Well, Am trying something new, for my 6th-8th grade study skills class. I like to sometimes share music videos and lyrics on Fridays, but having old equipment in the classroom, I have limited success showing what I want to show. So my plan is to see if I can embed the videos into my blog. We can gather round my lap top and rock out. Perhaps. This better work quickly. I have to go make myself look presentable. Yesterday, 6th grader Noah asked what happened to my hair. I enthusiastically replied, "I washed it! This is my cool hippie hair!" Only later, when I checked out my lovely countenance in the staff bathroom mirror did I see the truly horrifying singed scarecrow coiffure I had created with attempt at wash and go! No wonder the kids didn't take me seriously!
But I digress!
"Stressed Out" by Twenty-one Pilots
<iframe width="640" height="360" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/E4_HdqgMv9Y" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
Lyrics
Friday, February 26, 2016
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Yep, It's Broke....Yep, I Broke It
Road Trip, Day Two: UNESCO World Heritage City of Falun
Holy Cow! This post will be chock-full of really cool info, much of which I was unaware of before my jaunt across the Swedish homeland. Here is some relevant background info (consider yourself on a mission--to make it through this piece--which may require the occasional briefing by a shadowy spy-like character--namely me. There will be no tests involved, nor will you have to shoot anyone with an atomic shoelace gun, nor have unseemly liaisons with folks of questionable but intriguing character.1. UNESCO stands for United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization.
Its World Heritage Cities mission is to promote, preserve, and protect cities/regions around the world which have significant cultural heritage.
2. The city of Falun, Dalarna Province, Sweden is a World Heritage site.*
Mining
Area of the Great Copper Mountain in Falun
The
enormous mining excavation known as the Great Pit at Falun is the most striking
feature of a landscape that illustrates the activity of copper production in
this region since at least the 13th century. The 17th-century planned town of
Falun with its many fine historic buildings, together with the industrial and
domestic remains of a number of settlements spread over a wide area of the
Dalarna region, provide a vivid picture of what was for centuries one of the
world's most important mining areas.
3. Pretty big deal, no? And after long day of driving, Carla and I had indeed made it to Falun, found our hotel, found the very nifty Dalarna Museum, but were still unable to find the copper mine, using our so far not-very-trusty GPS. We could not find an address, but figured this giant pit in the ground should be pretty easy for even us to find, and, given its whoop-scoop-dee-doo status internationally there should be plenty of road signs, no?
4. Apparently, NO!
After enjoying yet another delicious breakfast buffet, Carla and I checked out of the hotel and inquired at the desk as to the best way to get to the mine and historical center. I should admit that I was a bit distracted by taking pictures of Carla getting directions while the concierge was actually giving said instructions and helpfully marking a piece of paper with an ersatz map. Go right, around the corner, cross the river, hit the round-about...it all sounded pretty simple.
While trying to jog my memory today while composing this post, I found that I could insert a Google Map of Falun with the designated route from our Clarion Hotel to Falu Gruv (Falun Pit, Grave, or Mine!). Click on the link below and voila! You can transport yourself across the world with an interactive map that highlights our journey. Please bear in mind that this map is far more detailed than the one scribbled on the hotel stationery. You will be in much better shape than Carla and I were as we sallied forth.
We made it around the block exactly four times (leave the hotel, move four dots along the map route. Stop there in a panic of befuddlement, and go back to the hotel to start over. Repeat three more times.) By the fourth trip, we gave up, parked in front of the hotel, and Carla informed me that it was MY turn to get the directions. No problem! I had great faith in my navigating abilities, and I would pay good attention this time.
Back in the car, I assured Carla we were good to go. This time we made it all the way to the third dot on the Google map, and turned left onto the highway. By the time we realized that we should have turned right, we were off and running! We drove around throughout Falun, recognizing a few places from our walk the night before. Surely we would find our way to the copper mine!
most gas stations we encountered were nothing more than gas pumps under a metal roof. So gas had to be purchased by credit card. Whether it is standard practice in Sweden for American credit cards, or just because it was Carla and me, traveling under the aura of perpetual misadventure, neither of our credit cards were accepted. So we kept our eyes out for full-service stations where we could either pay cash or have our identities verified by station attendants.
Here's the thing. We were driving a car that required diesel gas, obviously. That was further indicated by the big sticker of a big D on the gas cap. We had been told to drive up to the pump with the black handle. I had made a big deal of calling to Carla, "Pull forward to the black pump, Carla! The black pump!" So, while Carla waited back inside, I proceeded to fill the tank. even though we were probably down only a quarter of a tank, I wanted to make sure I topped it off, so I gave the pump a few extra squeezes. As I put the handle back into its slot in the pump, I saw to my complete horror that I had used the green handle--regular gas! Dear God, I had destroyed the rental car!
I know from my Lumosity brain training program, that our minds register color and size before anything else. See! I'm learning cool stuff! Apparently, even though I knew I needed to pump diesel fuel into the car, my brain reverted to "Oooh! I see green! Better pump that diesel!" And this from someone who taught reading for most of her adult life!
My heart and stomach plummeted to my feet, and I headed into the gas station "butik" like a condemned criminal towards the gallows. Before I could admit my crime, I heard the station attendant lady exclaim to Carla, "Oh, no, she pumped gasoline into your car, not diesel.!" Still feeling the need to purge my soul, I told Carla the same thing. Carla immediately turned ashen-faced and muttered, "I think I'm going to be ill." She then turned toward the restroom, only to find that she could not open the door. That was something else that had plagued the intrepid duo on our trip--an inability to accomplish even the most mundane of feats--like turning on the shower or opening a door. She kept working the door, looking grimmer by the second, until some poor hapless man finally exited from behind said door. Shame and horror compounded.
What were we to do? Even at the car rental office we had been admonished, "Do not use regular gasoline!" It was written into our rental agreement as well, noting that fools who pumped anything but diesel into the vehicle were exempt from the extra coverage we had purchased for our trip. Add to that, we did not speak Swedish, and were trying to figure out what to do, and how to explain our just ever so slightly complicated predicament to whomever we would ultimately have to turn for help. Everything was in Carla's name, and I was the culprit who had possible destroyed the engine of our car. Would that I could have disappeared into the floor.
This is the lovely lady who became our Angel of Mercy. She told us not to worry, that this happened all the time. This might have been true, or she might just have been extraordinarily kind.
Maybe it was indeed a weekly occurrence, or maybe Americans just have "stupid" tattooed across their foreheads in ink that only Europeans can see. Whatever the case, she reassured us that the tank would just have to be pumped out after the car was towed away, and we would have to get a new car. Clutching her sheaf of rental agreements, driver's license, visa, and what-not, Carla continued to look like she had been stricken with the plague, West Nile Virus, and a case of the vapors. I hid out in the cold foods aisle, trying to mentally translate the Swedish advertisements into English, but kept my ears alert to the goings-on.
I cannot begin to emphasize how kind and helpful this woman and the young man who assisted her in the station were to Carla and me. She made several phone calls, to the rental agency and to the towing service, keeping us apprised of every conversation. She told us to just go have a seat and enjoy some coffee while we waited. She kept us posted as to when the tow truck would arrive. As Carla recovered her equilibrium, I continued to slink around in the background, not sure of how much damage I had caused, but sure it was pretty disastrous.
Finally the tow truck arrived and the three of us, including our Angel of Mercy, went out to greet the driver. Our kind helper explained to us that there was room in the tow truck cab for only one of us, so the other would have to stay at the gas station and wait. Both Carla and I volunteered each other to stay (even though we had made fools of ourselves --ok, that would mostly or totally be me) there at the station, it had begun to feel like home, and we felt safe there. Plus there was food, coffee, and a bathroom we had figured out how to gain entry to; i.,e. wait for the current occupant to exit! Ultimately, the ride in the tow truck was awarded to Carla, whose name was on all the paperwork.
So, here was the scary part. Carla and I were each now alone in a foreign country. A beautiful, kind, largely English-speaking country, but we were foreigners just the same. I snapped pictures of Carla driving away in the tow truck, and slunk back in to the gas station "butik" to pass the time. I was offered coffee and a comfy place to sit. I hadn't had any time to read anything but travel guides since our arrival in Sweden, so I took my Kindle from my backpack, and settled in to read "The Rosie Effect," which fortunately was hilarious. I was given periodic updates on the status of our debacle. After depositing our car to wherever it would be pumped clean, the tow truck driver and Carla had to go three towns over to find a rental car agency that had an available car with and automatic transmission. From that point on it would be about an hour before they returned, which, happily, gave Carla time to learn how to actually use the GPS for our next adventures. Tutorial compliments of the tow truck driver, who Carla said was as very friendly and helpful chap.
It was thrilling to be reunited with my travel partner, and luckily, our enforced separation due to my forcing gasoline into a diesel engine, had soothed our angst and frustration with each other. You know that mean's Carla's frustration toward me--she had done nothing wrong! After profusely thanking our Angel of Mercy and her erstwhile assistant (who patiently waited while I fumbled through my Swedish coins trying to pay for a pack of gum while a rather long line of customers formed behind me. I was completely oblivious to their presence and spent a fair amount of time just admiring the sparkly coins. Dear Lord!), Carla and I hopped into our all-new car (see--Carla did win a brand new car!) and were actually able to program our route to the Falun Copper Mine.
What should have been a twelve minute drive to the mine from our hotel had only taken three and a half hours. With a working GPS, or should I more correctly say, better programmers working the GPS, we finally made it to our destination. We were now nearly two days behind our tour schedule before the third day of our trip. But we were shown such kindness and help by total strangers, that THAT was the take-away from this fiasco: Kindness and compassion are gifts that just can't be beat.
Our visit begins here? I think not! We've already had one heck of an adventure!
It is now early December. I wonder if Carla has gotten the bill from the rental car
agency for my little mistake. I wonder our on-going informal sharing of expenses
have left me square with her, or if I owe her a small fortune!
*http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/1027
Monday, November 9, 2015
Road Trip Day 1: Finding Faluln
Well, we had been in Sweden for two days, briefly exploring Gotenberg and eating pastries there, then a day in Stockholm, eating more pastries, The word "fika" means a coffee and cake break. It was our new favorite Swedish word and pastime! One of the first things we did in Stockholm, however, was to secure our rental car for the upcoming seven-day road trip through central Sweden. We needed to make the arrangements on Friday, as the rental shop was closed on the weekend, so we walked from our hotel to the rental outfit, and set everything up for our Sunday morning departure. We'd pick up the car keys from a hotel next door. We of course opted for the extra insurance, as Carla and I are very cautious middle-aged ladies (assuming we live to 130!) , and we feel proud of always covering our asses. We consider this a matter of financial responsibility and a public service! The agent gave us the paperwork and the GPS equipment we would be using to guide us on our travels to nifty sights, adventures, and our hotels.
Now in hindsight, perhaps we should have spent a bit more time (like ANY time at all!) reading the operator's manual for the GPS system, but we opted instead to go eat cheeseburgers and then hit the famous Absolut Ice Bar in our hotel. I thought the bar would a fairly cheesy attraction, but entrance and a free drink were included in our tour, so off we went, donning floor length fur-lined capes and heavy gloves to enable us to partake of our drinks in the frigid venue. My predictions of a high cheese factor proved to be completely unfounded, as the bar was gorgeous --everything in it is made of ice--the bar, the chairs and bar stools, the glasses, and the beautifully etched walls and panels. These icy walls portray scenes from a much loved children's book about a boy who is turned into a goose, which then gleefully soars and dives through all of Sweden's different regions and biomes, creating a frozen panorama of the country's flora and fauna. The book became a geography textbook used by countless children throughout Sweden. In short, The Ice Bar was gorgeous, classy, and educational! What a combo!
After sliding out of the ice bar--no, we only had one lovely vodka cocktail apiece, but I like the imagery of us sliding smoothly out of the frozen pub--we headed up to our room for bed, so we could spend Saturday touring Stockholm by bus and boat, and then head out of town early on Sunday, aiming for the Unesco World Heritage city of Falun, home of the world's largest copper mine.
Bright and early, we slipped out of the hotel after a fine Sunday breakfast buffet, picked up our lovely diesel "Superb" (we think it was a Swedish version of a VW Passat) with automatic transmission, which Carla had specifically requested-- manual transmissions being the norm in Sweden, at least for rental cars. Carla hooked up the GPS, we plugged in our first stop, and off we went, after traversing the maze that was the multi-leveled underground parking garage.
Leaving quite early Sunday morning, we encountered virtually no traffic and soon found ourselves driving out of Stockholm on a pretty darn spiffy freeway. We would in fact find the roads we traveled on to be excellent in construction and in maintenance throughout our journey. However, we were about to discover that actually finding the places we were seeking proved to be a bit of a challenge the first two days out. A few of the designated "must see" destinations gave us no addresses other than the towns where they were located . So we figured they must be big deals and well-marked within said towns. That assumption turned out not to necessarily be the case. I mean, you'd think we could spot a castle in a fairly small town, or signs leading to word-renowned silver mine. Again, no luck. And by the way, all GPS devices are not the same, and have different set procedures to follow. We hadn't reckoned with that little tidbit, and found that our particular device was particularly fussy. Add to that, Swedish words are very long, and not easily entered into a GPS! I had assumed my role as the designated "Read the Addresses and Spell the Words to Carla Lady." I of course read them in what I believed to be a Swedish accent. Oh, and have I mentioned that Carla has severe vision problems? She's perfectly able to drive, but finding tiny letters on a teeny tiny keypad proved not to be her strong point. So she had to hold her magnifying glass in one hand and one-finger type with the other hand. Sometimes it took us ten minutes to actually enter a destination into the GPS, only to receive the message "Destination not found." Make that G-D GPS. Here's a sample address: "Frimurare-holmen: Engelbrektsgaten 52 , Ostra Nobelgaten. Orebro."
We had gotten pretty good at navigating the "rotaries" or "round-abouts" as I called them back in my New Jersey days. Once out of the really big cities (i.e. Stockholm, Goteberg, and Malmo), you rarely saw stop lights at intersections. Instead, you just enter the rotary or circle, and veer off it at one of its four designated exits. Kind of like flying off a slow-moving pinwheel if you were a ladybug. These rotaries are actually very efficient, and keep traffic from backing up. However, on our first day's outing, missing destination after destination, with the GPS lady shouting at us, "Enter the rotary! Take the second exit from the rotary!" (Which basically meant you just stayed going on the same road in the same direction), left us highly annoyed. Sometimes we'd get to take the third exit and go left. Very exciting. Sometimes we were directed to turn in 70 meters, or 50, or 340 meters. We were not very good at estimating distance in meters, so sometimes we'd be all geared up to turn, and would make a wildly mistaken premature exit off the highway. I think I have new-found empathy for all those tiny little sperm who never make it to their destinations! Other times we were marking off 500 meters, and GPS gal, now affectionately nicknamed "F#*$#!g Bitch" would yell "Turn left NOW!" and we'd careen off the road and find ourselves in yet another tiny little hamlet filled with red houses and nothing else. Certainly no castles, silver mines, or fully operational museum villages with working blacksmiths and confectioners.
By three in the afternoon, we had failed to find the Gronso Castle, the cluster of medieval churches, the Viking Age rock carvings, the old silver mine and its museum, the police museum, and several suggested craft and souvenir shops on our Sunday itinerary. We were batting .0000. We were tired, thirsty, and hungry (read: no pastries!). We were exceedingly frustrated, and Carla and I were each displaying a sharp sense of direction that was the dead opposite of the other's. We had disconnected the GPS, as F.B. seemed to be pointedly ignoring us. We were now relying on my Lonely Planet's Guide to Sweden, which, by the way, I highly recommend. Only if you are going to Sweden. If you are journeying somewhere else, check out one of their other books!
Having completely missed all the tour's suggested "do not miss!" destinations, so far, the only highlight left was "The World's Biggest Dala Horse." Looking back at my itinerary, I see it is merely the biggest Dala Horse in Sweden. But given that the brightly painted carved wooden horse is Sweden's national symbol, I think it's safe to call this the world's largest damn painted Swedish horse. My map and my keen navigator's eye told me that we were entering the town of Avesta, home of said Dala horse. We turned the GPS back on, and the voice trapped inside started shrieking at us "Exit highway in 20 meters!" We of course missed that exit. Twenty meters comes up on you pretty fast on a freeway! So we kept going. Suddenly on the left side of the road, at what appeared to be a shopping center, was a gigantic red horse festooned with brightly colored flowers. We'd found it! But, the tantalizing beast eluded us as we could not figure out how to get back to it from the freeway. That should have been a no-brainer, but of course it wasn't. Carla and I were each sure that we knew how to backtrack to the horse, and each or our planned return routes completely canceled out the other's. So, it ended up taking us 45 minutes to back-track three miles. But we were AT THE DALA HORSE!
From our tour brochure: "...your first stop in Dalarna province is Avesta, where you will find the largest Dala Horse in Sweden. This is the perfect place to stop for a great photo and afternoon snack at the nearby cafe/restaurant. Now I don't want to complain too much, but I have to say that I think the Dala Horse here in Avesta has seen slightly better days. Not yet decrepit, but definitely a bit faded in the paint department, and slightly cracked. The garden it is standing guard in now has some rather weedy looking shrubs instead of the lovely rose bushes pictured in the brochures. It all made me think of a roadside Brontosaurus in America's southwest, maybe on Route 66. I know, I know, Brontosaurus never existed--Apatosauraus was the real dinosaur, with Brontosaurus a fraud, or a paleontologist's inadvertent mistake. But trust me--this was the Brontosaurus of Dala Horses!
And the aforementioned cafe/restaurant was also a bit past its prime. Kind of dreary, but attempting to be cheery with red checkered cloths on white tables that were laden with various and sundry antiques available for purchase, it was a serve yourself type of place--pick out a pre-packaged delight, and then I guess have it microwaved. Now I am not an adventurous eater; I didn't hear any English being spoken; and I was unable to tell what most of the food was. I am also very cheap when it comes to wasting money on food I might not like.When I don't know what I may be getting to eat when it is unrecognizable, there is always the dread fear that someone might slip me some kind of hideous fermented fish hiding out in lingonberry jam. I do, in fact, seem to be particularly leery of seafood. And if I would have paid for the meal , I'd have completely wasted my money, 'cause no way would I eat that fish! I'd rather starve! I nudged Carla, and we decided to head back out on the highway and find a better, slightly classier food venue on our way to Falun.
We ended up at a 7-Eleven about ten minutes away. I had a candy bar.
By this time we were tired of cursing at our drive-tour itinerary, at the GPS the we still hadn't figured out how to use, at the general lack of road maps that made any sense to us, and at our inability to find the cool stuff we had been looking forward to seeing. Our spirits were lifted, however, when I pulled out the travel voucher for our hotel that night in Falun, and saw that most unexpectedly DINNER was included with our stay! We were giddy with excitement, and every time the GPS broad would would mumble something at us, we would holler back, "We get a free dinner! We get a free dinner!"
It was fish. Thankfully not fermented. And the broccoli soup was delicious. Plus, I did get this very cool picture of a slightly worse-for-wear me hanging out with a slightly worse-for-wear Dala Horse!
Now in hindsight, perhaps we should have spent a bit more time (like ANY time at all!) reading the operator's manual for the GPS system, but we opted instead to go eat cheeseburgers and then hit the famous Absolut Ice Bar in our hotel. I thought the bar would a fairly cheesy attraction, but entrance and a free drink were included in our tour, so off we went, donning floor length fur-lined capes and heavy gloves to enable us to partake of our drinks in the frigid venue. My predictions of a high cheese factor proved to be completely unfounded, as the bar was gorgeous --everything in it is made of ice--the bar, the chairs and bar stools, the glasses, and the beautifully etched walls and panels. These icy walls portray scenes from a much loved children's book about a boy who is turned into a goose, which then gleefully soars and dives through all of Sweden's different regions and biomes, creating a frozen panorama of the country's flora and fauna. The book became a geography textbook used by countless children throughout Sweden. In short, The Ice Bar was gorgeous, classy, and educational! What a combo!
 |
| "Skal" or Cheers! |
After sliding out of the ice bar--no, we only had one lovely vodka cocktail apiece, but I like the imagery of us sliding smoothly out of the frozen pub--we headed up to our room for bed, so we could spend Saturday touring Stockholm by bus and boat, and then head out of town early on Sunday, aiming for the Unesco World Heritage city of Falun, home of the world's largest copper mine.
Bright and early, we slipped out of the hotel after a fine Sunday breakfast buffet, picked up our lovely diesel "Superb" (we think it was a Swedish version of a VW Passat) with automatic transmission, which Carla had specifically requested-- manual transmissions being the norm in Sweden, at least for rental cars. Carla hooked up the GPS, we plugged in our first stop, and off we went, after traversing the maze that was the multi-leveled underground parking garage.
 |
| Ready to Roll |
 |
| "Exit" |
 |
| Construction Speed Zone--yes, I am very juvenile! |
Having completely missed all the tour's suggested "do not miss!" destinations, so far, the only highlight left was "The World's Biggest Dala Horse." Looking back at my itinerary, I see it is merely the biggest Dala Horse in Sweden. But given that the brightly painted carved wooden horse is Sweden's national symbol, I think it's safe to call this the world's largest damn painted Swedish horse. My map and my keen navigator's eye told me that we were entering the town of Avesta, home of said Dala horse. We turned the GPS back on, and the voice trapped inside started shrieking at us "Exit highway in 20 meters!" We of course missed that exit. Twenty meters comes up on you pretty fast on a freeway! So we kept going. Suddenly on the left side of the road, at what appeared to be a shopping center, was a gigantic red horse festooned with brightly colored flowers. We'd found it! But, the tantalizing beast eluded us as we could not figure out how to get back to it from the freeway. That should have been a no-brainer, but of course it wasn't. Carla and I were each sure that we knew how to backtrack to the horse, and each or our planned return routes completely canceled out the other's. So, it ended up taking us 45 minutes to back-track three miles. But we were AT THE DALA HORSE!
From our tour brochure: "...your first stop in Dalarna province is Avesta, where you will find the largest Dala Horse in Sweden. This is the perfect place to stop for a great photo and afternoon snack at the nearby cafe/restaurant. Now I don't want to complain too much, but I have to say that I think the Dala Horse here in Avesta has seen slightly better days. Not yet decrepit, but definitely a bit faded in the paint department, and slightly cracked. The garden it is standing guard in now has some rather weedy looking shrubs instead of the lovely rose bushes pictured in the brochures. It all made me think of a roadside Brontosaurus in America's southwest, maybe on Route 66. I know, I know, Brontosaurus never existed--Apatosauraus was the real dinosaur, with Brontosaurus a fraud, or a paleontologist's inadvertent mistake. But trust me--this was the Brontosaurus of Dala Horses!
And the aforementioned cafe/restaurant was also a bit past its prime. Kind of dreary, but attempting to be cheery with red checkered cloths on white tables that were laden with various and sundry antiques available for purchase, it was a serve yourself type of place--pick out a pre-packaged delight, and then I guess have it microwaved. Now I am not an adventurous eater; I didn't hear any English being spoken; and I was unable to tell what most of the food was. I am also very cheap when it comes to wasting money on food I might not like.When I don't know what I may be getting to eat when it is unrecognizable, there is always the dread fear that someone might slip me some kind of hideous fermented fish hiding out in lingonberry jam. I do, in fact, seem to be particularly leery of seafood. And if I would have paid for the meal , I'd have completely wasted my money, 'cause no way would I eat that fish! I'd rather starve! I nudged Carla, and we decided to head back out on the highway and find a better, slightly classier food venue on our way to Falun.
We ended up at a 7-Eleven about ten minutes away. I had a candy bar.
By this time we were tired of cursing at our drive-tour itinerary, at the GPS the we still hadn't figured out how to use, at the general lack of road maps that made any sense to us, and at our inability to find the cool stuff we had been looking forward to seeing. Our spirits were lifted, however, when I pulled out the travel voucher for our hotel that night in Falun, and saw that most unexpectedly DINNER was included with our stay! We were giddy with excitement, and every time the GPS broad would would mumble something at us, we would holler back, "We get a free dinner! We get a free dinner!"
In no time at all, we had checked into the Falun Clarion Inn, unpacked our stuff, and found a delightful local museum within walking distance. Now we were doing the tourist stuff! The museum was wonderful and very informative, with a huge array of interesting examples of Swedish culture. My favorite? (I am SO boring and provincial.) An ancient 10- minute black and white film on the history of laundry washing! That and the embroidery displayed in the clothing exhibit was about all the excitement I could take by then, so we headed back to enjoy the dinner that awaited us gratis.
It was fish. Thankfully not fermented. And the broccoli soup was delicious. Plus, I did get this very cool picture of a slightly worse-for-wear me hanging out with a slightly worse-for-wear Dala Horse!
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Adventures in International Texting!
I don't think that as a child I was alone in having tremendous fear that my parents would die. I remember many nights lying in the darkness under my chenille bedspread, gripped by the terrifying thought that something could happen to Mommy and Daddy, leaving me a wretched orphan.
Apparently I have passed this delightful sense of angst on to my daughter, Melanie. And she has maintained at least some of it well into adulthood. She took me white-water rafting about eighteen years ago. I had a great time. I think she did too, although through most of the trip, she was certain that I would bounce out of the raft and either drown or be ground to a nub by the rocks. In any case, DEAD. When I went on a cruise to Alaska this summer, she made me promise not to fall off the ship. That was not in my plans, and I think that when one does fall off of a cruise ship : a) huge amounts of alcohol are involved; b) a lover or spouse has been enraged to the point of committing murder; c) the ship has sailed into a massive typhoon.
My recent trip to Sweden would be the longest adventurous foray of my life, and was far away, to boot. So, before I left, Melanie wasted no opportunities to remind me that I was required to text her every day to assure her that I was not DEAD. I do love that child, so of course, I agreed to keep her mind at ease. I made calculations (I had to count backwards on my watch every day to do it! Mental math is not my forte!) to account for the nine hour time difference and make sure that I could advise her of my continued existence on a regular basis and at a convenient time. I'm such a good mommy!
Thus began
The Great International Texting Adventure!
The Great International Texting Adventure!We are safe in Goteberg!
Fri, Sep 18, 10:18 AM pst
Now in Stockholm after great train ride. Ready for pj's!
Sat, Sep 19, 2:12 PM pst
Spent the day in Stockholm touring on foot, by bus, and by boat. Such a beautiful and fascinating city--and so old! Will start our road trip tomorrow. Hope all is well at home. Not much luck with wi-fi here.
A bit later later, around midnight, I was asleep when my phone loudly alerted me to an incoming text.
I'm SO sorry! You have texted the wrong number. But do you want to know something frighteningly random and coincidental? I think I know who this is....:-)
Marilyn Souza, second grade teacher extraordinaire and fabulous world traveler!?!?
iMessage
Good grief! Who have I been texting???? !
Not Delivered
Good grief! Who have I been texting???
Sent as Text Message
iMessage
This is Shawna Yaple. The funny thing is I have been thoroughly and vicariously enjoying your FB posts about your trip! And that's when I started receiving your texts. And then it dawned on me! By George, It's Mrs. Souza!
You may have noticed the one-sided nature of my conversation with Melanie, reassuring her that I was still among the living. Not hearing a word from her since my arrival in Sweden had my own head spinning thoughts of doom and death. Perhaps Jim had kicked the bucket in my absence, and Melanie didn't want to tell me about it, knowing that would cast quite a pall on my jaunt. I had emailed Jim to see if he also continued to live, but received no reply. My son hadn't been in contact since the night before I left San Francisco, either, so I feared a massive conspiracy involving anyone who was left alive in my family while I traveled the world.
I must admit that when I received the text message from Shawna, I was quite taken aback. I had taught three of her four children, and had known her for many years. But, aside from maybe scheduling a parent-teacher conference with her, I'd never called her or texted her, and didn't even have her phone number. It seems that when setting up my kids' "from Sweden" phone numbers, I had transposed a couple of digits in Melanie's number. I still hadn't memorized her new cell phone number, so I guess it didn't register in my jet-lagged and generally addled brain. And what are the odds that the number I mistakenly entered into my contacts belonged to someone I actually knew, and who was following my adventures on Facebook? A happy little social media miracle, in my book!
And yet there was more to come in my International Blogging Adventure. My last text of the night pretty well wraps it all up.
Good grief again, Shawna! This is so weird! My phone has lost its mind here in Sweden! I can't shut off the ringtones on my phone and my travel buddy is asleep. I've come into the bathroom to try to set a quieter ringtone. Failed at that, too, so now a bunch of different ringtones keep going off at full volume and playing forever, even tho I have the phone set on mute! They won't stop! I think the plane I was on over here took and unscheduled detour into the Twilight Zone. My daughter told me to text her every day so that she would know I wasn't dead. She's probably ticked off at me by now. Either that, or she's putting tags on all my belongings for dispersal to my loved ones! I hope she at least saw my Facebook posts when I had wi-fi!
Sent as Text Message
Text Message
Safe Travels!
Well, there you have it all, minus a few emojis, which don't format well on my blog. I can definitely see where Melanie got her "Oh, my God! Mom is Dead!" disorder. Though as adults, we have all had ample experiences that demonstrate the incredible randomness of life's fortunes. Some are indeed devastating. Fortunately, most of those random connections and convolutions are benign. And some, like randomly connecting across a continent and an ocean with Shawna Yaple instead of my daughter, strike me as nothing less than perfectly wondrous, miraculous, delightful serendipity!
Thursday, October 8, 2015
Marilyn Goes to Sweden, Part 1: Adventures in Videography!
Adventures in Videography!
To say I am a novice international traveler is an understatement. In sixty-six years I have left the US for a week in Mexico when I was eighteen, and about a week total in Canada. So, traveling to Europe was quite the big deal for me, and of course I wanted to capture large swaths of the journey on film and video for later scrapbooking and viewing. At the same time, I didn't want to spend so much time peering through a camera lens that I lost the moments of actually being there!
I took a few photos in Goteberg, which was our first stop on our way to Stockholm where we would begin a week long driving tour of central Sweden. My high school friend Carla had won round trip plane tickets for two and was able to arrange a direct flight from San Francisco to Copenhagen, and then on to Goteberg. Since our tour's departure was from Stockholm, we both decided that it would be fun to try the high speed train to cross the country and would allow us to really see the Swedish countryside.
We were not disappointed. Leaving Goteberg, we were quickly barreling through the most gorgeous landscapes. Lush and verdant, the country is a vision of forest, farmland, and sparkling lakes, all mixed and mingled together. Having left California, which, due to four years of drought, was brown, tinder-dry, and on fire, the sight of such greenery was indeed a treat to behold. Also, California's forests and farms are mostly in different regions or at least elevations, so seeing fields of freshly harvested hay and other grains right in the midst of forests of both evergreens and deciduous trees, already beginning to don autumn colors, was new and exciting to me.
I marveled that nearly every home, barn, shed, outbuilding, for the two hundred mile trip was painted the exact same shade of deep brick red, with white trim. Set against the deep greens of the grasses, trees, and bushes, the contrast of the red homes is very appealing. I knew there had to be a reason for the red buildings everywhere, and I looked forward to finding out what lay behind this uniformity that stretched mile after mile.
The train was amazingly smooth-riding and quiet, allowing me to snap some pretty decent photos from my iPhone. Carla had dozed off, so I spent my time peering out the windows, wondering what delights awaited me. Suddenly it dawned on me that I could video the countryside as we sped by, giving both a panorama of the many sights and a sense of how quickly we were zipping along. I took a quick trial video to see if it would be too blurry, and discovered that it worked just fine, so I was ready to VIDEO TAPE SWEDEN! I got nice and comfy, steadied my hand, and began to film.
I couldn't believe my good luck and timing, as we zoomed past homes, barns, corrals, and commercial areas. I captured horses, cows, and sheep grazing on the emerald green carpet that lay in front of dazzling waterways. I was surprised to see windmills of varying design, but all looking like they had been operating for many, many years. What a perfect first glimpse of the country that is Sweden! And, as my phone camera did all the work, I just sat there holding it while the world outside my window rolled by. I could film and be present! Cool!
Imagine my surprise when I swiped the play icon on my phone, and learned, much to my chagrin, that I had spent the entire time filming my own headband! Guess I'd accidentally put the camera in selfie mode. I burst out laughing, waking Carla up. She was highly amused. I was once again reminded why I will never become too cocky or swell-headed--the all too frequent reminders of my own ineptness!
Herewith is "Marilyn's Amazing Video of the Swedish Countryside!" I have pared it down to a mere 30 seconds or so from the original four minute study of my head and its adornment. I even added some ABBA! Behold the wonder of my cinematic talent!
Alas, there is a sad ending to this tale, in addition to once again proving myself to be world-class fool. The next day, unbeknownst to me, while touring Stockholm by bus, by boat, and on foot, the self-same headband, my favorite, by the way, was completely blown off my head in one of the many gusty blasts of Baltic wind. Luckily I have this nifty video to remember it by!
Sunday, July 12, 2015
The Domino Theory of Domestic Bliss
The Domino Theory of Domestic Bliss, Part 1 April, 2015
Amazing how time, cats, and the Spirit of Christmases Past can upset the apple cart that you call home. Not that I actually live in an apple cart. But right now my home does look like the aftermath of a truly horrific apple cart disaster, minus the apples. Perhaps this is a bad analogy. I'm sticking to it anyway.
Below is what I see when I peer through the French doors between my current hideout in the family room and the original part of our home, which was built in 1978. Notice my husband Jim propped up against the couch that this morning was a deep garnet red. Notice his head of completely white hair, that, just this morning, could still claim to have a decent portion of pepper mixed in with the salt. Notice the layer of ash that might make the reader think that the aforementioned apple cart was in the path of a destructive volcanic eruption.
Amazing how time, cats, and the Spirit of Christmases Past can upset the apple cart that you call home. Not that I actually live in an apple cart. But right now my home does look like the aftermath of a truly horrific apple cart disaster, minus the apples. Perhaps this is a bad analogy. I'm sticking to it anyway.
Below is what I see when I peer through the French doors between my current hideout in the family room and the original part of our home, which was built in 1978. Notice my husband Jim propped up against the couch that this morning was a deep garnet red. Notice his head of completely white hair, that, just this morning, could still claim to have a decent portion of pepper mixed in with the salt. Notice the layer of ash that might make the reader think that the aforementioned apple cart was in the path of a destructive volcanic eruption.
I found myself entertaining a guest this fine April morning, relegated to one corner in the family room, serving tea and pastries on Christmas dishes, unable to access my kitchen. Luckily there is an attached apartment on the other side of the family room, complete with a fine kitchen that was once well stocked. Luckily, I was able to serve up my tea party fare using the melon baller, butcher knife, plastic cocktail forks, and poinsettia-bordered plates that I still had access to. How did it all come to this, anyway?
Tea and Crumpets, Anyone?
Now serving in the back corner of the room! Luckily crumpets are small!
Well, much in the manner that the war was lost due to the loss of a horse, the horse lost for the loss of a shoe, the horseshoe lost for the loss of a nail, etc. I have to reach back a ways to explain the current state of my home. Let's see now...where to begin?
Christmas 2011--almost four years ago. We had replaced our aging pellet stove with a lovely new and much more efficient one. I always put lots of effort into decorating for the holidays, removing pictures, sconces, wreaths, and plaques and replacing them with jolly Christmas art and doo-dads. I was quite horrified to see dozens of soot frames decorating said walls when seen in their pristine (read empty) glory. Luckily, my festive holiday decor somewhat camouflaged the sad and smudged walls. After Christmas( ok-mid-January!), when I traditionally un-decorate the house for my yearly observation of Martin Luther King Day, I was too worn out from year-end celebrations to tackle a major project, so I just re-hung all the stuff that had sat in storage boxes in the shed since Thanksgiving. Remember, I said that I enjoy having a nicely decorated house. Actual down and dirty house cleaning and maintenance, I do not enjoy not so much. And the concept of "in a timely manner" is completely foreign to me. Out of sight, out of mind. All in its own good time. Those are my mottos!
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Three more Christmas seasons passed, and by 2015, I knew that something would definitely need to be done to freshen up the place. Luckily, Jim doesn't mind painting too much, so I figured this spring or summer, we'd deal with soot and smudges.
I kind of rushed ahead through those winter holiday seasons in this telling, but verily, other seasons had passed in the interim. Three full springs and summers. Plus several other seasons, maybe ten. At any rate, Jim and I were experiencing problems in the bedroom. No, not that kind. The kind related to cats and curtains. I think Jim must be a saint for putting up with my decorating motifs. Our bedroom is very feminine, a vision of tiny pink roses on blue latticed wall paper, very outdated, and I love it. It matches a handmade pink teddy bear I was given from a student well over thirty years ago that sits atop the bed. That's how I decorate, baby--start with one accessory and build a whole room that will remain largely unchanged for decades.
We don't have much in the way of curtains in our house, because we like light, we have a lot of privacy, and at this point in time, I figure if some random stranger is stricken blind from viewing me charging through the house in my underwear or less, well, that's his problem for being too close to my windows with his eyes open. But the morning sun shines bright into our bedroom so I had hung white sheer panels with a lovely blue valance (note: same adjectives apply to window treatment as to previously mentioned general bedroom style). This blocked enough sunlight to allow us to sleep at least until the alarm clock woke us. Or until my cat would screech and hiss as she clawed her way from the floor up to the curtain rod. This was a fairly regular occurrence.My cat does not play with laser toys, catnip mice, spring-loaded fish, or any of the many other amusements I have bought for her. No, she really only thrills to the opportunity to shred the one pair of curtains I have in the whole house! Also, Miss Butterfly McQueen seemed to particularly relish opportunities to hide behind the panels and cough up fur balls onto the white window sills. Now, lest you think that I would allow my bedroom to be festooned with tattered and puke-stained rags, please be assured that I removed them while they still only evidenced enough snags in the fabric to have given the once opaque sheers the texture of a tapestry. And I always cleaned up the fur balls. But the curtains had to go!
.
Butterfly McQueen, Resting Up for Next Assault on Bedroom Curtains
& Growing Fur for Hair Balls
So, about a year and a half ago, I took them down. Then the sun began to awaken us too early. We solved the problem as best we could, by mashing pillows over our eyes or burrowing under the covers, neither of which was too comfortable in the summer. Plus you woke up with hard-to-get-rid-of pillow case and sheet wrinkles smooshed into your morning flabby face. Not attractive.
I was rummaging through the linen closet one day when I came upon four panels of white dotted Swiss curtains that had formerly been in the Cherry Bedroom (so called because the wall paper border in Melanie's room had gorgeous cherries emblazoned on it. I know, out-of-date!). Hot damn! Re-purposed curtains would allow more shut-eye for the puffed and creased Jim and Marilyn. Ever on the lookout for time-saving tricks when it comes to household drudgery, I decided that I wouldn't bother to iron the curtains until I first hung them to see how they looked on the window. Clever, no? Even though ironing is the one chore I enjoy. I believe that is called irony. Working somewhat feverishly, as I was quite taken with both my thrift and efficiency, it wasn't until I had single-handedly wrestled with and hung the curtain panels that I noticed the panels were from two different completely sets of curtains. One was floor length; one fell six or eight inches below the window sill. In other words, both sets were all wrong. At least I managed to hang them in an artful short-long short-long pattern. One thing I can always say for myself, I can never be accused of succumbing to hubris, as I am constantly reminded that I am an idiot.
Well, at least I can sew. I figured that when the spirit moved me (I seriously think that I was a Quaker in a former life), I would shorten all the panels to a right-to-the-windowsill length. Weeks passed. The spirit felt a slight rustling. So I got out my very nice, but infrequently used Bernina sewing machine, thread, pins, measuring tape, and set to work. Only problem was that the machine would not stitch. I checked the bobbin, took everything apart and cleaned all the casings, gears, and whatever else inhabits a sewing machine body. No luck. I'd exhausted my bag of tricks. I determined that it had been awhile since I'd taken the machine into the dealer for regular maintenance and cleaning. so I knew what my next course of action must be. Several weeks later I actually put the sewing machine in the trunk of the car so that if I actually drove down to Folsom and passed the sewing center, I would have the ailing machine with me.
Two months later, I did drive past the sewing center, on a day when it was open, and lugged the machine inside. It would be worth the hundred or hundred and fifty bucks to have my machine back in good working order. Well, apparently, it required a bit more than just routine maintenance, including a completely new bobbin mechanism. Oh, and from rattling around in my car's trunk for two months on bumpy country roads, it looked like I'd also cracked the actual body of the sewing machine. Just a hairline crack, but still! Long story short, a mere month and a half later, and four hundred twenty dollars lighter, I had a beautifully working sewing machine again. I think. I haven't actually used it yet. But that will have to wait for Part Two of the Domino Theory of Domestic Bliss.
The Domino Theory of Domestic Bliss, Part 2
It looks like I forgot to mention in part one that I opted to wait to claim my back-in-good-repair sewing machine from the shop until well after Christmas, as the four hundred and twenty dollars required to get it out of hock was needed to buy Christmas gifts for the family. Especially since I would (again) be sewing no gifts for anyone. In fact, we decided that instead of exchanging gifts with each other, Jim and I would make a short get-away down the coast in mid-January. I did force myself to take down all the Christmas decorations and put back up most of our non-holiday items before we left for our coastal escape.
Using my Groupon and Living Social accounts, I had gotten great deals on a night on the water in both Morro Bay and Monterey, with neither hotel room even costing a hundred dollars per night. Score! And they were nice places! In Morro Bay, our room had beautiful wood shutters that afforded both privacy and light. Actually, I thought these would be perfect for our bedroom window at home, as Butterfly McQueen could not sneak up into them to use as a scratching post or repository for coughed up fur-balls. Plus, the shutters could be considered a practical update for our quaint, totally out of style bedroom.
Now I may do nothing of note for weeks, months, years, even decades, but once I make up my mind to do something, I throw caution to the wind and charge ahead with unbridled swiftness. I zipped off to Home Depot and began checking out blinds and shutters. I broached the subject with Jim, who agreed this would be a good project. We ordered the blinds a couple of weeks later, as there was a great sale at that time. The sale was so good, that I decided we should order blinds for the living room as well, so the next day we returned to the store and ordered them. Our house has over-sized windows. Lovely for letting in light. A pain for ordering curtains, drapes, or blinds. We had measured very carefully--twice-- just to make sure. As soon as we returned home from ordering the second set, I realized we had measured incorrectly, so I raced back to Home Depot with the new measurements. Formerly eager salespeople appeared distressed to see me barreling back to the window covering department for the fifth time in two days with my little notebook and measuring tape in hand. But I thought I'd finally gotten it right, and hey! I'm always a polite and self-effacing customer.
Of course, now that I had ordered shutters for the living room as well, we could not hold off til spring to paint the walls in the living room. And while we were at it, we'd better do the dining room, hallway, and family room. I could see Jim getting a bit panicked at the thought of throwing the whole house into upheaval, so we agreed to start with just the two main walls in the living room, so we'd be ready for the shutters installation. But, planning ahead, I began to systematically take everything down from the walls in the living room, hallway, and dining room, including all the books and brick-a-brack on the floor to ceiling bookshelves.
Enter our daughter Melanie. "Mom, if you're going to re-paint the whole front part of the house, you've GOT to get rid of these hideous popcorn ceilings!" Melanie is nothing if not direct, but she also has boundless energy and is always more than willing to lend her help to any projects we undertake. "I did it at the house in L.A. It's easy to do, a bit messy, but easy to do." I thought back to that house she'd lived in fifteen years ago. "Was there any furniture in the house when you did this?" Of course not--the house was completely empty at the time of the ceiling work as no one was yet living in the abode.
Truth be told, I'd long been sick of the popcorn ceilings, with their grimy look and constant cobweb sprawl. I had wanted them removed for quite some time It seemed that if we were doing all this work, why not get rid of the popcorn ceilings as well? We contacted a friend who'd done a nice job re-doing our front bathroom the year before, and he said it was something he and Jim could complete in just a couple or three days. Poor Jim. I see now that his hair had started going white long before we started scraping the ceilings! Naturally, I wanted to get all this done before the shutters were installed. We scoped out Home Depot for the necessary supplies, and lined up a time to get started on the popcorn project. Joe, our friend who would be helping us, suggested we look at some YouTube videos before we got started. All internet videos and articles on popcorn ceiling removal had one thing in common:
This cheery news caused us to stop in our tracks. Our house had been built during the transition year between when asbestos was not banned and when it was.When faced with any kind of dilemma, this is what I do. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. For days or weeks. Eventually I come up with a plan, but not after quite some time of staring vacantly into space, coming up with contingency after contingency, and casting off each one in turn. The wheels spin, but I go nowhere. I take to the couch. And I'm depressed.
Choices From The Couch:
1. Do nothing. Keep the house exactly as it is
2. Paint, and just re-paint the ceilings. Asbestos is not a danger unless it is released into the air--like when taking down acoustic ceilings.
3. Do nothing. Eat ice cream
4. Hire a contractor and a HazMat team to deal with it all.
5. Do nothing. Take another trip to the coast.
6. Do an asbestos test and take it from there.
Eventually I recovered my equilibrium, called up a lab in Sacramento, and we did an asbestos test, which showed no asbestos in the house. Hooray! Now we could proceed.
In the interim, when I was couch-bound, Jim had decided to go ahead and paint the family room, an addition to the home that already had nicely finished ceilings. Away with all the memorabilia in the family room! Off it went to the apartment, which, at one point had been perfectly organized with all the front-of-the-house crap. Now it looked like several small explosives had gone off in there. But the family room was now ready to receive the furniture from the living room and dining room. Rendering it the complex maze of chairs, sofas, end tables and lamps, that greeted my guest and me for our mid-morning tea.
Which, I believe, brings me full circle to the beginning of this all-too-lengthy, but still condensed version of home repairs a la Souza. The tea turned out just fine, and the pastries were delicious. The popcorn was removed from the ceilings in what had to be the messiest project we had ever undertaken. We have decided that the popcorn ceilings can remain in the three bedrooms, and can be painted if we ever feel like it, which we probably won't. I do worry that if something were to happen to Jim, I'd be forced to sell a house that is dated and in need of repairs. Jim, on the other hand, has informed me that I worry too much, and if I should kick the bucket first, he'll just load a few things into his little racing camper, and take off to parts unknown! He would most likely abandon the cat. I should prepare the kids for those eventualities, I guess.
In a final note of irony, once all the popcorn had been removed from the dining room ceiling, I was on the phone, looked up, and spotted a tenacious little creature. Sure, let us try to de-popcorn his habitat! You can take the popcorn out of the ceilings, but you can't take it out of a Daddy-Long-Leg's web!
Final Note: It is now July 11. We have decided to re-texture the ceilings. Not with acoustic popcorn, but with a hand troweled effect. So, nothing has been finished, walls are still largely empty, ceiling vents are still missing, and ceiling lamps hang precariously by wires. We survived a ridiculously stressful window blinds installation imbroglio---perhaps a future blog post, but it's too exhausting to recount now. The Daddy-Long-Legs have vacated the front part of the house, and are apparently ensconced in the front bedroom, which they are happily and copiously decorating with their webs. And hopefully, I will be able to put up Christmas decorations before New Years!
It looks like I forgot to mention in part one that I opted to wait to claim my back-in-good-repair sewing machine from the shop until well after Christmas, as the four hundred and twenty dollars required to get it out of hock was needed to buy Christmas gifts for the family. Especially since I would (again) be sewing no gifts for anyone. In fact, we decided that instead of exchanging gifts with each other, Jim and I would make a short get-away down the coast in mid-January. I did force myself to take down all the Christmas decorations and put back up most of our non-holiday items before we left for our coastal escape.
Using my Groupon and Living Social accounts, I had gotten great deals on a night on the water in both Morro Bay and Monterey, with neither hotel room even costing a hundred dollars per night. Score! And they were nice places! In Morro Bay, our room had beautiful wood shutters that afforded both privacy and light. Actually, I thought these would be perfect for our bedroom window at home, as Butterfly McQueen could not sneak up into them to use as a scratching post or repository for coughed up fur-balls. Plus, the shutters could be considered a practical update for our quaint, totally out of style bedroom.
Now I may do nothing of note for weeks, months, years, even decades, but once I make up my mind to do something, I throw caution to the wind and charge ahead with unbridled swiftness. I zipped off to Home Depot and began checking out blinds and shutters. I broached the subject with Jim, who agreed this would be a good project. We ordered the blinds a couple of weeks later, as there was a great sale at that time. The sale was so good, that I decided we should order blinds for the living room as well, so the next day we returned to the store and ordered them. Our house has over-sized windows. Lovely for letting in light. A pain for ordering curtains, drapes, or blinds. We had measured very carefully--twice-- just to make sure. As soon as we returned home from ordering the second set, I realized we had measured incorrectly, so I raced back to Home Depot with the new measurements. Formerly eager salespeople appeared distressed to see me barreling back to the window covering department for the fifth time in two days with my little notebook and measuring tape in hand. But I thought I'd finally gotten it right, and hey! I'm always a polite and self-effacing customer.
Of course, now that I had ordered shutters for the living room as well, we could not hold off til spring to paint the walls in the living room. And while we were at it, we'd better do the dining room, hallway, and family room. I could see Jim getting a bit panicked at the thought of throwing the whole house into upheaval, so we agreed to start with just the two main walls in the living room, so we'd be ready for the shutters installation. But, planning ahead, I began to systematically take everything down from the walls in the living room, hallway, and dining room, including all the books and brick-a-brack on the floor to ceiling bookshelves.
Enter our daughter Melanie. "Mom, if you're going to re-paint the whole front part of the house, you've GOT to get rid of these hideous popcorn ceilings!" Melanie is nothing if not direct, but she also has boundless energy and is always more than willing to lend her help to any projects we undertake. "I did it at the house in L.A. It's easy to do, a bit messy, but easy to do." I thought back to that house she'd lived in fifteen years ago. "Was there any furniture in the house when you did this?" Of course not--the house was completely empty at the time of the ceiling work as no one was yet living in the abode.
Truth be told, I'd long been sick of the popcorn ceilings, with their grimy look and constant cobweb sprawl. I had wanted them removed for quite some time It seemed that if we were doing all this work, why not get rid of the popcorn ceilings as well? We contacted a friend who'd done a nice job re-doing our front bathroom the year before, and he said it was something he and Jim could complete in just a couple or three days. Poor Jim. I see now that his hair had started going white long before we started scraping the ceilings! Naturally, I wanted to get all this done before the shutters were installed. We scoped out Home Depot for the necessary supplies, and lined up a time to get started on the popcorn project. Joe, our friend who would be helping us, suggested we look at some YouTube videos before we got started. All internet videos and articles on popcorn ceiling removal had one thing in common:
MAKE SURE THERE IS NO ASBESTOS IN YOUR POPCORN CEILINGS
before you do anything else! Failure to do so can result in DEATH! WHAT???
This cheery news caused us to stop in our tracks. Our house had been built during the transition year between when asbestos was not banned and when it was.When faced with any kind of dilemma, this is what I do. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. For days or weeks. Eventually I come up with a plan, but not after quite some time of staring vacantly into space, coming up with contingency after contingency, and casting off each one in turn. The wheels spin, but I go nowhere. I take to the couch. And I'm depressed.
Choices From The Couch:
1. Do nothing. Keep the house exactly as it is
2. Paint, and just re-paint the ceilings. Asbestos is not a danger unless it is released into the air--like when taking down acoustic ceilings.
3. Do nothing. Eat ice cream
4. Hire a contractor and a HazMat team to deal with it all.
5. Do nothing. Take another trip to the coast.
6. Do an asbestos test and take it from there.
Eventually I recovered my equilibrium, called up a lab in Sacramento, and we did an asbestos test, which showed no asbestos in the house. Hooray! Now we could proceed.
In the interim, when I was couch-bound, Jim had decided to go ahead and paint the family room, an addition to the home that already had nicely finished ceilings. Away with all the memorabilia in the family room! Off it went to the apartment, which, at one point had been perfectly organized with all the front-of-the-house crap. Now it looked like several small explosives had gone off in there. But the family room was now ready to receive the furniture from the living room and dining room. Rendering it the complex maze of chairs, sofas, end tables and lamps, that greeted my guest and me for our mid-morning tea.
Which, I believe, brings me full circle to the beginning of this all-too-lengthy, but still condensed version of home repairs a la Souza. The tea turned out just fine, and the pastries were delicious. The popcorn was removed from the ceilings in what had to be the messiest project we had ever undertaken. We have decided that the popcorn ceilings can remain in the three bedrooms, and can be painted if we ever feel like it, which we probably won't. I do worry that if something were to happen to Jim, I'd be forced to sell a house that is dated and in need of repairs. Jim, on the other hand, has informed me that I worry too much, and if I should kick the bucket first, he'll just load a few things into his little racing camper, and take off to parts unknown! He would most likely abandon the cat. I should prepare the kids for those eventualities, I guess.
In a final note of irony, once all the popcorn had been removed from the dining room ceiling, I was on the phone, looked up, and spotted a tenacious little creature. Sure, let us try to de-popcorn his habitat! You can take the popcorn out of the ceilings, but you can't take it out of a Daddy-Long-Leg's web!
Final Note: It is now July 11. We have decided to re-texture the ceilings. Not with acoustic popcorn, but with a hand troweled effect. So, nothing has been finished, walls are still largely empty, ceiling vents are still missing, and ceiling lamps hang precariously by wires. We survived a ridiculously stressful window blinds installation imbroglio---perhaps a future blog post, but it's too exhausting to recount now. The Daddy-Long-Legs have vacated the front part of the house, and are apparently ensconced in the front bedroom, which they are happily and copiously decorating with their webs. And hopefully, I will be able to put up Christmas decorations before New Years!
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