tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10863705617358943722024-03-05T04:45:02.897-06:00Life in the Pickle JarThe ups,downs & in-betweens of life in sunny Spain with four kids; two of them diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis.PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-88043395138950617012013-02-19T08:10:00.002-06:002013-02-19T08:10:46.775-06:00DANCE WITH THE DEVIL part 3<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As it turns out, a little thing happened between our clinic visit and Dr. Cowboy's request for the CAT scans.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZxbs_DY3Ei0kpw8Aixc4yVdd3UrumS-cDf02pAO4Z0PmW-JuiSZiC1dVFXP-Wft2ROnlfznFCQDKboZQcLKrM2paMyxhJqVPwC8Yn0sIrPJnMO2vWhL_aAdmjNXovK043VQixUyFmvWh/s1600/veronica+november+2012+006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZxbs_DY3Ei0kpw8Aixc4yVdd3UrumS-cDf02pAO4Z0PmW-JuiSZiC1dVFXP-Wft2ROnlfznFCQDKboZQcLKrM2paMyxhJqVPwC8Yn0sIrPJnMO2vWhL_aAdmjNXovK043VQixUyFmvWh/s320/veronica+november+2012+006.JPG" width="212" /></a><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Her name is Veronica.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Yeah, as if three rambunctious kids, a too big dog and a husband wasn't enough insanity, I was now pregnant. Pregnant and careening towards 40. Holy shit. And the pregnancy was horrible in case you wanna know. I was in and out of the hospital, on and off bedrest, and not at all sure that Little V as she has come to be called would make it. But she did. And she was/is perfect in every which way. She would arrive some two months early, about the same time as her two oldest siblings would have their CAT scans and she would live her first month and a half in the NICU right up until those CAT scan results would come back. There was so much going on for us as a family that I don't remember much only that it was chaotic as all get out, we were separated with me staying in Cordoba with Little V and Joe trying to manage the rest back in the pueblo and I had missed my very first clinic visit in four years.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I was busy feeling sorry for myself, alone in my hospital room when Joe called. </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"They've got nothing. Nothing. He's shocked."</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Who? What? Huh? What are you talking about?" I was annoyed. Why wasn't he visiting with the kids more often? And I needed food, real food. By <em>real food</em> of course I meant chocolate. The hospital had fast become a prison and I was losing it.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Cowboy has the results. The CAT scan came back clean..."</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I heard nothing after that. Nothing but me trying to catch short, gasping breaths between sobs. </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Soon after that phone call Little V and I were <strike>parolled</strike> released. We went back home to the pueblo, I reassembled/disinfected the home that had housed the pack of wolves for the past two months and I waited anxiously for the next clinic visit, my chance to hear it from Cowboy himself. In the meantime, we enjoyed a new treatment protocol: nothing.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnrorVKrRYVziINnrsWDbl8g6Uh74_tkNHAUGPScQogm14exUKIQQOF1mFu4aaCJoaV8N9SQ4RrPiPAAFCJW0LKVbwZi4aboTp37WZV07s5S-187DB2xGGGET-EE8xwvGhl1wsFGDQzd7g/s1600/dance+with+the+devil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnrorVKrRYVziINnrsWDbl8g6Uh74_tkNHAUGPScQogm14exUKIQQOF1mFu4aaCJoaV8N9SQ4RrPiPAAFCJW0LKVbwZi4aboTp37WZV07s5S-187DB2xGGGET-EE8xwvGhl1wsFGDQzd7g/s320/dance+with+the+devil.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Upon reading the CAT scan results, Cowboy threw down the emergency brake on our crazy train. If the kids were getting a hardcore daily dose of physical activity (running, biking, swimming...) he would count that as physiotherapy and we could eliminate our twice daily vest sessions so long as there were no respiratory issues going on. If the kids had a cold or anything that sounded even remotely junky, we'd have our choice of throwing in a session with the vest or using a handheld device (Acapella or Flutter). Once the weather took a turn towards <em>winter</em> (I still snicker when I say that here) and the kids were less active, we would do one treatment session a day (vest or handheld device) until spring showed up. The Albuterol that the kids had been inhaling with every vest session was axed. No more daily inhaled meds. We would monitor this new action plan visit by visit and he made clear that he would reserve the right to amend it should future lab results warrant it. And so our dance with the devil had begun.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When clinic finally rolled around again, I was all over it. This would be the day that I would finally get to sit face to face with Cowboy and get it straight from the source. It had been fine to hear the instant replay from Joe but I needed to hear it from Cowboy for it to be real. Just what had he seen on those CAT scan results? What was he thinking?</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He sat perhaps a little too comfortably in the rolling desk chair. With a cock of his head and swivel of his hips, he leaned in. "<em>Que no hay nada. Nada</em>." And just what was that supposed to mean? How could there be nothing? He pulled out up the results from the CAT scan and read off a laundry lists of No's. </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">No </span><a href="http://www.nhlbi.nih.gov/health/health-topics/topics/brn/"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">bronchiecstasis</span></a><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">No mucuous build up.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">No sinus polyups.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">No sinus drainage.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">No ghosting.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">No scarring.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">No inflamation.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">No-no-no-no-no. There was just, just...nothing. </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He went on to tell me that the image that he had studied was not one of a cystic fibrosis patient. Unsatisfied, I pushed him a little further. "How can you say that? What about the genetic side of all this? The one that has told us that they have cystic fibrosis."</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I'm not saying that they don't have the genetics for the disease because they do. What I'm saying is that for whatever the reason, they are completely asymptomatic. It is quite possible that one of your husband's less common genes is acting as a corrector and functioning enough to get the job done. Take your son's case. How old is he? Six? By this age we should expect to see something to link him to the disease; something beyond his genetic profile yet there is nothing."</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It was overwhelming. I couldn't speak. And then the exclamation point,</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"If it weren't for the genetic side of all of this, I would never believe that either one of your children had cystic fibrosis."</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">______________________________________________ </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And that's how we left it. </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">We still go to clinic every three months. The kids still get swabbed, cultured and pricked. Levels are checked, cultures are run and we're more than aware that things could change down the road. The main difference is that we have cut back on vest treatments to nothing in the good weather months when they're swimming and running their brains out to once a day in the off season. Our plan is to purchase two Flutter devices so we can retire the vest at least for the time being. While this turn of events has been nothing short of miraculous, I'd be lying if I told you that I've fully embraced it. I worry a lot about the what-ifs, not just because I'm a mom but because that's how I've always been. I want to enjoy every second of this reprieve but I don't want to be sailing down the river of denial either. It's a fine line and I'm confused about which side of it to anchor into. Who knows? I'm beginning to think I'll be forever adrift between the two. And that's okay, right?</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">At least for now, in light of it all, I'll try sleeping with one eye open instead of two.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-28516646215354562272013-01-21T02:37:00.000-06:002013-01-21T02:37:25.784-06:00DANCE WITH THE DEVIL part 2 of 3<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Joe, like it or not, is not one to get his panties in a bunch over life's <em>what-if</em> moments like his crazy pickle wrangling wife. <strong>M</strong></span></span><a href="http://www.321picklepits.blogspot.com.es/2013/01/dance-with-devil-part-1-of-3.html"><strong><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">y news</span></strong></a><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> was met with barely a raised eyebrow and a lackluster,"Yeah, we'll wanna look into that." Annoying? Uhm, yeah. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;">So we waited. And waited. And waited. Remember, we're in socialized medicine land here so there was no speed dial to Dr. Cowboy with this epiphany. At our next CF clinic, which happened to be a painful three months down the pipe, I put it right out on the table for the good doctor in my Lone Ranger (it's actually more Tonto than Lone Ranger) Spanish, "There'sthiswebsiteputtogetherbytheCFFandHopkinsthatsaysthekidsmightnothaveCFwhaddyathink?" </span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr8YQm7Bm6xckM-7VV18efYYCQr_LRGGwjhxiqbiMqR7QmNiNGF4b4cJsamqUofuCoHN7BjJK7RFjSgbY_YfbW2GzU3gu-rPluwKGXkIj0Nyez8pmvLe1mMIYlRfCaQoIB7C15YM0JJiJZ/s1600/march+2011+024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr8YQm7Bm6xckM-7VV18efYYCQr_LRGGwjhxiqbiMqR7QmNiNGF4b4cJsamqUofuCoHN7BjJK7RFjSgbY_YfbW2GzU3gu-rPluwKGXkIj0Nyez8pmvLe1mMIYlRfCaQoIB7C15YM0JJiJZ/s200/march+2011+024.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well, she just may have been <br />
on to something.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;">And as he's so good at doing, Joe translated my babble. "What we mean is that there have been some recent publications specific to the kids' mutations and we've got some questions. I guess we just want to be sure that we're on track with their treatment plan given this news." Pretty generic, yes but probably better than the emotional babble that spewed out of my mouth. Cowboy listened, asked a bunch of questions that now, barely a year later I don't even remember and then said, </span><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;">"I'm glad you brought this up because I've been scratching my head over your kids for some time now. To be honest, I've never seen anything like their cases before. Here's what I want: I want a CAT scan. I want a CAT scan of each child. I want to see beyond the collection of yearly x-rays and the lab reports. I'll order it today but it won't be for a few months. You'll be assigned an appointment time for later this summer. Let's start from there and play our hand accordingly. Until then, we keep our action plan as-is: no change."</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;">I nodded, wide eyed. He didn't laugh at us or call us crazy. He didn't <em>hmph</em> about us being in denial. He listened. And it appeared that he too was unsettled about our Cystic Fibrosis. Maybe not as unsettled as I but unsettled enough to order a CAT scan for Charlie and another one for Lola. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;">The can of worms had been officially opened; a lot would be riding on the results of the upcoming CAT scan, at least in my mind. If it came back clean it might mean a whole new way of approaching and ultimately managing our CF. If it came back showing evidence of the disease it would be reliving the diagmosis all over again, a chapter in our lives that I was none too keen to revisit.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;">My walk out to the parking lot that day was both a half ton lighter and a half ton heavier. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"><em>Hmph. </em></span><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"></span></em><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;">All in the same clinic visit. </span>PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-21881938847605703772013-01-16T04:03:00.003-06:002013-01-16T04:03:58.348-06:00DANCE WITH THE DEVIL part 1 of 3<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyJrqWzZsjSMxB-QM_4vwzSGQEKKi3ldrCjrGHR6uo6gXCAfxxIWCwbq3-D5RmfYdcmwvKJYp4jR1l14FwfdU8IYVZocrtZD0k3pDBQ_QVmT32iDLIZfj_INTbDgHKQqSLh43kROsRW1GN/s1600/adhd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyJrqWzZsjSMxB-QM_4vwzSGQEKKi3ldrCjrGHR6uo6gXCAfxxIWCwbq3-D5RmfYdcmwvKJYp4jR1l14FwfdU8IYVZocrtZD0k3pDBQ_QVmT32iDLIZfj_INTbDgHKQqSLh43kROsRW1GN/s200/adhd.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">D</span><span style="color: #274e13;">0 you ever find yourself stopping dead in the middle of a conversation with a friend and having no clue as to a) what you were talking about or b) what you were going to say? I do. And sadly, it happens a lot. I used to worry that it was early onset Alzheimer's now I just blame it on motherhood. I also have a hard time sitting still and staying focussed on the task at hand which is precisely how this trainwreck of a blog reads. One minute I'm hi-hoeing my way off to CF Clinic and the next I'm making an ass of myself in the pueblo. So to set the record straight, Life in the Pickle Jar was born out of desperation. Sorry, but there was no altruistic intent to connect with others who were dealing with Cystic Fibrosis. If you've ever dared to wade through my early posts you'll see a woman on the verge of unravelling or hell, maybe I <em>was</em> unravelling. Point is, I was scared out of my mind; in a full-on blind panic, my mouth wide open and a scream so shrill only wild dogs could hear me. It was a desperate place, a desperate time and this blog some way some how, became my outlet.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #274e13;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #274e13;">Then, in the midst of it all, there we were, packing up to get the hell outta Dodge. We launched our little family across a big, blue ocean and started to settle into life all over again. I made a conscious decision to covet the 24th hour of the day for sleep, not worry and definitely not fear of the unknown. And surprisingly, the world didn't fall apart as I feared it might. Actually, if you really wanna know, nothing happened. NOTHING. No cough. No pseudomonas. No funky cultures. No phlegm. No greasy stools. No tummy aches. Nothing. Piecing it all together, four years of nothing is a lot of, well, nothing. Don't get me wrong, we were still doing our vest treatments twice a day with the inhaled bronchiodialator. And we made it CF clinic for our quarterly visits like clockwork. But now I was starting to feel a little unsettled. Why were the kids doing so well with this killer disease? Were we missing something? It weighed heavily on my mind but not enough for me to change anything. I was just thankful that we were still flying under the CF radar.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So fast forward to last year when while surfing the internet as I usually do because there's only so much Spanish Wheel of Fortune a girl can take, I came across </span><a href="http://www.cftr2.org/"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>this link</strong></span></a><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> put out by the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation and John's Hopkins University. It's basically a one-stop-shop database of hundreds of CF causing mutations. Exciting, right? Well for me it was. Three of the four mutations that the kids have are pretty rare. That, coupled with the fact that they have not two, but 4 CF causing mutations is like winning Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. Anyway, my interest was peaked so I started to dig up what I could on each of their mutations. And not even five minutes later, my heart was in my throat. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<strong><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">R74W</span></strong><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This mutation has varying consequences.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Some patients with this mutation, combined with another CF causing mutation, have CF.</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><em>Some patients with this mutation, combined with another CF causing mutation, do not have CF</em>.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Come again, son? Blah-blah-blah-blahblahblah-blah <em>with this gene <strong>do NOT</strong> have Cystic Fibrosis.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Oh, but wait, it gets better.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<strong><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">D1270N</span></strong><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This mutation has varying consequences.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Some patients with this mutation, combined with another CF causing mutation, have CF.</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><em>Some patients with this mutation, combined with another CF causing mutation, do not have CF</em>.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And they say lightning doesn't strike twice.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">After a few hours worth of reading through the site...okay, that was bullshit on my part, it was more like 45 minutes of reading and 2 hours of walking around, biting my cuticles (yes, and I bite my nails too if you must know) and thinking Oh.My.God. Oh.My.God until Joe got home. <em> <span style="color: #38761d;">Was it possible, was there even the slightest chance - or even just half a chance, that these two mutations, two of the four that I've sworn up and down and any which way that I'd annihilate if given the opportunity, weren't killing Charlie and Lola but saving them?</span></em></span> <span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> <span style="color: #274e13;">My mind was racing, yes. But my heart...well my heart was ten million miles ahead of my head and picking up speed.</span></span>PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-8307039245616415092012-09-09T09:44:00.001-05:002012-09-09T09:44:53.454-05:00DEATH BY CHOCOLATE<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">While I'm workin'
the espadrilles and throwin' down what are sure to look like some
heavy duty gang signs, one thing's for sure: no matter how many <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LYAEz777AU"><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><strong>ways I tie my scarf</strong></span></a>, I'll never be European. This fact evidenced by the
purchase and consumption of one single chocolate bar.
</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">After nearly three
weeks of hospital food, I broke down yesterday and high tailed it to
the supermercado nearest the hospital under the guise of post
c-section rehabilitation. What I was really doing though was
hunting for deodorant and chocolate, two such things one cannot live
without postpartum. Ten minutes and two euros later I had my fix,
one of those really big chocolate bars, not at all like the American
jumbo sized candy bar but more like the 'could be a tennis racket'
size.
</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfqCARLgp2LxvhD0RioLdgOGuwL9_njFSBvUp1ccuGktahsGs6y1o0zODlmWk3LtBmPBkcgP0E2kKU20sKATXdpzqjYvHzTEj4aUW-zRyP6ur0SIHOz3hyXnTw-mPrgQE53IE9lKnZHBsF/s1600/chocolate+bar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfqCARLgp2LxvhD0RioLdgOGuwL9_njFSBvUp1ccuGktahsGs6y1o0zODlmWk3LtBmPBkcgP0E2kKU20sKATXdpzqjYvHzTEj4aUW-zRyP6ur0SIHOz3hyXnTw-mPrgQE53IE9lKnZHBsF/s1600/chocolate+bar.jpg" /></a><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I will admit to
being more Snickers than I am Nestle or Hershey but being that there
are no Snickers, Whatchamacallits or even Milky Ways on this side of
the Atlantic, the Nestle brick would have to suffice. It all started
with my roommate, a Euro-waif, who not even a week after giving birth
is back to wearing her size zero jeans. I'm not kidding. Size ZERO.
Anyway, there she was her scarf draped casually over one shoulder
and her chocolate bar resting in her lap, the tin foil folded neatly
back like you would a fine linen bed sheet. Carefully, and what
appeared to be in slow motion,<i> </i>she snapped off two little
pieces along the perforated line in the chocolate bar. Until this
moment of watching her fingers break those chocolate pieces away from
the mother-load, I had naively assumed that executives in the
chocolate industry had designed those perforations specifically to
aid in my consumption. They were, in my small world, tracks for my
teeth to rest in, leverage for the task at hand. Any notion of
opening a chocolate bar but not eating it whole was unfathomable,
dare I say sacrilege. Yet there she was, in her chic Euro scarf and
size zeros wrapping the remaining <span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 0);"><span style="background-color: white;">34
million squares</span></span> back up for Armageddon. That's just about when I
decided that a year's worth of Spanish living owed me the same luxury
and so I set off for the supermercado.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As fast as my
swollen little ankles could carry me, I waddled on down the road,
entered the store and made a beeline for the novelties aisle. I'll
admit, the deodorant I threw in the basket was just a decoy, and a
pretty lame one at that. The cashier, fully capable of calling my
bluff, thankfully did not. I'd convinced myself that I too can
enjoy chocolate in moderation, one, maybe two squares at a time thus
making it last until well into the following week. You know where
this is going, don't you. [sigh]</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So what happened
once back 'home' at the hospital? Yeah, you know what the fuck
happened. I snap off my two pieces, wrap the remaining bar neatly
back up and put it to bed in the mini fridge for safe keeping.
Fingers trembling ever so slightly in anticipation of what's to come,
I sit down and pop the first perfect little chunk into my mouth.
Heaven. The second piece chases the first, a sweet fountain of milk
chocolate all the way down the back of my throat, almost
pornographic. This, the <i>European Way,</i> should satisfy me but
of course it doesn't. Instead it's like teasing a lion with a
chicken wing from KFC. Not ten minutes later and I'm up for another
two pieces, wrap it back up, mentally chastise myself for the
indulgence and put it back in the mini fridge. Ten more minutes go
by, same thing. Two more squares gone. The fourth trip I just say
fuck it and eat the whole damned thing.
</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sadly, the
punishment for my crime is not the absence of the Nestle bar but
rather the roommate's Cadbury sitting untouched since the day before
between the strawberry and vanilla yogurts on the top shelf of the
fridge, his wrapper snug as he hisses disapproval in his haughty
French accent because European disapproval<i> always</i> comes with a
French accent, “Go on now, Fat American. No more chocolate for
you!”
</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Yes, <i>moderation</i>
it appears is proof positive that I'll never be European.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">No matter how many
different ways I tie my scarf.
</span>PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-46183109828881983692012-08-31T11:59:00.000-05:002012-08-31T11:59:33.989-05:00MORE WE AND LESS ME<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;">Bob
Barker and I have one thing in common. That is, no one is into our
games. Well all I can say is that it's a good thing nobody played
and won because the winner was going to get a FREE all expenses paid
trip to sunny southern Spain. Not really, but it was worth a shot
at making you feel guilty for not posting a guess. And since I know
you're all curious as to what was missing off that hospital tray <a href="http://321picklepits.blogspot.com.es/2012/08/come-ooooooooooooon-down.html"><strong><span style="color: #274e13;"><em>from my last post</em></span></strong></a>, I'll tell you.</span></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_7Nz_mjDvk8wNRUdQ4Reg44eWLhZGQAyrrfAATuiMjxfIsDxFHHPVcTl7XsP8Q6XmcvhuW-KrtCz3Sxd-4kbj0KvIcHVnJBM-x9yRFPMpCGSYH15dI472eg20o7P9u7Gs4YEnnAzUXoyL/s1600/ice+water.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_7Nz_mjDvk8wNRUdQ4Reg44eWLhZGQAyrrfAATuiMjxfIsDxFHHPVcTl7XsP8Q6XmcvhuW-KrtCz3Sxd-4kbj0KvIcHVnJBM-x9yRFPMpCGSYH15dI472eg20o7P9u7Gs4YEnnAzUXoyL/s1600/ice+water.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;">Yes,
here in the public hospital apparently giving patients a beverage
with their meal is considered 'excessive'. It <strike>shocked the hell
outta' me</strike> surprised me too. When I was admitted for a week
earlier during this pregnancy I learned the BYOB rule the hard way.
Now wiser, I had Joe bring me half a dozen 2 liter bottles of the
bubbly to keep me hydrated.</span></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;">Basically,
the differences between my experiences in American hospitals versus
those here in Spain are really more cosmetic than anything else.
Granted, water is kind of a big deal in terms of nutrition but I
think I can explain it.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;">You
see here, the culture is such that if you have a loved one admitted
at least one family member will stay bedside and keep vigil. If
you're a gypsy, then you can multiply that by about 5 or 6 family
members. No matter what though, your family will be here. There is
no denying it and you have no choice in the matter because you are
the 'not well' one. In having that family member bedside, you now
have an automatic nurse's aid. It's your family member who will help
you to the bathroom, help you to shower, help you get up and out of
bed, help you change your clothes, and yes, get you that bottle of
water when you need it. The nurses here are more focused on
administering meds, updating their charts, and seeing that floor
rules are being followed. They are not your mother, not your sister,
and definitely not your waitress so don't even think about asking.</span></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;">Additional
examples of how the fat is trimmed here include the following:</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>-PAY-AS-YOU-GO
TV CARDS</b> </span>
</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">10
euros buys you 10 hours of tv programming</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;"><b>-SHARED
ROOMS</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia;">Birthing suite? Uhm, what's that? When it's time you'll be wheeled </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia;">down to the delivery room. See <em>No Delivery Service</em> below.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>-NO
OPEN SNACK BAR/BEVERAGE STATIONS </b></span>
</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>-LIMITED
TRANSPORTATION </b></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">this
floor has 2 or 3 wheelchairs which means you may have to wait an extra 5- 10 minutes to go down for that ultrasound, to see your baby or to go pump </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>-NO
DELIVERY SERVICE</b> </span>
</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">If
you want a service, you have to go to its location because they don't
come to you. For example, there's a lactation room with 6 Medela
</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">breast pumps available daily from 8am-midnight. Wanna pump? Fine,
</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">come on down. But they won't be bringing one to your bedside.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;">For
those who want more pampering there is private insurance which will
net you a more country club experience but should complications arise
be prepared to be shipped off to the public hospital because that's
where all the specialists are. Is it third world? Hardly. But it
is different. Once you figure out the game rules, it's really
astonishing at how easily it all flows with what some might say is so
little. And the best part is that it's available to everyone at the
same bargain price: free. There are no copays. There are no more
calls to Blue Cross Blue Shield to fight over prescription coverage
or to explain why an extra ultrasound is needed. Here the doctor
calls the shots not the claims agent.</span></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;">This
isn't to say that Spaniards don't pay for their medical care though.
We do considerably more in taxes of which
a hefty sum goes to healthcare. So yeah, there is a cost
make no mistake. And sadly, I used to be one of those who said no way
to the notion of my tax dollars going to pay for somebody else's
healthcare. Why should I have to pay to get YOUR (insert health
issue) treated? Sorry, not my problem. This coming from the girl
who had a sweet insurance package from work but also one that cost me
time I'll never get back with my three little ones because with my
husband being self employed there was no other choice but to work.
Had I not worked we would have never been able to afford coverage for
our family being that two of the kids have a preexisting condition.
No way. Never. So now, just a year into our new life in Spain I'm
singing a different song. Way different. And I like it.</span></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8PFrhQoKekYzFMfLQoBD_KtRyVBvK0xrDiHHvDcgnJplvrjblRfG1X2gj1FGeeaBJEFen1F7WVlnXmwENggE3YE42k9flkUN5XRDfj2hmLS_9iEbLsjd2zkFT9qV935ngetk_3UKBzKBZ/s1600/gluttony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8PFrhQoKekYzFMfLQoBD_KtRyVBvK0xrDiHHvDcgnJplvrjblRfG1X2gj1FGeeaBJEFen1F7WVlnXmwENggE3YE42k9flkUN5XRDfj2hmLS_9iEbLsjd2zkFT9qV935ngetk_3UKBzKBZ/s320/gluttony.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm
not getting my million dollar birthing center experience like I had
with the other three and that's okay. I now see how much pomp and
circumstance was rolled into my Stateside hospital stays and to some
degree it embarrasses me. Do we really need free soda machines in
our maternity wards? A fountain in every atrium? Is it the best use of the nurse's time
to be babysitting a bunch of breast pumps? More importantly, would
socialized medicine at this level work in the States? I don't know
but I tend to lean towards <i>hell no</i> as opposed to just <i>no</i>
or <i>maybe</i>. Why? American medicine, and this is just my
opinion so don't get your panties in a bunch, is just too big a beast
to tame. Insurance companies and hospital administrators and to some
extent, the public have turned it into a profit seeking monster. The
next time you flip on your local television station and see an ad for
your city's <em>leading medical center</em> you might want to ask yourself
this: </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Why do they need to advertise? </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That right there says it all.
Doesn't it? </span>
</span></span></div>
PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-65251878827684922562012-08-22T08:07:00.000-05:002012-08-22T08:07:04.898-05:00COME OOOOOOOOOOOOON DOWN...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLcJohZRcQ_bhvsIqg8AEuS177u51dgKW3aeNvwYzK04iI9j756Yjm1Tv24ipSsFmn4dWhSWnhB_pW0zYlaZwOd2pacfvNxy1kjJhIFOw_rTuFOC14FqaCEC8uViw0anW2wae7rOX6ydI1/s1600/the_price_is_right-show.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLcJohZRcQ_bhvsIqg8AEuS177u51dgKW3aeNvwYzK04iI9j756Yjm1Tv24ipSsFmn4dWhSWnhB_pW0zYlaZwOd2pacfvNxy1kjJhIFOw_rTuFOC14FqaCEC8uViw0anW2wae7rOX6ydI1/s320/the_price_is_right-show.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Oh and don't forget, please help control the pet population. </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">Have your pets (and husbands) spayed or neutered.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Okay, kids.
Today we're going to play a little game. It's called, VAYA, QUE
CRISIS! Now let's say it together in our best Castillian accents,
/buy-ya-kay-crease-ease/. Very good.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The rules are simple, there are none.
Just look at the picture carefully and try to figure out what's
missing. I'm not hiding anything, what you see is what I got so put
your thinking caps on. Post your answers in the comments section and
I'll follow up in a couple of days with the answer and explanation
provided to me.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia;">Ready? Here we go...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-U9U5RZq8-rp2-glgljxVuRKcVvJx1b-t02y-PvBM0Xr38c9MQcn4J0s298CS0InxEkgZ33w8zyf2z26_trvAYib6JCqr2j1JNJ7zxo1yP1gAIhNfqCoKHiVqZv_eLtrXqC32Rb9lG4Ap/s1600/R.S.+bedrest+2012+004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-U9U5RZq8-rp2-glgljxVuRKcVvJx1b-t02y-PvBM0Xr38c9MQcn4J0s298CS0InxEkgZ33w8zyf2z26_trvAYib6JCqr2j1JNJ7zxo1yP1gAIhNfqCoKHiVqZv_eLtrXqC32Rb9lG4Ap/s400/R.S.+bedrest+2012+004.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Lunch: baked fish (cod?), sauteed green beans & mushrooms, bread, sal morejo &</em><br />
<em>for dessert (drumroll) sliced apples. Red & white packet is salt.</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-8214283554350573932012-08-21T12:49:00.001-05:002012-08-21T12:49:53.546-05:00CIRCUS FREAKS UNITE<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I'm not sure what is more torturous; being confined to a hospital bed indefinitely or being forced to watch Japanese anime cartoon reruns in Spanish. I'm thinking the latter.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My little, round, Ecuadorian roommate delivered last night. She had been having contractions throughout the afternoon and by<em> merienda</em> they whisked her away. Her baby, a girl, was born by cesarian and from what I've picked up from the nurses, is now resting and growing in the NICU. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2U3Azw8D5QptW8sAgSybrU-xJZy3qwjtEA0QbEyZbUR08jksD36qqH4nblG2iABxfBdxiDV2x2NpoA-GUSKpB5iScUClZqBWlNeEjNLZdRfiCG5E69Mf2uwMmgs-YEJ_C2bI5-dixG7rO/s1600/circus+freak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2U3Azw8D5QptW8sAgSybrU-xJZy3qwjtEA0QbEyZbUR08jksD36qqH4nblG2iABxfBdxiDV2x2NpoA-GUSKpB5iScUClZqBWlNeEjNLZdRfiCG5E69Mf2uwMmgs-YEJ_C2bI5-dixG7rO/s320/circus+freak.jpg" width="299" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I miss my Ecuadorian <em>mamacita</em>. She was nice. I wonder if they put us together based on our immigration status? Probably not, but it seems that way sometimes. It's tough to be the <em>Americana</em> on the ward. I'm like the freak show at the circus; patients, visitors, even nurses & orderlies walk slowly by my room and stare in at me. I should resurrect a turnstile and charge just for rubbernecking. It's like they've all got money on the foreign girl to break down and start rubbing fecal matter into her hair or do something equally revolting. I'm different and I get that. Still, it's no fun to be the odd man out, especially when you're stuck trying to translate the game rules mid-play.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My new roommate moved in with her mom late last night. She's a twenty-something with rotten ovaries. They abandoned their room down the hall in hopes of finding peace and sanitation with me, The Circus Freak. Apparently, her lottery draw was not so fortunate as she got stuck in a room with a family of heavy smokers. Not all that big of a deal since smoking is prohibited in and around hospital grounds...until they decided that getting their fix was best done in the shared hospital room bathroom. Me? I would've pulled out my numb chucks and gone all Bruce Lee on their asses but the Spanish are much more couth, more European, more Coco Channel. She asked for a transfer of room, was granted it and is now buddied up with me until her discharge which will inevitably be before mine. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My feet are up and my diaper moist but snug. Alas, another day to grow a baby and some rhoids. I think I'll kill a few hours and contemplate that fecal mask afterall. But only after the brushing up on my kanji. There is afterall, a buttload of zitless teen anime warriors to keep track of.</span><br />
PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-65672227392101752772012-08-19T03:55:00.001-05:002012-08-19T03:55:28.396-05:00THE FISH<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7nm9Z7z-BeaRRcs5ACOMU8DnriFNlw_pVxQLRUXUn5a7m8tSlwoY7SqdfWSyNZFFpbMPQ8Ohlw7ZgzlenywriRPrNZvdE2DGsB3PCUyvFpcLER3xJcvMfewkiUZdipHgWu0v8xZ204q7/s1600/fish+lips.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7nm9Z7z-BeaRRcs5ACOMU8DnriFNlw_pVxQLRUXUn5a7m8tSlwoY7SqdfWSyNZFFpbMPQ8Ohlw7ZgzlenywriRPrNZvdE2DGsB3PCUyvFpcLER3xJcvMfewkiUZdipHgWu0v8xZ204q7/s1600/fish+lips.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Now afloat in the land
of socialized medicine, this bump in the road is just one more notch in a belt that no longer fits. But since I tend to get questions as to
how it works, here's the 411 on how it's all gone down.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #38761d;">
First off, t<span style="text-decoration: none;">he
hospital parking lot is like the long term one at the Des Moines
International Airport - a hike even in the best of weather except here in Cordoba there's no shuttle service, at least none that I've ever seen. So,
ever my knight in shining armor, Joe opted to run up over the curb and 'park' on the sidewalk that
runs adjacent to the Emergency Maternity entrance. Upon waddling in I was immediately escorted to an
exam room where two doctors were on-call and waiting. Although there were patients waiting to be seen, I was bumped ahead of them and given a free pass in. Once in the exam room, I
</span><strike>pantomimed</strike><span style="text-decoration: none;"> gave
the docs the low down on my current situation while they looked up my history on the
computer and entered the data that I was <strike>butchering</strike> relaying. Meanwhile, Joe was 20 feet away presenting my health
card. There was no registration paperwork to complete and more
importantly no insurance headaches to deal with. I was in.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">Next
stop: pelvic exam & ultrasound. I'll spare you the gory
details but let you know that baby was perfectly fine, swimming
around in what measured to be normal amounts of amniotic fluid. No
distress, strong heart rate, cervix (mine, not hers) closed, mucus
plug still in, and cuello/neck (I had no idea I had a neck in my
vagina but oh well, bonus I guess) long. Oops on the gory details,
shoulda' just stuck with </span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;">everything
looked great minus the Mighty Mississippi that was trailing behind
me in the wheelchair.</span></i><span style="text-decoration: none;">
</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Upon confirmation that indeed my amniotic sac had ruptured, it was off to
get a stress test over the river and through the woods down in the fetal monitoring room. The hospital here was built back in the <strike>Roman times</strike> 60's and 70's and like some older American hospitals, it seems to have been designed by Hellen Keller with tons of dead end hallways and inefficient uses of space but whatever, I was in a wheelchair just along for the ride. In the stress test room, they hooked me up for about 30 minutes to track baby's heartrate and see if I was having any contractions . Joe
was made to wait outside with the other fathers-to-be. Somewhat
1950's in approach but I didn't mind since the room was small and he would've
been bored anyway. And more good news, no contractions.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPghF5KDzeZo0oJjr1OcL2F_cw7QFxwyZId0j74buG5BdcLJ3cgrelHQmmDKv6ISmFTAK-bW4pz3AVY191pgQ29P-UErg29CrlRPWI5lP_GUUfKl9uu0rxG_7WtwJtUlVniYmmy9fbkaOG/s1600/cuffed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPghF5KDzeZo0oJjr1OcL2F_cw7QFxwyZId0j74buG5BdcLJ3cgrelHQmmDKv6ISmFTAK-bW4pz3AVY191pgQ29P-UErg29CrlRPWI5lP_GUUfKl9uu0rxG_7WtwJtUlVniYmmy9fbkaOG/s320/cuffed.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It was
after the fetal monitoring that things took a turn for the worse. I was shackled to the wheelchair and
taken away to my cell for what is to be the duration of my sentence. A green and
white wrist band would be my only identity and unfortunately one that no one here
can figure out how to pronounce so why bother? Lesson learned, I shoulda' just stuck with
PicklePits but being the newest fish in the pond, mispronunciation and total confusion would have to suffice. </span> <span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> The shakedown from pueblo to cellblock took about two hours and that includes the travel time, not bad for socialized medicine.</span> <span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I'm on permanent lock down with strict instructions to stay in bed except for the occasional trip to the toilet. My cellmate is in for the same charges: premature rupture at 29 weeks. </span> </div>
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So what's our gig while in the joint? Well, the protocol
here for a premature rupture of waters is complete bedrest accompanied by an alternating two day
regimen: fetal monitoring and labs. Since posting however, they've had me down daily for monitoring. I've been told repeatedly that the amniotic fluid is the least of their concerns. They're monitoring for contractions and
infection, any of which can necessitate immediate delivery. I'll
also be given periodic ultrasounds to monitor the goings on in my deflating swimming pool. The doctor told me that new amniotic fluid is regenerated throughout a 24 hour cycle so hopefully, with
strict bedrest I can squeak out these next three weeks. That's the
plan anyway. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Stay tuned for
the Grande Tour. It makes Folsom look like the Ritz Carlton. </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Trust me, you'll love it.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">[rolling eyeballs]<br />
</span>PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-46562513658441372342012-08-17T11:29:00.000-05:002012-08-17T11:29:36.343-05:00FOLSOM PRISON BLUES<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Well, it finally happened. It musta'
been that extra helping of cold pasta slurped from the pot, yes, you
read that right – straight from the pot - in my Hanes Her Ways with
pot atop my naked bump and olive oil dripping down my chin and into
my maternity bra. I know, I know. Sexy, ain't it?</span></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Well, apparently my kinda sexy is a criminal
offense in these parts because I've been incarcerated.
</span></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Indefinitely.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Last time I got lucky; an early and to
be honest, unexpected, parole. Turns out it was only a 10 week
furlow but freedom, no matter how fleeting, tastes sweet when you've
been in the clink. I told only my brother, </span><a href="http://www.frypanjones.blogspot.com.es/p/abut-me.html"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>the Doc out in Idaho</strong></span></a><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> who,
though younger than me, is still my hero. Oh, and my way too funny
for her own good cousin in Omaha – she's an OB nurse, and a damned
good one. She's the kind of nurse who would make you feel cool about
shitting your own bed – totally my kinda gal. At 19 weeks along I
started bleeding; not Niagra Falls but enough to make me high tail it
to Cordoba and agree to a week long lock down. Lucky for me it
was a fluke. Or was it? Baby was great, bleeding stopped and I was
on my merry way. No need to circle the wagons. Everything turned
out fine, a false alarm. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Yet here I am. Again.
</span></div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
And this time, it looks like I'm
stayin'.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>I hear the train a comin'<br />It's rollin' 'round the bend,<br />And I ain't seen
the sunshine,<br />Since, I don't know when,</em></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Last night my water broke. At first it
was a light trickle. I <span style="text-decoration: none;">
rolled off the couch and waddled to the bathroom praying for
incontinence the whole way down the hall but knowing better. This is
not the first time I've been down the road of premature labor &
delivery. The difference this time is that I knew what was coming.
Ten minutes later and two changes of HHW's later, we had all three
kids across the street at Paqui's for a “sleepover” and we were
in the van to Reina Sofia. Joe drove like a pro, hitting every bump
and pothole possible along the way. [Sigh] By the time we
arrived, my Donna Karan creation out of a bath towel was soaked
through with in amniotic fluid. </span></span></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="clear: left; color: #38761d; float: left; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQzjv_iuyj1uwkBKei35b1lNglDvJ1GY6CGD3SYegH4HoKWUaH3v25ljtDLMHU3NsqILB2N5tohNJrinKqCJ0s5Niz7tbrzL5dulJptERLUMMnt01zZloHBnDRd4UH7nmMWO0ABfDbS3R6/s200/folsom+prison+blues.jpg" width="200" /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Not good for Donna. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="text-decoration: none;"></span><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Not good for
me.</span></span><br />
</div>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><em><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I'm stuck in Folsom Prison,<br />And time keeps draggin' on,<br />But that train keeps a-rollin'</span>...</span></em>PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-4690788068004281602012-08-11T13:17:00.000-05:002012-08-11T13:17:09.576-05:00HOTTER THAN A FOUR BALLED TOMCAT<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Evidently, I missed the lecture on global weather patterns. Granted, Earth Science was more than twenty years ago, but still it would've been in my best interest to pay attention to that lecture as opposed to doodling all over my Trapper Keeper. Was I wrong to assume that global weather patterns traveled from left to right? Back in Iowa all of our good weather came from California, land of Botoxed body parts and fairytale homes that no one can really afford. The truly awesome weather drifted up from Mexico, our southernly neighbor but still, if you look at the map, still to the left of us Iowans. Left to right. Doesn't everything move that way? Well, unless you're brushing up on your Arabic. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRyWVd7WsgSsyCu1fMGlMYn9opHuhJ0bUyfKPdkwCnYcfYJh5HbRvGe1uJHFDmKbkvSB-ks4hQf5aRId-AC8C5Bo-uDEVQWyb9_l5aT-Tnqyp6XLtG9ZMCWn0gYLMiRDu-AYgvwYCXP1_q/s1600/heatwave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRyWVd7WsgSsyCu1fMGlMYn9opHuhJ0bUyfKPdkwCnYcfYJh5HbRvGe1uJHFDmKbkvSB-ks4hQf5aRId-AC8C5Bo-uDEVQWyb9_l5aT-Tnqyp6XLtG9ZMCWn0gYLMiRDu-AYgvwYCXP1_q/s320/heatwave.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So I was, shall we say, a tad bit 'misinformed'. </span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">What my husband would deem <em>totally clueless</em>.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Whatever.</span><br />
<br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The past two weeks here in Andalucia have proven to me that 1) Earth Science was indeed a relevant course in high school and 2) good God, I miss the jet stream. Turns out that Africa is the temperamental bitch responsible for my suffering. Well, Africa's Azores High and my husband's penis. Did I mention that I'm now 7 months pregnant? Yeah, well surprise, new readers and those who were searching for cock vectors and cow testicles (amazing what searches have brought people to my blog) and ended up on this site. This girl's with child.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">On a whim I did my own scientific research, thank you Mr. Google. And yes, it turns out that pregnant women can expect to experience an increase of up to almost two degrees in overall body temperature throughout the course of their pregnancy. Not a big deal? Well if you're sitting pretty at 98.6, you've now got a low grade fever. I'm oversimplifying, yes, but trying to make a point: Pregnancy is HOT and I'm not talking 'sexy' hot.</span><br />
<br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So just how hot is hot? </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">On Monday we were at 40 degrees centigrade.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">By Thursday the mercury had crawled past 42 degrees centigrade.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Yesterday the public swimming pool began to bubble as we saw 44 degrees centigrade come and go.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And today it's predicted to get hotter. Is hotter even possible?</span><br />
<br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I'm still having trouble with the math involved in temperature conversions from centigrade to fahrenheit but I know one thing: anything above 35 degrees centigrade and it means sweaty boobs for Yours Truly. For your benefit, I spent 30 minutes of my life doing the math involved to make sense of these temps. Yes, it took me the whole thirty minutes because I really am that bad at math. Anyway, here's the breakdown:</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Uk7JkuKykH7DcadYmvxrFz0rEUr9ALtPeMMFnbhTm4nVx-YVFzUfbuOV90LYjlockRppnycjfZSCHVvIHkCdeSe-JROXOkGGXywnVh5jVrvCt48KwFUxEydFJH5kyQ5kKLvBXu_XerQ9/s1600/august+heatwave+2012+014%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Uk7JkuKykH7DcadYmvxrFz0rEUr9ALtPeMMFnbhTm4nVx-YVFzUfbuOV90LYjlockRppnycjfZSCHVvIHkCdeSe-JROXOkGGXywnVh5jVrvCt48KwFUxEydFJH5kyQ5kKLvBXu_XerQ9/s320/august+heatwave+2012+014%5B1%5D.JPG" width="235" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="left">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>This is what 7 months looks like. And before</em></span></div>
<div align="left">
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>you even ask, it's just ONE lil' pickle in this jar.</em></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Monday was 104.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Thursday was over 108.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Yesterday topped 111.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And don't foget - I get a handicap of +2 degrees for the pregnancy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">You seein' the picture, amigos? No, not all of it. I forgot to mention that the house we're renting is without central AC. My handicap just went up tenfold. Before you start taking up donations to save me, take some comfort in the room air conditioner that's pumping away in the house's main room. It's not much, but better than nothing. And I guess the upside to this sweaty nightmare is that it's finally prompted us to move forward with the house hunt. Alas, Lucifer's red hot African poker just may be my salvation afterall.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></span>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">That is, if I don't melt first.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><span style="color: #274e13;"></span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-82970373267965572052012-07-31T06:30:00.001-05:002012-07-31T06:30:32.032-05:00CRASH COURSE IN PUEBLO DRIVING<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As my little brother busies himself rebuilding lives and </span><a href="http://www.frypanjones.blogspot.com.es/2012/07/time-flies.html"><span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>the nightmare that he calls a truck</strong></span></a><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> way out west some 10,000 miles away, it would appear to the untrained eye that I'm focussed on destroying mine. Not my life perse, but certainly the hunk of peppered and pocked fiberglass and metal that sits parked outside the house. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When we first arrived in Spain, we were quite a sight. The American family schlepping 3 screaming kids though Barajas while pushing 8,000 pounds of luggage on three wobbly luggage carts bowing from the weight. We rented a car, made it down to Cordoba and once the month finished out, moved to the pueblo. Not once did we look back. Our biggest challenge at the time was neither the language nor the culture. It was having no car. For roughly three months we walked everywhere. Not really all that big of a deal since the pueblo is small but when it's 110 degrees out and you have to drag three kids with you to the market not because of lack of babysitters but because you need an extra set of hands to get the loot home...well, it gets old fast. So when the car finally arrived, we were over the moon.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5P3_PkvZX3XMv5B9ObapEoFrZmLVENft-Nzct_EME8F58-BcxvGaGqCC3oHAqa8__mKiAKWFVGOJpBa2AzKrRtwq6-B9d5Ycqb7WCvZf27GaLlFMIhOCtyFD6XPUpo9QsMsrQgDXhfsdH/s1600/Easter+2012+501.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5P3_PkvZX3XMv5B9ObapEoFrZmLVENft-Nzct_EME8F58-BcxvGaGqCC3oHAqa8__mKiAKWFVGOJpBa2AzKrRtwq6-B9d5Ycqb7WCvZf27GaLlFMIhOCtyFD6XPUpo9QsMsrQgDXhfsdH/s320/Easter+2012+501.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
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<em>Here we are in Segovia under the wonder </em></div>
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<em>that is the centuries old Aqueduct. Not</em></div>
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<em>too many Iowa license plates can say they've </em></div>
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<em>been parked there now can they</em>?</div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The arrival of the car however, did not come without some complications; the biggest one being its size. About a year prior to moving, we bought a Chrysler minivan. Like most, we fought the curse of the minivan but eventually gave in. Too many kids. Too many carseats. Too many strollers. And then came the dog. We were screwed. In the end however, it would end up being the perfect ride for us. Perfect in every sense that is until we got to the pueblo. What do you think of when you think of a small European village? Windy, cobblestone streets, right? Well, you nailed it. Here in the pueblo there are plenty of those - the kind that make you roll the windows down, pull in all the side mirrors and hold your breath (as if that's going to make a difference) as you squeak past the 600 year old house. Eventually we got used to those tight corners and learned to thread the needle at breakneck speeds topping 6 m.p.h. But it wouldn't come without a pricetag. </span><br />
<br /><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Last week was my latest <strike>casualty</strike> adventure. It happened in the historic part of the pueblo, where the streets narrow to roughly the span of your outstretched arms. I was dropping the kids off at their summer art class and knew that I wasn't going to be able to make the turn up into the old theatre parking lot that sits atop the pueblo. You know where this is going, don't you? I started to back up ever so slowly, not even touching the gas when the 700 year old library jumped out of nowhere! My caution was rewarded by a gentle impact; not even a shudder, just the crackling sound of plastic followed my an exclamatory POP as it shattered, fell to the cobblestone below and was crushed into a fine powdery residue by the rear tire. Goodbye fair taillight. Oh, and it was fun while it lasted Mr. Quarterpanel. And the building you ask? Not even a rub mark. The ancient building, held together by stone and mortar, didn't even flinch but rather bore down and stood its ground. </span><br />
<br /><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sadly, a full year into this new life we've invented, such mishaps provoke little more than a knowing smirk and a giggle from me and the kids. Jumping out of the car to check for damage seems even counterproductive at this stage of the game. So I continue on, homeward bound where the husband awaits anticipating what new battle scars he will find on the tricked out minivan that should have been his Harley Davidson.</span>PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-61154135726181131042012-07-02T03:02:00.000-05:002012-07-02T03:02:39.954-05:00HAKUNA MAGONNA RIP YOUR FACE OFF<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Well, it's been a while hasn't it? Sorry, I've been busy buttering my stale marshmallows with Nocilla for the past month and a half. This in preparation for my next OB appointment where the matrona is just itching to send me packing on my next guilt trip for excessive weight gains. Aah, the poor woman has no idea what's coming. None.</span><br />
<br /><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">No longer able to run, I decided to swap my running shoes for my PTA ones. It's the last week of school and the kids are performing in one last event, a dance festival and there are costumes to be made. The moms in Charlie's class voted to purchase the 5 year old class's in bulk. Funny how I alway seem to miss out on the vote but seeing that my sewing kit came courtesy of the Holiday Inn complimentary toiletries kit, I'm not complaining. Come Friday night there will be 20 little mariachis serranading the pueblo down in the plaza.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Lola's group? Well let's just say it makes good fodder for the blog. The mothers decided that homemade was the way to go [gasp]. I pooped a chocolate drowned marshmallow and awaited the details. The dance was to be tribal in nature, set to music from the Lion King. <em>Can they go naked?</em> was my first thought. No sewing required there and I'm cool with a bunch of naked 4 year olds. This is afterall, <em>Europe</em>. Aren't half the beaches nudist anyway? Turns out naked was not an option. I know, I was shocked too. Instead, a plan was hatched to have the mothers convene at the multi-purpose room of the biblioteca where we would workshop the costumes until they were done. We'd split the cost of the materials:</span><br />
<br /><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Elastic</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Raffia in 3-4 colors</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;">And face paint</span><br />
<br /><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The costume was my kind of sewing too - none. It was just a matter of cutting the raffia in strips and then tying it to the elastic to make arm bands, leg bands, and a skirt. Idiot proof and cheap - definitely my kind of project. It would also be a good opportunity for me to make nice with the non running ladies of the pueblo. So I said, 'Sure, sign me up!' except in Spanish and made a date for myself at the library.</span><br />
<br /><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The multi-purpose room was large and thank God, air conditioned. The month of June has been particularly unforgiving with a 'cool' day being in the 90's. Add to it the pregnancy and the word <em>uncomfortable</em> doesn't even come close. So walking in to that oasis of cool was a welcome relief. We were about 20 moms by the time the party got going and I was kickin' back and enjoying the belly rubs while turning a deaf ear to the, "You're not still running, I hope. You know all that bouncing around isn't good for the baby..." comments. After a half an hour or so I was getting antsy though. <em>Tick-tock ladies, my house is being destroyed as we speak so chop-chop time to get started</em> I thought. But again, this is Spain - erh, no - this is Andalucia, the land of no time, no schedules, no worries. If it can take Joe an hour and a half to go get bread I sure as shit ain't gonna rush the making of the Vera Wang tribal collection. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Come Friday night the kids would be shimmying and shaking to Hakuna Matata, not my favorite song but definitely fitting for the end of the school year grand finale. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Well, surprise - surprise, I</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> was not the only impatient one of the group though I was the only quiet one about it. I guess the pueblo moms haven't 'figured out the therapeutic benefit that is blogging, poor things. Within the first half hour of the 'sewing' I was counting scissors to make sure no one was gonna get any wise ideas on the way out to the parking lot. What had started out as a fun female bonding project was rapidly disintegrating into a free for all.</span></span><br />
<br /><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;">"Your raffia is longer than mine!" <<em>eerie silence & a killer glare for added effect</em>></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;">"But it looks like you helped yourself to an extra 5 strands of red!" <<em>weak response but followed up with a haughty snort</em>></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;">"Well, if you'd put the cigarettes down long enough to pick up a pair of scissors you'd have all the time to cut what you need so back off!" <<em>touché</em>></span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;">Yes? I'm actually hearing this? Grown women fighting over who has more raffia and who has an extra centimeter of elastic. Seriously? A battle built by two mothers turned into vinegar laced pandemonium and there was no end in sight. I noticed too that it seemed to have a certain ebb and flow which curiously was synched with the air conditioning settings. Just as the room air would cut off, so too would the catfight, fading from earsplitting to a garbled aside meant just loud enough to be heard but not acknowleged. Up until now I had been impressed at how supportive women were of one another here. I expected much more of the backbiting and MommyWars that were so common back home but was surprised not to find any here. Spanish women have little tolerance for critiquing your neighbor's cottage cheese thighs or her messy house but get in the way of making her kid a costume for the end of the year festival and you better be sleepin' with one eye open.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDY4DPAAykO7l7CFCjIXLb9isqKWyxkDGODTuli_JO80c0oUfw1i4oBEPk6k0JHwAa-HFhXCIGVne3LCsR6sBGHRLLWRmxhyphenhyphen4VBVBOr1NC5D5Hg0BpZRb1dbF3IoJHElxYZbHtpAp6AUJ/s1600/Alicante+2012+074.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDY4DPAAykO7l7CFCjIXLb9isqKWyxkDGODTuli_JO80c0oUfw1i4oBEPk6k0JHwAa-HFhXCIGVne3LCsR6sBGHRLLWRmxhyphenhyphen4VBVBOr1NC5D5Hg0BpZRb1dbF3IoJHElxYZbHtpAp6AUJ/s400/Alicante+2012+074.JPG" width="266" /></span></a><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;">And perhaps the funniest thing about a Spanish catfight though is as intimidating as it is to be caught in the middle of one, it's even more intimidating to observe the bipolarness of it all. One minute I'm eyeballing a quick exit before I get strangled by a maniac with too much raffia and the next I'm watching the same two main instigators laugh it up with the women they were on the verge of wrestling to the death for an extra thumbsworth of elastic. And then, quicker than my brain could register a potential cease-fire, they were back at it again, going straight for the jugular.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"><span style="color: #274e13;">Unscathed and white knuckling my raffia, I ducked out a side door and made a beeline for home, unable</span> <span style="color: #274e13;">to drown out the lyrics that would mock us all come Friday night...</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"><em>Hakuna Matata, what a wonderful phrase!</em></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"><em>Hakuna Matata, ain't no passing craze!</em></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"><em>It means no worries for the rest of your days!</em></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia;"><em>It's our problem free philosophy,</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><em>Hakuna Matata</em>!</span></span>PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-86384617618258140222012-05-04T09:01:00.000-05:002012-05-04T09:01:47.509-05:00FAIRy TALEs<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Spring has officially sprung. I know this because the rose bushes that line the pueblo streets are in full bloom. The walk to school with the kids takes twice as long because trying to take it one step past <em>talking the talk</em>, I have somehow brainwashed my own kids into believing that "<em>Stop to smell the roses</em>," means you must smell every single one of them. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But we're not all about fragrant flora here in Andalucia. Even those who have never set foot on the Iberian Peninsula are familiar with the springtime rite that is Feria. Oh, so you think I'm mistaken. Not so, my friend. Not so at all. Feria means fair. Fair as in party til the wee hours of twilight, eat your weight in food so good you'd swear it was illegal, and dance until your toes fall off. And the fair of all fairs happened last week in Seville. Dating back over 150 years, the week long annual festivities were originally intended as a livestock fair but eventually evolved into what it is today. Sound familiar, state fairgoers? </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Come on, let's take compare...</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;"><strong>RULE #1: QUICK, FRY THE FOOD. ALL OF IT.</strong></span><br />
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<em><span style="color: black;">Pesca'ito frito. Translation: Fried Fish.</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="color: black;">Long John Silver's has nothin' on this shit.</span></em></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3DPLizTSXkHtYhSbyt2xltxFSE1ApKMZHly2Mve2Pi51zNZQi5O3ynWZpHGEQZaV6M2IGA0r2Qxau3dJxiRK-hV5-0DPiQUPM0cXyFN5uFDLcI4NRpIFCFq8WR3HcRo0TWqmR4ckRbg7/s1600/fried+candy+bars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><em><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3DPLizTSXkHtYhSbyt2xltxFSE1ApKMZHly2Mve2Pi51zNZQi5O3ynWZpHGEQZaV6M2IGA0r2Qxau3dJxiRK-hV5-0DPiQUPM0cXyFN5uFDLcI4NRpIFCFq8WR3HcRo0TWqmR4ckRbg7/s200/fried+candy+bars.jpg" width="149" /></span></em></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="color: black;">In Iowa, we fry everything. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: black;">And yes, I do mean EVERYTHING.</span></em><br />
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<em><span style="color: black;">What Spaniard doesn't love sardines? Oooh, they </span></em><br />
<span style="color: black;"><em>stink so good! </em><em>Removing the heads is apparently </em></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><em>optional. </em><em>Charlie prefers his with-something about </em></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><em>the crunch of the eyeballs</em>. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">RULE 2: DRESS TO IMPRESS</span></strong> </span></div>
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<em><span style="color: black;">Go on, Girl! Sink your teeth deep</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="color: black;">into that fried stick of butter. Mmm.</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="color: black;">Nothin' like a coronary on a stick!</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="color: black;">It's all about the accessories. Every woman will have a giant</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="color: black;">flower pinned somewhere on her head. Fans, bracelets</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="color: black;">& matching earrings are also a must. FYI, cleavage is (not?)</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="color: black;">optional</span></em>.</div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">It's not every day that the fair comes to town. In Spain, fashion is very important and I might even argue <em>too important</em>. Take a peek at some of the best dressed from this year (Seville) and last year (Iowa).</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nJSCJ1picpEVGxT-qSrxgtU3SvN1Kklf-1h6M6E5HHvAmbMfOO6oMNTc8PVusyLbXgE6aJm7yQ4vLflBiPEaeGYBisXqZvwS_X4-w4a7jYzI0zXYEGZ9l0MdV4zik3mruCh21oXf0JuE/s1600/sevillana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nJSCJ1picpEVGxT-qSrxgtU3SvN1Kklf-1h6M6E5HHvAmbMfOO6oMNTc8PVusyLbXgE6aJm7yQ4vLflBiPEaeGYBisXqZvwS_X4-w4a7jYzI0zXYEGZ9l0MdV4zik3mruCh21oXf0JuE/s1600/sevillana.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
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<em>La gitana dress is a staple. Lots </em></div>
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<em>of bright colors. Lots of ruffles.</em></div>
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<em>And lots of dangerous curves</em>.</div>
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<em>Aaaw. This Iowa couple chose to color coordinate. It's like</em></div>
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<em>loss prevention for adults. 'H</em><em>ave you seen my husband? </em></div>
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<em>He's got a purple tee shirt and a drumstick the size of my thigh.'</em></div>
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<em>Even the men aren't </em><em>afraid to </em></div>
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<em>Here </em><em>we get the pleasure of this </em></div>
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<em>man's </em><em>back cleavage. Yummy!</em></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;">RULE #3: BEWARE. FAIR HAIR.</span></strong></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">I'll make this short. Hair is a serious part of fair couture no matter where you are. As the lone<em> short haired blonde</em> (though I now think of myself as brunette in spite of what the rest of the pueblo says), I am The Minority when it comes to fair hair. At least by Spanish standards. Take a look at the do's and take note.</span> </div>
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<em>Meet contestant # 7 from </em><em>the Iowa State Fair's </em></div>
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<em>mullet contest. </em><em>Business in the front. Rock </em></div>
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<em>& Roll </em><em>in the back.</em> Sassssssy, isn't he?</div>
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<em>The gal on the right has a lot going on. Rose dead</em></div>
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<em>center accented by Olivia Newton John Headband </em></div>
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<em>style braid punctuated by big ass bun. This is why </em></div>
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<em>I have short/no hair. But it's pretty, isn't it?</em></div>
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<em>The Spanish peineta. It sits proudly tucked into the back </em></div>
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<em>of every Spanish girl's bun. Some are tall. Some are short.</em></div>
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<em>Some are sparkly. Some are plain. Personally, I think Mr. </em></div>
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<em>Iowa State Fair </em><em> (see above photo) would take first prize </em></div>
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<em>with one of these tucked into his mullet, don't you?</em></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwm9KL6TEiejWGU-vbBEzYhAbPBcn0YKZ5q-pJLkNmNns9zIOcBMeUxBW77mMh7kxJZblF3hWEqjHZ1rzYcl8i1WMR3qBl3-YQ2nZ9TMJBxIZr-eyhxQ4pNl6t4_YpTy5Y8-s1vg_SCfU/s1600/Butter+cow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwm9KL6TEiejWGU-vbBEzYhAbPBcn0YKZ5q-pJLkNmNns9zIOcBMeUxBW77mMh7kxJZblF3hWEqjHZ1rzYcl8i1WMR3qBl3-YQ2nZ9TMJBxIZr-eyhxQ4pNl6t4_YpTy5Y8-s1vg_SCfU/s1600/Butter+cow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwm9KL6TEiejWGU-vbBEzYhAbPBcn0YKZ5q-pJLkNmNns9zIOcBMeUxBW77mMh7kxJZblF3hWEqjHZ1rzYcl8i1WMR3qBl3-YQ2nZ9TMJBxIZr-eyhxQ4pNl6t4_YpTy5Y8-s1vg_SCfU/s200/Butter+cow.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="color: #274e13;">So there you have it, the best of both worlds. Though you missed the April fair in Seville by a week, don't worry, there's always the Iowa State Fair in August. If you decide to brave it, be sure to represent and tell 'em Pickle sent ya. Oh yeah, don't forget to say hi to the giant butter cow.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;"></span></div>PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-14533428466199784022012-04-23T04:10:00.000-05:002012-04-23T04:10:08.386-05:00WWAD? (What Would Allah Do?)<span style="color: #274e13;">It's slim pickins in the pueblo when it comes to maternity garb. Well, quite honestly, it's slim pickins when it comes to any kind of garb at all. As far as I can tell we have three official dress shops, one of them doubling as hunting supply store during season. Hey, it's crisis over here (pronounced kree-seize) so I guess you gotta make your buck/euro wherever you can.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Imagine the excitement when the Moroccan's wife branched out on her own and opened up a women's shop on the main avenida just a stone's throw from his souped up version of the Dollar Store. Though I wasn't expecting to find anything too sexy from this Muslim shopkeeper, I'll admit to hopes of a flowing (and waistless) dress that might ease me into the inferno that is summer in southern Spain. Maybe it would have a pretty floral design that would mimick a henna tatoo. Exactly what I need floating around my rapidly expanding midsection. Sadly, my <em>maternity collection</em>, though I think Liz Lange would take issue with me calling it that, from the past six years is chock full of little more than polyester pant suits, long sleeved tops and two button cardigans; telltale signs of the summer mating of the schoolteacher in hopes of springtime babies. </span><br />
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<em><span style="color: black;">Let's make it a game, shall we? </span></em><br />
<span style="color: black;"><em>Post your best caption in the comments</em> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><em>section because I'm at a loss</em>.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">So with visions of airy cotton dresses, I hoofed it down to the new dress shop, so new in fact it doesn't even have a name, my 20 euro note burning a hole in my pocket. And this is who greeted me.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Isn't she, uhm, subtle?</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">What in the hell?</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">And braless to boot. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">I had never seen such, such...what do I even call them? Okay, so let's try again. For a shop run by the only Muslim family in the pueblo, I couldn't believe my eyes. Were those boobs or missiles? Holy balls those things were huge! Maybe Moroccan women are bustier than Spanish women. Maybe Mohamed got some kind of a discount on this mannequin seeing as her boobs are twice as large as her head. Is there such a thing as bargain basement for mannequin shopping? Jeez o Pete. Those tits are ridiculous. And how did his wife feel about such bazookas in her storefront window? It's not exactly Jihad material but it's gotta be cuttin' it close on a few of those doctrines listed in the Qur'an.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">I shook my head to clear the image and entered. <em> Please have something that will fit me a month, 2 months, 5 months from now. And may it not have rhinestones or leopard print. Please</em>. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">I scoured that store for far longer than it was worth. I flipped past the zebra print leggings, ignored the "I Love <em><u>insert African nation of your choice</u></em>" tees, and skipped the Spanish housecoat section altogether, though it was tempting. And finally, found this. Not bad and I still had some change left over to accessorize. I would walk out for under 9 euros, thank you <em>pueblo pricing</em> but it remains to be seen how long the fit will last. At three months I'm well, <em>grande</em>. I guess if push comes to shove I can always go for the button down shown on the gal in the window. In fact, at a closer glance, it just may be the perfect blouse for a lactating mom, don't you think?</span>PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-78889438520520402532012-04-16T04:07:00.000-05:002012-04-16T04:07:05.354-05:00PORTRAIT OF A FAMILY<div style="text-align: right;">
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Did you hear it?</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">The bomb.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">It went off this weekend.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">Set off by yours truly.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuGpZP7FArWYNP3ynJXlCGUz5sY8115X-Pgz4vm_CuyTaVwzAioK1qaqgJYsKPNicVE1hZMEHHOGLj7SM7MhzfUrk4NhPdHwZ_p7lwEHvNEdor3ag9MoEmnZGGWv89df2bbgPiGfLdJsYg/s1600/mar+2012+035%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: #274e13;"></span></a><span style="color: #274e13;">I was gonna wait a little bit longer but figured with the entire pueblo now calling me "Gordi" as in "Gordita" (fatty) it was bound to leak to Facebook sooner than later. My ten mile runs have shrunk considerably while my waistline has stretched back nicely into the size twelves that not too long ago were swallowing me whole.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Bun in the oven.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">In a fix.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">Knocked up.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">Expecting.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Whichever way you cut it, it's all the same. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">And it's a funny thing being pregnant with your fourth. As the dust settled following the big announcement, I couldn't help but notice the evolution of responses.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">2006: Oh my God, this is so exciting!! You're gonna be great parents. Congratulations!!</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">2008: Oh my God, that's great! A sibling for Charlie, wow. Congratulations!</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">2010: Oh my God. *<em>pause*</em> Wow, you're really gonna have your hands full. *<em>pause*</em> Congratulations though.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">2012: Oh. My. God. *<em>pause*</em> Are you crazy? *<em>pause*</em> 4? *<em>pause* </em> But that's almost like a basketball team. *<em>pause* </em> Well, *<em>pause*</em> congratulations.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">It's comical yet understandable. <em> </em>Afterall, four children in 6 years is well, a lot. </span><span style="color: #274e13;"><em>Another</em> baby. No wait, let me rephrase that. </span><span style="color: #274e13;">Another <em>baby.</em></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">It's exciting. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">It's scary. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">It's all kinds of busy. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">And yeah, it's a whole lotta crazy. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">But I find that as time goes by I'm getting better and better at crazy. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">In fact, </span><span style="color: #274e13;">I think it kind of suits me.</span>PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-16382720666603471762012-04-13T05:06:00.001-05:002012-04-13T06:23:54.794-05:00LET'S TALK SALAD<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Trust me, the third degree burns on my fingertips are gonna be worth every single bite of my Homemade Roasted Red Pepper Salad.</span> <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeBpSEk4ox8bhCkrIFSaEdwi-z8f7Zo_4F9V9tfXCGy1MxM-08ippxGTCjXvRCl3ol-2g_AAMf8M-rwyn8RhzuMowHPA5_axZfzzYKgYUpFEf7x2fM3Q1UDXu4JVRxH5AxbLaW9iaQ_FjE/s1600/April+2012+005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeBpSEk4ox8bhCkrIFSaEdwi-z8f7Zo_4F9V9tfXCGy1MxM-08ippxGTCjXvRCl3ol-2g_AAMf8M-rwyn8RhzuMowHPA5_axZfzzYKgYUpFEf7x2fM3Q1UDXu4JVRxH5AxbLaW9iaQ_FjE/s320/April+2012+005.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This salad is an alltime favorite of mine. I fell in love with it during my year abroad in Valencia but then forgot about it completely until a decade later when my mother-in-law reunited us. <em>God, she was an awesome cook.</em> She made Bobby Flay look like Ronald McDonald. Anyway, here in Spain, I feel it's my duty to pull this dish out at least once a month regardless of how good (or bad) the peppers are looking. Lucky for me produce is changing over again so I can gear the kids up for some really awesome </span></span><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">summer salads. This one, while somewhat </span></span><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">tedious is well worth the work. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Trust me kids, I know my salads.</span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><u>WHAT YOU NEED</u></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">4-5 jumbo sized red peppers, whole</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">1 onion halved</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">1 eggplant, whole with tip cut off</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">2 vine ripened tomatoes, whole</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">1 hard boiled egg</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">olive oil</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">coarse sea salt</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><u>WHAT YOU DO</u></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Use a generous amout of olive oil to coat all of the vegetables.</strong> Really work it in and give those babies a bath. I use my bare hands, hoping by some miracle that the olive oil will seep into my pores and help my Spanish come out more fluently. It never works though.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Give the vegetables a good dusting of sea salt all the way around and place on roasting pan.</strong> I usually roast my peppers first and then do the onion, eggplant and tomatoes in a second batch. But if you've got a huge roasting pan, which I do but it's still Stateside in storage, stick 'em all in and you're good to go.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Place roasting pan with veggies into the oven and broil their balls off.</strong> You want the skins on the peppers to get blackened and flakey so that when it comes time to <strike>burn the shit out of your fingers</strike> peel them, the skins come off without too much of a fight. <strong>Oh yeah, don't forget to turn your vegetables so all sides are equally charred.</strong> This is probably obvious to you but I'm not really what you'd call a cook and need a step by step on how to boil water...</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Roasting done? Okay, now set 'em aside for 20 minutes or so and go check your Facebook account.</strong> You need to beware that these babies are HOT. Furthermore, there's a bunch of olive oil and steam inside the peppers and eggplant. Trust me when I say it's in your very best interest to let the mo'fos cool down a bit.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Carefully and slowly you are going to lay out one pepper and start to peel off the burnt skin.</strong> If you're lucky, which I never am, it will come off in nice long papery strips and you'll be done with your first pepper in under 2 minutes. But, if you're like me, you're gonna get scoliosis from standing hunched over that first pepper for 20 minutes while you peel blackened strips that are 2cm in length. Don't give up though, just keep peeling. <strong>I usually cut out the top of the pepper and hang it upside down over my roasting pan so the juices empty into the pan drippings. You'll want to use this later so don't discard!</strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Peppers peeled? Good. Messy though, isn't it? <strong>Now you're ready to split the peppers, scrape out the seeds and cut them into long strips.</strong> I usually aim for strips as long and as wide as my middle finger.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Now peel your tomatoes and eggplant</strong>. The skins on these should slide right off. <strong>Once peeled, cut the eggplant into strips and quarter the tomatoes.</strong> Toss them into your bowl of roasted red pepper strips and you're practically done!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Remember those pan drippings from #5? Go ahead and drizzle them over the vegetables.</strong> Don't be shy. It's just olive oil and love. It's all good, I promise.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>If you're feeling sexy, hard boil and egg and dice it up to garnish the top of the dish.</strong> I don't know why hard boiled eggs are sexy to me. Maybe it's the translation: huevos. <em>Mmmmm, I just love big huevos!</em></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><strong>You're done!</strong> Cover and set aside until you're ready to <strike>snarf it all down</strike> enjoy. I recommend a crusty loaf of french bread so you can sop up all that leftover love at the end of the meal.</span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-85577700193086235412012-04-06T10:53:00.000-05:002012-04-06T10:53:01.626-05:00IT'S NOT ABOUT THE RABBIT<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUDHMtHt-oGfTD0N_736tiUcplg3G4ly3E_8DZz37QrfLxoFqF0d1trI4X7ffRIFF-Tr8a3pjitNWpEdSuNq2d2Iy9k7ZDmQXa3ZH7vGPG-Zfp5ggyCiNu6smCKQTdn5CmUGmFQmlxnFpU/s1600/Easter+2012+063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUDHMtHt-oGfTD0N_736tiUcplg3G4ly3E_8DZz37QrfLxoFqF0d1trI4X7ffRIFF-Tr8a3pjitNWpEdSuNq2d2Iy9k7ZDmQXa3ZH7vGPG-Zfp5ggyCiNu6smCKQTdn5CmUGmFQmlxnFpU/s320/Easter+2012+063.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Hooded and cloaked to conceal their identities, </em><em>the </em><em>penitents </em><br />
<em>walk solemnly. Many choose to </em><em>walk </em><em>barefoot,</em><em> an additional </em><br />
<em>penance promised to </em><em>God </em><em>t</em><em>o absolve </em><em>their sins</em>.</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I've had more religion in the past seven days than in the past 38 years. Sinners cloaked in dark velvet hoods, a penance for sins held private for too long. Flowered balconies brimming with pinks and purples as </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BIJUbd4U4oI"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">tearful saetas</span></a><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> spill out over the masses below. And crowds by the thousands, every one of them stretching skyward on tiptoes pinched in shinny new shoes as necks strain to see the Virgen float by on the broken shoulders of the </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYiKmfbJhmk&feature=related"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">costaleros</span></a><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">. This is Semana Santa in Spain. This is Holy Week.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Our nights in the pueblo have been late, the mood somber. We follow the priest up the main street to the town plaza as the float bearing Christ nailed to the cross maneuvers the tight corners of the callejon atop shoulders of school children. It is in a word, humbling. There are twelve stops along the way, each one just long enough for the costaleros to catch their breath and the priest to detail yet another station of the cross. The pueblo is quiet, pensive, respectful save for the wayward Vespa that buzzes down an empty sidestreet in hopes of finding an open bar to catch the last half of the futbol game. Tonight, this Good Friday, we will be back at the plaza for one last procession. The two brotherhoods of the pueblo will carry their floats atop the shoulders of weeping men. The two groups will weave in and out of our narrow pueblo streets until they meet in the main plaza thus reuiniting Mary and her Son.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5bMfyAzGo18rZv0POPWH9FgiS3tu6GZYu1EvgE7w1ixeePdjfT5J_OuKfeIVBsb2R8AA8kfhuV8RkS-stRIQ_yrBdI0MhyTV9bWlS8Z6EMGMTgcysbfl4WY5UdXnsud47dm4IjyskJbfO/s1600/Easter+2012+069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5bMfyAzGo18rZv0POPWH9FgiS3tu6GZYu1EvgE7w1ixeePdjfT5J_OuKfeIVBsb2R8AA8kfhuV8RkS-stRIQ_yrBdI0MhyTV9bWlS8Z6EMGMTgcysbfl4WY5UdXnsud47dm4IjyskJbfO/s320/Easter+2012+069.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>This float is called El Cristo de la Caridad </em><em> </em><em>It is mounted </em><em>on </em><em>a </em><br />
<em>handcarved </em><em>rosewood </em><em>platform dating </em><em>back</em><em> to the</em><em> early1500s & </em><br />
<em>weighs over 1500 kilos. </em><em>And it was carried </em><em>on the backs of </em><em>men</em><em> </em><br />
<em>who</em><em> march in unsion underneath its massive weight.</em></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Semana Santa in Spain is serious stuff. It's over the top. Excessive. So totally Spanish and even dare I say, somewhat hypocritical. This is not the Hallmark Easter of colored eggs and fluffy white bunnies. And I'm fine with that. To witness grown men drop to their knees, heads bowed and hands clasped tightly as tears roll from cheek to chin and then drop to knuckle I realize it's not something you explain but perhaps, if you're lucky, just maybe it's something you feel.</span><br />
<br />PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-71078912264361242122012-03-31T16:02:00.000-05:002012-03-31T16:02:57.010-05:00CAVEAT EMPTOR<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjglwAvf8sxElXN2f1i27bZq-xdDabn8Sfi3ws5bCOslyHqk5W90LQAscHVJ-Fh1kk-NG-sUIRPW8h3A-5btGciso8h6S57RKhqzyls76bGAWUsL2hwT3YbRnFEpnCz0qMW4yB9B4N6Z5Xe/s1600/Soap%2520Suds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjglwAvf8sxElXN2f1i27bZq-xdDabn8Sfi3ws5bCOslyHqk5W90LQAscHVJ-Fh1kk-NG-sUIRPW8h3A-5btGciso8h6S57RKhqzyls76bGAWUsL2hwT3YbRnFEpnCz0qMW4yB9B4N6Z5Xe/s320/Soap%2520Suds.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have this really weird quirk that involves my beauty regimen, if you can even call it that. On most days, I'm in and out of the shower with hair done and face on in under 10 minutes. I don't spend a lot of time on much of anything, well, except for<span style="background-color: white; color: lime;"> </span></span></span><a href="http://321picklepits.blogspot.com.es/2011/02/addendum-to-manifesto.html"><span style="background-color: white; color: #3d85c6; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">my eyebrows</span></a><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> and I've already explained that </span><a href="http://321picklepits.blogspot.com.es/2010/05/prize-fight-loser.html"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">red hot mess</span></a><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> a time or two. Come to think of it, I guess it's not really my <em>beauty regimen</em> perse, but it is my self image. Basically, it all comes down to my hair.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I'm really particular about my hair. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I don't mean it has to perfectly parted or glistening in the sunshine. But it does have to be short. And as far as I'm concerned, the shorter the better. I've sported short hair for most of my adult life and since having kids it's only gotten shorter. It's quick, clean, and easy. I'm also lucky in that I can pull it off though I think that this has more to do with attitude than face shape because I've been every shade of two hundred and back again all the while sporting the same do. And like clockwork I'm in the beauty shop every 5 weeks come hell or high water to get it trimmed back to nothing. Because that's what a good pixie cut is...nothing. Of course a pixie does not a quirk make but the fact that each trip to the salon leaves me convinced of a five pound weight loss probably does. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Unfortunately, the move to Spain has presented some challenges in the hair maintenance department. First off, there's the unspoken rule - well, <em>law</em> is perhaps a better word for it - that if you are a female you <u>will</u> <u>have</u> <u>long</u> <u>hair</u>. Period. I've already been approached by women in the pueblo, "Por favor, you've got to stop shaving your head, darling. Just let it grow out for a while. You'll see, it'll be okay..." <em>Really? How 'bout defining 'while'? Is that Crystal Gayle 'while'? Because anything beyond Susan Powter while is just not gonna work for me.</em> Secondly, my hair is shorter than most men's and by far the shortest of all the women's in town. This fact I don't mind at all but it did have me a tad leary of that first appointment with the peluquera. How was I going to explain that I needed it as short as she could get it without resorting to clippers? Would she even do it? Break the town norm and put her ass on the line for my five pound fantasy? Point cut, texturize, oh yeah and don't forget the cowlick - all very minor details to you, the reader. <em>In English</em>. Ever try explaining all that in a tongue other than your own? </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Lucky for me, we've gotten past my Spanish 101 beauty parlor vocabulary and my girl does an awesome job each and every time. I now sit back, grab the Hola magazine and let her go to town while my brain floats in and out of Spanish consciousness straining for only the most important of the pueblo's gossip that hangs like a soupy fog over the black vinyl salon chairs. That is, once the shampooing is done.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Aaah yes, the shampooing.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I do realize it is quite possible that being follically challenged, in other words, practically bald (by local standards), I may be hyper sensitive to the Spanish approach to washing clients' hair but I gotta ask: what the hell is the deal with washing my ears? I lean back all the way, my head centered and hanging into the sink. I make sure to scooch up all the way so my neck rolls seal the gap between me and the wash basin and I never complain about the water temperature even though it's always too cold. The hair gets soaked, the shampoo goes on and the next thing I know it's gone from hairwash to aural assault with no warning whatsoever; a two for one special at no extra charge. It's not just a pueblo thing either because I've had my hair cut on multiple occasions in Castellon, Valencia, Madrid and Cordoba. It doesn't matter if I'm in the city or the pueblo - it's always the same, two minutes worth of scalp scrubbing and ten worth of sudsy ear swirls. The first couple of times I thought it was just bad luck so I shrugged it off. But then I started noticing that it wasn't just my bad luck but everyone else sporting a Superman cape. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I don't know. Maybe America's approach to customer service has made me soft. <em>The Customer is Always Right</em> mentality may have prejudiced me to the point of no return. Of this I'm not sure but one thing is for certain: I'm already dreading my trip to the gynecologist.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span>PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-84915390936175672072012-03-17T07:13:00.001-05:002012-03-17T07:25:18.622-05:00BAD FRUIT<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Once upon a time, I lived in Valencia, Spain. It was way back when; when I was younger, when I was dumber, and yes, when my boobs were perkier. Now, some twenty years later, I find myself here in Spain again. Yet this time I'm far removed from the beach, the Fallas, and those savory Valencian oranges. I'm in Andalucia: land of the gypsies, the whitewashed pueblos, and...oranges?<br />
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I'm sure you've heard of the famed Valencia orange. Spraying a mist so sweet upon peeling back that first strip of rind that you'd swear you were inhaling flowers. I used to wait for my local grocery store to post the sign, <em>Valencia Oranges $1.99/lb!,</em> snubbing the California and Florida varieties because afterall, everything is better in Spain, right? What I didn't know, but do now was that I was being tricked. Maybe not 100% of the time, but well, yeah, a good portion of it. Turns out those sneaky Valencians were plagiarizing their produce. Okay, fine. I've got the wrong word - I know you can't really plagiarize an orange but it's all I could come up with before my third cup of coffee has kicked in. Let me explain...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigq9BKSJ8KsGE_7s-twUsyNdiZQ3IUbQcbJDZVflPPtAC24au4cD-1F-qSdTb73Bew4rTpL33DVXRswcvgCZLzkq3BzbUs1fqvmKdwEl6fFl4NCLancN4z7CWCmBj0lBDZ3lhR6ECxH1pf/s1600/march+2012+011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigq9BKSJ8KsGE_7s-twUsyNdiZQ3IUbQcbJDZVflPPtAC24au4cD-1F-qSdTb73Bew4rTpL33DVXRswcvgCZLzkq3BzbUs1fqvmKdwEl6fFl4NCLancN4z7CWCmBj0lBDZ3lhR6ECxH1pf/s320/march+2012+011.JPG" width="320" /></a>I'm writing this post from the front porch of our house. As I look out the window, past the goat path and beyond the neighbor's chicken coop, I see <strike>miles and miles</strike> kilometers and kilometers of nothing but orange groves. Palma del Rio is the closest big town to us, some twenty minutes away. The drive to Palma from our pueblo is carpeted by row upon row of orange groves. As far as your eye can see it's nothing but orange trees. It reminds me a little bit of Iowa if you were to trade the cornfields for orange groves.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIwqkPWB3KEuLz0t7X6-IcpFcH7DJ9nLsUtGhjBkrnaMNlD1cLA1LLa8r-umi5NtG3rgwjWi3NsIhmPGzDZRJF9bCop3p0nv2dc28X2pMEA-08SjvpzV05QGKOtcX0k2gDWDWg5lnp1TcW/s1600/february+2012+025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIwqkPWB3KEuLz0t7X6-IcpFcH7DJ9nLsUtGhjBkrnaMNlD1cLA1LLa8r-umi5NtG3rgwjWi3NsIhmPGzDZRJF9bCop3p0nv2dc28X2pMEA-08SjvpzV05QGKOtcX0k2gDWDWg5lnp1TcW/s320/february+2012+025.JPG" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Squeezing and bottling three liters <br />
of liquid gold: 20 minutes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now that you've got that visual planted, understand that there are two kinds from which to choose: table oranges (for eating) and juice oranges. And between these two kinds of oranges you've got hundreds of varieties (flavors). Sample a Palma Orange as we refer to ALL the oranges in this area, and you're taste buds will explode. I've never known anyone to be able to eat just one either. The juice is so sweet that your lips pucker and your eyeballs about come shooting straight out of your head. Once you shake off that first bite your mouth is already twitching for the second. It's heaven, pure heaven.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE58hAhfq97T1hyBvc7ns29Ck14220TZsl0L9dTBy-TKF3pC4hff8gVnJP-CW2FFKmoeXsRXBYHcQ5DUFzEp4gzPC0yEADxzaVlgzl_KpUWjACpjWz6E3XUvS2lIKXBrXcKr88CnJfY_oQ/s1600/march+2012+013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE58hAhfq97T1hyBvc7ns29Ck14220TZsl0L9dTBy-TKF3pC4hff8gVnJP-CW2FFKmoeXsRXBYHcQ5DUFzEp4gzPC0yEADxzaVlgzl_KpUWjACpjWz6E3XUvS2lIKXBrXcKr88CnJfY_oQ/s320/march+2012+013.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tasting that first glass of real, fresh (and free)<br />
orange juice with no sugars & no preservatives:<br />
PRICELESS</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And here's the Debbie Downer piece of the post. Our orange growers here in the region, instead of sacking up and selling directly to the Big Boys abroad, thus marketing Andalucia and The Palma Orange and puting us on the map, have taken the low road and pimped it to our Valencian brothers whose, I'm sorry to say, oranges are by far inferior. The Valencians drive down here with their big ass semi trucks, load up OUR oranges for <strike>pennies on the dollar</strike> centimos on the Euro, and truck them back to Valencia where they are reborn as the Valencia orange and resold at a higher price. Do they still sell their oranges? You bet. So when push comes to shove you actually have a 50/50 shot at tasting a Palma orange when you buy Valencian. A true crap shoot if there ever was one. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQhsw1-HUE1wOmRFwUyNLsUxUWN22wkIAYh0CJh8pXBmDJc1RzA-EbUi7d736bAa2CKhmo7SkDvQHnYqECt7QM8H3ZBhvdP0dRUXU4LWBPJzl3h-QB6jhsTsnOemQvcZ6XtJRlv_rtJcIo/s1600/tropicana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQhsw1-HUE1wOmRFwUyNLsUxUWN22wkIAYh0CJh8pXBmDJc1RzA-EbUi7d736bAa2CKhmo7SkDvQHnYqECt7QM8H3ZBhvdP0dRUXU4LWBPJzl3h-QB6jhsTsnOemQvcZ6XtJRlv_rtJcIo/s320/tropicana.jpg" width="204" /></a><br />
The whole thing makes me sad for us. We're like a bad Pollack joke down here in Andalucia. How do we get our local government and orange growers to see the forest through the trees? So while you chew on that one for me, I'm gonna head out to the back yard and pick some more off the trees to squeeze and bottle for tomorrow's breakfast.<br />
<br />
Tropicana still has nothing on us here in Spain.<br />
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</div>PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-27044993202762125352012-03-09T05:11:00.000-06:002012-03-09T05:11:19.949-06:00COCK TEASE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj7gwTjy5VSCSGQw3lIxjwnKznF_hUn9S01xtNQOCktgGGlwub-7u-H2gtHjuMLPciui5E_BtV48PsXPZy1BU_K8tiCwg_SjY8u90rCOJ630OL1cwcuoLlwBxMWwxcHRk1GYEv3BvYUlpb/s1600/stock-vector-cock-57070495.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj7gwTjy5VSCSGQw3lIxjwnKznF_hUn9S01xtNQOCktgGGlwub-7u-H2gtHjuMLPciui5E_BtV48PsXPZy1BU_K8tiCwg_SjY8u90rCOJ630OL1cwcuoLlwBxMWwxcHRk1GYEv3BvYUlpb/s320/stock-vector-cock-57070495.jpg" width="302" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Who needs an alarm clock when the neighbors have roosters? Notice the plural on that my friends. I'm not talking just one neighbor/one rooster, I'm talking<em> multiple</em> neighbors and God only knows how many cock-a-doodle-doing roosters. The neighborhood in which we're renting is considered to be somewhat upscale as far as the pueblo goes which makes the rooster situation that much more comical. <em> Hey, buzz me in through the security gate but oh, wait. Don't let the rooster out! </em>The pueblo streets, lined neatly with orange trees and flowering bouganvilla give no hint as to the feathered flock that sings us awake each morning, warning us of the approaching dawn. Thinking back, I didn't notice it so much a few months ago. Do roosters hibernate? But now that spring is upon us it seems that the flock has doubled, perhaps tripled in size. And in volume.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><span style="color: #274e13;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">That trumpet tongued flock of cocks has my number too. For as soon as my bare feet hit the cold tile floors and I shake off that last hope of a wink of sleep, they mock me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><span style="color: #274e13;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">With frosty silence.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><span style="color: #274e13;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Bastards.</span>PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-68796145435002226302012-01-04T09:44:00.001-06:002012-01-05T05:19:22.665-06:00TRAILBLAZING<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I'm realizing that we haven't really gone out of my way to create any new traditions for our family. I'm not even talking about <em>exciting</em> ones. Year in, year out it's always the same. <em>Predictable</em> about sums it up. Sure there are the birthday cakes and overly decorated Christmas cookies; traditions carried out year after year without so much as a second thought and which, come to think of it, are pretty much no brainers. I mean it's not like I can hide behind my pocket bible and lay claim to a secret Jehovah's Witness brotherhood for backup. It's all been pre-programmed to happen automatically as if without even a second thought, a heartbeat away from instinct. Well, all except those pesky little things like anniversaries, which if you read</span><a href="http://www.321picklepits.blogspot.com/2011/12/real-madrid-can-bite-me.html"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><em><span style="color: #444444;">my last post</span></em></span></a><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> and are still following, you're scratching your head wondering how I'm not in jail for that attemted homicide. But back to my point: traditions, or rather lackthereof. What's a gal to do? Here I am, a pilgrim (okay, not really but well, maybe just a little bit Mayflower) in a new land, I need to get my act together and figure this out fast so my kids don't end up having to dig their way out of the identity chasm we've created for them; credit card in one hand and botijo in the other. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKdsj_8LqA5ZXIK_dtewS1mGePnMyzTnHCXWvirtrq4b9AUQ4fKiwvzuSY0bxqWiEfBeqaAZgrFJ1bPRs-jxOHBzNORXroTVRHisKGw4jM5xRlxuxyg6Ij0NG2lIDjlpTmqoQ2HcnoQC5q/s1600/january+2012+060%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKdsj_8LqA5ZXIK_dtewS1mGePnMyzTnHCXWvirtrq4b9AUQ4fKiwvzuSY0bxqWiEfBeqaAZgrFJ1bPRs-jxOHBzNORXroTVRHisKGw4jM5xRlxuxyg6Ij0NG2lIDjlpTmqoQ2HcnoQC5q/s320/january+2012+060%255B1%255D.JPG" width="220" /></a><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">January 1, 2012 a new trail was blazed, albeit almost by mistake. On a quest to tire the kids out for siesta, we took them up into the Parque Natural de la Sierra de Hornachuelos and started climbing. Not an easy feat when you're schlepping a toddler hipside but I managed. The views were stellar and the fresh air and sunshine did wonders for us all, though mainly me. I was finally able to let go of the grudge-turned-grief for the anniversary that never was and leave it atop the rosemary peppered ridge. </span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">What better way to ring in a brand new year than ascending paradise and tossing your baggage cliffside? So I'm resolving to </span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">make a hike like this every New Year's Day; a family tradition to set each year off with a clear and better view from the day/year before. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia;">What new traditions have you brought to your family?</span><br />
<br />PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-81970121831543735752011-12-29T16:15:00.000-06:002011-12-29T16:15:51.444-06:00REAL MADRID CAN BITE ME<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkRsi1UG-sCDuTT57_guseX_LbvZXo4L7STqiRotBLvKBcbvvbK19rUv2K9OPNmvKi46ZwgSAtkzaon5LVIHcTlhVhYcha3nx2wpvGaaKeHOcVg7J6VotEBWVniJGj4vMmSbTDv80muE44/s1600/red+card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkRsi1UG-sCDuTT57_guseX_LbvZXo4L7STqiRotBLvKBcbvvbK19rUv2K9OPNmvKi46ZwgSAtkzaon5LVIHcTlhVhYcha3nx2wpvGaaKeHOcVg7J6VotEBWVniJGj4vMmSbTDv80muE44/s320/red+card.jpg" width="176" /></a></div>
I didn't have high hopes for this year's anniversary. It's kind of hard to when there's no prayer of a babysitter and your anniversary happens to fall between two of the biggest holidays of the year. Nope, no 'high hopes' at all which is a good thing since my <strike>better</strike> other half seems to have completely blown the damned thing off. <br />
<br />
Oh wait, do I sound bitter?<br />
Do I have a <em>tone</em>?<br />
Edgy perhaps?<br />
Snarky even?<br />
<br />
Try fucking pissed. Yeah, try that one.<br />
<br />
No, it wasn't our Silver or Golden Anniversary. What's the traditional gift for ten years of <strike>putting up with</strike> loving each other? Really? A sink full of dirty dishes, a filthy bathroom and a sack full of rotting trash to take out? Wow. I had no idea. And to think of the money I could've saved at the new <em>Outdoor Sportsman</em> shop that just went up in the pueblo...<br />
<br />
I could've dropped a hint, a gentle reminder. Yeah, I could'a done that. Oh no, wait a minute. I DID. Like three times this week. So when night falls and there's not even a congratulatory sticky note on the fridge to say <em>Babe, we made it!</em> <em>Thanks...</em> <br />
<br />
...for the three kids you birthed<br />
...for sticking out a rough couple of years financially<br />
...for being there to say goodbye to loved ones<br />
...for the last TEN YEARS worth of foul smelling laundry that has been cleaned, folded and put away<br />
<br />
You can bet your sweet ass that I'm pissed. And for the record, it makes no difference in the world to me whether or not Madrid won or not. Red card for you, Mr. Picklepits. <br />
<br />
RED CARD FOR YOU! <br />
<br />
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<br />PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-9180985108129155352011-12-12T06:37:00.000-06:002011-12-12T06:37:49.197-06:00'TIS THE SEASON<span style="color: #38761d;">It's been a while, hasn't it? Rest assured all is well in the pueblo and with Christmas fast approaching we are beginning to get into the spirit of things. I really thought I was going to miss snow, having spent the past three plus decades frozen stiffer than Walt Disney from October to April. Alas, that is not the case. No, not the case at all in fact I can tell I'm acclimating to the Andalusian version of winter when I complain about sub fifty degree days. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">I came across <a href="http://youtu.be/oGab38pKscw"><strong><span style="color: black;">this video</span></strong></a> purely by chance the other day that I want you all to see. For some time now I've been trying to figure out a way to explain what this move to the pueblo has meant for me...for us but I was always short on explanation. Long on feeling but short, very short on explanation. Well, this snippet really does a fine job of articulating what we've found since our arrival here. Or perhaps better put, what we've found we can live without.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-YH0LW4boWZWIEpC2hV8OcdoDwe2OCP-zPObQD2cruu68kOzPZUB7Wlpljp8iAL9UF06zTGi3cNTiWuDq7D-_agovAk94dOugZW24ibEglBAZ8NHGC-MdOOTS0nNC17Vsqdlt74NdZT4y/s1600/december+2011+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-YH0LW4boWZWIEpC2hV8OcdoDwe2OCP-zPObQD2cruu68kOzPZUB7Wlpljp8iAL9UF06zTGi3cNTiWuDq7D-_agovAk94dOugZW24ibEglBAZ8NHGC-MdOOTS0nNC17Vsqdlt74NdZT4y/s320/december+2011+002.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #38761d;">Still, life in the pueblo doesn't come without its quirks. Take today for example. We took the kids into the grocery store to stock up for the weekend before the whole damned town shuts down for Sunday. Anyway, we're not in the store more than five minutes when I notice a customer in the checkout line chasing his holiday pastry down with a shot of Christmas Cheer. I smiled politely, said my 'hola' as is customary to do regardless of whether or not you've ever met the person, and then made a sharp turn down the aisle with my grocery cart full of screaming kids. What was <em>that</em> all about? My brain imploded under the weight of questions like, "Gee, I wonder if they have an international chapter of Alcoholics Annonymous?' and "Dude, can't you wait 'til you get home to start with that shit?' I mean it wasn't even close to time for comida and this guy was chuggin' away like it was his last Christmas. Geez.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">But whatever. To each his own, right? As we finished up at the butcher's counter I got the kids to distract The Grinch so I could sneak some traditional Christmas goodies into the cart and then we made our way back up to the <strike>bar</strike> checkout.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><em>Hmmmm, interesting.</em> "I think the gentleman forgot part of his purchase," I offered.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><strong>Checkout Girl:</strong> "No, no. He got everything. I made sure of it! I packed his bags myself."</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><strong>Me:</strong> "But his 'spirits'. The bottle's still here. And look, there's still about half of it left."</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><strong>Checkout Girl:</strong> (Giggles) "Aaah, no, no, no. That's <em>ours</em>." </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><strong>Me:</strong> <em>Come again?</em> "Excuse me?"</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><strong>Checkout Girl:</strong> "It's for everyone. Here!" (pours me a generous shot) </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><strong>Me:</strong> "Uhm..."</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><strong>Checkout Girl:</strong> "Go ahead, chug it! It's Christmastime!"</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><strong>Me:</strong> "Uhm...okay, thanks!?"</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><strong>Checkout Girl:</strong> "It's just our little way of spreading the holiday cheer."</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFedg7SQ38pKTEnez83IuTHI2eJk4g5JRlIjeB69XEi32KiuZrWxKhmSU2_C0W2H1QbCRJjHXT7JC84_3kedpweAT24rP7os_3XaudWtdNdhJKDfu4JYAyi-slz0yvPY9O1h56todl3_kX/s1600/december+2011+005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFedg7SQ38pKTEnez83IuTHI2eJk4g5JRlIjeB69XEi32KiuZrWxKhmSU2_C0W2H1QbCRJjHXT7JC84_3kedpweAT24rP7os_3XaudWtdNdhJKDfu4JYAyi-slz0yvPY9O1h56todl3_kX/s320/december+2011+005.JPG" width="213" /></a><span style="color: #38761d;">And then it dawned on me. 100 proof liquor has that effect on me in case you didn't know. The Spanish just may be onto something. Well, at least the ones from <em>my</em> pueblo. We may not have Black Friday. Our Christmas lights didn't go up until just this week. And there isn't one bell guilting me into making a donation on my way out of Target, Costco or the grocery store. But nonetheless, there is still an overwhelming feeling of Christmas. In spite of the obvious lack of marketing we feel the presence of Christmas spirit more than ever this year. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">And I'm not just talking 'bout the liquid spirits.</span><br />
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<br />PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-37339798723467294272011-10-21T05:00:00.000-05:002011-10-21T05:00:54.731-05:00REINA SOFIA HAS CF<div style="text-align: right;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHfUy5ruwrtqnwEDkw41bUyKWUxr0RrKS7Ri_EzthQNa6BZcdhsYMxg_Sb28IISm8yJW1dV9OfT_TDBxizUt370qK8p5MNw8sPg2V-E3E6AT4cazVZy6UIKeot0ZgPrrNoiYvPYoyyVAsN/s1600/Reina+Sofia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHfUy5ruwrtqnwEDkw41bUyKWUxr0RrKS7Ri_EzthQNa6BZcdhsYMxg_Sb28IISm8yJW1dV9OfT_TDBxizUt370qK8p5MNw8sPg2V-E3E6AT4cazVZy6UIKeot0ZgPrrNoiYvPYoyyVAsN/s320/Reina+Sofia.jpg" width="248" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm sorry but I just wanna tuck those puffed out<br />
curls behind her ears each & every time I see her.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In case you're not up to speeed on your Who's Who of reigning monarchs, let me intoduce you to Reina Sofia. Reina Sofia means a lot in this country. First off, she's the queen of Spain and a pretty likeable gal from what I can gather although I do think it's high time she updated her hairstyle. But let's face it, when you're the queen you get certain perks no matter what your hair looks like. As you probably guessed, Reina Sofia has a lot of things named after her: streets, parks, airports, and tons of buildings. Even the hospital that we go to in Cordoba for our quarterly CF clinic is named for Her Majesty. Hence, the title of this post. No, the queen of Spain does not have cystic fibrosis however the hospital named for her does~an entire unit in fact. And that is where we found ourselves earlier this month.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Two weeks post visit and I'm now cursing myself for not having taken <strike>better</strike> notes because quite honestly, it's all kind of a blur. Three squabbling kids squished into a doctor's office has that effect on me, ya' know? But there were some noteable differences that are worth a mention.</span><br />
<div>
</div>
<strong>1. THERE IS INDEED AN "I" IN TEAM</strong> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzzIqXM3djCFNoVyk5N8mhIs_0Gi491Ktc8jH_LPO5yFmOwe-Z4x_KyyBOxvscOEtqwGKmnaLAmGo1aKBcDs-utoezO6nulqGwwzLAsOA0V3guuoYEa7w3muvRD9CjHBEaT6025NQMZp0d/s1600/CF+CLINIC+SPAIN+101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzzIqXM3djCFNoVyk5N8mhIs_0Gi491Ktc8jH_LPO5yFmOwe-Z4x_KyyBOxvscOEtqwGKmnaLAmGo1aKBcDs-utoezO6nulqGwwzLAsOA0V3guuoYEa7w3muvRD9CjHBEaT6025NQMZp0d/s320/CF+CLINIC+SPAIN+101.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Cowboy caught the wheeze and prescribed<br />
one puff of Seratide before each vest session<br />
over a three week period.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Dr. Cowboy is our pulmonologist. That's not really his name but whip out your Spanish 101 notes and I'll bet you can figure it out. Anyway, he's like the captain of the CF team for us; the main guy we see and the one who runs the show. He interviewed us and logged copious notes into the computer about the kids' health history and then he sat down with each of them to take a listen. When he was finished he handed me two sealed medical packages: the swabs for their throat cultures. At first I was a little taken aback. <em>Me? I have to gag them? You can't be serious, I'll screw it up. I'll puncture a lung or pierce a vocal chord.</em> Thoughts like these raced through my mind while my brain was trying to translate,<em> that's your fucking job,<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> buddy</span></em></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> minus the obscenities into Spanish. Alas, no translation needed. We were to take the culture kit down to the lab. The kids would get their throat cultures done there. Hmmmm.... interetesting, I thought. And then we were given a two inch stack of medical orders and told where to go to get each one done.</span> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyeEY3OVRkUwypl7LhehQDwGZPXkCmVevvy9oQpSUngFA8yr72eEeP5Ryjp4Z26cEKMt5o2CpH84W5OC2ImcBHqRYZVY7bOsDKDXKqJajRrrjp9G9RDAlW3fAeyGJgI14bagd7gT28UTgO/s1600/CF+CLINIC+SPAIN+108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyeEY3OVRkUwypl7LhehQDwGZPXkCmVevvy9oQpSUngFA8yr72eEeP5Ryjp4Z26cEKMt5o2CpH84W5OC2ImcBHqRYZVY7bOsDKDXKqJajRrrjp9G9RDAlW3fAeyGJgI14bagd7gT28UTgO/s320/CF+CLINIC+SPAIN+108.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So much for getting out of the<br />
'homework' assignment. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Our visit with Dr. Cowboy was a quick one. But our time in the hospital, not so much. The time we would have spent waiting in our old CF clinic routine was spent walking long, white corridors looking for faraway laboratories and hidden specialty offices. I still haven't figured out how all the players come together - but for the time being it appears that technology links them. When we entered the office of the GI doc, the first thing she did was pull up Dr. Cowboy's notes from twenty minutes prior. She did her own dog and pony show, entered the new data and gave us our homework: collect three day's worth of fecal matter for each child and bring it back so labs can be run. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> <em>Oh but Good Doctor, they're pancreatic sufficient!</em> <em> Best check those notes again...</em>.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>2. TAKE A NUMBER</strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Spain will forever be the country of 'manana'. <em>Why do today what you can put off til tomorrow?</em> I'll never get it, being of good German stock this mindset drives me nuts. As we were running all over Reina Sofia (the hospital not the Queen) there arose a common theme: la vuelta (the return). Every stop was just that, a stop. We took our number, waited the fifteen minutes to be seen and when it was finally our turn we were able to go in to make an appointment to come back.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Labs? See you on Friday morning!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">GI? Catch you after labs!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Radiology? We'll be there..how's Friday for you?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">On one hand it was frustrating to me that clinic seems to be so compartmentalized here; each entity doing it's own thing on it's own schedule and I had to remind myself that it's not wrong, just...different. Yet on the other hand I left each doctor feeling as though we were in really good hands, dealing with the experts in their field which helped me to swallow the inconvenience pill that comes with living in a pueblo 45 minutes away from Cordoba.</span><br />
<br />
<strong>3. OUR FREE LUNCH</strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Dr. Cowboy was very interested in how CF clinic was run in the States. He asked about the frequency of our visits, which turns out to be the same here - every three months unless something comes up. He asked about who made up the members of the care team, which again is much the same except there is no pharmacologist on team here. And he asked about medications and the protocol in using them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Then, very slowly he leaned over and said, "I want you to understand something very important. Very important."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I was on the edge of my chair. Charlie and Lola were taking turns jumping off of the exam table and Henry was unrolling gauze pads by the meter. We were about to be denied, banned or exiled I wasn't sure which but it was serious from Cowboy's tone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"You will not pay for medication here. Do you understand?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Uhm, no. Actually, I don't because it's like a billion dollars back where we live...you know, in the Land of Milk and Honey where everyone is blond haired and blue eyed and drives a little red Corvette. "Excuse me?" I managed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Cystic Fibrosis is a chronic and life threatening disease. You will have a standing order at the hospital pharmacy for each child's prescription needs."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"How much is the copay?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"The what?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Copay," I repeated. "The part that we are responsible for."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">"There is no copay for these medications. As you run out, you will come in to Reina Sofia and refill your order. We're not here to make a profit. We're here to treat a disease."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I was speechless but managed to kick Joe's foot, my signal for him to confirm that I hadn't misinterpreted anything. We would later learn that prescription coverages vary depending upon which region in Spain you live in. In Andalucia, the regional government has funded a healthcare plan that covers prescription costs for chronic diseases such as cystic fibrosis. Not funded in Andalucia's plan however is The Vest. Patients here use other pep devices such as the Acapella and the Flutter in combination with manual cpt. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Having access to free medication almost seemed too good to be true. Was Hypertonic Saline available? TOBI? Pulmozyme? Azithromycin? When should we expect to start Charlie on the next batch of drugs? I asked Cowboy what our protocol would be under the team's guidelines.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">"Your children are uniquely yours. Charlie is different from Lola just as Lola is different from Charlie in spite of them having the same genetic make up for this disease," he began. "I do not feel comfortable starting either Charlie or Lola on a new drug just because they have a birthday. I want to know first how their bodies are handling this disease, what it looks like for them. I want to study their chest xrays, review their labs and get a baseline of where we are now before we jump into a change of plan."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I was silent, liking what I was hearing but still a bit paranoid that we might miss out on a more preventative approach to their care.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">"If you're concerned about the availability of these treatmenet options, don't be. We have access to them when we're ready for them," he continued. "Let's keep a few things in our back pocket for the time being while we figure out where each child is. Is that fair enough?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">"Yes. Yes, it is." We nodded in unison and explained to Cowboy that while we want to be very aggressive in a proactive approach we struggle with the possibility of over medicating the kids and as a result are very much interested in trying a more holistic approach before jumping immediately to drugs. Cowboy listened, we talked some more and closed things by confirming that clinic had our contact information for the pending lab results.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">By the end of our first clinic visit, I felt good with where we had landed. I felt like Cowboy had listened to us, heard us and in the end it just felt like a good fit. As with every clinic visit though, I was completely fried. Clinic visits take a lot out of me physically, mentally and emotionally each and every time. There's the early rising, the anticipation, the planning - so much going into it all to make it as worthwhile and thorough for the kids as possible. And in spite of the differences, which were really just that - differences - no better no worse, there was a constant. That is to say, the constant of knowing that the team members who are dedicated to helping us fight cystic fibrosis for the sake of our children want to give us The Best. Make no mistake, I'm not talking the best <em>American</em> care or the best <em>Spanish</em> care but rather The Best <em>CF</em> Care. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And for that we are very, very grateful.</span><br />
<br />
<br />PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086370561735894372.post-76229154547534834382011-10-15T09:48:00.000-05:002011-10-15T09:48:51.633-05:00A MINOR DETAILWell folks, sorry to be the Debbie Downer but it appears that even Paradise has its issues.<br />
<br />
There we were, bright and early on Monday morning running around like maniacs trying to get ready for the school day. <em>So typically us</em>. Kids were (barely) up and (sort of) dressed, plugged in to their vests and well into their treatment session as I was elbows deep into a dirty diaper and Joe was juggling the breakfast order alongside the school snack order. Not bad for a quarter after 7 on a school day, I thought.<br />
Then the power went out.<br />
<br />
We fumbled a bit, then scrambled, and finally recovered managing to get out the door in time for the walk in to school. Not the best start to a Monday but we pulled it together.<br />
<br />
Tuesday was better, the week taunting us to pick up the pace somewhat. <br />
And then the power went out.<br />
<br />
Wednesday came and we joked about what time we'd lose light. Joe chuckled as he buttered the toast. I managed a laugh as I doled out the breathing treatments.<br />
Then the power went out.<br />
<br />
Okay, so maybe not so funny any more. We were quick to notice that it wasn't just our house, not just our block, hell, not even just our neighborhood. It was indeed the whole damned pueblo! <br />
<br />
Thursday the same. <br />
Friday too. <br />
And don't forget Saturday or Sunday.<br />
<br />
What the hell?<br />
<br />
Every single day for the past eight days there has been a power outage for the entire pueblo. It's short lived, ten minutes tops. And it is reliable, always at 7:24AM. But what gives? What's the issue? I wouldn't have ever dared to call the pueblo <em>third world</em> but come on how, this was getting a little ridiculous.<br />
<br />
So, as I imagined a good Spanish wife would do, I sent the husband out to get to the bottom of it at the neighborhood bar. Seriously, where else? Nothing gets answers faster than a bar full of soccer fans and a few rounds of San Miguel (beer). Now, just so you know, going out to get some answers is not an in-and-out kinda deal least of all on a soccer night. This would likely be an all nighter for me, which was fine. I had a lighter and candles at arm's reach and my glass of wine within the other arm's reach so I was prepared. And just as I had surmised, some four hours later he came home with the full scoop; as it turns out, the one and only thing for which I was <em>not</em> prepared.<br />
<br />
Rather than bore you with the four hour version, I'll just cut to the chase. First off, no one in the whole freakin' bar even flinched when he brought up the pueblo's power 'issue'.<br />
What 'issue'? <br />
What are you talking about? <br />
Huh? <br />
They just stared at him blankly, silently willing him to shut the hell up so they could concentrate on the game. <br />
<br />
The electricity. <br />
<br />
Dude, what are you talking about? What about the electricity? <br />
<br />
The fact that every day we have none for a ten minute spell. What's the deal? <br />
<br />
Ohhhh...<em>THAT</em>. Suddenly, the game was of no consequence and they took some pity on the new guy. You'll get used to it. In fact, you can pretty much set your watch to it. Wait til winter when it's out for a couple of days. <br />
<br />
Come again? <br />
<br />
Oh yeah, last winter it went out for two whole days. Juan Carlos lost a week's worth of business because his freezer stock went bad and he had to dump it all. <br />
<br />
Pardon me, but are you fucking kidding me? <br />
<br />
You guys are living up in the new part of town, right? Well, it's not gonna be so bad for you guys. Just the ten minutes or so every morning when the pueblo wakes up. It's the unlucky saps in the old part of town that really have it bad, going for a few days at a time like that. Don't worry though, you'll get used to it.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZj6bCPTrIULNn4Yz4Sc2jUUxnSaqu4NftN32YuqhxB4PnmFCHI8ZLKVW9NrV6m8r1LYubQdpKfMfhm-Q6BjpGOUyn_9KBEbRNcT6AxLkb2C1LOlvGCY04M42Uh9syfUz9-85g8-AaQiz/s1600/blackout+035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZj6bCPTrIULNn4Yz4Sc2jUUxnSaqu4NftN32YuqhxB4PnmFCHI8ZLKVW9NrV6m8r1LYubQdpKfMfhm-Q6BjpGOUyn_9KBEbRNcT6AxLkb2C1LOlvGCY04M42Uh9syfUz9-85g8-AaQiz/s320/blackout+035.JPG" width="213" /></a><br />
<em>We'll get used to it</em>. Uhm, no. I'm thinking this is something that I probably won't get used to. I can get used to wearing shoes that pinch my toes. Or I can get used to drinking luke warm coffee when I so prefer it scalding hot. Hell, I might even be able to get used to everybody shouting at me as if I'm deaf becasue they think that if they speak louder I'll somehow understand all those colloquial phrases and inside jokes. But no, living without a reliable energy source is<em> not</em> something I plan on getting used to. I mean come on, we're well past the millenium folks. Shit, my Nepalese student, the ones who's cousin was a Sherpa, had more reliable power than this. I mean don't get me wrong, I think it's really cool and even a bit convenient that it happens to go out at the same time every day but there's a lot of shit that goes down regularly that I don't think we should tolerate just because no one has the wherewithall to fix the situation. <br />
<br />
So now added to my to-do list of<br />
1. informing the universe about <a href="http://321picklepits.blogspot.com/2009/06/shadow-in-night.html">cystic fibrosis</a><br />
2. writing and getting a grant to get computers (notice I said <em>get computers</em> not <em>get new computers</em>) for the pueblo's elementary school and <br />
3. running a marathon<br />
is<br />
4. stirring the shit up enough to get a revolution brewing so we can get the mayor/taxi driver to push for an update to the power grid which means at least two though preferably three to four new power transformers to replace the current ones which as we speak are about 40 years out of date. <br />
<br />
And they say that Stay at Home Moms don't work.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />PicklePitshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12995395058216017693noreply@blogger.com1