Back in the olden days, when I had a real job and traveled nearly 50% of the time for work, I found myself urgently needing a new suitcase – the day before I was scheduled to leave on a 2-week trip to Japan, the zipper ripped out of my trusty old soft-sided suitcase. So, in a fit of desperation, I headed to the local mall.
In one of the big department stores, I saw it. The perfect suitcase. Large. Hard-sided. A nice understated black. Samsonite. On sale (!!!). Two side latches and a main latch with a combination lock. Yes! Just what I wanted. I pulled it down off the shelf, undid the side latches (which have a nice little slide lock that keeps them coming open accidentally), flipped the main lock… nothing. Locked. Locked?!? I made sure the combo was set to “0-0-0”, tried it again… nothing. Locked. Crap.
Okay, they must have another one. I looked around. Errr. None were in sight. I finally flagged down a saleslady. Nope, no more in the back either. I asked her if she knew the combination. Ha! That is why it was on sale.
But I wanted this suitcase. I needed this suitcase. So I started to think to myself “what would someone who would do something so juvenile as resetting the combo lock on a suitcase that was not their own set it to?” A-ha! I entered three numbers, flicked the latch and, ta-dum!, it opened. What where those numbers? 6-6-6.
I took the suitcase over to the saleslady, who told me again it was locked. I told her I wanted to buy it anyway. Got it home, reset the combination (I’m not terribly superstitious, but really wouldn’t you?), packed the suitcase full of clothes and shoes, and went off on my trip.
It has been nearly 10 years since I bought that suitcase and it is still going strong. RWT just took it on a trip around the world. It followed him home by a week, but I knew in my heart that it would eventually find its way back to me. My devil suitcase.
29 August 2006
17 August 2006
Salt or No Salt?
Of course, I am not talking about margaritas from a mix or those that come in a "Just Add Tequila" tub. Blech-blech-blech. I use freshly-squeezed lime juice, Triple Sec (for some reason I prefer it to Grand Marnier in this application) and decent tequila (but not fine tequila because it would be a waste to use it in a mixed drink). Whir it all together with ice and some sugar (amount needed is very dependent on the limes and requires lots of taste-testing) in the trusty blender and pop it in the freezer.
When the mood strikes for margaritas, I pull the pitcher from the freezer, let it sit ~30 minutes (if I can wait that long, I have been known to nuke it and/or hack away at it with a large metal spoon) and then have at it with the how-did-I-live-without-it-for-so-long stick blender to break up any large ice crystals that may have formed.
I was running low on tequila and the freezer is currently devoid of any and all pitchers, so I stopped by the package store today while on my way to commissary. (Note to non-military folks – although the name suggests otherwise, the package store is not where you go to mail the very, very late birthday present to your sister, but where you buy cheap, tax-free liquor.) I was standing at the checkout counter paying for my large (1.75L) bottle of tequila when the two young solders behind me decided to comment...
BabyArmyGuy1 (with a good ‘ol boy accent): Boy! That is a big bottle of tequila.
Me: Yup. I need to make some margaritas.
(I decided not to tell them how it is my freezer that needs them.)
BabyArmyGuy1: When I drink get tequila, I get mean.
Me: Hmmm.
BabyArmyGuy1: The first time I drank tequila, I left the club and ended up punching a Colonel.
Me: Really?!?
BabyArmyGuy2 (who is much cuter than BabyArmyGuy1 and is obviously feeling left out): I'm a sweet drunk…
Me: That's good.
BabyArmyGuy1: When it happened, I had no idea she was a Colonel.
Me: (Laughing)
BabyArmyGuy2: (Cannot think of a thing to top his buddy's comment and looking quite chagrined)
At that point, the two soldiers started discussing the how much that particular female Colonel can bench-press and I exited the package store still laughing. It is nice to see that, in addition to learning how to kill in all sorts of sundry ways, some young soldiers are apparently also working on excellent comic timing.
Now off to make those margaritas...
11 August 2006
Snail and E
I was looking for an old photo to show a friend of mine and I thought it was in my cedar chest in a box with a bunch of college memorabilia. Well, I could not find that particular photograph, but I did find all sorts of old letters.
Most was correspondence from guys who, even after reading their letters, I cannot recall. Nothing. Nada. Zip. The letters were silly, dopey, funny and a more than a few totally stupid, but nearly all long forgotten.
One guy I do faintly remember (the picture I found of him helped) was a summer “romance” (I was all of 13 or 14, so, other than a few chaste kisses behind the church, nothing much that could be considered in the least bit romantic actually happened between us). There are at least a half-dozen letters from him, but I have no recollection of writing from my side. I wonder if he wrote me for weeks after he went home without my reciprocating or if I just wrote him unmemorable (to me, at least) drivel. I suspect the former.
I’ve never been much of a letter writer. While I can type nearly as fast as I can compose the words in my head, my actual handwriting at that speed is completely illegible. I tended to woefully neglect my written correspondence before email came along. But, as much of a godsend email has been, it suddenly hit me today how fleeting it is. I am not an electronic pack-rat and twenty years from now I highly doubt I’ll be able to read my current letters to and from friends. Heck, I can’t even reread those from just last week.
Then I start thinking about going through that box this morning. I read the first four or five letters, had some laughs, but quickly tired of reading twenty-year-old words that no longer had any emotional resonance. If they had not been there physically in front of me, I never would have given them another thought again in my life. I can’t miss what I can’t remember.
And the truly memorable letters, such as my ex-fiance’s heart-torn missive (written on Garfield notepaper, no less) that accompanied the engagement ring he gave back to me after I returned it to him when I broke-off our engagement, I can recall every word without even having to look at it.
So I hope it is that way with the email -- the important letters will be etched in my mind forever and the others are not really worth remembering.
Most was correspondence from guys who, even after reading their letters, I cannot recall. Nothing. Nada. Zip. The letters were silly, dopey, funny and a more than a few totally stupid, but nearly all long forgotten.
One guy I do faintly remember (the picture I found of him helped) was a summer “romance” (I was all of 13 or 14, so, other than a few chaste kisses behind the church, nothing much that could be considered in the least bit romantic actually happened between us). There are at least a half-dozen letters from him, but I have no recollection of writing from my side. I wonder if he wrote me for weeks after he went home without my reciprocating or if I just wrote him unmemorable (to me, at least) drivel. I suspect the former.
I’ve never been much of a letter writer. While I can type nearly as fast as I can compose the words in my head, my actual handwriting at that speed is completely illegible. I tended to woefully neglect my written correspondence before email came along. But, as much of a godsend email has been, it suddenly hit me today how fleeting it is. I am not an electronic pack-rat and twenty years from now I highly doubt I’ll be able to read my current letters to and from friends. Heck, I can’t even reread those from just last week.
Then I start thinking about going through that box this morning. I read the first four or five letters, had some laughs, but quickly tired of reading twenty-year-old words that no longer had any emotional resonance. If they had not been there physically in front of me, I never would have given them another thought again in my life. I can’t miss what I can’t remember.
And the truly memorable letters, such as my ex-fiance’s heart-torn missive (written on Garfield notepaper, no less) that accompanied the engagement ring he gave back to me after I returned it to him when I broke-off our engagement, I can recall every word without even having to look at it.
So I hope it is that way with the email -- the important letters will be etched in my mind forever and the others are not really worth remembering.
10 August 2006
Pet Names
My family has a tradition of giving our pets rather sensible names…
Morgan (an alligator lizard who ate mealy worms – what a nightmare)
Myrtle (one of numerous Myrtles – all were turtles)
Corkey (also one of many – all parakeets)
Cindy (short for Cinderella – my sister’s guinea pig that I dropped and I will never, ever be forgiven for doing so)
Butterscotch (my hamster – that I did not drop)
Lewis & Clark (experimental goldfish – Lewis was kept in constant light and Clark in the dark)
The cats –
Kiki (yes, I now know what that is slang for in more than one language)
Bobbie (who had seven toes on each foot)
And, in order of age, the dogs –
Jeremiah
Beau (actually Beauregard Zachariah)
Tasha (named after my mother's favorite childhood toy – a rather large, felt-stuffed, chartreuse dog name Natasha who currently resides in my cedar chest)
Sammie
Jessie
Scooter (he was constantly underfoot as a puppy – "Scoot!")
Anna (registered name “Diamond Anna”)
Most of the names of the early pets stuck. But, once my sisters and I were older, did we call our pets by their names? Of course not. My beloved calico, Kiki, more commonly went by Keeker-Weeker-Eeker-Squeeker. Or Eeker. Or Squeeker. Bobbie was Tube-Cat (she was very long and lean) or Bobbie-Wobbie-Obbie-Squobbie. Are you seeing the pattern yet?
And it was worse with the dogs (after all, how often do you really bother calling a cat’s name?). Tasha was Tasha-Squasha. Then Squash for short. Then Squash-a-lump for long.
Jessie is also known by Jesse-a-lump, while Sammie’s queenly nature is reflected by Sammirella (Sammie belongs to the same sister as the long-departed guinea pig that I dropped, and, for the record, I have never, ever picked up Sammie, let alone, dropped her).
Scooter (my father’s dog) is Scooter-Wooter-Ooter (that variation is somehow always tied to the pet residing in our parent’s house) or, my favorite, Ooter-Brauten.
However, the one who gets it the worst is my current dog, Anna. The fact that her name just begs for it does not help the situation. The most obvious: Anna-Banana. That quickly morphed into Banana-Boat then Banana-Nut then Peanut then Sweet Pea. But there is another branch originating from Banana-Nut… Banana-Nut Muffin then shortened to Muffin (which, coincidentally, was the given name of the cat that Kiki was named after – a very long story). And now Anna is currently going by Muffin-Head.
Odd? Yes. But it could be worse. RWT grew up with a half-sister named Emily and a pet Doberman named Emily. His parents both loved the name and, after they divorced, they each utilized it during their second marriages. Perhaps nonsensical pet names are a good idea after all.
Morgan (an alligator lizard who ate mealy worms – what a nightmare)
Myrtle (one of numerous Myrtles – all were turtles)
Corkey (also one of many – all parakeets)
Cindy (short for Cinderella – my sister’s guinea pig that I dropped and I will never, ever be forgiven for doing so)
Butterscotch (my hamster – that I did not drop)
Lewis & Clark (experimental goldfish – Lewis was kept in constant light and Clark in the dark)
The cats –
Kiki (yes, I now know what that is slang for in more than one language)
Bobbie (who had seven toes on each foot)
And, in order of age, the dogs –
Jeremiah
Beau (actually Beauregard Zachariah)
Tasha (named after my mother's favorite childhood toy – a rather large, felt-stuffed, chartreuse dog name Natasha who currently resides in my cedar chest)
Sammie
Jessie
Scooter (he was constantly underfoot as a puppy – "Scoot!")
Anna (registered name “Diamond Anna”)
Most of the names of the early pets stuck. But, once my sisters and I were older, did we call our pets by their names? Of course not. My beloved calico, Kiki, more commonly went by Keeker-Weeker-Eeker-Squeeker. Or Eeker. Or Squeeker. Bobbie was Tube-Cat (she was very long and lean) or Bobbie-Wobbie-Obbie-Squobbie. Are you seeing the pattern yet?
And it was worse with the dogs (after all, how often do you really bother calling a cat’s name?). Tasha was Tasha-Squasha. Then Squash for short. Then Squash-a-lump for long.
Jessie is also known by Jesse-a-lump, while Sammie’s queenly nature is reflected by Sammirella (Sammie belongs to the same sister as the long-departed guinea pig that I dropped, and, for the record, I have never, ever picked up Sammie, let alone, dropped her).
Scooter (my father’s dog) is Scooter-Wooter-Ooter (that variation is somehow always tied to the pet residing in our parent’s house) or, my favorite, Ooter-Brauten.
However, the one who gets it the worst is my current dog, Anna. The fact that her name just begs for it does not help the situation. The most obvious: Anna-Banana. That quickly morphed into Banana-Boat then Banana-Nut then Peanut then Sweet Pea. But there is another branch originating from Banana-Nut… Banana-Nut Muffin then shortened to Muffin (which, coincidentally, was the given name of the cat that Kiki was named after – a very long story). And now Anna is currently going by Muffin-Head.
Odd? Yes. But it could be worse. RWT grew up with a half-sister named Emily and a pet Doberman named Emily. His parents both loved the name and, after they divorced, they each utilized it during their second marriages. Perhaps nonsensical pet names are a good idea after all.
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