fortunate discoveries by accident

Dear Whole Foods Bag Girl

nobody@vox.com(karen) — Sun, 30 Dec 2007 23:08:16 -0800

I guess I do appreciate you putting my groceries away in the same bags I brought you. You are stacking things pretty nicely and avoiding the use of too many bags which I like since I already have too many of the blasted things at home.

Hey, I understand that you might find some of our purchases interesting. I myself am often curious to see what the Frenchman is going to put into our basket so to a certain extent I share your curiosity. You never know what's going to end up in there, it could be something as simple as mache, as unusual as a truffle or as forbiddingly delicious as fois gras.

Curiosity is one thing, however I need to tell you that it is completely unnecessary for you to hold any of our purchases over your head and stare at them into the light as if they were counterfeit 20 dollar bills.

That item currently in your hands over your head, my dear, is just a teeny tiny jar of golden cavier. I realize the color is a little bright, and maybe it offends your need for the monochromatic as demonstrated by your wardrobe. Or perhaps I should intuit by your grimace that you object to its very existence. Maybe eating fish eggs is wrong by your moral standards. I understand. We all have our own sense of what is appropriate to eat. You may be a vegetarian. Some of my best friends are avid carnivores. I am, you see, an omnivore. I won't eat just anything though, I try to limit myself to things that are delicious and despite your disapproving look, let me assure you that the contents of that jar are quite wonderful.

Tomorrow night is New Year's Eve, you may have heard. What is less known is that it is also my 22nd wedding anniversary and in honor of that I intend to eat only things that are delicious. Including that little jar you have finally had the grace to stop squinting at.

Whether or not you approve of my food choices, to which I say to each his own, I would like to remind you of our roles: my job is to buy stuff I enjoy, and your job is to enable me to take it home without feeling embarrassed. I don't judge you by your clothes, tattoos, haircut, piercings or the way you scrunch up your face when you don't like something. But I do judge you by the way you judge my purchases.

Let's start the new year on the right foot, shall we? I won't judge you and you try do a better job of hiding your contempt for me, ok?

As the kids say, peace and love.

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Rorschach fish

nobody@vox.com(karen) — Wed, 26 Dec 2007 15:16:58 -0800

Before Christmas I'm the little fish inside the big fish

After Christmas, I'm the big fish who eats even when she's not hungry.

Which fish are you?

By the way, this is Bruno. He's a peacock bass who lives in the shop's fish tank. He only eats live fish - and when he's really hungry, or just being a jerk, he eats so many that he can't swallow them all. They live, like the poor guy in the above pic, as temporary prisoners in his giant mouth. Sometimes they escape, but not for long.

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Evil marshmallows from hell

nobody@vox.com(karen) — Sun, 16 Dec 2007 23:18:08 -0800

We went to the mall today for a day of christmas shopping. We found clear sky, easy parking and no lines. It was a little disconcerting. I was expecting hand to hand combat.

We went to Williams Sonoma four times. It turns out that most of our friends like the stuff they sell there, but it took us four visits to realize that. Each visit we bought something for one person. You could say we're not very efficient at this shopping thing.

The first visit we bought stuff for Xav. Each of the girls picked out something shiny for him and although there was a huge line when we walked in, by the time we were ready to pay we walked straight to the counter. The woman behind the counter was super nice. She offered the girls hot chocolate which I encouraged them to try. I had seen the hot chocolate kit on the way into the store and I was very curious to know what $35 hot chocolate tastes like. Not curious enough to buy it however. I'm curious, not crazy.

Chocolate

The chocolate was literally cooking on the stove and the sales woman was fretting that it would be too hot. "It's really, really hot" she said about 100 times. We get it, it's hot. "Be sure to let it cool." I promise, we'll be careful. She triple stacked the cups so the girls wouldn't burn their hands and as she gave it to them she said again "remember, it's really really hot! Don't drink it yet." Right. Ok. No drinking.

We walked outside, the girls solemnly holding their chocolate cups in front of them as if they were religious chalices - or maybe molotov cocktails. We went over to a concrete bench and sat down, waiting for the chocolate to cool. Outside it should cool quickly, right?

No.

It turns out I made a tactical mistake with the chocolate. When the woman asked us if we wanted marshmallows, I let the girls answer. Each one said yes, very enthusiastically.

The marshmallow - there was only one and it was the size of a Peep - had formed a hermetic seal over the hot chocolate. I know this, because when I blew on Juju's cup to cool it down, nothing happened. No foam. No heat. Nada thing. I blew harder at the side of the cup and BLAM!. Before I knew it, the marshmallow raised up to the top of my cup, releasing all the heat into my face like a giant burp. My face turned red and my glasses fogged up. Ok. This is hot, I thought, but it's working. Very carefully, I blew again. The marshmallow exploded into my face. It covered my cheeks, my lips and my glasses. Cassandre burst into hysterical laughter. Juju pointed at me screaming "you have marshmallow on your NOSE!" And sure enough I did.

Ha ha.

Very funny.

I used my finger to scrape at the marshmallow on my nose. Instead of coming off, it stuck to both my finger and my nose and as my hand moved away it formed a sticky string as long as my arm. More laughter. Against the Mother On An Outing With Kids rules, I did not have any tissues with me. I was completely paperless. I wrapped the marshmallow string around my finger, scraped the last of it off my nose and ate it. Hey, it's sugar. And it's not like it was in my nose. Plus I was desperate, being in a public place and all. I would have licked it off but my tongue is not long enough to lick the tip of my own nose. No, I didn't go looking for a bathroom because at this point I still thought there might be some way to save the "delicious" hot chocolate held captive by the evil marshmallow.

Marshmallows from hell

I poked my finger into the cup and immediately burned myself. Doh. Determined, I grabbed the top of the marshmallow and tried to lift it out. It was well past time for it to go. But it would not go. It was goo. It was like trying to hold a loogey. Or so I imagine. Ew.

Cassandre, beginning what I'm sure will be a life-long path of not learning from her mother's mistakes, blew directly into her cup. It exploded, spreading marshmallow all over her face and in her hair.

Marshmallow hair is bad.

We took a vote, agreed to give up and chucked the as-yet untasted hot chocolate into the trash can.

I still don't know what $35 hot chocolate tastes like and now that it's sold out, it's likely that you won't either. But if you happen to come across it in the store, take my advice and skip the $18 marshmallows.

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Germ mongers know best

nobody@vox.com(karen) — Fri, 14 Dec 2007 15:17:56 -0800

I believe in flu shots, even when they don't get it right. I understand that while there is a lot of science involved in predicting - a year in advance - which viruses will be the most problematic, a certain amount of crystal ball gazing, or maybe even Magic 8-ball activity is also involved in creating the final potion. It's not easy to be a fortune teller.

I haven't been sick with the flu for years - ever since I started getting the shot. I don't even get many colds - probably due to the placebo effect of believing I'm protected. I'm a believer.

We've been getting the Germ Mongers, AKA Les Girls, their flu shots ever since they were old enough to qualify.

They hate it.

Whenever it's time to go for the shot they have to be pinned down - literally: I hold whichever girl on my lap, facing me (this immobilizes her kung fu master legs) then I make her fold one arm into my chest and the other one goes around my neck. I hug her tightly to my chest, arms wrapped around, holding on to the arm that will get the shot so she can't move and accidentally get hurt. The shot itself doesn't hurt, unless you are flailing your arms and legs and you get it through your arm, it's really the anticipation that hurts. The crying starts when we're standing in line (at the clinic) or waiting for our appointment at the doctor's office. Sniffling turns to sobbing turns to wailing with Real Tears (TM). You would think they were being auctioned off to live with the gypsies, such is the scene they make. No, I don't ever threaten to do that, whatever gave you the idea? Other mothers look on with sympathy - at me.

Xav gets his shot by himself at the supermarket. They can't give shots to kids under 9 there, so while I was able to get mine done (along with a little banking and some groceries - vive the modern supermarket), I had to make a doctor's appointment for the girls.

Once Cassandre realized what was up, she went to work: "Mama, we don't have to get a shot, we can get it up our noses!" This turned out to be true. Yesterday we went in for the appointment.

The night before I told some work friends about the shot up the nose vaccine and they were rather alarmed. It sounded a little like torture to them. How awful, they said. I insisted that it was all the girls' idea and, once convinced, the conversation turned into a discussion about how this up the nose thing could either become a valuable "just say no to drugs" experience, or the opposite. The consensus was that it would depend on how unpleasant the experience was. "Maybe" said one "they could add something in there that makes it sting." Or perhaps not.

The next day the conversation continued with someone else. "Up the nose? That sounds a lot like water boarding." Yes! I said, But at least we know that technically this is not considered torture, so it's all good, no need to call child protective services.

Fast forward to the appointment. We arrived ridiculously early, for once highway 101 didn't just cooperate, it aided and abetted a speedy run from san jose to the kids' schools. A quick shakedown of the receptionist resulted in lollipops, then we went outside to play on the play structure. Shaped like a ship, it is much nicer than what you find in most playgrounds.

The nurse brought us into the room 30 minutes before our appointment (that's right, I said 30 minutes BEFORE our appointment) and I quickly reviewed the paperwork that acknowledges that giving shots can be dangerous. That while only minor side effects are likely, "life-threatening allergic reactions" are (remotely) possible. I always read these documents and I always sign them. To be honest they scare the shit out of me and for a very short moment after Cassandre was born I thought about not vaccinating her. Then I realized that this was foolish. Not only is vaccination good for my kids but it is also good for the public health. There is something to be said for the public good, you know? Personally I prefer to live in a world that doesn't have smallpox, polio etc. in it and if people like me stop vaccinating our kids we will lose what little control we have over these diseases.

Cassandre went first. She sat in the chair, tilted her head back and waited for the nurse to do her thing. The nurse took two small nasal syringes and inserted one up into her nose. Squirt. Over. She did the same to the other side. The whole thing took maybe 10 seconds. Cassandre was smiling with the satisfaction that comes from being right.

Juju sat down without hesitation. One and two and over. They were done before I'd even finished signing the paperwork.

Protected.

For one more year.

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Cheese rules

nobody@vox.com(karen) — Sun, 02 Dec 2007 21:46:04 -0800

Last night at our shop holiday party, we served a large selection of cheeses. There were hard cheeses and soft, goat and cow, strong and mild. A plethora of cheese choices. After the party was over and we were cleaning up, I was visually reminded that most Americans have no idea how to eat cheese. It's not that it's hard, but most of us didn't grow up eating a regular cheese course with dinner, and so we never learned the rules. Don't worry, they're pretty simple:

1. Approach the table or take the cheese plate that is passed to you

2. Determine which cheese you would like to sample

3. Take the cheese knife that is on the plate - do NOT use your own knife unless you are in your own house, eating with your family and there is no cheese knife available (ask for a separate knife - often your hosts have simply forgotten to put the knife out)

4. Slice the cheese from the side that has already been cut. Make a clean slice from top to bottom

5. If no one has cut the cheese yet (ha ha) cut a straight piece from the end
5a. if the cheese is round, cut a small wedge as you would cut a piece of pie
5b. Cutting is important, don't dink around with it. Cut cleanly and quickly.

6. It is okay to take more than one piece of cheese, take a small slice of each of how ever many types of cheese you wish to eat and lay them side by side on your plate
6a. You can also take some of the fruit that is there, grapes and pears are delicious with cheese (as is red wine)

7. Return the cheese knife to the cheese plate - don't worry if it still has some cheese on it, it's nice if it's not too schmutzy, but it's cheese after all and no one expects or even wants you to clean the cheese knife

8. Take only 1-2 pieces of bread. You can often get more later and you need to make sure there is enough for everyone

9. DO NOT, and I mean NEVER, scoop out cheese from the middle. It is beyond rude - it is gross. It says to everyone "I don't know how to eat cheese and I don't like the crust, even though most of the time it is delicious and perfectly edible. I can't deal with it and I'm leaving it here for you." The fellow guests who know better will look at you in horror, then quickly divert their eyes and pretend not to have seen it.

The reason why scooping is impolite is that it leaves the next person who is passed the plate with a rotten choice: cut a nice slice of crust (or rind) with no cheese in the middle, or excavate deeper into the cheese cave. From experience I know that most Americans will choose to become miners and most Europeans will slice away in the hope of fixing the mess. Without this cleanup effort the entire cheese will collapse, walls crumbing in a heap, forever trapping the cheese that remains. This is more than an eyesore, it's wasteful.

Last night I saw no less than five cheeses that had been mined in this way. I'm not blaming anyone, as I said above, most of us are simply not aware of cheese etiquette. But as you can see there are some rules, and this mining thing is the most problematic. You will be far better off if you simply take the cheese, with the rind/crust/casing onto your plate. From there you can do whatever you want with it, including not eating the cheese that looked pretty but is not to your taste. But make a mess of the lovely cheese plate and your host will be much less enamored of you.

You want to get invited back, right?

Bon Appetit.

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What did you just say?

nobody@vox.com(karen) — Wed, 21 Nov 2007 09:34:40 -0800

Even though it adds at least 45 minutes to my commute, I love taking my kids to school. Yes, they're always late. Yes, there is lots of drill-sargent shouting to "hurry up and GET DRESSED." Yes there are often tears as we all stress over what shoes to wear. But fundamentally I love the quality time in the car when we talk, sing or just hang out together.

For the last two weeks we've been listening to Justin Timberlake's CD and we know many of the lyrics to Summer Love ("I can't wait to fall in luuuuuuuv...with you. You can't wait to fall in luuuuuuuv with me. This just can't be summer luuuuuuuv, you'll see...")

But today I declined the JT requests in favor of good old fashioned radio. To make it seriously old fashioned I put on KFOG (classic rock) - just in time to hear the opening strains of Marc Cohn's Walking in Memphis. I really love this song. I have such a vivid memory of listening to it, driving down the streets of Paris, thinking how wonderfully strange it was to hear this kind of song on Paris radio. I never can predict what the French are going to like and that's one of the things I like about them.

Anyway, hearing it this morning put me in a great mood and I started to sing along with it. My kids are used to this and were nice enough not to make fun of me until...

Cassandre: "What did you say?"
Me: "What?"
Cassandre "What did you just sing?"
Me: "Walking in Memphis"

And just as I'm about to explain how the song is really about how certain places can make you happy, and how just walking down the street ("with my feet 10 feet off of Beale") can make you feel special and at home, she says (with relief) "Oh, I thought you said "Walking in Breakfast."

Nevermind.

Cue lots of giggling.

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CeBIT (Conference Everlasting Bringing Interminable Tedium)

nobody@vox.com(karen) — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 22:35:08 -0800

I promised a friend a story about my one and only trip to Germany, to attend the world's largest computer trade show, CeBIT. At its height it attracted over 700,000 attendees to 5 million square feet of exhibit space. I hate crowds.

My trip to Germany came at the end of a European field tour I did for Novell, back in the days when dinosaurs roamed the Internet. Our European field marketing manager had been giving me shit for months about running programs in a territory I'd never been to and after a while I agreed to go with him into the field.

Things started off well enough. The English were polite, the French were comprehensive and by the end of the week I had learned a lot. The best part was that I had arranged to spend the weekend with family in France and the field guy left me with instructions to meet Monday in Hannover. I was a little nervous about traveling to Germany alone but he was reassuring "don't worry, almost everyone there speaks English."

Riiight.

Sunday afternoon I flew from Paris to Hannover and landed in the most foreign country I had ever seen. Clean to the point of being sterile. A low cacophony of a sound I couldn't decipher. Words on signs that were 50 characters long and conveyed nothing.

The room began to spin until I heard a translated airport announcement and realized that the meaningful signs like "Baggage" and "Taxi" had also been translated. I made my way to the taxi stand. My destination was printed out and I showed it to the driver. The driver didn't speak to me but seemed to know where to go. As we drove, the sun began to set and I realized how hungry I was. But there was nothing to be done about that because I was not going to a hotel. I was going to someone's house. A stranger's house.

This is what everyone does, or at least did back in 1997. CeBIT may be the world's largest computer fair but it is not the world's largest hotel city and if you don't book your hotel room a year in advance you have to stay with one of the countless families who open their doors to CeBIT attendees every year.

The taxi driver turned in to the largest apartment complex I have ever seen. Dozens of giant, gray concrete buildings sprouted from the ground as far as my eye could see - which now that it was getting dark was not that far. The driver navigated a maze of buildings, finally stopping at one. He looked at my paper and looked at the building. He handed back the paper and said "here." He motioned for me to get out and pointed to a nearby building. I pointed too "there?" "Ja. You go here."

Very reluctantly I left the taxi. I watched him drive away feeling like a little kid. I walked to the door of a nearby building and pushed the intercom. A voice spoke "something completely unintelligible."

"Hi, I'm Karen, I'm from Novell." in my friendliest voice. "Something unintelligible" again. I said "I'm sorry, I don't understand. I'm here to stay with you…?" The buzzer let me into the building and I took the elevator up to the designated floor. A guy opens the door wearing pajamas and a robe. He doesn't let me in. I have mixed feelings about this. He tries to explain to me in German that I'm not actually staying there. There has been a change of plan and now someone else is staying here. I'm to stay with completely unintelligible German name who is "close" to here. He motions his fingers to show that I can walk there. He points in the direction I am supposed to go. Of course to my eyes, he is pointing to the apartment across the hall. But he doesn't mean this, he means this direction outside. Incredulous, I don't move. He ducks inside and I hear him on the phone. I stay put in the hall. When he comes back we go downstairs so he can point me in the right direction outside.

Now it is very dark. The buildings are cold and shadowy and seemed abandoned. The sidewalks are barren and there are too many of them, all leading in different directions. The tall trees added an extra sense of danger and I started to feel like Little Red Riding Hood who gets murdered by the unfriendly Germans who have left her alone in the middle of nowhere. Pajama Guy points to a group of buildings in the distance. I'm supposed to go that way. He gives me a piece of paper with the address. Four hundred characters of gibberish and some numbers that may or may not be 7s and 9s. Against my will, tears start to well up in my eyes. I really don't want to walk around this place alone.

Pajama Guy sees that things are about to turn emotional. With resignation and not a little bit of head shaking he takes my rolling suitcase and leads me through the paths to a far away apartment building. Straight until right. Straight again until the fork, then left and straight some more. If he hadn't come with me I would probably still be there today. I would go down in local history as the Tearful American Who Wanders Aimlessly Around Das Labyrinth.

He rang the apartment buzzer, announced me to my hostess and left me at the door with a nod and a shake of the hand. I was so grateful for the escort that I wanted to hug him. I didn't, but I held his hand for a long time. "Thank you. Thank you so very much (for not abandoning me)." Embarrassed he quickly left.

Inside the tiny apartment, my German hostess also did not speak English. She pointed to a room that had a queen-size mattress on the floor. It was made up for sleeping. There was another person's clothes on the bed and as I looked around, I saw a suitcase. I asked my hostess about the other person and she smiled and motioned to another part of the apartment. I have a roommate. No, I have a bedmate.

To my intense relief, my bedmate turns out to be my female friend and colleague, Janine, who speaks a little German. She tells me there is another guy staying in another room. We are all sharing the world's tiniest bathroom and the largest brassieres I have ever seen. Yes, our hostess is drying her super-sized undergarments in the bathroom. Pray they are gone by morning.

The next day we are greeted with breakfast. A mountain of sliced meats, hard bread and cheese. At least 10 different kinds of each and all decorated with American flag toothpicks. Ravenous I eat. The hostess is beaming.

The underwear is still in the bathroom but we shower nonetheless. A shuttle bus takes us to CeBIT where I meet up with our field manager. We go to the Novell booth to meet with our German counterparts. It is 10am and they are drinking. Novell is a very Mormon company. There is no drinking, no smoking and no cussing. I am not Mormon but even I was horrified by alcohol in the booth - for breakfast. Field guy shrugs it off and says "that's how it is out here." And he's right, almost every booth at CeBIT features alcohol of some kind and by 3pm everyone is so sloshing drunk that the product demos become meaningless.

We meet up with our Novell colleagues for a marvelous dinner in town. For a few hours I stop counting the minutes until I can go to the airport.

Another night with Janine, another morning full of salami, another day full of drunken demos and I am free.

Security at the Hannover airport was intense, or at least I thought so until I changed planes in Munich. Unsmiling men with machine guns oversee a very comprehensive search by German security.

I barely make my plane, and my escape.

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fun with fruit

nobody@vox.com(karen) — Wed, 14 Nov 2007 21:29:55 -0800

Our sushi man has quite the creative streak.
This is his version of Mickey Mouse:

M-i-c-k-e-y M-o-u-s-e

I'm not sure which was more interesting, watching him carve every piece and put it all together, or watching Juju take it all apart to figure out how it was made.

::hidingtoasters:::

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Not very illuminating

nobody@vox.com(karen) — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 22:49:56 -0700

Half a string

I love my Halloween lights. They’re all purpley and orangey and not very scary but pretty in an ethereal kind of way. Too bad they're mostly dead.

Something happened to the light strings over the summer. Something bad. Something so bad in fact, that when I plugged them in I discovered that one of the strings had actually killed itself during the off season. I say suicide but the cause of death is not actually clear to me. All the bulbs are tightly in place and none are broken. There is no sign of violence at all. That said, the Christmas lights have kind of had it in for them, and not realizing at the time how strong the rivalry might be, I stupidly stored them together in the same bag, all summer long. Two reels of Christmas lights against one reel of Halloween lights meant the odds were stacked against the Halloween side from the moment I zipped up the bag.

Not willing to accept the obvious, I performed CPR on the Halloween lights by jiggling each bulb individually (they love it when you play with them), replacing the fuses (I'm an electrician!) and repeatedly shaking the string (the Neanderthal approach).

Nothing worked.

I started to remove each bulb individually and replacing them with new bulbs (a bulb transplant as a last resort), but after a huge amount of effort to get the first two bulbs dislodged and with a newly broken fingernail, I realized that A) the lights weren’t worth the cost of an actual manicure, B) I don’t have nearly enough replacement bulbs and C) none of this is going to work anyway because ultimately this is a cheap piece of holiday crapola made in China and only intended to last a year.

I moved on to string number two.

Not dead! But not really alive. It seems that this string also tried to kill itself over the summer and was only moderately successful (see above photo). Perhaps, like many suicide attempts, this was simply a cry for help. Perhaps this light string truly wanted to live. Perhaps this string had stood up to the taunts of the Christmas lights for months and months, thinking positive thoughts, clinging to life, waiting desperately for October to arrive.

I focused my CPR efforts on it.

Jiggle jiggle, new fuses, shake shake. Plug into socket.

A half line of pretty purpley organgey lights, then a longer line of dead ones.

Then a terrible thought hit me. What if the Halloween lights are actually being attacked by something other than the jealous Christmas lights? Oh my god! What if the Christmas lights are dead too?

I can’t look. My holiday spirit can’t take the blow.

What to do next? Obviously, string number one is going straight into the landfill. Lights that don’t light are of no use to me regardless of who or what may have killed them. Dead is dead and not very pretty.

However, string number two is still half alive. And while Miracle Max might be able to do something about this miserable I tried-to-kill-myself-but-couldn’t-go-through-with-it-half-string, I’m at a loss as to what to do.

Jiggle jiggle, shake shake.

Maybe this light string is just jerking me around. These are Halloween lights after all and not to be trusted. Maybe they’re not dead at all. Maybe they’re possessed. Uh huh.

I have a third light string which I bought the other day and will surely work as advertised for at least a year. So if I kill these half-bulbs (put them out of my misery), it’s not like I won’t have any lights when the kiddies come ‘round on Wednesday. (And for weeks after that, ‘cause that’s how it is at my house – the Christmas tree comes down in February).

But it bugs the hell out of me to put something that still halfway works in the landfill. It feels wasteful. But there is no way that I am going to break the rest of my fingernails trying to pull every single bulb out of the socket, replace it with another one and try again. So at best, barring a Halloween miracle, I will only ever have half a string.

I should just cut my losses, right?

Pull the plug one last time and chuck them.

After all, tomorrow is garbage day.

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What is Pinger?

nobody@vox.com(karen) — Thu, 18 Oct 2007 12:42:41 -0700

Watch this (please) and tell me if you know. I'm looking for feedback - especially on the video.

Pinger

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