Tainted Holiday
Today makes one year that Candace died. It doesn’t seem like we could ever really celebrate another New Years Eve knowing that it’s also a death anniversary.
We will, though, I know, because my dad was buried on my birthday years ago. I have been able to celebrate birthdays without thinking too much about that.
Some days I feel like I’m swimming against the current. Today is one of those days. My mind seems broken and cluttered. But not completely. There is a tiny voice somewhere in the chaos that keeps saying, it will get better, it will get better.
Time, the beast that can be so cruel to our bodies is the same thing that heals the mind.
I want to give a great big thanks to Jette and Chip for managing Holidailies and all of the other bloggers there who participated. This project helped make this season a little brighter.
To my regulars, I want to thank you too for sticking around, for your comments, and just being there. You’ve made my entire year better. Every one of you.
Now go pop some fireworks. I’ll be listening for them.
When in Rome
After a disappointing day and an evening stranded in the suburbs of Rome, the girls and Blane (the father) didn’t want anything to do with me, not even ring in the New Year. Just as the taxi dropped us off at the hotel, Blane (the son) and Angela showed up.
Fresh blood.
So Blane and the girls go to bed and Blane2, Angela, and I hit the streets of Rome. We haggle with a street vendor for some champagne and sit on the sidewalk like hobos, drinking right out of the bottle. Angela laughs about how angry her mother would be if she knew she was drinking. The way I see it is she’s twenty and the drinking age is what, twelve, in Rome?
When in Rome, do as…
We raised our bottle and toasted her mother at exactly midnight.
I really did believe the ATMs would magically begin spitting Euros at midnight. The way it worked in reality? The machines were empty. No euro, no lira, no nothing. We needed more booze for the celebrating. Fortunately street vendors were taking all sorts of currency that night.
The city was in a great mood. A bus paused near us and everyone on that bus was dancing. People were hanging out the windows yelling for us to dance. So we did, right in the street. We danced with a bus.
Next day, I’m hungover in the train station, splayed out across my backpack, afraid to move. The lines at the ticket counter are twenty-five deep. People all over. Chaos. We have no idea which trains to take to get to Barcelona. Angela admits she didn’t listen to the Italian travel tapes so she can’t go ask. I have to do it, not that I know Italian, I’m gifted at improvising sign language. She at least holds my place in line while I try to keep from spilling my cookies.
Watching travelers leave the line, it doesn’t look hopeful. The station agent is having a good time with the language barrier. It seems people are asking stupid question after stupid question and this guy loses it with every single person. I notice a pattern. First, he rubs his face and rolls his eyes. Second, he rears his head back in frustration. Third dumb question, he jumps out of his chair, throws his hand up in the air, and walks in a circle while mumbling something like, “Mamma Mia!”
I’m at an angle where I can see him go over to the cube next to him and laugh about it with his collegue. It’s just an act.
When I get my turn, I go with it. When he throws his hands up in the air, I do the same. When he shouts “Mamma Mia!” we shout it at the same time. This makes him laugh. Hard. It gets us out of Rome and on to Milan in reserved seats. No fighting for trains.
Milan was just a waystation and what I wanted to share about being there was a couple of photos. I can’t find them, so another day on that.
We took a night train to Barcelona from some mountainous area in France. Night trains through Spain are shockingly expensive. We do like to budget travel, but since we lost a day in Milan, we had to splurge on the night train to get back on our schedule.
What I remember most about Barcelona is beautiful people. I don’t mean on the inside, but in the shallow way. Perfect noses, eyes, skin tone, the hair. They are stunning.
The people watching was downright entertaining. Have you ever seen the shell game scam? They were working it big time, practically robbing tourists. We decided to have a little fun and get into some mischief.
Here’s how it works: A guy has three shells and hides a ball under one of them…mixes them up and someone in the crowd has to chose which one the ball is under. Somehow he gets people to bet on whether “someone” will find it or not. So there is a ton of money on each shuffle of the shells. We noticed the “someone” was not really a tourist, but a comrade of the shell guy. We also noticed they had two or three other comrades in the crowd looking for cops. The magical thing was watching how fast these four guys disappeared after they won their money.
We kept seeing the same scam over and over, just different people working it. We were traveling with a set of two-way radios to keep track of each other in case we separated. They didn’t work worth a crap -but- we did have some fun with them. If we saw a shell game scam, we’d get in the crowd and pretend to be undercover agents. When we’d whip out the radio (acting inconspicously, of course) it would magically make the con artists disappear.
We did get on the other side of the law while there.
Our hotel room had this horrible sewer smell in it. We insisted they change our rooms and were promised they would but when we got back that night, they didn’t keep to their promise. We got into a big fight with the management and told them we were checking out. They insisted we pay for that day because we had not checked out by noon. The management said they were calling the police. We huddled, came up with a plan and took off running. Two couples and two little girls.
The plan was to separate. Each couple take a kid and run in a different direction. We also turned our jackets inside out so they wouldn’t recognize us that way (Spanky had a honking dalmation pattern on hers).
It was a good thing too, just a minute later we saw a cop car talking to a group that looked like us, two couples and two little girls.
Suckers.
Traveling with Good and Bad Angels
A few weeks ago Dr. Gorgeous asked me where I would want to be for the holidays if I could choose anywhere in the world. “Rome,” I told him, followed by a snicker.
We’d been there at New Years in 2002. It was a big trip with all of us and Angela who was Blane2’s new girlfriend at the time. I’d gotten rail tickets for five countries and we’d do it with backpacks. I’d speak the French and Angela would take care of the Spanish and the Italian. Just travel Italian. I gave her my tapes which I hadn’t listened to in years.
We did Paris without a hitch. On the Rivera, I nearly got my ass beat by a gypsy grandmother. We were sitting on a bench, people watching, mainly the legless man on the sidewalk with a cane who would tap the ladies on the butt as they walked past him. Some of the women would look back, spot him, then laugh. Others would give him a tongue lashing. One woman beat him with her purse. But he was a funny guy, he had a toothless smile and his face was animated. Before long there was a crowd watching the reactions of his “victims.” Then, as all street acts go, he passed the hat.
The gypsy part was a side drama. A girl (about nine) had four little kids sitting around watching her dance. By force. Every time a kid tried to get up and leave, she would shove them back into their “seats.” They might have all been from the same family or together, but oddly, there were no adults with them.
Spanky, around the same age, grew tired of the bullying and upstaged the kid with a sound she used to make. It was an odd sound, like something a fish would vocalize, if fish could talk. The kid cussed and threatened Spanky in French, which at the time, she couldn’t understand.
I go and try to break things up and the gypsy kid curses me lower than a dog, tells me her grandmother is a monster and will beat me unmercifully, that I better watch my back for the rest of my life… I told her to go get her, I was ready for a fight and she said, “My grandmother will get you when she is ready, and you are not.”
Not the first time I’ve been cursed. On to Italy.
The train sitch is a disaster that time of year in Italy, something we didn’t anticipate. We’d been there in the summertime. Piece of cake. During the holidays, however, everyone is traveling to see family. Since we don’t make plans, we had no seat reservations. We had to Mad Max fight for our seats just like the others. When a train pulls into the station, mobs of people shove into the doors and stuff the trains. Since there were six of us, two of which were little girls, we had to be cautious. Lots of trains left the station without us.
Once on a train, we shove into a compartment, two to a seat, with other stinky and weary travelers. Each stop we pick up more people. Soon there are people sitting on the floors, in the aisles, practically hanging out the windows. Some people outside our compartment have a guitar, drum, and tambourine, and start playing some music. Next thing you know, everyone on the train is singing to whatever they are playing. The Italians don’t get worked up about being stuffed on a train, they make the best of it.
We finally get to Rome, find a room and rest our exhausted bones. We only came here for a couple of days. To see the Sistine Chapel, spend New Years Eve here, and welcome the new euro when it comes out at midnight. We get a tiny amount of lira from the ATM as we want to use Euros on the very first day of issue.
We get to the Chapel and it is closed for New Years Eve and New Years. We weren’t going to see it. So Blane2 and Angela go on their own to do some things and we take the girls to do the usual, Trevi Fountain, Colluseum, etc. When we get tired, I suggest we get on a bus, any bus and just ride to the end of the line, get another bus and ride back. Simple. Cheap.
I am known for bright ideas and although they frequently get us into trouble, I have this crazy optimistic outlook and the ability to convince everyone that this time things will not fall apart. I also have two angels watching over me. One is a practical joker and the other is a hero that comes in at the last minute to save the day. Everyone knows this and in the spirit of adventure, they are always willing to do what I say might be fun.
Poor bastards.
The bus takes us out to the suburbs and when we try to get back on, the bus driver says the bus is finished for the evening, we’d have to find another way home. We get off the bus and what’s the first thing we see? A cement fence with a six feet tall swastika painted on it.
Great.
Funny thing, too, this suburb is high up on a hill and we could clearly see Rome below us, beautifully lit. Miles away, however.
We walk and walk and just see houses. It gets dark and a little cold. There are no businesses open, no pay phones anywhere. Not a human in sight for what seems like hours. The homes look so warm, in fact we are certain they are lit by candles. And food. We could smell it everywhere.
Finally we find a restaurant but no one speaks English. No problem, I whip out my phrasebook. Find out this is a private family function. We tell them we are lost as all hell and just want to get a taxi out of there. They tell us it will cost a fortune.
A fortune we don’t have because we only had a few lira, remember, the euro doesn’t come out for a few hours.
The kind people in there had mercy and fed us one of the best meals we’ve ever had. When the taxi driver got there, they bargained with him to take us to Rome for about one fourth his normal price and to take American dollars.
I’ll finish Rome and get to Milan and Barcelona tomorrow.
Edited Note: The story continues here.
Back Fire
Over ten years of nursing and years and years of child rearing, I have never hurt my back. Early on, I learned to use my back properly through nursing school and then constant body mechanics classes through my employers. Not one backache.
Until yesterday. It was the treadmill that did me in, I think. Must be. Maybe I overdid it. Or didn’t stretch out enough prior to getting on it. Problem is, I have an incredibly high pain threshold. My leg was hurting a little at first but I just ignored it, put on my music and zoned out.
The back pain started after I got out of the shower. It was sudden and made me see stars. Pain shooting down my right leg and all over the right side of my back. I assume this is sciatica. Iced it down and watched about seven episodes of Season One of Heroes.
Today it is much better and I plan to be back on the pain machine tomorrow. Or else.
Blane has suffered with back pain for years and has avoided surgery and drugs by using theResist-a-Ball. Stephanie and Mike Morris, the couple who introduced this ball to the fitness industry are friends of ours. I ran into Stephanie last spring while in Louisiana and told her how much it helped Blane and she was just about in tears. She wants Blane’s testimonial to put on her website.
Advice From Grave Circumstances
Starting out as such a young mother, everyone felt they had to give me advice on how to parent. At first it drove me crazy, but I got used to it quickly. If my mom was around she’d tell people not to bother, that I got my advice from parenting books and magazines. The old hens would then burst into laughter, my mother joining them.
Years later, I noticed signs at the kids’ school advertising free parenting classes. I actually turned my nose up to it at first. Like I needed that, I got my skills from books. Knew enough.
Luckily, a friend of mine talked me into going “just for fun.” I did go, and did have fun. What I learned first of all was how this “parenting classes” thing got started. A few years before we moved here, there had been a suicide epidemic at the high school. It started with one teenager, and in just a couple of weeks so many kids had killed themselves they had to shut down the school for a while.
In response, the community donated money and opened a parenting library and this series of parenting classes taught by licensed family therapists. I continued to go for a couple of years and learned a lot of things, not just about my kids but about mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers… myself.
The most important thing I learned was in a class about children entering middle school. Those are the roughest years, I find. The mean ones. The advice was to tell your sons and daughters not to get caught up in comparing themselves to others.
I realize some people would disagree, that it just teaches them not to be competitive. I just encourage my kids to outdo themselves and it seems to work. Their grades are great and they don’t seem to have any extraordinary self esteem issues. They did make it through middle school.
Still, I worry about this place and that thing that happened all those years ago.
Lately Sweetpea has been asking to visit her friend who recently moved to Littleton, Colorado. Yeah, she goes to Columbine. Scary. Sigh.
Coming Down
Wouldn’t it be nice if everyone stayed as sweet and cheerful as they were around Christmastime? Isn’t it funny how people open doors for you, smile for free, and help random strangers during the Holidays, then go back to being their same old nasty selves as soon as December 25th is crossed off the calendar?
Just a thought.
So here is my turkey deboning ordeal. It wasn’t that difficult, I used that link in my Cajun Christmas post and pretty much just shaved meat from bone.
I stuffed it with garlic and cornbread dressing, sewed it up with some unflavored dental floss, and put it in the oven. It turned out to be the best turkey we’ve ever had. It’s nice not to have to fight the bones when carving it.
The girls and I made a strawberry cake in the Christmas tree Bundt pan:
We exchanged gifts:
That was Sweetpea’s gift to Spanky. It cracked me up that she didn’t wrap the present. She says it’s what’s inside that counts. I agree. I know she spent four hours looking for the right gift and used her own money. Her thoughtfulness on that end is what’s special about it. That she didn’t waste any money making it look pretty and was bold enough to hand her sister something in a bag, well I just love that. It also reminds of the broke days when we used to wrap presents with the comic section of the newspaper.
Blane and Angela came over with their new puppy, Loo-B, and we all played Catch Phrase. It’s a fun game if you have a lot of people. Some of Sweetpea’s friends came over, so we had a crowd. In fact we had a hard time shutting it down.
Loo-B passed out on Spanky’s lap.
I hope you all had a great Christmas.
Presents For Everyone!
Merry Christmas!
While I am cooking the big Christmas feast I’m thinking, what could I give you for Christmas? I would like to thank you for reading, what can I do? Hmmm…
Okay, I have a few things.
Look under my blog tree.
Choose one present and click on it. What did you get? [edited note: the presents were all taken home, so the photo links are no longer active, come back next year.]
If you are reading this in a feed, you have to click on my blog so you can see the snow. The cool dude at WordPress made a snow widget. Come see.
Now have yourself a Merry Christmas and thanks for stopping by.
Ready, Set, Christmas
My turkey is deboned (took about an hour, only cut myself once), my sweet potatoes are baked, and the presents are ready to be wrapped. We’ll open some presents tonight and do some more tomorrow.
Not that we have a lot of presents, I just don’t like opening them all on Christmas Eve or on Christmas. It’s more fun to drag it out over two days.
I had a lot of fun telling the kids what I almost got them.
My Sorry-Ass Cajun Christmas
Around Thanksgiving my nephew Capone told me he was deboning a turkey. Thinking he must have learned from the experts in Cajun Country, I asked him who taught him how to do that. He said he just looked it up on the internet, found out how to debone a chicken and applied that to the turkey.
He reminds me so much of his dad, not afraid to try anything, especially when it comes to cooking.
So I got me a turkey yesterday and searched YouTube to see if anyone had a video of how to make a turducken. I do have a little clip of what a Turducken is if you want to watch it. I wanted one with a Cajun in there to show you the character of the people down there, to kill two birds with one stone, but I didn’t find it. These people are from Houston and may be from Louisiana (last name is Hebert, that’s gotta be from home), but they don’t sound like it.
No, no. If you want to see a Cajun, a real one. Check out this guy, Poo Poo Broussard. He’s a local comedian and has the Cajun thing down to a “T.”
You HAVE to see this, the viral video that made Poo Poo famous. It is EXACTLY how the most Cajun of Cajuns talk. (just takes 30 seconds of your life)
And that coonass is funny. Here is what would have happened if ET landed in Cajun Country. (sucks one minute of your time)
If you want to see more of him, you can find all of his YouTube videos and homepage here. My favorite line on his “about me” description, “MA MOMMA NEVER WUD BRESS FEED ME, SHE SAID SHE JUS LIKE ME AS A FRIN.”
Cajuns are infamous for making fun of themselves, and this is a little exaggerated, but fun.
So that is what I did last night, seached up YouTube just to hear some voices like mine because I am lonesome for my own.
Sweet Potato Crunch
The kid’s favorite side dish for Thanksgiving or Christmas is a casserole of sweet potatoes with a sugary pecan topping. This dish is the first to get cleaned out. So let’s make it.
Set oven to 350 degrees.
Gather up:
3 cups cooked mashed sweet potatoes
1 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 beaten eggs
1/2 stick butter
1/2 cup milk
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
Mix above ingredients and put in a buttered pan.
Topping:
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup chopped pecans
1/3 cup flour
1/3 cup melted butter
Combine and spread over sweet potato mix in pan. Bake for 35 minutes.
Drunko
About ten years ago my friend Michelle B. started a neighborhood group. She posted fliers on everyone’s door for all the ladies to meet at her house and at least thirty people came. From this meeting, we formed two bunco groups that met monthy.
Bunco is a game with twelve players, three dice, a bell, and a prize (click here for the rules). For our prize, we did money, five bucks from each player.
During the early years, we met at each other’s houses. Each member would take a month and one night they would shoo away the husband and children for the night, do some light snacks and a few bottles of wine. Since we all lived in the same neighborhood and were on foot, that meant we got plastered and wobbled back home on foot.
Before long the game became less and less important. Now we just meet to socialize. Still once per month and we no longer call it bunco, we call it drunko. Even though we don’t even drink that much because most of us have moved from the old neighborhood and must drive home.
Funny thing, I started this post earlier today and can’t remember what exactly it is I wanted to say about it. Maybe it was about the ornament exchange our drunko group had this week.
Oh well, it was probably something about long term friendships. How people that go way back are usually your best friends, the ones who knew you during your “nobody” years. I do keep an eye out for new friends, I’m not closed to that, but I haven’t joined the bunco group that is starting up in this neighborhood.
Abstinence
Take a look at the photograph. That’s a Catholic high school girl who was taught abstinence. Her boyfriend of two years was taught the same.
That’s me at 18.
Behind that chair, under that gown was my secret. My son.
I chose to keep him. Other pregnant teenagers at my school (who had also been taught abstinence) chose to take care of their “situation.” That’s okay, that was their choice, they had to live with it just as I had to live with mine.
I knew people in town would judge me, treat me like I was the town whore. Some did actually point, stare, or sneer. The receptionist at the ob/gyn office rudely asked me, “You married?” every single time I went in for an appointment. As if a wedding ring would put a halo back on my head.
I was not the town whore. Blane and I had been dating for two years. We had a plan. Wait until we were married. Go to college first, then get hitched and roll in the hay.
That is a long period of abstinence. But we were strong. We could beat nature.
That is why we were not prepared when nature beat us.
We did get married after Blane Jr. was born. We both finished college. We are still married. Our only scandal was this one, the pregnant teenager thing.
Don’t blame my mom for that scandal.
(That is my mom hiding a rip in her dress. She was told by her mother not to mess up that dress because they were taking school photos that day. )
She taught me what she had been taught by her parents and the church. Ignorance. Poor woman. But hey, she also taught loyalty and fidelity and tolerance. So let’s give her some cred here.
I guess this Jamie Spears thing has me spitting nails. People bad mouthing her, her mother, and I doubt anyone who says all these things actually know them.
I’m not angry about it because I was a pregnant teenager and got treated so harshly.
I am angry because of what happened to another girl from my high school around the same time as my ordeal. Here is how she dealt with her situation: She went into a field and blew her brains out.
So stop it now people. Instead of criticizing and calling these girls and their moms “trailer park trash” take a walk in their shoes. Maybe you’ll think of some kind of way to be helpful. Spears may do just fine. She works, is ambitious, is sacrificing a promising career for her choice to keep her baby – and- she probably pays more in taxes than you earn in the entire year.
I teach my kids abstinence, safe sex, and birth control. From there, they can fight nature with an informed mind.
Watch This *bleep*ing Thing
Spanky showed me this Youtube video, “Count the FCC violations.”
It’s hilarious, go watch.
I am back on my exercise routine starting today after a five month hiatus.
For every person who leaves a comment on this post in the next six hours I will dedicate a quarter mile on the treadmill or bike to you.
Go ahead, make me sweat until I puke.
I dedicate the first mile to Max because of this post.
Humiliating
When I was in nursing school, the instructors hauled us all down to the police station to get finger printed. Every one of us. They said we couldn’t graduate unless the police had our prints on file. I did it, but never liked the fact that my prints are in some archive when I have done nothing wrong. That was in Louisiana.
This year, I have to go get printed again for the State of Texas if I want to renew my nursing license. This is a new requirement for this state. I could go inactive and skip the entire humiliating process.
But wait.
If I want to renew my Texas real estate license, I’d need to get printed. Also a new requirement.
So I have to go get printed twice before the end of the month because both my nursing license and real estate license expire at the same time. I’ll just have to make damn sure I wear gloves when I go on a crime spree.
Why must these hands which have done so much healing be dunked in the same ink as those which have taken lives?
Bad (Guys, Guys, Guys)
One of my favorite parts of the HDNet Fights is what a girl like me just calls the “runway.”
That’s when the fighter comes out and is introduced. It’s dramatic, there’s music, the fighter poses and shows off his “attitude.”
Some dudes go with the traditional badass look:
Others do something that goes way deep traditional, like this one in the kilt:
And then there’s “Mahem.” Jason “Mayhem” Miller:
No one works that catwalk like he does.
Now you girls might not think fighters are hot. Their faces are full of scars, noses always broken… But hey, look at this guy, Nissen Osterneck:
Not too shabby.
Here’s my favorite part of all. It’s the part between the runway and the cage. Right before the official pats the fighter down.
Right here:
Oh yeah. Take it off.
Hang on. I want to be totally fair here. There’s something for the guys, too:
Not your typical ringside strutting in the bikini babe, huh?
That’s what I like about the HDNet Fights. Less sexploitation of women.
Fight Fantasies
Last night Blane and I went to the HDNet Fights, Reckless Abandon in Dallas. I didn’t realize it would be broadcast live (stupid me). I should have dressed better. Don’t laugh, it’s true, I should have because of where I was sitting. Let me put it this way. We were at ringside, like, where Mark Cuban gets to sit. In front of the press section. If you know me, you know this is how I often find myself, in the right place, at the right time, with one little thing that is wrong.
With my camera, yeah.
This is not a report of the fights. I’m not a reporter and I don’t know jack about MMA. That’s what will make this fun.
I don’t know who the famous people are. I walk over to this area where they’re doing television interviews, snap off some pics of Shamrock and Cuban. I don’t have the nerve to take pics of Cuban while he is sitting near me. And yes, I fantasize about handing him my script and yours, but no, I do not. Could not. Would not.
So, by where they are doing interviews, I go take some photos. I can’t believe the access I have, cuss myself silly for having so little skill with my SLR…
Right next to me? Randy Couture (aka Captain America, The Natural). The most famous, most well-liked fighter in the history of MMA. I’m not star struck because I have no idea who he is. I have him all to myself and we’re talking like he is the guy next door. There is no one else around. He has a look on his face sort of like, you’re so cute when you don’t know who I am. Not cocky, no, he’s sweet and humble, shy like me, and we both know it. But I could feel these vibes, like, {{{you should be taking photos of me}}}.
Finally Blane comes around and says, “Kitty, get a picture of me with my hero, Randy Couture!” Captain America gives me a knowing look. I laugh. He laughs.
I had to crop Blane out of the photo, he does not want his pic on the blog, sorry.
I’ll tell you some more cool things tomorrow, Blane wants me to go watch a movie.
Flustered
Okay, here’s a photo I took at the concert last night. This is Modest Mouse.
Notice the two drummers.
The little mouse perched near the drums.
The banjo.
The modded bass.
There’s Waldo.
Concerts are difficult to photograph because of the changing light conditions and the evil fog.
Gotta run, going to the HDNet fights. Should get some great photos there.
Gerard Way OR Jared Leto?
Tonight we are taking the girls to a concert at the Nokia. Last time we were there we were waiting for the Pumpkins to come onstage and the girls were arguing over who was better looking, Gerard Way or Jared Leto. I broke the tie with my vote for Way.
Then Blane chimed in and said, “Oh, Leto is much better looking than Gerard Way, that’s a no-brainer…” And then the disclaimer, “Not that I’m gay or anything.”
Guys and their gay disclaimers.
Anyway, we’re back to a tie. So who’s better looking?
Jared Leto?
Or
Gerard Way?
You’re Standing in Quicksand -But Wait- Let Me Get a Picture of This!
About five years ago, I took the girls on a month long journey through France. The exchange rate was great and I was convinced the Euro would rise, so I wanted to buy a second home in my favorite country. It would be an investment. A fun one. I just didn’t know exactly where in France to buy. So this trip was to find THE place. Actually, we took about 4 or 5 different trips that year and hit just about every major region of the country.
We did this month-long trip by car. This was the time we went to Normandy. Although it was an off the beaten path type of trip, we did swing by Mont St. Michel, a heavily touristed area, yeah, but it was something to see because this place has one of the highest tide differentials in the world.
The first thing we noticed was how much this place looked like Hogwarts. I guess everyone knows this now, but for us, then, it was a discovery. There were other things to discover in a place like this.
On the other side of the Mont, we went out for a walk. There were warning signs posted about how quickly the tide comes in. I’d read it travels as fast as a galloping horse, but the sign said it was at the pace of a brisk walk. Which meant my kids would have to run from it.
Hard to believe that hours earlier this beach was under thirty feet of water. Equally difficult to comprehend that it would be underwater again in a few more hours. Walking around “under the sea,” there were jellyfish and other forms of sea life scattered about, left behind by the tide.
This is about how far out we walked before heading back.
Another thing we discovered was quicksand. Somehow we missed those warning signs. Not that I would have believed them anyway. What I understood about quicksand was what I’d seen in the movies: It’s in the jungle, it looks like liquid mud, and all that is left of a bad guy who falls in is his safari hat.
Look closer. Here, I’ll zoom in for you. My kids are sinking.
The more they moved, the more they sunk. I don’t have a photo of them up to their knees because I was busy pulling them out before the damn tide came in.
Don’t believe it?
Look at this dude:
photo: Claude
It’s at the same place we were.
Quicksand is not as scary as made out to be in the movies. You can learn more about it here.
Here is Mont St. Michel while the tide is in.
Photo: Puzzlehouse
Besides finding “Hogwarts” and quicksand, I found out a lot of things on that trip. Things I could not learn in a book. Mainly that my daughters did not want to be raised in France. I also realized that while the countryside and its people are amazing, it is not for me. Paris is THE place.
Just not for now.
Some people might think I’m crazy to travel to a foreign country alone with two little girls. It was difficult at times because they were at the age when they were at each other’s throats so much. That’s the only trouble we had.
I’m not afraid of the unknown. The only things that scare me are the things I do know. And the girls? They are the same way.
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Give The Kid A Book Deal Already
I don’t usually click on a comment or blog post because of an avatar. Lately I’ve been seeing one around WordPress’ front page that looks so much like Spanky that I had to go see.
The expression on her face, I can’t tell if she is laughing or mock crying or what. Spanky makes that same face all the time, especially when she’s laughing.
Long story short, it is one of the most amazing blogs I’ve ever read. Yep, evah. She’s articulate and hilarious, no matter what she’s talking about, from Nabokov to Mighty Mouse. She’s a young freelance writer who would love to quit her day job. Go see and have some laughs while you learn something new:
Bookmark it. Blogroll it.
All I can think is, somebody, give this kid a book deal already.
