Approved napping

"it's time to move to Spain," I told the Hero.

I had been contemplating such a move for roughly 47 seconds, which is the amount of time it took me to read an article about the town of Ador, Spain. The mayor of this excellent place has declared 2-5 p.m. an official siesta time for the entire town. Every day.

Sign me up. Please.

A former coworker so appreciates her sleep time that she admitted she sometimes wakes up in the morning and thinks, "Maybe I can take a nap later." She never actually gets that nap. But in Ador, you could wake up every day and think this. And it would actually happen.

So please please please sign me up.

I am not ashamed to admit, with my coworker, that I adore sleep. This is not a popular platform in our society. It's dangerously close to saying I adore laziness.* It has become almost an obsession with Americans to see who can survive on the least amount of sleep. "I only get 4 hours of sleep a night. Feel great." "Oh, yeah? I only sleep every other week."

As a result many of us are sleep deprived, which only makes us more determined to not sleep, lest we fall further behind in whatever it is we are attempting to accomplish on too little sleep. And if sleeping at night, when one is supposed to sleep, is looked down on, the idea of a nap—sleeping in the middle of one's uber-productive day—is simply scandalous.

But not in Ador, apparently. While sleep deprivation does not seem to be the motivation behind the mayor's nap proclamation—he is more concerned about heat exhaustion among people working in the fields, although the siesta time would apply to everyone—he refuses to let the idea of uber-productivity interfere with the good sense of a midday rest.

So off to Spain, I say. And sign up my coworker too.

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*Although we admit that on a cold, blustery winter day, when the sun has refused to shine for weeks, yes, laziness becomes quite attractive.

On to the Land of the Free...the Brave...the Extremely Noisy and Smelly and Invasive, Yet Somehow Also Cute, Feral Pigs

In the last post we related our adventures with Captain Ryan aboard a boat, exploring the wilds of Louisiana's swampland armed with nothing more than hot dogs and marshmallows to keep the wildlife at bay.*

We moved, cautiously, further into swampland, knowing that potentially greater danger lay there, primarily from other boat captains with greater stockpiles of attractive food offerings because they hadn't wasted them all on the previous alligators.

Before we move on from alligators, however, we should relate some educational points shared with us by Captain Ryan. For starters, one participant inquired how to tell a male alligator from a female. The captain explained that females rarely grow past 10 feet or so, so an animal 12 feet or more is almost assuredly a male. Great, the participant said, but what about smaller alligators? How could you tell with them?

Captain Ryan, as we have seen previously, is not one to shy away from danger. So he bravely waded into a discussion of alligator anatomy, and informed us that the only foolproof way to tell the gender of an alligator is to stick one's hand into the animal's [insert name of very private alligator part, which the good captain ably pronounced but which I had never heard before and promptly forgot].

There was a collective Ohhhh, and then the captain explained that “we will not be seeing that particular procedure today."

There was a collective sigh of relief, and no more questions for a while.

It is hard to remember whether we saw or heard the wild pigs first. Likely our first clue was the overpowering smell. Wild pigs, as we had ample cause to observe, have no regard for hygiene. None. Zero. The ones we came upon deep in the swamp possibly exhibited less than zero regard for hygiene. They were busily fighting over marshmallows from a couple of other boats who had gotten there first, but they soon headed over to fight over our marshmallows and to show off their disregard for hygienic practices.

These pigs pretty much disregarded everything—respect for trees, each other, the rails on the boat that clearly indicated they were to stay on the other side—nothing was sacred. If they thought one of us was holding out on a few more marshmallows, they certainly had no compunction about trying to climb aboard and wrest them from us. They hooked their hooves over the railing, thoughtfully sharing with us mud, dirty water, moss, and whatever other unspeakable things they could dredge up from the swamp.

The more bloodthirsty among us wondered what happens in a fight of Pig vs. Alligator. I mean, gators are strong and all, but as I may have mentioned, the pigs had the poor hygiene thing going on. Even gators might not be able to withstand such a biological weapon.

The captain assured us that larger alligators, like Scarface, could take down a large pig. Most of us fervently hoped it would not happen that particular day.

The one bright spot was the baby pigs, who ran around on the land squealing, "You never let us get any marshmallows!" Although we all knew what lay ahead for them, judging from their parents—a body weight gain of several hundred pounds, along with exponential nasal growth—we couldn't help but notice, at this stage, how cute they were.

Is it too much to expect that a new generation will, unlike their parents, eschew mud, dirt, and filth? Perhaps so, but we can always hope.

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*Okay, so the treats actually put us more in danger, because they attracted the alligators right up to the boat, whereas without the treats we probably looked better to them from afar.

Marshmallows and hot dogs, the preferred food of alligators (when humans aren't available)

The Princess and Hero have recently returned from wrestling alligators, wild boar, and hordes of noisy tourists. The tourists were definitely the most fearsome.

This excitement all took place in New Orleans, where the Princess was sent for work and where the Hero joined her afterward because he could not WAIT to take part in something called a swamp tour. Delightful though that sounded, we privately agreed to think of it as a bayou tour, which sounded much more sanitary. And even, dare we say it, romantic, in the sense in which the Princess Bride Fire Swamp was romantic. 

We encountered fierce wildlife on our bayou tour, though they were no match for brave Captain Ryan and his trusty band of marshmallows and hot dogs. Once our boat was deep in alligator territory, the captain placed pieces of these treats on sticks and, instead of holding them to a campfire, dangled them in front of 800-pound alligators. It turns out alligators really like hot dogs and marshmallows.* At least when no other flesh conveniently presents itself.

We wonder who first discovered that alligators enjoy marshmallows, and more important, how they discovered this. We imagine some hapless swamp visitor, about to be charged and eaten by Scarface—this is the name given to an actual alligator we saw on the tour—trying desperately to distract him, and finally throwing an entire bag of marshmallows at the animal. The tourist holds his breath while he waits to see if his offering is accepted. The alligator sniffs the treats and chomps his way contentedly through them, prompting a sigh of relief from the tourist. And then Scarface eats him too.

Probably the real story is not nearly as dramatic, but however it happened, we are left with the delightful fact that alligators will come right up to your boat if there are marshmallows involved. They seem to like hot dogs all right, too, although a nearby boat with a rival captain had only hot dogs to offer, and his boat was not nearly as successful as ours at attracting customers. Of course, this may have had something to do with Captain Ryan's tendency to swish his hand in the water right in front of the alligators while giving forth a time-honored call: "Here, alligator!"

Conventional wisdom, even common sense, dictates that one keep one's appendages far from those jaws of death. But Captain Ryan did not operate by conventional wisdom, or even by common sense, but apparently by the law of Astonish the Tourists so They Give Better Tips. So several times he tapped on an alligator's nose to get it to open its jaws for a treat, which alternately provoked exclamations of "Oooo" and stimulated brainstorming for what we, the Tourists Who Will Not Give Tips to a Dead Captain, would do in the event the good captain's charm and hot dogs and marshmallows failed to satisfy the alligators, and we would find ourselves stranded. We doubted the competing captain would deign to help us. "Serves 'im right," he would probably mutter, and chug off.

After Scarface, who was 12 feet long and weighed a bit more after visiting our boat than before, we jaded tourists were on the hunt for something more dangerous. But even the most hardened among us could not resist the next animal we saw, a baby raccoon. Raccoons, too, appreciate marshmallows thrown in their direction, although they are smart enough to know that if they venture into the water to get one, their marshmallow-eating days are over. Accordingly, the captain tossed some up on the bank for Rodney**, who dutifully looked adorable as he held the treats in his paws and consumed them. 

Raccoons cheer for cold weather, because the alligators more or less shut down when temperatures reach around 50 degrees. At that point the raccoons can frolic about in the water and, without fear of molestation, look for marshmallows as much as they please. Unfortunately for them, there aren't many tourists or tour captains out in 50-degree weather, but there is always the hope that the alligators left behind a few overlooked, if soggy, marshmallows.

Next post: On to the Land of the Free, the Brave, the Extremely Noisy and Smelly and Invasive, Yet Somehow Also Cute, Feral Pigs

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*Photos will be forthcoming, as soon as we can talk the alligators into releasing them. Hey, they really do eat pretty much anything.

**Rodney's real name is being withheld to avoid detection by Scarface. Also because we can't remember what his real name was.

Cricket du jour

A lot of people -- including two in this household -- struggle with their affinity for eating bread, pasta, and other carby foods. However, I have found myself thinking that shunning carbs may not be such a bad thing. Particularly if it means not consuming crickets.

It has never occurred to me to be concerned about eating crickets, until I read about a cricket farm in California. In an effort to find an inexpensive source of protein, the company wants to grind up crickets and use them in foods like pasta, shakes, and pizza dough.

The company has already made a pizza dough in this manner and, incredibly, has not been forced to attend psychological counseling.

I'm not saying Ground Cricket Pizza Dough is necessarily coming to a store near you soon. But you might want to think about it. Possibly you, like me, would be happier not thinking about it.

The company emphasizes that a lot of hungry people can be fed this way.* Crickets are cheap, and require far fewer natural resources to raise than do other sources of protein, like cows.

The same can be said of stink bugs, presumably, but you don't hear anyone saying we should put them in our pasta. (If you do, please immediately incarcerate that person.)

Furthermore, the company asserts, the crickets are treated humanely, their body temp being slowly lowered until -- well, until they're humanely ground up into powder and added to pizza dough. A "protein supplement," the company calls it.

We can't help wondering how such foods would be labeled. Maybe "Supplemented with Humanely Raised Cricket," or "Contains Cricket Parts from Whole Crickets Happy in Their Lifetime."

If ever there was an unlikely ally in the efforts of the meat industry to stir up more interest in meat, this cricket farm must be it. Now just don't start putting cow parts in my pizza dough.

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*For the record, I am not a hungry person. Particularly if there's a chance crickets are on the menu.

Where jerks stay

We have been trying, of late, to break our habit of being maximizers. This tendency causes people to, when faced with a decision—be it small or life changing—consider absolutely every possibility to be sure that the final choice is the absolute best possible one and and will assure one's perfect happiness.

At least, given any time constraints. If you'd had more time, of course you might have found an even better option. 

But according to people who study happiness, this tendency does not make one happier. In a perverse irony, the happiest people are satisficers. These are individuals who analyze their choices but who are able to peacefully come to a decision without having to excruciatingly examine every possible choice or scenario ‘til death do take the decision from their hands.

I say we have this maximizing problem, but really the issue is mine, and the Hero unfortunately gets dragged along. When at the grocery store, he does not feel compelled to look over every single container of blueberries, or every last bulb of garlic, to find the perfect one. He goes off to locate seventeen items and cheerfully returns with all of them—plus a few others—while I am still scouting around to make sure that there is no other, hidden bin of garlic I need to check out before I make my final selection.

This new resolve to be satisfied with something that is good enough has been sorely tested during our effort to find a place to stay during our upcoming trip to New Orleans. The number of reviews of lodgings on Trip Advisor is staggering, seemingly greater than the total traveling population in the US. And I have to read every one.

Fortunately, some of the reviews help us make rather quick decisions to not stay at a particular place. For example, of a small inn one person wrote, "It's a nice place, as long as you're not a jerk about every little thing." 

We pondered what this might mean, what might qualify as "every little thing" and "jerk." You smile when an army of roaches marches through your bedroom? You don't run screaming when you notice mold several inches thick in the shower? You don't rant and rave that the bath towels seem to be held together with string, or perhaps hair?

In that case, we're sorry to admit it, but we just might be jerks.

A lodger at another establishment noted that her gallant husband slew four roaches in their room the first day. I am mystified that there was a second day. And a third and a fourth. I can only conclude that these people, unlike us, are not jerks. 

At this point in our search, the Hero made a unilateral decision—albeit one wholeheartedly supported by me—to seek lodging at a hotel rather than an inn or a bed and breakfast. "One with at least 95 floors," he announced. “We'll stay on the top floor, and any roaches that might be thinking of invading will be too exhausted by the thought of climbing that high to even attempt it."

Another trend we noticed in the reviews was the rather close quarters in many inns. One person, for example, noted that the small space did not allow "room for immensities." I imagine not.

A traveler further noted that "the two of us couldn't both fit in the room at the same time." Did they draw straws to see who would get to sleep inside the room? Or maybe they just meant the two of them plus the roaches couldn't fit at the same time. 

But there I go, being a jerk again.

Snooze and not lose

If you are driving through Nevada and happen to see a truck driver who is eating a barbecue sandwich with both hands, and then you see him disappear altogether and return with a beer in his hands, and finally you are sure he is nodding off to sleep, don't be alarmed. He is probably just the lucky benefactor of the latest development in self-driving vehicles. Or perhaps he isn't, in which case you still shouldn't be alarmed. You should panic.

But a few self-driving trucks are now operating on long stretches of Nevada highways. This, as explained by a news article, is to "allow the driver to focus on other tasks." The first such task that comes to mind is the all-important cell phone call—using both hands, of course—to somebody the driver knows so that he can say, "Guess what I'm doing right now!"

After this urgent task, depending on the extent of the driver's social network, there might be several such calls to make. Maybe even enough to last the entire trip across Nebraska, at which point the driver, assuming he is entering another state that frowns upon autonomous vehicles, would reluctantly return to a less important task: driving the truck himself.

What early-20th century drudgery.

Of course, to make his job "more easy and efficient," as the news article notes, the driver would likely take a few naps, being sure to lean against the driver's window with his face all smooshed into it so that passing motorists become quite alarmed and/or panicked. Self-driving is not likely to make their lives easier and more efficient.

But there is hope, hope that they too might someday leave the driving to the car and concentrate on other tasks. I personally could use some extra naptime. With my face all smooshed against the window.

When easy is not so easy

Despite my better judgment, I have decided to try growing herbs in containers outdoors. According to research I have conducted on the subject, growing herbs is by all accounts very easy, judging by photos and videos of people who are living among jungles of flourishing herbs because it is just all so easy.

Unfortunately, their definition of "very easy" seems vastly different from mine.

For example, when planting herbs in pots, you must be sure to use potting mix, NOT potting soil, which despite their similarity in name are not the same. Potting soil is much too dense and will basically strangle your plants. I move that to help avoid confusion between the two, some distinct name be given to potting soil, perhaps Dense Stuff to Help Strangle Plant Roots.

Also, depending on the type of herb, you should either 1) mix the potting mix or 2) NOT mix the potting mix with a) fertilizer, b) compost, c) polymer crystals, d) lime, e) kelp meal, or f) Honey-Nut Cheerios. Easy peasy!

For the best results, according to those who know, you should really mix up your own concoction of soil. There are roughly 16 different ingredients needed to put it together yourself, most of which end in "um" or "ite" and sound like dreaded 17th-century diseases, like gypsum, sphagnum, perlite, and vermiculite. (Indeed, these agents are known to cause massive amounts of dirt to cling to your clothes and person.) The exact combination of these 16 ingredients will vary according to the herb, so I calculate that there are approximately 10 to the 78th power different combinations of soil components one could put together.

But easy peasy!

Accordingly, MY plan was to get some basil, lemon thyme, chives, and approved potting mix, then dump it all into some cute pots and put out a sign reading, "Please adopt me."

No, not really. The sign would say, "Really, she's not trying to kill us. At least we don't think so."

But when I went to the store to acquire all the necessary paraphernalia, I found that the weather was not exactly conducive to planting anything. Indeed, while in the very act of admiring the cute basil and lemon thyme plants at Trader Joe's, I was beset by a rain that with very little encouragement could become snow, and did so very briefly. Several Trader Joe's employees gleefully snapped photos of each other standing in the rain-snow.

I looked at the basil, the lemon thyme, and all the little pots of other herbs and sighed. Easy schmeasy, mmm hmm. I might have known. I promised the plants I would be back another day when it was warmer, like maybe in July, and went home to make that sign. At least THAT would be easy.