoping that it was no later than 5 and I could get a little more sleep. Now it's nearly 5 and I'm not even trying anymore.

Oh, and I also remember getting paranoid at 3 a.m. because I couldn't hear Mike breathing. I think I was more subtle with him than I was with Heidi, but I still ended up waking him up. Poor guy.

A lot of anti-Kindle commentary out there with Barnes & Noble's new Nook e-reader. You know, the one with the iPod-like touchscreen and the small colour menu at the bottom.

Since the Nook allows magazine subscriptions and has wireless, I think we've finally stopped looking at apples and oranges. Now it's more like... Valencias and Mandarins. (Mike and I had this endless discussion where I say that Mandarins are a type of orange and he says they are not, but similar. Turns out we are both right. The Mandarin is only an orange in the sense that a tangerine is, but at the same time, it is a Mandarin orange.) I don't know if the Nook does sample chapters the way the Kindle does, but if so, maybe it's more like Clementines and Mandarins.

Amazon has been flashing updates to my Kindle like crazy, so on that front, three cheers for the Nook and the competitive spirit. Amazon has also been talking about various feature upgrades to come soon. (The long-awaited book organization system.) These are all free to current Kindle owners, so I'm a happy-slappy.

Of course, I am a little smug when I read reviews (like on the worthy Engadget) criticizing the Nook for having a noticeably slow page-turn rate. Ha! Take that, Kindle-haters! Whatever bells and whistles, isn't duplicating (and improving) the physical book experience the ultimate test of the device? HA.

But, Engadget points out several cool things that the Nook does, like let you lend some books (it's a publisher decision) for 14 days to friends, browse by cover, and use Google's Android OS, so I won't pretend that this isn't worthy competition. That said, some "features," like being able to easily acquire Google's public domain library (also available for free in a zillion other places), or like being able to browse an entire book on the Nook if you are sitting in a physical BN store and have not exceeded 60 minutes of Nook-browsing in a 24-hour period (Wait, you want me to leave my house and go sit in a Barnes and Noble? Tell me this isn't their answer to sample chapters...), really seem to be small considerations, despite the hype otherwise. But the Nook still seems to be positioned for, frankly, greatness, assuming they sort out the issues with the actual reading experience. (See the Engadget review for details and comments.)

A Kindle-vs-Nook war is probably inevitable. Before, people had preferences (Sony, Kindle, Iliad, whatever), now they will have religion. Having already tithed, I'm likely to stick with my current church, but that doesn't mean that, tongue-in-cheek zings aside, I want to be overly holy about it. Hopefully there is room for as many types of e-reader as there are, say, Blu-ray players and TVs.

(True, I admit to having a dislike of Barnes and Noble that goes back 20 years, peaking around the not-really-that-early web days when they were so disdainful of online bookselling, but if their Nook makes for a better Kindle, I'm ready to put aside the bygones.)

And now I've just about put myself to sleep with all this talk. There's still time for a 50-minute nap - the stupid light's going out now, Evelyn. Let me zonk out to the sound of your cheerful treading...

Previously: Serendipity 3 vs. BLT Burger

Serendipity 3 vs. BLT Burger

I am still snuffly. Mike is snuffly. The world is snuffly, but Winter Break is coming, so all must be right with the world, yes? Some days I don't even think the dark thoughts... like, how unreasonable would it be to hire a sub for just my sixth period? Paid out of pocket? A hundred bucks a week may be, no joke, cheaper than a psychiatrist.

Speaking of throwing money away, it's time to discuss our recent visits to two trendy eateries, Serendipity 3 and BLT Burger.

As a DINKish household (dualish income, no kids) in a cheapish land for good grub, we probably eat out more than the average bears.

...Oh, wait. Hasty Googling says that the average American eats out four times per week and spends 40% of the food budget on meals outside of the home. Never mind. We hardly ever eat out, I guess. Maybe that's why we could justify trying Serendipity 3 and BLT Burger. Ah.

Serendipity 3 came on the radar for the following reasons: that movie, the many food shows that mention their $1000 sundae, and an approachable-looking venue out in front of Caesars Palace, next to the Strip. (Bill, if you're still out there, please note that I have finally learned to write Caesars without an apostrophe and without flinching.)

Nearby, immature photo-taking opportunities abound. (Mike had no idea why I was asking him to move his hand just so.)

In fact, the fountains in front of Caesars are a favourite photo spot. When students show me their quincinera (sp) albums, the pre-game shots are almost always taken here. Look, more memories in the making:

Across the way is a Brahma shrine.

And in the bushes are many sweet little birds.

So, there was plenty to keep us busy while we waited for 30 minutes to be seated. Some people were getting Serendipity's signature "Frrrozen Hot Chocolate" from a window, but we looked forward to enjoying those inside as part of the full dining experience.

Yeah...

Problem #1 happened when I ordered the grilled cheese. It's a four-cheese, triple-stacked sandwich that comes with tomato soup, which makes sense, because who wants to eat just cheese and bread? Especially at $15.50 for said sandwich, plus tax, plus tip?

Apparently that person is me, because even though the menu clearly stated that all sandwiches come with chips, ALL sandwiches, the waitress made me choose between the soup and chips.

I went with the chips because I thought the crunch would make a nice contrast to all the gooey cheese.

And it did, but after the first four bites, I was drowning in sameness. Which is why I think the chefs knew what they were doing when they decided to offer a bit of tomato soup as well. So, it was good, but not $19 (after tax, after tip) good. Not at all. Not even $9 good.

Why didn't I argue? Fight the system?

Aside from not wanting to make a negative experience over what might be the right information in a very poorly worded menu, I already knew from when Mike tried to order that it was pointless to argue. Our waitress was impatient with him from the start, not letting him finish his question before simply telling him to order XYZ. Then he would patiently try to explain that he didn't want XYZ, though he understood why she might initially think he did, but could he possibly get this other item with one substitution, and BLAH BLAH BLAH SHE CUT HIM OFF AGAIN.

I think we did about five rounds of this - I am not kidding - before he gave up and got some kind of burger that was not what he wanted. I understand about demanding customers and people who ask for crazy substitutions, but I swear that Mike was not that guy. He just wanted to know if he could get a specific burger with the black-peppered bacon (I think it was, as opposed to regular bacon), but not the black-pepper burger itself. If she had ever let him finish his sentence, I think she might have understood this quite quickly and been able to move on to whatever her more important business was.

Or maybe not. It's hard to make people give a shit about their jobs.

We still tried to keep a good attitude despite her. And despite her disinterest in refilling our soft drinks. And despite the concert-levels of pop music pumping through the place.

The food, as you can see, was beautifully presented. Like I said, it was very nicely prepared, too.

But, this is a town full of good food. And excellent service. And amazing atmospheres. Serendipity 3? Pretty on the plate, but not so much anywhere else:

Yes, that's the whole restaurant. Not shown is the patio dining, which is lovely, like a sidewalk cafe along the Strip, but that's for people who get food from the take-out window. (Our wicked waitress is the one in the green - it was Halloween.) If you are eating inside the restaurant proper, you are in basically in a big room with candy stripes and, let me emphasize this again, unnecessarily loud music.

Maybe that waitress was a one-off, right? I'd say that, but then there was a shift change. (Before anyone starts, being at the end of your shift is no excuse for bad customer service. Believe me, that's what I repeat to myself every day before facing sixth period.) Our second waitress was better with the drinks, and not unfriendly, but they must all be auditioning for that new Calvin Klein scent, Indifference.

I don't expect or even want the suspenders-popping flair-bustin' TGIF waitstaff experience, but when in the hospitality business, I think being hospitable is a given.

Mike's face sums up my review. We ended up foregoing the frozen hot choc on the grounds that we just wanted out of the loud, sad place. I hear it's amazing, though, and maybe we'll try it next summer. From the take-out window.

A month later, this past Saturday in fact, we went to BLT Burger at the Mirage.

I didn't bring a camera; some days it's just not in me. Sorry. I did take some cell phone pics, but they are terrible, and sharing them would involve getting off the sofa to grab my phone. Pft. As if!

BLT Burger is located where the Siegfried and Roy tigers used to lounge behind the glass wall, near the opening. I already made my peace with that, so I had no prejudices and was ready for a great meal.

We had a booth right next to the walkway in and out of the casino, which was not bad, just like the loud music wasn't so loud that we had to keep asking each other what they said. (Take note, Serendipity 3.) Our waitress was terse but amiable, so no problems there.

We had a big splash out for this occasion. (Thanksgiving holidays will be our excuse.) "Nut job" milkshakes (hazelnut ice cream, Nutella, slivered almonds), spicy chicken wings appetizer for Mike, fried dill pickles for me, Tex-Mex burger for Mike, Falafel burger for me (to which I added Swiss cheese and mushrooms, and 86'd the avocado). Here's the Las Vegas menu.

Things started out great. The milkshakes were, as Mike the not-so-into-milkshakes person put it, "the best I ever had in my life." BLT Burger needs a take-out window just for these lovely concoctions.

Mike liked his first two wings, but the flavour was cloying/samey/overwhelming thereafter. Also, he tasted a lot of lemon, which made him wonder if he didn't get the tangy wings by mistake.

I really liked the fried dill pickles, and at $5, they are a great value. I expected something greasy and flat (like I've had in other places), but these were terrific airy puffs with a sharp tang of dill in the middle. You get a decently sized basket of them, so visions of to-go boxes immediately danced before my eyes.

Then the burgers came.

Here's the positive: they had nice texture.

Here's the negative: they had no flavour.

Ignoring that my patty was burnt on the outside, there was just no taste. The mushroom I added was a small, flavourless slice. The Swiss I added was an amount so negligible I could've scraped it off with my thumbnail in a couple of swipes. All together it was so dry, and I ended up eating a third of it. I didn't want to take it home to see if it got better.

So, there went the to-go box for the dill pickles, as that was my meal. (Unfortunately, even they got hard to keep loving after, say, four or five, and my cranky gallbladder doesn't need to be tested further.)

BLT Burger must have a dairy-hatin' chef, because the "onion sour cream" on Mike's Tex-Mex, if it was there, was lost in the chili slop on the burger. The bland chili on the bland burger. Two very different burgers at our table, two identical experiences.

So it was back into the wing basket for Mike, with frownie faces. The waitress asked if I was done with my (2/3 still on the plate) burger. I was surprised that she didn't ask if there was a problem or, as waitstaff always seem to do, if everything was okay, but she didn't. Although I was ready with a careful response that would have made it clear that I knew she wasn't to blame for what they made in the kitchen, I chose not to volunteer this. I didn't know what I wanted BLT Burger to do to make it right (they only have the one vegetarian burger), and the "vibe" in this fashionable burger joint didn't encourage me to fuss.

(But if BLT Burger ever sees this post and is moved to compensate us for two lousy main dishes, I promise I will give them credit where it's due.)

So, if you had to make a choice between Serendipity 3 and BLT Burger (which would be a weird choice, but let's not be sidetracked with realistic probablities), which should you choose?

That's really tough. I will never eat at Serendipity 3 again. The good food is not worth the high prices, bad service, and obnoxious atmosphere. I definitely would go to BLT Burger again, but only for milkshakes and snacks, absolutely not for a proper meal.

Verdict? Go out for Indian. (But not at Namaste - review to follow... later.)

Previously: "Germiest Job" - Part Two

"Germiest Job" - Part Two

There is no part one. Well, there is, but I started writing it 30 minutes ago and was about ten paragraphs into how I have this dust allergy and wow Las Vegas is dusty and I hate that I am taking a sick day tomorrow during a three-day week and no it's not to go to a rehab clinic for people who think they can get away with run-on sentences when they're used as breathless stylistic devices and my face hurts and my nose drips and life is short and life is dusty and I am too sick to find my way out of these ten paragraphs so - sod it - let's start over with a new post.

A post of... miscellany!

(Seriously, Claritin NEVER works for me. Why did I take it? Now I want NyQuil-D, but should I take anything before the stupid 24-hour Claritin is up? I feel like two trains have left Chicago at the same time, and they've each run over the side of my face in their efforts to reach Station B in Venezuela by nightfall. Then they unhitched their cabooses and let those roll backwards over my neck, but then one jumped the track and smashed into my nose. Do trains still have cabooses? Does anyone do whistle stop tours anymore?)

Mike thinks this is the top photo from Evelyn's photo shoot a couple of weeks ago:

(You remember Evelyn, the other "secret" hamster? She continues the tradition of softness.)

A month or so ago, I made some comment here about getting a Shirley Jackson first edition for just a couple of bucks. Then later I reread the post (which I know better than to do, because therein lies the dangerous temptation of proofreading and editing and being clear and readable and stuff), and it kind of sounded like I was being sarcastic. I don't know - I'd have to go reread it again, which I won't.

Just to be clear, I did get an ex libris first edition of Jackson's The Sundial for only a few dollars. It was like cruising the Elation all over again, but metaphorically.

The Sundial remains underrated... but then I say that about all of Jackson's work. (Life is not all Hill House, Charles, and the Lottery, people!)

That said, I also picked up a copy of The Lottery. The book, not the story. This is an early edition, subtitled "Adventures of the Demon Lover," which has the short story "The Lottery" along with several other stories involving a man named James Harris. I know "The Lottery" was created as a stand-alone short story in The New Yorker, but when you put it in the context of these other stories and try to make sense of the recurring character name of James Harris, it's all quite wonderful on a new level.

In other geekery, we received our 45 rpm of Carl Sagan's "A Glorious Dawn." Alas, not the randomly shipped color vinyl version, but this is still a limited edition with a replica of the Voyager gold record etchings on the back. (Which I can't show you because, despite being double-sleeved, the record is already coated in dust. Let us not start that topic again.)

Ignoring the sub-layer of even more geekery, the fact that I organize my scrapbook paper (see background) by hue, and/or the fact that recently I have failed at maintaining this organization (see top layer of stack of paper in background) and it bothers me, the reason I bought the 45 was because I was sucked up in the excitement of this video:

Which came from being sucked up in the excitement of this video:

I love science.

The next level of geekery would be to talk about watching these and other YouTube videos on television, thanks to Mike birthday present, but that deserves its own post. (This is the post fueled by getting sick from cleaning because I didn't want us to get sick... unless I have a flu or cold and am in denial. The post about Mike's birthday present will be the one where he got something a little more extravagant than usual, offset by a bunch of budget cuts elsewhere... and then the next day his motherboard decides to start frying up, and now - the gods having decided that a third major car repair bill would be too implausible - guess who is getting a new computer?)

But to add freakery to geekery, we will come full circle to a hamster note. Johann Something Something Schreber was a naturalist who, in 1775ish, produced a book on the creatures of the world. Lo, I have acquired a page from that book:

It is a drawing of a dwarf hamster. (And yes, the paper feels wonderful. And yes-yes, I know better than to touch two-centuries-plus-old paper with my bare fingers, but sometimes you just have to live for now, and not for the ages.) As I understand it, the drawings were done strictly by description, so I'm impressed with how close it is to the real deal. Check out those side arches! (And perhaps dwarf hams looked a little different back then.)

Thanks to Babelfish, I know "mus" and "pall," but what is "fongarus"?

Anyway. My head is exploding, and typing is no longer enough of a distraction. Let beloved science soon show what comes of mixing NyQuil-D and (Walgreens-brand) Claritin.

Previously: You Are Never Isadora Duncan in a Ford Focus

You Are Never Isadora Duncan in a Ford Focus

I want to write about the power window mechanism on the Ford Focus. You may say, "Didn't you already write about that? I could swear you did, just over a year ago. Four-digit figures were moaned and stuff. And you sat in the mechanic's waiting room for eight hours because the car was always going to be ready 'soon,' and it got to where all the books were read and tire pamphlets scrutinized, and finally you were forced to form an opinion about Rachael Ray's hairstyle."

You wouldn't be dreaming to remember this. You may also remember, or maybe that was on Twitter, that I said I was never going to roll down the windows again. In fact, Mike was expressly forbidden from rolling down his window to spit, although that's just a good policy that was long overdue in the signing.

(The spitting is my fault. The first time Mike came to America, in 2001, we both caught colds. Twice. I got better. He didn't. He has since maintained a perpetually raw throat with a nasty morning-and-then-some noise, plus all the unpleasantness that he assures me is even worse than having to listen to what sounds to me like someone is aiming to sub for Demi Moore in voiceover work. He has gone to doctors, specialists, taken on all kinds of meds... and in the end, he is apparently just Gummed Up and Disgusting-Sounding for Life, thanks to coming here. I.e., thanks to me. I am not only the worst wife, but the worst pre-wife. This is why I volunteered to put on the Chelsea vs. Manchester United game the other day, instead of quickly hitting the Page Up button before Mike could see it there. Like I do with The Golden Girls. Never mind, I am a monster.)

(But a monster who dutifully supports Chelsea.)

Sometimes I roll down my window, as it was just fixed last year and sometimes you have to live a little, or use the drive-thru lane at Starbucks, but we almost never roll down Mike's window. Which is paranoid nonsense, I know, except we're both A/C people so why does the window need to go down anyway? Why take a chance? You can't break a stupid little part for-the-price-of-a-short-cruise if you don't use it.

But... I took my self-deprecation too far this time. I actually believed the obligatory little voice that tells me that all of my unpopular little rules are just a crusty hairball of only-child sovereignity and OCD tics. I let that little voice talk out loud all the time, but that's just because I don't like to scare people. "Don't mind me, I'm just being knowingly silly! Isn't it fun?!" Deep down, though, I think I'm right. Know I'm right. Open to persuasion, but until then, utterly right.

Like, say we're having to move some things at school, and I don't like the provided packing tape. It smells funny, sticks to itself too easily and too permanently, and it just lacks a little heft I feel I need when packing heavy boxes of books. I have done a lot of packing in my life, and I was sired by a man who has rules for packing that make my rules for Things That Are Allowed on the Kitchen Counter seem positively logical. ("No wallets or keys - ever," FYI.) While I vocally appreciate that the school is supplying the tape (as they should, plus the overtime, which I'd very-very-very happily give up if they would get someone else to pack), I still feel like having an opinion on the packing tape is a valid lunch break discussion.

Or we could talk about everyone's errand lists. But, we always do that. Tape has the advantage of being a locally hot topic without any risk of offending people. Does the tape smell like vinegar to anyone else? Are my fine motor skills corroded, or is this brand a misery to wrangle? Let me tell you about my Thornbirds sheep-shearing fantasy that I live out every time (and there have been so many times) I straddle a packed box to cut it open.

(Not you, them. I think you've heard that story before. In fact, I pretty much just told it again.)

I realize that this topic of conversation, to a person who is just waiting for a good opening where they can throw in their own agenda, is not very interesting. So I play up my persona of being the pseudohippie ditz who is over-contemplating the tape-shaped lint in a Home Depot-sized navel, madly hoping that a Cliff-from-Cheers type will lean forward with some good 3M facts (not just progenitors of Post-Its, but masking tape, too!). Hell, we're English teachers, maybe we could take the side topic of how Americanizing the first Harry Potter book meant that we lost the lovely pun on Sellotape (Spellotape!)

Or we could just report our day and gossip. That's fine. Really. (No, really - this is not my sarcastic voice.) I don't think everyone should love my topic more (just because I do). But don't act like I'm the weird one because my passing interests are sometimes quite narrow and specific. It's called Being Curious.

On the official brain file label, that is. But I keep that little voice on retainer to cough a little cough and tell me that I need to tell a personal anecdote or something and stop surveying people on their tape habits.

(Everyone keeps doing "I am thankful for..." status updates on Facebook lately. I am thankful for marrying a man who will not only talk about tape for 30 minutes, if I want, and not only add new information, and not only add new questions/ponderings, but who will venture aloud that it might be neat to visit a tape factory some day. He never has, but I can't imagine it not happening if the subject ever comes up. For this, the occasional icky noise is forgiven. I wonder which kind of tape factory would be the most interesting to visit...)

Anyway, said little voice is just an underpaid actor in my head troupe, so I don't know why I listened to it when I was leaving the school parking lot. There was a former student, one I say hello to often enough, but I just had to roll down Mike's window and holler out some inane goodbye, some "You need to go home!" crap that is meant to sound supportive/appreciative but really just feels like Rob Schneider is calling about payment on a SNL script I borrowed from the eighties.

I think Mike's window has been rolled up and down maybe, I don't know, ten times since last year. Maybe less. The bill last time really made my innards undulate, and that was before I even knew about cruise ships or DVD players that let you stream NetFlix on your television.

But oh no, I think I have to give a pity hug to the Stop Humouring Your Silly Ideas voice. So I roll the window down. (Blah blah blah.) I roll the window u...

CRUNCH.

I didn't even get mad; it was almost poetry.

Luckily, this time we didn't get asshats to repair it, so the bill was about a third of what it was last year. Unpleasant, but a good thing that I joined the loyalty club a few weeks ago when I was getting 10 jillion things fixed (for another four-digit sum). $50 off! (That's two Indian buffets, including tip! And, yeah, I file "Indian Food" with "Tape" under "Stupid Things Shari Asks Too Many Questions About.")

It turns out that Ford Focii (erm, that's a little precious even for me), or at least those of the 1999-2003 variety (I stopped Googling after that), have a known problem with the power window regulator thingies. Alas, it's not a "recall" or "class action suit" kind of known problem. It's a "Ford uses a cheap plastic dealie in there that is bound to fail and is relatively expensive to replace" type of known problem. A "You got what you paid for {Nelsonlaugh}" problem.

I'm just so glad ours is a two-door vehicle. You should read the sad stories of the sedan folk, and their tales of one, two, three, four windows getting replaced within months.

I like my Focus, I really do, but it is what it is. (Comfy, usually reliable, and paid for years ago.)

But if I ever buy a new car, I have all kinds of smart questions to ask about the power window management syste,. (Or all kinds of stubborness to stick to if they try to upsell me from manual windows.)

Not that we're ever allowed to roll down the windows again.

Ever.

(Next episode: "The Mayonnaise Drama, or The Rule About How Only Drinks Can Go on the Top Shelf of the Fridge.")

Previously: You Can't Get Chopped from the Sofa

You Can't Get Chopped from the Sofa

Mike and I are high-church fans of two Food Network shows right now: Chopped and The Next Iron Chef.

These shows, especially Chopped, are the reason to own a DVR. When the surprise ingredients are revealed, I hit pause and we put our brains to work.

As a vegetarian since my late teens, I feel like I'm at a disadvantage. What do I know about the inevitable fleshy proteins to come in the main course? But, Mike is a picky meat eater, so perhaps we're equally adrift.

Below were this past Tuesday's ingredients and what each of us declared we would make. See if you can guess which concoctions came from Miss Veghead and which came from Mr Fussymeat. (Don't be fooled by the nods to Indian cuisine; Mike's the one who makes the butter paneer in this household.)

Appetizer Challenge
required ingredients: beef tenderloin, nori, maple syrup

"Meat and Potato Sushi Salad" - composed of finely chopped nori, grilled steak cut into red-onion-like slices, potatoes doused in spicy lemon and toasted in rice-size bits, drizzled with a dressing made of reduced maple syrup and vinegar. Maybe buttery croutons.

or

"Patchwork Skewers" - beef tenderloin briefly marinated in maple-chili-soy mixture, alternating with nori-wrapped long grain rice on a skewer, with quarter-size red onions chunks throughout, served with a maple-peanut dipping sauce.

(If you saw the "Judge Knows Best" episode of Chopped last week, the red onion references make total sense.)

Main Course Challenge
required ingredients: broccoli rabe, crystallized ginger, aged gouda, mahi mahi

Individual flatbreads smeared with light ginger-mint chutney, melted gouda, tiny bits of mahi-mahi seared in a full butter bath, topped with a parmesan-broccoli crust.

or

Quiche made with the mahi-mahi, ginger, broccoli, and gouda with no sides, but garnished with peels of regular ginger.

Dessert Challenge
required ingredients: cherries, pumpernickel bread, curry powder, yuzu juice

Cherry-banana bread made traditionally, but with curry powder, yuzu juice, and ground-up pumpernickel in the batter, served with a yuzu glaze on top.

or

Thin wafer of pumpernickel toasted in curry powder, with a cherry-centered gulab jamun in honey-yuzu-rosewater sauce on top.

The worst thing is when the ingredients stop looking so improbable and disgusting.

Caviar, fried pork rinds, Nutella, saffron, and durian juice? Um, get some puff pastry then mix the caviar with durian juice and heavy whipping cream. Form small bowls with pastry dough and spoon in caviar mixture. Crush the fried pork rinds and blend with Nutella. Coat the outside of the puff pastry bowls with the Nutella/pork rind paste. Put pastry "lids" on top of the little bowls and sprinkle chopped saffron on top of the lids. With the tiniest breath of nutmeg. There you go!

Previously: Mental for the Machine

Mental for the Machine

Keeping the editing box open whil(e/st) elsewhere on the web/before the TV/in the kitchen, I think this post might end up resembling a string of Twitter updates written by someone who can't work with a 140-character limit and who possesses no sense of "writing for an audience beyond the mirror."

The kids are doing literature circles this week (and last week, and next week), using books chosen by our (excellent) school librarian. "Literature circles" are where a group of five-ish kids read a book together, each performing a different job during reading and discussion time. Of course the low-impact jobs in each group are claimed by the "not quite as success-minded" students, meaning that the same people who care are the same ones who always carry the load in that evil known as groupwork. But with lit circles, those who Dare to Care get the jobs with the cool titles, like "Discussion Director" and "Word Wizard," which makes everything better. (Best that they embrace this consolation early.)

Anyway, I haven't read these books, which is probably very wrong. I'm sorry. Apparently the books have "bad words" in them, like SHIT! and BITCH! The kids are acting out movie trailers for the book (because my class is "boring, so boring" like that), and I said they could use those words as long as it was a direct quote and the rest of the scene was included. (Most dull teacher ever, yes, yes.) I also told them that they ought to dig around more; maybe they could score a FUCK!

So, yeah, sorry again. That's just how I keep my students engaged and, um, excited about the curriculum. Anyway, I'm trying to read these (seven) books as quickly as possible so I can answer any detailed questions (and write seven tests). I can't take the books home; we have limited copies, and if something happens to me, the kids will be at a loss. So I bought Kindle versions, and I love the Kindle, so yay for that.

Which brings us to the point, the ti(d/t)bit I set out to mention three paragraphs ago, In class today, I had snatches of time where the groups were running smoothly, and I could, if I felt multitasky, prop my watchful self against a bookcase and skim a little further in the books. (Thank you, absent students.) Except I didn't, because the thought of reading from a book instead of my lovely Kindle was too sad-making. I'd rather wait for the Kindle.

Instead of read from a regular book.

Madness.

Previously: Pickles and Potatoes

Pickles and Potatoes

10:30 and I'm not asleep. Instead, I'm nauseated, my back aches, and - here comes the TMI - isn't it the best when you get up and head for the sofa, worried that your groans are keeping up the already long-suffering husband, and - sudden hard left! - it's into the bathroom for the violent diarrhea?

Three excursions later, and I just have to have some dill pickles. Mmm mmm pickles. I crave brine. Lick-lick-lick. All the while I'm thinking, "You are living the stereotype. Fat people have so little self-control, they can be on the verge of hurling and still have the wherewithal for a snack. Beautiful."

It made me think that someday I ought to make a list of Things People Assume That Fat People Do then compare it with Things This Fat Person Actually Does. Except apparently I'm totally busted on the "can want to hurl and eat at the same time" one. (Okay, I really think my body wanted the salty juice because it was unwell, but let's not spoil the LOLFATTIES vibe.)

Well, almost an hour passes and I'm feeling better, but now I want potatoes. So I nuke up a couple of baby spuds. And in the course of this, I break the plate, which was already cracked and is a long story but not the story. (There is no story; I just can't sleep.) We have all kinds of ugly free dishware from the casinos (given out to celebrate Mexican Independence Day, if that shapes the imagination at all), but I prefer my Six Perfect Pieces. Which are now Four.

See, when I first moved to this apartment, everything was going to be lovely. Decorated. I sold or gave away my non-sentimental Texas stuff and was ready to begin again. I decided, without even watching the Food Network, to start anew with some plain white dishware. (Previous to this it was Blue Willow supermarket giveaway stuff stacked to the top of the cupboard. Of course, now I miss it because my mom collected it for me with glee, but that's life - you never know what you're going to miss.)

I bought two white soup bowls and two white pasta plates. Not having a table or barstools (and my increasingly Igor-like form is not much for barstools anymore), regular plates were too unwieldy. Something with a bit of depth and lip but not an actual bowl would suit better.

That's four pieces. The other two pieces are a pair of large mugs from Anthropologie. I drink hot chocolate from them about once a year, but - frankly - they're messy to maneuver. Mike sometimes uses them to hold salsa, but then I just yell about how they are My Pretty Mugs for Scenic and Thoughtful Occasions, and can't he put The Stupid Salsa in something else? Like the Mexican Independence Day Chip 'n Dip Platter? People!

Okay, then one day I was taking one of the nice white bowls from the microwave and dropped it on my foot. My hamster Sherman (oh, who doesn't miss that crumbcatcher?), whilst on a free-range scurry, attacked the scab from the injury, and now I have a scar there. A scar, but no replacement bowl, because I'm lazy. And cheap. And also because I feel bad because these nice white dishes were made in China, and next time I should try harder to buy American. (I mean the part of America that isn't deeply in debt to China.) Or Canadian. Something less sweatshoppy. But, of course, I haven't gotten around to that. Impasse.

That left us with two pasta plates and a bowl. (Again, we continue to ignore not only the Mexican Independence Day Commemorative Crapware, but the two large white plates that Mike bought because he thought the pasta plates were too dainty. I was very against the plates, perhaps because eating from full-size plates while sitting on the sofa is too close to "Things People Assume That Fat People Do," and every time we talk about getting a table it sort of devolves into a mental wad of "when will we find a proper computer stand instead of using those horrid boxes," "why not convert the drafting table and add a couple of chairs," and "Christalmighty, how did we end up with so many mismatched shades of wood in this small apartment? Why even try to have nice things?" I cannot even get into how Mike, despite coming from solid citizen stock, claims to have never eaten meals at home at a table. Barbarian Aussies - that's my charitable mind whirling. Anyway, Mike got his plates, I say "Jesus Christ" whenever he totes one over to the sofa, but at least the plates are white to match the other pieces. And also to symbolize my tendency to throw everything into stasis when I can't make a decision meant to last through the ages. That Blue Willow looked great when I got it, but white is safer. Anything is still possible with white.)

One of those pasta plates, though, eventually got a crack in it. This was even before I hurled a bowl (full of the most gorgeous curry) at my foot. Not safe, I know, and that's why Mr. Meat Eater never ate out of it. Because eggs, cheese, beans, etc. don't carry bacteria, right? Um... yeah, I won't eat in my workplace because it's full of cockroaches/ants/etc., but I'll take every meal from a cracked pasta plate and insist that any trapped food-based creepies surviving the dishwasher are part of my character-building regime. I know.

That's the plate I broke tonight. (I set it down too hard when it was hot from the microwave. It was just its time.) I went my entire life without breaking a dish, and now I've broken two. Of course, the other two white dishes are holding Mike's stuff in the fridge or are dirty, as are the unacknowledged white plates, as is half of the not-that-kind-of-Fiestaware. (The man has only recently accepted the philosophy of not getting a fresh glass every time he pours a drink.) Which meant that I had to go into the This Isn't Cute Anymore Cupboard of Casino Gifts and get out another orange/red/yeller-striped plate and eat my potatoes from that. I've put another one of those things into circulation in the kitchen. It was that or the Christmas-themed casinoware. Too soon.

Suffice to say that at this point I feel very sorry for myself. I almost put the little potatoes in one of the Archaeology mugs, but that takes more stylish juxtaposition than I can pull off.

So, really, this is where we are at: two dishes in the house that I find acceptable for either of us to use. It's at times like this when I'm not sure how much of the stick up my tushie is fun caricature and how much is pitiful OCD.

Which leads us to my First World Problem du Jour: where can I find study, pretty-but-simple, white pasta and soup bowls that are not made in China (et al), are available in town (where I can look at them), and are inexpensive? Not just relatively inexpensive, but actually a bargain, because it's not like we don't have plates, and any household design budget really should be spent on Sorting Out the Table Issue. (Although the most recent time the SOtT issue was addressed, we nearly gave up and bought a house, almost as a do-over. The house was on a street called "Candy Bouquet," not far from another street called "Bella Sparkle." I don't think I would've been happy in such a Blue Willowy environment.)

The China thing is proving to be the dealbreaker. Clearly more research (wheee!) is necessary.

Also necessary, I think, is for me to call for a sub, as it's now nearly 1 a.m. and I still feel cruddy. However, I have a parent conference in the morning. I asked a student to come see me. S/he said, "No." I repeated my request. S/he ignored me. Things were tense. I felt like I had to write him/her up for insubordination. (Sure, a third request might have saved the day, but when do you stop?) S/he was kept out of school for a couple of days until his/her parent signed him/her in. (Standard policy.) At this time, a conference with me for a couple of weeks later was set up. I don't know who set it up. If it was the parent, well, that's just how these things go. If it was someone else, someone with an itchy "let's have a big conference about it even though everything that needs to be said was said" finger... Grumble.

Unfortunately, I still have nothing to say beyond what I just said. Despite the daily directive from the principal over the PA system to obey all teachers, s/he refused to obey me. I hate to be a wowser about it, but s/he put me in a difficult position. And I like the student, although s/he slacks off. I guess I can come in early and repeat to the parent what happened. (Early because the conferences start at the same time as contract time.) The student and I seem to be just fine now, but, whatever. At least the parent cares, right? *chipper face here*

Or, given the late hour and the amount of rolling around my stomach is doing, and the number of (heretofore unreported, because I care) potty trips surrounding this post, I can be selfish and call for the sub. I hate to stand up a parent, but life happens. (Hey, I've been stood up for most parent conferences.) I also hate to miss what should be a productive and stress-free day (at least until 6th period, depending upon who is absent).

Harumph. I don't know. Perhaps the broken white (pasta) plate is a metaphor. Or... maybe I should just buy some white paper plates.

Previously: But Reese Still Needs to Join Facebook

But Reese Still Needs to Join Facebook

As I was driving home this afternoon - OH BLESSED HOPE THAT IS GREY WHIRLS OF NEARLY RAIN and SORT OF WIND! - I thought, whoa, when did I last blog? Was it even this month?

Then I come home and find out that Reese V. is worried because of all the dead air here. It's like we're psychic twins! Or, actually, perhaps the opposite of that. One of us is Dr. Xavier and one of us is Magneto? I don't know. I cannot pretend to know anything about X-Men, other than Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellan are both so cute.

(And both played King Lear! It's time to give King of Texas another chance, I think. I bought it to watch after we finished KL in class, but then the DVD player in my classroom computer died. Let us not speak of that entire unit, actually. Bad enough that the kids rooted for Edmund the entire time.)

So that is what is wrong with me - I have not been taking out my little rants here, in my personal tantrum room with the oversized spectator glass. And here I thought my problems stem from me being a completely unreasonable person who hates young people and never wants anyone to have any fun. (Translation: three freshman classes is perhaps still too many.)

Last night we stood in the night chill (normally a good thing) for almost an hour (too much of a good thing) because our downstairs neighbor's smoke alarm was going off. Apparently the apartment complex was notified another hour after that, long after I gave up on their "emergency service" and called 911. Strangely, all of the neighbor's windows were open and we could see a lit candle, but - luckily - no one was home (and suffocating in a closet somewhere); it was just a faulty alarm.

Meanwhile, who leaves a candle unattended? (It was at least another hour before said neighbor came home.) And who lives in a ground apartment and leaves all of their windows open? People!

More kvetching: got a car repair bill that was the cost of almost a whole cruise. It was partially just one of those maintenance things (Can no one invent invincible struts? I smell conspiracy...), so my real gripe was with the technician giving me a lot of attitude. Usually this dealership does a lot of follow-up "how was your experience?" calls/surveys, so I'm saving my tirade for that.

I could complain about the freshies, but the AP classes are too much of a balm to risk the wrath of the scheduling gods by being pissy.

For the past week I've been playing World of Warcraft (more than usual). The Headless Horseman mount has yet to drop during the Hallow's End (no typo) event. Basically, the mount is a splendid flying pony. Oh how I want a flying pony. And a stable for him on the deck below my spa cabin on the year-round cruise I will take when money falls from the sky and into my arms.

(I spend too much time thinking of how to take the hamsters with us should we ever be in that situation. It's like the way I spend a lot of time debating over what to do about makeup, which I don't wear and have come to actively dislike, if I'm ever on Oprah. I have no idea why I'd be on Oprah. I don't even watch Oprah. I don't even like to get my yearbook photo taken, let alone appear on national television. I think I need to stop watching reality television. I mean, I only watch the Food Network reality shows, which are really more like skill-based game shows with lessons for us all, but maybe they're the gateway programming to those other shows. The ones that air after-hours footage of people sitting on sofas, talking.)

In the end, I don't have an Oprah grooming plan or a hamster seafaring plan, but our five hamhams are all at happy ages. I was going to enter them in the New Yorker's "critterati" photo contest (your pet dressed as a literary character), but apparently I have spent all of October thinking that the end of the month is "ages away," and I missed the deadline. But I think I will do it anyway, as my ideas were super-awesome-tastic-sauce.

Or I will just read and play silly games and eat yet another (delicious! delicious! delicious!) lunch at the new Indian restaurant, which I can't mention by name yet as it is owned by the family of a former student, and that former student doesn't need to find himself at this site. It might confirm all of his suspicions that, yes, there is something deeply wrong with me, and maybe everything I said about Pablo Neruda is a lie!

Ah, laziness. And poor Evelyn still has not had an introductory post! I will say that we appear to be ending our hamily on a high note with this beautiful, affectionate creature... if we're ending the hamily after this, that is. (Which do I love more: travel/relocation options, or the pets that make me more human?) Perhaps Evelyn will star in the too-late-to-be-Critterati photos, just to tidy all that up.

Or, again, lazy is nice, too. Especially with a new Terry Pratchett book out and half-read on the waiting Kindle. (It is not a flying pony, but it does take me so many places.)

Previously: Mazatlan: Earth and Diamonds

Mazatlan: Earth and Diamonds

I thought I was going to divide our day in Mazatlan into several posts, but two things are in my way: not having taken any notes, and laziness. So, it's the Big Mazatlan Post!

(See all photos from our day in Mazatlan here.)

We tended to sleep with our curtains open, the reassuring night sea a comfort blanket until the sun would tiptoe over and nudge us awake. With the photo above, I lifted my head, grabbed the camera, CLICK, then rolled back over and slept a little longer.

Mike was soon up and taking photos, but I was the lazy one this morning, or as lazy as one can be when one has to be sitting on a bus by 8:30 a.m. I think we had breakfast on the Lido deck, but I don't remember. Again, if only I'd taken notes... but now I'm forty(!), so I can't be expected to remember.

And here is a photo from the bus window. We were on Eleazar's bus - a nice man who will show up in a photo below. The bus was extremely comfortable: air conditioned, plush seats, lots of cushioning - rather the opposite of the rattling ride in Ensenada.

Of course, there is a lot of snobbery directed toward those who tour places from the shielded comfort of their boxes, dipping into the scenery then retreating to the safe traveling armchair. I should know, I have been that snob more than once. Am I sold on bus tours instead of something less contrived and more immersive? No. Am I sold on micromini sojourns into the mainland from the cruise ship - a taste, a sample? Yes.

Then there is the subset of criticism which says you should book with a local tour instead of the sanitized cruise-approved experience. We did a local tour in Ensenada and it was great. We did a self-tour on Catalina and, again, great.

But in Mazatlan, we wanted to go into the Sierra Madres and see some colonial villages. It's about seven hours of sightseeing, all up. People cannot say enough good things about a local guide called "Mazatlan Frank" - font of information, gives you plenty of time, drives you right up to where you want to be, knows everyone, personable - and I would have loved to have taken his tour with such fervent testimonials across the forums.

BUT! Here's the thing: if something goes wrong, that cruise ship is not going to wait for you... unless you are on a tour you booked through the cruise line. We didn't stray far while in Ensenada or Catalina. But an hour's drive up in the mountains? We couldn't justify the risk.

If you want a potentially compelling photo essay topic, consider this title: "The Dogs of Mazatlan." Half of the photos would be of the many dogs seen in the streets. The other half would be of the endless, endless, endless graffiti/tagging on the buildings. Unless you are in the Golden Zone (and even then) or in the (far nicer, but underplayed?) historic beachfront area, prepare to be disgusted.

I know sometimes I come off like I have a problem with Mexicans (see last post). It's not true. Really, it's not. I have a problem with some of the anti-education activities from some of my Mexican students. I have a problem with some of my co-workers who play up their Mexican heritage beyond the point of reasonable pride and relevancy to students.

But overall? I'm still the girl who wanted to learn every language and visit every country and celebrate every world holiday and try every food, and so on. (See that kinda run-on thing I did there? It has a name - polysyndeton! Once just an obscure term in my lit handbook, now I seem to use it every freaking day. Teaching AP this year is making me smarter and happier, but also a little more self-aware than I usually like.)

I enjoyed our four visits to Mexico this summer very much, including the people, who were all friendly. (I don't care if it's just because they wanted our tourist money. There are plenty of people in customer service in this country who don't find that a good enough reason to be civil, let alone friendly.) I like to focus on the positive in a culture, even if it's not a culture that I personally want to adopt. So, again, I have nothing against Mexico. I like Mexico. I like Mexicans. Really-really.

And therefore, these tedious disclaimers aside, I want to say that the tagging in Mazatlan is super-shitty. It reflects poorly on the city, making me think that Mazatlan is dangerous and those who have pride in their community there are greatly outnumbered. "What a bunch of losers." Maybe these sentiments reflect poorly on me, fine, but I wasn't expecting to leave the ship and see so much evidence of so many worthless people. I hope they get it sorted out.

(That's how much I like Mexico, that I even care. It was bad. Yeah, I know this isn't a problem exclusive to Mazatlan, but this post is about Mazatlan, so there you go.)

Our first stop was at the adobe brickyard. This is a roadside stop along the highway, where a small souvenir stand and one guy doing brickmaking demos await. (The souvenirs are not, alas, adobe-related, but are parasols and serapes.) By "demo" I mean we all stood in a semi-circle as pictured above and watched him do the grown-up version of mudpie engineering. It was interesting for about two minutes, then it was just too sunny and warm, but it was interesting. I could see myself watching a special about adobe bricks on the Discovery channel. Not a full hour episode, obviously, but perhaps as a special segment.

Our next stop was in the tiny village of Malpica to visit a bakery and see a tilemaker at work.

Malpica has structures that go back to colonial times, just like the other two villages we visited after this stop, and if there is one complaint I had about the tour it's that it could have used more historical narration. Still, everything was very interesting, with plenty of satisfying sensory overload.

One thing I didn't expect was to see so much beautiful furniture sitting in homes that were otherwise very simple and barely had window coverings. We drove past many furniture "factories" - roadside stands - with carved rocking chairs, sofas, headboards, that were nothing short of stunning. (Don't think about rainforest woods being depleted.) Mike and I started talking almost seriously about how we could probably get one of those rocking chairs, one of those majestic thrones, back on the ship.

After Malpica we drove a little further before stopping at one of those furniture places... well, in theory. In reality, we stopped at probably the only "showroom" that had nothing more than a few half-finished pieces in a shoddy work area, a whole lot of tourist-friendly figurines on tables, and some pretty neat pottery out front, where we hung out.

We also enjoyed our complimentary beverage.

Otherwise, Mike lingered under the mango trees, and the whole tour made way for passing herds of racing goats. (Who were too fast to be captured by a mere camera.)

Our next stop was Concordia, home of an 18th century church. Above you see the obligatory "spouse stands in front of foreign church while you are oblivious to serious need for a wide-angle lens" shot.

Police officers with machine guns in the quiet public square. Is that every day, or just the days the tour buses come?

I don't know what's up with this sheep decal in the window of an empty store, but it made me happy.

The buildings to the side of the tour bus were also said to be colonial.

One criticism of this tour that I've seen online is that you don't get to spend a lot of time in Concordia. Maybe it was just an off-day, but I found Concordia to be the least interesting part of the tour. I like looking in churches, but Eleazar, nice as he was, didn't have anything to say about the place. So all we could do is walk in, nod, "Yep, that's pretty," then walk back to the bus.

Otherwise, this seemed like a mostly residential area with little interest in catering to tourists. Nobody greeted us. The souvenir stand was on the other side of the square, away from where we were. There were no purchasing opportunities or even suggestions - not even a "tips appreciated" sign. I definitely did not feel like Concordia was interested in our tourist dollars (and that's fine, if unusual), and - like I said - without a commentary on the church, there wasn't much point to actually getting off the bus. (Copala's church is much more interesting. That Mazatlan Frank guy probably has all kinds of stuff to say about Concordia, but again, what if...?)

I didn't get a good photo of the square, so I took one from the bus window as we drove away. Which also proved to not be a good photo. So I overprocessed it in Photoshop. Which still doesn't make it a good photo, but I can pretend it's deliberately bad.

Um?

Now we were clearly in the mountains, and it was beautiful.

Copala was the high point - in every sense of the word - of the tour. Malpica was a pleasant place and the brickyard had a certain charm, and even Concordia was something new to see, but Copala's seclusion, quiet, and beauty give it the top spot.

The first place we walked was to the art museum. I don't remember anything about it. In one door and out the other, and nothing really to my taste, but it was too quick a stop to care.

Next we passed a Canadian missionary who was selling local crafts, trying to help Copola's residents develop a product they could make and sell. On the way back I did stop to look at the necklaces, hoping for a pretty souvenir, but nothing jumped out at me. Then the guy started giving us the hard sell about helping people out; we tried to politely move on, but he kept pushing, probably deciding that we were rich American jerks who could waddle off the luxury cruise ship but wouldn't drop a dime on Something That Really Matters. So we waddled on.

The tour description mentions comfortable walking shoes. Copala is what they're talking about - lots of cobblestones. I was fine with my slip-on sandals (although always grateful for the runs of sidewalk), and the walk from tour bus to church and back again isn't very far. (I would show you on Google Maps, but I can't find it.)

The humidity was catching up with us, but we weren't suffering yet.

I'd love to know more about this little guy, hanging out the front of the San Jose church.

I'm not sure I want to know more about this painting.

We were surrounded by lush greens, feeling very far from Nevada.

Mike pointed out this foundation in ruins, just off the side of the church. Copala was an old Spanish gold mining town, and there is a mining museum in the town square, but we didn't get to see that. A little more time and/or independent wandering opportunities would have been good. Again, we saw more than enough, but I could have handled 30 more minutes here (and 30 less at Diamonds International, but that's another story).

A speckly dog taking in his leisure by the gazebo (shown in the photostream link at the top of this post).

We walked back to the tour bus, where lunch awaited us at Daniel's. Lunch, and a little trademark violating.

Daniel's signature attraction is the Banana Cream Coconut Pie. A couple of other places on the walk to the church advertised banana pie, but clearly these were imitators.

Not to make it sound like there was a bustling main street of commerce happening. Here is a list of everyone we saw on our walk through the town:

• Eleazar and the rest of the tour group
• The woman in charge of the art museum (who did not talk)
• The Canadian missionary
• A guy in a t-shirt? I think?
• A little girl in pink running up the gazebo steps
• A group of men outside the church selling wood carvings
• A group of men outside the gazebo with their two dogs
• A achoolboy selling wood carvings
• The staff inside Daniel's
• The woman who solicited Mike (to buy some wood carvings)

I don't know if everyone was hiding, at work, or what. It was very quiet. Maybe it's all a Hollywood set. Maybe we were visiting between zombie invasions and wouldn't want another 30 minutes to walk around. I just don't know.

The view from our table at Daniel's was outstanding. As was getting a table almost to ourselves. Almost, because two women from the tour sat at the end of our table. They didn't say one word to each other throughout the entire meal. It was extraordinary. I think a few cold glances were shot down our way, but - as much as Mike and I can sometimes make an endless prattling loop between the two of us - we weren't loud, so I don't know what the problem was.

More extraordinary than the noncompanionable silence of our tablemates were the (sigh of pleasure) sugary cold Cokes in glass bottles and the chips and salsa.

Above is Mike's plate. When the upcoming meal was described by Eleazar as we drove toward Copala, I was disappointed. It sure sounded like a meat-fest. But, I hadn't really expected anything different. Not only did unlimited food await us back on the ship, but I wasn't on this tour to try the food, and I didn't want to ask for special accommodations. It didn't seem like that kind of environment.

However, once we arrived at Daniel's, Eleazar asked how many vegetarians were in the group. (There were two, or 5% for you math types.) The restaurant made us quesadillas that in some circumstances might be boring, but here in the mountains with the chips and salsa and (swoon) Cokes, were perfect - light and refreshing.

For a couple of bucks on the side, we got a couple of tall-neck and just-as-sugary Sprites. Mmmm. Too much to finish, but so good to drink. Serene and full, sitting in cool breezes surrounded by green, we knew the definition of sated. What an unexpected highlight.

The legendary pie wasn't bad, either.

Here's that woman trying to put the woodcarving moves on my husband. She kept insisting the little carving of the houses was free. No thanks. A gift! No thanks. Then it became, "just pay what you want." She wouldn't take the carving back, and Mike practically shoved it back into the bag. Crazy Mexican gift-giving.

We sat back and enjoyed the mountains (and giant beer cans along the road) for the 45 minute drive back to Mazatlan proper. Our next destination? "The Golden Zone."

(With lots of tagging on the way.)

I want to say that the Golden Zone was the bottom rung of the trip. Other than getting to see another side of Mazatlan, specifically beach resorts surrounded by chain stores meant to court tourists, we had no interest in the place and resented the 45 minutes we had to kill here before we returned to the ship. Forty-five minutes that we could have spent walking around mining museums, historic cemeteries, or just eating more chips and salsa.

However, there is a contingent for whom this is one of the best parts of the trip. I don't understand these people, but we've since met enough of them to accept that they exist.

They are the Diamonds International people.

And this is Mike inside of Diamonds International.

And this is Mike still inside of Diamonds International, where we enjoyed our complimentary beverage, which DI can easily give away, because people spend tons of money at Diamonds International as well as the other jewelry stores along the way.

Now, I do believe that you can get good deals at these places, especially if the only source for bling in your hometown is, say, one of those stores in the mall near the food court. I'm not knocking that. What makes me make unattractive scoffing noises behind my hand is when people on the cruise boards post things like, "I showed the Shopping Expert what I bought and she was amazed at the deal!" Or, "I took the bracelet home and it was appraised at twice the value!"

1. The Shopping Expert (an actual job on the cruise ship) is paid to believe that you are getting great bargains at the cruise-approved shopping destinations.

2. When my mother used to buy jewelry, she would get it appraised. It always appraised for much higher than what she paid, no matter where she bought it. I think it's called "knowing how to shop." Or it may be called "a total racket perpetuated by the diamond/gold/precious gem people." Either or.

One thing these places like Diamonds International do is offer you free charms, free bracelets, etc. First, these things are crap. Don't make a special trip. Second, it's really fun - if you have an unfortunate amount of time to kill - to go in, politely get your free gift, then leave. Just keep smiling and saying thank you and cheerfully wave and walk out. Nope, don't want to look at whatever you're pulling out of that case, thanks again, SEE YA HA-HA!

Like I said, too much time to kill.

We looked in one little store of more traditional souvenirs for one of those beautiful chess sets, but we were still out of luck. Is that more of a northern Mexico/border thing? I did see some figurines I liked, but the guy kept standing over us, so we just left. I know I've brought this up in another post, but I really would like to see some Mexican tourist-oriented business just try low-key selling. I can't tell you how many times we walked away from items of interest because the shopping experience was too pushy and unpleasant. Yeah, I know, white people.

We re-boarded the bus early and waited, glad that others were just as mystified at the appeal of this stop. The mugginess had really caught up with us by now. My shirt was moist and my brain was almost as squishy.

The ride back was nice because we got to see some of the older (but well-kept) hotels along the beach, a bit further along than the Golden Zone. I'm sure the GZ properties are very nice, especially if you never leave them, but I would always be aware that Diamonds International was right outside the front gate. Shudder.

All of the photos from the bus were cruddy, as were the few I took inside the cruise ship terminal, where a surprisingly large number of people were guzzling drinks in groups at the bar as Michael Jackson memorial music blasted from all of the stalls. (Maybe the drinks are cheaper there? There was no view and it was hot - me, I wanted back on my pretty ship.)

(I did get a souvenir before we left the terminal, but I'll save the souvenir post for whenever I take some better photos of the stuff.)

Trams shuttled us back to the ship, and Mike promptly went down for his nap. I stood on the balcony and snapped the sailaway, waving at the tourists along the shore. Although I was glad we didn't do any tours on our other port days, Mazatlan was probably my favourite stop because of our gallivanting.

Cruising - is there any wrong way to do it?

Previously: Obama's Suggestion for More School

Obama's Suggestion for More School

Update: While I stand by every word I wrote this morning (below), I'm not quite as crabby this afternoon. It wasn't even a particularly good day at work, but sometimes all it takes is a decent-enough day to hang in there. Sucker -> Me.

Everyone is a'buzz about Obama's suggestions, while I'm furrowing up my face with a sarcastic, "Welcome to Last Week?" Seriously, I remember making it a journal topic for the kids last year. How is this (new) news?

I probably even already posted my opinion on the matter here, but now that I'm old (F-O-R-T-Y), I can't remember stuff. So here we go again. Maybe.

Should we have longer school days?
Should we have a shorter summer break?

I cannot answer these questions without asking for more information. Namely, will our school systems otherwise be unchanged?

Will we still not be allowed to kick a disruptive student out of the room without first contacting the parent then completing a form with blow-by-blow narrative, quotations, and a complete overview of previous measures taken?

Will we still have to bump all failing grades to a 50% before the final exam, regardless of whether the student has done any work?

Will we still allow students who fail freshman English to continue on to sophomore English so they can stay with their graduating class?

Will we still have classrooms of 40+ kids in 30+ seats, with a goal of getting the class size down to a nice low number, like 35?

Will the amount of mandatory paperwork, mandatory conferences, mandatory emails, mandatory videos and trainings, mandatory horizontal team meetings, mandatory vertical team meetings, mandatory other-team meetings, and not-mandatory-but-highly-suggested-ifyouknowwhatimean committee meetings continue to use up all before school, after school, and prep time, leaving us nothing but off-the-clock time to grade those 150-225 items just done in class today?

Will we still accept students into our regular classrooms for no credit, students who have zero motivation to do more than fulfill the court order to warm a seat?

Will we still be expected (by the students or the administration) to provide opportunities for near-daily grades for those 150-225 students - grades that then need to be posted online for student, parent, fellow teacher, and admin perusal every week?

Will we still debate over things like whether this year we're allowing kids at a fourth grade reading level into the ninth grade class, or if the cutoff will be as high as fifth grade this time?

Will we still put eighth grade reading level kids into ninth grade Honors classes? (I know reading level is just one measurement, but I question the rationale that says if they test that "high," meaning a grade level below the grade they are in, they should go to an advanced class for that grade.)

Will we still excuse an unlimited number of absences, as long as there is a note?

Will we still allow pre-excused absences of two weeks per chunk for students with failing grades? (Will we still expect the teachers to provide two weeks' worth of make-up work on as little as a few hours' notice?)

Will we still allow those pre-excused absence forms to be written completely in Spanish with all information from the parent (where the student is going, what resources they will have for homework, etc.) also in Spanish, with no process for translation at the office level, despite the designated common language of the school being English?

Will we still be expected to just take it when students rudely tell us off for not (as far as they assume) speaking Spanish, because to complain suggests racism (what race?) or a less than stellar commitment to multiculturalism?

(Will we keep defining "multiculturalism in our schools" as "celebrating Mexican or 'African-American' people during their designated weeks/months", and never mind if the school is mostly Hispanic or has students from over 50 countries or if you'd rather just cover black writers as their work naturally fits and not wedge them into showcase moments?)

Will we still shrug off students who go to Mexico at the start of December and return at the end of January? (Because this is just good sensitivity to multiculturalism.)

Will we still shrug off students who enroll in school three, four, five weeks late because they were in Mexico or "Cali" with their relatives? (Again, let's not be insensitive.)

Will we still allow students to sit in our class all semester doing nothing, and will we still expect teachers to be compassionate and "student-centered" when, in week eight, those students ask what they are missing and when they can turn it in?

Will we still be expected to stick around our room after school or before school (and not get some of that paperwork or those meetings done) for students who refused to work during the actual class?

Will we still be expected to complete weekly grade check forms - during class - for athletes, club members, and simply curious students despite the previously described mandate to post all grades online and provide internet access at the school so students/faculty/parents may regularly check those grades? (No, it's not a big deal to post a hard copy of the grades, but that leads to endless, endless, endless queries - during class - about why they were "given" some grade six weeks ago, plus see the previous item. Sure, you can tell them you won't do it during class, but you still have to deal with the request and the whining that follows.)

Will we ever be allowed to collect student property again? (Make-up, iPods, cell phones... anything that the students aren't allowed to use in class but we aren't allowed to touch lest it be lost, yet at the same time the deans are overworked with larger problems and would "prefer" we handle the problem in our rooms? Cue the verbal warning, the written warning, the parent contact... the paperwork, paperwork, paperwork.)

Will we find a way to have lunch periods where every student has a place to sit and enough time to eat? (Given these proposed longer school days.)

Will we start sending kids home for dress code violations instead of giving them a cover-up shirt, then letting each teacher for the rest of the day get into an argument with the student because they've pinned up said shirt to resume exposing four inches of stomach? (Again, it's always "recommended" that we sort out problems in our room.)

Will we keep adjusting our tolerance of discipline issues because, hey, it could be worse?

Will we keep pumping kids into college, treating vocational education as if it's less worthy than analyzing literature?

Mr. Obama, I have so many questions, but I guess it all comes down to one thing: If you increase the time we spend in school, will you also increase the number of students? I don't mean the number of bodies, I mean the number of students. What is your plan for converting all of these idle, entitled bodies we have into students?

Because, those other countries? The successful ones we want to emulate? Yeah, some of them have longer days. Some have longer terms. But some have the same hours and days. What they all have in common isn't time, it's students. People who understand that they are expected to work, and if they don't, they don't get to attend Teen Day Care and Social Hour.

I'm not necessarily opposed to longer days or shorter breaks, but what's the point without students?

(It's 3:30 a.m. I'm going to try to get a couple more hours of sleep, hopefully dreaming up a way to make a million dollars and retire by 6 a.m. Even with two advanced, relatively motivated classes this year to serve as a dangling daily carrot, I've lost the will to fight. Oh, I'm not going anywhere, not in this economy, and I'll still do my best by the kiddos, but here I am in my sixth year, past the proverbial "we lose half of all teachers in the first five years" statistic, and, you know what? It may be easier, but it's still insane. Screw the future of society. If I can save myself, I WILL.)

Previously: Robots Fumbling for Scrambled Eggs

Robots Fumbling for Scrambled Eggs

Heh.

If you were around here for about an hour yesterday, you got to see a post that started out as a little ramble about why turning 40 doesn't bother me, and by the way, let me tell you about the Shirley Jackson hardback first edition I scored on eBay for, like, three bucks.

By the end of the post, it was a one-person flash mob of recounted dialogue and all the "tell me about your mother" a shrink would accept good money to hear, covered in "laughter through tears" Steel Magnolia sauce. All because decades ago my mom told me that turning 40 is much easier than turning 30, and I guess I had a lot to say about that.

Then I took the post down because, dang, I worry whenever I start discussing my mother and her Alzheimer's, worry that what's light will come off as disrespectful and what's dark will come off as pathos and, hey, better quiet than sorry.

And by "whenever I start discussing," I mean "whenever I mention it in a post that I'll just end up saving to draft mode, never to publish," because I don't talk about my mother's condition with anyone other than my Dad or Mike or, rarely, this hazy space. Not because it's too hard to discuss - it's not - but because too many people never met my mother before, and this is not how I want to introduce her.

Let's get back to the subject - writing long blog posts that don't get published hasn't been helping my sleep in a week that started with a bad cold and two days off work and has become weirder every day since.

Turning 40. My parents always made a point of saying I wasn't X-age until we hit 10:06 p.m. CST, when I was born (almost) 40 years ago. So! Right now, I am still 39. Technically. Traditionally. Bullshittingly. It's my birthday and (let's face it) I am 40 and yesterday I totally agreed with Mom - 40? Piece of Cake! Overdue, Even! - but today I'm not at all convinced.

I have no idea why. Vanity? Lack of imagination? Cultural indoctrination? It came from nowhere.

I've been to bed about six times. Back up again. First I ate nothing all day. Too tired. Too overwhelmed. Then I ate too much. Nice: my first meal as a maybe-40-year-old was some 3 a.m. Kraft Mac 'n Cheese. It was the white cheddar variety, but still. Who is this mad woman who will never be able to pin anything on her thirties again? Damn you, Pacific time! If I were in Japan, there would still be time to buy hours. This is what I get for criticizing anime and underwear vending machines and for taking Bill and Scarlett's side in Lost in Translation.

Mike is asleep (again, having been woken every time by my attempts to lie in bed and try once more to buckle down to this fiendish work that is sleep). Eventually, going on statistical data and previous experiences (40 years worth of research!), I too will be zonked out. And everything will look better after some sleep. I know this. No spring chicken squawking behind the turnip truck here.

(Time out: I was so excited to read Susan Orlean's article in this week's New Yorker. The one about raising chickens in your backyard. See, I'm not nuts - chicken wrangling totally belongs on my Oprah-style Vision Board (tm). Alas, no backyard in sight, but we did finally get a Rooster Squishable and it's terrific, as snuggleable and soft and magical as I hoped. So wonderful, in fact, that Mike let it slip that another Squishable is on its way for my birthday. Maybe this is all we'll get each other now for presents? There are about three dozen different kinds of traditional Squishables, so I'll probably live long enough to see them all. I'm kinda 40 now, so I have to consider these things when making plans.)

Counting all of the Squishables just now has helped me transition a little from "ZOMG FORTY WTF?!!1!" to "I'm forty and no one is the boss of me and if I want to be anxious all night and eat powdered-cheese noodle product and type crap at 5:30 a.m., then RAWR!" A little.

Looping this video over and over has helped a little, too. Just enough indulgent melancholy, just enough sing-songy subliminal anthem:

Okay, I'm going to try to get back to Tap and Gown on the Kindle, flopped out here in my self-imposed sofaland exile. (It may be my birthday, but my gift to Mike is that at least one of us will sleep.) Hopefully now I'm worn out enough to stop thinking "FORTY?", like I can't believe I chose this, not that there's anything wrong with it, but why? Don't I still have thirtyish stuff to do? Most of my friends are past 40, so it's not like there's a shortage of representation. If someone needs heavy 40-style lifting, I can make a few introductions, set you up.

Meanwhile, I will tie up these loose ends back here in the 30s, like becoming a professional figure skater or learning how to make dill pickles. Things that would be astonishing (skating) or funny-kooky (pickles) and therefore interesting in my thirties. Otherwise, I have to put them off until the fifties, when they will be plucky (skating) or reassuringly normal (pickles). To put on a Dorothy Hamill skirt now, in the 40s, or set up some cucumber brine in a jar? Embarrassing for everyone (skating) or Too Dull Too Soon (pickles).

Oh, I know life is what you make it and it's never too late to start leaping tall buildings and you're as young as you feel and there's a metaphorical Bud Cort for every actual Ruth Gordon... just like I know that when your go-to skating reference is Dorothy Hamill this means FORTY?! is inevitable and said inevitability is coming right quick.

But not until 10:06 p.m.

Previously: Eating Strawberries Sprinkled in Himalayan Salt

Eating Strawberries Sprinkled in Himalayan Salt

I'm cold. I'm always cold when I don't sleep enough. "Mike, are these sheets dipped in ice water?" But Mike is already asleep, down for the count by 5:30 p.m., his full day at a school not unlike mine and his short night, again not unlike mine, all catching up with him.

It's so hard to let go of the weekends sometimes. Last night I was lying on the sofa, the place I plopped down when my tossing and turning was keeping us both up. "Turn off, brain. Turn off. This is my brain. It's in my hands. I'm placing it in a comfortable velvet box. Nighty night, brain. Now everything is black. Because my brain is off."

"Except for this trickle of battery power. Okay brain, I'm removing your battery pack. Shhh. Sleep. Good brain. You like sleep."

But it's not working. I look at the clock. 3 a.m. Three A.M.?! I must have fallen asleep. And woke up to the same miserable chant? Beautiful.

Today wasn't a bad day in the day of edumacation. Patrick Swayze passed away, but that was after school, so I didn't have to hear the kids say, "Oh, that one white guy? Who cares?" (I'm unfair. I have heard very few anti-white comments so far this year. A whole tirade of "English is stupid. Learn to speak Spanish!" just this week, but overall I think I'm staying positive. Having two extra-advanced classes of no more than 22 helps, especially when all the other classes are 40+ and growing of regular freshmen. Mike has not been so lucky, but the etiquette gloves are always off when it comes to a sub. Sorry, honey.)

I'm eating strawberries sprinkled with pink salt from the Himalayas. Honest people are losing their homes, and I'm eating fresh fruit with fancy salt. 

(I don't know how to end this. I wanted to convey that I'm not eating the salt Marie Antoinette-style - by which I mean arrogantly, as opposed to headlessly, but wouldn't that be a slumber party trick? - and if anything, somebody has to eat the salt. The salt is beauty, truth, and jobs, although admittedly some of those jobs are in the Himalayas. Unless it's a sham. In which case, this is me, keeping the good ole American sham alive. But if so, it's a pretty sham*, and it gives me something to look forward to when I can feel the 40+ freshmen almost realizing that the numbers are on their side.)

~~~

*I don't really think it's a sham. Believing in things is a relief sometimes, and this seems like a very harmless thing in which to believe.

You know what I could really go? A Mexican-style chess set made out of salt.

See, I have lengthy, responsible, charitable plans in place should I ever win the lottery, I swear. But then a stray strand of thought like "oooo! a chess set made of pink Himalayan salt!" appears and I can just see everyone in Oprah's viewership judging me because Honest People are losing their homes and I am ready to blow my windfall on a salt lick game board.

But come on, what would it cost? Plus, it creates a job.

Plus more jobs as pieces have to be replaced.

So, I will not feel guilty about using pretty pink salt. (Disney Princess Salt? Oh, look at me, captain of industry and marketing!) Instead, I will feel guilty about not taking a photo that shows off these rosy crystals like so many New Age sparkles. Cue the macro lens...

Previously: Origin India and the Atomic Testing Museum

Origin India and the Atomic Testing Museum

Yesterday we decided to finally visit the Atomic Testing Museum, over on Flamingo just east of Paradise, right on the northern edge of the UNLV campus. But first, continuing the theme of "finally," we headed over to Origin India for lunch.

Origin India is located directly across from the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino, a place I've never been because even young hipsters tell me it's depressingly lousy with young hipsters, people who actually care if their blacks match, who don't know what it means to worry about hiding a tattoo from grandma, and who aren't comfortable queueing up for the next available restroom stall unless the attendant offers them VIP bottle service.

Across from All Things a Wannabe Celebutante Holds Dear there is a strip mall, and in this strip mall is Origin India. I think we never visited before because a) they don't have a buffet and b) it sounded kind of fancy.

But yesterday I decided, with a quick confirmation at Google Maps, that I could not possibly be intimidated into getting a manicure and making Mike wear a button-down shirt for lunch in a place in a strip mall. Especially not someplace right next to the pizza-by-the-slice joint that I once visited between classes, a place where flip-flops might make you feel self-consciously overdressed.

Big talk, but once inside, we both agreed that there's no way we would visit in the evening, not dressed as we were. The decor is simple, and a few inches of paint was peeling off the walls near our chairs, but when you see linen napkins done up like little hats, you know you're expected to shave your legs or at least smooth a few more wrinkles from your sweatshop t-shirt.

However, for lunch this was fine, judging by the few other people in the restaurant and by the large (20+) party that came in near the end of our meal.

We decided to start with vegetable samosas. Here you see a recurring motif in my visual work: Mike's arms folded in hairy patience while I try to hold the pocket camera very, very still.

Those artistic sauce drops on the plate are code for "these samosas will require a fork."

So far nothing has beaten the aromatic offerings from Kamal Palace in Long Beach, but these samosas were quite delicious. The ingredients inside were blended together into a semi-paste and were not as loose as what we usually get, which made for a denser feeling while eating. Paired with the mint chutney - and Mike never bothers with mint chutney - the combination was a perfect mix of thick and light, spicy and bright.

I ordered the kofta, described in the menu as such: "Punjabi gram flour and vegetable dumplings in silky yoghurt sauce finished with whole coriander seeds, chilli, cumin and asafoetida. Served with steamed rice."

Normally I like to get paneer (especially paneer korma, mmmmm), but the only paneer dishes on the menu were side dishes or family-style sag paneer (served in a spinach sauce - I am not a fan), so even though you can get any side dish as an entree, I decided to try something new. I do really like the kofta/dumplings at Tamba, so I was confident.

But Mike was less confident in his choice, the "Old Delhi-style corn-fed chicken tikka makhani prepared with ground spices and fenugreek-flavoured tomato makhani sauce, served with pulao rice," so we ended up getting that side dish of "paneer in creamy tomato sauce" to share after all.

(The hyphens in the above description are mine. I know I am not consistently watchful of my own writing in this area, but people are getting more and more lazy about not hyphenating their compound adjectives, and it needs to stop!)

I wanted to get the "bread basket," as Origin India has so many different interesting selections, but Mike doesn't like roti, wouldn't want the sweet apricot naan, and he hates mushrooms, so it wasn't worth the risk. No problem - I can always use the Denial of Bread Basket as leverage for getting my way in the future. Win-win. We went with the garlic and coriander naan to compromise.

The memory of this side dish of paneer makhani is making my tummy leap like a dog in a Beggin' Strips commercial. It was so delicious, and such a generous size for a side dish.

The naan was buttery, and at first I just couldn't dip it into the sauce, it was too delicious on its own. Usually I prefer plain naan because the garlic naan can be a bit acrid or burnt tasting, but this was mellow, fluffy, and perfect.

I will be honest: I wasn't blown away by the dumplings, and I wouldn't get them again. But, and maybe I've been watching too much Chopped, I respected them. I enjoyed them; they were clearly expertly prepared and artfully spiced and the flavours were interesting, but they didn't dazzle me the way Indian food usually does. Usually, I end every Indian meal with big speeches about how we must learn how to cook like this. But those dumplings? Nah. Kind of heavy and samey for my taste, and like I said, I love the ones at Tamba.

But it was interesting, and I had the paneer in its perfect sauce, so no complaints, and Mike finished most of my last dumpling, so everyone was happy. (You don't get to see a picture of Mike's chicken tikka makhani because I didn't like the photo, but picture the paneer in a dish like the dumplings and served with the pretty mound of rice, and you are good. Mike is not a big fan of chicken tikka masala, but this tikka/makhani sauce combination earned rave reviews from his lips. Total fanboy.)

Everything was so delicious that we even asked to see the dessert menu. I know we're of the Chubba-Chubba Tribe, but we almost never get dessert. (Plus we're also of the Cheap-Cheap Tribe.) We wanted to see if they have that thing that looks like mashed potatoes and is full of almonds... which Mike knows the name of, but he is still asleep right now, ignorant of how hungry this post has made me and how soon he will be screeched at to shower-shower-shower now-now-now so we can try another new Indian place today. Poor Mike, Yes, everyone does feel sorry for him, why do you ask? Anyway, the desserts looked great, but they didn't have the one we wanted and we were pretty stuff, so 19% later (service was good - not Tamba-good in terms of refills, but extremely pleasant), we were back in the car, full and happy, and ready to drive our very interesting route to the Atomic Testing Museum, a short distance away.

(I would detail the route, but this blog is self-incriminating enough. Let me just remind everybody that the six lanes on Paradise become six lanes of one-way street once you cross over Harmon. So, if you suddenly realize that, duh, you are driving away from your destination, and you pull into the Hofbrauhaus to turn back the other way? Hope that when you are sitting in your little hatchback, in the righthand-most lane of the six lanes, facing the wrong direction and therefore actually in the lefthand-most lane, hope that the lights are just-so and that - miraculously - no other car is heading for you and you can spin the car back around right in the middle of all those unidirectional lanes before anyone notices. Hope really hard, because I'm not convinced such lucky lightning could strike twice. Not that I have any idea what I'm talking about. This is just hypothetical.)

With all of the construction on Flamingo, you have to watch carefully for the turn into the Atomic Testing Museum (then drive past it, for it is covered in cones, then watch carefully for the makeshift left turn lane where you can pull a u-turn with almost no oncoming traffic). Above you see Mike, squinting in anticipation.

Because the day wasn't completely hot and miserable, being only 100 (sadly, that's no longer my sarcastic voice), we walked over to the display outside. In the background you can see the skyline of the Strip, or rather of the condos that surround the casinos on the Strip, and which I still hope will disappear in a freakish catastrophic event that leaves the rest of the Strip intact. (Unfortunately, the freakish catastrophic event that is our economy only leaves the condos empty but still eyesores. And, for the pedants, yes, I know there is nothing freakish about the economy reflecting the consequences of overborrowing, overspending, and overindulging in other people's good faith and will.)

This measurement display was interesting, but I became fixated on the near-negative precipitation numbers and was thus sad.

I don't know what this measures, but it looks cool.

The History Walk is a section of walkway filled with commemorative bricks, much like Walk Around the World at Walt Disney World. (Um, does anyone want to go to WDW and check on our brick? I worry that it may have an errant twig or something sitting on it.)

I was really excited when I saw this. Visions of a "JUNIOR HAMSTERNAUT SOCIETY" brick, right?! (Mike is still trying to push tHE CRITTERNAUT PROGRAM, but everyone knows they were a rogue splinter group who have, through the generous outreach of the JHS, only recently gained credibility, and only through a partial merger with JHS. Everybody knows this, even Leonard Cohen.)

Except then later, at the end of our visit, I was in the gift shop asking about bricks and the nice lady kinda sorta made it sound like you have to be actually involved with the Nevada Test Site to get a brick. I was going to explain the connection between JHS and the Nevada Test Site, in particular the Janet-Janet connection and EG&G, the last of which pops up frequently as you tour the museum, but then I couldn't remember exactly which part of the JHS is declassified, so I just smiled and nodded and left it at that. I don't need any thuggy critternauts savaging my fingers the next time I refill the seed dish, thanks.

But the Nevada Test Site History Walk is not without its whimsy:

I got Mike to pose one more time, and I swear it was a great pose with a winning smile, but apparently Mike can't stand still long enough for me to fiddle with the camera. Granted, Mike will probably tell you that I must have taken daguerrotypes in my last life, it takes me so long to almost mostly hold the camera still. Oh well.

You can't take photos inside of the museum, so you'll just have to trust me (and the many online fans) that they've done a heck of a job with creating this museum. It makes me want to get a degree in curating. (I could make the Junior Hamsternaut Society museum, complete with the two decommissioned space stations, and we could offer a sort of two-fer ticket with the Atomic Testing Museum. Put it on the list.)

I am lazy and hungry, so here is my bullet lists of good impressions from the museum:

• the Disney movie that I can't find on Youtube ("Atom Age," not "Our Friend the Atom," although that is pretty good, too)
• all of the atomic age pop culture items
• the movie that uses air vents to create a "multisensory" atomic blast experience
• using the radioactivity counter over household items - spoiler: avoid the vintage Fiestaware!
• the ad from JC Penney where they show all the mannequins from the Test Site that they clothed
• playing the game where you have to decide not only how to dispose of each kind of waste, but which route to take to the disposal site (How was I to know there was construction in St. Louis that would cause delays? The pressure!)
• the collection of badge holders (seriously!)
• the movie about the special cameras developed that could take 500,000 photos per second, and that is so not hyperbole
• the (apparently famous) "coronet milk drop" shot that came from the EG&G camera that could take (a measly) 15,000 frames per second
• a fused cross-section of a cable bundle that was close to the blast, which now looks like a designer plate
• and just heaps and heaps of other interesting goodies

Next month they are going to have a couple of public panels about spyplanes at Groom Lake - only $5 per ticket. Groom Lake? Area 51? We can talk about that in official places now? Apparently.

We had a really good time. The museum was kind of busy, but it was the middle of a Saturday, and the traffic clears out past the first few exhibits, so you can always be like us and double-back when the latest surge clears. (Admission is good all day: $9 for locals, $12 for others, with senior, kid, and student discounts available.)

Me, I will be sad when my brand fades away. Atomic powers, activate!

Previously: Whether to Buy an Entertainment Book

Whether to Buy an Entertainment Book

We're just home from a delicious lunch at Origin India (my heart still belongs to Tamba on the Strip, but this may be an apples-n-oranges comparison) and a fun outing to the Atomic Testing Museum, the latter courtesy of a 2-fer-1 coupon in the Entertainment book. Some photos to be posted, you know, later.

Entertainment books are back on sale at my school again, although the price has gone up to $30 this year. (Still a five dollar savings over the website.) Is it worth it? We really enjoyed ours this year, so buying a new one seems to be a no-brainer decision. But first I shall tally up what we've used so far (with another two months before the 2009 coupons expire), amounts approximate, and see if the actual numbers match the perception of value:

• 3 Tomatoes and a Mozzarella - $12 (definitely dodged half of a bullet - too bland for us)
• Atomic Testing Museum - $12 (since Mike still has no govt-issued local ID - we really should fix that - although his green card renewal was just approved, all zippity-snap, and this one is good for 10 years)
• Coyote's Cafe and Cantina - $20 (plus we discovered a new fave restaurant)
• Sammy's Woodfired Pizza - $20 (still find it bizarre that the menu doesn't match the name or the decor)
• SuperMex - $10 (again, I'm glad we found out cheaply that there is no good 24-hour Mexican food in Las Vegas)
• The Greens Buffet - $10 (an edible buffet in Primm?! Miss Ashley's left us so scarred.)
• Viva Michoacan - $12 (another terrific find, courtesy of the book)
• Borders - $4

That was it? Eight coupons? Really?
Update: Mike reminds me that we used a coupon at El Burrito, home of the $17 nachos. Still - only nine coupons?

To be fair, we did try to go to a couple more restaurants, but they went out of business after the book was published. (And have since been joined by several others. Sharper Image, La Cage, Linens-N-Things, The Melting Pot... Melting Pot? Really? Supposedly the Summerlin location will reopen soon, but not soon enough for there to be a coupon in the new book.)

So, we spent about $20 and saved about $100, for a profit of $80, plus the discovery of two great restaurants and one pretty good restaurant, not to mention the bonus of not paying full price for the two places we had already wanted to try (and ended up not liking at all).

Conclusion? The 2009 book was a good value.

It's only September: how much more value can we realistically crank out of this amazing work of literature? These are the coupons I'd really like to use in the next eight weeks before the book expires:

• Cafe Heidelberg - $12 (apparently they do a toasted and breaded Camembert sandwich with cucumber salad?)
• Bed, Bath, and Beyond - at least $3 (we need a new humidifier filter)
• CSN Planetarium - $5 (or $10 if it's really good; there are two coupons)
• Las Vegas Natural History Museum - $8 (but they have the same coupon on their website right now, so this may not count)
• Regal Entertainment Group - $4, up to thirty-two times (too bad I never remembered these coupons, right at the front of the book, each time we went to the movies this year... although we pretty much just go to Rave at Town Square now)
• Tropical Smoothie Cafe - $5 (this will happen - I will stop paying full price because I left the book at home - arrrgh)
• Sammy's Woodfired Pizza - $9 (again? They may as well call this Sammy's Entertainment Book)
• The Maple Tree - $8 (I just like the name of this breakfast place and since seeing it have been determined to visit)
• Viva Michoacan (whoa, I just saw the fine print that says I can print out a new VM coupon on the Entertainment website every month? wooooo! And.... hold on.... VM is not in the new 2010 book, so they're no longer listed on the website, so I can't print a coupon, and now I am sad.)

  BUYER BEWARE: your web-based coupons are no longer available when a new book comes out, even though your print coupons are good through November.

• Cold Stone Creamery - $5 (because ours is now actually back in business)
• Luv It Frozen Custard - $5? (file this under Good Intentions - I know it's a Vegas institution and my visit is overdue)
• Pike's Pass Miniature Golf - $? (because it was too windy to play on top of Carnival Splendor and I am still unsatisfied)
• Borders - $? (it's a bookstore; I'll find something)

Boy, now I'm kind of tired, thinking of all these places to go. Since this book has already paid for itself and then some, maybe I could get the new book and hit the ones I missed in 2010? Except for Viva Michoacan, of course.

Or Bed, Bath, and Beyond.
Or Luv-It Frozen Custard.
Or Cold Stone Creamery.
Or Tropical Smoothie Cafe.
Or Borders.

Because none of those are in the new edition. And Cafe Heidelberg has gone from 2-for-1 to 20% off.

Um.

I wonder what it costs to put your coupon in the book? I wonder if the advertisers have been taking a beating from the coupons that they can no longer afford?

I looked over the website for the 2010 book and... I don't know. I guess we'll see how spiffy the planetarium is, or maybe buy the book online later in the year when it is cheaper.

Dang.

Previously: Waving in Passing

Waving in Passing

I have posts in progress, posts written in the minutes (okay, it's me, in the half-hours) before bedtime that fizzle out into To Be Continueds. They are never continued. The Mazatlan photos sit there. I manage to get most of my juice down before I whimper across the living room, every bone creaking the story of the day, and pass out by 8:00.

But at least I sleep all night (so far)! It's like being injected with Smart Pills! I'm more patient with the kids, better able to avoid well-intentioned "funny" sarcasm (I've given up - too many just don't get it), more capable of soldiering on long after school hours (although I hope that stops soon), and right now I don't have a single kid that I hope places or levels out of my class in the next few weeks.

Mike returns to subbing tomorrow. Please keep your fingers crossed that a permanent vacancy will appear at his favourite school after Count Day. (And if not that, then any handy school.) Count Day is when the state counts up all of the enrolled kids and pays the schools $4000 + 800 each. (See how I evade the Googlies?) Until that day, the kid could be absent every day after registration, and we're not going to touch him. After Count Day? You get bounced for non-attendance. I don't make these rules.

Today was Day Four. Two kids have already been absent since Registration. I got about 10 new kids today. Fourth day of school, ten new kids. My biggest class is 39. I sat on the floor while they tested, while one kid used the remaining chair for a desk. Same old. No one ever complains. Same old.

I'm not shocked anymore, but I try to be. One of my best and brightest from last year was visiting this morning. "I wasn't supposed to be here for another month." "Why not?" "My mom wanted to visit family." "What? A month?" "Yeah, well, I haven't seen my cousins for four years." "A month?!" "I know, I know, but she was going to make me go." "A month?!"

And here I go again. (And here the taxpayers go again, paying $4000+800 for a student who takes month-long vacations throughout the year, and who always gets these vacations "excused" because who bothers investigating the sick grandma story? Even when the story is given two weeks in advance on the pre-approved absence form? Or here the taxpayers go again, gaining a student who wasn't there on Count Day, so the $4000+800 provided for your child gets chipped away for the newcomer and the one hundred newcomers that follow. I assume, that is. Maybe that's not how it works? But if not, then why is Count Day so vital?)

Tested the kids for reading today. Most didn't finish the test in one class period this year, but they're polite (so far), so I'm staying positive. (Respectful kids are a joy to teach, regardless of ability.)

I'm not sure, though, from the department email, if this year they have to be at beginning 4th grade reading level or closer to 5th grade level to stay in regular 9th grade English.

(I typed that last sentence without crying. Is my cookie coming via FedEx or via regular mail?)

Previously: Late and Lounging in the Pulp

Late and Lounging in the Pulp

It's after four a.m. I blame literacy. And a little chocolate Haagen-Dazs.

Some books read this summer, all on the Kindle, all causing the Book Budget Graph to continue its climb towards Maine:

Julie and Julia. (I'm not italicizing out of respect for the staggering hour. Sorry.) I remember when the blog that became this book was going on, back when I read Amateur Gourmet pretty regularly and was used to seeing links to people cooking their way through cookbooks. I liked the J/J site, but since JC was often and understandably meat-oriented, I stopped reading because so much didn't apply. The book, though, I liked, in a breezy, companionable way. I've decided I enjoy memoirs, and isn't that what blogs often are?

The Tulip and the Pope. I'm turn to this one now and again for a few pages, which isn't really a ringing endorsement. It's a quiet book about being a nun and, eventually, if I can stop reading other things, I believe it will be about discontinuing being a nun. We shall see.

Snuff. I didn't think I was the sort of person who would enjoy a Chuck Palahniuk novel, but apparently I am... although I'm still not sure if Hitler invented the first sex doll, or if I'm supposed to highlight that passage and mark it VERISIMILITUDE, while admiring the narrative structure. In fact, I almost wanted to email one of my former professors and say, have you read this book? It shifts between four points of view, moving the story along while mostly taking place in a closed space, inside of an hour. Like Wolff's "Kew Gardens," except it's about an adult film star making her farewell porno as she gang-bangs a record-setting 600 men. But maybe that's not for everybody.

Comfort Me with Apples. I'd read Reichl's last memoir, the one about being the NY Times food critic. This one was less "fun," but still entertaining. Mind you, I wasn't expecting the tale to turn to adultery while early on, but even I remember enough of the 70s to just shrug. (It was all like Judy Blume's Wifey, right?)

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. This is surely the standout book of the lot, and it deserves every accolade that's been keeping it in the public eye. An epistolatory novel! (See, I have to use big words to reassure myself that, in just two weeks, I can teach AP classes.) I learned so much about Guernsey during World War II, the book creating the thirst for such info a perfect two-steps-ahead of delivering it. A book that ruins you for other books which, strangely, is just the kind of book readers love, innit?

New Moon. Not really. I tried. I tried and tried and tried. I bought it, even. I tried so hard. I want to love what the rest of you love! But it's just. so. boring. Like, I almost want to see a doctor. "Doc, I love vampire books. Love YA. Love details. Love epics. Love romance. Would love to love these books. Help!"

Good in Bed. Recommended across the internet because it has a plus-size heroine. Energetic chick lit. Nothing to dislike. (Unlike Bella! And Edward! And, argh, Alice!)

The Lovely Bones. Started as an audio book years ago, and finally finished it. Certainly original, and I'd probably recommend it on that alone. I want to whine about this or that, but then I come back to all of the things the book didn't give me, like some mindless but satisfying revenge, and it creates an empty space that - and I hope I'm not being annoying overblown - is like the empty space of Susie's death. You have to work to fill it. (Susie dying isn't a spoiler. You're going to find out in the second sentence.) Anyway, I really liked Susie and wanted much more of her (but, again, the denial of that was maybe calculated?), and I'm so impressed that we could have a point of view from beyond the grave without a lot of drama. But, the sex scene was silly, and I was so into Susie that I could never care about her family as they moved on, and I don't know how I feel about the arty classmate. But I like thinking about what I didn't like, so somehow that equals a thumbs-up. I don't want to read it again, but thumbs-up.

Bet Me. Oops. Remember when I said that "Good in Bed" was "energetic chick lit." I was thinking of "Bet Me." GiB is paced well, but it wasn't as light as Bet Me, and forget what I said about "nothing to dislike." That's Bet Me again, whereas GiB plays it "deep" at times in a way that reaches beyong the capabilities of the book. Oh, and having a celebrity suddenly become your BFF which leads to a sudden movie deal and no more income worries? Deus ex machina, and not in the forgiveable sense. But "Bet Me"? Yeah, that was fine.

The Forest of Hands and Teeth. I've never read a zombie novel before. I liked this one. Have you ever thought about zombie (or even vampire) babies, helpless in their cradles? It's a compelling image. I'd call this the zombie book for people who are open-minded but think they are above zombie books.

When You Are Engulfed in Flames. Well, who doesn't like David Sedaris? If you think you don't, are you sure? Have you read (or heard) his Six to Eight Black Men essay? I wish I could read him for the first time all over again.

There's more, but I'm tired, and Mike won't feel loved if I don't shove him to one side of the bed, coating the last of the night with guilt for sprawling in my absence. Judith is sleeping. Mary is sleeping. Heidi is... is she? is she? yes, finally sleeping. Koda is sleeping. Only Evelyn runs, runs, runs in the night.

Evelyn, the one who stole the "secret hamster" title from Koda.

And since Koda is out in society, we will close with this photo:

Previously: An Hour or So in Cabo San Lucas

An Hour or So in Cabo San Lucas

The stop in Cabo San Lucas was short; we were scheduled to depart at the very early 2:30 in the afternoon.

People complain about this on the ship and on board, as if the captain just hates Cabo or something, but the early departure is necessary if the ship is to make it back to Los Angeles in time. After all, Cabo is on the very southern tip of Baja California.

We actually made it to Cabo ahead of schedule as there was some medical emergency on board. Mike opened his eyes enough to see the boats racing toward ours, but I slept through it all. The captain later said the young lady in question was going to be fine, but didn't share any further details. Everyone likes a happy ending, even so.

We first saw Cabo on the way to Puerto Vallarta. It was around tea time (note: do NOT skip tea time - the scones, the cuke sandwiches.... *pleasureroll*) on a sea day, and we were looking at sand across the water:

"Cabo!" said a passing waiter. "Cabo?" We were doubtful. Where?

Cabo San Lucas is a strange, to me, landscape of desert running up to water. I get enough desert at home, but I wouldn't have minded seeing the glassblowing factory. However, after our seven hours of adventure in Mazatlan (photos and description saved for last), we didn't want another tour, or even a taxi ride longer than five minutes. Meh, I've seen glassblowing before. Next time.

So, we decided to do the "get off the boat and see what happens" approach that worked so well in Ensenada and eventually well in Puerto Vallarta.

It was already past 11, so we set the bar nice and low. We passed people coming back in from morning excursions. "So hot," a man complained. "Too hot. Unbelievable. You'll be right back on the ship, I promise you."

Cabo San Lucas is a tendered port. Here is one of the tenders:

Parasailers (parasailors?) were everywhere, like puffs of popcorn.

Here is a photo I took later, of the port. In the foreground you can see a boat that is taking away one of the tender docks from the ship.

We passed some former America's Cup competitors. Here's one of the Young Australias:

Before this, I didn't know that it's common to have twins of a boat, in case something happens. You can go out on either of the YAs, although Mike tells me it performed "uneventfully" in the race and didn't make the finals. (Being a killjoy is just a hobby, but I think I have a real knack for it.)

We spent most of our time in Cabo in two places. The first place was the pier where we tendered.

If you look behind Mike, you can see where we spent the rest of our time: the Marina Mercado Arts & Crafts Market.

Honestly, this was perfect. If there was one thing we wanted to do in Cabo - my vague cravings to watch glassblowing aside - it was to make one more attempt to find a chess set as pretty as the ones we passed up in Ensenada. I'd also gotten into my head that I wouldn't mind a little group of carved animals. Maybe elephants?

So we walked all the way - 15 steps? 20 steps? - off the pier to the blessedly indoor mercado. It's not that it was hot out. In fact, it was far less punishing than in PV or sea-level Mazatlan. Maybe the guy just didn't like a dry heat? We were just avoiding the sun as always. Sure, vampires are trendy, but no one has yet tapped into the lore of vampires that prefer stretch pants to leather trenchcoats, video games to sparkly seduction, cruising to crypts.

OMG. Totally calling dibs on the "Fat, Thirty-nearly-Forty-something Cruise Vampires" premise. And they can suck the blood of people who smuggle in their own beer or who wear jeans to Elegant Night! In fact, they work for the cruise line. And they get to cruise for free. And they're allowed a separate stateroom for their hamsters. I mean, their familiars. Because they're witch-vampires. And they've conjured a special spell that allows them to subsist on warm chocolate melting cake instead of blood. Yeah.

You know, there are a lot of Eastern Europeans working on Carnival's ships. This is totally plausible. Call me, Simon and Schuster.

And here is Mike again, ready for several more minutes of good times on the pier. We didn't find a chess set, but we did get a family of four carved elephants. I let Mike do the negotiating. Our guy was pretty stubborn, but six bucks for the cute little fellows seemed quite reasonable.

(This would be a good place for a photo. Oops, I didn't dig that out yet. I guess I'm adding bread crumbs to the blog fodder to stretch it out for later.)

Back on the pier, we admired the pelicans and practiced crab-spotting.

Here, why not watch a whole video about it?

(And now you know why not.)

Back on the ship - yes, home again already! - I can't remember what we did. Ate, of course. By 2:30, Mike was lightly zonked out for his nap. Because he's old and/or relaxed like that. I sat on the balcony, watching the tenders bring back the stragglers, opening the door to change lenses or to tell Mike that we still hadn't left yet. It's cute when people who are mostly asleep try to hold up their end of the conversation.

I zoomed in like this:

And zoomed out like this:

And took 500-jillion photos of people on the beach, jet skis, parasailing - of which only a merciless few were uploaded to Flickr. "Here's a blurry pic of other people, people who are far more sporty or drinky. Here's another one. Oh, here they are at another angle. And another. And slightly to the left. Wow, must've forgotten to let go of the shutter button there. And here's another resort. Another. Another."

Believe me, the culling process of those photos has expedited my sainthood application tenfold. Here are all the ones that did make it to Flickr, but only look if you're just madly in love with Cabo and want to see a whole 20 other pictures that even I wasn't willing to include in this post.

Prudence aside, forgive me for the coming excess of rather ordinary Mazatlan photos. The new school year is looming, and I'm not ready to wake up.

Previously: Goals for the Scraps of Summer

Goals for the Scraps of Summer

• Post about Cabo San Lucas.
• Post about Mazatlan.
• Sort out photos for both.
• Post about Evelyn, the most secret dwarf hamster since Koda.
• Take more photos of Koda.
• Casually mention, often, that I just bought a class set of King Lear with my own money. With extra throat clearing if the governor is listening. The governor who wants to cut teacher pay because it isn't fair for the taxpayers to shoulder the state's budget problems. But teachers? Pack mules, apparently.
• Start cooking through some cookbooks, a la Julie & Julia.
• See Julie & Julia.
• Go to the Atomic Museum.
• Play more bingo.
• Buy new blouses for work, ones without soup stains.
• Get the oil changed.
• Get the really big pond in Farm Town on Facebook.
• Finish writing detailed lesson plans for the first semester, for every class.
• See Up. Even though Mike wants to see it in 2D. (Those glasses usually make his head hurt.)
• Wish away the tumor that's popped up on Heidi's leg.
• Scrapbook something. The more something, the better.
• Clean the vacuum cleaner, which is bagless, which means going to the balcony in the middle of the night, when it's not screaming hot, wearing about-to-be-washed-anyway clothes, to clean the container.
• Do more with our silicone baking mats/pans because, whoa, they're amazing!
• Go into work at least one day before it's mandatory, just to help the transition.
• Read.
• Read.
• Read.
• Read.
• Read.
• Get Mike to work out with me to one of the zillion "Shimmy" episodes I've TiVo'd. I've never seen one, but it sounds like just the thing.
• Read.
• Reeeeaaaaaad!

Oh summer!

Previously: Apples and Oranges and Kiwis and Nectarines

Apples and Oranges and Kiwis and Nectarines

This week's New Yorker has a damning, and slightly erroneous (did the NYer have to lay off some fact-checkers?), article on the Kindle.

I read said article on my Kindle, ad-free, upon the instant of publication, while highlighting interesting passages and looking up the odd word, on a comfortable e-paper screen that didn't glaze my eyes like shiny magazine paper and smooshy columns are like to do.

As I've said here before, the Kindle is not for everyone. And, as the article's author chronicled his journey with the device, it would be completely fair if by the end he decided and articulated, for this reason and that, that this particular e-reader, or maybe no current e-reader, was meant for him.

That's cool.

After all...

If you want a touch-screen, you don't want a Kindle. (Try the Sony.)
If you want backlighting, you don't want a Kindle. (Try the Sony.)
If proprietary formats offend you, even when one is not restricted to just those formats, you don't want a Kindle. (Maybe you don't even want a computer.)
If you want to read textbooks or PDFs, especially ones with graphs and detailed images, you don't want a Kindle. (You want a Kindle DX.)
If you're a total Barnes & Noble fanboy, you may not want a Kindle. (B&N is launching their copycat reader ASAP.)
If you want your reader to be more than a reader, you probably don't want a Kindle. (Query: do you ask your paperbacks to make toast?)

But.

If you want a paper-like screen, you may want a Kindle. (Not an iPhone. Not an iPod.)
If you want a paperback-size screen, you may want a Kindle. (Not an iPhone. Not an iPod.)
If you want to be able to change font sizes when you read, you may want a Kindle.
If you want to read for hours a day, going weeks without charging, you want a Kindle.
If you want a slimmer-than-slim device that can handle repeated conks to the noggin, you want a Kindle.
If you want to sample the first chapter or of any book you're thinking about purchasing, you want a Kindle. (And only a Kindle.)
If you want to read magazines, like the New Yorker, on an e-reader, you want a Kindle. (And only a Kindle.)
If you want to read newspapers on an e-reader, you want a Kindle. (And only a Kindle.)
If you want books, magazines, newspapers, and blogs to be delivered within seconds to your Kindle, on schedule or on demand, whether you are in the middle of a cornfield or a busy airport, you want a Kindle. (And only a Kindle.)

Obviously, as a fan of my Kindle 2, I'm eager to promote it, but I love it so much, I'd never recommend it blindly and wholesale. Your needs and wishes are your own. For some people, the extra device is nonsense. They're fine with reading on their iPhone, and the Kindle app for iPhones means they get all of the benefits in a format they like. Super!

Some people love books so much that the smooth, sterile plastic case of the Kindle or any e-reader will only disappoint. The luxury of paper, vellum, leather, or that foil-embossing on V.C. Andrews paperbacks  will in no way be replicated on this gadget. But still - no problem! One size does not fit all, and that includes the reading experience.

(I said once before, "I love books, but I love reading more." My love of reading, not books, and the way I read is part of why the Kindle works for me. But - I'm not done with books. Out of prints, illustrateds... the masterfully produced book still has a welcome place.)

Likewise, some people love to share their books, or cast them away for profit, and at this time no one has implemented "send this book to a friend" or "sell this book to a waiting buyer" buttons on the Kindle. The generous and the broke may therefore demur for now, but me, I'd rather gain the storage space than wait for the best of all worlds.

I do really like my "Sell This Book" idea, but I can't see every party getting on board. I'm thinking you could, say, put the book on offer for 25% of the purchase price. You can't sell it without a willing buyer, but the book is removed from the device as soon as you list it, as if you'd dropped it off at the consignment store. If other people are selling the book, it's a matter of getting in the queue as soon as possible. First offered, first sold. Along comes a buyer, who buys the copy at 75% of the list price. That leaves 50% floating around to cover Amazon's administration fees and soothe the publisher's hurty spots. Maybe there would also be a cap, like you could only sell or buy X number of "used" books per month, and that number would go up as you bought more "new" books.)

Oops, I forgot about the non-profit-minded. So, say you want to give a book to a friend. Based on the number of purchases, you are allowed to send X number of books to a friend's Kindle. (As in the selling scenario, it is then deleted from your device at the moment of the transfer request.) Maybe you have to pay a gifting fee. Maybe you can only send half of the book, and the receiver can buy the second half for a smaller price. Maybe the transfer gets tagged, and it can only be sent so many times. Maybe it can't be sent back to you when done. (Has no one ever had a friend trash their borrowed book before?)

Here's heh-ness for you: the Author's Guild of Supreme Wankerness spazzed out at Amazon for enabling text-to-speech on books, even though t-t-s is no substitute for a well-made audio book, Meanwhile, the Author's Guild of Supreme Wankerness has been known to spazz out at the entire Internet for making used books that much easier to buy. Where was even a grudging commendation of the Kindle and other readers for helping deflate the used book market? Wankers.

Oh dear. I've gone to Tangent Town, and it's not my first time to clop down its Main Street.

It's absolutely fine to say, "The Kindle is rubbish for me."

It's absolutely fine to say, "I like the idea, but the Kindle is inadequate for my tastes. I'll get something else. Or I'll wait until the technology I want is available."

It's even fine to say, "Here are the Kindle's shortcomings, and therefore everyone who thinks they're enjoying the Kindle for hours and hours every day is deluded." You'll come off as a self-centered idiot, but hopefully you'll be fair about the device's faults.

(Truly, I don't get the people who claim Kindle-lovers are just trendy gadgetheads who don't know the joy of a paper book. Dang, if Amazon has invented something to get non-reading noses into stories, then we're burying the lead here.)

My objection to the New Yorker's article started with the author's claims of a "green" screen (Green? Kindle owners across the Internet are puzzling over that one.), continued with the author's smugness over certain titles not being available (Amazon boasts that over 300k books are available for the Kindle - could you not read between the lines on that one?), continued continuing over his moans that the Kindle 2 is still a "version 1" product (so, was Amazon supposed to hold out on several major improvements until everythng could be implemented?), boggled me beyond repair when paragraphs were dedicated to how something was supposedly funnier in print because of the print version's slightly different typeface, and by the time we got to his advocating iPhones over Kindles, I knew this reviewer did not know what he was reviewing.

It's about the e-ink, stupid.

It's all about the e-ink. The wireless, the samples, the slimness, the price breaks, the dictionary, the clips, the highlights, the magazines, the blogs, the newspapers, the immediacy, the emailed documents, the way I've owned one for four months and have never plugged it into my computer, yes, yes, yes...

But it begins with the e-ink. And if you're saying, even thinking, "just get an iPhone and load the Kindle app," then you're not in a position to reasonably review the Kindle device. The Kindle is not for you. You don't even understand what the Kindle is.

And that's okay.
For you.
But not for the New Yorker readers wondering why a dedicated reading device is so popular, in a world already full of smartphones, in a world where those who love to read tend to also love the tradition of books.

There was no story. How Amazon then Bezos personally handled the 1984 debacle was a story. Competition from Barnes and Noble and the race to emerge as the iPhone of e-readers is a story. The Kindle's impact - if any - on non-readers is a story. The Kindle's impact on readers and the flailing publishing houses is a story. (I've spent more on books since getting the Kindle than I've spent in the past... well, I'd rather my husband not know how much I've spent.) The politics behind the Kindle DX and universities is a story. Hacking the Kindle is a story. And again, why a dedicated reader is flourishing when everyone is marketing Swiss Army Knife technology is a story.

What Nicholson Baker wrote was a hasty blog entry. (I know a little something about long-winded, self-indulgent blog entries that, had they been meant for anyone beyond myself and those forced to love me, could've used an edit or thirty.) Get out of my magazine and get your own blog, Mr. Baker.

P.S. Green? Really? Who's your optometrist?

Previously: Puerto Vallarta

Puerto Vallarta

Our plan for Puerto Vallarta was based on our experiences in Ensenada: disembark from the cruise ship, look for a local shuttle to the downtown area, hang out for an hour or two, go back to the Splendor and enjoy the extra peace that comes with most of the ship's population staying in port until 10 p.m.

It's not that Puerto Vallarta doesn't have much to offer; the list of shore excursions was two pages long. But, you know, this is us.

Arthur Frommer (apparently) refuses to classify cruising as "real" travel, since at best you get only a small sample of your various destinations. It's true that once upon a time I didn't understand why people would, say, bop into Mexican ports on a cruise, and not just (possibly) save some money and stay in Mexico for a week instead, really getting to see more of the country.

But now I get that the cruise ship is more than just transportation, and there's a reason people go on "Cruises to Nowhere."

And if Frommer really said that, about the "real" travel, then he's a git. I don't think it's any more noble to spend your vacation sitting on a hotel beach, yet his books and blog entries don't scold those who do that.

Speaking of hotel beaches, many of the ship's tours to PV involved taking people to spend time at a "luxury resort." Read the boards: folks get very excited about the best hotel day pass. Not that there's anything wrong with that, especially perhaps if you live in Minnesota and don't get a lot of beach time.

But we are not beach people. Wait. Not quite true. I do love beaches, but the thought of just sitting on one makes me cry, especially if sunshine is involved, and even more especially if it's hot. It was very hot in Puerto Vallarta. And muggy.

And of course anything sporty - ATVs, kayaking, zip lines - was out. The dolphin/sea lion encounters sounded neat, but they ask you not to wear sunscreen, and I don't last long without sunscreen. (And then I get chills and sniffles when I get even a little sunburnt. Why yes, I did freshly escape from an Edith Wharton novel, thanks for asking.)

Also, one person said their meet-n-greet with a sea lion was really, really sad. The poor thing was in a nasty cage and wearing a shock collar. They went through a local tour provider, I think, instead of a sanitized and sanctioned Carnival tour, but it still made me wary.

The "Countryside Adventure" tour looked right up our alley. Only one stylized figure on the "level of activity" icon, mostly on an air-conditioned bus, with an emphasis on history and culture. But... four hours? When, after two "Fun Days at Sea," we were still really into the ship? When we had a seven-hour bus tour planned for Mazatlan the next day?

And so, your honor, that's why we decided to just stick our noses into PV then run back to our floating Western debauchery.

The plan mostly, eventually worked.

After a misty, muggy arrival in port, we lolled around, reminding ourselves that it's always hotter on the balcony than it is on the ground. We strolled off the boat around 10, I guess. I don't really remember. The camera, the ship, and Puerto Vallarta are on three different times. (Actually, the camera may have been on ship time. I don't know. I forget if it's set for or against DST.) Mid-morning, let's say.

The souvenir photo gauntlet was out in force, and of course we sidestepped it all. (A photo of it and the rest of the PV photos, half of which won't be in this post, is here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/hamsters/tags/puertovallarta/show/. I wasn't jazzed about how most of the photos came out, but that's another story.)

We walked past all of the tour placards and through something called the "Jungle," which ended up being a little (trapped) spot for tourists to enter and interact with parrots on their way to the street. Here's Mike showing off his parrot-karate moves:

Once on the street? Nothing. Taxis, yes, but where was the "Hi, this is the friendly shuttle for people who just want to glimpse the boardwalk and downtown area!" option. You know, like the two-buck ride we had in Ensenada.

We peered at the map given out by the cruise ship. Sorry, given out by the cruise ship's "Shopping Expert," which means it was a nearly useless grid of how to best get to Diamonds International. I'd WTF?! all over this , but it seems that a lot of people are really into getting jewelry at these places, often citing the "triple appraisal value" they get back home.

(I do wonder if they get their US-bought jewelry appraised? Because back in the day, when I wore finer things, my rings always appraised at more than triple the purchase cost. Never minding the artificial scarcity and blood politics involved in the gem market, I think much-higher-than-purchase appraisals are the norm, and thus not a good reason to salivate over making an "investment" while in port. Not that I'd ever begrudge anyone their idea of a good time, but buy the jewelry because you like it, not because you think you can't get this deal in the US. Stories of the cruise ship's Shopping Expert being so amazed at what you bought and reassuring you that you got a great deal? Yeah, I'm not convinced. Let's see, what does she get paid to do, again?)

Could we walk to the Malecon (boardwalk)? Oops, no, not with that wall there. How about we step into this little marketplace? Eh, everything looks like crap. And it's so hot. And so muggy. And we love the ship. Let's go back on the ship.

So we went through Customs, me disgruntled and Mike willing to do whatever, he was just happy to be there, etc. You know his happy-go-lucky, good-natured ways. Pft. It's more than a crabapple (pronounce that the Simpsons way) like me can sometimes bear.

I stared at the big map inside the terminal. The thing to do, obviously, was get a cab. I knew that. Mike had mentioned it. But I wasn't up to dealing with the taxi.

That last sentence will not make any sense to some people. If it doesn't, I don't think there's anything I can do to explain it. (Partially because I'm not a good 'splainer about emotional matters.) If the last sentence does make sense, then I don't need to explain it any further.

Eventually Mike asked if I wanted him to arrange a taxi. Yes, please.

Once at the sedan, we found another couple already inside, an older couple who'd come to Long Beach for the square dancing convention. I felt bad that they'd been sitting in the cab, waiting for the driver to find more people to stuff in for more money. Then again, they were on their way to Diamonds International, so maybe they like sitting in taxis. (Those DI people are such a mystery to me.)

We asked the driver (after a short drive that, nevertheless, was far beyond our walking interests) to let us off by the Virgen de Guadalupe church, which on the map seemed to be near both the sea and a small market. For about 30 seconds, we seemed to have landed outside the tourism zone, for better or for worse.

Then a small tour group appeared out of nowhere and marched upon the church steps, and we slipped in with them, getting the essential "tourists descend on house of worship for 90 seconds, then leave" shot:

There were enough ware-sellers around the church, including a nun, for me not to feel bad about "intruding." (It's not like there was a priest in action, anyway.)

(Me applying the "this photo is crap - let's over-process it and pretend it's Photoshop's fault" filter.)

We decided to walk through Los Arcos Plaza, heading east toward the market. I, of course, neglected to take photos of things like the Starbucks, the interesting shop signs, etc.

On the streets of PV, it's all about smiling and nodding and not breaking your stride as the relentless vendors step from each doorway and follow you - by voice or bodily - with the hard sell.

It must work, of course, since everyone does it and has been doing it for at least as long as I've been a south-of-the-border tourist (27 years), but I still found myself wanting to write the "Alternative Approaches for Getting American Tourist Dollars for Dummies" book. There were many shops where I wouldn't have minded a look, but unless I saw something in my first sideways glance, it wasn't worth the hassle. I know people say, "oh, just ignore the come-ons," and I do do that, when something has caught my eye, but otherwise, no, I guess it's not in my temperament to have a good time while someone is trying to make conversation, draw me to items, ask what I would pay for this, for that, for surely this essential thing.

Here's what would have worked on me: "Senora, Senor. if you wish to look in here, you can shop in peace. Mine is not like the other stores. I am here if you have questions, but I will let you look around. Please come in if you wish to see our wonderful (whatever the standout product is)."

I probably would've dropped $50 with such a merchant on principle. Even if all they sold was stupid Senor Frog knock-offs.

"Senor Frog's" is the Starbucks of Mexican tourist areas. I swear there's one on every corner. As far as I can tell, it's a trendy bar offering lots and lots of branded merchandise. And that's the nicest thing I can say about that. But again, it's popular,

Anyway, I'm giving away my Alternative Approach for Getting American Tourist Dollars spiel away for free in the name of furthering US/Mexico diplomatic relations. Also, if it works, maybe Mexico will get really rich and fewer people will undergo the peril and uncertainty of crossing the border. I'm all about solutions here. No one can say I spent my whole summer break playing Farm Town on Facebook.

I liked the Century 21 sign.

So, there was this bridge made up of wooden slats, hanging from ropes, as you can almost see in the background behind Mike above. Just past the flea market was this bridge, surrounded by lush (there really is no other word) green with the brown Rio Cuale running underneath. I planned to take some pics once we started walking across.

Unfortunately, walking across was all about survival. I watched Mike and the man in front of him lurch from side to side, grasping at ropes, while I whipped around and gave my teacher-eye to the two young girls behind us who were jumping up and down, making the bridge look like an excerpt from one of those Great Engineering Disasters programs that comes on every third hour on the Discovery channel.

(Anyone who has seen me teach knows that my teacher-eye is a mildly sullen device at best, so - without trying to think too hard about the wide gaps between the planks below - I just got across the bridge and then, greeted by the usual annoying merchant spiels on the other side, ignored the camera until we were out of the riverside market. A market that specialized in things like t-shirts that read, "I'm not a gynecologist, but I'll take a look.")

Just around the corner, though, the springs on the tourist trap released, and we were able to wander unbothered on the streets.

Maybe in the background you can see girls going to school? Everywhere in this area were individual girls in uniforms being walked to (or from?) school by women I assume were their mothers. The ratio was almost always 1:1, sometimes with a father instead of a mother, and the escorted kids were always girls. We did see some boys in school uniforms, but they traveled in small, unchaperoned packs.

It made me wonder if this is how it is every day, or just on days when the cruise ship rolls into port and releases a flood strangers upon the city.

Mike stepped into the Religious Goods store (last photo) to buy a made-with-sugar Squirt from the case just inside the entryway. Seven pesos or a dollar, but we - being cruise cattle in a tourist zone - hadn't bothered to exchange money, so he had to pay American-style. (Which is to say that not only did he pay with dollars, but he paid extra, and he felt generous instead of cheated.)

PV is pretty messy in places, but in other places it's pretty in the mess. This photo shows how much I abuse the circular polarizer filter on my regular lens. I always like what I see in the viewfinder, then I get home and wish I'd backed off. Unfortunately, we still have two more days' worth of port photos where I hadn't learned my lesson.

The polarizer is great if not magic when you want to get rid of glare off a window or something shiny, or maybe bump up the saturation a touch, but I always twirl it to max, and we end up with midnight skies at noon.

Which, actually, I like in the photo above, but for every photo like this, there are 20 that no one is going to see because I'm so embarrassed by my Canon-based klutziness.

One thing I really liked were the statues along the boardwalk. I wish we could have spent an hour walking along the beach, enjoying each one, posing, just breathing in the salt air that I miss so much in the desert.

However, the only thing we were breathing in was the muggy sweat of the broiling heat. We would trot across the street to admire a statue, then double-trot back to the shady sidewalk. Alas, we were back in hard-sell territory, worse than on the side streets before, so we pinballed between overbearing sun and overbearing people.

(Little-Known Factoid: Hieronymous Bosch successfully bargained for immortality. Today he designs statues to be placed along Puerto Vallarta's Malecon.)

(I can't help but point out that I'm correctly using "factoid" here. Yes, even I find myself insufferable at times.)

I think it has an aura of 1957 British Horror Movie about it, no? Or it's just me overcompensating in Photoshop again.

Again, it was so hot and so humid.

Heh. We are but the flavour of the day.

So, guess where you can take a moment to catch your breath, check your map, stand in the shade, and be unmolested by sellers of Cuban cigars and sundresses? Finally, McDonald's has some purpose in my life.

We continued walking to what seemed to be the edge of respectability, which turned out to be Diamonds International, and I swear that wasn't even an intentional dig. Beyond DI things briefly got seedier, and I remembered from the cab ride over that there wasn't much reason to continue west.

We grabbed a taxi back to the terminal. (Predictably, the fare was a couple of bucks more to return. Ten bucks, if I remember correctly? I know all things are negotiable, but when it's miserably hot and you just want to get back to your majestic cruise ship before the pleasantness of the outing takes a turn, you don't quibble over two bucks. Besides, anything I can do to make Mexico a better place to live...)

After lunch and rest and wandering and I forget what, Mike decided to leave the ship for a brief run across the street to Sam's Club or Wal-Mart. (Can you find him above?) First, there was the novelty of it. (Yes, how sad that WM is in PV, or even anywhere, but since it is, why not check out how it compares?) Second, Mike hoped to get more Squirt - again, the lovely sugar kind that we can't easily get in the corn-syrupy veins of the United States.

I decided to stay home. Mike's a fast walker. I'm a slow hobbler. Also, my shirt was still damp from the morning excursion. Ew. Instead, I chose to watch from the balcony:

Mike took a couple of photos inside of Sam's Club:

And I kept taking photos, the focus going soft from the humidity causing condensation on the lens:

(Note the English.)

The zoom lens was a lot of fun, too, as I watched people return or set out on excursions (we were in port until 10 p.m.):

Overall, I liked our little taste of Puerto Vallarta. I wish we'd walked back down Rio Cuale and gone to the museum, but it slipped my mind once we were out and about. I didn't see anything I wanted to buy (unlike in Mazatlan, Cabo, and previously in Ensenada), but, in the right weather, I'd happily stroll the beach, maybe try a restaurant. I know there's a lot more to see. Any place that has made a tourist spot out of a place called Playa de los Muertos has to be worth a second look.

Previously: Carnival Splendor: Wandering Inside

Carnival Splendor: Wandering Inside

This post is an excuse to show a few miscellaneous shots around the ship.

So, we decided to try miniature golf this time around. Unlike with Elation, which had the functional rectangles associated with Putt-Putt, Splendor's miniature golf was lightly themed in a pirate style. Nine holes, par usually around 2 or 3.

Up on Deck 13, though, it was too windy for words. Literally. And as many times as I knotted my hair out of the way, the wind demanded a more Medusa look. (That Poseidon. He never gets over anything.) As for game play, we had to keep moving our balls back into position as they were knocked around by the elements.

The deck between the top (Sports?) deck and ours (Spa) is the Sun deck, home of the adults-only Serenity area.

See? Through the clever placement of two walls, the kiddos are kept out.

(Usually. I've decided not to dwell on that one night.)

On Elation, the Serenity area was smaller, on the aft end of the ship (here we are near the bow), and overlooked by Lido deck diners above. Here, the Serenity area runs both port and starboard, with special relaxing chair and table sets (those in the shade not pictured) as well as the usual sunbathing.

One marked difference is that there are no hot tubs in Splendid's Serenity area as there are on Elation. But! Splendid does have two enormous hot tubs and a pool in an adults-only area on the back end of the Lido deck. So, everyone can be happy. Those grownups who wants a diaper-less water experience get one end of the ship, and those grownups who just want a diaper-less experience, period, get the other end.

People are often curious about the water slides on Carnival's Fun Ships.

Splendor's genuinely looked fun, but I have a bad history with water slides. Too many times, even when I was a slender young thing at the water parls, I would just stop in the middle when going down a slide. Then I'd have to crab-crawl my way down the rest while everyone felt bad for me. WOO HOO!

Most of the time this didn't happen, and I was still hitting the Disney World water parks even into my thirtysomething fattie years, but it happened enough to put me off any single-rider water slide where everyone is watching who comes down next. Position? Suit fabric? Proof of aliens in the family tree? I don't know.

The Lido deck is sort of the heart of the ship, with the buffet, the main pool, the minigolf supplies, the water slide pool, several hot tubs, and the big screen. Above, you can see the screen at night, sort of in "screensaver" mode. A different movie is shown every night, usually something that is currently on pay-per-view. (Usually also something that will be shown in your cabin later during the week.)

The nearby bar sells popcorn on movie nights, but here we see Mike putting his soda card to use.

Often there are events by the big screen, like Hairy Chest contests, Ice Sculpting, and live music. A couple of afternoons also featured karaoke. If you were to participate in poolside karaoke, this would be your view of the audience:

Except, given the popularity of the karaoke, those chairs would be full of people, and next to them would be buckets of beer. If I had to face that, I'd have a bucket of beer, too.

The guy who oversaw the karaoke was very good, and I'm not just saying that because of the time two guys performed "Ice, Ice, Baby," and after they left the stage the host seamlessly segued into "Under Pressure." Or because he lightly mentioned Blondie's "Rapture" when someone claimed to be singing "the first rap song." (I know Rapture isn't technically the first rap song, but we're talking to sweeping generalizations of mainstream radio here.) Or because he lightly made personal disclaimers against a song with a bunch of (muted out) n-words and f-bombs, but did so without being preachy, and in the end he still played it. (Let the losers hang themselves.)

Those are all fine reasons, but another reason was Pip. (Not his real name.) Our introduction to Pip came early on in the cruise, when Mike and I went "clubbing." Meaning, we sort of wandered from bar to bar, sticking our heads in, then continuing on to the next sight. We stopped, though, when we came to the Red Carpet Lounge.

See the mannequins waiting to get in? That's how elite it is.

There were only about a dozen or so other people inside, and no one was on the disco fever-lit dance floor. No one, except Pip.

"We've got our own Star Wars Kid, here," Mike said.

That was Pip. But, unlike the SWK, Pip was great at what he was doing, which was dancing to the music, oblivious of the world. He was so fun to watch, so clearly having a great time, that it took me a few minutes before I realized that he had Down's Syndrome. (Also, he was moving fast!)

Fast-forward to afternoon karaoke. We have our four guys with their gangsta rap. A Steve Dallas-lookalike singing "Brandy." A disappointingly scarf-less chick with "Rhiannon." And then... Pip!

Pip started out with two friends, who sort of faded away back to their seats once things got going. His song? "Lean on Me."

Yes, picture it: a passionate young man with Down's Syndrome singing "Lean on Me," which he just dedicated to his two best friends. I dare you not to mist up.

Unfortunately, Pip's singing ability was not on the same level as his dance moves, and I could see passers-by stopping to look over the rail (we were on Deck 10, above the pool) and see what all the caterwauling was about. Luckily everyone quickly realized what was up and didn't say anything cruel that would have required an Incident from me. (Like Pip, I am passionate but not always effective, and although I can be decently savage on paper, caustic remarks in person just come out kind of unsure and peevish.)

"Lean on Me" is a surprisingly long song, or maybe it just seemed that way, once the "awww, that's beautiful, man" moment had passed. Pip seemed to know this, too, as he tried to get a few people from the audience to join him. No takers, but the karaoke host and his assistant came over on Pip's command. So then we had the three of them, arm in arm, singing I'll be your friend, I'll help you carry on...

(Sniff.)

When the aforementioned karaoke session started, we were standing in line at Camp Carnival, hoping they would sell us a Build-a-Buddy kit, even though we'd missed the sale by about 30 minutes. People on the boards had said you could show up anytime and just buy a kit to take back to your room.

Um, no. After queueing up for ten minutes with parents who seemed to be making reservations for later, we were told to come back at the end of the cruise, on the last sea day, for the next time the teddy bears (and such) were on sale. Oh. Okay.

We did make it back, and above you can see the closet where they keep all of the little outfits for the different plush toys. (We went with a crocodile and a sailor suit.) It's not really as exciting as Build-a-Bear - no huge fluff machines - but you get a birth certificate and a nice box, good for holding even more souvenirs, especially if you wait until you get home to stuff your crocodile.

(We still haven't stuffed ours. I don't know if we're waiting for an extra happy moment or a sad moment when we need a happy moment.)

Another cute moment was the Towel Animal Workshop. I came down to the "Spectacular, Spectacular" showroom (kind of seen above) on my own to join what they said was the biggest towel animal class ever.

They urged everyone on stage to spread their towels out, but we had so many people that many of us stayed in the booths, and some people worked in the aisles.

The first animal was, per audience suggestion, an elephant. Apparently elephants are difficult? I don't know because I wasn't watching the main presenter. Instead, we had another steward working our section, demonstrating the process of turning a hand towel and a bath towel into a little Babar. And by "demonstrating" I mean "doing it for us."

But, he was very eager that we should know these linen mysteries, so everyone just sort of went with it. He was the same way with the frog that followed. The couple in front of me kept taking theirs apart to try it on their own, but then our steward took that as the cue to go around individually and show everyone how to make even more animals. I got a bear, whereas the rest of the showroom was barely done with the frog when they had to clear the stage for "Win a Cruise" bingo. So, it worked out.

Mike had finished his shower and joined me by the time the Win a Cruise bingo game was about to start. Needless to say, we didn't win. Instead, there were two bingo winners, so they had a "draw the highest number" showdown.

I felt sorry for the family that lost, but then later that afternoon, in the Robusto cigar lounge, they sat near us at the General Knowledge Trivia. Again, we had two winners tie for first place, although "winner" is a bit of a fudge-word. All I'm saying is that the trivia host was absolutely wrong when he said the Isle of Man is part of the United Kingdom, and he was more or less wrong when he said that the black widow is the most poisonous spider in the world. (As far as I can tell, it all comes down to how you define "poisonous," and even then the black widow may not be number one.) Then he said we weren't allowed to challenge any of his answers, which turned all of the whispered grumbles around the room into much louder sighs. Mike and I both have experience with poorly run trivia games, so we just shrugged, figuring we'd lose on all of the sports questions, anyway.

So, this family sitting near us was very upset when the answer to the spider question wasn't Brown Recluse. What?! But that's what Google told them!

That's right, they were sitting there looking up answers on their smartphone. What joyless fucks, seriously. It's not like the game was timed; it was more like an oral quiz. The host read the questions, we wrote down the answers, then we went over the answers as a class, everyone on the honor system not to change their answers afterward.

Despite the spider debacle, the family still got 14 out of 20, along with another couple. (We were right behind them at 13 out of 20, honestly come by.) So, there was a tie-breaker question. "What were the names of the two Hardy Boys?" And, because I'm passive-aggressive and mean, I was there stage-whispering to Mike, "Well, the older one was Steve... what was the other one's name?" Just hoping these pathetic people who would use their phones to look up trivia answers in a game like this would now take the bait.

They didn't, but they also didn't know, nor did they use their phone this time. (Because everyone was watching now? Which just shows that they knew better. Ha.) So they lost again, and I laughed and laughed on the inside, sorry that I'd ever felt bad that they didn't win the cruise. Because, like I said, I'm mean.

(Still, I like to think that my Manx Euphrosyne smiled down from Kitty Heaven. Isle of Man part of the UK? Pft.)

To mention the karaoke again, it usually wasn't held on the Lido Deck, but nightly in "The Cool," a jazz lounge. We poked our heads in once, but never seemed to make it there again. That is a downside of the later (8:15 p.m.) dining, you do seem to miss more than the early dining (6:00 p.m.) folks. It will be so nice if they can pull off "anytime" dining on the Splendor (and if we can sail on her again when they do).

And a downside of dining in the Black Pearl, lower section, is that you have to pass the art gallery. Maybe I'm just annoyed because they delivered personalized junk mail to our cabin every day (but did I remember to get a picture of the mailbox outside our cabin? no...), but this "gallery" was just a small room that looked like it came from the back end of a Hobby Lobby store, except not that nice. Compare to Elation's half-a-deck-length corridor of art, and this was just a boggle. (Not really a "downside," but it sounded good to say that. Black Pearl dining is the best because maitre d' Miguel is fantastic!)

And another downside of dining in general (not really, just still enjoying the repetition of that word) is that some of us (me) can't eat without spilling stuff on ourselves. Oh, for a removable boob shelf. Or for better fine motor skills. Something.

For us, there is the laundry room, which Mike is modeling above. Except, despite good intentions and even packing some liquid Tide in a trial bottle, we never got around to visiting except this one time, right before 10 p.m. closing. I ended up with just enough blouses and just enough blotting skills to avoid this room or the $15/bag laundry "special." (It was $10 on Elation, and I could buy a new shirt for less than the $15 to clean one. My stuff, it ain't fancy.)

Or I could use that money to gamble instead, winning enough for ten more shirts! (Or I could not gamble at all, since the odds are surely not as good as here in my adopted hometown, and maybe the only reason I even mentioned gambling is so I'd have an excuse to include a picture of the casino.)

I mentioned "The Cool," the jazz lounge on Deck 5 (also home of the casino, O2 - the teen hangout, the Piano Bar, and the Red Carpet disco), but I didn't mention its next-door neighbour, the El Morocco Lounge, sort of seen above.

We managed to grab a table for two here one night when they ran a game show, followed by an "adults only, as seen on Showtime" comedian. (Who went on to do jokes everyone tells, then would berate audience members if they left, even if it was just to nip up to the bar, claiming he was too "edgy" for people. Yeah, as edgy as a 12-year-old boy who's never met the Internet.)

The game show, for lack of a better word, was great. Everyone got into teams (unless they were spoilsport voyeurs like us, and there were a few of us). Goose, the Cruise Director, would name something the team had to present to him, and the first five or so teams that ran to wherever Goose was would get the most points, and everyone after that would get a point, until Goose and those in the seats yelled, "This quest is CLOSED!"

It started off easy. "I want to see three Sail & Sign Cards." "I want to see someone with a tattoo." Then it got, um, more interesting. "I want to see women doing 'the worm' on the floor." "I want to see a birth control device." "I want someone from each team to kiss this bald guy on the head." Eventually we built up to a dizzying level of commands that I don't think anyone would have fallen for at the beginning, but the spirit of competition (or just spirits) had taken hold, and in the end men were leaping over tables to be the first to the stage in bras, lipstick, heels, and purses. By the time the parade of men in drag started, they may as well have been passing out Depends, so many people were surely wetting themselves in laughter.

Another hilarious competition earlier in the week was the Newlywed-style game. I was ready to buy the onboard DVD for that alone, but - clever Carnival - they sold the video of that one separately: 25 bucks. Uh, no thanks. (Short version: we had a funny, personable couple that had been married 70ish years, and on the other end we had a young, cleancut couple from Utah that had just married two days before. Let your imagination sketch in the rest.)

The Lido may be the heart of the ship, but the Atrium is a close second. (There are technically two atriums - atria? - but the other one, outside the Gold Pearl dining room and pretty enough, is not the atrium.)

The Atrium has a grand piano (which should not be confused with the Piano Bar when reading the Capers), a bar, the Purser's desk, the Shore Expeditions desk, and the four lovely glass elevators running up and down.

If you're lucky, it also has Mike leaning over the rail.

And if you haven't noticed yet, it has a lot of PINK.

When we first stepped onboard, I thought, ice cream parlour? Then I thought, okay, everyone was right about the pink. I couldn't imagine getting used to it. Mike, manly man that he is, didn't think he could get used to it. Lotsa pink. Lotsa circles. Lots and lots of pink and circles.

But, just like everyone said, you do get used to it. Not only did I get used to it, but I ended being glad that the ship had such an original (albeit incredibly risky) sense of style. There's so much pink that, after a day or two, you stop seeing the pink and start noticing all of the greens and blues... as if the pink is so omnipresent that it might as well be blank, neutral canvas, Interesting.

What's also interesting is that I never once got a photo of our cabin from the outside. In fact, this is one of the few exterior views of the ship that I grabbed. (Taken from a tender boat in Cabo San Lucas.)

Maybe I'm wrong and something will show up when I put up photos from the ports, which is all that's left. That, the moon, the sun, and the souvenirs. All coming up... later!

(There are more photos than what I'm posting here. See my Carnival Splendor Flickr set for everything I've uploaded so far. Like I said, the port and a few other pictures are still yet to come.)

Previously: Carnival Splendor: B-I-N-G-Oh dear, we have a new hobby.

Carnival Splendor: B-I-N-G-Oh dear, we have a new hobby.

It's not like I'd never played bingo before. Elementary school, camp... in theory during meetings. (Making buzzword bingo cards to use while watching FoodTV is one of my summer goals. Mike's first suggestion? "It pops.")

I don't remember how we wandered into our first bingo game on Carnival Splendor. We'd talked about it in advance, how maybe we should try it while on the ship, and then maybe we'd be more comfortable trying it in a casino. (Where we'd once squinted at all the rules and options for a good 60 seconds before fleeing.)

The timing was right on our second sea day, and after that we were hooked. Granted, one of the hooks was that our first session was "Bargain" Bingo (a triple-set of cards at $10 or one card for $5). Another hook is that we played several games on that set of cards. And the third hook is that we didn't have to play with our own money, having $240 in promotional onboard credit that was in danger (Mike's feeling) of being halved by a luxurious hour spent in a couples session in the spa's mud lounge.

Bingo on the ship was always held in the "Spectacular, Spectacular" showroom.

The cards can be reused because, instead of inking them up with a dauber (notice my fancy bingo lingo), you push out the center, like a pop-top.

Then, when the game ends, you re-flatten the card so it looks new.

(Actually, Mike is holding up unused cards, but I wanted an excuse to use the picture.)

Everyone seemed to be a good sport at each of our sessions, even the people of a certain demographic who would buy armfuls of bingo cards for each person in their party. (The vagueness is partially me being sensitive, and partially me wondering if everyone has their own idea of what kind of person is a rabid bingo player.)

At least one person did leave behind their losing bingo cards as, perhaps, a warning to others. (Other people or other bingo cards, I'm not sure.)

I get that move, because that photo was taken after our second bingo session, and by "session" I mean "two measly games." Sometimes the Capers say that there will be seven games, or a single game to win a cruise (there's a story - but it has to wait until I describe the trivia games), or a single coverall game... and sometimes the Capers just say "Bingo." We were lucky that our first session had so many games. I don't think we would have plonked down $20 of even other people's money for two games of bingo and a prize of a few hundred dollars if we'd known.

The only unpleasantness aside, the showroom uses two large screens to help players keep track of numbers called and the winning formation.

Adding to the fun was (usually) Assistant Cruise Director Leslie, a hearty blonde from Britain, who would play a special bingo song (which has its own domain but no sample to preview) and instruct us to, in our "best British voices" call out "Goooooooot it!" when one of our numbers came up. (Our collective voices seemed to be Monty Python in its shrillest drag.)

During one session she us to stand up when we had only a single number left. Mike shook his head at me, AS IF, but just about lost his pants a few minutes later when he was the first one up.

But we never won - that four-square postage stamp formation is nobody's friend! - yet we had lots of fun and now looked forward to trying bingo when returning to Vegas.

It took a week of post-cruise solemnity to pass, but this past Sunday we headed out to South Point, a place we hadn't been in forever, for the 9 p.m. bingo.

Quick list of things we learned:

• A couple can't share a card or set of cards. Everyone must have his or her own bingo cards.
• And, to purchase the cards, you must have his or her own slot club cards. So, it sucks to be you if you were counting on using your husband's slot club card and now must go all the way back downstairs and get a reprint of your own card before the game begins.
• Buying bingo cards on a cruise ship in no way prepares you for buying bingo cards at a casino. Blue, red, green, tan. Small rainbow. Large rainbow. Free add-ons. Discounts for special combinations. Validated. Non-validated. Electronic? Please state the letter of the package you wish to buy.
• In movies, classrooms are quiet and attentive, and bingo parlors are festive social zones. In Las Vegas, swap that. You could have heard a pin glint in the tobacky-stained light.
• The cards you buy are for "an hour's worth" of play, which ends up being 14ish games (I lost count).
• Most "locals" casinos have daily bingo on the odd-numbered hour, usually from 9am-11pm. The Cannery casinos have it on the evens. Arizona Charlie's goes all night, but I'm scared of Arizona Charlie's, because I'm snobby.
• There is a local casino bingo periodical - check the racks by the door - and it is full of ads for freebies. Nobody told us about this untapped market of casino freebies!
• Which is my way of saying that I am all about the free commemorative Betty Boop daubers at Texas Station in two weeks.
• I have no idea where daubers otherwise come from, because we played electronically. The people we saw with daubers seemed to have their own. Picture Exhibit A, "small group with twelve daubers in varying colours, stamp-shapes, and amount of glitter."

We ended up playing electronically because the nice (British - it's a trend!) lady behind the counter assured us we'd get much more bang for the buck that way. (She was right. We'd decided to get a small paper rainbow pack for $12 each. But, she was able to hook us up with a $16 deal that was two small rainbow packs, all validated, plus a free "blue" pack, plus an electronic unit. I still can't find this on the menu.)

"Grab a unit. Enter your ticket number. Press the button to always view your three best cards. Pay attention when it beeps because then you're just one number away. And if starts playing You're in the Money, then raise your arm and yell BINGO!"

Above is my unit, after stumbling into a way to change the wallpaper to a pretty flower. Awww, I didn't discover the other games on it (solitaire) until after the session.

The one thing in common with the cruise is that once again we didn't win a single game, although now and again we had the thrill of beeping. With so many cards in a rainbow pack, I was glad we weren't playing on paper, although you'd think that just waiting for a machine to beep would take all of the fun out of things. Not at all. The machines gave us a chance to look around, relax, take in the types of people playing (I'm not going to go there), wish the smoking section was a few more room lengths away, and wonder who you have to know to get one of the fancy permanent monitors. Are there bingo VIPs?

Sixteen dollars (each) is fine for a first-timer's adventure, but if we're going to play regularly (and that's all we could talk about when the session ended), we'll probably have to stick to the cheapie paper packs. These seem to start at $4/person for a blue pack, which at first looked cruddy because you can only win $50 with blue cards ($100 green, $150 red, $200 tan - I may have switched red and green there), but there are some double-your-win games, so it's only semi-cruddy.

Or not cruddy at all if you lose, and you're only out four dollars. Plus, anybody can win the coverall game for the jackpot. (About $4000 at our session, and nobody did. You have to win within 33 numbers.)

(Then there's the agony of deciding whether to pay another dollar for "validation," which means that if you call bingo right after that session's "cash ball" comes up, you get $1000. Or something like that.)

We haven't played bingo since Sunday, but it's been a busy week what with Mike's biometrics appointment (his green card renewal is up), M resort's breakfast buffet (fresh, quiet), M resort's cafe (I recommend the chicken ciabatta sandwich without chicken), and a surprising 3 a.m. showing of Harry Potter at Sunset Station last night (3 a.m.?!). We've also been too busy for bingo because we've been sleeping or staggering the rest of the day when bingo is on. Bummer. I love summer break, but I do so hate summer in the heartless desert. If you've got the option, why not keep all your wakeful moments to the cooler hours? (Says she who always feels defensive about daysleeping.)

Since I couldn't find the bingo song (but I can sing it - "Bingo, Bingo, Get your daubers out!"), we'll have some sizzlin' Tom Jones to finish this post instead. Carnival Splendor showed a few concerts during the cruise on the big screen out by the Lido pool, including the Beach Boys, Beyonce, and Tom Jones, so there's your connection. Also, I just (reluctantly but eventually) really like the song. Thank you, Leslie-the-Assistant-CD and Carnival Splendor for putting the boing in our bingo ambitions. You're the bomb!

(But not like in the song below. Unless... don't you think it's possible to change "sex bomb, sex bomb, you're a sex bomb" to "bin-go, bin-go, I've got bin-go!" and get an even newer and cooler bingo song? I should tweet Weird Al about this.)

Previously: Carnival Splendor: the Undisputed Glory of a Spa Cabin

Carnival Splendor: the Undisputed Glory of a Spa Cabin

I'm afraid of massages. They're... touchy. And my skin is annoyingly sensitive, so I'm wary of peels and scrubs and even new lotions. Teeth whitening? Not as long as I have this Shattered Wisdom Tooth Situation. Saunas? I live in the desert. Acupuncture? Why?

If anything, my biggest reason for wanting a spa cabin (on the Spa deck, as opposed to the Panorama, which I'd still take in a heartbeat if you're buying) was because these cabins are isolated yet close to the action. The other "spa staterom privileges" weren't so interesting. Special robes? Meh - we're too big for them anyway. Slippers? Never wear them. A different colour of beach towel than the other passengers? Um, isn't that for (choke, spittle, wheeze) sunbathing?

The special whirlpool and the aroma steam room sounded good but, you know, so did bingo and mini golf on the last cruise, and we didn't bother with either of them.

Still, I was keeping an open mind as we walked past the spa on the way to our room.

The spa balconies are on the other side of these elevators. The four glass elevators are right behind the shot, which was really overwhelming at first, eyeballing 10 different elevators to see which one would land first. By midweek we were placing bets, and by the end of the week we were near-masters of psychic elevator prediction. Waiting for one elevator now seems so boring. What do you do - just stand there?

The room was immediately pleasing. Apparently the Asianish decor is an exclusive to the spa cabins, so I'd be curious to see if the regular cabins match the pinkness of the rest of the ship.

We didn't have the (pretty but useless) barware cabinet as on Elation, and the flatscreen television seemed smaller, but we preferred the longer vanity area. I didn't even notice the upper bunk stored in the ceiling for days (then forgot to take a photo of it).

Having the safe in a cupboard instead of the wardrobe was less convenient, but at least it was just as spacious. Splendor's room safes let you program your own code, instead of the "swipe any card with a magnetic strip" method on Elation. This is probably better, although a second or two slower.

Also seen in the photo: refrigerator cabinet to the left (had to be unlocked by the steward, and we ended up not using it), spa slippers in little tote bags, Mike's souvenir cup at far left, and the packet of ginger gum we have yet to use at far right.

Balconies are a little larger (five square feet?) than on Elation, which meant it was easy to face forward and stretch legs a bit. I got used to looking directly out at the sea, but not until I locked my wedding band in the safe for the rest of the voyage. (Except for when in port - mostly because it's just that much more armor against men trying to be my best friend and sell me crap.) I just kept feeling nervous that the ring was going to sprout wings, lift itself off my finger (with a few stylish stunt turns), and go flying over the side.

After that, it was much more fun to lean over and look for fish, land, other ships. (We thought we saw Elation on the last night - we had to pass her at some point - but who knows?) One of the chairs reclined, which I realized on about Day Four.

One of Mike's very first balcony activities was to detail the window. There was a smudge bothering him. Poor guy. He's been living with me for too long.

(Just a general shot. Puerto Vallarta is outside, and Mike is putting on his shoes to go walk over to Sam's Club across the street. I wish I was kidding. There is a whole long story that goes here, but I will give you the abbreviated version: binoculars, 400 pesos, receipt doesn't say pesos, debit card - are you shitting me?, and no chocolate? Don't worry. It all worked out in the end. There is some talk of a sequel, though, tenatively titled, "Can you return sucky Sam's Club binoculars to any Sam's Club, even if you don't have the packaging?" I'll let you know if the script gets approved.)

Thankfully, the view down to our balcony was not as good as the view from our balcony, although we did have an incident one night involving teens up on the adult-only deck right above us, throwing down candy and taunting us to buy them beers, be their friends, etc. Bullied on a cruise. Nice. Being used to asshat teens, though, the real story is Carnival's mismanagement of the situation. They were "too busy" when I called the desk, even though I was reporting a security situation. They said they understood, but there was no one to handle it right then, and they'd call me later to "discuss it." Um? I opted to stay on hold. Ten minutes later, they said they were still too busy and would call me back, absolutely, positively. Meanwhile, we've got a hailstorm of mini-jawbreakers looming above. They never called back, and we ended up in no mood to try to enjoy the balcony. Yes, I'm going to detail this corporate later. Right now, though, I prefer not to think about this bad patch.)

On a positive note, the bathroom in this cabin was great - practically arena-sized compared to the demi-suite's bathroom on Elation.

I liked that the toilet was on an angle. We didn't use the shower gel or shampoo in the bath, though, because we had our own "special" spa toiletries.

Special toiletries that you can't see here because I'd already packed them away. Ha! I wish I'd put more thought into this photo, though, because you can't really get a feel for the nice glass shelves or the towel racks. Guess I better cruise again. Right?

Our shower had a neat feature that's kind of hard to see here. A clothesline for wet swimsuits and such. Handy!

Of course, every night there were towel animals.

We were pleased when the dinosaur was undisturbed, and we moved the reclining bunny-thing to be by it. Alas, it morphed!

That's not a monkey-like creature. That is something cute in a snowsuit. Maybe a kitten. I hate monkeys.

Just for grins, a rare shot of me on the balcony. Apparently I have red hair. I did not know this. That "color protecting" shampoo I bought after the dye job didn't quite work as intended. Or maybe that's just Cruise Ship Magic, because here I am back in town, and finding nothing but that faded dirt look I've come to embrace. Or maybe I'm just back to being a wise vampire, avoiding both sun and mirrors.

(Except I really have to do something about the "stubborn grey" patch up front. It's like a widow's peak in reverse. Hey, maybe I should book a cruise and then get my hair done at their beauty salon? After all, it's just good grooming.)

I took this while we sailed away from Mazatlan. It was so windy, my hair and the sea are a blur. If I'd known there'd be that cool "hey, not my fault my hair is messy" effect, I would've taken more. (This will be my new excuse: "What's wrong with my hair? Phantom sea breeze. Once upon a time I was in this terrible accident where I was forced to separate from my cruise ship...")

On our bed when we arrived was a letter welcoming us to our spa cabin. In addition to the special toiletries, on the mantle was an aroma mister for the linens (smelled lightly of coconut) and a reminder that all spa cabins are non-smoking. (On the Puerto Vallarta morning, we were horrified to wake to the smell of acrid smoke, and we couldn't figure out where it was coming from. To me, the odor was as bad as a cigarette and very similar, but I wasn't sure it was the same. The smell dissipated pretty quickly, and Mike's eventual theory was that when the ship maneuvered into the dock, we traversed back across the wake of the ship's smokestack. Maybe. We never smelled it again, but that morning it was so strong we were scared they might charge us the $250 cleaning fee for smoking in a spa cabin.)

The letter told us to go to the spa cabin for a tour, and there we would receive our wristbands. We walked past the six or seven lab-coated girls to the front desk. The woman in front of me was booking her pre-elegant dinner ministrations, so I watched a man on the sofa get fitted with an orange wristband, the kind you get at conventions or certain concerts, with the holes and the plastic knob closure. It was bright orange.

I blanched. Mike took a step backward. "I am not wearing that all week."

The woman in front was apparently booking three or four treatments per day, so we decided to go back to the squad out front, who looked just like the people that kept us from visiting the spa on Elation. (I don't mean literally; its just that on Elation, they hovered there ready to hard-sell you into booking a session. Here? Meh.)

The spa-person (attendant? consultant? therapist?) was surprised that the bands weren't in our room, but without any fuss - not even asking to see our Sail & Sign cards - she went behind the counter to get a pair of white Livestrong-style bands. Nothing orange or temporary. Whew! (That guy must've been getting a day pass. Those run about $35, or $250 for the week. We paid around $20 more for our spa cabin than for a regular balcony, which gave us access and amenities and location, so just picture a lot of high-fiving on embarkation day when everything lived up to the hype.)

We took the tour (more details coming up), ending with an unfortunate visit to the gym. "Do you want to see the fitness center?" Mike, full of fresh cruise buzz, said "Why not?" Inside were two track-suited instructors. "Do you care about health?" Mike: "Should, but no." "But you do care about your health?" Me: "Not really." I mean, we were just being honest. We should, and maybe we do, but little has come of it.

This stumped them, causing all kinds of faltering as they tried to psych us up for their FREE FREE FREE seminars and we just sort of politely nodded while peering around them, looking at the fancy equipment. Despite both being fatties, we do like gadgety treadmills and bikes, and these looked like they had cool screens with interesting distractions (TV? games?), and then there was the panoramic ocean view.

We never did step into the gym again. I wish they kept it (and the spa) open all night. Every time we went to the spa, the gym was packed. Not that I could've even gone in, having only brought sandals, but the machines did look swell. That's all that's holding me back, you know. The right machine. Maybe we should book another cruise, just in the name of fitness. Health is important. I should call the insurance company tomorrow and see if they cover it.

The spa closes at 10 p.m., and by the time we were ready for it after dinner that night, it was too late. But we made it the next day, and that was one of the best decisions on the cruise. One, we discovered how wonderful the facilities were early on, and visited almost every day after. Two, we went again later during the elegant dinner, so it was nice and empty. Three, it was pretty much always nice and empty for those first few days, while everyone else was acclimating to the ship or staying out late in Puerto Vallarta. The last two days, the spa ran specials for treatments that included spa access, so we had to put up with actual other people getting into our pool - huff! - waving their "daywalker" bands on their undeserving wrists.

Grumble. Don't they know that pool is ours? After all, we peed in it. That's the universal symbol for marked territory, for pity's sake!

(I am totally kidding about the peeing thing. But I'm not saying I'm above it. If I really thought it would keep the dreaded Other People out...)

On our tour, we saw the couples massage room upstairs. The private whirlpool, for after the massage, could have come straight from the Poconos, if you know what I mean. Next to this room is the famed "couples mud lounge," aka "Rasul." We were going to do this (the plural pronoun may be ambitious here - let's just say that sometimes I'm a bully), but we were never up to making an appointment. (Spontaneity is key.) What they do is leave you alone in this three-chambered room for an hour. At the first part, you stand before a table with a pot of mud, a pot of scrub (I think?), and at least a dozen bottles of spa products. They close the door, you disrobe and play with the goods. Then you proceed to the "rainforest room." I think? Okay, I stopped paying attention to the spiel after seeing all of the fun goo - SOLD! - but I think it's a special steam bath, followed by showers.

So, we had the $240 in promotional onboard credit, which was terrific. Later I'll show photos of what it bought. And we were down to about $120 left, so I thought, yay, mud lounge! And I think Mike was thinking, yay, casino! And I was saying, um, we live in Las Vegas? And Mike tried using the "we can just play a little then take the rest of the credit out as cash," which apparently you can do, although maybe not with promotional credit? I don't know. Neither one of our Plan A's came to fruition, thanks to a little thing I call Bingo, Where Have You Been All My Life? But more on that later.

Maybe a nice travel or spa or health (because now I totally care about health) magazine would like to send me on a cruise to write an article about the mud lounge? Inside stateroom would be fine? I promise to proofread and everything? And write it in the third person? And not frame my thoughts in conjunction-headed uptalk lingo?

One thing I didn't know about the spa beforehand is that it has this beautiful resting area. The beds look "Tudor Indian" to me. Is that a real decorating style? It should be. If a nice design magazine or mogul wants to send me back to the Splendor to investigate further, I'm available during all school holidays. I will even sit at a table for ten. Look, let's make this interesting, I'll even get a massage. And everyone knows I'm scared of massages! Say, if there's psychology magazine out there looking for an enthusiastic article on rubbedbyastrangerphobia...?

The relaxation area is stocked with tea, ice water, and fresh fruit.

See the light on the bed? That's from the wide ocean view. The beds were far more comfortable than they looked. Even picky Mike flopped out on one, calling it "pleasant."

Check out the nice little details. My foot is in this picture because, thanks to a goofy moment when I was 12 and on a Jamaican vacation, keeping a travel diary for English class, it is my thing. My thing which I have forgotten to do for the past couple of years, but I'm bring it back.

Also, if any pedicurists are having a convention on the Splendor soon and need some very raw material to work with, I can probably find the time to volunteer. Just saying.

There are no photos of the Thermal Suite because it is a thermal suite, hot and wet. The first room is the best, the aromatic steam room. It was so good, that I'm crying a little as I type, looking at Mike's powdery arm on the other end of the sofa. That steam room made us young again! Like someone turned our dials from "Rawhide" to "Calfskin." You can't do that to a person then send them back to the desert. This is just like Flowers for Algernon.

In each room of the Thermal Suite are heated, tiled sitting areas. Benches in the first steam room, lounges - yes, tiled and yet so comfortable - in the sauna, and chairs in the "other steam room and sauna," two rooms that differed in some way that I'll have to look up, because I couldn't tell how at the time, other than they're both small, and the other steam room doesn't smell like Beauty and Happiness.

(Taking a time-out here to grieve audibly, thinking of every stupid thing I ever bought that took money away from future cruises. Like... any food that isn't rice and beans.)

One thing we, strangely - since they're the first rooms on the right, didn't see on the tour were the changing rooms. We thought we'd have to just carry our Sail & Sign cards, or leave them by the side of the pool with our shoes. Carnival's ships are known for having people stagger through the buffet in their bathrobes (although I only saw this once, on Elation), so I assumed we just changed to swim/spa gear in our room and walked (the fifteen steps) over.

There are not only changing rooms, but lockers with key codes that you set yourself. There are also plenty of towels at every stage of the experience. Funny how we were careful to re-use our towels in the room, doing our bit for the environment, but we'd go through three or four or more towels during a spa session, slinging the used ones into the woven wood hampers and grabbing a dainty white one from the stack. You don't have to bring your special spa beach towel (tan, not blue like the others - photos to come later) at all.

Now we come to the crown jewel. The thalassotherapy pool.

It's just through those doors and up the steps. Oh, wait, the sign says MEMBERS ONLY. That's okay, I still have my wristband. I can get you in.

I don't know what "thalassotherapy" means in this case, as the Wikipedia definition is vague and Google results are slim, but apparently they've added special minerals added to the water? I never smelled anything unusual, but it was nice to be in a non-chlorinated pool.

Keep in mind that is a whirlpool, NOT a hot tub. Remember how I said there came a day at the end of the cruise when the spa tourists were allowed to use our pool? Apparently those people complained that the pool wasn't warm enough. Apparently they kept complaining. Apparently the spa people were cross/intimidated/something, because the attendants got Engineering to make the pool warmer.

Later that evening, we went to the pool. It was empty. Yay! It was also boiling hot. Huh?

A lot of people say "boiling" to mean "really hot." Me, I'm pretty close to meaning exactly what I said.

You know how sometimes you run a hot bath, and it's unbearable to stick your foot in? But eventually, toe by toe, you manage to get in a foot, an ankle, a calf, and eventually a knee? Then later you make it past the thighs and it's so toasty and comfortable?

Yeah. We never made it past the fourth toe or so. I kept trying for that pinky while Mike went to get an attendant. Another guy came in. "It's really hot," I warned. He stepped in. He sprung out. "Jesus Christ!!"

Mike finally returned, attendant in tow, having convinced her to touch the water even though supposedly Engineering was keeping it a constant temp.

"Wow!" she exclaimed, finally breaking the mannequin reserve of her species.

Out she went, and a minute later another attendant came in to try. "It's HOT!"

They both told us about the complaints they'd had all day about it not being warm enough. I, in my Verucian campaign against uninvited (by me) people using the pool, have chosen to blame these people who only stopped in for the day and, being unaccustomed to the classy wonders of the thalassotherapian life, didn't understand that it's not a hot tub. I waggle my accusing finger - they broke it! Oh sure, I could blame the people who caved to their whining, or to Engineering for allowing it to get too hot, or I could even be compassionate and allow that maybe there was a temperature problem. But that would diminish my case for not letting other people into my pool.

(Anyone who books another Splendor cruise for me is, however, invited to use my pool. I will even return the gesture by buying you a lime and ginger facial. See, I am as generous as I am appreciative.)

So, no pool for us that night. They couldn't fix it before the next day. Disappointing, but we had the steam room, so it was still worth dropping by.

I should point out that it's not just a whirlpool. There are refreshing streams of water from faucets on one end, and a "grill recliner" (my term) on the other. You know how, in most whirlpools/hot tubs/etc., there is that concrete bench going around the edge for sitting? The thalassotherapy pool has, instead, a sort of lounger-shaped bench running along one side. It's not concrete, either, but row after row of metal poles, similar to the ones you use to get into a pool. This sounds uncomfortable, but not only is it extremely restful (you can lie back, or sit up on the hump that otherwise goes under the knees, or hang onto the poles and float around), it allows the throbbing, bubbling water to circulate all around your body. If it was an ultralounge, they'd call it "Immersion."

There being nothing else to say about the spa (lest this become a three-hankie post), here is another self-shot of me. (This is what I get up to when Mike naps).

See, I am very sad. It's black and white, so you know I'm sad. With great joy comes great despair... and very dry skin. You can have your Jergens, I know of only one cure. Bring back, bring back, bring back my bonnie Splendor cruise ship to me, to meeee...

Previously: Poor Communication is Free

Poor Communication is Free

Early this morning someone named "Loowign" left a comment on a post. The one with the video of eating buffet at Luxor (to mixed reactions), and then the video of making the first visit to the Las Vegas welcome sign.

The comment was but a single word. "Jesus"

Not even a period afterward, which might have given a clue as to whether this was a complete thought or just a word drop.

My interpretations of the comment were as follows:

1. "Hi, I'm sprinkling Jesus spam on people's little personal diaries because I think he's really great. Have a nice day."
2. "You clearly need some Jesus in your life. Think about it."
3. "By writing 'Jesus,' it is understood that this is the short form for 'Jesus Christ, you are so sucky!'"

One is possible. It's a weird world. Ditto two. Both don't really sell the product well, but maybe they work for the same ad agency that does the E-surance ad, the one that starts with, "People are smart." I hear that, and I think, "I can't work with an insurance provider that would make that kind of blanket statement."

This being the internet, and this being my website, a place that seems to attract an unusual number of people who have never heard of any form of blogging and therefore get really mad at me for a) not being whatever they hoped to find here, or b) writing my thoughts, because why the hell do they want to read my thoughts - don't I know that they don't care about what some stranger did yesterday, I figure both the lady and the tiger are sharing a cheese plate behind door number three.

And, I'm ashamed to admit that, even though I know what a blog is (in all the divisive definitions and expectations of the word), I went to bed last night (also spelled "7 a.m.") thinking I might redo the site. Put up a photo and graphic on the front page, like the old days. Make some links to static content (hamsters, photos, trip reports), again like the old days, but mainly - hide the blog. Make it a tiny link in the least attractive corner of the screen, like that symbol in The Net with Sandra Bullock. If anyone wanted to know where it went, I could personally tell them.

Meanwhile, Google would still pick up the posts, so those few souls who stumble through now and again, glad to know about buying chinchilla sand or making French memo boards or baking popovers or throwing parties for hamsters (we did have one this year, by the way - six years in a row now!), or whether they should book a category 11 cabin on one of Carnival's Fantasy-class ships... those people would still get this humble assistance.

But, staying visible to Google ensures that plenty of people will still wander by and, seeing an opportunity in all of this benign rambling, Be Mean. And Stupid. So what's the point of redesigning anything?

Unless... I really feel the need to make excuses for not being what some passing stranger wanted me to be.

Or... to take a deep breath and cut closer to the truth, unless I feel the need to admit that my words and photos and videos are so boring and/or offensive that, even though I don't advertise this site at all, just allow it to be public, the very existence of these things makes the world a worse place, and a sadder place because I'm flailing around in the back alleys, beyond shouting distance of the village square, doing the Loser Dance, oblivious. Berating me is a courtesy, really.

I don't voice these thoughts because I want reassurance that it's okay to scribble on my own sidewalk. Intellectually, I know that. Still I am a little nervous to pipe up in these moments of doubt, lest people feel free to say, more kindly than anyone should have to stand, "Well, I do wonder why you choose to share, dearie. The absolute uninterestingness of your life aside, your grammar is shoddy, your metaphors trite, your word choices screamingly basic... I know it's just your own little space, but by making it incidentally available to others, you lose all right to complain if people point out that it's all really unreadable crap."

And then they sign it, "Love, Grandma."

I tell myself, "Ha, that's ridiculous logic. That's like saying that, by leaving the house, I've given the world the okay to shout insults at me out of nowhere."

Come to think of it, that happens, too.

Some people are a magnet for abuse. I don't know why. One of my nicest, smartest, funniest students was bullied this year, by more popular kids who were otherwise pretty normal and, to be honest, probably will grow up to be successful and not drinking paint thinner behind dumpsters, or whatever you may have once-upon-a-time told yourself was going to happen to the Mean Kids when the cycle of "what goes around, comes around" finally came.

Or maybe you never told yourself anything. Maybe you think high school sucked because people were shallow or dramatic, not because they sensed an affability that is also traded under the brand name Weakness, and they pounced on you as if to create a Balance in the Force.

Look at all the (boring, ancient) places that one word - "Jesus" - has taken me today. Look at how much power I've given some person who didn't even care enough to make their criticism (or random enthusiasm for Christianity) clear.

I don't know why I'm posting this. Or anything. Writers write?
It's good for the brain?
Future archaeology fodder?
Current psychology fodder?
It keeps the bad guys away from puppies?

Discourse on the Splendor's cabin and spa coming soon, front and center.

Previously: Before Carnival Splendor: Long Beach, California

Before Carnival Splendor: Long Beach, California

I know I said this cruise report would be more thematic and less chronological, but it still feels disorganized to show all of the cruise food then go back and detail, more or less chronologically, the night before we sailed. Luckily, this is not for a grade. I think.

As with last time, we wanted to drive in the night before so there'd be no stress on the day we set sail. The problem with driving to Long Beach, though, is that the most efficient routes go right through Compton and - Nervous White Lady Alert! - I'm scared of Compton. Perhaps quite unfairly - after all, crime is with us in even the most posh places - but I've had enough students from Compton to think, yeah, I think I'd prefer to drive around that.

(And despite my glib aside above, it's not a Race Thing. It's a Hardcore Gangland Thing. I'm not going to apologize for wanting to avoid that. That doesn't get the issue noticed and fixed.)

Wow, a soapbox so early in the post! I really must buy a house, if only to yell at kids to get off my lawn.

There was always the "Usual Disneyland Route + 22 West + Exit to Pacific Coast Highway + Find Way to Ocean Boulevard" method that we used on our last trip to LB. But, wanting to be a little more daring, this time, instead of taking 15 all the way to 91, we exited early (on 210?) and headed for... Pasadena!

Edgy, right? But then, before we could get to the blessed land of suburbs and roses, we took 57 south to 22. On Google Maps this seemed like an interesting plan, taking us through some of the allegedly nicest 'burbs in Cali (La Brea?), and it was certainly a pretty route. But, it was also more trafficky, which means more bad driving, which means that we took the same old Riverside Freeway (91) home a week later. Wimpyness isn't just for hamburgers.

Our destination for Saturday night (June 27) was the Long Beach Hilton. The Queen Mary was booked up, as was the hotel next to it, and every nice chain on Ocean Boulevard was running around $175. Ow. We'd be commuting from a Priceline room in Anaheim before doing that.

But, it seems this summer I was to be rewarded for all the AAA-clustermuckery of last summer, and just like with the last cruise, we got a great AAA rate at the Long Beach Hilton - about half of the usual cost.

Parking underground at the Hilton was a little spooky. The garage is shared with a World Trade Center, and of course it was impossible not to make associations. I felt a little vulnerable, as if all WTCs are in someone's crosshairs.

The view from our room on the 8th floor was immediately pleasing:

Do you see the Queen Mary, perfectly centered between the office buildings? And this was our view of the World Trade Center, directly across from us:

The room was nice, despite having that slightly damp feel to the carpet that almost all hotel rooms seem to have these days. The large flat screen television was impressive.

The bag on the bathroom door contained a hair dryer. Cute. After taking this picture, I quietly picked up all of our luggage (such that it was) and put it on raised surfaces. Apparently this will cut down your chances of bringing home bedbugs. I didn't mention this to Mike, since he already finds some of my "rules" to be better filed under Obsessive-Compulsive than Common Sense. (My student teacher actually called me a germaphobe, because I don't like to give high-fives to the students without some sanitizer or, better yet, a hand-washing opportunity nearby. Instead, I give personalized "air fives," which she just shook her head at. Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'll be getting the last laugh on that one... and, oops, there I go sounding ninety again!)

It doesn't help my "I can't be OCD; I don't do housework!" case that I can look at the photo below and notice an anti-bedbug precaution taken by the Hilton:

Do you see it? Do you see it? It's the headboard. Notice how it is attached to the wall instead of to the bed? That's another trend in the hotel industry to prevent bedbugs. Interesting, no?

I should apologize for saying "Hilton" and "Long Beach" and "bedbugs" so many times together, potentially creating a misleading Google mess, but then again, the Hilton had a notice in the room guide saying that if I declined the option to receive a newspaper in the morning, I would get 75 cents taken off the bill. I did call down to decline (more out of novelty than frugality), but they didn't take the 75 cents off. Bedbugs.

Spacious bathrooms, though. Almost cruel to visit before going on a cruise ship.

After a briefer than expected rest, we hopped into the car and drove a few blocks to The Pike to find some dinner.

I think I already went over The Pike at length when we visited the Queen Mary last year. Once upon a time a thriving boardwalk and seaside destination, now a generic but pleasant collection of chain restaurants and stores alongside a marina. Ah, here's that post.

On the way, we passed the top of the old carousel.

The latest news I can find is from 2007, saying it would be demolished that year, except for the very top, which would become an information kiosk. I don't know what's behind the stay of execution, but I whooped to see it still there. I love a good architectural testimony.

(The rollercoaster-style walkway is located near where the pier and rollercoasters used to be. Sad, I know. But hey - there's the Queen Mary again!)

We parked in the garage ($6 hour, validation available for first two hours) and walked around, deciding on Boston's.

This was a new chain for us, and it was pretty decent, even with all the sports bar decor. I particularly liked the Southwest Ravioli, a cross between jalapeno poppers and fried mozzarella in the form of toasted ravioli.

Afterward we walked over to Borders because, you know, poor Mike doesn't have a Kindle. He's been dutifully dragging around his secondhand copy of Love and War for a year now, but so far he hasn't been able to get back into Mr. Jakes' Civil War epic.

Before the trip, I downloaded the first hour of some audio books from the library (great service!) and burned them to CDs to listen to in the car. (Only the first hour, because I wasn't going to use 17 CDs on a book we might not like.) One of these was I am Legend, which Mike was enjoying well enough to want to continue reading on his own.

We found it, along with Gaiman's American Gods, and a couple of young adults who decided to set up camp in the Sci-Fi aisles, making any browsing really difficult and unpleasant. Being kicked out of the shelves by their social selfishness was ameliorated by the fact that Mike had just enough in two leftover Visa gift cards to get the books for free. Hooray! Books! (Although using two cards for the purchase meant an awkward pause and shared look, remembering Confessions of a Shopaholic.)

Blur aside, I like some of the art deco stylings of the area, as seen here on the parking garage facade. This was taken just as we started to encounter something I don't like, the People of the Pike. As with our last trip here, I was reminded that maybe Long Beach isn't far enough from Compton for my comfort level. Especially when you have a group of young men with a certain demeanor and look right on your heels.

(Yeah, I'm prissy. Don't bother with the hate comments, I'll just delete them. It's not a democracy here in Shari-land. Nor is it the 17th most dangerous city in the US.)

So now imagine how I felt about what happened next.

We exited the garage from a different direction, and I wasn't sure which one was the most direct route back to Ocean Boulevard. So I just winged it. Which led to us suddenly being on the Gerald Desmond Bridge to San Pedro/Los Angeles. Which I would link to a picture of, but all the photos make it look pretty. When it's night and you're suddenly - I cannot emphasize the adverb enough - making your way up a huge incline on a skinnyish bridge over water, with no exits in sight and nothing but fog and docks in the immediate distance, nothing is pretty.

Eventually, amongst the cargo containers and glints of the night sea, we exited and turned around, thus having to go over the bridge again, but now very sure of how to get to the Hilton (which sits right next to the endless incline) without mentally throwing up at all.

Back in the room, Mike at those extra hot Cheetos that are red and thus, if you are absent-minded about where you brush off the inevitable Cheeto residue, can make the sheets and towels look like the third laundry day after a bloodbath. We read. We set the alarm. We enjoyed the heavy curtains blocking out the world. We kept trying to see what kind of idiots let their children run and scream up and down the halls at 3 a.m.

Thank you, Hilton, for noon checkout. I think Mike finally got to sleep around six, resentful that, for once, I'd beaten him to slumber a few hours before. I made up for it by getting up early and sticking my head around the drapes. Could I see the Splendor yet? Could I?!

No, but it was a sight to behold as we drove up, giddy anticipation putting aside the drowsies. Oh yes, it is huge.

So, it's a pity I didn't take any photos. There will be some later, from when we were in port, but this time we didn't have the languid VIP boarding of San Diego. We were queued with the masses outside the big white dome (where, once upon a time 20 years ago, I saw the Spruce Goose), and then we were inside the dome, where photography isn't allowed. (Except for the professional photographers. I was going to cave in and do a boarding photo, risking having to acknowledge whatever it captured, but then they were so obnoxious that we ended up running through their maze without a photo just out of spite.) More queuing, then back outside of the dome, but things moved too quickly to get the camera out as we stepped from gangway to deck three...

One nice thing about the Long Beach Cruise Terminal is its covered parking garage. Fifteen dollars/day, right there, and - as much as I liked the convenient parking by the third party outfit in San Diego - no massive amounts of bird poop on your car when you get home.

That photo is actually from when we returned, taken from our balcony as we docked, but let's not think about that. Ignore all those yellow taxis, ready to take people away from Home to wherever they normally live.

After a stop at the maitre d' station, as detailed in the last post (table for two! yay!), we dropped off our bags, threw the keys and credit cards and cash and other useless things into the room safe, and snapped a photo of the dear QM from the balcony.

Then we went to lunch, again, as described in the last post, where we had a slightly different view of her:

That was to the left as we sat on the back of the ship. Looking forward, which is to say, looking back, was the adult-only hot tub/pool and a view of Long Beach.

(The squat blue cylinder of a building is the Aquarium, which sits at the north end of The Pike.)

Muster drill was around five, on deck four by the lifeboats. Now I know why people wish they could skip it. This was no easy, sit around the pool affair like we had on Elation. Instead, we formed rows, pressed together, and formed more rows.

And we stood and we stood and we stood, waiting for everyone to show up. Sure, there is less waiting and a better location if you arrive later, but if everyone waits until the last minute to show up, then it's a different kind of mess. Suffice to say that there is a special kind of glare for people who hold up the drill while the rest of us wait. Just go when summoned, people.

After the drill we sat in the library, waiting for the rush of people returning lifejackets to their cabins to fade. As mentioned in the last post, the Splendor library is small and unremarkable, although the selection of games and books is neater and nicer than on Elation. (Still, I'd rather bring my own books and have another beautiful lounging option. This library could only be described as "serviceable," and its sandy decor meant to evoke the geography of Alexandria didn't fit the circles and pinks of the rest of the ship. I took one picture, of Mike sitting in a chair, but it's just a blur of him against yellow walls.)

Then it was back to the balcony to watch the sail away. The Long Beach Police saw us off:

Our view on the starboard side was mostly water, but awhile later - 30 minutes? an hour? - we did make out a shape in the distance:

That's not how it looked to us at the time. We saw a grey mass in the white mist. But the telephoto lens sees more, and Photoshop sees even more than that. "Is it another cruise ship?" we asked, only able to see something large sitting in a cloud of endless white. "It must be!" "Could it be Mariner of the Seas?"

This was the ship we almost took when, desperate to cruise again this summer (but unwilling to fly anywhere) and seeing Carnival's balcony rooms all booked up, we looked at Royal Caribbean. Then that spa balcony popped up out of nowhere for Splendor and Mariner of the Seas, with its rock-climbing wall and costs-extra Johnny Rockets franchise, was forgotten.

She was off on the same Mexican Riviera itinerary as us, but doing the ports in reverse: Cabo then Mazatlan then Puerto Vallarta. Soon after taking the photo she disappeared, and although we must have passed her a few more times, we never saw her again. Maybe some day we'll step aboard an RCL ship, but I can't imagine giving up Carnival's spa. But, that's another post.

Previously: Carnival Splendor: The Food

Carnival Splendor: The Food

I think I've pared it down to 1,000 photos, all of which have now been categorized into subject-themed folders, ready to be run through Photoshop, because somebody is never going to learn how to hold a camera still. Ree of Pioneer Woman recently reminded her readers that you should turn your body into a tripod, holding the camera then squeezing your elbows together. I've tried that. It's a squishy, jiggly endeavour - not recommended.

Rather than the usual attempts at half-assed narrative, I'm going to cover our EXCELLENT cruise on the Carnival Splendor one aspect at a time. That we'll start with food is just a big DUH.

We were so excited that the Splendor had a Tandoori Grill. Indian cuisine? Every day? Take me now, Jayzus. While Mike was up investing in a soda card (we had $240 of promotional onboard credit to be all splurgy about), I sat with our freshly piled plates, gazing out at the Queen Mary docked starboard-side, and updated my Facebook status: "Shari is favoured by the gods. Her ship has an Indian buffet!"

As you can see by the photo of the grill above, the decor on the aft side of the Lido is a clear homage to the lovely QM. (The models on the wall are of that ship and the Normandie.) We'd embarked at a leisurely hour (one-ish), dropped off our luggage (all carry-ons, to the repeated amazement of both crew and Customs), and now we were close to our happy memories of the Queen Mary with plates full of paneer, naan, and butter chicken for Mike.

So, what a shame that it was all so dry-dry-dry, and what wasn't as bland as muck was as acrid and heavy-handed as... all get out.

We tried the Indian station several times again throughout the cruise, but we threw away so much food it stopped being worth it after awhile. Keep in mind that we're both pretty forgiving of the cuisine, enjoying the posh joints and the foil packets alike, so this was a genuine disappointment. (Oh, and if you're a vegetarian, your only option every day were the huge rectangles of pressed sawdust called "cottage cheese.")

But this was the only true culinary misstep, and now that it's out of the way, let's talk about the good stuff, like Mike with his soda card, pictured above.

We knew from the last cruise that the lemonade is really good, but like I said, we had the credit, so it was nice to have the variety now and again. We never cheated and got an extra soda for me from another bartender (you can have all you want, but one at a time, and it will only be served to you - at least on that first day when they're checking cards), but Mike did give his sodas to me now and again. Scandalous, I know. You can use the card in the bars and dining room, but be advised that the roving bar staff will out-and-out ignore you once they learn that this is all you're drinking. Can't complain, though. They're supposed to charge a 15% gratuity to your Sail & Sign card (which is your ship's ID and the only form of money they take on board) every time you use it, but we weren't charged a thing.

Actually, before we went to the Indian grill, we stopped by the maitre d's station at the Black Pearl on the fourth floor. We were ready to beg for a table for two, being "antisocial" or "romantic," depending on which "cruise critic" camp you listen to. No need, though: we'd already been assigned our own cozy table. Hallelujah! Later, Mike talked to Miguel, our personable maitre d', about how pleased we were to have our own table, what were the odds were, etc. Miguel pronounced us "bloody lucky." Take note, anyone who reads certain popular message boards and is led to believe that a) all nice, normal people want to eat at tables for 10 and meet people (shudder), and b) that it's easy to change to a table for two if you like.

(Keep in mind that Carnival Splendor won't be implementing "anytime dining" until next year, when you can just wait for the table size you want.)

(In the photo above, you'll see Mike the one time he sat in that seat. The couple behind our table, behind that seat, was composed of a small woman and a large man. Every night, the man would sit in the chair that backed up to us, instead of the one backing up to open space. And while I commend his good posture, every night there would be six inches between his back and the seat-back, and the seat-back would be pinning me against the table. Originally Mike and I planned to alternate, but because Mike so selflessly puts up with me, I took the bad seat for every subsequent night. Also, it makes for good future leverage. I am now the master of the 11-point turn to get out of a cramped dining space.)

Anyway. Good ole #175. The perfect furniture for your own little world.

(I'm leaving many of the 50 or so pics related to Splendor's food out of this post. If you want to see all of the "cruise food" photos, click here for a slideshow.)

So, guess what the vegetarian entree was for that first night? Indian! Luckily, it was even better than the Indian dinner on Elation (this time the stuffed bread - kulcha? not naan - had more onions and flavour).

I tried six soups on this cruise: Chilled Cucumber with Dill, Orange Cream (no picture, alas - tasted like a Dreamsicle, though), Cream of Sun-Ripened Tomato, Cream of Potato, Wild Mushroom Cream, and Mango Cream, Of these six, the chilled cucumber was the best.

What I really liked was how the soup bowl arrived empty at the table, just a curl of cucumber at the bottom with a few onions inside the loop. Then the waiter (Yumadi, great fellow) brought a small porcelain pitcher to the table and poured the cold soup around the cucumber until it filled the bowl and, eventually, rose up through vegetable circlet (here note my great restraint in not calling it a "crop circle"). I can usually take or leave cucumbers, but this was nicely seasoned, and it was great to have the scent of the dill in my nose as I let the soup wave around the onions crunching between my teeth. I wish I could explain it better; you'd think I'd have picked up something from reading Ruth Reichl (Comfort Me with Apples) this past week.

We only got Room Service once, but at least it redeemed the nearly inedible experience we'd had on Elation.

Seen above is my signature meatless Reuben, plus the grilled mushroom sandwich. When I'd go to the sandwich grill, I'd swap the mushroom sandwich for the arugula/mozzarella/tomato. I do love sandwiches.

The third night was a the herb polenta with wild mushroom ragout. Highly recommended.

There aren't any photos from the second night because it was Elegant Night, and we are not elegant. So, it was buffet / sandwiches / pizza after an ordinary breakfast and a terrific lunch in the Golden Pearl dining room. (For dinner, we were assigned the Black Pearl, but the open dining for breakfast and lunch is held only in the Golden Pearl.)

The Elation had better pizza. This pizza had a less pillowy (yet not thin) crust and the cheese congealed pretty quickly. We learned right away to always request a fresh slice. As mentioned in the Elation trip report, whether Carnival has good pizza is a huge topic of debate on some boards. Looks like they need to factor in that quality varies from ship to ship.

The pizza guy, though, was very nice. I suspect cheaper ingredients are used to serve the bigger Splendor, but that's a totally baseless guess. I did like that the pizza station was right by the main pool on the Lido deck, and not in the back of the Tiffany buffet area, as on Elation.

Breakfast was so ordinary that we had it twice - getting a second helping of eggs from the Lido buffet as we left - and we never went back to the dining room for breakfast that week. (I swear it had nothing to do with me spilling cream all over the tablecloth, menus, and portside window.)

Lunch was very good for me: the aforementioned orange cream soup, "hay and straw" (a mix of egg and spinach fettucinis with cream and cheese), a tropical fruit terrine. Alas, cruising seems to be the one thing that keep me (relatively) camera-free. Unfortunately, there was no vegetarian option for lunch the next day, and on the last day that dining room lunch was available (it's not available on port days), nothing on the menu spoke to us.

Meanwhile, Mike isn't getting much of a mention, so let's trot out his favourite dish on this cruise:

That's a Jerked Pork Loin, which he followed with Strawberry Cheesecake, but I was bolder and had the Warm Fig, Date, and Cinnamon Cake, served with Rum Raisin Ice Cream.

This dish caused me to use the word "pairing" in a completely un-mocking way. The two items were well suited to one another.

This red velvet cupcake, offered on the buffet one day, was also a winner. (Whatever it's next to wasn't interesting enough to warrant a second bite, but I think it's pineapple cake.) According to the herald that is Facebook, my Aunt Donna recently made red velvet cookies. She's not sure if she likes them, but it made me wonder if German chocolate cake would translate well into cookies...

One thing we didn't know about before boarding was that the Splendor has a burrito bar. Wow!

The first time, this didn't go well. The person assembling the burrito put tons of hot sauce on Mike's before he could stop them, plus it was a whole wheat tortilla. (I know it's cool to hate white flour, but people love it for a reason. Anyway, I'm better than the rest of you because I love corn tortillas best, so there!) The second time Mike got a better burrito, but it was still dry. Dryness of the mass-served food seemed to be a recurring problem on Splendor, one that we didn't get on Elation.

Speaking of fluids, sort of, I don't even want to talk about what Mike's doing here:

But isn't that a pretty view of Puerto Vallarta outside the window? (Don't look at the lemonade thief. Don't look at the lemonade thief.) I also liked the way Splendor had many booths and semi-booths, instead of mostly tables like on Elation.

On the day of the chocolate buffet (which was good, except for when I got to the cake I wanted to try - pear cake with chocolate - and the attendant said I had to make all requests to the person at the start of the line... which would have meant requeueing about 40 people back and, um, WTF?), we had a great view of the ocean. This view turned into an unexpected whale watching encounter, which led to the world's worst whale watching video, shot by yours truly on the pocket cam:

The day before we saw dolphins off the port side as we ate. They were so beautiful, leaping in formations of twos and threes. I could see how someone might end up collecting a large number of dolphin figurines, earrings, and t-shirts. Who wouldn't want to be part of all that grinning grace? Another day we saw something seal-like (I still say it was a seal or sea lion, but Mike thought it was a manatee, until he learned that they don't live around there - ha), and not long after sail away from Long Beach we had a great time leaning over the balcony to watch the flying fish. (We also saw some cute crabs, but that will be on the Cabo post.)

Suffice to say that we got more than our money's worth in gorgeous views while dining.

Sometimes there were views of a different sort:

This mariachi band did a stroll through the dining room before we sailed from Puerto Vallarta. (Mariachi music is much better when you don't have to worry about them stopping at your table.)

And I will counter that blurry photo with this photo of Chocolate, Raspberry, and Vanilla Cream Cake with Raspberry Sorbet:

Oops, that reminds me that I didn't show a photo of what I did end up with from the chocolate buffet:

I guess I did okay, huh?

Granted, I grabbed extras for Mike, who was doing the usual seven-hour wait at the Mongolian Grill, and the big plate was from the just-opened lunch buffet. (That was one of the best days for Lido fare. Soft, hot bread, a light penne, and surprisingly tasty bean and cheese enchiladas. Decent potato salad, too. Yes, it is hard to believe that I even know what the word "pairing" means, come to think of it.)

Pictured elsewhere on the table is a chocolate mousse with toasted almonds (great), some Chilean empanada-style things with something sticky inside (meh), rum balls (meh), crispy cookie-like "swans" (pretty), a rummy cupcake with macaroon (meh), biscotti (odd, interesting), more sticky stuff (meh), chocolate wontons (definitely interesting), and I forget what else because just typing about it has made me all dizzy from the sugar. Mmmm.

If the chocolate buffet wasn't enough, there is a pastry shop open until midnight that serves cake and such for an extra price. (A reasonable $2.95 for an eight-inch-high slice, I think, but we were too busy using our onboard credit for losing bingo cards to ever partake.)

As good as the buffet enchiladas were that day, they couldn't beat the black bean enchiladas I had at dinner one night:

Beautiful to look at and a perfect fusion (gack! I said another foodie buzzword!) of chewiness and spice. I even ate the guacamole because it was so pretty. Chopped and Iron Chef (and my Dad) are right: presentation counts.

One time I did not get bold in the dining room was when I avoided the Coconut Cream Cake. Why? Because it was a "Spa Selection" (read: light) and made with Splenda instead of sugar.

Now, I know that Splenda is a reasonably tasty artificial sweetener, but I don't like the idea of it. True, my figure would be better off if I had the "real deal" less often, but I've spent so many years getting artificial crap out of my system that I'd rather just eat fewer sweets than eat synthetic ones. (Oh, the days of slinging down the six-packs of Diet Dr Pepper, how dark they were.)

The next day, the cake showed up on the lunch buffet and I just had to try a bite.

I got three other desserts, including this yummy banana-chocolate thing. They went almost untouched. The cake, I scarfed. Not only couldn't I tell that it had Splenda, but it was just incredibly delicious. So, I must eat my words. My scrummy, scrummy, coconutty, creamy words.

Up on the fifth deck, not far from the pastry counter, is the sushi stand. We never actually saw it open with sushi, though, which probably says a lot about how much we loved our balcony room. (Plenty of people like their inside cabins, but I think these are the same people that like eating with other people at dinner.) The ocean was our television, a marathon of our new favourite show.

One day, as Mike took one of his usual siestas (that's what he started calling them, claiming that he was just trying to fit in with the whole Mexican theme), I wandered around to take photos. According to the Capers, every other day the sushi bar offered tapas. Although I never saw the sushi, I did get to see the tapas:

The selection of olive-y, tomato-y dips and little breads looked inviting, but I wasn't hungry enough to try anything. (You cannot hit every food event on a cruise ship. Okay, maybe, if you're a veteran, but we're still newbies.)

One event that we missed the first day (went to see the Newlywed Game-style show - hilarious), caught and loved the second day, and forewent the last day (being lazy and not wanting to mar our memories) was Tea Time.

On Carnival Splendor, Tea Time is held on the upper level of the Golden Pearl dining room, near the large aft windows looking over our wake, by the grand piano. On some ships it is held in the library, but I have to tell you, the Splendor's "Alexandria" library (they wish) is a pitiful little room compared to the spacious, windowed "Mark Twain" library on Elation. (Splendor's library overlooks a lifeboat. Nice.) We got one of the few tables for two (okay, so we're obsessive, but there are worse hobbies) and I talked Mike into taking some tea as a prop. We both chose something orange; I'll have to find the wrapper. (It's a scrapbookable!)

Then the trolley came around and, oh, how I will always regret not throwing myself bodily upon the thing. But no, we were dainty, taking a thinly pressed cucumber sandwich and a couple of bite-size scones each.

Again with the incredible cucumber moments! Even Mike has since wondered aloud how we might make such little sandwiches on our own.

But the scones. Oh. my.

"This is a scone," said Mike. "None of that big triangle business that you get here." And he was right. I've only been to England once, only had scones there once, but this was a scone. Full of real cream and so moist... and I don't really see how I'm supposed to carry on, maybe never having such a thing again, and yet I bravely do. Although sometimes, around three p.m., I have to have a bit of a lie-down so I can weep quietly until the loss passes.

Soldiering on, for our last meal, I got the Eggplant and Zucchini Parmigiana, which was hearty and pleasantly seasoned, and not floppy at all, as these things sometimes are.

Mike was the real winner, though. For both starter and main course, he had Carnival's Baby Back Ribs, "the best ribs I've had since coming to the United States," he says. (Actually, he said it on the first cruise, and this cruise just reinforced that.)

(Let me kill the moment for a second. See the soup in the foreground? That's my mango cream soup. I know it's grainy, but can you see the green thing floating in it? Well, remember how, when I had the cucumber soup, I chewed on the onions and dill while eating the soup, and it was such a great explosion of taste? Note to the world: chewing on a mint leaf is very different, and doing so while eating mango soup is a little like brushing your teeth before getting your orange juice. This photo was taken after I made that realization. I tried hiding the chewed-up mint in my napkin, but I was scared it would fall out. Now you know how gross I am, to smuggle the used mint back into the soup, but luckily Mike was too blissed out by the ribs to care.)

Unless you count the midnight pizza and hot chocolate in the room, that was our last meal on the Carnival Splendor. Normally we ignored the waiters when they sang (it only happened twice, and felt gratuitous each time), and we only saw the magician (Tejas, and he was great) once, but tonight the entertainment was very special.

As usual, I was underprepared to film it, and our normally perfect table was the worst place to try (being under the staircase on which the waiters lined up), and then I added to all this by swinging the pocket cam around all crazy-like, resulting in a video that is actually worse than the one with the whales, but it was such a sweet (and tearful, every time I watch it) end to the cruise, that I must share. To the tune of "Leaving on a Jet Plane," this is the waitstaff of Carnival Splendor's Black Pearl dining room saying goodbye with "Leaving on a Fun Ship."

Previously: Splendiferous

Splendiferous

I admit it. That slap-dash last post was thrown up just so I wouldn't have half a trip report in progress with no end in sight when I left for the next trip.

We just came home today from Cruise #2, seven nights on the Carnival Splendor. (And boy are my water wings tired. That's the last trip across the Mojave. I mean it this time.)

Unfortunately, the Splendor is the top of the Carnival fleet (at least for a few more months), and I'm afraid we've become quite spoiled. Oh sure, you could cruise for $150, and have a great time in your windowless cabin under the disco, or you could have a great time while sitting on your balcony at the top of the ship, wearing special fuzzy slippers, using a different colour beach towel than those in the lower (sniff!) decks, steps away from your unlimited thalassotherapy pool access, unlimited aromatherapeutic steam room, and need I mention the "resting" room with the fruit, water, tea, and little beds (I think I do), burning up your promotional onboard credit on armfuls of souvenirs and bingo cards.

Our vacation budget is all sprung out now, so you really could go have a great time in a spa cabin - we're not going to book it up anytime soon.

As a result of this trip, I now have a much greater interest in playing those slot machines with the progressive jackpots. You know, the ones where you win and quit your job and go live on a cruise ship and sail around the world? Using special herbal-citrus bath products in dainty bottles available only to spa cabins? Eating more varieties of chilled soup than you've ever had before in your life, and not just gazpacho?

We have a 2-for-1 coupon for casino breakfast buffet that I reckon we'll use later this week. Maybe one of us will have stopped crying by then.

As I type this, the Splendor just left - literally, just this minute - for another week of Mexican Riviera ports and dolphins and whales and stars and chocolate buffets and bald men running around in their tablemates' lipstick, heels, and bras. Heartless!

Previously: Carnival Elation Cruise: Ensenada

Carnival Elation Cruise: Ensenada

I'm going to be lay with this part of the trip report. Instead of saying much, we'll watch a movie. Yay! Everyone loves a home movie, right? Or, better, yet, let me lug down this box of slide carousels...

Now that everyone is scared of what could have been...

If you lasted through that scintillating opening scene of the ship slowly, slowly docking, kudos.

Sketchy thoughts to accompany the video:

• It was great to sit on the balcony for hours and watch the sea lions, right outside the ship. They sure are loud, though. Mike, napping, thought he was hearing the frat boys being stupid.
• I only got two clumps of scrambled eggs at breakfast instead of three like the day before. See, things aren't as rigid and standardized as people fear!
• We had no plans when walking off the cruise ship into Ensenada's little shopping terminal. Luckily there was a shuttle into town right there ($2/each). And even more luckily, it was hosted by a man named Cesar, who told us all about the "real Mexico," held up a map of a resort, spoke of lobster, and said that, with the coupon on our receipt, we could all go see the majesty of La Bufadora for ourselves, for only $15/each, amigos.
• (There is no resort. It was still fun. And $10 cheaper than the Carnival-sponsored expedition.)
• I suck at haggling. (Shell-encrusted turtle sculpture, paid $3 instead of two for $5.)
• Mike is much better at it. (Maracas, started at $5, got down to $2.)
• The "open air market" at La Bufadora is a slaughterhouse-style corridor of aggressive stall minders, with a strangely white and clinical pharmacy with pristine glass cabinets and shelves positioned at every fourth stall.
• I'm pretty sure you can get anything at the pharmacy. "Anything?" I asked. They said: "We're not in Kansas anymore!"
• Yes, we ate at the tourist trap chain-style restaurant. I'd apologize but when you're in a tourist trap, you can't get too righteous about where to eat. Also? Food was great.
• A drive through Ensenada gave me a lot of insight on vandalism (tagging) back home. Too much insight.
• But, the people were all very friendly. With a good sense of humour. "At least give me a chance to rip you off!"
• Mike regrets not getting ripped off on a beautiful chess set. Next time?

There isn't much left to report about this splendid cruise (dinner, disembarkation, general gushing)... maybe I should throw myself into AP lesson planning before June Joy disappears and July Stubbornness begins, which leads too soon to August Denial?

Previously: Carnival Elation Cruise: Santa Catalina Island

Carnival Elation Cruise: Santa Catalina Island

Like Christmas Morning! is such a cliche, but some part of my brain always seemed to remain vigilant at night, listening for the slowing of the ship or a change in whatever light defeated the heavy curtains across our windows. Within moments of cocking open an eye, I made this video:

Santa Catalina excitement! Let me play the song again:

Mike was quickly up as well. We headed down to the Imagination dining room around quarter to eight for eggs and orange juice. (Mine scrambled with English muffin, Mike's in an omelet with bacon and wheat toast.)

We got a little confused on the way to the disembarkation point, missing the sign to the steps down, and instead wandering the long hallways of cabins, hitting dead ends, and eventually going all the way back up and through the art gallery on deck 7 to start over. Of course, by the time we figured it out, there was someone manned at the top of the stairs to prevent exactly this kind of confusion. (Did you know that when Mike was doing his journalism degree, he was prohibited from using "manned" as I just did? Not "gender-neutral language," they said. Yes, really.)

Catalina is a tendered port of call, meaning that you take a little boat to the dock, instead of the cruise ship nuzzling right up to the dock for you. Getting on the tender wasn't quite as bad as walking down a short flight of steps directly over the Pacific Ocean, but those with a fear of drowning would be grateful for the hands that help you on to the smaller boat. (I'm thinking here of my mother who, after a few bad experiences, has never since been comfortable around any water over her head. It's only a few steps, and there is a little dock that is large enough for four or so people that comes out of the ship - you don't just step right out of a hatch, but I know she would have required a deep breath.)

I had a sober Australian husband on my left and a drunk Australian lad on my right. The stranger spat into the ocean more than once, even into the wind despite the good advice of Jim Croce. Nice. The young man was part of a large tour group going to a golf course. Of course, they all boarded last, so the rest of the tender's population had to climb over and around them to disembark at Catalina's Green Pier. This is the middle pier, right into the heart of Avalon's shore, although the bay is so small that any dock is within quick walking distance to another.

I took this pic of Mike on the pier. That's a bit of building on the upper left corner, but I like how it makes it look like I've posed him in front of a photo, trying to fake a story about visiting Catalina.

Avalon sets up an instantly charming view. Especially at 8:38 in the morning, before the majority of the cruise ship passengers and Catalina Express tourists start arriving. (I checked the timestamp on the photos. Less than an hour from breakfast to the Island of Romance, Romance, Romance.)

Everywhere were examples of the famous Catalina tiles. One of my few objectives on the island was to stop by the museum and get a copy of Jewels of Avalon. (Eight bucks on Catalina, often several times that on the web.)

We quickly decided that renting a golf cart to see Avalon on our own terms would suit us well. I felt a little warned off from this, what with reports online about how the city is so small and you can't take the golf cart beyond its limits, but once we got there, the carts just looked like fun.

The first place we stopped quoted a $40/hour rate, two hours max. Mike suggested we walk just a little further and see what the next place down was offering.

The second place was also $40/hour, for two hours, with a third hour for free if you wanted it. Also, if you returned the cart before the two hours was up, you received a refund. (Pro-rated in 15 minute installments.) This was the better deal, for sure.

So, for you visual learners, this is where we did not go:

And this is where we did (next to the pier where the Catalina Express docks):

We were given a map, showing our allowed routes.

And so with Mike in the driver's seat, driving for the first time in America, we took off toward the Wrigley Botanical Gardens.

But, everything along the way was... I can't say charming again. (Checking thesaurus.) Everything we saw along the way was so inviting, delightful, and winsome. I don't know if I could ever visit Catalina again; one trip was manageable, but it might break my heart not to be able to stay forever next time. Avalon is well-named.

We saw a few pick-up trucks, but most homes seemed to have a golf cart parked outside. Few people were about, perhaps because it was Friday morning and everyone was working or, if they could afford a home here, retired and relaxing. Other than one Barbie-blonde in a hot pink cart, most of the other carts we passed were tourists.

Now, the next photo is to prove that we did go to the Botanical Gardens:

Granted, we didn't actually stop, or even really slow down, but we did - quite literally - swing by. [Here I had to take a break from writing this. Michael Jackson... I had always looked forward to the day when he mellowed out, sorted out his life, and wrote the real tell-all, and then died happy. Sad.]

We didn't go to the Gardens because we were having too much fun on the cart. Those people who claim that the carts aren't much fun because you can't leave the city? I don't think they've actually been on the carts. The roads go into the beautiful hills around the city, and we stopped often to take pictures.

(In case we never get to Pisa.)

The views of the bay and our ship beyond were spectacular.

Look, you can see the golf cart rental place from here:

We were traveling with the new Crumpler bag today. Here's a gratuitous shot:

See all those little dividers inside? You can pluck them out and rearrange them however you like, to best secure lenses, iPods, Kindle, whatever. (Although it is marketed as a camera bag, and the factory configuration is perfect for managing lenses, flash, etc. I love this bag.)

Around every other bend was another great view. This is one of the Wrigley homes:

I tried to upload some on-the-spot photos to Facebook, but they didn't go through. Mike did get a rare picture of me... which I promptly edited to block out some of the chins.

Subtle, huh? (And now my hair is all one colour again - "Truffle.")

Eventually passed the gate to the island's interior. No golf carts may pass, and everyone else needs a permit. Sure, I would've liked to have gone on the tour to see the bison, the airport, even the other harbour with the Civil War fort (although that would all take more than one day), but with day trips, there is only so much time. We liked what we were doing.

As we careened (at very low speed) down the mountains, we passed the former site of the Hotel St. Catherine. Here is a postcard from 1925 of the once-famous hotel:

And here is some footage shot at the hotel in 1935:

And this is what it looks like today:

Just a few low buildings by the beach, collectively called a "Beach Club."

We drove on. Here's a shot of the back of the Chimes Tower as we zipped past:

There was too much cuteness everywhere to snap it all. The individually crafted tiles, the ornaments, the unique look of each property, this pelican I pretended to be really interested in while Mike had a road-sharing face-off with a tour bus driver:

Back down at sea level, we motored toward the island museum, which is inside the iconic Casino. (It's in the Italian sense of casino, not a place of gambling.)

Oops, no, look the other way.

Keep looking.

There it is!

Did we go into the Museum? No! Of course not, we were scenic joyriders! Next time. After we win the progressive slots and relocate properly.

We did go to the gift shop, though. I got my book and a reproduction tile magnet, and for free they threw in a copy of Old Ben. Ben was a notorious seal who lived in Catalina for at least thirty-something years. (No one knows how/if/when he died. Sounds like the beginning of a great West Coast selkie story to me!) Ben was amiable and would even wander the streets of Catalina, looking for friendship. I learned all of this later, when we were back on the ship and basking in bed by our balcony view, and Mike read select parts of the book to me. I'm sorry, but thesaurus.com is no help. COULD CATALINA GET ANY MORE CHARMING?!

(See a photo and short blurb about Old Ben from Google Books. Google Books is impressing me more and more lately. Yes, they decided to get in bed with Sony e-Reader instead of Kindle for providing public domain books in an optimized format, but the books are public domain, so I can still mail them to my Kindle, although they might not be as pretty. Meanwhile, the previews of non-public domain titles are great. I even read a big chunk of the original Love Boats novel before the cruise. Cruise nerds, unite!)

Unfortunately, you can only go into the Casino as part of a tour (1:45 p.m. - too far away for us) or to see a movie in the evening. That would've been fun. They were screening Land of the Lost! Strike one for the afternoon sail away.

We also got a few postcards at the gift shop, so we kept an eye out for a mailbox. Even better, we found a post office. And even better than that, across the street was a little Vons supermarket. Awww.

Alas, it was also incredibly crowded, so our sudden plans to bring Vitamin Water back to the ship were thwarted by our dislike of crowds. (Not that the lemonade on board wasn't delicious, but, you know, vitamins.)

Look, a house for sale. Sigh!

I bet it's only a jillion dollars, too. (Here's where I go AFK to check Realtor.com.)

Hey, it's only $849k. Actually, for California prices, that's not so bad. And it says you can rent it out for $2100/week during the summer.

(And people wonder how it was cheaper for us to cruise to Catalina than to ferry out and spend a couple of nights...)

We dropped off the cart after almost exactly two hours. So, we didn't need that free third hour, but it would have been far more stressful if we hadn't had it. (Especially if we'd stopped more often, gone to the Gardens, etc.)

As we walked back to the Green Pier, we stopped inside House of Wood for another souvenir.

I had admired these starfish ornaments when we'd walked past in the morning:

Mike finds it creepy and refuses to touch it, so I like to run the back of the thing all over his chest when he doesn't expect it. But that's another story.

Tenders ran nonstop between ship and shore. Back onboard (up the ocean-stairs, pop Sign & Sail card into reader, bumble through X-ray, and you're free again), we took a few photos as we wandered our way back to the cabin.

(I wasn't adverse to trying the casino, when we were out at sea and it was open, even though we live in Las Vegas and see better machines and better odds all the time. However, the casino was always so smoky that, despite several attempts to go in, we never lasted a full minute.)

I was awed when we returned to good ole V14. The Catalina view was just stunning.

After some lingering, I cast an eye over the day's Capers...

Oops, I mean a part of the Capers not pictured above, the part advertising a chocolate buffet until 2:30. Chocolate Buffet!

There was so much to choose from, and as it was busy I couldn't stop or stand back for photos. Mike and I both tried the Lemon Bacardi Mousse:

I know that's not chocolate, but it was still good. (Although neither one of us cared much for the gelatin top.)

Mike really liked his chocolate fruitcake; I was frightened by its density (and anything with the word "fruitcake"), but it was pretty tasty and not dry at all. I had the Almond Lemon Chocolate cake. (The cakey bits are almond, the filling is lemon.)

We sat at the tables near the large aft windows, sometimes peeking down at the adults-only "Serenity" area.

And then it was back to the lovely room with the lovely view for reading and naps. Sometime later we woke up, having slept past any highlighted plans in the Capers, and - because this was a cruise - ate at the buffet:

Mike was not impressed with the buffet options and ended up trying the Mongolian grill, which he liked enough for seconds. My buffet options were better; the stuffed mushrooms were quite tasty. I picked at the rest before deciding to grab a sandwich. The deli workers remembered me from the day before, and my meatless Reuben was perfect.

(We didn't eat in the dining room this night because it was "Elegant" night. Neither one of us is much for dressing up, and since we don't eat seafood, it wasn't a huge loss.)

I remember that Mike also had pizza, because he used it to "interact" with the seagulls. I know this is a contentious issue, so here is Mike hiding his face in shame:

(Not.) The next part of the afternoon/evening is a blur of just wandering around.

We stepped into the "Vegas-style" show for awhile, but were already antsy by the time we walked out on a re-wording of "Centerfold." (I can't remember what the new lyrics were, other than insipid.)

On one of the trips to our room (where no movie of interest was playing tonight), we found this bit of unpleasantness:

Although the wording here is wrong, which led to two separate discussions at the Purser's Desk, the gist is that on the day of debarkation, Mike - being a green card holder - would have to report to the Cole Porter Lounge at 6:30 a.m. for special Customs processing.

Six-thirty in the morning! Talk about a buzzkill for the end of the trip.

Apparently, foreign passengers must be processed before the ship can be cleared and everyone can be released. If you don't show up, you will be fined.

So, there went our plans to pack the night before, wake up at the last minute, get off the ship right away with VIP debarkation (oo la la), and not let any of our cruise memories be of sitting around on deck chairs, waiting, waiting.

Oh well! That green card is what allows Mike and I to be together, so it's a small hassle to pay. (Says the person who didn't have to get up at six a.m.)

Now, with that sort of love in my heart, I'd like to show you what happened next, for it was wonderful and entertaining. We decided to go see where the Cole Porter Lounge was, so Mike would know when the time came. And what did we find in there? KARAOKE.

At first we just giggled at the drunks, but soon it was down to just a few people and Mike... he couldn't resist the pull... although he claimed loudly to have been bullied by me... and...

And this is where his kick-ass montage of "Cold as Ice," "The Wanderer," "Jessie's Girl," and "Do Wah Diddy Diddy" should be.

But somebody was all, "YOU'RE NOT PUTTING THAT ON THE INTERNET!" Bold type and capital letters and everything. And I wrestled with it, Internet, I really did. Respect my marriage or finally be able to share some searin' fantastic blog fodder? I mean, we could always get counseling later...

In the end I wussed out and that is why you just have to imagine all of the four to six people in the audience yelling "woo hoo!" and clapping along to Mike's smokin' vocals. (Be sure to also imagine Mike wearing a jumper plus swim shorts, because I have a feeling - however much it made sense on a cruise ship - that his fashion regrets are another reason for all of this censorship. I, of course, thought he was cute. Like, Catalina-cute.)

And so ends our day, aboard the real Love Boat.

Previously: Carnival Elation Cruise: The First Night

Carnival Elation Cruise: The First Night

We pick back up with the trip report for the Carnival Elation cruise. Accounts of the night before in San Diego and embarkation and sail away can be found by clicking those links.

After sail away, we drifted down to the Atlantic Deck, deck eight, for "anytime dining" in the Imagination Dining Room.

"Anytime Dining" is fairly new to the Carnival Cruise Line, and it was only implemented on the Elation six weeks before our boarding. In short, if you sign up for Anytime Dining, you can come to the Imagination dining room anytime between 5:45 and 9:00 p.m. for dinner. Pretty much just like a regular restaurant.

Compare this the "traditional" method, where you request either early dining (6:00 p.m.) or late dining (8:15 p.m.). I hear that sometimes, with traditional dining, you are stuck waiting for everyone at your table to arrive, and often you may be eating at a table with up to eight other people. (As horrible as that sounds to me, I'd prefer to be at a table for 10 than a table for four, where disappearing into your own world with your spouse would be far more obvious and rude.) Many people call traditional dining a "perk" of cruising, and maybe I would simply adore it if I tried it (keeping a straight face here), and it's fine with me that so many people enjoy it.

But - there's always the proverbial "but" - then there are those who try to impose their preferences on you in the name of All That is Holy about Cruising. They have small conniption fits on the boards when you suggest you'd rather enjoy intimate dining at a table of your own, with just your spouse. "Antisocial!" they cry. "A disparagement to what Cruising is All About!"

Whatever. Off the soapbox and back to the relaying of events. Our next cruise is on the Splendor, which won't have Anytime Dining until 2010, so I'm fervently hoping that Mike and I will be assigned (or can change to) a table for two. (Would you want to sit with two people who'd rather just talk to each other? See, it's win-win.) On the Elation there weren't many tables for two on the traditional side of the room, but maybe that's because the "Anytime" side (starboard side) was nothing but tables for two, with a few tables for four by the windows. (Larger parties were easily accommodated by putting tables together.)

We were seated right away - table 121, Ni's station. Although many people were dressed down (although still within Carnival's guidelines - let's not even begin to get into those flame wars), this is still a place where they pull out your chairs (and tuck them back in, which is awkward for Miss Fatty here to coordinate) and place the napkin in your lap for you. (Except for one weird occasion when the waiter just waggled it in my face.)

I wasn't that excited about the menu before we went in (it is posted just outside the dining room), but trying new things was fun, so I was still looking forward to the meal. It began with a bread basket:

Pleasant - not especially remarkable, but nice. For our starters, Mike ordered the Heart of Iceberg salad, and I ordered the Cream of Broccoli soup. The menu lists the latter as "Cream of Garden Fresh Broccoli, enhanced with Aged Wisconsin Cheddar," and no, I'm not going to say anything about missing hyphens in compound adjectives. (That would just be picky, especially if you've ever counted the typos in the Carnival Capers. On two nights our in-room movies were complimentary, but on the night inbetween, they were "complementary." Which, in a way, they are, but that's a weird typo for the copy-and-paste age.)

(I wasn't quick enough with the camera before Mike dug in.)

The soup was delicious. Subtle, but not bland. I'm developing a theory lately, which is that any vegetable can taste good in a cream soup. I'm not a fan at all of broccoli or of most forms of asparagus, but recently I've had both in cream soups and really enjoyed them. And it's not just the "cover it with enough other stuff and it's okay" school of thinking (of which I am usually an unapologetic graduate), but I genuinely enjoyed the actual taste of broccoli in this soup. Not enough to start stealing treats from my hamsters, but enough to call a truce. (With the icky green vegetable, not the furry friends.)

(Of course, they will have to make a palatable Cream of Brussel Sprouts soup before my theory can gain any credibility.)

Mike's verdict on the salad: "Good. Tasty, crisp, fresh... didn't blow me away, but a solid start to the meal. Did its job, what a salad should do. It's weird how salads are often a course here [America] instead of part of the meal."

For the main course (I think Mike will turn a little purple if I do the American thing and say "entrees."), Mike asked for the flat iron steak and a half-rack of the baby back ribs. I requested that night's vegetarian entree, the Cinnamon, Pumpkin, Squash, Yam and Cheddar Pot Pie.

Let me rave first.

Yum!!!

Not only was this a beautiful dish, but it was a pure pleasure to eat. Whatever that is on the side - it tasted a little like corn, but maybe it was expertly seasoned squash? - was surely one of the top ten side dishes of my time on earth. (Pity I didn't ask what it was, but that's reverie for you.) The pot pie was sturdy and savoury but not heavy. I loved the crust and the obvious care that went into its creation.

Now Mike's turn. The steak: "Good. Not that crazy about the peppercorn sauce. It was okay, but it tasted more like wine than like pepper. But I enjoyed it because it was a good steak in a good setting."

After Mike finished his steak, the server brought a full rack of ribs, apologizing that they couldn't halve the order. As it turned out, Mike cleaned his plate. "They're just like I like them. Not too fatty or meaty, a light sauce. I don't usually like BBQ sauce - too gluggy - but this was just a spicy sauce. The corn was pretty good, for frozen corn."

For the dessert course, Mike expansively ordered a cheese plate to share and key lime pie for himself. I had to try the much-celebrated chocolate melting cake.

Mike, on the pie: "It was good. It wasn't overly bitter, like they can be, but it still had a tartness about it. The top was kind of fluffy; I liked it."

The cheeses listed on the menu were Port Salut, Brie, Gouda, Swiss, and Danish Bleu. I only really remember the brie, and wishing we'd just asked for that, as it was the best. (I mean, all of the cheese were tasty, but I was really into brie that night.) We thought the dark globes were olives, but they were just very dark grapes. All were tasty.

The waiter gave me a knowing look when I ordered the chocolate cake, like it was an old spell in a bottle that generations have been unable to resist. The cake was true to its name, with a wet, batter-like center and firm exterior, but I wasn't dropping my jaw in amazement, probably because I have had melting cake so many times already at The M Resort's buffet. I can see where it wouldn't suit some tastes, especially if you're in the mood for a denser cake. This cake had an almost brownie aspect, especially around the edges. I wouldn't hesitate to get it again, but only if there wasn't anything new to try.

You'll notice that Mike uses the word "good" a lot. It was good. Enjoyable food, comfortable surroundings, and great views.

After dinner, we visited the library. I never seemed to have the proper camera with me on subsequent visits, but here's a blurry pocket-cam glimpse:

The theme is "Mark Twain." The library is always open, but its bookcases aren't. For about an hour each day the librarian opens them, and you can check out books. Later in the trip - for we made several pop-in visits to this room with its soft sofas by the windows - we found that there is a "take or leave whatever you want" cabinet that stays open all of the time. At the bottom, there must be thirty backgammon boards. In the locked cabinet are popular board games. I can definitely see making use of the games cabinet while on a longer cruise.

Recently someone posted a thread on Cruise Critics, wondering if it was time to get rid of the "pointless" library. The rush to defend the room was reassurring. It's a lovely bit of ambience.

I wasn't carrying my phone, so I didn't know the time. For some reason I thought it was earlier, so I thought the "Friends of Bill" meeting would be starting soon, and I hustled Mike out of there. (Not because alcoholics frighten me, but because I assumed they'd want privacy. Do they close the library and put up a little sign? I didn't know. Thanks to Sigma Alpha Epsilon, though, we became very used to little signs outside of theme rooms, saying "Private Function.")

We wandered around then went back up to our room.

Awwww!

I don't know if that's meant to be a puppy or a bunny, but it's completely charming. I don't think I could ever cruise again without a custom cloth critter waiting for me every night. In fact, before the trip I wasn't that interested in "turndown service"; if anything, it would be an imposition that meant I had to vacate my room during a certain period of time.

Wrong. The stewards are stealthy and wise, and no matter when you dine, they seem to know. Only once did we return from dinner to an unmade room, but we just took a short stroll and it was fixed up by the time we returned. I don't want to admit it, because I seldom make the bed at home (How often are you supposed to wash the sheets, by the way? Is it every year, or just leap years?), but it's nice to come back to the room and see the bed all done up. (I direct you again to this photo.) I also really like getting the Capers for the next day; I wish we could have that at home. It might make work easier to stomach. ("Join us tomorrow for a beautiful day of teaching HIGH SCHOOL! Role-play authority while under attack from 180 teenagers! How long will YOU last?! Earn points towards valuable semi-monthly prizes!")

The balcony continued to lure us out at intervals, but, per that day's Capers, we saw that Adam Sandler's "Bedtime Stories" would be on at 9 p.m. Excellent! We had both wanted to see that.

Two thoughts need to be interjected here. First, of interest to everyone: if you turn your TV to the listed movie channel and all it shows is the channel guide, that's okay. This is the default programming that runs between the end of the movie and the start. Movies tend to start every three hours, so, unless you're watching Lord of the Rings (and you won't be, because all three movie channels show rather recent stuff), there is going to be a gap. Don't be like us and fret that, hey, it's 8:59, and the channel just keeps urging us to buy a DVD of other people playing ping pong on the ship.

My other thought is that I know many people are critical of those who watch television while on a cruise, especially if they're watching entire movies and even more especially if it's a short cruise. Given my earlier reactions to those who hate anytime dining, tables for two, jeans in the dining room (even though Carnival allows them), and "pointless" ship libraries, it's safe to assume that I've decided to follow my own bliss when it comes to cruising. And, apparently, sometimes this means ignoring everything you've highlighted in the Capers and just snuggling in. And ordering Room Service.

I know! What greedy little goblins, right? The power of FREE room service, it is strong.

Okay, so you have to tip a few bucks, and drinks cost extra if you want them, but signing a $0.00 room charge slip is an instant giddymaker.

After that, though, it was all downhill.

Just like at the deli at lunch, I ordered a Reuben without the meat. What I got was a Carnival-style grilled cheese on rye with sauerkraut. Picture a warm sandwich made with American cheese and lettuce (lettuce = "Carnival-style") with a smear of sauerkraut, all served on rye bread. Maybe you think that's yummy, fine, but you must admit that's a very different place for your tastebuds to visit, when they were expecting the welcome party to be made up of Swiss cheese and Russian dressing instead. Someone must have translated "Reuben without the meat" to "Oh, that's just a grilled cheese with sauerkraut on rye." And I translate their translation to YECCH! I love sauerkraut, even chocolate sauerkraut cake, but the terrible power of American cheese is that it can even make sauerkraut fans hate their beloved cabbage. Add in that the cheese was a little congealed and the bread tough, and it just doesn't get better, does it?

Meanwhile, Mike pronounced his chicken wrap "very dry." No sides came with it, but both potato chips and pretzels came with the Disgusting Grilled Cheese. (Easy to fix, but just another boggling item.) The chocolate cake was a crumbling brick that lived, sad and nearly untouched, in the fridge for the next two days. The salad was "meh." The pastrami with mustard was of no interest to anyone.

Wait, where did the pastrami sandwich come from?

Who knows, but neither of us wanted to deal with room service again. We left the plates on the tray on the table and couldn't wait for them to be gone the next day. (It didn't seem right to put them in the hall when there was space in our room. The halls are narrow enough.)

On subsequent nights, we did all late-night vittlin' at the pizza counter or late-night buffet instead. Waiting 45 minutes for sub-par food, or food we didn't order, wasn't worth the risk.

After a few more trips to the balcony, I fell asleep while Mike watched Bolt. I wonder what percentage of people become cruise junkies just because those beds are sooooo nice?

Previously: Cricket

Cricket

I was going to put up the next part of the cruise report, but I thought, no, it can wait. Let Sherman's obituary have its place for awhile. We're not really grieving; he had that bad tumour, and we were all lucky that he was a happy fellow until yesterday, when he was mostly tired, and then he left. It's horrible to say it out loud, but we were glad it happened at home, with us here, and not at the vet's office or with us out of town.

Not two hours later, I glanced at Cricket. She hadn't been out much today, and Mike fed her tonight. Usually it's me, but sometimes it's Mike. I can't go too long without a little Cricket-fix.

"Oh, how sweet." (I thought.) "She's sleeping over here, close to my end of the sofa." (Cricket knows perfectly well where I sit. Sometimes she watches me as much as I watch her.) I almost called to Mike to have a look.

But those are all thoughts in an instant. Because you always know, don't you? Before words have a chance.

I never thought I'd say this in a pet obituary, but, "What the hell, Cricket?"

I don't know what happened. She was fine this evening. As fine as Cricket ever is, anyway. Fact is, she was always a little "special" in the head - she was returned twice to the pet store - but every quirk was matched with fierce affection and endless personality.

I didn't look at her again. For the first time, I let Mike take care of things. What he described - her organs outside and prolapsed (rear end or uterus, it's hard to say) - I know these things happen. Something similar happened to Ambrosia... but she went to the vet, got everything tucked back in, took a course of antibiotics, and lived to a reasonable age. Crickie... it must have happened pretty fast. I don't know. We won't ever know. What the hell, Cricket?

It's three a.m., I have a week of all-day seminars starting early in the morning, and it seems we've gone back to losing them in twos. (Helix/Owl, Patricia/Milkdrop, Maudine/Tumble, Snout/Bernard, Cordelia/Joule, Prospero/Cobweb, etc...) Let us hope the remaining four - four??!! - stay healthy and happy.

Cricket, I'd never have favourites, but you were something special.

Previously: Sherman

Sherman

31 March 2007 - 21 June 2009
a crumbcatcher of the highest regard

Previously: Carnival Elation Cruise: Embarkation to Sail Away

Carnival Elation Cruise: Embarkation to Sail Away

Embarkation begins at San Diego with showing your FunPass and passport to security. Forget all those board posters who say you only need your passport because Carnival has the rest; in this case, wrong. We weren't getting through without proof of purchase.

Despite having had the "should we check or should we carry?" conversation several times before even leaving Las Vegas, we seemed to be having it again. (It only took the short walk from the car for Mike to rescind his vote for "carry.") I did bring the pre-printed luggage tags, so Mike tucked dollars into his hand while we waited for our porter to find a stapler.

"Is that all you have?" he asked, pointed to our two zipped-up tote bags. "You'd be better off just carrying them."

The porter seemed to feel confident that we'd be onboard right away and in our rooms before you know it, and I had to laugh that, in spite of several firm decisions, we were once again having the Check or Carry conversation, this time going the other way. With the porter in favour of us carrying.

We carried.

At the door of the terminal, a nice, older man handed us a piece of paper and directed us to the right side. But wait, we have VIP boarding, shouldn't we follow the sign to the left? No, only if you're with Sigma Alpha Epsilon, he said. They have boarding before everyone else.

So there we were with the plebs, and if you can't tell that I'm joking when I say that, you should probably click away right now, as my joy over tiny scraps of trumped-up elitism isn't going to get any better.

We took a moment to look at the paper the guy had given us. What's this? We're going to Mexico? They changed the itinerary back a week early? What about Catalina?

Luckily, we were still going to Catalina. Whew. (Catalina had been the selling point of going on the cruise, as it was cheaper to cruise than to take a ferry and stay on the island.) How excellent; two ports-of-call on a cruise that normally just hits one! (Sure, we had to trade a "Fun Day at Sea" for it, but losing tea time in the library seemed more than a fair deal.)

Meanwhile, the guy behind me was on a roll. "Look at that! Three-to-one! I was promised a three-to-one ratio!"

He was talking about women, and he was talking about the lack of women in the terminal. Especially in the queue of Sigma Alpha Epsilon. Um, wait. SAE is a fraternity? We were going on a short cruise - what some call a "booze cruise" - with a bunch of frat boys?

(I have had fraternity members explain to me why you don't call it "frat." I'm not swayed. Plus, I love the movie Mystery Men.)

Goodness. Frat boys. Well, the more frat boys, the fewer kids, right? (Weak laugh.) Goodness.

I will jump ahead right now and say that when we got to our room later, I looked up SAE on the Kindle. They have a "True Gentleman" creed that, alas, you can no longer read on Wikipedia because it's the casualty of a "Neutrality?" edit war. (I've said it here before. Wikipedia contributers looking to slash in the name of Neutrality? and Notability? are killing the resource.) I read the creed and was ready to shame any SAE member with its recitation, should they go stupid.

But you know what? Sigma Alpha Epsilon impressed me. We met a few jackasses, got a few negative (and hopefully drunken) comments from young men (which we totally deserve, for daring to walk around in public while fat, right?), but never a scoff or remark from the frat boys. The members of Sigma Alpha Epsilon we encountered were, indeed, true gentlemen.

(And yeah, they probably did keep down the population of kids. Yay! Oh, you know me, I don't mind kids; it's those parents with the Clueless Complex that piss me off. That said, the few children I did see were, indeed, pushing every elevator button, screaming while the parent ignored them, or running into everyone on the decks. But, again, I didn't see many kids. Maybe these were just the ones kicked out of Camp Carnival!)

As the SAE line moved forward, an(other) older man went up and down the rows of steerage, asking if there were any VIPs present. We hopped up and took our rightful place on the VIP side of the terminal. In the photo above, it is the (unseen) benches just behind the line of SAE guys. I hear that some ports have entire lounges for VIPs, but in San Diego you just get a different bench. Still, it got us away from Mr. "Three-to-One" behind us, as well as some (definitely drunken) jerk making "chubby chaser" comments, so membership does have its privileges.

Lest anyone think I've suddenly become rich or important, the only reason we were VIPs was because we booked a suite. Not even the ship's real suites, but the "Category 11" suite, sometimes called a "demi-suite," that is the same as a balcony room on the newer Carnival ships. We paid less for it than some people paid for inside cabins, thank you Swine Flu.

A few moments later we were in line to go through security and check-in. (Not without an argument between employees about whether we were VIPs and whether VIPs should be boarding yet.)

The first stop was X-ray. I took a moment to drop the camera on the concrete floor. Oops. But hey, that's why I carry three cameras, right? (Luckily, it was the pocket camera, and it was fine. If it hadn't been, they sell even better cameras on the ship for surprisingly reasonable prices.)

From there we had to fill out health cards, saying we didn't have a cough. Do they do this when there isn't a swine flu threat? Does anyone who has come this far ever say they feel sick, so they can be evaluated by the ship's doctor before being allowed to board?

Next, we were ushered in to jump the SAE queue and do our check-in. The clerk asked if we worked in the, you know, casinos, in almost the same tone of voice one would use to ask if someone ran a discreet phone sex business from their spare cell phone. Living in Las Vegas is so normal to me now, and sometimes it feels like everyone in California has already moved here, that I forget how it was when I first came here, less than five years ago, and people would say, "You're moving to Las Vegas to teach? They have schools there?"

We had to wait on a little extra paperwork because of Mike's green card, but it was still a matter of minutes before we sat on another blue bench, admiring our Sail and Sign cards.

Four minutes later (I checked the camera's timestamps), we were handed a shiny plastic card to present as proof of early VIP-boarding eligibility.

We watched the common folks start to seep into the check-in lines (this is my tongue, this is my cheek) for all of sixty seconds before we were herded toward the ship.

But! Before we got to the ship, we had to go through the luggage terminal. In the luggage terminal were photographers, eager to take a posed photo that would later be available for sale on Deck 9. (Ship photographers are an outside company, not Carnival. They pay for the opportunity to make money, and they have no qualms about being pushy.)

Don't get me wrong. The embarkation photo is a nice souvenir and a nice service. The quality of the photos is decent, too, if sometimes a little flashy (as in literally too much flash) for the prosumer tastes of 2009.

But I didn't want a photo. I don't photograph well, and these days I photograph worse than ever. I have never been able to smile for a posed photograph - my lips thin out, my eyes squint unevenly, all personal illusions of brushed hair are crushed, and, despite all kinds of practice in the mirror, I can never lock my head into such an angle to create a two-chin maximum. Get me for an on-ride photo, a spur of the moment shot where you're supposed to look goofy, but please don't ask me to pose. I didn't want to start the trip off depressed.

Unfortunately, there is no easy way to get past the embarkation photographers. (In ports, sometimes you can find a gap and slip through.) You don't have to get your photo taken (although they will cajole you), but you do have to stand there and watch the gap beyond the camera get ever wider (or emptier) while people put down their carry-ons, arrange themselves, smile, click, re-arrange themselves, smile, click, sometimes re-arrange themselves again and let out a few screams of excitement, gather their luggage back up, and stagger on to where the real photos are taken, the ones that are linked to your Sail and Sign cards.

Every Carnival staffer was friendly on our trip, often Disney-friendly, except for the girls (supposedly the dancers?) who took our S&S photo, and except for the girls (again, supposedly the dancers?), who help you disembark on the last day. Maybe they think they're too good to work offstage? (I saw a few minutes of their show. They're not.)

But all these small frustrations popped out of sight as we zig-zagged up the ramp to the ship. We're here! We're going on a cruise!

We started with an elevator ride to the Lido Deck. It was just past noon, so our room probably wasn't ready, and we were hungry. On to the buffet! Time to see what all the fuss about cruise ship eating is about!

It was crazy. Every member of Sigma Alpha Epsilon seemed to be queued up, and waiters were running around the deck, trying to sell the Drink of the Day. (And looking rather surprised when they got to us and we said no. Mike being a teetotaler and me being a rare drinker these days definitely put us in the minority. Still, you have to admire how Carnival sets up a "Friends of Bill W." meeting for every day on the cruise, just see the fuzzy capers below. Still, I have to wonder if the well-windowed library is the best place to have an anonymous meeting? Or, in this confessional 21st century, is the second-A of AA no longer so important?)

(At some point, Mike asked me what "Friends of Bill W." was. I quipped that it wasn't quite like "Friends of Dorothy." Then I saw what was on for 8:00 p.m. and had to laugh.)

I grabbed a table and Mike went to gather our grub. No sooner had I settled in our bags and called Dad to give him the latest, when Mike came back and said these were just lines for the grill (burgers and chicken), and the buffet was inside, where it was far less busy.

Rushed a good-bye to Dad, and we went into the "Tiffany" restaurant to join the buffet lines. This time Mike held the bags and I made up the plates.

I have to be honest: we were not impressed.

It's funny how, if certain comments I get on my YouTube videos are anything to go by, people equate Las Vegas buffets with cheap slop. Those buffets are still out there (Excalibur leaps unpleasantly to mind), but many LV buffets are practically tasting menus of fancy fare (Wynn, Bellagio), and some, while plainer, are simply delicious (M, or Paris for breakfast). Clearly, we've been spoiled.

What was wrong? I don't know. We both cautiously said that, well, maybe this just wasn't our type of food. Bland as heck. Bad luck, perhaps.

And that seemed to be just the case, for it was the only bad meal we had on the ship. I can't even say I had it, because after trying a bite of everything, I walked over to the pizza station (open 24 hours!) and grabbed a slice of Napolitana.

Hot and fresh from the oven in the back, this was delish. Not amazing, but a nice piece of onions, peppers, mushrooms, and cheeeeeeeeeeese.

There are both critics and fanboys of Carnival's pizza stations. Some critics feel the lines get too long, since each pizza is only cut into four slices. I do agree that smaller slices would speed up traffic, but then how many people would ask for two slices? And not finish? Creating waste? And taking the same amount of time? I'm guessing that Carnival has already thought this one out. Still, it would be nice if they could have more than two choices of pizza ready at a time.

Then there are the critics who like to get on the boards and say, "You thought that was good? Clearly, you've never had a real slice of (Chicago/New York/Jersey/pick one) pie!"

To them I would say, "Please join us in the 21st century." Pizza has undergone such an evolutionary process, it's ridiculous to believe your city produces the One True Pizza. It may offer a terrific pizza that your own taste buds find hard to beat, but pizza is too varied now to have a standard spec. Me, I've never had a slice of "genuine New York pie" without finding it too wet for words. Maybe that's bad luck, or maybe it's just my loss that I can't appreciate that style. Chicago-style? Touch-and-go - usually too much sauce for my taste.

And of course it's okay to hate the Carnival pizza, too. I agree with the critics, it's not as "OMG!" - to me - as some of the fanboys would proclaim, but I did think it was tasty. Mind you, the only vegetarian options are the Margherita or the Napolitana, so perhaps if I'd had Pepperoni or Goat Cheese my report would be different.

(Now that I've ticked off fraternity members, drunks, parents, the populations of Illinois and New York, and anyone who wasn't in the mood for a DUH lecture on how we should all hold hands and respect each other's pizza choices, we can move on...)

As soon as I got the pizza, I noticed the "deli." On the Elation, it is right across from the pizza counter in the back of the ship. If all you do is go to the buffet then sit down, you might miss it. "Right," I thought. "That's next."

Standing in line at the deli made me start to worry about ever booking an aft cabin. There was so much vibration in that area, I almost had to leave the line for motion sickness. (We took a ginger capsule at almost every meal and were fine. I still got queasy from the ciprofloxacin, but my last dose was that evening, so it didn't really affect the cruise.)

"Can I have a reuben, please, but without the corned beef?"

The guy nodded, took the sandwich orders for the next four people, then started preparing everything. He didn't write anything down, just nodded silently and worked. Impressive.

As was my sandwich, a toasted swiss-n-sauerkraut on rye, with dressing. Mmmm yummmmm!

Mike can tell you that, much to his chagrin, sandwiches are one of my favourite foods. (The chagrin part comes in where I consider them perfectly acceptable for dinner. "You have meat. You have bread. What's the problem?") As I blissfully groaned through the crisp, tangy sauerkraut and the soft, nutty Swiss, I knew I was set for this cruise. Mike, having bravely soldiered through most of his sad buffet plate, got a slice of pepperoni pizza (not wanting to wait for the one with everything), and ended things on a happy note himself.

Everything was getting very busy, as the rest of the early boarding peeps made it aboard, so we took a last swig of the (sweet, pulpy, refreshing) lemonade and wandered up to the Verandah deck to look around.

It was a bit past one. We decided to check on our rooms, but the couple slumped by the elevator and the sign on the fire door both let us know that it wasn't time yet. We joined the vigil.

Other people came. 1:30 came. The door remained shut. The sign did not move. Time did. I took a photo of the carpet.

I chose not to feel guilty about resting against the bottom of the artwork. (For awhile, I thought the feathery creature in the painting had three boobs. Darn stylization!)

One couple decided to open the door. They didn't return. Another couple tried it. We never saw them again. We looked at the original couple and said, "Well, now that other people have done it, we can break the rules, too!" And thus we lead the parade to our Verandah-deck rooms.

We were on port side, cabin V14, about midway up the hall. The doors were narrower than I expected; anyone using a wheelchair will definitely require a specially designated room.

The bed was covered in a soft, pillowy duvet and quickly deemed comfortable by both of us.

(Oops, you're not supposed to see the towel animal, capers, or turndown mints yet! I actually took this photo later in the evening.)

The sofa was unexpectedly, um, shiny, but still comfortable. It contorts out somehow into a bed, but we didn't try that feature.

For a ship that just underwent millions of dollars of refurbishment, including new carpeting, it seems - in retrospect - that the decor could have been a little prettier, while keeping with the mass-produced, nothing too risky, theme that is common hotel room design. But at the time I thought it was all lovely and perfect, and not nearly as cramped as I feared it would be.

The vanity area:

Hmm, what's behind that panel on the right?

Regrettably, the occasion for a dinner party just never arose. And above the barware?

Flat screen TVs were part of the recent rehab, although the VCRs remained. Having said that, on our last day, the stewards were putting VCRs in the hall. Strange SOP, or is a DVD conversion imminent?

The shower was serviceable. No bottled amenities, but you can see the shower gel and shampoo dispensers attached to the wall. The amenities we did get, pictured in the basket by the sink, were a little startling. Not the razor (nice - definitely stole that), not the tiny toothpaste packets, but what was behind them:

The Tylenol P.M. will be handy come August, but... a Harlequin novel? And placed in the bathroom? The more I think about it, the bigger round of applause I have to give to Harlequin's marketing department. (Here I have visions of male cruisegoers, sitting on the potty, looking around for reading material and getting hooked on Crime Scene at Caldwell Ranch. Boom - a new marketing demographic is born! I like how Harlequin even picked a book with a testosterone-y title.)

(And I can't rag on Harlequin, because I totally downloaded this and every other one of their 60th anniversary free books for the Kindle. No one walks away from free books in this house!)

(Unless they are very smelly and have been living with boy-cats. Have you seen this link?)

And there is the toilet. It flushes very aggressively. Davy Jones did a whole bit in his show a few weeks ago about the ferocity cruise ship toilets, and I thought he was exaggerating. Hand-grips are there for those of you who flush while still seated, that's all I'm saying. Speaking of Davy, here's my utterly cruddy video of him (un-cruddily) singing "Girl" at the show in Laughlin:

I share only this out of love of getting sidetracked. Pity I didn't know beforehand that proper cameras and camcorders are totally allowed at Mr. Jones' shows. What a nice guy.

And now I cannot see him dance without thinking of the "literal version" of "Daydream Believer":

I've put it off long enough. Let's talk about V14's balcony.

Category 11 on a Fantasy-class ship. Oh, the controversies!

I don't know why there is any controversy, other than maybe Carnival shouldn't call this a "suite" when it's a mere "balcony" on the newer ships. However, compared to most cabins on the Elation, which do not have balconies or refrigerators (and, contrary to what it says on the boards, ours did genuinely work as a refrigerator, not just a cooler), this is a suite. More of a junior suite, but certainly a world apart from a cabin with ocean view.

Unless you spend little time in the room and/or dislike balconies. Then of course it's not worth it.

We probably spent more time in the room just because we enjoyed the balcony so much. We left the cruise with the firm decision that No Way would ever book a cruise again without getting a balcony room. The view, the fresh air, our own little deck - for us, these were highpoints of the cruise.

Another point of criticism towards these Cat 11s suites is that the balcony is half the size of a Cat 12 suite, and again, about the same size as a balcony on, say, the Splendor (30 square feet). You get reports all over the place about how you can't sit facing forward without squishing your legs.

That is absolutely true. So, here's what you do. Look at our chairs above. See how they are turned to the side? Works a treat, and you can get a great view while looking at the face of your companion, Double-thumbs up.

We set the little table inside and put it to work there. You may choose to leave it on the balcony, It's all doable. (Note that I was standing behind the chair, on the balcony, when I took that photo. In other words, the balcony is longer than pictured.)

Can you have a party out there? No. Well, yes. The people next to us did. They managed to get at least five people there during sail away, with at least half of them smoking, plus the gem of a girl we started calling "Cousin Vicky" who could only talk loudly and longly about how she was going to trick room service into bring her booze even though she was underage. This monologue was delivered in front of her parents, who professed to be cool with it, as long as they didn't have to get involved. I sensed that they had a long history of "not getting involved." Alas, she was successful, and we got to "enjoy" her success on a few noisy occasions later in the trip. Later in the trip, when she would randomly yell and slur and smoke, I wish we'd busted her the first night, but at that point we were still filing such things under "Not Our Business.")

And even if your party is only for one or two, can other people watch? The "lack of privacy" is another constant criticism of these cabins. Once more, it's about what you like.

I liked having the deck right below us. I liked being on the highest deck (with cabins) on the ship. (If nothing else, there are far fewer rooms.) I'm sure I would have really enjoyed a Category 12 cabin, with its larger room and balcony, a balcony where you lean over and see nothing but the ocean, but there were so few people ever on the deck below us, that the odd passerby didn't matter. (Just about every review of the Cat 11 Fantasy-class balconies have said the same thing - other than at sail away, there is very little traffic below you. We didn't even have people below us at sail away.)

But, optimum privacy is a valid concern, so here is the view from the Lido deck, looking up at our cabin.

And here is a view from the deck near the bow:

Now, one cabin I might hesitate to book, as I am a privacy-lover myself, is the cabin nearest to the front of the ship. This is a view of that cabin (V2 on port side) from the front deck:

And once more, the traffic is low and most people who go to this deck are looking at the sea. I would take V14 over V2, but I would take V2 over an obstructed view, further back. (And I would take an obstructed balcony view over an oceanview, so continue to keep in mind that I just lurve balconies.)

I liked watching the doings-behind-glass on the bridge:

It's a great spot for watching planes, too. San Diego's airport runs right along the water.

Back inside, I unpacked, ignoring Mike's skepticism that life would be better if we did. (He changed his mind a bit when I offered to do his bag as well. Ha!) The safe is terrific!

When it was all done, the safe held three lenses (two of which I'd brought for Disneyland after the trip), camera, pocket camera, two cell phones, codeine (don't ask), keys, external flash, camcorder, Mike's enormous-and-falling-apart wallet from his teen years that he refuses to replace, the Kindle, and plenty of room to spare. I brought last year's freshly expired AAA card to lock it. (You just swipe as needed.) One time I accidentally used my Sail and Sign card, but it did not demagnetize. Apparently I got lucky; make sure you bring an unneeded card for swiping the lock. Don't use a credit card - old gift cards will also work.

Mike was still lolling in bed, shirtless (but unwilling to participate in any Hairy Chest contests listed in the Capers, dangit), when our steward came to the door. I think her name was Camilia? She wanted to know when we were dining, and I felt a little bad when I said we had the new Anytime Dining. I adore Anytime Dining and can't believe we're willing to go on this next cruise, where it isn't available yet. However, it must be hard on the stewards to know when to provide turndown service. And yet they manage to do so invisibly - incredible. Maybe even spooky.

I invited Camilia in to do the spiel about hairdryers and using the AC, as Mike modestly grinned from the bed, tucked up to the neck. I asked for two extra pillows (there were two-each on the bed, but they were smallish by our standards), and she very kindly said it wouldn't be a problem.

She also said that the mandatory muster drill was running a little late, so we didn't need to go until around five (instead of 4:45). After she left we lolled some more. Grinned some more. Nothing has changed since our first trip together, to Disney World. All we do is flop around, smile, and occasionally point at stuff. It's the best.

Muster drill started pretty much on time. As we waited, we tried to work out how to operate the life jackets. Oh, such pride once we sussed it out.

It was very nice having ours on the Lido Deck, by the pool. I hope we're lucky enough to get a similarly open area on the next cruise. I had read so much about not going too early, or you get squished to the front and are the last to leave, and it can be a problem for claustrophobics. (But you cannot miss it. Not only is it foolish, safety-wise, but they do check rooms.)

We were too late to get seats, but we stood in the shade under the steps. All of the other muster stations came up to the lifeboats, but we just sat there, already being by the lifeboats, waiting for the others to go through their drills. The only bad part was the way people would not shut the fricking freck up. No matter how many times the drill leader asked, they just BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH OWN WORLD CONVERSATION BLAH BLAH'd. Unfortunately, the leader didn't give them a verbal smackdown, but at least he didn't stop the proceedings to wait for quiet, either, which I hear is what has happened to other people. Then again, maybe the lynch mob that would have formed by the 10th time everything had to stop would have been worth it. The whole thing gave me that feeling of desperation I sometimes get, that the kids in my classroom are never going to stop talking, not when this is how the adults act. No wonder they act so genuinely confused when you call them out for talking while you do. After all, they weren't stopping you from talking, so what's the problem? Arrrrrgh! It's still Summer Break. Let's not think about it!

To console myself, I looked at other people's jackets to see who else was in a splendid Verandah suite, and I mentally dripped a scornful "ha HA!" at those balcony-less talkers. Ha HA! (As if they care. Petty comforts.) Here is Mike, posing as requested:

After the drill and another fine glass of lemonade, we moseyed around a little then headed back to the room. Hey, is this ship moving?

We were backed halfway out of the dock before making it to our balcony. (So, they don't announce the departure?) Mike took the better photos, but he hasn't uploaded them so, here, have one of mine:

That's the U.S.S. Nimitz. Don't tell Mike, but here is one of his - downtown San Diego:

The first gap you see, looking left to right, is where our ship was docked. It hardly seems possible!

And here is Mike, finally getting all into "his" lens. (The telephoto. I'm all about the macro. In theory. Like the rest of my photography ambitions.)

Even Mike was shamelessly singing the Enya. (Don't get me started.) Now, what's for dinner?

Previously: Pre-Cruise: Our Night in San Diego

Pre-Cruise: Our Night in San Diego

We drove the same old 15 from Las Vegas almost all the way down to San Diego, waving at the beloved 91 "Beach Cities" exit as we passed. As sick as I am of 15, it was all new to us after this point, and the mountains then the median oleanders were lovely to see.

A little nervous of hitting too many new (and thus slightly intimidating) freeways too close to rush hour, I cut across 56 to Highway 5, so we could at least come into town by Shelter Island, where we had a room at the Kona Kai Resort for the night before the cruise.

Because I'm uncouth and willing to discusses prices, we paid $89 for a regular King plus free parking, a steal with the AAA discount. (Even the hotel clerk gasped a little and asked how we got that rate before noticing the AAA designation.) I did a spreadsheet (of course) when I was researching hotels, starting with looking at the ones that do "snooze and cruise deals." (This is where you can park your car at the hotel for a reduced price while on your cruise.) Even with paying for parking elsewhere, the Kona Kai seemed like the best deal. I loved the idea of being little secluded at the end of this small yet easily accessible island, with a marina on one side and a small park then the ocean on another. (Part of the planning process included driving the streets in Google Earth.) It looked like it would be quaint yet classy. ("You stay classy, San Diego!")

The Kona Kai Resort did not disappoint. From the moment we circled the fountain in the parking lot, I knew I better put a bra on before heading into the lobby. (That's my new thing: no more staying in the harness on long road trips.)

They gave us a lovely end room on the top floor, overlooking the ocean. When I think about it, though, it's hard to imagine a bad view in the hotel. Every room faces the marina or the ocean, although some lower floor rooms have more immediate views of the courtyard (also nice) or the parking lot (which at least is small and boasts the sea in the near background).

The room itself was clean and comfortable, with a light island theme. (Pineapple-studded headboard and breezy decor.) Sometimes I think we travel just for the king beds.

With our couple of stops (traditional petch-up in Victorville, Mike's unexpected and warily granted foray into the Jack in the Box at Baker), and the near-still traffic of the last fifteen miles on I-5 then CA-209, the journey took about six hours from top to toe. I swore we'd be eating in the hotel restaurant that night.

But, within the hour I was strangely rarin' again. I fired up the Kindle to read over the directions to a recommended Indian joint downtown. (Along with directions to every other contigency - the 15 cents to email that Word doc to the Kindle was a dime and a nickel well spent.) Uh huh. Uh huh. Got it.

We were headed to the Gaslamp Quarter via Harbor Road. Or Harbor Boulevard. Or Harbor Street. Maybe even Harbor Avenue. I'm not going to look it up. Mike finds this odd, and he claims that, in Australia, you'll never get people dropping off the street-type the way we do here. I can't imagine. Heck, a person's lucky if I even say the whole name of the street. ("Trop runs parallel to Dee Eye," reformatted for Australians, would be "Tropicana Avenue runs parallel to Desert Inn Road." And I thought they were a laid-back people?)

Traveling along Harbor Drive (Ooo - the one I didn't guess!) was pleasant and restful. Oh, the sea. One glimpse and I wonder how I can stand living in the desert. I wonder what other feelings my brain is hiding from me.

This was also an opportunity to see where the cruise terminal was and where we'd be parking tomorrow. Five minutes away and easy-peasy: hooray.

The Gaslamp was just moments beyond, our destination being just outside Horton Plaza. But after several minutes of circling the one-way streets, we realized our destination was Horton Plaza. Specifically, its big and busy parking garage. Street parking, even on a Wednesday night, was practically a contact sport.

In our bay on the "chili" level (it's a veggie-themed garage that doesn't quite mesh with all the Cinnabon and Macy's energy inside), we ventured back down, just outside to F and 4th.

The Star of India Indian Restaurant was almost right upon us.

As were at least two other Indian places, with more on the streets beyond, but we'd made up our minds. Still, a few head-swivels around the Gaslamp and a move to San Diego seems like a reasonable item for discussion.

A couple dined outside, but - being fans of air conditioning (it even says so on Facebook) - we went inside. The seats were plush, and even when other diners arrived and were seated next to us, we didn't feel crowded. It is a small place, though - small but cute - and I do wonder where they manage to set up the daily lunch buffet.

Their website did not make false promises. The food was sumptuous. We began with vegetable samosas.

I gauge samosas first on whether they emit a heavenly fragrance. These passed both the nose and the mouth tests.

The only bad thing about eating a regular dinner at an Indian restaurant is that you can't get a little of this, a little of that, like you can with lunch buffet. It's not the unlimited food I crave - the portions at dinner are fine - but the variety. However, at $12-16 per dish, Mike couldn't justify getting chicken and paneer. (Plus we had no place for the leftovers.) So, we got a second appetizer ("We're on vacation!") in the form of paneer pakora:

I've long been a fan of other pakora, especially cauliflower pakora. I'd never had cheese-based pakora before. Would it just taste like mozz sticks from Sonic?

Not at all. As you can see, the bites were small and the batter was smooth. They were accompanied by two chutneys: mint and tamarind. Both were tasty and only more hastily facilitated the rapid slide of defenseless pakora into my gob, although at some point I did recall that I'm The Girl with the Now-and-Again Gallbladder Attacks, and I pushed the nubs toward Mike with Herculean woe.

I somehow forgot to take a photo of Mike's dish, the butter chicken, and apparently The Best Butter Chicken Mike Has Had Since Coming to the States. It was even served with a dollop of butter on top - nice.

I had the mattar paneer, spelled many different ways, but always equaling peas-n-cheese in gravy.

I thought it was terrific. Lightly fragrant and rich, and plenty of it.

The only problem was that my meds were making me queasy. At first I thought it was the pyridine. Then I thought it was the ciprofloxacin. Then, through the timeless practice of empirical research, I realized it was both. Great. Was it too soon to start taking Dramamine?

The waves came and went, but overall the food helped. One dish that suffered the perils of Rx, though, was the garlic naan.

Mike loved it, and I loved the look of it, but it came to the table on the crest of my own urghlemrgle war, and I could never get into it after that. I think I wanted the reassuring comfort of more pillowy naan, and this was putting more woozy smells and stimulus in my face. In other words, I wasn't keen on the naan, finding it more of an aggressive dish of its own than a complement, but I think that's totally my fault and that normally I would've really enjoyed it. (It is one of their house specialities.)

Reluctantly we left, quite full but still oddly energized (and me feeling much better), and we successfuly navigated the strident hard-sell of a young miss on the corner, fundraising (as she eventually revealed) from EQCA.org. I had a rant here about her tactics and how she quite successfully turned me from a jolly potential donor to someone who remembers why those passionate about good things in this world sometimes make you just want to curl up in a selfish ball and roll away, but said rant was - predictably - as long as the rest of the review and, for once, I'm just dropping it. Other than to say, EQCA and/or its designated representatives suck,.

We ducked into Horton Plaza proper, set on making a purchase so we could get the parking validated. (Otherwise, it's $2 every fifteen minutes.) Online reviews express much vitriol towards this garage, but - having been a meter-victim in other cities - I thought it worked well. Especially since, as it turns out, you don't even have to make a purchase to get the parking validated. You just plug your ticket into the machine just past the elevators.

There you go. Three hours of free parking, no purchase, and you don't even have to wander into the actual shopping area. Then, when you leave, they have automated express lanes as well as booths. I'm a fan.

However, we did end up buying something - Kookaburra red licorice and Swedish fish for Mike. (So, it was extra amusing when we got on the ship the next day and found that they sell bulk candy as well, although their licorice was black. Bleh. Can't abide black licorice.)

We took the scenic route back to the room, enjoying the posh lobby and the open courtyard. And in the swimming pool? Duckies!

The hot tub was large and inviting, but it was time to wind down. We flopped back in the room and indulged in a little pay-per-view: Confessions of a Shopaholic. Watchable and harmless, but so unlike the books that I may as well have been watching an entirely new story. Why, especially with the success of Bridget Jones' Diary, they felt the need to Americanize it is confusing. Why they made any of the big changes is confusing - Luke Brandon as her boss (it's been done), Evil Alicia as a mere glamour girl (goodbye subplot!), a fashion magazine as her dream job (too facile), a childhood with penny-pinching parents (so long, subtlety), and turning Derek Smeathe into a Mean Ole Debt Collector that Becky "shows up" in the end, instead of a rightfully frustrated bank manager who turns into a surprising ally once the debt is paid? That was a bit unforgiveable.

We slept well.

I woke up a bit early the next morning, partly out of rest, partly out of excitement, and partly hoping I could see the Elation come in to port. I tried asking ChaCha what time that might happen, and the runaround was so bad that I ended up sending them a nastygram, telling them they bloody well COULD answer my question, as I'd even given them the webcam link to check and see for me if the Elation was in port yet, and charging me for "additional responses" when they were asking questions about info already provided (when, where, ship's name) then saying there was no way to tell if a ship was in port (again, I - having undergone ChaCha training myself - gave them the link!) was just Bad Form.

(A couple of hours later I got a response from ChaCha, telling me the Elation was in port. Well, duh. People suck. Meanwhile, I've decided to stop italicizing Elation, because it will subtract years from my fingers before this trip report is done.)

Anyway.

Mike slept on, while I sat on the balcony and played with the long lens, greeted by more duckies:

And sweet little birds:

And a number of watercraft sailing just across the lawn, but here's where the photos end. I'd planned to take proper photos of the pretty marina and flowers around the hotel, but I was distracted by the yippity-yee-haw-ness of the cruise. That happened throughout the entire trip, in fact. Can you believe I only shot 3 gigs of photos overall?!

Checking out of the Kona Kai Resort was easy, and I already regretted that we spent so little time on Shelter Island. It's such a great location if you're going to cruise or fly - close to everything, yet tucked away. (The hotel does a shuttle for both.) We didn't get to walk the beach or get a close view of the friendship bell, but just the peaceful location and view alone was worth it.

As I checked out, the clerk - Trudi - asked, with more sincerity in her voice than one usually hears, if we had a good stay. Then she asked if I ever wrote online reviews. "Oh yes," I replied. "And... I'm a blogger."

Her whole face lit up. It seems the Kona Kai has received a few bad reviews, and they were hoping that satisfied guests might offset that with some positive comments. She even handed me a little card from the hotel with several popular sites listed on it, as well as the hotel's thanks for sharing our good experiences.

I had, of course, read the reviews before booking the room, and hadn't thought they were bad - maybe because the negative ones seemed to focus on unreasonable expectations (people, check a map before you choose a hotel) or one-off situations that could happen anywhere. I had the option of other good AAA rates on Shelter Island, so I didn't pick Kona Kai without considering the reviews. However, after staying at the resort, I can see why they'd be troubled by any less-than-stellar reviews, especially when there aren't that many resorts for the property out there.

In short, I'd say that the Kona Kai is almost like a large boutique hotel, not as slick and boxy as its neighbours (and I really have nothing against slick and boxy), but with a intimate, pretty, yet professional appearance. All of the amenities (restaurant, room service, pool, meeting areas, balconies) and then some are present, clean, and in inviting condition. The guests seemed to be mostly older, looking retired and relaxed, although there were also some families and young couples around. No one was noisy, or if they were, we didn't hear it. There's even a small beach before the marina, with several picnic tables. Our experience, however limited, was quite delightful. I'd easily stay there again.

Kona Kai didn't offer me anything in exchange for those nice words. No future discount on a stay, no winking deletion of the PPV charges. It's no more than what I would have said anyway (although I am throwing in the resort by name a few more times than usual, just to keep this page's head above the Google waters). Perhaps at some less lazy date I'll do a better writeup on one of those travel sites, as the hotel does deserve a little better buzz, and I'm really pleased with them for being so pro-active in quietly encouraging the happy wheels to give off a few squeaks.

And so, we headed for the Cruise Ship Terminal.

We had decided in advance to park in the lot right across from the ship. Yes, it's $15 day, as opposed to ~$10/day-with-coupon and a shuttle ride from somewhere yonder, but it's right there. I was going to book a spot in advance, as you do with the cheaper places, but an email from the company assured me that the lot never fills up. Still, it was pretty full, and you can see plenty of people leaving the Elation to return to their cars:

Me, I also liked the idea of walking right off the ship and to our car when the cruise was done. (And yes, by the time we disembarked a few days later, it certainly felt worth the extra $5 day. Mind you, we might have felt differently on a longer cruise.)

View from the ship. We're in the third row, centerish, the blue hatchback with the sunbeam marking it.

Ah, the elation of the Elation!

Or, if you hate video, enjoy the still:

That Aussie voice you hear just at the end of the video was Stuart Dunn, our Cruise Director, telling those last people still on board that it was, alas, time for them to leave. We never actually met Stu during our cruise, but we really didn't meet anybody, which is an upcoming story.

And those grey skies are called "June Gloom," a phenomenon that the sunshine-slaves hate but, of course, we thought was flippin' fantastic.

We were still an hour, hour-and-a-half, away from that time when "those in the know" try to check in early. So, why not walk over to the USS Midway, maybe take a tour?

The back end is undergoing some refurbishment.

The amble was pleasant, the ship interesting, but we quickly decided against the tour. We were too excited about the cruise, and it would be a disservice to rush our way through the Midway. Instead, we sat on stumps at the end of its pier and looked at both it and the USS Nimitz across the way. And at the Elation. Look at those Verandah rooms! Those would be our rooms! (Albeit on the other side of the ship.) Was it time yet? Was it time?

Oh, what the heck - it's time!

Previously: A Sailor-Negotiator's Life for Me