A few days ago I received an email from my blogger buddy /idol Elliott, telling me that I'd been 'tagged'. Apparently this means that I am supposed to link to her blog, tag eight other bloggers, and then tell eight random facts about me that I haven't revealed in my blog so far.
Elliott told me that there was no rush, as she could tell from my recent posts that I was preoccupied lately. Actually, her email came at the right time, because it's time to move on, and this seems like just the way to do it. I sat down last night and tried to think of eight things about myself that I haven't revealed, that I'd be prepared to reveal, and that would be worth reading about. I hope some of them work:
1. My family comes from Liverpool, England where I was born, and where my paternal grandmother lived until her death in the 1970's. When I was about 13, now a Canadian and, along with every female my age on the planet, a rabid Beatlemaniac, my grandmother wrote me to tell me that for many years she lived on Bishopsgate Street in Liverpool, next door to the Harrison family. Yes, THAT Harrison family. Moreover, she used to 'mind' wee Georgie on occasion when his parents went to the local pub. This fact alone got me through puberty.
2. I married my husband just over four years ago, but we met twenty five years ago when we were both in an amateur theatre production of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest". I played the evil Nurse Ratched, and my sweetie played the much-victimized Billy Bibbitt. In the play I brought him to his knees, where he claims he's been ever since. We were friends through the years, and neither of us married in the time between that play and our own wedding, which occurred on our local community theatre stage.
3. I have been blessed (or cursed) with perfect pitch. I used to do some musical theatre when I first became interested in acting, but it wasn't my major interest, and I eventually became an actor and director of legitimate theatre. I used to have to 'sub' in music classes on occasion when I was a drama teacher, though, and for someone with perfect pitch, this is Dante's most pernicious circle of hell.
5. I once spent a summer in England doing some stage work, which included a lot of touring children's theatre, and doing plays in gymnasia, but I will always remember that our motley crew got to perform in some beautiful spaces, too, the highlight of which for me was singing "Jerusalem" in Winchester Cathedral.
6. I know all of the words to the "Bonanza" theme song. Lorne Greene sang it on Side B of his single, "Ringo" which I only purchased because of the Beatles, then discovered was a bad ballad about a cowboy. In case you ever need them, the lyrics are,
We chased lady luck, till we finally struck
Bonanza!
With a gun and a rope, and a hat full of hope
We planted our family tree.
We got ahold of a pot full of gold,
Bonanza!
If anyone fights any one of us,
He's gotta fight with me!
Hoss and Joe and Adam know every rock and vine,
No one works, fights or eats,
Like those boys of mine!
Here in the west, we're livin' in the best,
Bonanza!
With a houseful of friends where the rainbow ends,
How rich can a fella be?
Bo--nan--zaaaaah!
(go ahead, sing it. You know you want to.)
7. When I retired two years ago, Rob and I went on a celebratory trip to Italy for three weeks. I have many wonderful memories of that trip, but one that is very dear is that Rob and I found, and stayed at The Farm. This is a farm in Tuscany, where we had reserved a cottage online, and to which we drove one afternoon, about ten days into our trip. What we didn't know until we arrived was that it was populated by about fifteen cats and kittens of all stripes, colours, genders and ages, and that every one of them looked like a cat or kitten we had owned, known or lost in our lives. We decided that this indeed was THE farm that our parents told us our pets went to when we came home from school or somewhere to discover they had gone. The farm that parents are vague about when you ask if you can go there to visit the pet that you were told would be 'much happier with other animals and lots of room.'
We saw our cat Spencer there, who had died about a month earlier from FLV. We called him 'Spencerino' since he now lived in Italy, and damned if he didn't answer.
I think about The Farm a lot right now. I'm guessing Katie/Katarina is there with her brother, and our parents were right. They are very happy with other animals and lots of room. I hope your former kitties are there, too.
8. I have been known to lie on occasion. In fact, this occasion. One of these eight facts is not true. You guess which.
p.s. I'm trying to figure out how to link to Elliott's blog. If anyone can help, I'd appreciate it.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Sunday, November 18, 2007
that's life
I haven't blogged for over a month.
A reader of this blog noticed that and emailed me recently, asking discreetly if I was ok. I really appreciated that: I expect my friends and family to notice, as they have, if something is amiss, but to have someone who only knows me from my occasional musings recognize that I'm not following my usual routine, and that there might be something wrong, and even more, to care enough to ask about it, touched me very much.
I responded to her that I was ok, it's just that there's too much life going on at the moment. And that's the answer.
Too much life at the moment. Some of it good, and exciting; some more of it, unfortunately, difficult and painful. Illness, financial stress, work problems...all these are affecting my friends and loved ones, and, because they are my friends and loved ones, they are all affecting me, too. My dear cat Katie is succumbing, as we knew she inevitably would, to her FLV and her time is limited. Rob and I are moving house, and the stress that brings is sometimes palpable for us. My dear friend is terminally ill, and dealing with so many issues I cannot fathom how she copes.
Rob and I go to our casa in Mexico in two weeks. I will be taking all this along with my suitcase when I go, as we do. Life follows us, even if vacation ads talk about 'getting away'. And really, would we want it not to? Because for all of the pains that life may bring on occasion, I am really treasuring being alive and well enough to be able to go to our casa, with my dear husband, and being visited by friends and family while we are there, today. Too much life? The only problem is that there isn't nearly enough.
A reader of this blog noticed that and emailed me recently, asking discreetly if I was ok. I really appreciated that: I expect my friends and family to notice, as they have, if something is amiss, but to have someone who only knows me from my occasional musings recognize that I'm not following my usual routine, and that there might be something wrong, and even more, to care enough to ask about it, touched me very much.
I responded to her that I was ok, it's just that there's too much life going on at the moment. And that's the answer.
Too much life at the moment. Some of it good, and exciting; some more of it, unfortunately, difficult and painful. Illness, financial stress, work problems...all these are affecting my friends and loved ones, and, because they are my friends and loved ones, they are all affecting me, too. My dear cat Katie is succumbing, as we knew she inevitably would, to her FLV and her time is limited. Rob and I are moving house, and the stress that brings is sometimes palpable for us. My dear friend is terminally ill, and dealing with so many issues I cannot fathom how she copes.
Rob and I go to our casa in Mexico in two weeks. I will be taking all this along with my suitcase when I go, as we do. Life follows us, even if vacation ads talk about 'getting away'. And really, would we want it not to? Because for all of the pains that life may bring on occasion, I am really treasuring being alive and well enough to be able to go to our casa, with my dear husband, and being visited by friends and family while we are there, today. Too much life? The only problem is that there isn't nearly enough.
Monday, October 15, 2007
loonie tunes
I am in a funk.
When we probably far-too-spontaneously bought our casa in Riberas, I, as the financial one in the relationship, spent hours calculating and pondering, figuring out whether or not we could afford it. It's not a lavish house by any means, but since we had to pay the whole thing from our savings, I had to determine whether our assets, some tied up in RRSP's (IRA's to any Americans reading) could extend far enough for me to write out a cheque for about $150,000 American dollars.
Now, just about anyone looking at our assets would probably determine that we could, without a lot of difficulty. But just about anyone looking at our assets wouldn't be as conservative with money as I am.
I am a saver. I'm not a scrimper, by any means, but I get huge satisfaction in seeing money grow, dollar by dollar, over time. I feel rather smug, and -well - adult, when I can make a deposit into my savings. I'm particularly happy when I see the balance move up and over any significant number, such as a '999' balance becoming a '001'. Sort of the reverse of seeing a '9' ending number moving up to a '1' ending number on the bathroom scales.
I've saved money over time, in part because I've never owned property. Instead of paying monthly mortgage payments, I've put aside funds to create what the bankers call 'cash equity'. That nestegg has huge real and symbolic significance. Where other people know that their house, as it gets paid for, is their security against any financial crisis, those numbers generated in quarterly statements were my safety net.
That's why, when I agreed that a huge chunk of my money was going to a house in Mexico that I wouldn't even live in for several years, I was panic-stricken. Rob quite rightly pointed out that the money wasn't in any way gone, just put into a different kind of investment, but as a non-home owner all my life, I just didn't see it viscerally, though I understood it intellectually. Sort of. At any rate, the agreement to purchase was signed, and we returned to Canada knowing that, when the deal closed three months later, we'd own our dream home in Mexico.
That was last October. At that time, the Canadian dollar was worth approximately ninety cents, U.S. So that cheque for $150,000 U.S., carefully calculated in our B and B in Ajijic ran considerably higher in Canadian funds. But was doable without panic. Well, without too much panic, on my part.
Three months is a long time in banking terms. Imagine how the blood drained from my body as I watched, in November and December, as the loonie took a dive. In fact, dropped to its lowest point in five years. When I had to remove the funds to take the final payment to Mexico in early January, the loonie was worth 84 cents U.S. And our house cost us that much more, just like that. Did it help that our financial advisor assured me that the rest of the investments were doing particularly well because a weak Canadian dollar meant more manufacturing, and off-shore investments were bullish, and blah, blah, blah? Not a whit.
And not a whit has it helped that, since we've bought and paid for our casa, the loonie has suddenly come off life-support and is veritably jogging circles around the U.S. buck. Today it's at $1.01 and something, and according to Warren Buffett, whose financial acumen is somewhat better than mine, is expected to remain above U.S. value for at least five years. So now, my lovely little casa is worth even less than it was in January.
I know, when we come down to stay in December, I won't be looking at it, like a mother at her teenager who screwed up. You know, "Casa, I'm not mad at you. I'm just very, very disappointed." I'll see beyond the fact that money, real and theoretical, has perhaps flown out of the kitchen window, and realize that outside that window is a lovely patio where I can hear roosters in the morning, and watch the sun set over the lake.
But I'm not in my casa now. And I'm mad at the house, and the loonie, and Warren Buffett. I know I have to accept, as all good adults do, that the house has cost us more than we bargained for when we first saw it, but that the world didn't cave in. I realize that no house is worth anything until you go to sell it, and the market changes, and who knows what will happen by the time we put it on the market (hopefully never). But I don't feel like an adult today.
Being an adult sucks.
When we probably far-too-spontaneously bought our casa in Riberas, I, as the financial one in the relationship, spent hours calculating and pondering, figuring out whether or not we could afford it. It's not a lavish house by any means, but since we had to pay the whole thing from our savings, I had to determine whether our assets, some tied up in RRSP's (IRA's to any Americans reading) could extend far enough for me to write out a cheque for about $150,000 American dollars.
Now, just about anyone looking at our assets would probably determine that we could, without a lot of difficulty. But just about anyone looking at our assets wouldn't be as conservative with money as I am.
I am a saver. I'm not a scrimper, by any means, but I get huge satisfaction in seeing money grow, dollar by dollar, over time. I feel rather smug, and -well - adult, when I can make a deposit into my savings. I'm particularly happy when I see the balance move up and over any significant number, such as a '999' balance becoming a '001'. Sort of the reverse of seeing a '9' ending number moving up to a '1' ending number on the bathroom scales.
I've saved money over time, in part because I've never owned property. Instead of paying monthly mortgage payments, I've put aside funds to create what the bankers call 'cash equity'. That nestegg has huge real and symbolic significance. Where other people know that their house, as it gets paid for, is their security against any financial crisis, those numbers generated in quarterly statements were my safety net.
That's why, when I agreed that a huge chunk of my money was going to a house in Mexico that I wouldn't even live in for several years, I was panic-stricken. Rob quite rightly pointed out that the money wasn't in any way gone, just put into a different kind of investment, but as a non-home owner all my life, I just didn't see it viscerally, though I understood it intellectually. Sort of. At any rate, the agreement to purchase was signed, and we returned to Canada knowing that, when the deal closed three months later, we'd own our dream home in Mexico.
That was last October. At that time, the Canadian dollar was worth approximately ninety cents, U.S. So that cheque for $150,000 U.S., carefully calculated in our B and B in Ajijic ran considerably higher in Canadian funds. But was doable without panic. Well, without too much panic, on my part.
Three months is a long time in banking terms. Imagine how the blood drained from my body as I watched, in November and December, as the loonie took a dive. In fact, dropped to its lowest point in five years. When I had to remove the funds to take the final payment to Mexico in early January, the loonie was worth 84 cents U.S. And our house cost us that much more, just like that. Did it help that our financial advisor assured me that the rest of the investments were doing particularly well because a weak Canadian dollar meant more manufacturing, and off-shore investments were bullish, and blah, blah, blah? Not a whit.
And not a whit has it helped that, since we've bought and paid for our casa, the loonie has suddenly come off life-support and is veritably jogging circles around the U.S. buck. Today it's at $1.01 and something, and according to Warren Buffett, whose financial acumen is somewhat better than mine, is expected to remain above U.S. value for at least five years. So now, my lovely little casa is worth even less than it was in January.
I know, when we come down to stay in December, I won't be looking at it, like a mother at her teenager who screwed up. You know, "Casa, I'm not mad at you. I'm just very, very disappointed." I'll see beyond the fact that money, real and theoretical, has perhaps flown out of the kitchen window, and realize that outside that window is a lovely patio where I can hear roosters in the morning, and watch the sun set over the lake.
But I'm not in my casa now. And I'm mad at the house, and the loonie, and Warren Buffett. I know I have to accept, as all good adults do, that the house has cost us more than we bargained for when we first saw it, but that the world didn't cave in. I realize that no house is worth anything until you go to sell it, and the market changes, and who knows what will happen by the time we put it on the market (hopefully never). But I don't feel like an adult today.
Being an adult sucks.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
puzzling activities
Because I drive into the university for my Spanish class with Rob to save on the exhorbitant parking fees, I end up sitting in the cafeteria about an hour before my class starts, and at least thirty minutes before just about anyone else is there. I've started using that time to read the morning paper, and to do the daily sudoku and crossword.
I got into the habit of doing the morning crossword the last couple of years I was teaching, when a few of us who arrived to school early would photocopy 'the daily' from the staff newspaper, and sit, silently and semi-competitively, filling in the squares as the staffroom likewise filled up and became noisier and rowdier around us. We took a fair bit of ribbing for our concentration in the midst of our caffeine-fueled colleagues, but I always felt that some of the comments came from people rather jealous that we were able to pursue a somewhat cerebral activity so early in the morning. The math teacher who was part of the group got particular attention for his participation, almost as though it was unfair that he took an interest in words as well as numbers and somehow 'let the side down'.
Since I've retired, I've continued this morning practice: in fact, I can't start my day without filling in the crossword puzzle...an activity that is usually quite easy now that I've mastered those words that only ever appear in crosswords and scrabble games, like 'taw' and 'ogee'. I look forward to the extended puzzle on the weekends, which might take me up to an hour to complete, and I'm often a little disappointed, as well as smug, when the last square is filled in.
I started doing the sudoku, or at least trying to, when I retired. I've always considered myself a logical person, and not numerophobic in any way, so I thought it would be a puzzle I'd enjoy, and in time, master. That hasn't been the case. I enjoy it when it's easy, as most people do most things, but I'm rather too quick to place a number in a spot without sober second thought, with the result that, too often, I end up making a fatal error that causes the rest of the puzzle to fall apart. And then I stop. Not for me the white-out and redo; I simply shrug and move on to the next thing. Like the "Jumble" puzzle. Or the dishes.
Rob is different about puzzles than I. Knowing he's not a number guy, he quickly forsook the sudoku, but is quite addicted to any games or puzzles involving words. Anagrams, scrabble, boggle, and particularly the cryptics are his games. He taught me the basic principles of cryptic crosswords when we started our relationship ('started dating' sounds silly for middle-aged people to me), but, although I can fill in a few of the words, and do better if we work on a puzzle together, I don't have the keen right-brain that allows him to unscramble anagrams and decode complex puns and other wordplay. He quite astounds me with how he can get, "disobeying" from "princess shed tears watching bad behavior" in a matter of seconds. He finds regular crosswords boring; I find his brain a strange and sometimes peculiar place. Cryptics being only one reason.
I got into the habit of doing the morning crossword the last couple of years I was teaching, when a few of us who arrived to school early would photocopy 'the daily' from the staff newspaper, and sit, silently and semi-competitively, filling in the squares as the staffroom likewise filled up and became noisier and rowdier around us. We took a fair bit of ribbing for our concentration in the midst of our caffeine-fueled colleagues, but I always felt that some of the comments came from people rather jealous that we were able to pursue a somewhat cerebral activity so early in the morning. The math teacher who was part of the group got particular attention for his participation, almost as though it was unfair that he took an interest in words as well as numbers and somehow 'let the side down'.
Since I've retired, I've continued this morning practice: in fact, I can't start my day without filling in the crossword puzzle...an activity that is usually quite easy now that I've mastered those words that only ever appear in crosswords and scrabble games, like 'taw' and 'ogee'. I look forward to the extended puzzle on the weekends, which might take me up to an hour to complete, and I'm often a little disappointed, as well as smug, when the last square is filled in.
I started doing the sudoku, or at least trying to, when I retired. I've always considered myself a logical person, and not numerophobic in any way, so I thought it would be a puzzle I'd enjoy, and in time, master. That hasn't been the case. I enjoy it when it's easy, as most people do most things, but I'm rather too quick to place a number in a spot without sober second thought, with the result that, too often, I end up making a fatal error that causes the rest of the puzzle to fall apart. And then I stop. Not for me the white-out and redo; I simply shrug and move on to the next thing. Like the "Jumble" puzzle. Or the dishes.
Rob is different about puzzles than I. Knowing he's not a number guy, he quickly forsook the sudoku, but is quite addicted to any games or puzzles involving words. Anagrams, scrabble, boggle, and particularly the cryptics are his games. He taught me the basic principles of cryptic crosswords when we started our relationship ('started dating' sounds silly for middle-aged people to me), but, although I can fill in a few of the words, and do better if we work on a puzzle together, I don't have the keen right-brain that allows him to unscramble anagrams and decode complex puns and other wordplay. He quite astounds me with how he can get, "disobeying" from "princess shed tears watching bad behavior" in a matter of seconds. He finds regular crosswords boring; I find his brain a strange and sometimes peculiar place. Cryptics being only one reason.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Red Pepper Soup with Lime
Today I made another of my favourite "wishing I were in Mexico" soups. This one is even easier than Tortilla soup, and the ingredients are here most of the year, and in Mexico always. The whole thing takes about 20 minutes to create, and has a citrusy, sweet-with-a-kick taste that exemplifies Mexican flavours to me. We have it cold in the summer, with guacamole and tortilla chips, or hot with corn on the cob. In the winter, it's good hot, with chicken thighs baked with cilantro pesto under the skin. Yum.
Red Pepper Soup with Lime
Ingredients:
1 large onion, chopped
4 red bell peppers (or orange, or yellow)
1 tsp olive oil
1 clove garlic, crushed
1 jalapeno, seeded and minced or 1 small red chili pepper, sliced (if you don't have these on hand, a couple or ten drops of hot sauce does the trick)
3 tbs tomato paste (or carrot or squash puree, see below)
1 litre / quart chicken stock
1 lime, juiced
lime zest
salt, black pepper to taste
cilantro leaves for garnish
yoghurt for garnish.
Instructions:
Soften the onion and peppers in the olive oil in a pan. Allow them to sweat for 5 minutes or more in a covered pot.
Remove the pepper skins. My method is to press the peppers through a sieve, making sure to get all of the pulp, but leaving behind the skins. Another method is to leave the peppers in bigger chunks (and sweat them longer) in the first place, and peel the skin off in biggish strips when they cool slightly.
Add tomato paste, chili pepper (or jalepeno), garlic and 1/2 the stock. Simmer for 10 minutes.
Puree the mixture (I use one of those stick-type blenders, right in the pot), and add the rest of the stock and lime juice.
Season with salt and pepper.
Return the soup to the boil. When hot, serve with garnishes.
Variation:
Use yellow pepper or orange pepper, and substitute mashed carrots or squash (or a can of babyfood) for the tomato paste to get a sunshine yellow coloured soup.
This soup is also great served cold.
Red Pepper Soup with Lime
Ingredients:
1 large onion, chopped
4 red bell peppers (or orange, or yellow)
1 tsp olive oil
1 clove garlic, crushed
1 jalapeno, seeded and minced or 1 small red chili pepper, sliced (if you don't have these on hand, a couple or ten drops of hot sauce does the trick)
3 tbs tomato paste (or carrot or squash puree, see below)
1 litre / quart chicken stock
1 lime, juiced
lime zest
salt, black pepper to taste
cilantro leaves for garnish
yoghurt for garnish.
Instructions:
Soften the onion and peppers in the olive oil in a pan. Allow them to sweat for 5 minutes or more in a covered pot.
Remove the pepper skins. My method is to press the peppers through a sieve, making sure to get all of the pulp, but leaving behind the skins. Another method is to leave the peppers in bigger chunks (and sweat them longer) in the first place, and peel the skin off in biggish strips when they cool slightly.
Add tomato paste, chili pepper (or jalepeno), garlic and 1/2 the stock. Simmer for 10 minutes.
Puree the mixture (I use one of those stick-type blenders, right in the pot), and add the rest of the stock and lime juice.
Season with salt and pepper.
Return the soup to the boil. When hot, serve with garnishes.
Variation:
Use yellow pepper or orange pepper, and substitute mashed carrots or squash (or a can of babyfood) for the tomato paste to get a sunshine yellow coloured soup.
This soup is also great served cold.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
a desk of one's own
Well, my Spanish class is well and truly underway.
Three mornings a week I get up with Rob and head out in the dawn's early light in his car to M university, where he heads off to work in the Printing Department, and I head off to B106 and my class.
I can't believe I registered for a course that has me drinking coffee and trudging to a classroom before eight a.m. I thought, once I retired, in the unlikely event I'd see the sun rise, it would be at the end of a particularly good party, just as God intended. And yet, fully voluntarily, I've rejoined the bedheaded and sleepyeyed shuffling around campus at 7:30 in the ay em.
Of course, these are the people who work on campus. No self respecting student would be doing the morning sudoku and sipping Tim Horton's in the cafeteria before classes begin at 8:30. Most of them drop blearily behind their desks just before the professor enters, or half trip over knapsacks as they slide, not-so-discreetly, to their places several minutes after class begins.
Speaking of those desks, I cannot believe how uncomfortable they are. My class has the kind that are a combination of a fold-out bridge chair and the little swing up eating surfaces you sometimes get stuck with on a plane if you are in the front (economy class) seats. They have just enough surface to hold a complimentary cocktail, but certainly not the notebook, textbook and dictionary I need to get me through the lecture. In addition, they all swing open from the right side, which leaves this southpaw twisted around for 50 minutes, trying to record the palabras of wisdom coming from the prof. When I last needed these desks, thirty five years ago, I used to commandeer two: one to sit in, and one to place to my left, to write on. However, the closet to which our class is relegated has thirty desks squeezed--nay, poured--into it, and on most days except Monday, all of the desks are fully (if not energetically) embodied.
Of course, the body I inhabit now is not as flexible, adaptable, or, let's face it, thin as the one I had when I was an undergraduate. None of the others in the class seem unduly put out sitting through the hour, as I hold in my gut for 50 minutes, and wish I'd made a chiropractic appointment during long sprints of writing. I've grown used to 'airplane seat' anxiety: wondering just how small the seats on our economy flights might end up being on a given trip, and how likely it might be that my seatmate would let me raise the armrest between us. (Yet another endorsement for marriage: I'm quite sure implicit in the vows we made was the acknowledgement that the armrest was allowed to be up on all international flights.) It never occurred to me, however, that I, or my derriere, might outgrow those stupid lecture chairs in the many years since I last used them.
Not to worry, though. We had our first test earlier this week, and judging from the face of the ...um... less scholastically-inclined freshman who sits to my left when our results were returned, I may be able to spread out, literally and figuratively, in the near future. I'm told the deadline to drop courses is next week. I noticed him circling his calendar.
Three mornings a week I get up with Rob and head out in the dawn's early light in his car to M university, where he heads off to work in the Printing Department, and I head off to B106 and my class.
I can't believe I registered for a course that has me drinking coffee and trudging to a classroom before eight a.m. I thought, once I retired, in the unlikely event I'd see the sun rise, it would be at the end of a particularly good party, just as God intended. And yet, fully voluntarily, I've rejoined the bedheaded and sleepyeyed shuffling around campus at 7:30 in the ay em.
Of course, these are the people who work on campus. No self respecting student would be doing the morning sudoku and sipping Tim Horton's in the cafeteria before classes begin at 8:30. Most of them drop blearily behind their desks just before the professor enters, or half trip over knapsacks as they slide, not-so-discreetly, to their places several minutes after class begins.
Speaking of those desks, I cannot believe how uncomfortable they are. My class has the kind that are a combination of a fold-out bridge chair and the little swing up eating surfaces you sometimes get stuck with on a plane if you are in the front (economy class) seats. They have just enough surface to hold a complimentary cocktail, but certainly not the notebook, textbook and dictionary I need to get me through the lecture. In addition, they all swing open from the right side, which leaves this southpaw twisted around for 50 minutes, trying to record the palabras of wisdom coming from the prof. When I last needed these desks, thirty five years ago, I used to commandeer two: one to sit in, and one to place to my left, to write on. However, the closet to which our class is relegated has thirty desks squeezed--nay, poured--into it, and on most days except Monday, all of the desks are fully (if not energetically) embodied.
Of course, the body I inhabit now is not as flexible, adaptable, or, let's face it, thin as the one I had when I was an undergraduate. None of the others in the class seem unduly put out sitting through the hour, as I hold in my gut for 50 minutes, and wish I'd made a chiropractic appointment during long sprints of writing. I've grown used to 'airplane seat' anxiety: wondering just how small the seats on our economy flights might end up being on a given trip, and how likely it might be that my seatmate would let me raise the armrest between us. (Yet another endorsement for marriage: I'm quite sure implicit in the vows we made was the acknowledgement that the armrest was allowed to be up on all international flights.) It never occurred to me, however, that I, or my derriere, might outgrow those stupid lecture chairs in the many years since I last used them.
Not to worry, though. We had our first test earlier this week, and judging from the face of the ...um... less scholastically-inclined freshman who sits to my left when our results were returned, I may be able to spread out, literally and figuratively, in the near future. I'm told the deadline to drop courses is next week. I noticed him circling his calendar.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
shabby chic
Because we rent out our house while we're not yet there fulltime, we've had to equip it with all kinds of kitchen items, linens, and some decorative touches, to make the place comfortable for our renters. Naturally, we've been careful to make these items, while hopefully attractive, serviceable and inexpensive, so we won't be too concerned if they get damaged or accidentally misused.
I enjoyed our blitz shopping at Soriana's and the consignment bazaars when we were down in January, picking up items to stock a kitchen, working at color co-ordinating everything, but doing it as inexpensively as possible. The result was a place that, in my opinion, looks quite 'put together', but which is more rustico than designer chic.
Rob would have been pleased had I equipped all of the house that way, but to me the fun is in acquiring items that co-ordinate on a budget, and unfortunately, that meant that I bought about as many items up here to take down with us on the plane, as I bought down there. Now some of the purchases were very sensible, such as linens. Although there are quite a few sheet sets and towel sets to be had Lakeside (we haven't yet ventured into Costco and Walmart in Guadalajara), and although I'm told that they wear like iron, the samples we saw when we were down were a little stingy on the thread count, and a little eccentric in pattern. I was able to give Rob my best "see?" expression when I pulled out of our suitcase a couple of sets of sheets from our linen closet at home (giving me a chance to buy some new ones for NoB), and the two towels I packed were very useful until we had a chance to supplement them with Soriana supplies a couple of days into our trip.
Even the pillows that I crammed into our case made some kind of sense. Yes, we bought more at Soriana's, but that first night, after a day of paperwork with the notario and real estate agents, our two 'from home' pillows were very welcome. We finished the bedding with 'cheap and cheerful' comforters from Soriana's, and a good night's sleep was ours. I admit the cutlery that I packed was probably unnecessary, and Rob was, in fact, right, and, Mexicanos do use knives and forks and they are easily obtainable Lakeside... but we had the extra set at home anyway, and they didn't take up much room.
Rob jokes about that line. Everytime I look at something in our house in Canada, and decide it would be useful in Riberas, I put it aside for the next trip and say, "It won't take up much room." So far, taking up virtually no space at all in our suitcase for the next trip, are a colandar, teatowels, a spice rack, a vase, and a clock radio. I've even minimized the space situation further by buying some of those bags that you fill with clothing and linens, attach to your vacuum cleaner, and watch while, miraculously, all of the items shrink to one tenth of their size for packing. When I demonstrated this gadget to Rob, stuffing a huge bag with pillows, towels, sheets and a shower curtain, and turning on the vacuum to watch everything turn into a pancake-thick slab that would fit in the bottom of our suitcase, I thought he'd be thrilled. Instead, he pointed out to me that, although they actually didn't "take up much room" , they lost mass but not weight, and the suitcase is in closer-than-imminent danger of going over weight limits. His, as well as the airline's.
He has reason to be concerned over this. When we went down in January to take possession of the house and set it up for the first time, I had a flurry of buying and acquiring items for us and our houseguests to take down. All fit into the suitcases we took, except for the dishes. I found a real bargain in a set of dishes at the local Canadian Tire store, in the perfect colours, in very sturdy ironware, at a truly remarkable price. I rationalized that we wouldn't find anything cheaper in Mexico, that we needed dishes immediately upon crossing the threshhold of the place, and that they 'wouldn't take up much room'.
Well, they did. And they were heavy. So poor Rob ended up wrapping duct tape around the box, creating a strap, and shouldering the dinner set for four as his carry-on luggage through 4 airports and three flights, so my cheap-and-cheerful kitchen would co-ordinate. That guy must really love me, you know?
I enjoyed our blitz shopping at Soriana's and the consignment bazaars when we were down in January, picking up items to stock a kitchen, working at color co-ordinating everything, but doing it as inexpensively as possible. The result was a place that, in my opinion, looks quite 'put together', but which is more rustico than designer chic.
Rob would have been pleased had I equipped all of the house that way, but to me the fun is in acquiring items that co-ordinate on a budget, and unfortunately, that meant that I bought about as many items up here to take down with us on the plane, as I bought down there. Now some of the purchases were very sensible, such as linens. Although there are quite a few sheet sets and towel sets to be had Lakeside (we haven't yet ventured into Costco and Walmart in Guadalajara), and although I'm told that they wear like iron, the samples we saw when we were down were a little stingy on the thread count, and a little eccentric in pattern. I was able to give Rob my best "see?" expression when I pulled out of our suitcase a couple of sets of sheets from our linen closet at home (giving me a chance to buy some new ones for NoB), and the two towels I packed were very useful until we had a chance to supplement them with Soriana supplies a couple of days into our trip.
Even the pillows that I crammed into our case made some kind of sense. Yes, we bought more at Soriana's, but that first night, after a day of paperwork with the notario and real estate agents, our two 'from home' pillows were very welcome. We finished the bedding with 'cheap and cheerful' comforters from Soriana's, and a good night's sleep was ours. I admit the cutlery that I packed was probably unnecessary, and Rob was, in fact, right, and, Mexicanos do use knives and forks and they are easily obtainable Lakeside... but we had the extra set at home anyway, and they didn't take up much room.
Rob jokes about that line. Everytime I look at something in our house in Canada, and decide it would be useful in Riberas, I put it aside for the next trip and say, "It won't take up much room." So far, taking up virtually no space at all in our suitcase for the next trip, are a colandar, teatowels, a spice rack, a vase, and a clock radio. I've even minimized the space situation further by buying some of those bags that you fill with clothing and linens, attach to your vacuum cleaner, and watch while, miraculously, all of the items shrink to one tenth of their size for packing. When I demonstrated this gadget to Rob, stuffing a huge bag with pillows, towels, sheets and a shower curtain, and turning on the vacuum to watch everything turn into a pancake-thick slab that would fit in the bottom of our suitcase, I thought he'd be thrilled. Instead, he pointed out to me that, although they actually didn't "take up much room" , they lost mass but not weight, and the suitcase is in closer-than-imminent danger of going over weight limits. His, as well as the airline's.
He has reason to be concerned over this. When we went down in January to take possession of the house and set it up for the first time, I had a flurry of buying and acquiring items for us and our houseguests to take down. All fit into the suitcases we took, except for the dishes. I found a real bargain in a set of dishes at the local Canadian Tire store, in the perfect colours, in very sturdy ironware, at a truly remarkable price. I rationalized that we wouldn't find anything cheaper in Mexico, that we needed dishes immediately upon crossing the threshhold of the place, and that they 'wouldn't take up much room'.
Well, they did. And they were heavy. So poor Rob ended up wrapping duct tape around the box, creating a strap, and shouldering the dinner set for four as his carry-on luggage through 4 airports and three flights, so my cheap-and-cheerful kitchen would co-ordinate. That guy must really love me, you know?
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Yes, Ms P.
I've been thinking quite a bit about teaching in the last few days. I have just started my Spanish course (yes! for anyone who has been following my adventures, I did, in fact, get into the Spanish course offered at our local university, and started my class on Friday). I enjoy watching the professor teach the class. As a retired high school teacher, I find watching teachers at work incredibly interesting; it's amazing how many do a good job at it, but how few excel.
When I was a teacher, I used to mentor student teachers fairly regularly, and it only took a day or so to determine whether or not a particular student had 'it' and would not only survive the classroom, but actually motivate and excite students. Most student teachers knew their material well enough, and lots of them had enough presence to keep their students, who generally only want their teachers to do well, engaged. What too few of them had was the imagination and organizing ability keep individual lessons interesting and the course focussed.
I use the term 'organizing ability' with some care. Anyone who knows me even slightly knows that I am not an organized person. I forget important dates, run out of kitchen staples, miss deadlines, lose keys, (and have been, since childhood, in imminent danger of losing my head if it weren't screwed on, according to my mother--quite the omen, when you think about it). But I do have the apparently rare ability to organize. I can break a project down into manageable components, or, on the other hand, see the several possible repercussions of a decision, when others don't. I'm the one who asks the question that goes to the heart of the matter, or the one who summarizes the seemingly random discussion of the past hour. ("So, what we're saying is..."). I'm good at the big picture, and am pretty able at seeing how to achieve it. It's a major reason why I've been successful in directing theatrical productions, and why I tend to be elected chair of things. A lot.
I used that ability in the classroom throughout my career. Designing curricula was one of my favourite parts of teaching: selecting the material, determining suitable and varied methodology to excite and motivate, working out appropriate assessment...jargon phrases for finding ways to get students to learn particular stuff. I found the problem-solving interesting, and I was often rewarded by seeing one of my lesson plans, or assignment sheets, or tests, having circulated around the department and the school, ending up being used, and shown to me, by a teacher somewhere else, unaware that the material was 'mine'.
Don't get me wrong; I had lots and lots of faults as a teacher, too. I sometimes moved too quickly: I could see where my students were going, and I too often jumped in instead of letting them get there on their own. I used humour in the classroom, but it was sometimes too dry, and (I'm sorry to say) sometimes bordered on sarcasm. I wasn't as open to my students as some other teachers were; I think I scared some less-secure students away. I know that I influenced and motivated some students (and deeply cherish the notes and cards I've received over the years) but I'm sure I alienated others.
I've always felt that students need to have all kinds of teachers in their academic career: those they get along with and those they don't; those that are 'easy' and those that are 'hard'. Those that are personable, and those that are more reserved. From one teacher we might get motivated by the material; from another, by the force of his or her personality; we might have to work at learning in spite of a third.
I was lurking around the webboards about Lakeside that I frequent lately, and saw a plea from one person looking for volunteers to teach ESL to Mexican children and adults. The writer pointed out that she had had no experience teaching before she volunteered, but that she found the experience incredibly rewarding. She was exhorting others to give it a try. I emailed her back; I'm going to see what I can do to help in the short time Rob and I will be down in December, and I fully intend to do more when we're down for longer periods in three years.
I guess it's in the blood. The Jesuits said, "Give me a child at an impressionable age, and he's mine for life." I think, "Once a teacher, always a teacher." Ask Rob. He often smiles, indulgently, and says, "Yes, Ms P" when I find myself using the 'teacher' voice on him. But, you know what? It works.
When I was a teacher, I used to mentor student teachers fairly regularly, and it only took a day or so to determine whether or not a particular student had 'it' and would not only survive the classroom, but actually motivate and excite students. Most student teachers knew their material well enough, and lots of them had enough presence to keep their students, who generally only want their teachers to do well, engaged. What too few of them had was the imagination and organizing ability keep individual lessons interesting and the course focussed.
I use the term 'organizing ability' with some care. Anyone who knows me even slightly knows that I am not an organized person. I forget important dates, run out of kitchen staples, miss deadlines, lose keys, (and have been, since childhood, in imminent danger of losing my head if it weren't screwed on, according to my mother--quite the omen, when you think about it). But I do have the apparently rare ability to organize. I can break a project down into manageable components, or, on the other hand, see the several possible repercussions of a decision, when others don't. I'm the one who asks the question that goes to the heart of the matter, or the one who summarizes the seemingly random discussion of the past hour. ("So, what we're saying is..."). I'm good at the big picture, and am pretty able at seeing how to achieve it. It's a major reason why I've been successful in directing theatrical productions, and why I tend to be elected chair of things. A lot.
I used that ability in the classroom throughout my career. Designing curricula was one of my favourite parts of teaching: selecting the material, determining suitable and varied methodology to excite and motivate, working out appropriate assessment...jargon phrases for finding ways to get students to learn particular stuff. I found the problem-solving interesting, and I was often rewarded by seeing one of my lesson plans, or assignment sheets, or tests, having circulated around the department and the school, ending up being used, and shown to me, by a teacher somewhere else, unaware that the material was 'mine'.
Don't get me wrong; I had lots and lots of faults as a teacher, too. I sometimes moved too quickly: I could see where my students were going, and I too often jumped in instead of letting them get there on their own. I used humour in the classroom, but it was sometimes too dry, and (I'm sorry to say) sometimes bordered on sarcasm. I wasn't as open to my students as some other teachers were; I think I scared some less-secure students away. I know that I influenced and motivated some students (and deeply cherish the notes and cards I've received over the years) but I'm sure I alienated others.
I've always felt that students need to have all kinds of teachers in their academic career: those they get along with and those they don't; those that are 'easy' and those that are 'hard'. Those that are personable, and those that are more reserved. From one teacher we might get motivated by the material; from another, by the force of his or her personality; we might have to work at learning in spite of a third.
I was lurking around the webboards about Lakeside that I frequent lately, and saw a plea from one person looking for volunteers to teach ESL to Mexican children and adults. The writer pointed out that she had had no experience teaching before she volunteered, but that she found the experience incredibly rewarding. She was exhorting others to give it a try. I emailed her back; I'm going to see what I can do to help in the short time Rob and I will be down in December, and I fully intend to do more when we're down for longer periods in three years.
I guess it's in the blood. The Jesuits said, "Give me a child at an impressionable age, and he's mine for life." I think, "Once a teacher, always a teacher." Ask Rob. He often smiles, indulgently, and says, "Yes, Ms P" when I find myself using the 'teacher' voice on him. But, you know what? It works.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
se renta
While we both wait not-so-patiently for Rob's retirement date in three years, we rent out our casa to others through a rental agency in Mexico. So far, in the nine months since we have owned the house, we've had two renters, for a total of six months.
We know nothing about these people, as they found our house online or through ads sponsored by the rental agency, and all the financial and other dealings go through it. It's an interesting thing to speculate about who is in your house, and what they think about it, but we will never know, except for some incidental feedback from the agent ("the lady really likes the gardens, and has bought some more plants for it while she stays there"). We know that the agency checks them out to ensure that they care for the property, and takes a healthy deposit to ensure that they can pay for whatever bills they incure. Other than that, we really don't know.
We could find out more if we asked the agent, perhaps. Rob speculates that he'd like to have some contact with them; he'd like to know if there are things they don't like that we could correct, and he'd like to know if they are happy with the service the agency is providing. Perhaps he's right, but I rather like being at arms length in some ways: I know the place is occupied and being looked after, which is the main purpose of the exercise, and I don't have to think too hard about what the people are up to in our home.
Rob may soon get his wish. While I was looking at one of the message boards for our area, I came upon a posting for someone wishing to rent in our area for about one year, starting mid September. Our house seemed to fit their requirements, so I took a chance, emailed them about it, and, based on their reply, sent them pictures and some information.
Although I made it clear that they would have to deal with the agent, and they were happy to do so, having our email address, (and us having theirs), made it easy for them to ask about a number of details the other renters would not have been able to enquire about, and very easy for us to answer, provide more photos, etc. They learned more about us, as a result, and we learned a number of things about them. We've decided to let them rent for one month in September, check out the house and neighbourhood, and if they like it, rent for the longer term.
What's causing them to hold back a little, is that we'd already made arrangements to go down to our house in December. When we bought, the agent assured us that we could come down periodically during the next three years, and if someone wanted to rent our house, they would provide them with somewhere else to stay during the time we were using the property. That is what will happen in this case, if these people want the place for the long term.
It sounded really sensible in the abstract, but it is a little strange for both renters and us if it does happen. They will just get nicely settled, and feeling that the place is 'theirs' for two months, when they will have to temporarily move to another location. We will come down to our own home, but there will likely be evidence of these other people around when we do. In some ways we'll feel a bit like we're the renters in 'their' home. There are a number of things we plan to do while we are down for the month of December, such as painting the master bedroom, buying better lawn furniture, and decorating one of the bathrooms, so when they come back to the house in January, they'll find it rather different from when they left. I'll kind of want to know if they like it.
Perhaps I'll ask the rental agent to find out.
We know nothing about these people, as they found our house online or through ads sponsored by the rental agency, and all the financial and other dealings go through it. It's an interesting thing to speculate about who is in your house, and what they think about it, but we will never know, except for some incidental feedback from the agent ("the lady really likes the gardens, and has bought some more plants for it while she stays there"). We know that the agency checks them out to ensure that they care for the property, and takes a healthy deposit to ensure that they can pay for whatever bills they incure. Other than that, we really don't know.
We could find out more if we asked the agent, perhaps. Rob speculates that he'd like to have some contact with them; he'd like to know if there are things they don't like that we could correct, and he'd like to know if they are happy with the service the agency is providing. Perhaps he's right, but I rather like being at arms length in some ways: I know the place is occupied and being looked after, which is the main purpose of the exercise, and I don't have to think too hard about what the people are up to in our home.
Rob may soon get his wish. While I was looking at one of the message boards for our area, I came upon a posting for someone wishing to rent in our area for about one year, starting mid September. Our house seemed to fit their requirements, so I took a chance, emailed them about it, and, based on their reply, sent them pictures and some information.
Although I made it clear that they would have to deal with the agent, and they were happy to do so, having our email address, (and us having theirs), made it easy for them to ask about a number of details the other renters would not have been able to enquire about, and very easy for us to answer, provide more photos, etc. They learned more about us, as a result, and we learned a number of things about them. We've decided to let them rent for one month in September, check out the house and neighbourhood, and if they like it, rent for the longer term.
What's causing them to hold back a little, is that we'd already made arrangements to go down to our house in December. When we bought, the agent assured us that we could come down periodically during the next three years, and if someone wanted to rent our house, they would provide them with somewhere else to stay during the time we were using the property. That is what will happen in this case, if these people want the place for the long term.
It sounded really sensible in the abstract, but it is a little strange for both renters and us if it does happen. They will just get nicely settled, and feeling that the place is 'theirs' for two months, when they will have to temporarily move to another location. We will come down to our own home, but there will likely be evidence of these other people around when we do. In some ways we'll feel a bit like we're the renters in 'their' home. There are a number of things we plan to do while we are down for the month of December, such as painting the master bedroom, buying better lawn furniture, and decorating one of the bathrooms, so when they come back to the house in January, they'll find it rather different from when they left. I'll kind of want to know if they like it.
Perhaps I'll ask the rental agent to find out.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Katie
When Rob and I move to Mexico, one of our biggest considerations is going to be our cat, Katie.
We've had Katie for just about three years now. We adopted her and her brother when they were 6 months old, from a local cat shelter. I saw them about a week after we had to euthanize Splitz, my companion of 18 years, and my emotions were still raw. There they were, two orange balls of fur, one the adventurer and the other the nurturer. They were in our house within 24 hours.
We named them Spencer and Kate, after the famous Hollywood actors, since they were redheads, and because we thought the names were somehow clever. It took us about 3 weeks to recognize that they should have been named Bart and Lisa, their more appropriate models, but by then they had learned their names, and the die was cast. Spencer/Bart remained the adventurer: within 6 months Rob had retrieved him from several trees (loved going up; could never figure out getting down), a raccoon trap, from underneath a verandah, and the neighbour's roof. That spirit of adventure got him in trouble, though. Although the vet pronounced him healthy when we got him, she neglected to test him for and give him the FLV vaccine, and just after a year of living with us, he died from Feline Leukemia. We still miss him dearly. Although Rob and I have each had several pets, he was by far the cat with the most personality of any we've shared our lives with and, as Rob puts it, he fully lived his nine lives in his one short, eventful career. His ashes are currently resting beside Splitz's in our yard.
Our Katie, (Kate didn't last long) on the other hand, is very much Lisa. I've never known a cat with so many opinions, and with such a vocal range to express them. As a kitten, she would often come through the living room towards the food bowl, meowing whole paragraphs as she walked, almost all of them, we felt, tales told on her brother. Now her stories are about moths she has nearly caught, or birds at the bird feeder, or other tales told about her adventures looking through the window. Katie is an indoor cat. From the moment of her brother's diagnosis (and her own positive test for FLV as a result) she has stayed indoors, for her own protection against disease, and to protect other cats from being infected.
FLV is actually misnamed, I've learned. It was discovered when a high number of cats seemed to be dying of Leukemia, but the disease itself is not leukemia. It is actually a weakening of the immune system, which seems to allow Leukemia (along with other possible viruses) into the system. Cats like Katie can be otherwise healthy, and as long as their immune system isn't attacked, can live normal, and sometimes long, lives. Katie is now 3 1/2, the average age for cats with FLV to survive, but her care is better than lots, we give her immunity-boosting vitamins, and our hope is that she'll be healthy and happy when the big move to Mexico will take place in just under four years.
Getting her moved will be another matter. I can't imagine her anything like silent for a 8 hour series of plane rides, and I don't know how she'd handle a 4 day car trip. This cat talks, and unlike a child in the backseat, won't be bribed with McDonald's, or mesmerized by a gameboy.
She is a cutie, though, and if there's a way under heaven to get her down behind the walls of our house in Mexico, where she could safely laze in the sun, we'll get her there.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Mmmmm...Tortilla Soup
Sometimes, partly in order to keep us 'in tune' with things Mexican, I'll cook something that reminds us of our time down south. These meals are seldom, if ever, authentic, partly due to the lack of good fresh Mexican ingredients in Canadian supermarkets, but they have enough of the flavour of the real thing to keep us salivating for the true Mexican cooking to come.
This recipe is one I got from my friend Judy E., and which I tweaked a little to end up with the version we use quite regularly. It does freeze, which is a good thing because it makes a fair batch (certainly 2 meals worth for Rob and I) and it's a very hearty, one-bowl meal. Although hearty, we don't just eat it in the winter, but like Mexicans, or most South Americans, enjoy it in late summer evenings as well. Be warned, it is made of the simplest of items found in the supermarket, not fresh from-scratch ingredients at all, but it is yummy, and who doesn't like simple?
Judy's Tortilla Soup
1 jar salsa. (I use medium, I have used mild. Use hot at your
own peril.)
1 can corn. Do not use creamed corn.
1 litre (or quart) of chicken broth. (Here I do use my own broth, because I like making broth. Judy uses the carton kind.)
1 can black beans, drained (Rob isn't fussy on black beans, so I used mixed beans. I also leave the beans out in the summer, when I want a soup that's a little less hearty. It is still enough for a dinner on its own. )
shredded chicken (I cook extra chicken, like an extra thigh, when we
have chicken, and freeze it to make this soup later. You could make chicken just for this soup, because it's that good, but that adds to the work.)
Ok. So now you combine the jar of salsa, the beans, the stock and the corn, and heat it all through. Let it simmer a bit to combine the flavours. Add lots of shredded chicken, in bits big enough to taste, but small enough for your spoon.
Ladle into bowls, and add some corn chips, slightly broken up doritos or other corn-based tortilla chips. Press them into the soup with the back of your spoon.
Add a nice handful of shredded cheese. If you feel like splurging for the texmex mixed stuff, it's very good. Otherwise, just grate some cheddar or other cheese. There's plenty of zip in the salsa and the corn chips, if you get the flavoured ones.
Now that's Judy's recipe, and it's a good, comfort food one. Here's how I tweaked it:
Into the soup, before you ladle it, squeeze the juice of one lime. Pour into the bowl, and stir in a good helping of chopped fresh cilantro. Then add the tortilla chips and the cheese.
If you want to freeze it, do so before the lime, cilantro, chips and cheese. Save those ingredients for the night you are going to eat your soup, to keep the flavours strong and separate.
Like I said, it's not fancy, or even really authentic. But it sure tastes good, and you feel a little Mexican when you eat it.
This recipe is one I got from my friend Judy E., and which I tweaked a little to end up with the version we use quite regularly. It does freeze, which is a good thing because it makes a fair batch (certainly 2 meals worth for Rob and I) and it's a very hearty, one-bowl meal. Although hearty, we don't just eat it in the winter, but like Mexicans, or most South Americans, enjoy it in late summer evenings as well. Be warned, it is made of the simplest of items found in the supermarket, not fresh from-scratch ingredients at all, but it is yummy, and who doesn't like simple?
Judy's Tortilla Soup
1 jar salsa. (I use medium, I have used mild. Use hot at your
own peril.)
1 can corn. Do not use creamed corn.
1 litre (or quart) of chicken broth. (Here I do use my own broth, because I like making broth. Judy uses the carton kind.)
1 can black beans, drained (Rob isn't fussy on black beans, so I used mixed beans. I also leave the beans out in the summer, when I want a soup that's a little less hearty. It is still enough for a dinner on its own. )
shredded chicken (I cook extra chicken, like an extra thigh, when we
have chicken, and freeze it to make this soup later. You could make chicken just for this soup, because it's that good, but that adds to the work.)
Ok. So now you combine the jar of salsa, the beans, the stock and the corn, and heat it all through. Let it simmer a bit to combine the flavours. Add lots of shredded chicken, in bits big enough to taste, but small enough for your spoon.
Ladle into bowls, and add some corn chips, slightly broken up doritos or other corn-based tortilla chips. Press them into the soup with the back of your spoon.
Add a nice handful of shredded cheese. If you feel like splurging for the texmex mixed stuff, it's very good. Otherwise, just grate some cheddar or other cheese. There's plenty of zip in the salsa and the corn chips, if you get the flavoured ones.
Now that's Judy's recipe, and it's a good, comfort food one. Here's how I tweaked it:
Into the soup, before you ladle it, squeeze the juice of one lime. Pour into the bowl, and stir in a good helping of chopped fresh cilantro. Then add the tortilla chips and the cheese.
If you want to freeze it, do so before the lime, cilantro, chips and cheese. Save those ingredients for the night you are going to eat your soup, to keep the flavours strong and separate.
Like I said, it's not fancy, or even really authentic. But it sure tastes good, and you feel a little Mexican when you eat it.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Hurricane Dean
It's a very strange thing, owning a house two countries away, especially when you can't go to it very often.
As I've said in this blog, Rob and I won't be able to live in our house for a little more than three years, when he retires. Until then, we can visit at the most twice each year, for two or three weeks each time. The house is rented for the most part in between.
I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about the house. I decorate and redecorate, visualize myself in the kitchen and the garden, have imaginary conversations with the neighbours, and generally fantasize about our future life there. I make lists and lists of things we might do to renovate parts of it (the kitchen is my special project), and try and superimpose some of our things here onto walls and shelves down in Mexico. It's a fun pastime, and for the most part, a harmless one.
There's a down side, though, to imagining the house that can't be reached easily. When Hurricane Dean swept through Jamaica on a clear course to Mexico, I was on the weather channel almost constantly, tracking its destructive path, one which, in my mind, led right down our Avenida and directly into the courtyard of number 225. Now I'm well aware that few hurricanes make it into the Lake Chapala valley, but, in my vivid imagination, Dean was headed there, in full force, and had a particular grudge against our house.
I'm reading the local Chapala webboards today, as people prepare for the heavy rains that are the more benign consequence of Dean in our area. Even that doesn't appease me, as I imagine water coming under the front door and along our tiled foyer. It doesn't help that the house is empty until the end of the month, so there's no one there to help defend it against the floods that I see making their way up to the second floor.
It's silly, I know. The house has withstood many rainy seasons in its 15 year life, and a couple of days of heavy rain this year aren't going to make any difference. Except there is a difference this year, because the house is ours, and I don't want anything to happen to it while we're not there. I'm getting almost maternal, not just proprietal about it.
Is this because it's the only house I've ever owned? Or is it because I'm not in it? Perhaps people who own cabins or cottages feel this way off-season, when they hear of major snowstorms blasting against their shuttered summer homes, or perhaps, when you've owned a place for awhile you take these things in stride, recognizing that catastrophes don't lurk around every corner.
All I know is that I'd rather be thinking about countertops and herb gardens today.
As I've said in this blog, Rob and I won't be able to live in our house for a little more than three years, when he retires. Until then, we can visit at the most twice each year, for two or three weeks each time. The house is rented for the most part in between.
I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about the house. I decorate and redecorate, visualize myself in the kitchen and the garden, have imaginary conversations with the neighbours, and generally fantasize about our future life there. I make lists and lists of things we might do to renovate parts of it (the kitchen is my special project), and try and superimpose some of our things here onto walls and shelves down in Mexico. It's a fun pastime, and for the most part, a harmless one.
There's a down side, though, to imagining the house that can't be reached easily. When Hurricane Dean swept through Jamaica on a clear course to Mexico, I was on the weather channel almost constantly, tracking its destructive path, one which, in my mind, led right down our Avenida and directly into the courtyard of number 225. Now I'm well aware that few hurricanes make it into the Lake Chapala valley, but, in my vivid imagination, Dean was headed there, in full force, and had a particular grudge against our house.
I'm reading the local Chapala webboards today, as people prepare for the heavy rains that are the more benign consequence of Dean in our area. Even that doesn't appease me, as I imagine water coming under the front door and along our tiled foyer. It doesn't help that the house is empty until the end of the month, so there's no one there to help defend it against the floods that I see making their way up to the second floor.
It's silly, I know. The house has withstood many rainy seasons in its 15 year life, and a couple of days of heavy rain this year aren't going to make any difference. Except there is a difference this year, because the house is ours, and I don't want anything to happen to it while we're not there. I'm getting almost maternal, not just proprietal about it.
Is this because it's the only house I've ever owned? Or is it because I'm not in it? Perhaps people who own cabins or cottages feel this way off-season, when they hear of major snowstorms blasting against their shuttered summer homes, or perhaps, when you've owned a place for awhile you take these things in stride, recognizing that catastrophes don't lurk around every corner.
All I know is that I'd rather be thinking about countertops and herb gardens today.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
I have readers!
I have readers!
As I've been writing my blog entries so far, I've been imagining people coming across them ( I didn't know how exactly), and hopefully enjoying them, but I haven't been surprised by the '0 Comments' note at the end of each entry. I do have to admit that I didn't know how long I'd keep writing to '0 Comments', but the announcement didn't bother me, at least for the first while.
But a couple of days ago there was a comment, from Ann, who I certainly don't know, but who came across my blog and thoughtfully wrote to me. Then, the next day a comment from Brenda
and I felt rather famous. Now I know, in the world of blogging, my fledgling effort is barely on the radar, but on some radar it apparently is, and you can't believe how excited that has made me.
What makes Ann and Brenda's comments even more fun is that both women have preceded me on my route to Mexico, and both women have their own blogs, so not only can I learn from their successes (and possible failures) as they made the move to Mexico, but I can also steal shamelessly from their posts. (Just joking, Ann and Brenda).
Which brings me to the first point of this post. I've discovered an amazing amount of material online for anyone considering a move to Mexico, or even Lake Chapala, where we're heading, written by ordinary people who have made the same move and have enjoyed it, or hated it, have adapted to it or who have found it not to their hopes. I regularly lurk at a couple of webboards that have been set up for and by expats living in Mexico, and I've a whole binder of information about restaurants, service people, community resources, legalities and such that it would have taken Rob and I many frustrating months, even years, to accumulate. People are more than willing to offer suggestions, recommendations, examples from their own experience, and lots of people have gone out of their way to do so for us.
Most of this material is very helpful, and most of the people positive in their answers to questions I or others have raised. There is a 'curmudgeon' contingent, I admit, that one has to get used to when reading the posts on these webboards, as I suppose there will be in reality when we move down there. The area we are moving to is made up largely of retirees, and, as we all know, aging often makes us more exaggerated versions of the people we were when younger. Well, it does so for other people. You and I are exceptions, of course.
My second point of this post, is that doing this research has introduced me not only to important material, but to very interesting people. Reading a person's blog can become quite addictive, and I'm looking forward to going through Ann and Brenda's blogs to get to know them as people. The first 'Mexican' blog I discovered was Elliott's, and it only took me one entry to decide that I'd like her very much if she's anything like the narrator of her adventures in Mexico. It appears that Ann and Brenda read Elliott's blog, too, so I feel part of quite a special group.
My third point of this post has less to do with Mexico than it does about writing about Mexico (or whatever else comes to mind, I guess.) I was an English teacher for many years (yes, I know, I know), but, although I wrote speeches for graduations, and edited countless essays, compositions and journals, I haven't written anything much, just for my own pleasure, for many, many years. I'll never make a writer, but I find that I do enjoy the process of thinking through what I want to say, finding the 'mot juste' (or more often, something that'll work), and hitting the "publish post" button. It's actually quite a thrill to see it in 'print' on my monitor, once the blog fairies have taken the plain text and placed it into the template. Thanks to Elliott for encouraging me to give it a try.
I like it.
As I've been writing my blog entries so far, I've been imagining people coming across them ( I didn't know how exactly), and hopefully enjoying them, but I haven't been surprised by the '0 Comments' note at the end of each entry. I do have to admit that I didn't know how long I'd keep writing to '0 Comments', but the announcement didn't bother me, at least for the first while.
But a couple of days ago there was a comment, from Ann, who I certainly don't know, but who came across my blog and thoughtfully wrote to me. Then, the next day a comment from Brenda
and I felt rather famous. Now I know, in the world of blogging, my fledgling effort is barely on the radar, but on some radar it apparently is, and you can't believe how excited that has made me.
What makes Ann and Brenda's comments even more fun is that both women have preceded me on my route to Mexico, and both women have their own blogs, so not only can I learn from their successes (and possible failures) as they made the move to Mexico, but I can also steal shamelessly from their posts. (Just joking, Ann and Brenda).
Which brings me to the first point of this post. I've discovered an amazing amount of material online for anyone considering a move to Mexico, or even Lake Chapala, where we're heading, written by ordinary people who have made the same move and have enjoyed it, or hated it, have adapted to it or who have found it not to their hopes. I regularly lurk at a couple of webboards that have been set up for and by expats living in Mexico, and I've a whole binder of information about restaurants, service people, community resources, legalities and such that it would have taken Rob and I many frustrating months, even years, to accumulate. People are more than willing to offer suggestions, recommendations, examples from their own experience, and lots of people have gone out of their way to do so for us.
Most of this material is very helpful, and most of the people positive in their answers to questions I or others have raised. There is a 'curmudgeon' contingent, I admit, that one has to get used to when reading the posts on these webboards, as I suppose there will be in reality when we move down there. The area we are moving to is made up largely of retirees, and, as we all know, aging often makes us more exaggerated versions of the people we were when younger. Well, it does so for other people. You and I are exceptions, of course.
My second point of this post, is that doing this research has introduced me not only to important material, but to very interesting people. Reading a person's blog can become quite addictive, and I'm looking forward to going through Ann and Brenda's blogs to get to know them as people. The first 'Mexican' blog I discovered was Elliott's, and it only took me one entry to decide that I'd like her very much if she's anything like the narrator of her adventures in Mexico. It appears that Ann and Brenda read Elliott's blog, too, so I feel part of quite a special group.
My third point of this post has less to do with Mexico than it does about writing about Mexico (or whatever else comes to mind, I guess.) I was an English teacher for many years (yes, I know, I know), but, although I wrote speeches for graduations, and edited countless essays, compositions and journals, I haven't written anything much, just for my own pleasure, for many, many years. I'll never make a writer, but I find that I do enjoy the process of thinking through what I want to say, finding the 'mot juste' (or more often, something that'll work), and hitting the "publish post" button. It's actually quite a thrill to see it in 'print' on my monitor, once the blog fairies have taken the plain text and placed it into the template. Thanks to Elliott for encouraging me to give it a try.
I like it.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Spanish classes, part two
Well, dear readers (both imaginary, and at least one real...about that in a day or two), I prepared to sign up for my Spanish class at M University earlier this week.
I remember registration from my long-ago undergraduate years as a process that involved thumbing back and forth through the telephone-book sized calendar, making draft after draft of timetables trying to balance my need for 12 hours sleep each night with the 8 a.m. start time of all of the courses I wanted, and generally dealing with a huge bureaucracy and lists of acronyms until I finally gave up and took courses leaving me with 3 hours between some classes and races across campus to reach others. I remember long lineups for student card photos, armfuls of papers, pamphlets from various clubs and committees, and horrendous trips through the maze of textbooks in the bookstore for overpriced texts.
Now, I've taken a couple of university courses at other institutions since retirement, and I know that 'plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose' when it comes to registration. The computer has replaced the reams of paper, but the websites are as awkward to navigate as the hallowed halls, and the acronyms have grown in length and obscurity of meaning. Student card photos are as horrific as ever, and textbook prices are obscene. But I thought I'd cut through many of the problems as I planned to take this course at my alma mater, where my student number is still on file, and where I don't have to show that I have academic credentials, as they granted them to me.
Wrong I was. It was true that I was an alumna, and the fact that I still remembered my student number was a plus. (6903729...a number which, having had to record it on every term paper, exam, and every form for four years is as familiar to me as my social insurance number). What didn't help is that students now have a bar code as well as a student number, and attaching one to my 35 year old student number seemed to be beyond the ken of the university computer system. Add to that the fact that one bureaucrat said that I would be considered a 'continuing ed' student, (which led to a two-day excursion through the continuing-ed department, both physically and online, and which turned out to be a wasted trip), while another labelled me a 'continuing' student (note the subtle distinction here), which led me on a totally different path to registration. Add again to the equation that my husband is employed by the university, which entitled me to a bursary for part of the tuition, but only if I took the course for credit, not if I audited it (costing the university twice as much), and only if I filled out a series of forms which had to be submitted before the date that my registration could be complete, and before I knew if I would be accepted into the course, and the result was a confused, bemused, frustrated and bewildered applicant who sat down in front of my home computer, armed with my student number, bar code, student I.D., password, master calendar, and timetable code, ready to register for my Introductory Spanish class, to find....
The %$#@ COURSE IS FULL!
I remember registration from my long-ago undergraduate years as a process that involved thumbing back and forth through the telephone-book sized calendar, making draft after draft of timetables trying to balance my need for 12 hours sleep each night with the 8 a.m. start time of all of the courses I wanted, and generally dealing with a huge bureaucracy and lists of acronyms until I finally gave up and took courses leaving me with 3 hours between some classes and races across campus to reach others. I remember long lineups for student card photos, armfuls of papers, pamphlets from various clubs and committees, and horrendous trips through the maze of textbooks in the bookstore for overpriced texts.
Now, I've taken a couple of university courses at other institutions since retirement, and I know that 'plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose' when it comes to registration. The computer has replaced the reams of paper, but the websites are as awkward to navigate as the hallowed halls, and the acronyms have grown in length and obscurity of meaning. Student card photos are as horrific as ever, and textbook prices are obscene. But I thought I'd cut through many of the problems as I planned to take this course at my alma mater, where my student number is still on file, and where I don't have to show that I have academic credentials, as they granted them to me.
Wrong I was. It was true that I was an alumna, and the fact that I still remembered my student number was a plus. (6903729...a number which, having had to record it on every term paper, exam, and every form for four years is as familiar to me as my social insurance number). What didn't help is that students now have a bar code as well as a student number, and attaching one to my 35 year old student number seemed to be beyond the ken of the university computer system. Add to that the fact that one bureaucrat said that I would be considered a 'continuing ed' student, (which led to a two-day excursion through the continuing-ed department, both physically and online, and which turned out to be a wasted trip), while another labelled me a 'continuing' student (note the subtle distinction here), which led me on a totally different path to registration. Add again to the equation that my husband is employed by the university, which entitled me to a bursary for part of the tuition, but only if I took the course for credit, not if I audited it (costing the university twice as much), and only if I filled out a series of forms which had to be submitted before the date that my registration could be complete, and before I knew if I would be accepted into the course, and the result was a confused, bemused, frustrated and bewildered applicant who sat down in front of my home computer, armed with my student number, bar code, student I.D., password, master calendar, and timetable code, ready to register for my Introductory Spanish class, to find....
The %$#@ COURSE IS FULL!
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Spanish classes, part one
So, about the second step I took en route to Mexico. The one that ended up harder than I expected.
Both Rob and I recognize that we have to learn Spanish in order to have the kind of life we want in our neighbourhood in Lake Chapala. Lots of expats there don't speak Spanish, and you certainly don't have to in order to socialize, if you want to live a 'gated community' existence (whether or not your neighbourhood has gates) with other expats, but we agreed when we chose our home and neighbourhood that we wanted to be as much a part of the area as we could, and that won't happen without Spanish. Plus, I just think it's polite to know the language in the land where you intend to live.
Now I took an intensive Spanish course in my first year of University. It's not that I'm particularly proficient in foreign languages, but requirements for my major (English Literature) at that time were that one had to have some ability in two languages other than English. I spoke highschool French (as all university-bound kids in English Canada did in those days), but didn't take another language in high school as most of my friends did. Latin was the usual second language, but my parents, practical working class folks, thought I should take shorthand and typing instead of a 'dead' language, as I'd more likely be a secretary than an academic, in their eyes.
So, when I went to university instead of becoming a bank teller or an insurance secretary, I was short a third language. Enter the intensive Spanish course, which was meant to take students from 'nada' to high school grad level in one year. Intensive, indeed. I took the course, enjoyed some of it, got the prerequisite for my major, and promptly forgot 99.9% of it for over 30 years until I started vacationing in Mexico about ten years ago.
Now, my Mexican vacation Spanish consisted mostly of 'una cerveza, por favor', or 'la cuenta, por favor', which is not exactly going to go far when I try to talk to the clerk at Sorianas, or to the water or gas men delivering at our door, so a Spanish course (or 6) are required. With three and a half years before the actual big move, this should not be a problem. And wasn't, until now.
I took a refresher course at the community college last semester, during which the present tense of most verbs came back surprisingly easily, but the past tense looked like something I had never seen before in my life. Luckily we didn't even think about the conditional or pluperfect, which I remember in the abstract as long strings of memorization , and in the reality, not at all. I felt more confident after my 10 weeks of Monday evening classes, but the pace was slow, and I didn't like once a week classes. I'd leave the classroom at 10 p.m. muttering in Spanish all the way to my car, and rolling my rrrrr's into the rearview mirror, only to forget it all 6 days later when I went to pick up my homework for the next week's classes.
No, a different way was required. Something daily. Something intensive. Something like the course I took 30 odd years ago.....in fact, exactly the course I took 30 years ago. With that brilliant idea in mind I went online to my alma mater and checked out the courses available, discovering that the old course was still there and ready for me to register.
And that, dear readers, is when things got complicated.
Both Rob and I recognize that we have to learn Spanish in order to have the kind of life we want in our neighbourhood in Lake Chapala. Lots of expats there don't speak Spanish, and you certainly don't have to in order to socialize, if you want to live a 'gated community' existence (whether or not your neighbourhood has gates) with other expats, but we agreed when we chose our home and neighbourhood that we wanted to be as much a part of the area as we could, and that won't happen without Spanish. Plus, I just think it's polite to know the language in the land where you intend to live.
Now I took an intensive Spanish course in my first year of University. It's not that I'm particularly proficient in foreign languages, but requirements for my major (English Literature) at that time were that one had to have some ability in two languages other than English. I spoke highschool French (as all university-bound kids in English Canada did in those days), but didn't take another language in high school as most of my friends did. Latin was the usual second language, but my parents, practical working class folks, thought I should take shorthand and typing instead of a 'dead' language, as I'd more likely be a secretary than an academic, in their eyes.
So, when I went to university instead of becoming a bank teller or an insurance secretary, I was short a third language. Enter the intensive Spanish course, which was meant to take students from 'nada' to high school grad level in one year. Intensive, indeed. I took the course, enjoyed some of it, got the prerequisite for my major, and promptly forgot 99.9% of it for over 30 years until I started vacationing in Mexico about ten years ago.
Now, my Mexican vacation Spanish consisted mostly of 'una cerveza, por favor', or 'la cuenta, por favor', which is not exactly going to go far when I try to talk to the clerk at Sorianas, or to the water or gas men delivering at our door, so a Spanish course (or 6) are required. With three and a half years before the actual big move, this should not be a problem. And wasn't, until now.
I took a refresher course at the community college last semester, during which the present tense of most verbs came back surprisingly easily, but the past tense looked like something I had never seen before in my life. Luckily we didn't even think about the conditional or pluperfect, which I remember in the abstract as long strings of memorization , and in the reality, not at all. I felt more confident after my 10 weeks of Monday evening classes, but the pace was slow, and I didn't like once a week classes. I'd leave the classroom at 10 p.m. muttering in Spanish all the way to my car, and rolling my rrrrr's into the rearview mirror, only to forget it all 6 days later when I went to pick up my homework for the next week's classes.
No, a different way was required. Something daily. Something intensive. Something like the course I took 30 odd years ago.....in fact, exactly the course I took 30 years ago. With that brilliant idea in mind I went online to my alma mater and checked out the courses available, discovering that the old course was still there and ready for me to register.
And that, dear readers, is when things got complicated.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
passport renewal
Well, today I took a couple of steps closer en route to Mexico. One I expected to be difficult, the other easy. Turns out I got them backward.
The 'difficult' one was to renew my passport. It's a chore I dislike, not the least because of having to get the infamous passport photo, an exercise for me on par with having root canal work. Maybe worse, as a dentist visit really doesn't bother me that much, but sitting in front of a bored Black's Photoshop clerk, whose job s/he thinks is to get me in and out as quickly as possible, but whose occupation I think is to create a photo that I don't mind looking at from time to time as I pass it in front of airport security people...now that's torture.
I take an awful picture. One of the reasons I married Rob is that we both take awful pictures, and thus have the same attitude towards taking them. When we go on vacation, we (well, he) take lots of pictures of all kinds of things. Neither of us, however, is in any of them. It was only with the strong pressure of my best friend and Rob's mother that we even had a photographer at our wedding...and those pictures, created by someone who knew his job was to make us look good, or at least make the pictures acceptable, now sit in the back of some drawer, and not in an album. I find Rob perfectly attractive, and I hope he thinks I'm ok, too, but something happens when a lens gets between us and someone clicking a picture. Presumably, when they line up the shot, they think there's something in the viewfinder that's going to be worth recording, but the result is always disappointing.
Anyway, off I went to get the photo taken. The Simpsons-prototype teenager taking the photo didn't help when he told me I couldn't smile. Now I thought they'd loosened up on making passport photos look like mugshots, and in my case I need all the help I can get, but I didn't argue, as I should have, and looked suitably sober and not the least terrorist-y into the camera. Twenty minutes later the kid slid me the photos, in the envelope, across the counter as though we were in a spy movie. Taking his cue, I took them and waited until I got outside before opening the envelope for a surreptitious look.
Sigh. Oh, well. It's not much worse than the last one, I suppose. Only older.
The second reason why I thought getting the passport renewal would be a problem was because of the change of law in the U.S. which requires Canadians to show a passport before entering the States. (Or Americans from doing the same before returning from a trip to Canada, too.) Now Canada and the U.S. have had a deal forever that crossing 'the longest undefended border in the world' by citizens of either nation has only ever required some form of photo ID, and even then it has seldom been asked for. I know times have changed and America has some legitimate worry about foreigners, but Canadians have always had this special relationship, especially those of us who live close to the border. People living on either side have thought nothing for years of crossing the border for dinner, or drinks, or shopping (depending on whose dollar gives the best deal at whichever given time.)
Now, with this new rule, literally millions of Canadians have been scrambling to the passport office to get them the ticket to Buffalo wings or Disneyland. The media has been reporting the long lineups at the passport office, and the huge wait times to get new passports through the mail. I dreaded the whole ritual of getting the guarantor's signature (the list of acceptable guarantors in Canada is bizarre to say the least: doctors, judges, I understand, but postmasters?), filling out the forms, and sending off important identification through Canada Post to some overworked passport employee in Ottawa, and waiting...months, according to the reports....to get my new passport, with its glossy new picture inside.
So I decided to go in person to the passport office, and wait in line, getting much of the paperwork done in one nasty go, and keeping my other identification. I'd still have to wait forever for the passport, I reasoned, but if I faced the fact that I'd have to sit and wait for my number for two hours, took a book along with me, and just gritted my teeth through it, I'd be done.
Imagine my surprise. Yes, there were twenty people ahead of me (only 20! I've been there when there's been a hundred, most of whom needed help filling out the forms), but the best thing is that finally, unbelievably, the Canadian government has recognized that perhaps people currently holding a valid passport don't necessarily need to go through the whole routine again and start at Step One as though they were totally unknown to the Passport Office. As of today, TODAY in fact, a new form has been introduced for people renewing passports, that is actually rather painless. A few facts, a couple of contact names, hand over the old passport, and...wait for it.... the new one will come by registered mail in two weeks.
That was it. In and out in 25 minutes. I even got my deposit money on parking back because I was there less than 1/2 hour. I felt almost euphoric.
Until I remembered the picture.
Oh well. I was off to the easier job on my list. Or so I thought...
The 'difficult' one was to renew my passport. It's a chore I dislike, not the least because of having to get the infamous passport photo, an exercise for me on par with having root canal work. Maybe worse, as a dentist visit really doesn't bother me that much, but sitting in front of a bored Black's Photoshop clerk, whose job s/he thinks is to get me in and out as quickly as possible, but whose occupation I think is to create a photo that I don't mind looking at from time to time as I pass it in front of airport security people...now that's torture.
I take an awful picture. One of the reasons I married Rob is that we both take awful pictures, and thus have the same attitude towards taking them. When we go on vacation, we (well, he) take lots of pictures of all kinds of things. Neither of us, however, is in any of them. It was only with the strong pressure of my best friend and Rob's mother that we even had a photographer at our wedding...and those pictures, created by someone who knew his job was to make us look good, or at least make the pictures acceptable, now sit in the back of some drawer, and not in an album. I find Rob perfectly attractive, and I hope he thinks I'm ok, too, but something happens when a lens gets between us and someone clicking a picture. Presumably, when they line up the shot, they think there's something in the viewfinder that's going to be worth recording, but the result is always disappointing.
Anyway, off I went to get the photo taken. The Simpsons-prototype teenager taking the photo didn't help when he told me I couldn't smile. Now I thought they'd loosened up on making passport photos look like mugshots, and in my case I need all the help I can get, but I didn't argue, as I should have, and looked suitably sober and not the least terrorist-y into the camera. Twenty minutes later the kid slid me the photos, in the envelope, across the counter as though we were in a spy movie. Taking his cue, I took them and waited until I got outside before opening the envelope for a surreptitious look.
Sigh. Oh, well. It's not much worse than the last one, I suppose. Only older.
The second reason why I thought getting the passport renewal would be a problem was because of the change of law in the U.S. which requires Canadians to show a passport before entering the States. (Or Americans from doing the same before returning from a trip to Canada, too.) Now Canada and the U.S. have had a deal forever that crossing 'the longest undefended border in the world' by citizens of either nation has only ever required some form of photo ID, and even then it has seldom been asked for. I know times have changed and America has some legitimate worry about foreigners, but Canadians have always had this special relationship, especially those of us who live close to the border. People living on either side have thought nothing for years of crossing the border for dinner, or drinks, or shopping (depending on whose dollar gives the best deal at whichever given time.)
Now, with this new rule, literally millions of Canadians have been scrambling to the passport office to get them the ticket to Buffalo wings or Disneyland. The media has been reporting the long lineups at the passport office, and the huge wait times to get new passports through the mail. I dreaded the whole ritual of getting the guarantor's signature (the list of acceptable guarantors in Canada is bizarre to say the least: doctors, judges, I understand, but postmasters?), filling out the forms, and sending off important identification through Canada Post to some overworked passport employee in Ottawa, and waiting...months, according to the reports....to get my new passport, with its glossy new picture inside.
So I decided to go in person to the passport office, and wait in line, getting much of the paperwork done in one nasty go, and keeping my other identification. I'd still have to wait forever for the passport, I reasoned, but if I faced the fact that I'd have to sit and wait for my number for two hours, took a book along with me, and just gritted my teeth through it, I'd be done.
Imagine my surprise. Yes, there were twenty people ahead of me (only 20! I've been there when there's been a hundred, most of whom needed help filling out the forms), but the best thing is that finally, unbelievably, the Canadian government has recognized that perhaps people currently holding a valid passport don't necessarily need to go through the whole routine again and start at Step One as though they were totally unknown to the Passport Office. As of today, TODAY in fact, a new form has been introduced for people renewing passports, that is actually rather painless. A few facts, a couple of contact names, hand over the old passport, and...wait for it.... the new one will come by registered mail in two weeks.
That was it. In and out in 25 minutes. I even got my deposit money on parking back because I was there less than 1/2 hour. I felt almost euphoric.
Until I remembered the picture.
Oh well. I was off to the easier job on my list. Or so I thought...
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Blogging Virgin
Well, with little knowledge of the methodology, and only a little idea of what I'm going to attempt here, I hereby plunge into the pool of blogging, if not into the deep end, certainly into the shallow end without a noodle to keep me afloat.
My vague idea is to write about my life as a kind of 'in between'. I am retired (jubilada) with a plan to go to Mexico, where my husband and I have, in a move uncharacteristic of me, rather recklessly purchased a home. The idea is that we'll live at Lake Chapala when he retires, in three and a half years.
Once I got through the enormous panic of realizing I'd plunked a huge chunk of my life savings into buying my first home at the age of 56, I'm now really excited about the house, and keen to begin living there. I'm in a really strange place, though, in that, If I weren't married, I could be there now. All is in place, except us, and we can't move down there until Rob's working career ends in '011. And that is strange, because the whole idea of my retirement being dependent upon someone else's is a new one to me. Rob and I only married 4 years ago, and I have never been married before. I love being married; I love linking my life with his. I just feel a bit in limbo as I've reached the 'jubilada' milestone, but can't celebrate it quite as I'd like until he gets there with me.
Anyway, the decision to move to Mexico has raised a number of other issues: learning the Spanish language, deciding how best to deal with the house while we wait, visiting Lake Chapala when we can, deciding how best to organize our lives in Canada after we make the move to Mexico (current plans are to spend six months in each country each year), dealing with money issues, figuring out where our pet cat comes into the picture, inviting guests to our new home, etc. My loose plans for this blog are to deal with these issues over the next two years or so, and then deal with the actual details of the moving process and our acclimatization to Mexico. I'm hoping that will be enough material to keep both me and my imaginary readers interested.
So, to anyone who might come across these admittedly haphazard posts, welcome! Mi blog es su blog.
Jubilada
My vague idea is to write about my life as a kind of 'in between'. I am retired (jubilada) with a plan to go to Mexico, where my husband and I have, in a move uncharacteristic of me, rather recklessly purchased a home. The idea is that we'll live at Lake Chapala when he retires, in three and a half years.
Once I got through the enormous panic of realizing I'd plunked a huge chunk of my life savings into buying my first home at the age of 56, I'm now really excited about the house, and keen to begin living there. I'm in a really strange place, though, in that, If I weren't married, I could be there now. All is in place, except us, and we can't move down there until Rob's working career ends in '011. And that is strange, because the whole idea of my retirement being dependent upon someone else's is a new one to me. Rob and I only married 4 years ago, and I have never been married before. I love being married; I love linking my life with his. I just feel a bit in limbo as I've reached the 'jubilada' milestone, but can't celebrate it quite as I'd like until he gets there with me.
Anyway, the decision to move to Mexico has raised a number of other issues: learning the Spanish language, deciding how best to deal with the house while we wait, visiting Lake Chapala when we can, deciding how best to organize our lives in Canada after we make the move to Mexico (current plans are to spend six months in each country each year), dealing with money issues, figuring out where our pet cat comes into the picture, inviting guests to our new home, etc. My loose plans for this blog are to deal with these issues over the next two years or so, and then deal with the actual details of the moving process and our acclimatization to Mexico. I'm hoping that will be enough material to keep both me and my imaginary readers interested.
So, to anyone who might come across these admittedly haphazard posts, welcome! Mi blog es su blog.
Jubilada
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