Big adventure awaits...if only we knew what it was

A holiday weekend is upon us, and the Hero and I have exciting plans. At least I'm sure they would be if we knew what they were.


Our Doing Things Together motto is "Why plan ahead when you can decide at the last minute and miss out on good deals and accommodations?" Since this motto has stood us in good stead for several years, we have a second motto: "Why do things more efficiently?"


It's not as if there is nothing to do around us. I mean, there's PLENTY of shopping.


In fact, I suggested we go shopping this weekend for antiques in Pennsylvania, which we both like to do, but the Hero did not want to spend the entire weekend shopping, even for antiques. Instead, he has begun to make alarming statements consisting of frightening, subversive words, like "kayaking," "fishing," and "camping on the beach." Interspersed among these are the most alarming words of all: "We could go."


"Camping?" I squeaked. "I don't like camping. YOU don't like camping."


"But on the BEACH. Doesn't that sound fun?"


I realize that it is important, in a relationship, to be supportive of the things the other person likes to do. And I do try. I am perfectly willing, for instance, to try camping. I would even go so far as to stay several nights at Camp Hilton, or Camp Sheraton.


"How about kayaking?" he said.


"Kayaking where?" I said warily. The last time we went kayaking, we ended up looking -- and smelling -- like some prohibited substance.


"Where Bob and I went that one time."


Ah ha! Bob.


"You know," I said, "maybe you need to find some more guy friends like Bob. Do ooga-ooga things together." Bob himself, unfortunately, was recently engaged and, as far as I know, at least temporarily unavailable for doing ooga-ooga things.


The Hero looked thoughtful, although he didn't think it was a practical plan for doing anything this weekend, on such short notice. And so we continue to rack our brains for other ideas of things to do.


Of course, there is always shopping.

What would Peter say?

As we readied our home for guests recently, we turned once again to Peter, author and clutter guru, whose wise advice for keeping our home clutter-free we follow diligently. Part of the reason we like Peter so much is that he is such a great joker, as seen here:


"Your home should take 30 minutes to be presentable, tops," he says firmly. "Five is better."


Yep, he sure does know how to joke around!


His insistence on a 30-minute timeline would, of course, require us to keep our home in a nearly clutter-free condition pretty much all the time, even when, as far as WE know, no one else is going to see it for the next year or so.


So although we have great respect for Peter's sense of humor, we do take a few liberties with his suggestions. We translate minutes into days, for example, so that 30 minutes for tidying up becomes 30 days.


Somehow even 30 days weren't enough this time, and we found ourselves down to the wire. "Twenty-three minutes," the Hero said ominously on the day guests were coming over for dinner, and we raced into action.


He frantically looked around for places to stash last-minute items that we had forgotten about -- something not recommended by Peter -- and running out of suitable places, he asked permission to stow something in the oven. DEFINITELY not recommended by Peter, and the request was promptly denied. We really don't want to tell the fire department that our kitchen caught on fire because we forgot about the wrapping paper in the oven.


But the Hero remained optimistic about our chances of having the house, and dinner, ready in time for our guests. "The good thing is," he said, "they've never been here before, so they're likely to get lost. So we probably have some extra time."


They did NOT get lost, however, something that is beginning to be a disturbing trend as more and more people use GPS. Things were much easier when guests relied on Mapquest or Google Maps, because they had little chance of arriving at our home within even a month of when they were planning to. We had plenty of extra time to get ready. But unfortunately for us, GPS brings people right to our house in exactly the amount of time they expected, although it does not tell them where to park, something we MAY, on occasion, have forgotten to mention.


So when the Hero peered out the window and announced our guests' arrival, right on time, we were both unpresentable. While fleeing up the stairs to remedy this situation, we debated about who was less unpresentable and therefore more fit to answer the door. The Hero won, as he always does.


"Tell them I'll be right down," I said, as I always do.


We're pretty sure Peter would not approve of all this last-minute scurrying. But, hey, we know he has a good sense of humor about these things, right?

You just need the right tool

As the Hero and I prepared for guests this weekend -- a process that usually involves panic at the Red Alert level -- we were determined to set about readying the house in a calm, unhurried manner. The key, we decided, was keeping a detailed to-do list, with everything that needed to be done meticulously recorded to keep us on track.


There were 563 things on the list.


We decided the best way to deal with this was just to tackle it head on, so we promptly took a nap. 


Of course we did not nap TOO long, because sleep experts warn that napping too long may interfere with your nighttime sleep. It seems that this problem could be avoided simply by extending your nap INTO your nighttime sleep, something we personally have been tempted to do many times, although not when we are expecting guests, as this might appear rude. 


Rejuvenated by the nap, the Hero announced his intentions of getting right to work: "I think I'll bash a hole in a wall somewhere."


Some readers may remember another time when we were expecting guests, when the Hero, in lieu of cleaning the family room as he was supposed to be doing, bashed a hole in the wall in order to liberate the old fireplace hidden behind it. 


Strongly discouraged, this time, from further bashing of any walls, the Hero declared that he would do all the vacuuming. For this task, however, he needed to go to Best Buy to purchase a new vacuum cleaner.


Was this necessary to do now, today? I inquired. We had a perfectly good one, although the Hero has never liked it ("It's so loud. Why do vacuum cleaners have to be so loud? They make quiet toilets. Apple makes a quiet computer. Why can't someone make a quiet vacuum cleaner?").


It appeared to be extremely necessary to buy a new one now, today.


He returned from the store with a small, bright red canister-type vacuum that partially resembled a mouse with large gray ears and an extremely long tail that stood straight up before plunging to the floor in a graceful loop. Man and machine quickly bonded as they vacuumed their way through the house.


"I like it," he said, and even went so far as to hint that with this vast improvement over our old vacuum -- although he conceded that it might not be as powerful as that one -- he was likely to do more of the cleaning in the future.


I was reminded of a former co-worker who complained that she could never get her husband to help with the housecleaning, until one day they purchased an electric broom. After this, the sweeping of their bare floors became the husband's duty -- nay, his privilege.


"It saved our marriage," my co-worker said. "He'll do anything as long as it involves a machine that plugs in."


So I'm thinking that maybe we women are approaching this business of getting men to help around the house in the wrong way. Clearly what is needed is the right tool. 


Two things concern me about this. An electric tool, and a bare wall with a treasure -- like an old fireplace -- possibly hidden behind it.

We contemplate hobbies

Occasionally the Hero and I discuss what we would like to do when we retire someday, which, for anyone interested, is a time that is still far, far away for us, like DECADES -- assuming scientists can, very soon, greatly extend the average lifespan and move retirement to age 137.


The Hero expresses some concern that I do not have many hobbies, at least not that he has perceived, and wonders if I will have enough to occupy me in retirement.


"Well, I like to bake," I remind him. 


"Baking's a great hobby," he says enthusiastically. "You should keep doing that."


I imagine it would be nice to work in a nursery someday, coaxing cute little plants to bloom happily. This would satisfy my need to nurture things, and the Hero would be relieved to have me taking care of plants that will eventually go home with other people, and not us.


But if I would have to pass some sort of green thumb exam to work at a nursery, I would be doomed. "We're sorry," the nursery people would say. "We think you might be better suited someplace...where you can't kill things."


Which also means that I might not be successful at Hercules beetle rearing. According to a University of Kentucky website, Hercules beetle rearing is a "very popular hobby" and "difficult, but also very rewarding." 


If I did decide on such a hobby, I know the Hero would be encouraging, but would probably also want to set some boundaries. "Not in the house," would be his view regarding any beetle-rearing activities I might want to engage in. Unfortunately for me, one of the main purposes of such a hobby would be to keep the beetles alive. Members of the Hercules Beetle-Rearing Society, if there is one, would be very much concerned about beetles falling into MY hands.


As for the Hero, whatever he does when he retires will most likely involve the acquisition of yet more computers, because the present seven or eight we have are not adequate for him to pursue his interests. Others have mottoes such as "No child without a book!" or "No corner without a Starbucks!" The Hero's motto is "No room without a computer!"


He has also expressed interest in obtaining a second residence somewhere someday. Although he enjoys being by the water, he is partial to yurts, those round tent-like structures found in parts of Central Asia and similar locales, such as Colorado.


One time we ate at Bahama Breeze, part of which was, while not in Asia or Colorado, somewhat yurt-like. He looked around.


"Wouldn't you like to live in a place like this?" he said.


"If someone brought me a menu of good food I could order from every day, sure," I said. 


I think eventually the impracticality of a yurt would force us toward more conventional housing. But it might be just right for beetle rearing.

Homeowners for weeds

Please excuse any typos or other irregularities that may arise in today's post. The Princess was seized yesterday by an urge to rid the front walk of all weeds, something that has oft been attempted but never quite accomplished. She even went so far as to work on some of the neighbor's weeds, which shows how very charitable she was feeling, as normally she prefers that hers not be the only walkway to bring shame on the neighborhood.


This effort, however, has cost the Princess the use of most of her fingers, she hopes temporarily. Coaxing the weeds from between the bricks is not easy, and considerable force is sometimes necessary, as the weeds have wound their roots deep down under the bricks and joined forces with every other weed on the block to produce Superweed.


Knowing that the Princess does not normally engage in weeding of her own free will, the Hero was suspicious. "Did we get a letter from the homeowner's association?" he said.


Each spring, many of us in the neighborhood are blessed with a friendly letter from the homeowner's association detailing our personal failings as homeowners, as evidenced by neglect of our yard or the exterior of our residences. Sometimes the objections raised can seem, to the homeowner, trivial matters ("Window completely missing from second floor"), and on the rare occasion when there is nothing to fault a homeowner with, the association will make something up, such as "Homeowner has mismatched garbage cans. Second offense."


But no doubt the association performs a very important service, and without their vigilant attention all of us would be living in squalor. Of course we would not KNOW we were living in squalor, without the association to tell us this.


But we have not received our annual letter this spring, which makes me concerned that perhaps the association is not going to reprimand us for the weeds, in which case all my hard work and loss of hand function was completely unnecessary. If no letter appears soon, I may send a letter of my own to the association, in which I will state (in a shaky scrawl owing to my injuries):


Dear Sirs or Madams,


Please excuse the poor legibility of this letter. I have just spent an entire day -- no, I think it was SEVERAL entire days, and some nights too -- on my hands and knees pulling weeds in anticipation of your yearly letter telling me I must do so, or face dire consequences.


We have not yet received that letter. If you do not plan to send it this year, I would very much appreciate knowing this. I would be very unhappy to think that I have spent so much valuable time on a fruitless effort. So if you are no longer in the business of threatening homeowners who fail to maintain a weed-free walk -- and more importantly, not in the business of doling out dire consequences -- I am going to immediately replace all of those weeds between the bricks so they can grow back DOUBLY high the rest of the summer. This way, we can maintain our privacy, AND you won't be able to find our house if you change your mind.


We eagerly await your reply.


Sincerely yours,
Homeowners for Letting Nature Be What It Is

How to get rid of stuff*

The Hero and I, realizing that we have put off a deep cleaning of the house for far too long, have therefore embarked on the one path certain to lead us to remedy this situation: inviting people over. 


Typically when beginning this strenuous endeavor, we vow to never again let the house get into such a state, and that the next time we want to have people over, to do something far more sensible: abandon the house and pretend we do not have anyplace to invite people to.


But of course we do not actually do this. Instead, we call upon the one person we always turn to in times of a house crisis: Peter.


Peter is an author and expert on getting rid of the clutter in your house so that you can live the life you've always wanted, provided that life does not already belong to someone else in some other place, such as a sun-soaked mansion in Hawaii. But if you have more modest goals, such as being able to finally locate the bathtub in your second-floor bathroom, Peter is your man.


It takes a humble person to admit you need the help of someone like Peter. Luckily, this humility can often be offset by the realization that your home is not HALF as bad as most of Peter's clients' homes. 


Still, we personally would be mortified to ever have Peter actually visit us.


As part of our present purge, as Peter often calls clutter removal, we went through some boxes in the basement. He recommends various techniques for dealing with items in storage boxes, such as taping the boxes securely and anonymously sending them to someone who, by your judgment, has an issue with perfectionism and, you believe in your heart, could benefit from some clutter in their home.


Just kidding! In actuality, homeowners are advised by Peter to make three piles as they sort through their clutter: one for things to keep, one for things to donate or sell, and one for trash. Though we agree heartily with these principles in theory, we do find it a bit difficult to adhere to one of Peter's most strenuous arguments -- that your "keep" pile should be very, very small. As in practically nonexistent. So we usually just shuffle things from box to box, which gives us the illusion of having actually accomplished something. Sure, this makes us feel a tiny bit guilty, but this is why we do not have Peter come to the house.


This weekend the Hero and I opened a box of miscellaneous items (there really are no other categories of boxes in our house, just Miscellaneous I, Miscellaneous II, Miscellaneous MCVIIXIIXXLTHZ, etc.). It contained important things like candles, old cards, a stray bookmark. 


"What should we do with this stuff?" the Hero asked.


We stared inside the box, as if the contents would magically communicate to us what we should do with them. We felt a strange reluctance to apply our usual strategy of shuffling things around to other boxes, so finally -- after failing to receive any magical instructions -- we just put the lid back on and randomly plunged the box in amongst the other Miscellaneous boxes.


Such an action may not help us achieve our current goal of having a spotless house for guests. But NEXT time, we'll get there. We'll just make sure our guests are taken from a list of Peter's current clients.

*Does not include kids, pets, spouses, in-laws, etc.

**Luckily for them

The garden crime scene

No doubt you are wondering, given the posts about all the garden art we have been accumulating and using to clutter up -- I mean decorate -- our yard, whether there is anything actually live growing in the garden. This is a complex and technical issue that very much depends on your definition of "live" and "growing."


Certainly I have bought plants that were live and growing, and have planted them with the intention that they continue in that state. At some point, however -- generally about two hours after they are in the ground -- they cease to resemble living things and start to look more like some of the worn-out garden art. The tendency for this to happen to my plants has possibly gotten around to the other plants at the nurseries where I shop, which would explain why, when I pick out plants to buy, they cling to anything solid they can wrap their little stems around and wail, "Don't let her take me! Noooooooo...."


So life is going along pretty much as usual in the garden, thank you.


But things have taken a sinister turn lately. Several plants, of different varieties, have sustained damage that by all appearances points to deliberate attacks. Given the pattern of damage, it is estimated that the perpetrators are about 1/2 to 3/4 inch in length and prefer sucking their food to chewing it. They obviously have no trouble getting their daily allotment of greens (which, according to the recent My Plate Insect Nutritional Allotment released by the USDA, should take up the entire plate).


The plant damage suspiciously coincides with recent sightings of certain beetle-type insects. These insects display a peculiar behavior pattern, coming out in the evening when I am watering, hovering about in a display of impressive insect ritual, and then simultaneously, as if in answer to some primeval call (probably "Dinner's ready!"), all disappearing into the rocks.


Insect sprays -- which promise to "kill bugs on contact!" -- seem to have no effect on them. The bugs do not appear in any database of crime that I have checked, making it difficult to know what approach to take to eradicate them.


Last night, however, there was a breakthrough. Though I initially had no intentions of capturing any, two of the suspects are now in custody, resting in comfortable quarters inside an empty spray bottle. ("They're NOT 'resting comfortably,' " the Hero objected. "They made noise in there the whole evening.")


I must conduct my investigations into their identity before any authorities find out that I have no warrant for them and am unlicensed to retain anything with more than four legs on my property. With any luck, identification of the perps and appropriate punitive measures I should take will be speedily arrived at, and the good citizens of the garden will once again be able to rest in peace.


Of course, they'll still have me to worry about.

Of bunnies and hair dryers

I have mentioned before in this blog the issue of my non-greeness and the persecution it occasionally brings, such as not feeling free to admit that I use Raid (although I use it only under strictly controlled circumstances, such as spraying the entire bathroom to kill one ant in the bathtub). Yes, I am properly ashamed of my reliance on such products as well as on purchased produce from countries that, thanks to strict USDA rules, are not considered local. 


But I am not alone. There are many of us who, for one reason or another, have not yet climbed fully aboard the wagon of Environmentally Friendly but instead hang our tails in the dust of pollution and excess. We occasionally look to each other for support, but we must be careful to disguise any meetings between us as routine events, such as going to the salon for a haircut.


At my salon, for example, there is my hair stylist who, like me, does not grow her own vegetables. Not even a single tomato.


On one recent visit, while appearing to be completely absorbed in examining the roots of my hair, she said in a low voice, "You know, some of my clients are WAY too into their vegetable gardens. Some of them, it's all they talk about! And the worst part" -- here she forgot about lowering her voice -- "is that some of them hate rabbits so much they KILL them." She became almost apoplectic. "Little, tiny, cute bunnies! They kill them! I don't care how much damage they do to my yard, I could never kill them. Could YOU?"


Of course not, I said. Even if I had been inclined to be a Bunny Killer, I would not have admitted it at that particular moment. She was holding scissors in her hand.


Apparently she had once asked one of these Bunny Killers how they do away with the bunnies, and the woman had said seriously, "You don't want to know." My stylist had shuddered and asked no more questions.


In the midst of our mutual indignation at this treatment of bunnies we also felt slightly righteous, because we may not be environmentally correct, but by golly at least we do not go around torturing sweet little furry animals.


To take our minds off these horrors my stylist showed me her new European hair dryer, which carried so outrageous a price tag that she had split the cost of one dryer with her business partner. 


"How much does it cost?" I said.


"You don't want to know," she answered.


It was made by Ferrari, she said, and its aim was to be -- surprise! -- the fastest hair dryer on the market.


"Is it?" I asked.


She laughed. "It's pretty darn quick."


Which means...it would take less time to dry your hair, which means...less heat and less electricity, which means...wow, the Ferrari Super Turbo-Charged Hair Dryer just might, I suppose, be good for the environment. Or at least better.


This makes me happy. Not because I plan to use one, but at least now I have a new excuse when someone accuses me of being non-green: I can't afford it.

The heat made us do it

Here in the East it has been 2011 this entire year, at least we were pretty sure it was up until recently. Now, however, we are beginning to suspect that it is actually summer of 2010 again, when we had 347 days of 100+ degree weather. Possibly the weather forecasters have put us in a time loop from last year while they are off enjoying a vacation someplace cooler, like the Amazon jungle.


The heat seems to be making everyone a little cranky. As we all board the afternoon commuter train, Conductor "Roger" (possibly his real name, but only slightly more likely than that his name is "Martha") makes continual announcements that clearly convey his belief that we are all nincompoops: "This train does NOT go to New Carrollton," he intones loudly and often, "OR Seabrook, OR Bowie State, OR Odenton. I repeat, this train will not be stopping at New Carrollton, OR Seabrook, OR Bowie State, OR Odenton. If one of those is your stop, please get OFF the train now. We do not go to those places. I repeat..."


Someday soon, fueled by Roger's condescension and the 118-degree heat, the entire train is going to rise up in righteous indignation and take revenge on him. Possibly this revenge will involve dumping him off at New Carrollton, or Seabrook, or Bowie State, or Odenton, where his own train will not even be able to rescue him, because that train does not stop at New Carrollton, or Seabrook, or Bowie State, or Odenton.


In this heat we find ourselves feeling annoyed not only with Roger but also with relatively pleasant Conductor "Marvin," who each morning, without fail, reminds us in his monotone voice, "If you wish to stand while on the train, please do not stand in the entryways. Do not stand in the vestibule. Do not block the doorways. Also please do not stand in the stairwell." At least he says please. But he seems to leave us only one place to stand: on the outside of the train.


This may not be all that bad, because those who stand outside will have a good view of both Roger and Marvin, dumped at a train station where the train does not stop, frantically trying to flag down help. As the train pulls away, the passengers will be sure to tell them to please not block the stairwell, or the entryway, or the...

The garden art grows

As recently mentioned, our yard is getting a little crowded with what might be politely termed garden art, and not so politely termed something else. The other evening I noticed the addition of two more "objects of art," which were not placed there by me.


"Did you see anything outside?" the Hero asked when I came in the house.


He had apparently, while cutting up some old wood with a jigsaw, been seized with the idea of making some animals out of it, and placed them on the fence.


"They're nice," I said. "What, um...are they?"


I did not wish to imply any criticism of his creations, as MY drawing and representational efforts might be mistaken for something done by a kicking baby in utero, and my personal experience with power tools is limited to trying not to get hurt by them.


"Well, the one is a duck," he said, "but there was a little accident with the jigsaw, and WHOOP! the duck had no legs. And the other one was supposed to be a sheep, because you like sheep, but I wasn't sure how to make its head, so it came out looking sort of like a cow. And it only has two legs. And I ran out of wood for the tail."


We decided the duck was just sitting in some water, where its legs wouldn't be seen anyway.


I could see a round pencil sketch on the head of one of the animals, which gave it sort of a speech bubble appearance.


"There's a speech bubble on the sheep/cow's head," I noted.


"It's probably saying, 'Why did I have to be the hybrid? And where are the rest of my legs? And why is there a duck sitting on my head?' "


"Next time maybe don't make the speech bubble so big," I said.


I am sure the duck and sheep/cow won't be the last creatures to take up residence with us. In time, our yard could even become known as the Garden of Misfit Animals. No feeding, no taking for walks -- just our type of pet.

The clipboard gardener

As a good teacher gets to know her students as individuals, I have been studiously observing the flowers in our garden to learn their personalities and preferences, their quirky yet charming behaviors, and what makes them do what they do. After a period of attentive, almost obsessive observation, I have arrived at this conclusion: This must be a remedial class. 


If I were marking report cards on these plants, I might include these remarks:


Geranium: Nosy. In the class for two years; shows repeated tendency to be a busybody in other plants' business. Behavior remains unchanged despite being moved to corner of garden.


Shasta daisies: Resilient, but do not share well. Numbers decimated last year by pests and gardener ineptitude; remaining two refuse to let anyone around them have their share of light and space.


Purple coneflowers: Demonstrate serious clique behavior. Now teens, the three have declared themselves Center of the Universe. Have subjugated the lone white coneflower, who is forced to run petty errands for them and keep pests away. Seem to feel threatened by recent introduction of second white coneflower. 


Calibrachoa: Strong performers, but constant showiness suggests need for attention.


Dead nettle: Not performing to potential. Several considered forming rock band together, given their cool rock-band-sounding name, but were concerned geranium would want to join.


Fortunately, all is not hopeless. Even among this class, there are some signs of promise:


Star-shaped flower: Plucky. After suffering the indignity of having another flower planted almost on top of it, has refused to bow to domination. Is strongly considering petitioning for a move at end of season.


Blanket flower: Plays well with others. Pleasant personality, strong sense of self-esteem, constantly has hand raised for questions. A joy to have in class, thus will probably not live very long.


Is it fall vacation yet?

While you are sleeping

One evening the Hero and I were repeating a conversation we had already had that morning, which he claimed we had NOT had. 


"I told you this when I said goodbye this morning," I reminded him.


"I'm still asleep when you say goodbye in the morning," he said. 


"But you always tell me I look nice. So you must be sort of awake."


" 'Cuz you always look nice," he said. "But this is what I see when I'm still in bed and you tell me you're leaving." He made a motion with his hand resembling a quacking duck bill. 


"I look like a duck to you?"


"Not so much a duck...just a talking head."


"Sooo...you think a talking head looks nice?"


"I really don't hear much of what you're saying in the morning," he said, ignoring my question. "You're probably saying something like" -- here he made the quacking duck motion again -- " 'Honey, I'd like to buy a hundred plants for the garden. Is that okay?' and I say 'Mmm hmm, sure, have a good day bye zzzzz.' "


"You hear more than you think. I did say that this week."


He looked alarmed.


"Just kidding," I said.


He does well to be alarmed, though. Although I have little of the traditional female interest in acquiring shoes, I harbor a secret desire to kidnap all the flowers from the nurseries around us and take them home for our yard. And not just flowers. It is getting harder to not trip on the numerous buckets, pails, chairs, benches, ladders, and decorative things sticking out of the ground that I've gradually acquired for our small space.


Yesterday I noticed, for the first time, that there are two nails sticking out of the mortar by the back door.


"Hey,there's a nail up there," I said to the Hero. "We could hang a metal star or something on it. And there's another one over there -- maybe we could get another flower basket..."


The Hero laughed nervously.


I smiled to reassure him, and changed the subject.


But I'll have to take it up again with him in the morning.

Traveling, vicariously

Since the Hero is generally very busy with schooling and has very little time for travel -- occasionally we find enough time to make it to Target together -- I travel vicariously through my hair stylist, who seems to be always jetting around Europe. Her husband, who generally prefers to stay at home, is beginning to realize that this in no way discourages his wife from having a good time without him.


Each trip, whether with or without him, occasions rapturous praise when she returns.


"Oooo...you must go to Paris," she told me after visiting. "Everyone should go to Paris. Such a romantic place. The buildings are romantic, the cafes are romantic, the food is romantic, the people are romantic...everyone's in love in Paris." She sighed and looked as if she might break into song.


But as much as she loved Paris, and loved Italy when she was there, and of course loves her home country of Ireland, it is Greece for which her most rapturous praise is reserved.


"Oh! Crete! Rhodes! Just amazing places," she said recently, with another sigh. She does do a good sigh.


"I want to retire to Greece," she continued.


This alarmed me, as I am still training her to do exactly what I want with my hair, and the thought of having to begin training someone else was not pleasant.


"Surely you have a long way to go until retirement," I protested.


"I could retire right now," she declared, which alarmed me even more.


"But," she said, returning her attention from retirement to my hair, "I'd like to go to Hawaii. I've always wanted to go to Hawaii. I'll probably never get there."


"Greece is much better anyway," I said, having been to both places. 


This seemed to cheer her up a bit, and she returned to the subject of Greece.


She told me how her husband, who speaks fluent Greek, keeps this particular talent a secret when they go to a restaurant in Greece, preferring to let the waitstaff believe he is a dumb tourist. A dumb American tourist who can only speak loudly in English and has no concept that he offends everyone and might, therefore, be taken advantage of.


"You know when you're a tourist, and the bill comes, the prices are not what the menu says they are," she confided. This had been the one thing I myself did not like about Greece -- prices of things like a bottle of Coke change minute by minute, with no warning.


"So halfway through a meal my husband will suddenly start speaking in Greek, and then the waiters realize that this is not someone to fool with. And what do you know, our bill matches the menu prices!"


I thought briefly that maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea for them to retire to Greece. Should the Hero and I ever make it that far in our own travels, we could casually invite them to dinner with us. Every night. Lunches, too. Maybe breakfasts.


But I am really not ready to break in a new hair stylist quite yet. So in the meantime, hopefully she will continue to travel, and continue to return, and the Hero and I will continue to find time to tour Target, where we need no interpreter, and where the prices don't change for tourists.

A Bieber birthday

The Hero and I decided recently that we would like to be six again, mainly because of the birthday parties kids get to go to today, which in no way resemble the birthday parties WE went to when we were six. OUR parties involved either a) pin the tail on the donkey (sometimes with the birthday child's father playing the hapless donkey) or b) a pinata. Either way, someone was bound to get hurt.


Of course birthday parties are much more sophisticated now, in cost and extravagance pretty much resembling the average wedding. A relative of ours, for example, was encouraging her almost-six daughter to relate her recent adventure at a friend's birthday party.


"We rode in a limo," she said shyly.


"A pink limo," her mother put in. "And where did you go?"


"To a spa," she said.


I personally did not know what a spa was until I was some large multiple of six.


It turned out that the party had been at the "Pink and Fluffy" Spa, or something similar, and that it existed solely to treat giggly young girls like princesses.


"We got manicures," the almost-six princess said, sticking her hands out to be admired. "And they did our hair and they put sparkles in it and they put sparkly makeup on us." She blinked her eyes several times, lest we miss the ten-pound mass of sparkly makeup on them. 


"Whatever happened to make-a-bear parties?" I wondered.


In her estimation, however, the best part was the music, which leaned heavily on the side of Justin Bieber. She did not quite swoon as she said his name -- her eye makeup was too heavy to allow for any swooning -- but her admiration could not be missed.


"How do you know who Justin Bieber is?" her mother demanded.


The almost-six princess looked guilty, as if Justin's part in the party was supposed to be a secret.


The mother announced that, as much fun as this party had doubtless been, there would be no limo for the birthday of the almost-six princess, which is this month. But the princess did not seem perturbed at this as she admired her nails and batted her sparkly eyes at us.


"I went to a birthday party in a limo once, for the kid I babysat for," I told the Hero later. "With a bunch of nine-year-old boys. To a play."


The Hero, who had not been overly impressed with the spa idea, outright scoffed at this. "For a BOYS' party," he said with enthusiasm, "the ideal day would be riding in a limo, drinking tons of Kool-Aid and eating a bunch of candy until they throw up, and then after that -- well, I don't know how it could get any better after that." 


"Boys are weird," I said.


"Nine-year-old boys going to see a play is weird," he said. "They would have had more fun with candy and Kool-Aid."


Boys, you'll want to hire this guy to plan your party. And moms, you'll want him to stay far, far away.