All mimsy were the borogoves, and the momeraths outgrabe

There is a shopping center I frequent which is about 15 minutes from my house. Actually, I generally just go to the grocery store there. Occasionally I may stop in at the CVS or Staples, but I go to the grocery store at least twice a week.

I was there today.

As I pulled into a parking spot, I noticed something new.

Starbucks!!
I almost swallowed my gum.

I rarely go to Starbucks anymore, because the closest one is 30 minutes away. But this new one is very conveniently located.

"Oh frabjous day, calooh, calay!" I chortled in my joy.*

I wasn't thirsty, but I went in and bought an Iced Coffee, anyway.
I asked if it was Terrazza. They said it was.
I asked when the store opened. They said today.
No wonder I hadn't noticed it before.

*Not sure what Jabberwocky has to do with this post, but I was an odd kid and had a penchant for memorizing poems from the age of 8 or 9. They still sneak up on me from time to time. So, um... yeah. Beware the Jabberwock, my son.

A weekend of firsts*

Okay, so there were really only two firsts. But still - they were milestones!

On Sunday, I had brunch with some friends. It was my first time at IHOP. Momentous, no? I was advised to order the chocolate chip pancakes. So I did. They were tasty.

Did you know that at IHOP, the floors are slanted, so everyone tilts just a little?

Unfortunately, the other milestone wasn't quite so much fun. I got my first ticket. On the way to church. Boo hoo :( I got a ticket for running a red light. Why did I run the red light? I DON'T KNOW. Momentary lapse of judgment. Stop asking.

Okay, the truth is, I lack patience.**

I was just cruising along, minding my own business, obeying all of the traffic laws.
Every traffic sign I saw, I said, "Ok, sign!"***
Then the light ahead of me turned green. There weren't too many cars between me and the light, so there wasn't really a question of whether or not I was going to make it through before it turned red.
Until the car just in front of me started slowing down.
A lot.
For no apparent reason.
As the light turned yellow, I realized that I just might not make it through. Then the car in front of me practically stopped, so I decided to drive around. That's when the light turned red. That's also when I noticed the cop car sitting at a red light on the other side of the intersection.

Sad story, right? Thus ends my ticket-free driving record - 11 years with a license and no tickets! Oh well, whaddaya gonna do?

*Ooops - just realized I forgot to post this! It's actually from 3 1/2 weeks ago!
**Not really, I actually possess vast quantities of patience. I'm just way too humble to tell you that myself.
***Yes, I did steal that line from Dane Cook. It's funny. You wanna fight about it?

Kids are hilarious

Anyone who has spent much time with kids, knows that they are good for a laugh. That's the real reason that I like to keep them around.

In talking to Jill (a 7-yr-old) yesterday, I made a crack about New Jersey not really being any better than Old Jersey. Of course, she didn't get it. But because I spend so much time by myself or with little kids, half the time I make jokes purely for my own amusement (sad, but true), so that was okay. Somehow, my witty pun (or pathetic attempt at a joke, depending on one's perspective) turned into a discussion about where we (as in, "we Americans") first came from.

"Well, we came from England," I said.

Jill looked at me incredulously, "We did?"

"Yes," I responded. "Well, you didn't," I quickly added, "you came from Italy and Ireland."*

"I did?" Jill stared at me, wide-eyed.

"Well, not you, really. You've lived here your whole life," I corrected. "Your ancestors did."

Scowling, Jill replied, "No! My aunts, not my aunt-cestors!"

Laughing, I looked up and noticed that Jill was deep in thought. Turning to me, she repeated, "My aunts! What? Did you think they were like aunt-sisters?"


*The kids often talk about their two great-aunts - they're very close to them. While the kids are probably mostly Italian, I've been told on more than a few occasions about one of their great-aunts, who is half-Italian, half-Irish.

Re(strain)ing from exercise

ARRRGGGHHHH!!! No, I'm not being a pirate. I'm trying to express the frustration I'm feeling, but wasn't sure how to put it in print.

I finally started working out consistently again. I've run a couple of miles several times a week for the last couple of weeks. When I get out of the habit of exercising, it's hard to get back in it. And it has been a while since I got out of it.

I've been trying to motivate myself to start working out again for a long time now, so it's been feeling great to be doing it again. Once I get started, it's not too hard to motivate myself. I don't run very fast or for very long, but my plan was to build up my endurance and speed for a couple of weeks, then join a gym and start doing other things, too.

Last Tuesday, I started warming up to run, and my ankle started hurting. I was a little worried. But I took a couple of days off, then started running again and everything was fine.

But I think that yesterday, I pulled a muscle. The ironic thing is that I ran a couple of miles in the morning and I felt great. It was later, when I was walking to the bus stop to meet Jill that I felt a sudden pain in my calf. I was walking quickly and uphill, so I guess that's how I pulled it. But I wasn't really sure if I had pulled it at that point. It just hurt. Then is started hurting more. And more. You get the idea.

I still wasn't sure what was wrong with it this morning, so I thought that maybe it would be a good idea to run a little and see if it helped to exercise it. I was wrong. It was a bad idea. I'm pretty sure it's a pull. Now I'm frustrated because I think it takes about a week to heal. That's going to throw off my momentum! What am I supposed to do for exercise between now and then? Not to mention the fact that I have a tango class tonight! What if I can't get back into running after it heals? AAAAHHHH!!!

A tasty snack with Captain Jack

There are few things that I will refuse to eat. In fact, I can only recall two things of which I have turned down the opportunity to sample:

bull penis (Córdoba, Spain)

(with french fries, naturally)


and sheep head (Marrakech, Morocco).


Not only do I try just about anything, but I like (or at least, do not dislike) most things, too. It’s a matter of pride for me. I love spinach, mushrooms, and I even like brussels sprouts. Not only that, but I might even admit to liking morcilla, as long as we don’t mention what it actually is.

But there are a few things I would rather not eat. I don’t like sweet & sour sauce, pickles, relish, or olives. Never have.

Naturally, as the whole matter is an issue of pride, I do my best to try these things from time to time. However, the frequency with which I try these things is directly proportional to the frequency with which I find them on my plate. Makes sense, right? If they’re there, I figure I might as well give them a shot and see if anything has changed. Consequently, I have eaten a lot of olives without actually liking them. Growing up, I was the only one who didn’t like black olives. Every time we ordered pizza, there were olives. I picked them off. At Thanksgiving, I was the only kid not getting olives from the hors d’oeuvres table, then sticking them on the end of my fingers so I could have cool olive fingers.

Then I went to Spain. Spaniards love olives. I think it may be illegal for them to dislike olives. A Spaniard not liking olives would be tantamount to a Brit not liking tea (though I have actually met one such Brit - at least, she claimed she was English - she was probably lying).

In the US, I had somehow gathered the impression that a black olive was sort of a precursor to the green olive. In other words, if you like black olives, you should try green olives - you might like them, too. But if you don’t even like black olives, you won’t like green olives - there’s no point in even trying them.

But I tried them anyway.
Many times.
I always tried them if they were on my plate, and I always disliked them.
Until one day...

I was having lunch with M2 in Granada. We were getting the Menú del Día at a restaurant that was located right next to a big plaza. I can still see it in my mind’s eye. I ate a green olive. And I liked it. It was pretty amazing. I tried to communicate the magic of the moment to Matt, but I don’t think he quite understood. Anyway, I didn’t just start liking olives from then on. There may have been a few in the following years that I liked, but I didn’t just start eating any old olive. It wasn’t long after that apperception that I returned to the US. So my encounters with olives were drastically reduced in number and I all but forgot that magical moment in Granada. Until one day…

A couple of months ago, my boss brought home some jalapeño stuffed olives.

I tried one.

I liked it.

I ate more.

I started picking them up regularly at the grocery store and my boss and I have both been enjoying them.

Now I am in the habit of eating Melba Snacks with Laughing Cow spreadable cheese and sliced jalapeño stuffed olives. Yum.

A couple of weeks ago, the grocery store was out of the jalapeño stuffed olives. So that evening, I made my little snack with regular olives, and I still really liked it! That’s how I know I’ve truly turned a corner here.

But I still don’t like black olives.

Goldfish cake

Don't worry - it's not what you're thinking.

I didn't bake a cake with goldfish in it.

For those of you who have witnessed me experimenting in the kitchen (adding Bailey's Irish Cream to mushroom fish, or White Cheddar Cheez-Itz to stir fry, for example*...), I'm sure you were a little nervous to read on after seeing the title. But actually, I just baked a regular cake and frosted it, then I let Jill** decorate it. Her school was having a bake sale/cake decorating contest and she decided to decorate her entry as a goldfish bowl. I am always impressed with her creativity! Unfortunately, I don't have a picture of the final product. But the picture below shows how much she did the first day before she started getting tired and frustrated, at which point I sent her to bed and told her she could finish it the next day.*** Not bad for a 6-yr-old, huh?


*True stories. If you don't believe me, ask Victoria, Julianna, Jessica, or my mom.
**If you recall, this is the pseudonym that I had given in an earlier post to the 6-yr-old girl (7 tomorrow!) that I take care of.
***Yes, she does frequently tell me that I'm mean. I don't care. It's either send her to bed or put up with whining. There isn't really a choice to be made here.