Wednesday, July 28, 2010

No Vehicles Were Harmed During My Trip

I set three basic ground rules for myself before I went to Ecuador:

I would not complain or whine or judge.
I would be open to new experiences and foods.
I would try to speak in Spanish.



I don't mean to brag (much) but I followed my own rules to the letter.  Weeeeeeelllll......I did whine a bit about my hair and judged myself to be an idiot with an I.Q. about the same as the humidity in Abby's house.  But otherwise I followed the rules. 









Here's a travel tip for you:  (men need not read this--Dean) if you have any natural curl in your hair, do not have it whacked off and layered before you travel to Ecuador.  Unless, that is, you want to have a puff ball for a head.












So, back to the rules.  Be open to new foods.  Me.  The picky eater.  My first dinner in Ecuador was goat. It was a bit chewy but good. And the rice pudding Jorge and I had for dessert was, as my mom always liked to say, “luscious” even though it was a bit different than any I’d ever had before.






In Guayaquil we climbed a bajillion stairs to walk around a revitalized part of the city,






and walked along the malecon.
I saw my first iguanas up close and personal. They weren’t exactly in the wild but they ranged free in a park in the city. You could get as up close and personal to them as you felt comfortable doing.



I got pretty close, but not as close as the woman who received a gift from one of the tree-lounging iguanas.



We also visited a kind of combination zoo/historic park.










The next morning I had my first traditional Ecuadorian breakfast. Not ceviche (although I did try Abby’s in Manta),but bolon. Yum.

Driving from Guayaquil to and through Quevedo to Abby and Jorge’s house was a bit like being in a bumper car ride….only without the bumps. Here is how the game is played. Mix up a bunch of small cars, medium sized pickups, motorcycles (most of which had two parents with one to two kids mashed in between them), and large farm trucks. Point some of them in one direction and some in the opposite direction. Chunk out parts of the road now and then, add a few invisible speed bumps, don’t waste your time on road signs, throw in a mix of human forms of various sizes and ages walking along the highway, and then tell everybody there is only one rule to the game--they must get to their destination before everybody else around them. If they do not honk frequently, or pass cars three abreast a minimum of 17 times, while at the same time heading straight for the grill of another vehicle heading in the opposite direction, they will be disqualified.

You’d think I might have been a bit nervous during that drive but instead, I was amazed that everybody seemed to just expect that everybody else was going to drive like a maniac so they watched out for each other. I know it sounds crazy, but in a way, it almost felt safer than here at home. In the U.S. we expect the other motorists to follow the rules. I don’t know about you, but when another driver is passing and heading straight for me, I get pretty dang annoyed. I stay in my lane, just like I’m supposed to, and watch him get closer and closer to me. “What the heck is that idiot doing?! Doesn’t he know he doesn’t have room to pass? Who gave him a license to drive? Get back over you idiot…you’re going to hit me!” And then, finally, when I see he just isn’t going to make it, and I HAVE to, I move off to the right, blood pressure skyrocketing, cursing him. If I was in Ecuador, as soon as I saw him begin the pass, I would squeeze over a bit closer to the car (or two) on my right that I’m also trying to pass, and let him go by.

Once safely in Quevedo, I was greeted by Abby and Jorge’s two children.

During our time in Guayaquil, I think the only phrase I heard more often than “I miss Luuuuuuna” from Abby, was “I miss Maaaaaaaggie” from Jorge.












Needless to say, they were all ecstatic to see each other after two lonely days apart.





Later that evening I met also Jorge’s mom, Grace, and older brother, Danilo. Grace fed us pan de yuca which I plan to attempt myself (if I can find the flour) and chocolate soy milk. She had made them both (yes, even the milk) and they were both delicious.


The next day I met Jorge’s father, Manuel, and his girlfriend, Narcissa, and got a quick tour of the farm where he raises oil palm, corn and some teak.


At a family dinner I also got to meet Jorge’s grandma and aunt who were in town from Manta. Phew. I hope I passed the “meet your daughter’s future in-laws test”.


I’ll bet you’re all wondering if I spoke Spanish, aren’t you? You’re probably wondering if all those ½ hour sessions at the computer paid off or if they were a waste of time. Was I able to speak Spanish and make conversation with Jorge’s family? Did we understand each other? Yes I was, and dang right we did! Sorta. Abby just kind of looked at me like, “holy cow, she’s speaking…and they understand some of what she’s saying…” It was awesome. I’m not saying that I didn’t have to ask for some translation on occasion, or ask how to say a word here and there (okay, quite a few words here and there), but we talked about kids, and grandchildren, and religion and gosh, I don’t even remember what. We laughed and we joked and had a great visit. I'm sure I probably said things I didn't mean to say but the only thing I know for a fact I screwed up was when Narcissa asked me something and I answered,  "Yes!  I have two daughters."  She got a quizzical look on her face and Abby said, "Mom, she was asking you how you stay so thin." 

I was so excited that I could “talk” in Spanish, that I vowed to come home and diligently work on those Spanish lessons even more. Let’s see….I’ve been home for 17 days now and I’ve practiced … um … well … none. But I’m going to start again.  Soon.  Any day now...


Next time....fish, fish, and more fish.

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Sunday, July 25, 2010

Insect Food

No, this isn’t Ecuador. This is a lake we hiked by yesterday with our friends Dave and Toni. I know I said my next post would be more about Ecuador and you’ve been waiting…or maybe not…but I got distracted by a hike in the Bighorn mountains yesterday. Can you tell which is the real up and the real down of this photo? The lake was so calm that I could have rotated this photo upside down and you wouldn’t know. Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Is this the original view? 












Or this?  Shoot!  Which IS it?  I've rotated the dang thing so many times I'm not sure anymore. 








Before we even got to this point though, or even out of the car with boots on the trail, we had to stop and watch parenting in action. This mother moose jumped the fence and crossed the highway with nary a look behind. The two babies couldn’t make that jump and were bleating and trying to figure out a way to keep up with Mom. “What kind of Mom are you?” we said, watching from the car. “You left your babies behind...you're not even checking to see if they’re behind you….those poor babies….come on Mom, get a clue…” Maybe she heard us, but I suppose it’s more likely that she heard her babies bleating because she turned around and lumbered back across the highway “talking” to them. They “talked” back. I imagine it went something like this. “I told you kids to keep up with me. What are you still doing here?” “But mom….we couldn’t jump that …” “why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t get across before I made it all the way to the other side of the highway?” “But Mom…we” “Those people are looking at me, thinking I’m a negligent Mom. Follow me down the fence. Now jump here. Sheesh.” She marched across with the babies following, and knowing they were all safe on the other side, we continued on to the trail.


It was a perfect day for hiking. The skies were bright blue, there were no clouds, the wildflowers were at their peak, 


the temperature was perfect,and now and then there was a light but refreshing breeze. The ambiance was frosting, but the breeze was cake. It wasn’t only wildflowers that were at their peak. The mosquitoes were having an international convention and we had unwittingly stumbled in on their Meet & Greet. We met them all and they greeted us with stinging kisses. We visited with a backpacker heading out who took pity on us (mostly Toni, who seemed to be the entree of choice) and sprayed us with “OFF”. We must have still looked pitiful because later on another backpacker gave us his nearly empty bottle of bug spray.


We hiked five miles in to Lake Helen, ate our lunch and waited while Dave taught Toni to fish.




I had to put survival skills into play again while I sat on the rock.

The buzzing from the mosquitoes was so bad I felt like I was in the center of a beehive. Not that I’ve been in the center of a beehive. But if I ever had been, I think that’s what it would have sounded like. Dean wandered around doing what geologists do best, but I think he really was just hoping that walking would cause enough of a breeze to keep the buzzing pests off of him. (See those three little blood-suckers on my leg?!)




Coming out we got to cross the same stream we had to cross coming in. The same stream that in past years has always been dry or so low you could easily walk across on the rocks. Just like there have never, ever been mosquitoes hounding us when we’ve hiked here before. Never. Ever. The first time we all took our shoes off and carefully stepped on slippery moss-covered rocks with nearly numb feet. Coming back, the other three methodically took off their shoes and socks and repeated the procedure.








I was tired after nearly 10 miles of hiking and decided the risk of me slipping and falling face first into the water was greater than the risk I'd get blisters from hiking with wet feet.  So in I went...boots, socks and all.  The squeaking and squishing of my feet for the rest of the hike didn’t bother me at all and I didn’t even get a blister. And right now, as I type this, I wish I was out there again--mosquitoes, wet feet and all. 

For more photos of the views, the fishing and the flowers you can go here.◦
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Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Mission….Not Impossible

I am not a seasoned traveler. Not by plane anyway. I think in all of my nearly 58 years on this earth I have flown on seven round-trips. I think I have flown alone twice. Two times alone on a plane. So I was a bit nervous when the time arrived for me to fly alone to Ecuador. It didn’t help that I began the trip with about 2 hours of sleep under my belt. Dean had rolled his eyes and accused me of not trusting him when I set my iPod alarm in addition to the travel alarm he had brought. “I don’t want to lay awake all night worrying about missing my flight. I want a backup so I can sleep without worrying,” I said to him. Fat lot of good that did me since I spent most of the night checking my iPod every half hour or so to see what time it was. I did that by hiding it under the covers so when I clicked it to see the time, the bright light wouldn’t wake Dean up and cause more eye rolling. It turned out I didn’t really need to worry because my cell phone rang and scared the bejezus out of me just as I was getting dressed. Apparently I had signed up for reminder calls from Orbitz and an automated voice was calling to remind me about my flight time.

When you don’t fly much, you don’t know or remember all the things you need to know and remember. Like having your passport ready to show people, or how to work the stupid boarding pass machine, or even which ticket counter is yours. Did you know that you have to put your carryon liquids through security separately now? I didn’t. I’m not the person you want to be behind when it’s check-in/security time if you are in a whoppin’ hurry; especially when I’m a zombie walking around on one or two hours of sleep. I managed to get myself checked in and I was happy to see that the hours I’d spent paring down, repacking, rearranging and redistributing all my stuff between my suitcase and huge purse paid off when my suitcase came in at .75 pounds underweight.

Everything went smoothly until I arrived in Houston. Well, the arrival part went fine. It was the departing that became an issue. It started pouring buckets. I could see the worry lines in the brow of the woman at the counter growing deeper and deeper. She was giving secret-code looks to the other counter people.  Then there was thunder and lightning in addition to a torrential downpour. I didn’t need to be a seasoned traveler to know things weren’t looking good for making my connection in Panama. I overheard a stewardess tell someone that one bolt of lightning hit a plane as it was beginning to taxi out. I think that must have been when the airport powers said, “Huh, maybe we should ground this airport for a little while. Let’s divert the plane that’s supposed to come here and then fly to Panama to San Antonio instead. And when the storm’s over we’ll bring it here and then spend time cleaning it. That ought to take about four hours and 15 minutes.”

My hope that I would still make my connection in Panama turned into fear that my 2 ½ hour weekly Spanish lessons weren’t going to be enough to help me survive being stuck, alone, in Panama City overnight. I went into survival mode. I started listening to my fellow delayed passengers. I sat in one place for a while and listened, then as another seat opened up, I would move there and listen some more. It wasn’t long until I discovered two women who spoke both Spanish and English. I visited with them about the weather, the delayed flight, and the odds of making our connection. One of them was a mechanical engineer from Venezuela (whose name I never could pronounce so I can’t remember) and one was a recently graduated Biology/Spanish major, Lindsey, from Minnesota who had come home from a summer college program in the Galapagos with more than a tan. I cooed over the 9-week old baby, Diondre, she was taking back to meet his dad for the first time. I stuck to them like duct tape on cat fur.

Once the Houston airport was ungrounded and we were finally on the way to Panama City, I sat by a seven year old boy from Canada who was heading to Columbia with his mom to visit family. He spoke fluent French and Spanish and pretty good English. I figured an innocent little boy would be the perfect victim to use my newly acquired Spanish with. I wouldn’t have to worry about rolling eyes or stifled giggles or making an idiot of myself trying to talk to an adult; especially when his mom was sitting next to him telling him to “be nice to the lady.” He put up with me for a while and then in his own special seven-year old way, he told his mom that my accent was “really, really bad”.

When we finally landed at the Panama City airport at nearly midnight instead of 7 p.m., I not only had two new best friends, I had friends who were fluent in Spanish.  We walked into a Panama City airport that was


empty except for the few employees forced to remain and get rid of  take care of us. It was a bit surreal and eerie. I half expected to see Stephen King lurking in the corner. We gathered into a group and a very nice gentleman told us (in both Spanish and English) that some of us would be able to fly out the next day (Saturday). He then squared his shoulders, took a big breath, and bravely told us that many would not be leaving until Sunday because the planes were full. He made a point to tell us that the employees there didn’t know any of us personally; they hadn’t shown any preference as to who would be leaving Saturday or Sunday, and almost pleaded with us not to be mad at him. I felt almost as sorry for him as I did for me.

First he handed out boarding passes to the people leaving on Saturday. When he came to the big stack of Sunday boarding passes and my name had not yet been called, my new best friend from Venezuela took me up to the ticket counter person, talked away in Spanish, and next thing you know I had a boarding pass for Saturday. As it turned out, the boarding passes were all mixed up and my name would eventually have been called for Saturday anyway, but it was nice not to have to wait and worry until the end of the stack to find that out.

After we got our boarding passes, they herded us all into vans and drove us to the one hotel near the airport where there were 30 empty rooms waiting for 93 passengers. They told us we could pick who we wanted to room with or we could stand in a line that snaked out the door and take our chances. My new best friends

and I were so in tune with each other by then that all it took was one look to each other and my friend from Venezuela marched up to the hotel counter, filled out the form, and by 1 a.m we were in our room. Lindsey and Diondre took one bed. My Venezuela friend and I shared the other bed. I can only assume that there were multiple men sleeping on the hard, cold, tile floor since we all know men will not share a bed….even if they know each other. We women, on the other hand, had no qualms about sharing. For a while every now and then during the night I would hear a rumbling that I first thought was thunder. But then I realized it was the wheels of suitcases rolling down the tiled hallway as people finally got their rooms.

The next morning at 9 a.m. I was in the van on the way back to the airport. The hotel had told us the van left every half hour and Lindsey had slept in and wasn’t ready to leave yet so my Venezuelan best friend walked me to the van (she couldn’t fly out until 7 p.m. that night, poor woman) and I left while Lindsey was still in her pajamas. I know that sounds heartless. How could I leave my new best friend behind? But survival mode kicked in again. There was no way I was going to miss that van ride and be late checking in. Turns out the vans left whenever anybody happened to be ready and Lindsey made it in plenty of time.

On the flight from Panama to Guayaquil I sat next to a very nice gentleman who was returning to Ecuador for a visit with his family. We had interesting discussions about politics, business and kids. When he heard my story about the missed connection and bringing Abby’s wedding dress to her, he told me he “would not leave me at the Guayaquil airport until he knew Abby was there waiting for me.” He was true to his word and it was a good thing. He beat me through customs and was there waiting for me at the baggage carousel. He had already bought a cart for my luggage and wouldn’t let me pay him back. He loaded my cart with my bags and off we went. Abby had warned me to keep track of my baggage claim ticket because they would check. They did. The people in front of me had two carts loaded with so many suitcases that when the man checked their claim ticket against their luggage he discovered they’d missed a piece. When he checked my ticket he discovered that it didn’t match my luggage tag. They hadn’t given me a new one in Panama. All I heard was “blah, blah, blah, blah” as he looked at my claim ticket and my bag. I had no idea what he was saying. I dug out every piece of paper I had and nothing was what he wanted. My newest best friend came to my rescue and explained the whole story. I showed Mr. Baggage Checker my passport, signed a paper and he let me through. All I could think was, “at least I have the wedding dress in a carryon bag, at least I have the wedding dress, I have the wedding …”

Finally, one flight delay, one missed connection, one unexpected night in Panama city, new friends from around the world, and approximately 30 hours after I left Denver, I saw Abby and Jorge’s smiling faces. My third best friend shook my hand, we wished each other well, and he went to his family while I went for a big hug with Abby and Jorge.

Throughout all the delays, van rides and unexpected stays, the only time my hand was not touching my carryon bag containing the precious wedding dress (the delivery of which was reason behind this trip) was when it was in the overhead storage bin on the planes. And even then I made sure it was in a bin I could keep my eye on. I’d had a nightmare a few nights before I left that somebody was chasing me trying to get the dress away from me so I was happy and more than a little relieved to hand over the responsibility for it to Abby. My mission had been accomplished.

Coming up next … Quevedo and the family.  And pictures.◦
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Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Stay Tuned

I'm back and I have tons of photos and lots of stories, beginning with an unexpected stay in Panama City.  I hope to get some posts published soon.  But in the meantime, I have ten days of mail to go through, bills to pay, wedding stuff to get done for Abby, all my laundry to do and yes, I came home to this.  Next time I go away, instead of hoping, I will be leaving explicit directions.◦
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Thursday, July 1, 2010

One More Before I Go

I don’t know if anybody has noticed, but I haven’t been here for a while. I’m not in blog land as much as most people anyway, but this has been longer than usual even for me. Well, here’s the thing. I’ve been busy. Busy doing all kinds of things.

One whole afternoon I was busy looking at this.  The water is so high that it is gushing over the Pathfinder Dam spillway for the first time since 1984.  It's become a popular thing for the locals to do on a summer afternoon.  People pack up their kids, throw a picnic lunch in the car and go check out the spillway.  Okay, I was there as part of a field trip during work hours so I wouldn't have been able to blog then anyway (at least not if the boss was anywhere nearby), but the sun, the fresh air, the spray of the water and just the thrill of being a field trip threw the thought of blogging right out of my head.



Removing the bathroom countertops at home has taken a lot of time that I could have been blogging. Alright, I didn’t really do any of the actual removing, but I am an awesome GSG (Go-fer Supporter Girl). I have perfected the technique of holding a flashlight while offering commiserating comments. "Ohh… I’ll bet that hurt. Can I get you a pillow for you head?

Sure you don’t want a pillow? How’s it going?







Is the top coming off? What if we can’t get it off?” Intermixed with sweet offers of “can I do anything? Do you need anything? Need me to get a tool? Want me to try?” I did spend a lot of minutes with a vacuum and broom once the counters were removed and I’ve had to spend time comforting Lily who sits on the floor by the bathroom cabinet, sadly meowing as she stares up at an empty hole, wondering how long it’ll be until she can get a nice cool drink from the faucet again.


Then of course somebody had to meet the countertop guys and hang out at home while they installed them.  I didn't do that, but I was in charge of meeting the plumber so he could (NOT---see update) install the sinks and faucets.  And I did coordinate all that counter guys/plumber scheduling, which can consume a fair number of minutes.

Speaking of coordinating I would like to rant a bit here. Wouldn’t you think when your profession is installing granite countertops that you would do the best you could do? Wouldn’t you think when your profession was to install granite countertops you would do a better job than Mr. Homeowner could? Wouldn’t you think you could cut circles that were evenly spaced both left to right







and top to bottom.  Isn't that what a template drawing is for? My six year old granddaughter could have drawn better spaced holes for cutting.

Dean had to spend hours gluing in extra support boards because the original countertop was a crap job (apparently not installed by a professional). He made sure the surface was perfectly level. I vacuumed and wiped down the whole area so the professional granite installer would have a clean work area. Yet when the professional granite countertop installer cut the holes for the sinks and faucets on-site (only the granite God on-high knows




why that wasn’t done in the shop), he didn’t feel the need to lay down a tarp on very nice maple floors. Honestly. That meant I had to mop floors before it was really necessary.  There wasn't even enough dog hair on the floors to knit a sweater yet.

I was worried the faucets wouldn't fit onto the unevenly spaced holes or if they did, they would look as unevenly spaced as the holes did.  Dean told me that the faucets are made to be adjustable over holes. “They don’t have to sit in the center of the hole. The plumber will figure it out. That’s why we’re paying a professional to install the sinks and faucets. It’ll be okay.” Wouldn’t you think if you were a professional granite counter installer you would strive for perfection? Maybe even have some pride in your work? Wouldn’t you think a professional granite countertop installer wouldn’t think “okay” was good enough? Don’t you think if I am paying big bucks for granite countertops to be installed by a professional, I should be able to expect better than just okay? I would even be happy with near-perfection. But just okay? From a professional granite installer? Was it too much to expect more than that?  .........    Boy, that went on longer than I expected, but I feel better now. And I did warn you.

*** Countertop Update.  Beware.  If you thought the last rant was bad, wait'll you read this:  Turns out I do have a good crap sensor because when the plumber came Tuesday morning to install the sinks and faucets, he discovered the faucet holes were too large for the faucets.  The faucets that were In.  My.  House.  When.  The.  Holes.  Were.  Drilled.  So I got to spend my lunch hour plus an hour at Home Depot, on the phone, and e-mailing photos to the contractor.  Then more phone time with woman who schedules the contractors who told me "most plumbers just go buy a larger washer so the faucets will fit," to which I replied, using my sister's tried and true response:  "I am sorry.  That is not acceptable."  And then I reiterated how poorly drilled the holes were and how they were off center and how they'd chipped off a piece of granite, and how it doesn't matter if other plumbers just buy a larger washer.  Those washers were what came with the faucets.  The faucets that Were.  At.  My.  House.  When.  The.  Holes.  Were.  Drilled.  Then she told me she'd take my photos, go talk to her boss and "they will take care of things."  Let's hope so.  Let's hope they bring me new countertops and find somebody who knows how to drill holes in granite.  Because I WILL either get new counters or money back.  And right now I feel like drilling a hole in the hole-driller's head. 

Another update  (That's what I get by trying to work on this over a series of days)...  I met with granite guy at 5:00 p.m..  It's hard to want to drill a hole in a granite guy's head when he's standing in front of you, admitting his job wasn't perfect but willing to do whatever it takes to make you happy.  I was hell-bent to have them rip out those counters and bring new ones but he wanted the chance to "make it right" for me.  So as I type he is "fixing" the holes with epoxy and installing the faucets and sinks.  If the job doesn't look good, isn't secure, or we are not happy, I have the right to have them ripped out and replaced.  He's a local business guy with a bathroom/kitchen business and my gut said "he's basically a good guy, he isn't trying to screw you, he wants to make you happy and he wants to fix this so give him a chance.  Either this works and you will have sinks and faucets or it won't and you'll rip it all out."  Leslie came over to advocate for me in case I backed down and even she felt he really wanted to make things right and look good.  So once he's finished, Dean and I will make the determination as to how happy we are.  And have his card and phone number with no hesitation to call if I have any issues down the line.  Cross your fingers. 


***Three and half hours later, the faucets and sinks are set and the worst of the hole cutting (first photo above) now looks like this.  Whaddya think?



As countertop guy was leaving, there was a fair amount of "I appreciate you being open and letting me try to fix ... I'm sorry if I was snippy but ... you're right, I made a mistake and ... I'm not usually this bitchy but ... I'm a consumer too, I understand ... thank you for staying and ... I value your business ... I spent alot of money and ... thank you for letting me come back and ... tact is not my strong suit ... I understand why ..."   .................kind of like makeup sex but without the sex.
And now, I promise, no more ranting.  I'm too busy self-medicating with a G&T now to rant anyway. ***

We spent a couple of afternoons downtown listening to music, eating food, drinking beer and hanging out which got in the way of blogging.  One of those afternoons we brought the grandkids.   Leslie hadn't had time to give them lunch before we picked them up but we told her not to worry.  We would feed them.  And we did ... cotton candy, smoothies, lemonade, fudge, funnel cake, and ice cream.  In between all the eating


Pierce almost fought a knight,


Dean tried his best to control the kids,


after he'd gotten them all worked up,



and then we took them home.

But what’s really been keeping me from blogging is all my obsessing, stressing, preparing and shopping for my trip to Ecuador so I can take Abby’s wedding dress to her. Any trip preparation normally involves at least a little bit of shopping. But when you’re visiting a country whose daily low temperature averages higher than your daily high temperature, it involves A LOT of shopping. You’d think this would make me happy but I was not born with the shopping gene. I hate shopping. I hate every aspect of shopping. I hate looking through racks. I hate trying things on. I hate trying to find a deal. I hate wondering if I look good in this or that. I hate wearing something new for the first time. I walk around with an armful of things to try on, but before I make it to the dressing room, I talk myself out of them and begin putting them back on the racks, one by one. And more often than not, if I actually do try something on, somehow manage to make myself buy it and bring it home, I talk myself out of it and return it. I'm even more amazed than you may be, because what I hate most about shopping is how much time it takes. Gosh, shopping for hours at the mall yesterday was so much fun; I think I’ll waste even more time today by driving back to the store, waiting in line to return this article of clothing that I haven’t even taken out of the bag. Yeah, that makes no sense…even to me.

The spooky thing is, now that I’ve been forced to do so much of shopping, I’ve begun to feel a magnetic pull toward sale signs. I’m not kidding. I find myself hovering around clothing racks with 60% off signs on top and I don’t remember how I got there. Minutes turn into hours. Dean has called me twice during my “quick” trips wondering if I was ever coming home. I can’t remember the last time I came home from the mall without a bag in my hand. And I never return anything anymore. I don’t know exactly when or how it happened but I think I’ve become one ….....…. a shopper!





All those clothing purchases added to my already mounting ironing. I’d gotten a bit behind because I was spending so much time shopping. Getting though this mountain of ironing took a long, long time.  Time I could have been blogging.












Packing for my trip has taken alot of time too. There’s an art to packing.









Especially when you’re trying to fit in things like insect nets, butterfly spreaders, entomology books, and kitty and puppy toys. And then there’s the issue of one small item……….the purpose of this whole trip ………. the WEDDING DRESS.  I’ve been imagining horror stories about getting this dress to Ecuador.

Stewardess: I’m sorry, that carryon suitcase is too large for the overhead bins. We will need to gate check it.

Me: No. No.  You can not take this bag from me. It’s my daughter’s wedding dress. You can not take it. 

Stewardess: I’m sorry, but you need to give it to me. It will not fit in the carryon area.

Me:  Just try to pry it out of my hands.  Go ahead.  Try.

Stewardess:  I'm sorry.  I really must gate check it.  

Me:  No. If you take the bag, you take me with it.

Stewardess: Did you bring a coat? The baggage hold is cold.

Fortunately I made a new best friend---the space bag.
Yes, not only can you shrink stacks of newly purchased clothing into the size of a cereal box, but you can shrink a heavy wedding dress into a carryon bag.  But I think I'll bring a jacket with me, just in case.

So you see why I’ve been too busy to blog. I’ve been so busy that for the last two weeks I haven’t even put in my 30 minutes per day of Espanol.  I do feel a bit guilty about that, but here’s the deal. Two weeks ago when I watched Buzz Lightyear switched to Buzz Spanish and I only caught about three words of his whole conversation, I felt my Spanish-speaking confidence deflate like one of my space bags when it was accidentally poked by a pin in a piece of clothing I’d missed removing. "Is five more hours of spouting Spanish to a computer really going to make a difference?" I said to myself? "No. Hablo espaƱol ahora? Un poco, y no muy bien. Tranquilo.  No se preocupe" I told myself. "Voy a estudiar en el plano." And anyway, I can use those five hours for some last minute shopping!

Hasta luego!
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