They Call Me Martha

When we bought this house there was an old chicken coop out at the back of our property.  I thought it was picturesque.  Dean thought it was an eyesore.  It bugged him every time he looked at it.  

  

It is no longer there. 

In true Dean fashion, before he meticulously dismantled that charming haven for hantavirus, he pulled out and saved a couple of old windows that had been recklessly tossed in there years and years ago.  In true me fashion, I rolled my eyes and sighed when I saw him carrying them to the storage shed.   But then one day I saw something on Pinterest.  And then I remembered those old windows. 

One side looked like this.  

Dean made me paint it in case it was lead-based paint even though I told him I wasn't planning to chew on it.

The other side of the window looked like this.  The corks fit better on this side because it had a deeper ledge, and the wood stain complemented our kitchen cupboards, so that's the side I decided to show.

Who drank all that wine?!

I glued the corks on with Gorilla Glue and by the time I finished I was obviously getting either tired or bored.  Fortunately I could call on Mr. Meticulous to clean up my mess and if I ever try this again I'll use clear drying glue.  

Unfortunately, from now on, every time I roll my eyes and sigh when Dean saves some other hunk of wood or chunk of metal I know he will remind me of how happy I was he didn't throw those corks away and point out to me that if he hadn’t saved those windows …  But it’ll be worth it.....I hope.

Ta Da!

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They Call Me Martha

I Say Beatles Are Good Insects. Do You Say No?

Near the end of our trip to Edinburgh I asked everybody what their favorite part had been.  As it turned out, the conversation took a winding turn and I didn’t get a turn to say what I'd liked best.   That was actually a good thing though, because at the time, I really didn’t know what my favorite part had been.  I do know now though.   Hey!  Wipe that smug look off your face.   Drinking Strongbow or Magners or Guiness or Stella was not my favorite thing.  Well, not my absolutely, top of the list, nothing-in-the-world-is-better-than-this favorite thing anyway.  Geez.   I’m kind of hurt.

My favorite thing wasn’t the Scottish wildlife ...

or the Scottish countryside ...

or the architecture.

 

No.  My  favorite part was that we all came home together.  My favorite part of the whole trip was not saying goodbye to anybody.   Nada.  Aaon duine.   That’s right.  Not one person.  Nobody.     

 

I wasn't saying goodbye but I did say a lot of hellos.  I said an excited “Hi!” to Leslie when we picked her up for the four-hour drive to the airport.  The drive that took place a whole day early so we could miss the October snowstorm heading our way.

 I said a friendly “hello” to the British Airways lady who checked us in. 

 I said a very tired “hello” to the rude and cranky sourpuss customs guy in London.  He berated us all because we didn’t fill in an exact street address for where we were staying in Edinburgh.   “When that form says address it means exact address.   It doesn’t mean just a city.  If they didn’t want an exact address it wouldn’t say address.”   In my exhausted state I began searching for a pen to fill it in but he told me, “I"ll let it go this time but just make sure you don't ever do it again.”  He wrinkled up his nose like I'd been on a plane for nine hours without a toothbrush and dismissed me with a disgusted wave of his hand.   I did not say goodbye to him when I left his “kingdom”.  I just wanted to get away from him before he found something else to yell at us about.   It was a relief to finally get to say a “hooray, you made it! Hello!” to Abby in the London terminal after we escaped from the little dictator.

When we left Edinburgh on that last morning, the bus driver who took us to the airport said goodbye but I didn’t.  I said “thank you.”  The pilot on the plane said goodbye but not me.  I said, “thank you! (for not crashing the plane).”  The very friendly U.S. customs lady said hello AND goodbye.  I said “thanks!” for not being like Mr. London customs and wished the London guy had gone to the same customer service training she must have attended.  The shuttle driver who took us to the hotel where our car was parked said “bye bye” but not me, I said, ... nothing.  I was too tired.

When we got home I said hello to the kids.  

Some of the people I work with said hello to me in their own special way. 

 I really love saying hello.  So does Abby.  Look.  Even Dean is almost smiling.  He likes saying hello too.

 

But Friday I had to say goodbye.  And none of us like that.  Doesn't Dean look sad?

 
I tried to forget how to say that goodbye word –  juh ... ooo ... duh ....buh ... eee? I tried to remove it from my vocabulary.  Goodbye?  What?  What'd you say?  I don't understand what you're saying.  Never heard of the word.  I tried to pretend like I wasn’t going to have to use it.  I pretended like we were still on vacation together. 

 







But it didn’t work.  I had to finally say it.  And I didn’t like it. 
























So I pretended like I hadn’t said it.  And now I'm just thinking about when I can say hello again.  We’re all waiting.  Seven weeks and four days …

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I Say Beatles Are Good Insects. Do You Say No?

If Wishes Were Hammocks ... I Would Be Swinging

My “tour group” all agreed to share photos with each other once we got back home from our trip to Ecuador. I’ve been looking at mine, trying to get them ready to upload to everybody. I’ve been sorting out the bad ones, the blurry ones, and the ones I suspect have an insect somewhere in the photo but it’s so camouflaged I can’t find it. It has only been two weeks since we left Ecuador and it seems so far away now. Two weeks ago the crepe paper wrinkles in my skin were filled out -- more like seersucker -- and I didn’t leave a trail of skin flakes whenever I moved.  Two weeks ago I woke up to the weaver birds making their nests in the tree just outside our cabin.  I still didn't get to sleep in because they began their "singing" at 6:00 a.m., but at least it wasn't an alarm clock.  Two weeks ago I didn't want the trip to end, which is not the norm for me.  Normally, on day three or four of a trip I’m ready to go home. But this time … I wish I was still there. I wish I was lying on a hammock, sweating, after a walk in the rain forest.

I wish I was eating plantain chips and drinking Club beer at a restaurant on the beach.

I wish I walking on the beach (even though I didn't get to see any of the cool creatures in the tidal pools because I lived in the beauty salon and when I wasn't in the beauty salon I couldn't walk on the beach because my toenails had been painted for the wedding.)

I wish I was so far away from my normal routine that I had no choice but to relax and unwind and absorb. And I wish I was still with all my tour group buddies, hanging out, laughing, visiting, teasing, and reconnecting.

Since I’m not there, I am now going to relive my trip through multiple blog posts. I’m going to ramble on and on and on and reminisce and long for past events. However, one thing I will not do (right now anyway) is talk about the wedding – other than to say this. I have seen a few (far too few so far) wedding photos and I have seen smiles. I have no memory of smiles until I was at the reception but there are actual post-wedding/pre-reception photos with real smiles. I promise to show you those smiles later. And I will tell wedding stories. Happy ones. But for now I’ll begin with “Adventures in Manta”. Otherwise known as “How I Spent the Few Moments I Was Not in the Beauty Salon.” So settle in. Pour a glass of wine (or whiskey). Put your feet up. Place the laptop in your lap and get comfortable.  And if you're brave and choose not to click that little “X” up in the right hand corner of your screen, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Dean’s sisters and husbands (Debbie & Bill, Dianna & Dave) and my sister (Shelly) wanted to attend Abby’s wedding and stay after for a vacation in Ecuador but they weren’t quite sure how to go about making the arrangements. Dean stepped forward and said, “Ask my wife. She’s an obsessive-compulsive, crazy, controlling woman. She’ll help you.” And that’s how I became a tour director.  Jonathan and Christie (Gen-Yers) planned to attend the wedding and, bless their souls, decided to travel to the Amazon with us.  Maybe they thought hanging out with people born before computers, who think a text is something written on paper, and who could barely operate the brand new cameras they had purchased for the trip, would provide them with stories they could laugh about with their friends for years to come.  

Making all the arrangements for the trip involved alot of communication with hotels, hostels, the lodge and airlines.  No question was too small for me and every time I had a question I fired off an e-mail. I have a feeling there was alot of cringing going on when my name popped up in the official Contact Us "In Box”. Dean should have warned "the group" that I am a compulsive, addicted e-mailer. E-mails are like food to me. I need to send them and I need to get them. And more than that, if I ask a question, I need a response. And I need it quickly. Honestly, doesn't everybody check their e-mail 50 times/day?  If I don’t get a quick response I am sometimes forced to send a follow-up “did you get my e-mail?” message. And of course, each time I received a response from the hotel, the airline, the lodge, the hostel, I felt obligated to share that with my group.

After lots of planning and approximately 639 e-mails, we all met at the Houston airport.

Together we flew to Ecuador ...

and arrived at the Guayaquil airport at 11:30 p.m. When we finally arrived at our hostel and drug our travel-worn bodies in through the front door at nearly 12:30 a.m., our only thought was to crawl into bed  ... until we discovered the outdoor patio on the roof and beer in the office for $1.25/bottle.

After barely closing our eyes we woke up the next morning, loaded into a van ...

and were driven to Manta.

Abby had told me ahead of time she was going to meet us at the hostel and ride along with us. It was supposed to be a secret. But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I started by just telling one person, “Don’t tell Leslie, but Abby’s coming.” Then I whispered to somebody else, “don’t tell Leslie, but Abby’s coming” and somebody else….until I’d pretty much told them all. So when Abby walked in to the hostel that morning as we were waiting for the van, expecting excited exclamations, what she got was ten people sitting quietly waiting for Leslie to jump up and scream in surprise. Which she did. Because at least I didn’t tell her. But one person jumping up, alone, in excitement, wasn’t quite what Abby was expecting. In my defense…….well, there is no defense.

Once we arrived in Manta, Shelly, Leslie, Abby and I spent most of our time sitting in a chair in the beauty salon.

I wish I was exaggerating but I think the total time was about seven or eight hours over two days. We were there so long the chairs had permanent impressions of our butts on them when we left. Not only were the beauticians at this salon very, very, very, very slow, they didn’t like it when Shelly tried to change their plan once they’d decided how they wanted to do her hair. In mid-hairdo Shelly asked her beautician if she would bring down a bit of hair on the side of her face. The girl looked at her and said, “No.” Shelly asked again thinking maybe she hadn’t used the correct sign language. “No!” And that was that.

When I wasn't getting manicured, pedicured, and hairdo’d I was on the beach with everybody else, eating.  At one restaurant Ryan tried to break the language barrier to find out the secret recipe of the green salsa that was served everywhere. He made a valiant effort using creative body language but all he managed to do was entertain the waitress.

When I wasn't eating, I was drinking.

And when I wasn’t on the beach eating or in the hotel drinking or in the beauty salon, I was at a wedding which I will tell you happy stories about another day.  

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If Wishes Were Hammocks ... I Would Be Swinging

Waiting With Excitement and Anticipation

We're here! At the airport anyway, and as we wait I'm blogging away. How nerdy is that? Maybe not so nerdy since I had to call Abby for a quick lesson on how to connect to a free wireless. It's my first time! I suppose that's a bit sad, actually. But not as sad as the fact that when Dean and I sat down and discussed the last time we'd gone anywhere for more than a 24-hour period completely alone, which means not meeting/seeing friends, not meeting/seeing family at some point in the trip----the last time we remembered doing that was for our 25th anniversary, a whoppin' 12 years ago. Now that's sad. In one short hour we will be breaking that long-standing record and hope to never set it again. Stay tuned for exciting posts from the brew pub capital of the world.

Oh, and by the way. Dean just got around to reading my last three posts and I screwed up big time. He's truly offended that I said the cornstalk was six feet tall. It is not. It is TWELVE feet tall. I'm not sure how I got six from twelve but I stand corrected.◦

Waiting With Excitement and Anticipation