Sunday, March 27, 2011

Mr. C's Surf Camp


Playa Hermosa, Costa Rica

So the boys hit the waves this morning for their first surfing adventure. Mr. C used to Hang Ten back in the day, so is was his job to educate the kids on the way of the waves. To my surprise they didn't come stomping back the first time the epoxyed, fiberglass board got kicked up by a swell and conked their collective heads. They actually worked hard, stuck with it, and mastered what I believe to be an extremely difficult sport. I was so proud of them, watching their tan little arms paddle out behind their Dad in search of the perfect wave.

Another perfect day in paradise.

Friday, March 25, 2011

We've Landed in Paradise

our tiny airstrip in Tambor, Costa Rica
We arrived in Costa Rica yesterday and I swear we found a piece of heaven. I am sitting under a canopy of palm trees in our Swiss Family Robinson treehouse where my three year old is snoring by my side. Around the corner my big kids are splashing in the saltwater pool after a day of stuffing themselves full of fish tacos and fresh mango smoothies.
There are no clocks. I think it's Friday. Mr. C has not reached for his Blackberry.
Life is good.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Tahitian Treat


You will be happy to know that the fuzzy, clunky buzz in my brain this past week was not a full-on episode of writers block, but merely a dust induced cold brought on by the sheet rock and insulation that crumbled from my ceiling Tuesday morning. Yes, the God damn ice dam finally caved and we had to do an all out demo of a bedroom and a portion of our basement last week. Not sure if it was toxic mold smell and fine particles swirling around my house or just a good old fashioned cold, but something knocked me into a state of hazy numbness that only human size dehumidifiers from Stanley Steamer could suck out. So the week was a bit of a doozy woozy in terms of not feeling well and being forced to make decisions as to what to do with this new found raw space of ours.

Part of the fun of living in a 1938 house are the details that you discover about it's history. Man, if these walls could talk! In the demolition process of the bedroom our contractor unearthed some of the funkiest wallpaper I have ever seen. I must admit, I kinda like the colors (brown, turquoise, and hot pink!) but I am not one for ethnic porn on my walls. I literally laughed out loud when I saw this hedonistic design- who picked out this kooky stuff?!? Was it a tough decision to choose this slinky, topless, Tahitian beauty? What was this room used for back in the day that it had such loud, auto erotic dancers adorning the walls? The neighborhood brothel, perhaps? Who knows, but I have learned many secrets in the past weeks about this old house of mine- doesn't every home need a "smoking room" in the basement with a built-in exhaust fan (I had no idea!) for those late night card games? I also learned that one of the previous owners who lived here for forty years passed away in my sun room. I was kinda creeped out until Mr. C told me he thought it was pretty sweet that Old Mr. Hopkins wanted to take his last breaths with his family in this bright, cheery room, and then announced that he plans to go out in exactly the same manner. Hmmm. This revelation finally settled the argument about the "ghostly" spiritual sensations I get from time to time around here; now I know it's just the ghost of Old Man Hopkins. Seems like a pretty cool fellow....

So, now that we have this blank space that we are turning into a den/office type of room, should I wallpaper again? Wallpaper is very hip at the moment and there are some super sweet patterns out there these days. I just can't decide. I know I am at risk of turning off my male readership here, but I need some help. What to do with this room of mine? Wallpaper, paint, what colors, what patterns? I spend an unbelievable amount of time browsing through shelter (aka interior design) magazines and now it is time to actually make a decision and I can't. Maybe it's the dust, but I need some input. Check out the inspiration wallpaper below.


 
pastels, perhaps?


kind of a modern version of my Tahitian design


deGournay=gorgeous


Thoughts?

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Static


I can't tell you how many times in the last few days I have sat down at my computer and just stared at the blank screen and buzzzz...nothing but static in my head. Absolutely nothin'. No thoughts. Nada. I sit and stare and blink. My mind wanders. I begin to eavesdrop on the two men sitting next to me at Starbucks who are arguing about some conflict in their church. I think about how the hell I am going to keep my luggage to the 30 lb. limit per person for this vacation next week (shouldn't be THAT hard, right?). What am I going to make for dinner tonight to please my picky kids (no more pasta, please)? I also really need to get to Jerry's to pick up that can of WD40 for my squeaky front door. Is the insurance adjuster working on our God damn ice dam situation going to be a total asshole? I also can't forget to get the hockey skates sharpened for the God forsaken tournament this weekend- can you tell I am TOTALLY over hockey for the season?


Churning, churning, churning. Lists, lists and more lists, yet nothing substantial, nothing interesting.
Nothing you might possibly want to read about.


During daylight hours my mind just keeps buzzing from one stupid, mindless topic to another. Nighttime brings sort of a murky insomnia (not enough to get me out of bed, mind you) where words and ideas just flow through me- different blog topics, possible future career paths, new interests I would like to pursue. Morning comes and I am so drained and exhausted from my midnight brain party that the mental hangover has rendered me completely useless. I feel utterly, wholly, completely fried. Did I kill one too many brain cells in Vegas? Hope not, I need all I've got. Could it be a shift in air pressure with spring right around the corner? Maybe.
Hopefully.


BUZZ.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Pyrotechnical Difficulties



Straight up- what is is with boys and fire?
It's a mystery to me as I grew up in a family dominated by females and we never, ever played with matches, lighters, fireworks or things that smoked as a means of afternoon amusement. Well, maybe one or two things that smoked, but we certainly had no interest in tall, hot, dangerous flames that were capable of destroying things. That would be wrong, and well, just downright destructive.

On Sunday evening we came home from Las Vegas to find out that our two oldest boys and a couple of buddies succeeded in hosting an all out bonfire in our garage complete with hot dogs and marshmallows. No, we did not leave them home alone as you may suspect; our very capable and responsible sitter was inside playing with our three year old while the older boys were supposed to be innocently playing outside in the snow when she began to smell smoke...

Now, I am not naive. I knew what I was getting into with three boys- a little athletes foot, a bag full of rank hockey equipment, a couple of chipped teeth, inappropriate language. Big deal, right? But FIRE!? I have to admit after arriving home (to a very smoky smelling house I might add) and hearing about "the campfire" it was the first time I have had serious heart pumping, hand sweating terror about my kids encountering true danger. Suffice it to say, I lost my marbles. Completely L-O-S-T my marbles people!! Gone. I am rarely at a loss for words, and let me tell you those two boys of mine ripped every last word, thought, syllable, and sound out of my brain and lit 'em all with a match. This Mom was, for the very first time, utterly speechless.

SO, I ask the question again....what is it about a boy's fascination with flames? Is it the unpredictability of what might go down once these flames jump to the tanks of boat gas or stacks of cardboard that litter my garage? Or is it the adrenaline rush of seeing a wooden boat reduced to a pile of polyurethane matchsticks? Kill me now for putting this out there fellas, but this situation totally proves the caveman theory to me. How many female arsonists have you heard of before? Yeah, exactly.

Fire at it's core is so primitive, primordial; the ultimate symbol of a survivalist instinct. Translation for my fellow male readership- you're all so taken with the hot, red/blue/green flames dancing up and down that you don't even think of the friggin' consequences that this stuff can cause!!! For a quick moment, Mr. C shot me a little sideways glance as if to say, "what's the big deal?" when I started to go all ballistic on the kids about fire safety. Why was it not his first instinct to yell at the top of his lungs "you could have blown up the fucking house you little morons!" It certainly was mine, and I am not even the Cub Scout leader in this family.
Just sayin'...


Burning Man Festival in Black Rock Desert, Nevada
Apparently good old fashioned fun with fire isn't just for little kids...

I now have had a few days to digest the pyrotechnic activity that took place in my garage this past weekend, and I can say that I am now able to chuckle (slightly) about the incident. Given it was a group of boys between the ages of 6 and 11 (research says this is the prime age group to be tantalized by flames) and no objects, small animals or younger brothers were burned at the stake, this really seems to be a textbook example of young male behavior and an innocent, normal fascination with fire.
YIKES!
Gotta love my little cavemen.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Wanderlust

Santa Teresa Beach, Costa Rica
I have an incurable, insatiable case of wanderlust. It's in my DNA. Ask anyone that knows me and they will tell you I am a total and complete travel nut. No, make that a travel hound, always sniffing out the next hot spot that's off the beaten path. Whether it's riding elephants in Thailand (honeymoon), ice climbing in the Swiss Alps (most frightening stunt I have ever attempted), skiing in Austria (exceptional), working the grape harvest in the beautiful wine region of Alsace, France (definitely the most physically demanding and exhausting), or sitting on Copacabana Beach in Rio de Janiero, Brazil (purely indulgent and hedonistic) every trip has pushed my personal limits in one way or another and broadened my perspective and respect for the world around me.

When I was fifteen I was lucky enough to travel through Southern Spain for a month. The following year, a summer in Brazil. After that, a college semester abroad in Copenhagen. My parents just believed it was part of my education; equally important as algebra and chemistry. Finances didn't allow for international sojourns each year so we found scholarships- one through my Dad's employer at the time and another grant that sent me abroad in college. I worked part time to supplement spending money and trip by fabulous trip, away I would go. When I was younger, I always preferred traveling alone, which allowed for detours whenever needed. I was hanging in Prague with a great group of Australians, Kiwis and California surf bums when they all decided that spending Halloween night in a castle in Transylvania (yeah, it's a real place!) seemed like a fantastic idea. Me, not so much. Traveling solo allowed me the freedom to hit the trail again in search of something just a touch lighter, which is how I found myself hanging over the side of a "glacier crevasse" in Switzerland with cramp-on's and a pick ax. At that point Transylvania sounded like Disneyland.

My travels earlier in life bordered on the thrilling and dangerous, which I am sure to this day my parents still don't know all the details. After college, as soon as employment became a necessity my passport seemed to get stamped with much more civilized locales- Australia, France, Italy. Corporate frequent flier miles put me in the front of the plane and expense accounts landed me in cushy hotels and world class restaurants. It was pretty plush, but after a few years it all left me exhausted, unfulfilled, and most importantly, guilt ridden with one little guy at home and another on the way. Something had to give, so almost eight years ago I hung up my corporate hat and traded it all in for carpools and Caillou. As you can imagine, travel came to a screeching halt and I was left behind as Mr. C packed his bag every week for a different destination. I made him promise that as soon as our babies got bigger, we would hit the road again in search of great adventure and places far flung to introduce to our children. Hallelujah! The time has come.

My boys have all been passport holders since before they could walk and little by little they have each hit the road with us. Our oldest saw the Hawaiian islands three times before his younger brother came along. Our middle son screamed his way through Paris for a long weekend. And sure enough, just as I hoped, they all look forward to the experience of seeing new places, tasting new foods and exploring new cultures. They truly love traveling like I do. They pack like pros and navigate security as if they were seasoned business travelers. In two weeks we are heading to a remote area of Costa Rica for bug hunting, monkey handling, zip lining, and surfing. It will take us nearly eight hours and three planes (one being a twin engine Cessna) to reach our destination but we are thrilled and our kids are literally squirming out of their skin with excitement. I am proud of their sense of adventure and willingness to explore the world. We have many places on our list- Africa, China, The Galapagos, India. I am thrilled that my travel companions now include Mr. C and my three sons.
Wanderlust lives on...

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Love It or Loath It



Viva Las Vegas!



This weekend we are jetting off for another 40th celebration in, you guessed it, Sin City. Mr. C's BFF is crossing over to the dark side and has invited us along for the ride. Now, Mr. C's BFF, whom we shall call Uncle Bub, is no stranger to a good time, especially in Vegas. Let's just say he and Mr. C have spent a night or two trolling this crazy town together; winning money, losing money, seeing shows (and not the Cirque de Soleil types), and causing a little bit of general mayhem in various hotels over the years. Thank GOD the wives are invited this time around- I'm not sure Vegas could handle these two on a 40th birthday bender.

So, what does it mean to head out to Vegas as a 40 year old? Hopefully it doesn't include a tiger in the bathroom, a baby in the closet, a small Asian man flying out of the trunk of a car, Mike Tyson, or any missing teeth. (OK- if you don't know what I'm talking about here you clearly have not seen The Hangover. Stop reading right now, go watch it and get back to me when you are privy to popular culture.)
It means a nice hotel (The Bellagio), a few nice meals (no 3 a.m. buffets), and a private VIP lounge at Tabu so we are not forced to dance with the masses (a little different than bumping and grinding next to drooling, drunken bachelors on their last night of freedom) at The Luxor.

Of course there will be a little gambling. Who can resist fresh oxygen being pumped into the casinos with all those bells dinging and coins clanking? And don't you just love the crowds leaning around the Roulette tables when someone is on a roll (no pun intended)? I absolutely hate to admit how much I love the energy in Vegas. It never sleeps (maybe between 4 am and 5 am it takes a little snooze) and there is constant action. I know it comes from seedy roots, but Vegas has really cleaned up its act in the last 12 years. Every serious chef from coast to coast has an outpost there. The hotels are gorgeous. The spas are pretty killer. And don't forget about Celine Dion. What's not to love?

Viva Las Vegas and Happy 40th Uncle Bub!!!

The Bellagio

Let's just say there are people that love Las Vegas, and people that hate Las Vegas. I happen to be one of those people that L-O-V-E Vegas!
Surprised? Yeah right.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

"In case you were wondering..."


courtesy of www.826Valencia.org

Received this today...completely made me smile.
We all need a little reinforcement from time to time.
Thank you!!!

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Ya Sure...You Betcha

Are we there yet? Well, not quite, but I am looking through the tunnel and I can almost see the light. I raked my roof yesterday for what I hope will be the final time this season. I threw Ice Melt on the ground in hopes of seeing the pavers that lie beneath the nasty, uneven crap that has become my driveway. Yes folks, we have hit the Dog Days of Winter. Melt baby, MELT!!!


Before all this glorious snow gives way to green leaves and grass, let's not forget about all the fun times we had this winter. So often my West Coast friends say, "How the hell do you do it?" Or, more directly, "WHAT the hell do you do for all those, long, dark months?"
Well, my West Coast pals, this one's for you.


Here in what is most certainly known as God's Country (insert chuckle #1) we spend most weekends drinking coolers full of PBR in heated shacks while sitting around a hole in the ice that we popped open with a giant corkscrew (insert chuckle #2) waiting for a catch. Yeah baby, ice fishing!
With a backpack full of bologna sandwiches and a flask or two of Peppermint Schnapps's we tell Ole and Lena jokes until our faces are frozen then hop on our snowmobiles with one eye open and hope we make it across the vast frozen wasteland that doubles as a recreational lake in the summertime while dodging the DNR. Needing at least one bump before making it all the way home, we beach our sleds at the nearest dive bar where the Juke Box (yeah, I said Juke Box) plays only Country and you pull a frozen pizza out of a cooler and hand it to the frosted hair beauty behind the bar and tell her to pop it in for ya while she mixes you a Folger's and buttered rum concoction. Hopefully by now you are sober enough to jump into your pick-up (watch the gun rack) with two eyes open to be home in time for Cheer's reruns.


Typical day in Minnesota, right? OOOOHHHH NOOOO.
(Can't you just hear the accent?)


Ummm, Minnesota friends, I hate to inform you, but this is what so many folks on the Left Coast believe we do with our time from December to April. I kid you not. Don't be offended, it's all right. Let them think we are a collection of bumpkins with missing teeth and a taste for processed, salted meats.
But let's be honest here, winter can be long. It can bleak. It can be downright depressing when you don't breathe fresh air for 48 hours at a stretch, but I gotta hand it to ya, my hearty Midwestern comrades- you know how to have a hellava good time!

www.pedalpub.com.

Betcha never heard of this West Coasties- peddling around your own sixteen seater personal pub from bar at bar. Quite a novel way to do a pub crawl AND keep the PBR flowing! Fun stuff.
(Never mind the Lederhosen on the fella in the middle.)


We play a miniature form of tennis with a paddle. In a cage. In the snow with a heated floor. Even when it's 8 degrees. OK, it sounds weird, but it's cool.
And then there is the cross country skiing, the snowshoeing, the hockey, the downhill skiing.

We earn our stripes here in The Heartland and we wear them with dignity and honor. It takes a special person to be able to handle life in this freezing little corner of the world.
I am proudly sewing my "I Survived my Fourth Winter in Minnesota" on my knee- length North Face jacket. Yup, you betcha. I've made it (almost) four years and have not gone criminally insane. Yet.