I have not, as yet, addressed the cuisine of the Outer Banks. This is not because there is no cuisine. There is plenty, although not all of it is to be found on one's plate.
One way to experience the cuisine of the area is to dine at a buffet. We, of course, wanting the full experience, did this, stopping at a popular seafood buffet for dinner one night. It is perhaps fortunate that we did not bring along a food safety inspector, as he or she would almost certainly have immediately shut down the buffet, unless he or she was from the area, in which case he or she would have said, "Welcome to the Outer Banks dining experience! Be prepared to duck. "
In honor of the restaurant's 10th year of operation, the buffet was offering 10 different kinds of crab. Our server talked about this wonderingly, as if it were a watershed moment in history, another Woodstock. Indeed, the crab buffet was very popular with the other diners, who seemed quite willing to overlook the myriad body parts sticking out at all angles from the warming plate, all jumbled and mangled together. This so impressed me, however, that I endeavored to order something else, such as a grilled cheese sandwich, but had to be content with some sweet and sour chicken and ice cream. The buffet did not, I noticed, offer 10 different kinds of ice cream.
The thing about seafood is that there are almost as many contents left on one's plate after one has eaten as there were before. For this purpose the server sets a large bucket on the table, into which diners dump the remains of their dinner, and which he periodically empties into another, larger bucket and hauls away to some secret location, probably your car trunk. In his haste, our server would sometimes leave behind a trail of discarded appendages that fell from his bucket. This no doubt explains why, as I was sitting in our booth, I kept encountering something underfoot. I looked down, which in retrospect was probably unwise, as I was met with the sight of a lone crab leg, sitting there for who knows how long, becoming progressively more unrecognizable as it was crunched and smashed. I considered dashing out the door and screaming. As Joe was not finished yet, however, I decided to handle the situation in a mature way, which is to say that I kicked the crab leg over to someone else's table.
Which a food safety inspector, had we brought one, would probably merely have laughed at, and sworn me in as a full-fledged Seafood Carnage Participant.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Bathroom reading
In the previous episode regarding our vacation to the Outer Banks, we looked briefly at some of the wildlife in the area, specifically the wildlife that invades your home and leads you on a merry chase until finally, exhausted of its game, leaves and tells all of its friends and relatives where you keep the Oreos.
If you prefer your wildlife, as I do, dead and stuffed and mounted in tasteful displays, with no possibility of its coming into contact with your person or belongings, you can do no better than visit the nature center on the northern end of the islands. The center is a very popular destination with families, particularly on days when it is raining and they cannot go to the beach.
The nature center is filled with helpful signage about the animals on display, and also about humans, such as a dire warning that "More than 250 people in this room at one time is dangerous." Not only is it dangerous, it is highly optimistic as well -- at least based on our visit, during which, despite the inclement weather outdoors, the only living things not swimming around in a tank were Joe and I.
Yet it is evident that the nature center people take their jobs very seriously. Through interpretive displays and a tasteful movie depicting live insects shown at 300,000,000 times their actual size, they attempt to impress upon you how the influx of humans is destroying the Outer Banks, and to urge you that when you go on vacation, you should respect the fragility of the ecosystem and go somewhere else, like Disneyland, where the damage has already been done.
The nature center people feel so strongly about educating visitors on the importance of the ecosystem that your wildlife education continues even in the restroom, at least if you are a female. Here, once you are comfortably settled, you may read, on the back of the stall door, an educational display about the winter habits of snakes. This display is accompanied by several photos of what snakes do in the winter, such as burrowing underground, growing to 900 times their original size, emerging to terrorize people in restrooms, etc.
I do not know what kind of person thinks that a sign about snakes on the back of the stall door in the women's restroom is a good idea. The only sign I want to see about snakes in a restroom is one that says BE ASSURED THAT IT IS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE FOR A SNAKE TO COME UP THROUGH THE TOILET AND BITE YOU, with perhaps a little drawing of a snake in a circle with a line through it.
Maybe then they would have a shot at getting more people to visit.
If you prefer your wildlife, as I do, dead and stuffed and mounted in tasteful displays, with no possibility of its coming into contact with your person or belongings, you can do no better than visit the nature center on the northern end of the islands. The center is a very popular destination with families, particularly on days when it is raining and they cannot go to the beach.
The nature center is filled with helpful signage about the animals on display, and also about humans, such as a dire warning that "More than 250 people in this room at one time is dangerous." Not only is it dangerous, it is highly optimistic as well -- at least based on our visit, during which, despite the inclement weather outdoors, the only living things not swimming around in a tank were Joe and I.
Yet it is evident that the nature center people take their jobs very seriously. Through interpretive displays and a tasteful movie depicting live insects shown at 300,000,000 times their actual size, they attempt to impress upon you how the influx of humans is destroying the Outer Banks, and to urge you that when you go on vacation, you should respect the fragility of the ecosystem and go somewhere else, like Disneyland, where the damage has already been done.
The nature center people feel so strongly about educating visitors on the importance of the ecosystem that your wildlife education continues even in the restroom, at least if you are a female. Here, once you are comfortably settled, you may read, on the back of the stall door, an educational display about the winter habits of snakes. This display is accompanied by several photos of what snakes do in the winter, such as burrowing underground, growing to 900 times their original size, emerging to terrorize people in restrooms, etc.
I do not know what kind of person thinks that a sign about snakes on the back of the stall door in the women's restroom is a good idea. The only sign I want to see about snakes in a restroom is one that says BE ASSURED THAT IT IS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE FOR A SNAKE TO COME UP THROUGH THE TOILET AND BITE YOU, with perhaps a little drawing of a snake in a circle with a line through it.
Maybe then they would have a shot at getting more people to visit.
Monday, July 27, 2009
A too-close encounter
There is a great variety of wildlife in the Outer Banks, should you be inclined to seek out its company. Most of our own encounters with wildlife took place indoors and were definitely not instigated by us. Indoor encounters are not optimal, because there are fewer places to run and hide. For us, I mean.
On the first evening of our vacation we were greeted by a large cockroach, about the size of an African elephant, swaggering across the living room floor. Of course I, as the female, was the one to sound the alarm upon sighting the intruder, mainly because I, as the female, am the only one who ever sees such intruders.
The Cockroach Alert sounds remarkably similar to Everyday Toddler Speak, in which only essential words are communicated:
"Big! Thing! Roach! Get it get it GET IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
This Alert was of course accompanied by the Toddler Stomp performed around the living room, the object of which is never to have both feet on the ground at the same time, for fear the intruder might run up one of them.
I did manage to wave a flyswatter threateningly in the direction of the cockroach while Joe went to call the National Guard, but the cockroach showed no fear of my weapon, probably because he knew that I would not get close enough to actually use it on him, for fear I would miss and he would run up one of my legs.
This is a situation in which my father would say, "Has a cockroach EVER run up your leg? Then why are you afraid of it? It's more afraid of you." My father also told us, when we were growing up, that eating carrots would put hair on our chest. I am not sure why he thought this would be appealing to four daughters, but the point is that a father's wisdom, though helpful in many areas of life, cannot be trusted when it comes to cockroaches.
Speaking of cockroach wisdom, if you are ever faced with a giant cockroach, and you are tempted to dispatch of it by sucking it up in the vacuum cleaner, avoid that temptation. Because unless you are prepared to keep the vacuum cleaner running for some time -- say, a few months -- you are wasting your time, because the minute the suction ceases the cockroach comes back out of the hose, sashaying about and thumbing his nose at you. At least this is what our cockroach did.
We finally persuaded the cockroach, through a series of pokes with the vacuum cleaner hose and Toddler Stomps meant to shoo him in the right direction, to exit the house of his own accord, through the front door. Naturally we were aware that he could, at any time, return into the house, probably with 72 of his closest friends and relatives, and we set about removing anything of value from the floor. The house thus looked as if we were expecting an invasion by bears, with everything -- clothes, suitcase, bed, etc. -- hanging from every available hook at least 6 feet from the ground. We conveniently ignored the fact that cockroaches can climb up the wall.
And although the menace did not return, I continued to do the Toddler Stomp when moving about the house. Just in case.
On the first evening of our vacation we were greeted by a large cockroach, about the size of an African elephant, swaggering across the living room floor. Of course I, as the female, was the one to sound the alarm upon sighting the intruder, mainly because I, as the female, am the only one who ever sees such intruders.
The Cockroach Alert sounds remarkably similar to Everyday Toddler Speak, in which only essential words are communicated:
"Big! Thing! Roach! Get it get it GET IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
This Alert was of course accompanied by the Toddler Stomp performed around the living room, the object of which is never to have both feet on the ground at the same time, for fear the intruder might run up one of them.
I did manage to wave a flyswatter threateningly in the direction of the cockroach while Joe went to call the National Guard, but the cockroach showed no fear of my weapon, probably because he knew that I would not get close enough to actually use it on him, for fear I would miss and he would run up one of my legs.
This is a situation in which my father would say, "Has a cockroach EVER run up your leg? Then why are you afraid of it? It's more afraid of you." My father also told us, when we were growing up, that eating carrots would put hair on our chest. I am not sure why he thought this would be appealing to four daughters, but the point is that a father's wisdom, though helpful in many areas of life, cannot be trusted when it comes to cockroaches.
Speaking of cockroach wisdom, if you are ever faced with a giant cockroach, and you are tempted to dispatch of it by sucking it up in the vacuum cleaner, avoid that temptation. Because unless you are prepared to keep the vacuum cleaner running for some time -- say, a few months -- you are wasting your time, because the minute the suction ceases the cockroach comes back out of the hose, sashaying about and thumbing his nose at you. At least this is what our cockroach did.
We finally persuaded the cockroach, through a series of pokes with the vacuum cleaner hose and Toddler Stomps meant to shoo him in the right direction, to exit the house of his own accord, through the front door. Naturally we were aware that he could, at any time, return into the house, probably with 72 of his closest friends and relatives, and we set about removing anything of value from the floor. The house thus looked as if we were expecting an invasion by bears, with everything -- clothes, suitcase, bed, etc. -- hanging from every available hook at least 6 feet from the ground. We conveniently ignored the fact that cockroaches can climb up the wall.
And although the menace did not return, I continued to do the Toddler Stomp when moving about the house. Just in case.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Death by nature
Opportunities abound in the Outer Banks for tours. You can take a walking tour, a hiking tour, various boating tours, a four-wheel drive tour, a Segway tour, a helicopter tour, a rocket tour, etc. These tours enable you to see the natural beauty of the island, help you get in touch with its rhythms, and allow the tour guides to support themselves through the winter months when tours are not so popular.
You can tell how exciting a particular tour or activity is expected to be by paying careful attention to the wording on the release form, which you must sign whenever you merely step out the door of wherever you are staying. This form will list various risks that you may incur when participating in the activity, such as "bodily harm," "dismemberment" "significant mental anguish and hair loss," etc. You know you are in for a thrilling time if one of the risks listed is "death." If the activity takes place on the water, implied in the risk of death is also the risk of "watery interment."
For Joe and I, however, there was an even greater risk to these activities than death and watery interment. This was the risk of coming into excessive personal contact with nature. The fear of drowning, or the fear of decapitation from an errant kayak oar, to us was not nearly so great as the fear of having the black marsh water, which in addition to smelling like sewage was thick and goopy, actually touch some area of our persons. This is why we generally, when viewing nature, endeavor to stay far away from it, preferring a view from, say, the television screen.
Unfortunately during our kayak tour, we were required to actually put our kayaks into the water, climb into them, and stay there for the entire duration of the tour -- which lasted about two weeks -- merely one fiberglass step removed from our nemesis, the water. At first we were able, by carefully keeping in the center of the kayak and dipping as little of the oar into the water as possible, to keep from splashing ourselves. But this soon proved impractical, as our guide and the other kayakers seemed to feel the need to set a more vigorous pace, and second only to our fear of the inky water was our fear of being left behind in that marshy wilderness. Our guide, a slip of a girl who moved through the water as effortlessly if she were sitting in a chair in her living room reading and eating Cheez-Its, showed a marked willingness to leave any stragglers behind, and we did not want to be two of them.
As we reluctantly began to make stronger rowing motions, we found it impossible to keep the water and muck from dripping off our oars onto us, and soon we were not only soaking but also covered in what Joe affectionately referred to as "eco tattoos." The fact that it would all undoubtedly wash off at a later time was of no comfort. All the beauty around us -- the tall marsh grasses, the quaint covered bridge, the osprey resplendently opening its wings -- was all eclipsed by one inescapable fact: that black, icky muck was sitting on our bodies. Our disgust could not have been greater had we actually fallen into the water.
Okay, yes it could have.
We were quite content, after this incident, to view nature while sitting on the beach, in a chair, letting the sand touch only our feet. And looking at the pictures in the tour brochures.
You can tell how exciting a particular tour or activity is expected to be by paying careful attention to the wording on the release form, which you must sign whenever you merely step out the door of wherever you are staying. This form will list various risks that you may incur when participating in the activity, such as "bodily harm," "dismemberment" "significant mental anguish and hair loss," etc. You know you are in for a thrilling time if one of the risks listed is "death." If the activity takes place on the water, implied in the risk of death is also the risk of "watery interment."
For Joe and I, however, there was an even greater risk to these activities than death and watery interment. This was the risk of coming into excessive personal contact with nature. The fear of drowning, or the fear of decapitation from an errant kayak oar, to us was not nearly so great as the fear of having the black marsh water, which in addition to smelling like sewage was thick and goopy, actually touch some area of our persons. This is why we generally, when viewing nature, endeavor to stay far away from it, preferring a view from, say, the television screen.
Unfortunately during our kayak tour, we were required to actually put our kayaks into the water, climb into them, and stay there for the entire duration of the tour -- which lasted about two weeks -- merely one fiberglass step removed from our nemesis, the water. At first we were able, by carefully keeping in the center of the kayak and dipping as little of the oar into the water as possible, to keep from splashing ourselves. But this soon proved impractical, as our guide and the other kayakers seemed to feel the need to set a more vigorous pace, and second only to our fear of the inky water was our fear of being left behind in that marshy wilderness. Our guide, a slip of a girl who moved through the water as effortlessly if she were sitting in a chair in her living room reading and eating Cheez-Its, showed a marked willingness to leave any stragglers behind, and we did not want to be two of them.
As we reluctantly began to make stronger rowing motions, we found it impossible to keep the water and muck from dripping off our oars onto us, and soon we were not only soaking but also covered in what Joe affectionately referred to as "eco tattoos." The fact that it would all undoubtedly wash off at a later time was of no comfort. All the beauty around us -- the tall marsh grasses, the quaint covered bridge, the osprey resplendently opening its wings -- was all eclipsed by one inescapable fact: that black, icky muck was sitting on our bodies. Our disgust could not have been greater had we actually fallen into the water.
Okay, yes it could have.
We were quite content, after this incident, to view nature while sitting on the beach, in a chair, letting the sand touch only our feet. And looking at the pictures in the tour brochures.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Sights and sounds -- and smells
The Outer Banks offers plenty of sensory experiences -- gently lapping waves, soft sand between your toes, colorful pebbles that work their way into your bathing suit, marshes that smell like an abandoned sewage plant, etc. Before you even get to your destination -- that is, if you are reading an old-fashioned map instead of blindingly trusting your trip and your life to a little GPS voice -- you will notice a large natural feature, affectionately called the Great Dismal Swamp. We made the difficult decision not to tour the Great Dismal Swamp, feeling that the name was probably a ruse, given specifically to pique the curiosity of 8- to 12-year-old boys who otherwise would have no interest in going along on the annual family vacation:
Son: "I don't wanna go to North Caro -- wherever it is! It's boring!"
Desperate parent: "We can stop at the Great Dismal Swamp on the way."
Son: "Cool!"
Daughter: "EWWWWWW! I don't wanna go!"
And then, after the young male has waited excitedly the whole trip -- "We're going to the Great Dismal Swamp! Cool!" -- the family arrives at the swamp, only to find that, instead of something out of a horror movie, the swamp is actually a magical place of dancing Strawberry Shortcakes and other assorted colorful dolls, which makes the young female of the family glad she came on the trip after all.
Although we did not visit the Great Dismal Swamp, we did tour a marsh in the Outer Banks, which turned out to be pretty much the same thing. Amidst admiring the foliage and wildlife (consisting of one nesting osprey, probably placed there specifically for tourists: "Flo, it's your turn to sit in the nest." "No! You do it, Bob. Yesterday they wouldn't stop taking pictures and now I keep seeing all these little yellow spots"), we were intermittently hit with what smelled like a thousand cows all letting loose at the same time. But our guide assured us that this smell, which emanates from whatever grows at the bottom of the marsh, means that the ecosystem is healthy. Unfortunately this healthful aroma seemed to cling to us, following us out of the marsh, and for days afterward we would be chatting amiably and suddenly get a whiff of healthful aroma on our persons, causing a frantic running around in circles in an effort to air out some of this healthfulness.
There are many things you can do to have an even more enjoyable experience in the marsh, including exploring it by kayak and heaping the smelly waters on yourself and your kayaking partner with your paddle, which of course Joe and I did NOT do. More next time.
Son: "I don't wanna go to North Caro -- wherever it is! It's boring!"
Desperate parent: "We can stop at the Great Dismal Swamp on the way."
Son: "Cool!"
Daughter: "EWWWWWW! I don't wanna go!"
And then, after the young male has waited excitedly the whole trip -- "We're going to the Great Dismal Swamp! Cool!" -- the family arrives at the swamp, only to find that, instead of something out of a horror movie, the swamp is actually a magical place of dancing Strawberry Shortcakes and other assorted colorful dolls, which makes the young female of the family glad she came on the trip after all.
Although we did not visit the Great Dismal Swamp, we did tour a marsh in the Outer Banks, which turned out to be pretty much the same thing. Amidst admiring the foliage and wildlife (consisting of one nesting osprey, probably placed there specifically for tourists: "Flo, it's your turn to sit in the nest." "No! You do it, Bob. Yesterday they wouldn't stop taking pictures and now I keep seeing all these little yellow spots"), we were intermittently hit with what smelled like a thousand cows all letting loose at the same time. But our guide assured us that this smell, which emanates from whatever grows at the bottom of the marsh, means that the ecosystem is healthy. Unfortunately this healthful aroma seemed to cling to us, following us out of the marsh, and for days afterward we would be chatting amiably and suddenly get a whiff of healthful aroma on our persons, causing a frantic running around in circles in an effort to air out some of this healthfulness.
There are many things you can do to have an even more enjoyable experience in the marsh, including exploring it by kayak and heaping the smelly waters on yourself and your kayaking partner with your paddle, which of course Joe and I did NOT do. More next time.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Important things to know
There are many important things to know about vacationing in the Outer Banks, where we spent the last week in seclusion -- no Internet, and only sporadic forays for coffee -- and where, through no fault of our own, we were unable to locate either a sunrise or a sunset. The first thing to know is that although once on the islands you are able to enjoy a fair amount of privacy, at precisely 9:30 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. each Saturday, the entire population of the East Coast gets in a car and attempts to either (a) leave the island after arriving the previous Saturday or (b) arrive on the island for their stay until the following Saturday. Although the volume of traffic makes it appear that this is in response to a pending hurricane, be assured that it is completely normal, part of the "natural rhythm" of the islands that the tourism people are always touting.
Other than during these times, you will see very few people around, which presents a mystery of where all the people in all those cars go between Saturdays. This mystery is the subject of a nightly performance called The Lost Colony, which is ostensibly about the unknown fate of the first European settlement in America, but which everyone recognizes as an attempt to figure out where all the tourists are during the week.
Another thing to be aware of is that the weather forecast, although presented as if live and up to date, is actually a loop from 1953 and forecasts two types of weather: scattered thunderstorms, and isolated thunderstorms. This forecast is given for seven straight days, coinciding with the typical stay for vacationers, causing a general wail to go up as people arrive for the week and find that the sun is not expected to make even the tiniest of appearances during their stay. However, as they soon realize, it never actually rains there; all the rain accumulates somewhere off Bermuda until a hurricane forms, and then it gets dumped all at once, as the local forecast continues to play the loop of "isolated or scattered thunderstorms."
Thus visitors gradually realize that the weather forecast has nothing to do with real time, and that they do not necessarily have to make "rain plans" in anticipation of unfavorable weather, as we did, and perhaps find themselves in the Museum of Prehistoric Lifesaving Equipment on a perfectly sunny day.
Although the waves on the Atlantic can appear intimidating, it is comforting to know that there is an Early Warning System that offers alerts for three levels of waves. This warning system consists of a loosely arranged group of children in the water yelling thus:
Small wave: "Wave!"
Somewhat larger wave: "Big Wave!"
Hurricane-strength wave: "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
These are just a few highlights of our accumulated wisdom on vacationing in the Outer Banks. In our next vacation report, we present The Outer Banks: The Full Sensory Experience. Stay tuned!
Other than during these times, you will see very few people around, which presents a mystery of where all the people in all those cars go between Saturdays. This mystery is the subject of a nightly performance called The Lost Colony, which is ostensibly about the unknown fate of the first European settlement in America, but which everyone recognizes as an attempt to figure out where all the tourists are during the week.
Another thing to be aware of is that the weather forecast, although presented as if live and up to date, is actually a loop from 1953 and forecasts two types of weather: scattered thunderstorms, and isolated thunderstorms. This forecast is given for seven straight days, coinciding with the typical stay for vacationers, causing a general wail to go up as people arrive for the week and find that the sun is not expected to make even the tiniest of appearances during their stay. However, as they soon realize, it never actually rains there; all the rain accumulates somewhere off Bermuda until a hurricane forms, and then it gets dumped all at once, as the local forecast continues to play the loop of "isolated or scattered thunderstorms."
Thus visitors gradually realize that the weather forecast has nothing to do with real time, and that they do not necessarily have to make "rain plans" in anticipation of unfavorable weather, as we did, and perhaps find themselves in the Museum of Prehistoric Lifesaving Equipment on a perfectly sunny day.
Although the waves on the Atlantic can appear intimidating, it is comforting to know that there is an Early Warning System that offers alerts for three levels of waves. This warning system consists of a loosely arranged group of children in the water yelling thus:
Small wave: "Wave!"
Somewhat larger wave: "Big Wave!"
Hurricane-strength wave: "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
These are just a few highlights of our accumulated wisdom on vacationing in the Outer Banks. In our next vacation report, we present The Outer Banks: The Full Sensory Experience. Stay tuned!
Monday, July 20, 2009
Home, home again
Although the blog was scheduled to return to its regular programming today, we regret that technical difficulties have prevented this. We trust that the Gallant Hero, who is so very knowledgeable about such things -- and who, on our recent vacation, also became very knowledgeable about such matters as sailing; disposing of large, uninvited cottage guests; and grilling without burning the house down -- will be able to restore the blog's full capabilities in short order.
Friday, July 10, 2009
To the beach
We do not go on long vacations very often, but when we do we plan very carefully. We read up on potential locations to visit, we ask for suggestions from friends and family and co-workers -- as well as the occasional stranger in the Barnes & Noble travel section -- and then, with all the information we have gathered, we solemnly toss an atlas into the air and whatever location is on the page that lands up, that's where we go on vacation.
This time the atlas landed on Kibler, Arkansas. We took the liberty of making several tosses of the atlas, willing it to land on something a little closer to the beach.
The Outer Banks looked promising. Miles of beaches, sparkling water, refreshing breezes, golf resorts, violent hurricanes that wipe out every life form except boardwalk carnivals, which are indestructible.
"What will we do there?" I said, seeing no largely populated areas that might suggest civilization, defined as antique shops.
Joe made a wild suggestion. "Relax and enjoy the water?"
"But we should do things," I said. "Not just be beach bums."
He could see no reason we shouldn't be beach bums.
"Ahh," I said, looking more closely at the map. "It's a little bit of a drive, but here's just the thing. A ship's graveyard museum."
Fortunately he does not mind my morbid fascination with shipwrecks and other natural and unnatural disasters. As long as it does not interfere with being a beach bum.
While the Princess and Hero are on vacation next week, new posts may or may not appear to this blog, depending on whether the Princess can make the great sacrifice of tearing herself away from every sign, plaque, and other means of written communication on display at the ship's graveyard museum, and the Hero can make the equally great sacrifice of giving up control of the new notebook laptop.
This time the atlas landed on Kibler, Arkansas. We took the liberty of making several tosses of the atlas, willing it to land on something a little closer to the beach.
The Outer Banks looked promising. Miles of beaches, sparkling water, refreshing breezes, golf resorts, violent hurricanes that wipe out every life form except boardwalk carnivals, which are indestructible.
"What will we do there?" I said, seeing no largely populated areas that might suggest civilization, defined as antique shops.
Joe made a wild suggestion. "Relax and enjoy the water?"
"But we should do things," I said. "Not just be beach bums."
He could see no reason we shouldn't be beach bums.
"Ahh," I said, looking more closely at the map. "It's a little bit of a drive, but here's just the thing. A ship's graveyard museum."
Fortunately he does not mind my morbid fascination with shipwrecks and other natural and unnatural disasters. As long as it does not interfere with being a beach bum.
While the Princess and Hero are on vacation next week, new posts may or may not appear to this blog, depending on whether the Princess can make the great sacrifice of tearing herself away from every sign, plaque, and other means of written communication on display at the ship's graveyard museum, and the Hero can make the equally great sacrifice of giving up control of the new notebook laptop.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
The closing
Settlement meetings for one's mortgage are, by and large, considered to be about as exciting as cleaning toilets. But this is a great misconception, as our recent experience illustrates. Such meetings can be filled with drama and excitement, particularly when hypothetical demise is involved.
The woman acting as our notary for our refinancing called on her way to the house. "You don't have any questions, do you?" she asked Joe. "Because I'm not allowed to answer any questions. I'm just coming to make sure you sign."
Joe assured her that although we did have some questions, we absolutely planned on signing, so she had nothing to worry about.
Once she was settled in our kitchen, having successfully navigated our steep, narrow stairway ("I feel like I'm climbing into a treehouse," she said), she promptly informed us that she would, in fact, be happy to answer any questions we might have. "I just have to say that I won't, because your lender doesn't want me answering any questions."
This must be part of the truth-in-lending thing, I thought.
And so we proceeded to ask her our questions. Her answers included enthusiastic retellings of horror stories of other clients, which made us want to stop asking questions, and finally it was time to sign everything. She looked at the mortgage note.
"Just his name is on here?" she questioned.
We looked. Although my name was on the other documents, it was conspicuously absent from the note.
"No, mine should be too," I said.
All signing ground to a halt while we debated our options. Joe was all for going ahead and getting it done right then, and leaving my name off, but the notary and I immediately came up with several scenarios that might result from this, all of which might be detrimental to me and involved Joe's hypothetical demise, which might also be considered detrimental to him.
"What if something happens to him" -- I looked apologetically at Joe -- "and I'm not on the mortgage?"
"Or if something happens to him" -- the woman said, looking apologetically at Joe -- "and you try to get another loan but then you have no credit history."
"That would not be good," I said.
"Thanks a lot," Joe said, in a distinctly unthankful voice. "I'm the one who's dead here."
"We're not necessarily talking about death," I said reassuringly. "Maybe just, you know, severe incapacitation."
This did not improve his unthankfulness.
It was decided to call our lender, in the hopes that he could provide some answers, and possibly contribute another scenario that included Joe's severe incapacitation. The lender, however, declared that there was nothing unusual about having just Joe's name on the note ("My wife's name is not on OUR mortgage," he said), and reassured us that none of the contingencies we had brought up would result in any great loss or harm, except of course hypothetically to Joe.
But the woman in our kitchen was not so easily satisfied with his assurances. As the lender talked, she motioned for Joe to mute the phone, and so began several minutes of the lender talking on the phone, having no idea that everything he said was being refuted by the notary, who kept up a constant chatter over him, accompanied by liberal rolling of her eyes and shaking of her head.
Lender: I'm pretty sure that the mortgage would revert to Holly anyway, were something to happen, heaven forbid, to Joe.
Notary: He's pretty sure? (snorts)
Joe: Why does everything have to happen to me?
Lender: But I can check with my manager to make sure.
Notary: (looking sternly at the phone) Yeah, you do that.
Me: (whispering frantically) Are you SURE he can't hear us?
I was terrified that the phone wasn't actually muted, and that the agent on the line would realize we were talking about him, and would have some uncanny ability to listen to someone else while talking at the same time. But his voice kept on chattering, although none of us were listening. If he had been paying attention, he would have gotten a big clue when Joe, instead of saying that the man was on speakerphone, told him he was on mute. But he seemed to think nothing was amiss.
In the end it was decided that it was too risky for me to not have my name also on the mortgage (Joe: "What about me? I'm the one who's dead!"), and we postponed the closing. We are fervently hoping that the next closing will be as exciting as cleaning toilets.
The woman acting as our notary for our refinancing called on her way to the house. "You don't have any questions, do you?" she asked Joe. "Because I'm not allowed to answer any questions. I'm just coming to make sure you sign."
Joe assured her that although we did have some questions, we absolutely planned on signing, so she had nothing to worry about.
Once she was settled in our kitchen, having successfully navigated our steep, narrow stairway ("I feel like I'm climbing into a treehouse," she said), she promptly informed us that she would, in fact, be happy to answer any questions we might have. "I just have to say that I won't, because your lender doesn't want me answering any questions."
This must be part of the truth-in-lending thing, I thought.
And so we proceeded to ask her our questions. Her answers included enthusiastic retellings of horror stories of other clients, which made us want to stop asking questions, and finally it was time to sign everything. She looked at the mortgage note.
"Just his name is on here?" she questioned.
We looked. Although my name was on the other documents, it was conspicuously absent from the note.
"No, mine should be too," I said.
All signing ground to a halt while we debated our options. Joe was all for going ahead and getting it done right then, and leaving my name off, but the notary and I immediately came up with several scenarios that might result from this, all of which might be detrimental to me and involved Joe's hypothetical demise, which might also be considered detrimental to him.
"What if something happens to him" -- I looked apologetically at Joe -- "and I'm not on the mortgage?"
"Or if something happens to him" -- the woman said, looking apologetically at Joe -- "and you try to get another loan but then you have no credit history."
"That would not be good," I said.
"Thanks a lot," Joe said, in a distinctly unthankful voice. "I'm the one who's dead here."
"We're not necessarily talking about death," I said reassuringly. "Maybe just, you know, severe incapacitation."
This did not improve his unthankfulness.
It was decided to call our lender, in the hopes that he could provide some answers, and possibly contribute another scenario that included Joe's severe incapacitation. The lender, however, declared that there was nothing unusual about having just Joe's name on the note ("My wife's name is not on OUR mortgage," he said), and reassured us that none of the contingencies we had brought up would result in any great loss or harm, except of course hypothetically to Joe.
But the woman in our kitchen was not so easily satisfied with his assurances. As the lender talked, she motioned for Joe to mute the phone, and so began several minutes of the lender talking on the phone, having no idea that everything he said was being refuted by the notary, who kept up a constant chatter over him, accompanied by liberal rolling of her eyes and shaking of her head.
Lender: I'm pretty sure that the mortgage would revert to Holly anyway, were something to happen, heaven forbid, to Joe.
Notary: He's pretty sure? (snorts)
Joe: Why does everything have to happen to me?
Lender: But I can check with my manager to make sure.
Notary: (looking sternly at the phone) Yeah, you do that.
Me: (whispering frantically) Are you SURE he can't hear us?
I was terrified that the phone wasn't actually muted, and that the agent on the line would realize we were talking about him, and would have some uncanny ability to listen to someone else while talking at the same time. But his voice kept on chattering, although none of us were listening. If he had been paying attention, he would have gotten a big clue when Joe, instead of saying that the man was on speakerphone, told him he was on mute. But he seemed to think nothing was amiss.
In the end it was decided that it was too risky for me to not have my name also on the mortgage (Joe: "What about me? I'm the one who's dead!"), and we postponed the closing. We are fervently hoping that the next closing will be as exciting as cleaning toilets.
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Princess
We regret -- the Princess seems to be doing a lot of regretting these days -- that this blog will appear only intermittently over the next couple of weeks, as the Princess is chained to her work desk and is allowed away only for important things like three minutes of sleep. Fortunately, the Princess will be allowed to take a vacation next week, in which she and the Hero plan to go far, far away and possibly never return.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
In which we are in violation
Our neighborhood is brimming over with good cheer these days. A few weeks ago there was the nice e-mail from our neighbor regarding the perverse tendency of Joe's car to honk, repeatedly and of its own accord, in the middle of the night, greatly interfering with the neighbor's slumber. Now we have received a letter from the homeowner's association management company, encouraging us to keep up the nice appearance of our home and community. This encouragement was worded basically as: "You are in grievous violation of the Governing Documents of this Association. If you fail to remedy these problems by noon tomorrow, you will be forcibly removed from your home by large men in gorilla suits, and will forfeit all your earthly possessions, which will be used to construct a monument to warn others what happens to homeowners who defy us."
Of course we were, upon reading this letter, humbly grateful for this encouragement, and in response we have worded a short letter of our own, which allows us to express our appreciation for having the error of our ways pointed out to us.
Dear Management Company,
We are grateful for your thoughtful attention to the state of our home. We would never have known, but for your bringing it to our attention, that we are living in a dump. But now that you have pointed it out, we realize we were quite remiss in not seeing that our upstairs window sill, which is so high that it is likely to be seen only by a giraffe, is in need of some paint. Obviously you have a special talent to be able to spot these things that no one else can see.
We would never want to offend the owners of the yards across the street with our less-than-stellar window sill, owners whose yards look perpetually like they are hosting rummage sales, only with stuff that's not as nice. We are sure that you have properly addressed this with these owners, as you have so thoughtfully done with our own little matter.
As for the two little spots on the cellar door that also need paint, we apologize profusely for the horror and revulsion this must cause our neighbors and any visitors to our community. We humbly regret our vagabond ways and will take immediate steps to rectify this situation. We realize that our neglect has resulted in an eyesore of such magnitude that one can hardly look beyond these areas to the beauty of the rest of the house.
To show that we are sincere in our gratefulness to you, we would like to point out that you appear to have overlooked the profusion of weeds in our front walk. Perhaps you would care to send us another letter about this matter?
Sincerely yours,
Homeowners In violation
Of course we were, upon reading this letter, humbly grateful for this encouragement, and in response we have worded a short letter of our own, which allows us to express our appreciation for having the error of our ways pointed out to us.
Dear Management Company,
We are grateful for your thoughtful attention to the state of our home. We would never have known, but for your bringing it to our attention, that we are living in a dump. But now that you have pointed it out, we realize we were quite remiss in not seeing that our upstairs window sill, which is so high that it is likely to be seen only by a giraffe, is in need of some paint. Obviously you have a special talent to be able to spot these things that no one else can see.
We would never want to offend the owners of the yards across the street with our less-than-stellar window sill, owners whose yards look perpetually like they are hosting rummage sales, only with stuff that's not as nice. We are sure that you have properly addressed this with these owners, as you have so thoughtfully done with our own little matter.
As for the two little spots on the cellar door that also need paint, we apologize profusely for the horror and revulsion this must cause our neighbors and any visitors to our community. We humbly regret our vagabond ways and will take immediate steps to rectify this situation. We realize that our neglect has resulted in an eyesore of such magnitude that one can hardly look beyond these areas to the beauty of the rest of the house.
To show that we are sincere in our gratefulness to you, we would like to point out that you appear to have overlooked the profusion of weeds in our front walk. Perhaps you would care to send us another letter about this matter?
Sincerely yours,
Homeowners In violation
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