So we boldly took a 2 and almost 4 year old camping this past weekend for the long weekend. We went to one of our “pre-kid” favorite camping spots – Acadia National Park, Maine (if you have never been there, go! It is gorgeous). There was A LOT of pre-planning and fore-thought in order to make this long weekend a success. It sure did not hurt that we were going with 3 of our close friends and that they had 2 kids Ellie & Cole’s age. The kids had a blast running around, playing on the huge rocks, hiking and just being in nature. Also, it helped that the people on the site next to us had an only child who was very outgoing!
All in all, things went very well. No one got burned in the fire pit, no one got eaten by bears and there were only a few falls (mostly by kids other than ours). We bought a new family tent -- anyone who has been on "guy camping weekend" knows we needed one. The tent has 2 rooms (a zip up divider – kids on one side, us on the other.) They went to bed like angels because if you tire them out enough during the day and they will be begging to go to bed. The mornings were another story. They tended to wake up very early. Lance and I threw books, toys, stickers, anything in their general direction to try to keep them quiet. One of the mornings, after the fact, I remember hearing Ellie say "I'm going to cut your hair." Now, mind you, I was half asleep and I just assumed that they were pretend playing so I sort of dozed back off again...UNTIL I felt a tugging on my own hair. Immediately my eyes were wide open. Apparently the two of them had gotten into my travel toiletries kit and had found not only the eyeliner, the deodorant, the Chapstick, the band-aids, but also the travel nail clippers and mini scissors. When Ellie said “I’m going to cut your hair” she really meant it. I found a one inch piece of hair dangling from Cole’s forehead. Good thing it was not in that prominent a place. And apparently I was about to be her next victim, had I not woken my lazy butt up.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Dream the Impossible Dream
So it is 10:21 p.m and I am just taking stock in this day. It is the last Saturday in August before I start school. I should have been on the beach today or relaxing at a spa but instead I never left the house. This day has sucked. It was in the low 60s all day. It rained all day (sometimes down poured) -- thanks Hurricane Danny and the Nor’easter it brought with it. I wore pants and a long sleeve shirt all day. But most importantly today I spent the entire day watching TV. I spent the day watching Senator Kennedy's memorial and funeral. I feel as though I have been in a fog all day. I never knew him, of course, but the services were so very poignant and moving. What an amazing man, what a powerful family. Clearly I know that not everyone in the US was as enthralled as I -- being in Boston this week, one has had little chance to escape it. But as a tribute – thank you Senator Kennedy for dedicating your life to serving the underprivileged and underrepresented. You were truly an amazing man and you gave up so much of yourself, and your family life, for public service.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Monday
It’s Monday. The second Monday at my new job. Actually, it’s really the first “Monday” because the first day of work doesn’t really count, does it? And what has this muggy, wet Monday morning wrought? Allow me to share.
I should have taken note when shortly before midnight last night, the power went out. Things seemed generally lacking ill omen this morning, notwithstanding the myriad displays blinking “12:00” at me like so many groggy Monday eyes just passing the minutes until that first cup of coffee.
My mind focused intensely a bit later when I thought for a brief moment I may need to duck behind the dashboard in hopes that the engine would block any stray bullets from either the Cambridge or the Somerville Officer who, in a triumph of municipal cooperation, had surrounded a white sedan not 100 feet in front of me and were approaching with sidearms drawn.
Having survived the commute unriddled, I walked into our building – our beautiful, brand-new, “green” certified building and was greeted by hastily printed, hand-highlighted signs at the elevators and (it turns out) throughout the building declaring:
WET
FLOORS!
TRIP
HAZZARDS!
WATCH YOUR
STEP!
I would find walls drilled open and work crews running fans and dehumidifiers in an attempt to remediate the damage from what was apparently a burst water pipe. And yes, the same spelling error was made in all of the signs.
In the midst of the cleanup crews, I was greeted by an unyielding security pad that refused to unlock the doors despite repeated and enthusiastic waving of my “Temp” badge security card. I’m hopeful that, after a week here, someone might figure out how to get me my permanent card.
To cap off this glorious morning, I overcooked my instant oatmeal in the microwave and, while cleaning up that mess, realized that I’d left my lunch in the fridge at home.
This all before 9:30.
I should have taken note when shortly before midnight last night, the power went out. Things seemed generally lacking ill omen this morning, notwithstanding the myriad displays blinking “12:00” at me like so many groggy Monday eyes just passing the minutes until that first cup of coffee.
My mind focused intensely a bit later when I thought for a brief moment I may need to duck behind the dashboard in hopes that the engine would block any stray bullets from either the Cambridge or the Somerville Officer who, in a triumph of municipal cooperation, had surrounded a white sedan not 100 feet in front of me and were approaching with sidearms drawn.
Having survived the commute unriddled, I walked into our building – our beautiful, brand-new, “green” certified building and was greeted by hastily printed, hand-highlighted signs at the elevators and (it turns out) throughout the building declaring:
WET
FLOORS!
TRIP
HAZZARDS!
WATCH YOUR
STEP!
I would find walls drilled open and work crews running fans and dehumidifiers in an attempt to remediate the damage from what was apparently a burst water pipe. And yes, the same spelling error was made in all of the signs.
In the midst of the cleanup crews, I was greeted by an unyielding security pad that refused to unlock the doors despite repeated and enthusiastic waving of my “Temp” badge security card. I’m hopeful that, after a week here, someone might figure out how to get me my permanent card.
To cap off this glorious morning, I overcooked my instant oatmeal in the microwave and, while cleaning up that mess, realized that I’d left my lunch in the fridge at home.
This all before 9:30.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
I Fought the Law
In the spirit of the French version of the blog (i.e., "the random stuff that happens to us in our life") this blog is a taste of our city living, our Davis Square life. This blog is about trash and the escapades that one can have with trash. As mentioned in our France blog (a long time ago) we had problems with the trash in our village. Although there were only 5 families in our hamlet, someone in the hamlet could not understand the concept of putting the trash in the dumpster and closing the lid - hence critters had a field day (rather big critters from the looks of things... big, French critters). One day Team Davis did a clean up - I could not stand it any longer.
Fast Forward to the city life version. We have the same problem with critters in Somerville, except these ones are little and have rodent-like qualities... all of them, actually... they are rodents. The problem is generally at the other end of the city but, understandably, the City of Somerville impossed an ordinance that required everyone to put their trash bags in a barrel on the street so that critters could not rip open the bags and maintain the food chain. Normally, Lance does the trash but one day I decided I would pitch in (Lance was at a job interview and I thought it would be a nice gesture). I pulled out the recycling bin and put the lone garbage bag on the street. It was kind of amazing that we only had one bag and I thought "Why bother pulling the barrel out when I can just plunk down the bag?" Lance came home and this was the exchange:
LD" "Thanks, honey but you know we need to put it in the barrel, right?"
AD: "No we don't. It will be fine."
LD: "There's a city ordinance, we can get a ticket."
AD (with all the CONFIDENCE IN THE WORLD): "What? That's ridiculous. How are they going to give us a ticket? (scoff)!"
To be honesy with you, it was sheer laziness. I just did not want to drag out the barrel and I thought I was RIGHT. So you can guess what happens next - I ate crow pie. I thought I was home free when I came home and there was not ticket in the mailbox. "See? it's fine." I confidentally proclaimed. Then, a few days later, a ticket arrived in the mail. Damn them!
I boldly appealled the ticket. So, today was the hearing at 5:30. I dragged the two kids with toys, snacks and drinks in tow for the sympathy vote. We arrived to a room full of people and signed in. We were #18. Seriously - there are this many people appealing trash tickets??????? So I embarked on feeding and entertaining the kids. I took notice of the "Man/Not Man" person sitting near us. If you know Lance and I, you know we play "Man/Not Man?" whenever appropriate. So the kid factor comes into play and we ended up getting called about 4 people before we should have as the kids were getting antsy in the stroller and the guy hearing office took pity on us. I go in to the hearing room and explained the situation. They had a photo of our trash on that day (thanks iPhone) sitting there, sans barrel. After hearing my story; that we thought we were doing a favor for my unemployed husband, the hearing officer clearly insisted that that garbage bag must not have been ours. When I had that confused moment and look on my face, he insisted even more. So he declared we were all clear. Oh city living.
So I guess these trash problems digressed a bit but came back together in the end. Both were problems that had critters at the root and both were the result of lazy people. At least in this case, there was a lesson learned.
Fast Forward to the city life version. We have the same problem with critters in Somerville, except these ones are little and have rodent-like qualities... all of them, actually... they are rodents. The problem is generally at the other end of the city but, understandably, the City of Somerville impossed an ordinance that required everyone to put their trash bags in a barrel on the street so that critters could not rip open the bags and maintain the food chain. Normally, Lance does the trash but one day I decided I would pitch in (Lance was at a job interview and I thought it would be a nice gesture). I pulled out the recycling bin and put the lone garbage bag on the street. It was kind of amazing that we only had one bag and I thought "Why bother pulling the barrel out when I can just plunk down the bag?" Lance came home and this was the exchange:
LD" "Thanks, honey but you know we need to put it in the barrel, right?"
AD: "No we don't. It will be fine."
LD: "There's a city ordinance, we can get a ticket."
AD (with all the CONFIDENCE IN THE WORLD): "What? That's ridiculous. How are they going to give us a ticket? (scoff)!"
To be honesy with you, it was sheer laziness. I just did not want to drag out the barrel and I thought I was RIGHT. So you can guess what happens next - I ate crow pie. I thought I was home free when I came home and there was not ticket in the mailbox. "See? it's fine." I confidentally proclaimed. Then, a few days later, a ticket arrived in the mail. Damn them!
I boldly appealled the ticket. So, today was the hearing at 5:30. I dragged the two kids with toys, snacks and drinks in tow for the sympathy vote. We arrived to a room full of people and signed in. We were #18. Seriously - there are this many people appealing trash tickets??????? So I embarked on feeding and entertaining the kids. I took notice of the "Man/Not Man" person sitting near us. If you know Lance and I, you know we play "Man/Not Man?" whenever appropriate. So the kid factor comes into play and we ended up getting called about 4 people before we should have as the kids were getting antsy in the stroller and the guy hearing office took pity on us. I go in to the hearing room and explained the situation. They had a photo of our trash on that day (thanks iPhone) sitting there, sans barrel. After hearing my story; that we thought we were doing a favor for my unemployed husband, the hearing officer clearly insisted that that garbage bag must not have been ours. When I had that confused moment and look on my face, he insisted even more. So he declared we were all clear. Oh city living.
So I guess these trash problems digressed a bit but came back together in the end. Both were problems that had critters at the root and both were the result of lazy people. At least in this case, there was a lesson learned.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Can't Find My Way Home (Epilogue Part 1)
[What follows is the first installment of a long-overdue account of our exhausting, emotional, stress-filled, ridiculous journey home from France. More to follow...]
It was Spring in Provence, or at least the change of seasons was threatening. Harbingers sprung with every turn -- almond trees, once lost ugly skeletons randomly interrupting the brown winter viewscape, donned delicate white flowers and announced themselves as more than a crooked eyesore. Geckos skittered about the rocks in the courtyard, soaking every degree of sun into their cold scaly skin. And flowers. Flowers bloomed -- white crocus and beautiful purple iris, paying no mind to the calendar that still said "Février." Rows of what would soon be asparagus were covered in fresh plastic to capture the warmth and Vignerons raced against time to finish their winter pruning before the new season's vines burst from the noble old trunks. All of it seemed to say, "wait... don't leave yet, it's just getting good!"
Yet global financial crises, recession, depression, oppresion, the economic realities of our time, paid no mind to the seasonal benchmarks of a past age. It was time to come home.
Our adventure began on a Thursday morning, many days and even weeks of box and bag packing, weighing, shifting, and sealing having been spent. We drove to the airport south of Nimes, where we would collect our rented minivan. Having asked our friend Amy to speak with the rental company to ensure that we could pick up the car earlier than our 11:00 reservation provided (oh yes, we're open at 9:00, we were assured), we arrived at the terminal to find... nothing. No one. A giant, empty, polished tile ghost town with a sign at the car rental desk that said, "back at 11:15." Ah, the French.
Once we had van in hand we faced the dauting task of cramming all of our belongings into it. Now mind you, we came over with a full load and we also shipped three boxes to France. That's not to mention everything we'd bought there. We knew we were facing extra fees for our checked "bags" at the airline counter but first we somehow had to get it all to Paris. To this day, I'm still not certain how it really all fit but it did, and we have pictures to prove it.
It was Spring in Provence, or at least the change of seasons was threatening. Harbingers sprung with every turn -- almond trees, once lost ugly skeletons randomly interrupting the brown winter viewscape, donned delicate white flowers and announced themselves as more than a crooked eyesore. Geckos skittered about the rocks in the courtyard, soaking every degree of sun into their cold scaly skin. And flowers. Flowers bloomed -- white crocus and beautiful purple iris, paying no mind to the calendar that still said "Février." Rows of what would soon be asparagus were covered in fresh plastic to capture the warmth and Vignerons raced against time to finish their winter pruning before the new season's vines burst from the noble old trunks. All of it seemed to say, "wait... don't leave yet, it's just getting good!"
Yet global financial crises, recession, depression, oppresion, the economic realities of our time, paid no mind to the seasonal benchmarks of a past age. It was time to come home.
Our adventure began on a Thursday morning, many days and even weeks of box and bag packing, weighing, shifting, and sealing having been spent. We drove to the airport south of Nimes, where we would collect our rented minivan. Having asked our friend Amy to speak with the rental company to ensure that we could pick up the car earlier than our 11:00 reservation provided (oh yes, we're open at 9:00, we were assured), we arrived at the terminal to find... nothing. No one. A giant, empty, polished tile ghost town with a sign at the car rental desk that said, "back at 11:15." Ah, the French.
Once we had van in hand we faced the dauting task of cramming all of our belongings into it. Now mind you, we came over with a full load and we also shipped three boxes to France. That's not to mention everything we'd bought there. We knew we were facing extra fees for our checked "bags" at the airline counter but first we somehow had to get it all to Paris. To this day, I'm still not certain how it really all fit but it did, and we have pictures to prove it.
Amy came over to help watch the kids (and bring coffee, tea, and snacks for the road, one last time earning her wings as our personal angel). She was particularly concerned with the highly uncertain manner in which we'd affixed the bike box to the roof (there being no roof rack) and ran home to get more rope and tie-down straps. Even after adding those, we were all a bit leary so she made us promise to stop at Mr. Bricolage for bungy cords, which we did, and thankfully so -- they did the trick. I could not see any mirror other than the driver's side and if I took a sharp right turn I had a suitcase in my lap but other than that it was perfectly safe.
So we said tearful goodbyes to Amy and Evelyne, took a few last pictures and, like a modern-day European Clampett family, we were off... on one of the most miserable drives of my life. Paris is a LONG way from the South of France, even if you aren't in an overloaded minivan with a giant wind-block tenuously strapped to the roof and two displeased toddlers in the back (with a wife wedged in bewteen them). It was white-knuckly driving the entire seven-plus hour journey, while rain threatened at any moment to turn the over-stuffed cardboard bike box into pulp and leave us with little hope of getting all of its varied contents home. But we drove. And drove and drove. Sometime around 11 PM (or 23H for those keeping European Time), we finally checked wearily into the Suitehotel CDG Paris Nord Deux.
We were pleasantly surprised by the room, though the promised and pre-reserved crib was nowhere to be found. After stealing it, with the assistance of the night clerk, from another room, we settled the kids into their beds, pulled the Asian-style divider that qualified the room for "Suite" status, then cracked open the bottle of wine we'd brought for the occasion (after another trip to the nightclerk for a corkscrew and a quick stop at the lobby computer to post an entry to this blog) and raised one last glass to our French adventure, though it was far from over, as the morning would soon prove....
Monday, May 18, 2009
Home Sweet Home
Little shout out from Amy here! Sadly I have to admit that this is the first time that I've had to revisit the blog. I love the blog and love the way it helped us connect with people and helped them connect to our crazy France life. Now we are living our crazy Davis Square life. We have been home since March 6th (2 1/2 months). It was a whirlwind from the moment we found out we were leaving to the days before we left; packing our lives (9 pieces of luggage and 8 carry-ons), packing the car (Amy laughing at all of our luggage and being a SUPER HUGE HELP with the kids and lending us the locking tie down staps!), saying goodbye to our France life, saying hello to our U.S. life, seeing all our family and friends, moving back into our house, reacclimating to our U.S. life, going back to work fulltime, and oh ya, throwing in a bathroom renovation and a job search for Lance, for the fun of it.
Needless to say, I have been a bit busy. BUT I am back. So my blog tonight is a microcosm of our return home. There are so many stories to tell (and they will be told) but this is what I've got for tonight. It's a story about Cole. In the cab ride home (Les had all our luggage in his car and Team Davis was in a cab together) I was eagerly anticipating Ellie's reaction (as she was the only one who had not been back to the U.S. during the whole time we were in France, and she was older) however, she fell alseep in the cab, they both fell asleep -- it was 2:00 AM for the kids --and I wasn't sure how they were going to be upon waking up at the house. Ellie rallied but it was Cole who provided the biggest surprise. Cole's reaction was priceless. He entered the house and while I was eagerly watching Ellie, out of the corner of my eye I saw Cole lie face down on the floor, rolling around, back and forth, giggling uncontrollably, on our living room rug! Our France house was beautiful but carpet was not a part of any of it, anywhere. It was made of stone floors and stone walls and "soft" or "comfortable" are not a words anyone would use to describe any of it. Apparently, even at 2 years old, there's nothing like a nice wool carpet.
With that, the Blog is back.
"...like an open book for the whole world to read."
Needless to say, I have been a bit busy. BUT I am back. So my blog tonight is a microcosm of our return home. There are so many stories to tell (and they will be told) but this is what I've got for tonight. It's a story about Cole. In the cab ride home (Les had all our luggage in his car and Team Davis was in a cab together) I was eagerly anticipating Ellie's reaction (as she was the only one who had not been back to the U.S. during the whole time we were in France, and she was older) however, she fell alseep in the cab, they both fell asleep -- it was 2:00 AM for the kids --and I wasn't sure how they were going to be upon waking up at the house. Ellie rallied but it was Cole who provided the biggest surprise. Cole's reaction was priceless. He entered the house and while I was eagerly watching Ellie, out of the corner of my eye I saw Cole lie face down on the floor, rolling around, back and forth, giggling uncontrollably, on our living room rug! Our France house was beautiful but carpet was not a part of any of it, anywhere. It was made of stone floors and stone walls and "soft" or "comfortable" are not a words anyone would use to describe any of it. Apparently, even at 2 years old, there's nothing like a nice wool carpet.
With that, the Blog is back.
"...like an open book for the whole world to read."
Monday, May 4, 2009
All In My Grill
There are many things I love about our cozy little house in Davis Square. High on the list is the back yard community. We have a tidy little "garden" out back, big enough for even the longest moon shot home run off of a plastic T, as long as the batter is a two year-old.
Bordering our slice of the American Dream is an old chain link fence. A beautiful relic in burnt sienna that, in the summer, dons an English Ivy boa weaved with wildflowers reflecting the finest in ex-urban backyard haute couture. Strategically low for half its span, it allows us an open connection with our neighbors who have an idyllic, over-sized backyard with flowerbeds that would make Martha Stewart stop and take note. Conveniently, the beds also make a stunning backdrop for the fully-lighted sound stage for live bands that they have been known to build for special occasions like milestone birthdays. It's an experience. We love them and always welcome, though occasionally marvel at, the energy with which they make full and celebratory use of their little paradise. God love the Irish... more stories there to follow.
Beyond their lot lay the backyard gardens of all of the houses on the next street over. We don't know these folks as well, being separated beyond any practical "hi, neighbor" over-the-fence chats. Rather, we know the characters by reference, like a post-modern Rear Window with fewer bricks and more patios. It is thus that we noted with sadness the absence of one of the regular characters, Mary, an elderly woman who we only saw on her regular trips to her little patch of concrete, wearing a light blue, flowered dressing gown, to hang or pull down from the line a seemingly endless supply of light blue, flowered dressing gowns.
Her absence was obvious because in her place was a glowing new picnic table with a table cloth and candles, tiki torches, and a shiny, black, old-school, -- fabulous -- charcoal Weber grill. Manning the coals was a man who was maybe 40. I noticed him not by sight but by the unmistakable smell of charcoals heating... getting ready for the main act. The beautiful part: he's been out there, firing up that grill for the past eight nights in a row. Eight nights in a row, cleaning out the ashes, loading new charcoal, building the fire and waiting until the coals are just right. Always just him... with a beer... a man and his grill. Solid.
So, here's to you, Brand-New Grill Guy.
It's great to be home.
Bordering our slice of the American Dream is an old chain link fence. A beautiful relic in burnt sienna that, in the summer, dons an English Ivy boa weaved with wildflowers reflecting the finest in ex-urban backyard haute couture. Strategically low for half its span, it allows us an open connection with our neighbors who have an idyllic, over-sized backyard with flowerbeds that would make Martha Stewart stop and take note. Conveniently, the beds also make a stunning backdrop for the fully-lighted sound stage for live bands that they have been known to build for special occasions like milestone birthdays. It's an experience. We love them and always welcome, though occasionally marvel at, the energy with which they make full and celebratory use of their little paradise. God love the Irish... more stories there to follow.
Beyond their lot lay the backyard gardens of all of the houses on the next street over. We don't know these folks as well, being separated beyond any practical "hi, neighbor" over-the-fence chats. Rather, we know the characters by reference, like a post-modern Rear Window with fewer bricks and more patios. It is thus that we noted with sadness the absence of one of the regular characters, Mary, an elderly woman who we only saw on her regular trips to her little patch of concrete, wearing a light blue, flowered dressing gown, to hang or pull down from the line a seemingly endless supply of light blue, flowered dressing gowns.
Her absence was obvious because in her place was a glowing new picnic table with a table cloth and candles, tiki torches, and a shiny, black, old-school, -- fabulous -- charcoal Weber grill. Manning the coals was a man who was maybe 40. I noticed him not by sight but by the unmistakable smell of charcoals heating... getting ready for the main act. The beautiful part: he's been out there, firing up that grill for the past eight nights in a row. Eight nights in a row, cleaning out the ashes, loading new charcoal, building the fire and waiting until the coals are just right. Always just him... with a beer... a man and his grill. Solid.
So, here's to you, Brand-New Grill Guy.
It's great to be home.
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