Lava Is Not A Food Group

Alrighty, then.  Here's a map of some of the highlights of our trip.

As you can see if you squint just right, Dean and I flew into Quito, then spent a couple of days in Mindo.  We spent most of one day hiking to six different waterfalls.  To get to the falls we had to ride a tarabita across a gorge.  Up until the very moment I walked up to that metal basket of possible death I was still almost sure I could face my fears and zip across a canopy.  But when I heard myself whine "no me gusta, no me gusta" to the attendant, and nearly cut off the circulation to Dean's arm as I squeezed it when the basket moved, I decided I probably shouldn't try the zip-line tour.  Not that I couldn't do it.  I know I could do it.  I could zip across the tree tops ... if I really, really wanted to ... if I had to ... if my life depended on it ... if somebody physically grabbed me, put me in a harness and let go.  I'm pretty sure I could do it.

 Abby and Jorge met us in Mindo and we headed back to Quito where we rode the teleferico (which is just a much fancier basket of possible death).  This one took us up the side of a volcano to an amazing overlook of Quito and because I was now an experienced basket-of-possible-death-rider, this time I barely whined.

After we left Quito we headed toward the region where geologists have been known to become so overly stimulated by their surroundings that their heads begin spinning causing the hand lens they're wearing on a greasy shoestring around their neck to get caught in their beards.  And then their limbs begin to spasm and flop about so much they almost lose control of their rock hammer.

Dean began to drool and smack his lips in anticipation of all the rocks he was going to lick.  He started babbling and giving mini geology lectures and when he wasn't lecturing I would hear him mumbling to himself about bedding.  And it wasn't me he was talking about  ... we were in volcano alley.

Cotopaxi

And after we left Cotopaxi, Dean was so overcome he got sick. 

And that's enough for this blog post.◦

Lava Is Not A Food Group

Is It Raining?

I know I've told you more than once I needed to/wanted to/was going to write a post about our vacation in Ecuador.  Each time I wrote that, I was pretty sure I heard a collective sigh of relief from all of you out there in cyberland.  So I’ve been trying to come up with a way to not only entice you into reading a vacation post but keep you here until the bitter end … but I just can't think of a sneaky creative way to  bore entertain you.  Know why?  Because pretty much nobody wants to see pictures from somebody else’s vacation.  Am I right?  Yes.  You know I’m right.  Do you know who does want to see them?  You don’t?  Well I’ll tell you who wants to see them.  It’s a very select group which is made up of 1. the person who took the photo and 2. the person who is in the photo.  That’s who wants to see vacation photos.

It’s a bit hard to accept but I get it.  I do.  Why would any of you care about looking at photos of monkeys if you didn’t get to feel the monkey lick your cleavage, or

experience the warmth of their pee on the side of your face.

 

Looking at a picture of somebody ELSE eating pork from stacks of roasted pigs wouldn’t make your mouth water if you hadn’t actually chosen the pig and watched as the meat was pulled off and piled on your plate.   

  

And heck, a waterfall photo has no meaning for you if you didn’t have to look for an ecologically safe place because you thought you were going to vomit since your husband had so generously shared his “bug” with you.

So if you haven’t already yelped in fear and slammed shut your laptop, please don’t let the guilt of not continuing to read this blog restrain you.  I understand and hold no malice toward you because guess what?  I’m going to post my vacation pictures anyway.  Grab a snack and get comfortable because there are SOOOOOOOOO many … wait … what’s that rumble?  Thunder?  No…. not thunder …. hmmm … oh, I know … it’s feet … running.  Damn!  

Well, then....since there is nobody left, I think I'll just wait until tomorrow.

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Is It Raining?

Getting High

I don’t know how it’s been at your house recently, but at my house it’s been hot.  We don’t have central air.  We have centrally placed ceiling fans.  We don’t have a swamp cooler.  We have swampy air from all the sweating we’ve been doing.    We don’t even have a window air conditioner.  We have a window fan – oh, wait we don’t have a window fan because we can’t get one to work with our crank-out windows.  It’s hard to sleep in swampy air listening to the rhythmic squeak of a ceiling fan and each morning I’ve been waking up a little more tired than the morning before.  But last night the air cooled off and by morning I had even pulled up a light blanket.  

No matter what the morning temperature, Shadow gets up and begins pacing at 5:55 a.m. every morning so Dean, of course, was up at 5:58 a.m.  I, however, snuggled down further in my blanket, sighed in happy contentment that I was going to be able to sleep in and wake up when I wanted to, not because the sweat dripping in my eyes woke me up.  

So there I was, snoring peacefully, with a blanket covering me!, Sophie curled up next to me, when I heard, “Cath!  Come out here!  Cath!  Come and see this!”  It was almost as jarring as when the phone rings in the middle of the night.  I sat up, untangled myself from the blanket with shakey hands and jumped out of bed thinking, “What?!  What happened?  Did a tomato turn red?  Did the ice maker start working?  Why are you waking me up on the first morning I could actually sleep in without sweating?  Didn’t you see I had a blanket pulled up?!  It’s perfect sleeping weather.  Why, why, why do I have to get up?”

Dean hands me my robe and he’s gone.  “Here.  Here.  Come here.  To the deck.  You have to see this.  Hurry up!”  I’m running, thinking, “where’s Maisie, where’s Maisie?  She wasn’t curled up next to me, only Sophie.  Did she sneak out the door?  Is she in a tree?”  But it wasn’t an escaped kitty or ripened fruit or even that wild-eyed rabbit munching in the garden.  It was a perfect, calm, cool morning in Wyoming with an addition to an already beautiful view from the deck.  

  

 

Dean can only hope that later today when I’m again hot and sweaty and tired because I had to get up before I wanted to on a Saturday morning; a Saturday morning cool enough that I could have slept in for hours and hours, I’ll remember this morning and the sound of the burners, and the cool air on my sleep-deprived body and it will act as a calming drug.  He can hope.

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Getting High

Please Direct Me To Looney Land

As I implied in my last novella, the rest of the day continued in a downward spiral.  The direct TV guys installed the dish on my house, hooked up all the televisions, gave me a two-minute tutorial and were out the door at 5:30 p.m.

Awesome, I thought.  That went well.  I have TV, I have a phone, now I’ll hook up my new modem and get my lightening fast internet working.  Full of hope and optimism I pulled out the directions, read them carefully and proceeded to install the modem.  Everything started out fine – until I got the “modem did not install correctly” message.  I had two options – I could retry the automated process or attempt to plug in the information manually.  The automated way didn’t work so I chose manually, which, you guessed it, did not work either.  My only other option was to call the Qwest help line.  Which I did.  

Mr. Helpful walked me through various and sundry steps and checks and shut-downs and restarts all to no avail.  I was on the phone with him for 38 minutes.  I know this because I was on my cell phone and I could see the minutes add up.  I was on my cell phone because I trusted my Qwest land line as much as I trust Shadow not to sneak in and snack in the litter box every chance she gets.  

During this marathon conversation Dean came home from work, turned on the TV in the kitchen in preparation to make dinner (because he can’t cook without television) and hollered down the stairs “where’s PBS?”  I, of course, being on the phone, could not reply.  Again he’s yelling down the stairs, “I can’t find the PBS station!  Where’s the PBS station?”  “ I don’t know.  It’s different on Direct TV than it was on cable.  I’m on the phone!”  Back to Mr. Helpful.  “Sorry….can you repeat that please.  My husband was yelling at me.” 

The fruitless attempts to connect my laptop continue on.  There is a lot of sighing from Mr. Helpful who cannot understand why the modem is working and I can connect if I’m using the Ethernet cord, but I cannot connect wirelessly.  As Mr. Helpful is talking to me I hear, from the top of the stairs, “When are you going to be finished?  When should I have dinner ready?  How long will you be?”  Of course I cannot answer.  I am SPEAKING to somebody on the telephone.  So I ignore it.  Mr. Helpful is still sighing.  Pretty soon, Dean comes down the stairs, stands in front of me – as I am talking on the phone – and says “how much longer will it be?  Are you almost finished?”  “I · Don’t · Know!  You go ahead and eat.”

Finally, at minute 38, Mr. Helpful sighed deeply and admitted defeat – sort of.  He decided it was Toshiba’s fault.  I was told to call Toshiba and give them some number he read off to me because he had gone beyond his duties as Mr. Helpful.  Even giving me the number was above and beyond the call of duty and then he proceeded to tell me what a pleasure it was to “help” me just before he hangs up. 

By this time Dean has been down the stairs again to see if I was still talking on the phone, my blood pressure was above and beyond healthy, and my stomach feels like I could grill the dinner I’m not eating in it.  I drag myself up the stairs and am met with “look at this!  I can’t get PBS!  It says ‘no subscription.’”  I am sure that can't be right and he must just have the wrong channel.  So back down I go, to my computer with the internet that only works while hard wired to the modem and search the Direct TV site for the PBS station channel.  “Try this” I holler up.  “That’s the one I’m on!” he hollers back.  “It says ‘no subscription’.”   

The last thing I want to do is place a phone receiver anywhere near my ear but it’s Friday night and I know Dean will require therapy if he can’t see Brooks and Shields so I pick up the phone again and dial Direct TV.  “Please, I whimper.  I have a simple question.  I’ve only just gotten Direct TV and I don’t really know how to use it and I can’t find a channel line up so pleeeeze, if you could just tell me the channel number for PBS.”  “I’m sorry.  You do not have PBS as part of your channel lineup.  You get no local stations in your area.  But you can purchase the LA PBS station for $2.50/month.” “Seriously?  I don’t have PBS??!”  “No.  Sorry.”  “That ssssss….” – and this is where, in the two seconds it took me to say the next word, I ran through a whole discussion with myself in my head.  Should I say sucks?  Should I say stinks?  Sucks is such a tacky, lower-class word.  I’m not tacky.  I shouldn’t let anger and stress bring me down to the tacky word level.  She doesn’t deserve that.  It’d be near to swearing at her.  But damn, am I pissed and I’ve wasted my whole afternoon dealing with one unresolved issue after another and damn it I just don’t care anymore and I mentally flipped off Emily post.  “That ssssssucks!”  Then I thought for a minute.  How will I tell Dean we don’t have PBS?  No Brooks and Sheilds?  No Doc Martin?  No Masterpiece Mystery?  “Okay.  Add it.”  Which she did.

Back upstairs I go.  “Well…………….I guess we don’t get PBS.  We have to pay $2.50/month to get it.  Because we don’t get any local programming.  So I added it.”  I’ll just say that didn’t go over well with Mr. PBS-less and within 15 seconds I was walking back downstairs and calling Direct TV to cancel our brand new, I used four hours of vacation to be home to get, PBS-less, two-hour old, Direct TV service.  I am somewhat, although not very, ashamed to say I played the angry husband card when I called.  In my defense I wasn’t sure if they’d make me pay horrific cancellation charges and I wanted to immediately garner as much sympathy as possible.  Here’s how it went:  

“Direct TV … hello, blah, blah, how are you?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Excellent”  pause  “oh, you said you’ve been better?  Well at least you’re not bad, right?” 

“Well, actually I’m not good.”

“OK, then how can I help you?”

“I just got direct TV today, actually we’ve had it for only two hours now, and we do not get PBS, or CBS, or NBC, or nightly news or things I used to be able to get with Bresnan and my husband is very, very unhappy.  He’s really, really not happy.  I told him I would cancel it.  So I just want to cancel it and I’m going back to Bresnan.”

Mr. Direct TV does some checking and realizes we do not get any local programming but he has a solution.  “What if we get you some bunny ears so you can get outside stations.  Then you can get PBS and those other stations.”

“Are you kidding?  Bunny ears?  That’s ancient stuff.  No.”

“Oh, no.  They’re not old.  We’d get you new ones.”

“Seriously?  No.  I don’t want bunny ears on three TVs that I have to adjust all the time and will not get good reception.  I’m going back to Bresnan and I just want to cancel this service and I don’t think I should be charged a fee because I’ve only had it for two hours.  Literally two hours.”

I’ll give him credit.  It didn’t take him long to realize he had a nearly crazed woman on the other end of the phone and he gave up quickly.  He cancelled the service and promised me that since I had cancelled within 24 hours I would not be charged a cancellation fee.  All I have to do is send back the receivers, remotes and some kind of internal card when I get the send-back-information-packaging in the mail.  

“But what about the dish?  On the roof? Will I send that back?”

“Oh, no.  You got that free as part of the ‘deal’ so you can keep that.”

Once again Miss Techno Angel had been watching out for me because I had not yet cancelled Bresnan.  I just didn’t want to do that until I was sure the satellite dish would get a good signal.  So after I downed my dinner of the big gin and tonic Dean had prepared for me after I’d cancelled the service (purely his own self-preservation) I spent the rest of the evening dismantling everything the Direct TV guys had done, and putting back all the Bresnan boxes, cables, etc..  And nothing worked.  Because there is probably a cable disconnected somewhere or hooked into a now useless satellite dish sitting on my roof. 

Last night, when I called Bresnan after all my attempts to get the TVs working failed, Miss Helpful Bresnan was so upset I didn’t have ANY televisions working that she put me at the “top” of today’s service calls.  I don’t think I could have gotten a stronger reaction from her if I’d told her I’d just cut off my arm.

And that is why I have been staying near the phone since 8:00 a.m. this morning, once again wasting my day, waiting for the Bresnan repair guy to call and tell me he’s on his way over to magically make everything right again.  But at least my laptop mysteriously began working this morning even though I disregarded Mr. Helpful Qwest's suggestion. Oh, and if anybody needs a brand new Direct TV satellite dish.  I know where you can get one.

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Please Direct Me To Looney Land

“Come This Way My Pretty” She Directed The Greedy Fool”

Do you ever have one of those days where it seems the world is determined to put up a road block no matter what you try to do?  Days when the simplest thing becomes a giant mountain you try and try to climb but just as you reach the top a mountain troll pops out from behind a glacial boulder, reaches out his hand to help you, and just as your fingers touch, he smiles wickedly, places his big white snow bunny boot on your chest and pushes you back down the mountain.  

Here’s the deal.  The past few times I have talked to Abby on Skype she’s been breaking up, or I’ve been breaking up, or the call just goes dead.  Our phone conversations have been a lot of  “and then a__er we got to Mia_i … h_llo?  __by?  Are you th___? … mo_?    I can al___ he__  y__.  Hel___?  A__ Shou__ we han_  __?  __o?  Damn.  Lost her.”  The weird thing was, Leslie didn’t have that problem when she talked to Abby on her Skype phone so I thought it must be me.  Maybe my internet needed a kick in the butt.  So last Saturday I booted up the computer, got on the Qwest site and discovered I had the slowest internet speed offered.  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to come to the conclusion I just needed to increase my internet speed.  How hard could that be, I thought.  I’ll just ask for faster internet, they’ll flick a switch and boom!  I’ll be surfing and Skyping at lightening speed.  So I opened up the on-line chat window because thought it would be easier to refuse any other “deals” if I was typing, not actually talking.  All I wanted was faster internet.  15 minutes tops, I thought.  

It went smoothly for a while but 15 minutes turned into 25 minutes and it turns out I am not immune to sales pitches even when they are written in a chat window.  I believe internet/phone folks and car salespeople all go to the same “sucka!” school and though their techniques are somewhat different, they are basically the same.  The car salesman leaves you alone while he goes to “speak to the manager” and the internet/phone salesperson makes you wait while they “wait for the page to load.” All the while, you, the unsuspecting “sucka!”, get bored while you’re stuck waiting so your brain starts considering other options just for something to do.  I guess another $250.00 to get the car of my dreams isn’t all that much more….okay, just for future reference, while we’re waiting, go ahead and tell me how much money I’ll save if I bundle everything with Qwest. 

Guess what?  “Sucka!”  

But that’s not the worst part.  Just as “Miss Sneaky” was finalizing all the details in the chat window, before I realized what was happening, Miss Maisie the kitty walked across my laptop.  And she froze the chat screen.  And I could not get it back.  And I have been on this chat window for nearly an hour now.  Yes.  15 minutes was now nearly 60 minutes.  Of course by the time I gave up all attempts to salvage the session it was later in the day and more people were waiting to chat, and because I have the slowest internet available it took longer for the window to load up so then I thought something must be wrong with my computer.  So I restarted, loaded up the chat help, waited, closed it, loaded it up, waited, closed it.  Finally on the third try I forced myself to physically walk away from the computer and just let it run to see what would happen.  In between all these restarts I tried calling the Qwest help line but of course they could not get me back to Miss Sneaky and there was no way in hell I wanted to start the whole process again.

As I paced around the house, checking the computer every 15 seconds, mumbling unprintable things under my breath, somebody finally answered the chat window.  My techno-angel must have been watching out for me because I had written down the name and Identification number of Miss Sneaky so when I was finally in another chat window with Mr. Sneaky I asked if there was any possible way  I could be connected to Miss Sneaky again because I had the slowest internet available and I had just spent an hour in a chat session with her and we were almost finished with all the details because I had decided to bundle everything when my cat walked on my keyboard and froze the session because I hadn’t seen her coming and she just seems to love the computer because of the hot air coming from the fan I think but I’m usually able to keep her off however I was so distracted with all the details of internet and TV and phone that I didn’t notice her and I just didn’t think I could face starting all over again but if he could try to connect me otherwise I think I would just have to give up and try this another time or maybe a slow internet isn’t so bad after all …….  He couldn’t.  But he got my phone number and she called me. On my Qwest landline phone.

And that is another whole side of this “the trolls are out to get me” story because she had tried and tried and tried to call me when Miss Maisie froze the session but my phone didn’t ring.  And this, my friends, is when the bells and whistles should have gone off.  But, of course, I was just so happy to actually speak to her again that I didn’t pay any attention to that little tiny “why DIDN’T my phone ring?” thought that had started swimming forward in my head.  I was distracted by bundles of internet and TV and phone and getting back to Miss Sneaky and rejoicing that I didn’t have to start completely over.  But, in a way, I did have to start over.  Because since Maisie froze my chat window and my phone didn’t ring and it had taken me so long to get back to her because I had the slowest internet offered, she had to cancel my order.  However, it went much faster the second time because I didn’t have any more questions and she remembered what we’d done and next thing you know (as in two hours from the time I began this process) I had ordered lightening fast internet all bundled together with my phone and my cell phone and I was going to get a dish on my house and save all kinds of money.  This was last Saturday.

Fast forward to today.  Today is Friday.  I left work at noon to be here for the TV guys who were scheduled to come sometime between noon and 5 p.m.  They called me at 1 p.m. and said they would be here between 2 and 3 p.m.  I am typing this in Word because I have no internet.  Why?  Because I have no phone.  Why?  Who knows.  I got my nifty box of Qwest installation stuff yesterday---a new modem, cords and simple directions and a letter that said “do not install before 5 p.m. on Friday, July 8.”  But here’s the kicker.  My internet was not working at 1 p.m.  So I thought, “hmmmm, I have at least an hour before the TV guys come, I wonder if they’ve thrown the switch and I can install this new modem get my internet running while I wait.  I’ll call Qwest and make sure that’s what’s going on.  That’s a simple question.  Is my internet not working because you’ve already  ‘pulled the switch’ so I can go ahead and install the new modem before 5 p.m. today?  Or should I still wait until after 5:00 p.m.   It should be easy.  They’ll say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.  Five minute phone call tops.”

Fool.  Fool.  Fool.  In the middle of what I thought would be a simple, succinct phone call, my phone died.  Yes.  On a call with Qwest, my Qwest land-line phone stopped working.  I had to call them with my cell phone.  Now I had two questions.  Can I hook up my new modem early and why is my phone not working?  I “suggested” that maybe it would be pointless to try and install the new modem because “don’t I need a phone line for the internet?”  Oh, no, she said.  Go ahead and hook up the cables while I’m on the phone with you.  Well, of course it didn't work!  I had no phone service!  But she did not believe that until she did some troubleshooting with the modem.  I had to carry it, plus my computer, plus the cords to ANOTHER phone jack (which also did not work) to be sure it wasn’t the modem.  I had to try EVERY Ethernet connection to make sure one of those connections was not bad.  Finally, she decided she’d just have to transfer me to “the phone trouble” people so they could tell me, “you’re right.  Your phone doesn’t work.  And yes, you’re right.  You are unable to get internet without phone service.”  Duh.  

So tomorrow morning “sometime between 8:15 a.m. and 8 p.m.” a phone guy will come and figure out why my phone isn’t working.  If only I would have heeded that niggling in my brain way last Saturday I could have probably possibly  hopefully had the phone repaired before today and MAYBE I would have internet now.

In the meantime, the TV guys (who finally arrived at 3:05 p.m.) are busy attaching a dish to my house, hooking up TVs and doing whatever it is Direct TV guys do.  If we don’t have a huge windstorm come through and blow off the dish, or the electricity doesn’t go out I should plan to hope to be able to watch TV tonight.  Because I won’t be able to post this.  Because I have no internet because I have no phone service.

At 5:05 p.m., as the TV guys were STILL here working, I held my breath, picked up my land-line phone and clicked the on button.  Guess what?  I have a dial tone.  It’s 5:05 p.m. and I have a dial tone.  If only I would have waited until 5:05 p.m. to attempt installing the modem (just like my letter said) I would have spent the afternoon planting flowers, or sitting on the deck with my feet up or gosh, even, I don’t know, posting photos of our trip to Ecuador.  

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Update:  It is now 6:54 a.m. Saturday morning. I am up because Shadow still does not sleep past 6:00 a.m.  As you may have surmised by now, I do have internet again.  But if you think getting that up and running went smoothly you are sadly mistaken.  And if you think the Direct TV installation and subsequent viewing went without a hitch, you are a candiate for the “Land of Fools”.  The saga continues and will be documented in another post.  In the meantime, I'll give you a small hint:  The Bresnan guy is scheduled to come  “sometime” today.

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“Come This Way My Pretty” She Directed The Greedy Fool”

The Cat's Meow

I still haven’t had a chance to cull through all the photos we took in Ecuador so I’m not yet prepared to tell you about screaming and crying baby monkeys or husbands excitedly babbling on about the geologic wonders, or noses and devils, or very large roasting hogs, or dizzying heights or, well, lots and lots of things.   And this is why (besides the fact that I’ve been busy conducting the Pilsner beer study).  I am exhausted, worn out, pooped, the walking dead, because counter to popular belief, vacations are life threatening.  

Sure, the media tells us vacations are a necessary ingredient for our general well being and emotional happiness.   We’ll be less tense and depressed; we’ll live longer; it’ll help our careers.  They want you to believe that people-watching with an umbrella drink Pilsner in your hand, or a spectacular view of a volcano just as the clouds part, or the chance to take a zippy trip across tree canopies (don’t you wish you’d commented now so you knew) will leave you relaxed and energized – ready to take on the world.

Who?  Me?

That’s all well and good, but do they tell you about the risks?  No.  They do not.  However, if you look closely, you’ll find, in very small print, the vacation contraindications and side effects – “participation in any vacation may cause unwanted or dangerous reactions upon return in people with cats.” Did you get that?  “upon return ... with cats.”  

Unsuspecting travelers ecstatically turn off their computers and wave goodbye to sullen co-workers, unaware of the post-vacation bodily harm awaiting their return – kitty vengeance.   It starts with the kitty snub.   Kitty tails are raised high,  furry butts are pointed in your direction and kitty noses point to the sky. Very lightly  “marking” a sound-asleep man at 3:00 a.m. has been known to occur – once – however it may have been a sign of possession.  Forget it, Sophie.  This man's mine.  And if the vacation was extensive, the retribution will most likely culminate in sporadic occasions of deafening meowing at all hours of the day but most especially at night.  In the middle of the night.  When you’re trying to sleep.  For days.  

I'll teach YOU not to leave me alone again for two weeks!

Excuse me.  I've been busy meowing and haven't had time to bathe.

This nightly meowing-induced-sleep-disruption results in an increasing state of zombie-ism which in turn poses daily risks to life and limb.  Think about it, you could be trying to catch up on that missing sleep when the next thing you know you’ve leaned back too far in the deck chair and tumbled down those nice new stairs you had built last year.  Thankfully, that new platform partway down saves you from a direct shot into the dirt and gravel but in your sleep-deprived state you trip on the step as you head back up to the deck chair and land “just right” on your knee – which shatters.  Your iPhone goes flying out of reach but fortunately the pain keeps you awake, as you lie broken and crooked on the stairs, so you can call out intermittently (almost as loudly as your cat’s pitiless meows) for help until somebody hears and calls for an ambulance.  Your knee is toasted and next thing you know you’re in surgery for knee replacement.  So once again you are away from the kitties for an extended length of time, and once again upon your return, the vengeful kitty cycle begins. 

  

And that is why I am tired and I have not been able to share photos of our trip to Ecuador.

Seriously, Maisie.  If you don't leave them alone we'll never get the house to ourselves again.

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The Cat's Meow