Where At Least I Can Read Road Signs

Although Dave and I both have our pangs of Eurosickness as we adjust to being back in the States, I can honestly say that the timing of our reunion tour couldn't be better. Here in the U.S. it's a presidential election year (maybe you hadn't heard?), an every-four-year event that even eclipses my excitement over the Olympics. And not only is it an election year, but it is perhaps the most hyped presidential election in my lifetime. There's an element of media exaggeration, to be sure. There's the black vs. white angle, the young vs. old angle, the anyone vs. Bush mentality. But it seems to be that many Americans all along the red-blue spectrum have faced facts and can see past the sadly superficial CNN coverage. There is a lot at stake, things aren't going well. Younger voters are more motivated, women are anxious for change, pacifists and military (wo)men alike are looking for an end to the war.

The Democratic Convention has taken over my television viewing all week, replacing Cold Case Files and all the programming on the SciFi channel. I will expose my bias, as if it's somehow hidden, and admit that I won't be as absorbed in the Republican Convention. Sure, I'll tune in, but mostly as preview for The Daily Show. And although I'm a Political Science degree-holder who loves to listen to the speeches, punch holes in the logic, and scream obscenities at the political commentators, I'm also a weepy suck who gets teary and sentimental and inspired and...proud.

Yes, I said it. I am proud to be an American. Being married to a Canadian and living abroad puts things into a bit of perspective, and you start to learn that words like patriotism and nationalism (seriously, what is with Canadians and their flag!?) have many meanings and nuanced definitions. It's not better or worse to feel one way or another about your country. But as a person on the more liberal side of the spectrum, you sometimes find difficulty in expressing national pride without annoying hipster disdain. As American living abroad you often find yourself avoid the topic of nationality at all, let alone trying to explain in broken Dutch/German/Vietnamese that you can be proud and patriotic without accepting the actions of all of your countrymen or the positions taken by the executive branch. I have actually fielded questions such as "What you guys thinking electing George Bush...again?" or "Don't you feel lucky that Dave is Canadian so you always have that to fall back on?" or "I'd lie about being American if I were you." That last one isn't even a question, but it felt implied that I should somehow answer! You may think me a coward for nodding and smiling through most of those rude exchanges, but in truth I am just never sure how to properly articulate my love and respect for a country that is struggling with some serious world-wide scrutiny. World-wide scrutiny that I agree with on the whole.

But I'm home now, and I'm in what might be called the Texas of California. The red part of a blue state. It might not be popular to roll around with an Obama bumper sticker (with Michigan plates), but being patriotic is all the rage. So I'm coming out with the masses, following the energy, and daring to be hopeful that in four years we call all hold our heads a little higher when verbally assaulted with America-disparaging remarks in some pub in Belgium. Or on the train in Austria. Or at a vegan potluck in Portland. I'm going to break the mold. You can believe in global warming, want universal healthcare, understand why we actually need taxes, oppose privitization of Social Security and have disdain previously unknown to mankind for Bill O'Reilly and still love your country. Love it enough to get out and vote. Love it enough to get goosebumps from applause for your candidate. Love it enough to wear an Uncle Sam hat on the Fourth of July, and you're not even American!

Circa 2005. He's a long-standing patriot.

Source.

Pillow Fights and Bon Bons

I'm not sure if there is a precedent for the kind of all-out girl-fest that I have been lucky take part in over the last two weeks. Sure, I lived in a houseful of girls when I was in college. But it's not until you've lived with a man that you really appreciate the camaraderie (and toilet seat benefits) of living in a house of women. Men love to misrepresent female cohabitation as a cross between underwear-only pillow fights, underwear-only cat fights, and PMS induced ice cream binges while watching 'Thelma and Louise' in a bathrobe. It's not that those things never happen, it's just that they aren't as frequent or as unclothed as the men would love to believe. It's much more complicated than that.

For example, on our first testosterone-free day we didn't shut-in or disrobe at all. We headed out to the Garment District in L.A. and sorted through racks of crazy fashions that will someday find their way to boutiques around the world for a lot more money. And we ended up with matching gray, suede, moccasin boots. And a Bucca di Beppo bloat. The Garment District of L.A., where things can get weird.

On the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica, Ashley is determined to find deals!

We demolished that food, and then took the extra Alfredo sauce in a doggy bag. For real.

But after that one day of fun in the city, we were exhausted. So exhausted in fact, that we didn't leave the house except for trips to the gym and the grocery store for over a week. For real. We had tea, matching pajamas found on super-clearance at Target, and as many girly movies as anyone could ever want.

How many pots of tea does it take?

Cuddling with our dogs on the couch. We haven't been out of those pajamas for 48 hours.

It's not just us girls who are getting some bonding time without the menfolk around. Falcor and his new best friend Ryder, the biggest beagle around.

They sit pretty!

They beg, oh how they beg.

They even share their toys!

A Family Wager Is Friendly Wager

Long ago, about 3 weeks ago, when I thought 80 degrees seemed hot, I went golfing. If you want to get technical, I didn't actually golf. But I did caddy for two holes and walked along for nine. It's a pretty big deal.

Readers of this blog and participants in my life know of my disdain for golf. But a wager was made between Dave and my mom. I don't want to get into details, but let's just say it involved an 18-stroke handicap and $500. The point is that somehow this became a family event, and I had to squint into the sun and pretend I was watching where Dave's drives went. Newsflash: I'm nearsighted, I don't have a clue.

Don't get me wrong, I love a good family outing as much as the next guy. But I take after my dad when it comes to gambling; why would we risk losing perfectly good money that could be spent on sweets or wine or random gadgets out of illustrated catalogs? Dave and my mom, on the other hand, would bet on anything. Point of fact, Dave has actually wagered on games Rock-Paper-Scissors. So when there's money, pride, or anything else on the line, Dave and my mom tend to show their competitive sides. It's annoying to watch people get annoyed as they chase a teeny-tiny ball around a forest. Luckily, I'm very flexible and chose to use this opportunity as a 'nature-walk.'

Turns out, after all that hubris, everyone in the Clonk family is a winner. Plus, we took the time after the match to drink. Hooray for the winners, drown the sorrow of the loser. Either way, everyone ends up with some great memories. And a buzz.

Flashback: London and Notts

A year ago I took a big leap. Actually, I took a train, then a plane, then another train and went from Germany to England to have a weekend dedicated to spending time with some of my girlfriends.

Not only did I get to spend a few nights bunking down hostel style with Abby and Christina, I also got to spend a lovely afternoon (which, as always, ran into evening) with a whole host of other friends at Andrea and Jackie's joint baby shower. When you get a room full of expat American women together, there are a lot of laughs to be had. Most of us had been living abroad for some time, and many of us are also married to men from another country/culture. It makes for interesting anecdotes, especially when you add champagne. Or vodka. Just check the blogs of some of the women there, like Liane, Caitlin or Libby, and you'll get just a snippet of the experiences these overseas Americans.

Lucky me, I also happened to be in London at the same time as my back-in-the-day friend Scotti for her London holiday. Please notice how bundled up we are, in front of fully blooming flowerbeds. This is August in London.

My trip to England wouldn't be complete if I never made it out of London. So, Abby took us to her adopted home of Nottingham, from here on known as Notts. You might know that Notts is the home of Robin Hood. Also known as the home of her lovely husband Matt and a quaint village that masquerades as a big city.

It's amazing to imagine that a year has already passed since this trip. But the proof is tangible and can be viewed on the internet. Abby's blog is now filled with the pictures of her son, who was a mere peanut at the time. Andrea and Jackie, for whom we were so excited at the shower,both have full fledged babies, over 8 and 6 months old. A year ago I was taking the most turbulent flight of my life into Berlin, while today I hide inside from the baking sun of the Central California Valley. I think another trip is in order soon, so I can spend a moment reflecting back on it next summer with as much fondness but with a better tan.

When We Got Here

After a week in California, I can officially say I am NOT acclimated to the temperatures in the San Joaquin Valley. But I am adjusted to the fact that we are setting up shop here for a while. And when I say 'setting up shop', what I mean is we are camping out Dupree style with some friends. Unfortunately, because of some family circumstances, Dave had to leave the baking heat soon after we arrived to be at home. And for visa reasons, he won't be back for a few weeks. Coincidentally, my friend Ashely finds herself single until the end of the month, as her husband and son headed back to Canada for a visit. Do the math on that and you'll realize that the outcome is two pseudo-single girls in one house with fantastic cable and Olympic coverage. And a large cache of wine. Pandemonium ensues.

I'm It!

Holly tagged me! I must obey her commands!
1. My uncle once: took me in for 5 months.
2. Never in my life: will I do the splits. What for?
3. When I was five: my sister was born.
4. High school was: alright, but best to be forgotten.
5. I will never forget: the last time I talked to Papa.
6. Once I met: a man with cold and sweaty palms.
7. There’s this girl I know: who follows her heart the way rest of us wish we could.
8. Once, at a bar: there was a stripper and a remote-control truck. Use your imagination.
9. By noon, I’m usually: ready for a nap.
10. Last night: I crashed after shopping in L.A. all day.
11. If only I had: the ability to teleport.
12. Next time I go to church: will be for someone else's wedding or funeral.
13. What worries me most: is Dave's visa.
14. When I turn my head left I see: my yoga mat.
15. When I turn my head right I see: Falcor, my constant sidekick
16. You know I’m lying when: I say I'll try anything once. Not even close.
17. What I miss most about the Eighties is: living in a bedroom next to Alley.
18. If I were a character in Shakespeare I’d be: Cleopatra. Sister knows how to get dramatic!
19. By this time next year: I will be able to hold Crow Pose.
20. A better name for me would be: Esmerelda. I've got her attitude.
21. I have a hard time understanding: how to worry productively.
22. If I ever go back to school, I’ll: become a nurse or special education teacher.
23. You know I like you if: you make me laugh and I call you when I cry.
24. If I ever won an award, the first person I would thank would be: my family, new and old.
25. Take my advice, never: eat a meal without vegetables or fruit.
26. My ideal breakfast is: a banana, pumpkin-flax granola and yogurt. Or waffles.
27. A song I love but do not have is: Elton John's 'Rocketman'.
28. If you visit my hometown, I suggest you: jump in Lake Superior, it's the serum of life.
29. Why won’t people: have compassion and act on it.
30. If you spend a night at my house: you'll have a hangover from wine and late night laughing.
31. I’d stop my wedding for: diarrhea.
32. The world could do without: Bill O'Reilly.
33. I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: like the floor of a public restroom.
34. My favorite blonde(s) is/are: the Bonk sisters.
35. Paper clips are more useful than: salad spinners.
36. If I do anything well it’s: nap sporadically throughout the day.
37. And by the way: I tag Lynn! She's fascinating!

Some Legs Are Longer Than Others

The last leg of our trip was, in reality, no longer than the others. We went roughly 450-500 miles each day, as contractually obligated. But the last day followed the last night spent in a Motel 6 in Cedar City, Utah. Which was preceded by four consecutive days of driving. So needless to say, the long slow climbs of Utah, Nevada and western Central California and the heat, the dry, dry, so very hot heat of the desert didn't help our road fatigue.

Apparently it's funny if Dave pretends to dive into a canyon, but when I pose for a scenic shot he ruins the zen by screaming "YOU ARE TOO CLOSE!" "DON'T BUDGE!" "I DON'T WANT TO BE ACCUSED OF MURDER IF YOU SLIP!" Ease off pal, I'm 6 feet from the edge! If it was that dangerous, wouldn't there be a railing or something?

Falcor enjoys the arid foliage, looking noble as ever. Or else he is avoiding eye contact as I beg him to get back in the car.

Welcome to the San Joaquin Valley, the home we share with lots of windmills!

You Can't Eat It

When feeling a bit blue or uncertain, it's true that many people find comfort in a certain food, music or sweater. But is it normal to have a comfort geography?

Since marrying a Manitoban, through some form of osmosis, I've become a bit of a sucker for a prairie skyline. Don't get me wrong, my old standby comfort-geography still consists of a horizon filled with trees and the reassuring shade of a forest canopy beside a cold body of water. But I've not got a serious soft spot for endless blue sky that meets endless fields dotted with silos and haunted farm houses. (Yes, all farm houses are haunted.)

Does this picture make anyone else consider a move to South Dakota?

Wine At High Altitudes

One of the most notable upsides to our crazy life of traveling and moving and shaking, is that not only do we have friends and family all over the world, we actually get the chance to visit them sometimes! So, lucky for us, we left Mount Rushmore with a destination in mind. By dinner we rolled in to Silverthorne, Colorado, nestled among some of the best skiing the U.S has to offer. Minus the snow. And when I say 'rolled in', I mean that we came barreling in riding on the Rig which was vibrating violently as the brakes tried to cope with the 7% grade on the downslope that leads into Silverthorne. It was disconcerting but Dave once again proved himself to the be best driver ever, and we didn't die. The picture above shows us on Derek and Beth's balcony, so all the life-threatening driving conditions were obviously worth it.

As soon as we arrived, we got the tour of their awesome condo and got to getting. Because I don't know if you've ever tried to have a quiet night at home with my Pappas cousins, but it isn't easy. I can cite the Yahtzee incident of 2004 with my cousin Craig as proof. So pizza was ordered, wine was opened, and the joy ensued that can only be found when we spend the evening with a guy who took the time to point and laugh at you while you bawled through E.T. That shit was SAD. Anyway, Dave and I celebrated our anniversary for the second time that day with Derek and his new wife as they packed for their honeymoon. Plus, did I mention pizza?

Dave and Derek do some bonding over Orage samples and their most common thread: they married crazy people.
Beth and I get cozy. Cousins-in-law at last!
Flash forward to 3:30 am. I have brushed my hair into an afro, and we've gone from wine, to beer, and on to champagne. I'm also sporting vintage D gear. It was an awesome night.
The next day, I pretend to be cheerful, but I'm actually exhausted as we head into the barren state known as Utah. You may not know this, but I think you should: there is a phenomenon known as an 'altitude hangover.' Try to avoid experiencing it. Thanks again to Beth and Derek for reinvigorating our trip and giving us shelter for the night. I love you crazy kids! To be continued...

A Monumental Anniversary

On our way out of South Dakota we took a detour from the strict road-trip regimine to celebrate our second wedding anniversary...at Mount Rushmore! Woot woot! Nothing reflects our love more appropriately than the massive faces of four American presidents carved into a rock. Love is in the air. Or is that 200% humidity? They feel so similar.All sarcasm aside, the educational and incredibly scenic pit stop was a lovely way to take a few minutes and look back on the past two years of our marriage. Embarking on the next adventure, both in the literal sense (we had about 300 miles of mountains to cross that day in the Rig) and the figurative (the next 150 years of our marriage), is somewhat the motto of our marriage. Or, if you set that sentence to music, it's a catchy start to our theme song.

Those Who Live in Corn Palaces

The image you have of a drive across the entire width of South Dakota may be a rather bland one. You might picture corn and cattle and grass and sky. And you'd be right, especially on the matter of corn. My WORD there is a lot of corn in that state. And just continues in Nebraska! But I digress. What you don't realize is that South Dakota is just full of sights to see, and the people of South Dakota are determined to make you linger in their oft forgotten state. Every exit advertises some enticing treat. The Corn Palace, Laura Ingalls Wilder's house, buffalo herds, casinos, horse-draw carriage rides, all you can eat bison buffets. Each and every one of these attractions is advertised on a billboard. This adds up my friends to A LOT of billboards. A drive through the Interstate of South Dakota is a barrage of billboards. There are at least, from my very unmathematical calculations, two billboards for every man, woman and child in the southern Dakota.

And don't even get me started on Wall Drug. When heading west on the main route through the southern portion of the state every fourth (again, not mathematical) billboard reminds you that Wall Drug is the biggest of all the many South Dakota attractions. Thanks tips, we get it.

And finally, as our day in South Dakota concluded with a sleepover stop in the famous Wall itself, we came to realize that our journey happened to coincide with the biggest motorcycle rally I could have ever even conceived of. The Sturgis Rally is the event of the year for motorcyclists, and they rode together in swarms on the highway. They filled hotel rooms and revved their unnecessarily loud engines. They didn't put helmets on.

Some hotels even have, wait for it...COLOR TV. Oh South Dakota, you're ahead of your time.

You Have To Start Somewhere

And this particular time, we started in Michigan. Tears, sweat and U-Haul grease all flowed as we prepared for our departure, but we are old road-trip pros. The trick is, on the other occasions during which we have driven cross-country with all our possessions, we just jammed them in/on the car. The jamming of all your belongings into the car and then riding with said belongings for 40 some hours is tricky enough. But this year we upgraded from the two suitcases each of the past two seasons to...wait for it...a U-Haul. And because we like to make things interesting, we thought we should tow a car with our U-Haul. We call this, the Rig.

If you could see into our U-Haul (you can't, it's private) you would realize that we don't actually need a U-Haul. The Rig is not jammed to the top, but we did manage to fill it. We feel quite adult with so many possessions, especially since so many of them are shiny and new (a.k.a. two year old) wedding gifts! But what we don't really have is what some call 'furniture.' True, we have one rocking chair, two mountain bikes (which have seats) and several large Tupperware bins that could double as ottomans. The Rig is mostly full of cookbooks, clothes, the best potato masher ever made, golf clubs, a Pilates ball and some other miscellany. It all adds up, doesn't it?

And so we woke, ate and started the long goodbye process that I always manage to drag out too long. I teared up when I said goodbye to my best friend. I cried openly when I said goodbye to my cat. I choked back sobs as I hugged mom and dad, and then I released said sobs about 2 blocks later just to give Dave a few moments to wonder what kind of road trip he was on. And we're off. After the tears dried and I called my mom twice on the phone, the road trip euphoria set in and good times began to roll.

Loading up the Rig. It takes the wits of at least 3 grown men, 3 women, and a dog.

My mom kisses her Camry goodbye. Literally.

Falcor says goodbye to Aunt Jess. With his tongue.

The view from my seat in the Rig.

Good luck charms.

Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota. Midwest, what? What else is there!

Where Are We?

It's more like where aren't we. You, my loyal readers (ie: Mom, Dad, Uncle Steve and some guy in Kenya), have a treat in store. I have pages of notes and a plethora of photos to share with you on our trip. So far it covers the Great Lakes, the Great Plains, the Great Rocky Mountains and all places in between! I promise to deliver.
In the U-Hizzle, about to embark.

Hilary, You Were Right

When I'm wrong, I'm wrong. And I will admit it.

Remember when I successfully started driving a manual transmission on my own? I certainly do, because those memories were built on the excruciating process of actually learning, mastering and psychologically accepting the idea using my own hand/foot to control the vehicle. I've never been a fan of driving in any sense, I'm more the passenger type, so this was an incredible feat for me. But it says nothing about my personal character though, because I learned this skill for purely utilitarian reasons. I had to get places. Faster than my feet could carry me. I dodged the bullet in Holland because I had a bike and a good friend (thanks Sherry!) to enable my fear of driving and pick me up most of the time. But in Germany I had to bite the bullet (maybe that should be the name of the chapter of our life in Germany if I ever write a memoir) and drive that shit-buggy, as Dave would say.

I drove the shit-buggy, but I made sure to hate every minute of it. I made sure to never drive when the choice was there for someone else to do it. I was sure to build it up and dread it if I ever had to go on the highway. I'm dramatic like that. All the while, my daily companion Hilary chimed in sweetly, "I used to hate it too, but now it's actually fun." Wie bitte? I don't think so! I believed her, but I knew that by nature Hilary is a more adventurous and less scardey-cat-like than I ever would be. Congratulations to her, for finding this torturous means of transport exhilarating, but I just don't get it.

And yet now, after spending the season driving the winding, hilly roads of the Chau and spending the summer using my sister's whippy manual-transmission Civic, I'm sad to leave the stick shift behind. Yes, Hilary, you were right. It's fun sometimes. Especially on a windy two-lane highway. Not so much in traffic on at a stop light on a hill. But in general, as a principle, I like it. A lot.

There, I said it.