Quelles des vacances! And, um, sleeping with my husband just isn't working out.
A week ago, I packed a hanging bag with only items belonging to me, drove my fast car to the airport, handed my passport to the appropriate TSA people, and boarded a plane to Montreal. How grown up! How fancy free! How.... needed.
My brother-in-law, Billy, had a film, The Suicide Tapes, in the Fantasia Film Festival (the largest genre festival of its kind in North America, I might add) and I went to support him. And to hang out with my sister, Erika, because we like each other and we like to eat a shit-ton of good food when we see each other. Always fun. Always.
Let me back up a minute, though, and make something perfectly clear: I hate being scared. I can't understand the logic in wanting to be scared. I don't do haunted houses or scary books or, worst of all, horror films. I have the scare-factor of a little kid so I just avoid that stuff altogether. I'm 36 years old and I have done a pretty good job at this avoidance.... until now. This "genre" film festival was all scary movies. I mean, everything from psychological thriller to slasher to whatever other kinds there are (I don't know because, again, I avoid them). I figured that I would watch Billy's film (it was my understanding that it was creepy, but not really scary, per se) and that would be it. Well, the first night in Montreal, we attended a "filmmaker dinner" before the screening with the guys who made the movie to which Billy's was attached, Absentia. Billy's film is a short and theirs is a feature. Everyone was excited because the screening was one of the few at the festival that had sold out in advance. The Absentia guys were really nice and as we got to know each other a bit, I blurted out, "Hey, listen. I hate scary movies. I get scared really easily - like, REALLY easily. I was planning to cut out on yours, but now I feel a little guilty about that. I'll try to watch it, but I might need to leave. It's nothing personal. But tell me about the movie. Is it gory? Bloody? Are there ghosts? What?" They couldn't believe I was at a horror film festival and hated horror films. But you know, whatever. Technicalities. They assured me that they wouldn't take it personally if I left halfway through the movie. And if I had nightmares, I had permission to slap the filmmaker (there was a second screening of the movies together the following afternoon, so I'd be sure to see him again). It all sounded reasonable to me, but I was still nervous.
We got to the theatre and the crowd was awesome. Packed! The seven of us attached to the films sat on the steps, along the wall - Erika in front, then Billy, me, and the four Absentia guys. It was terrible. And by that, I mean terrifying. I was so tense. I had to keep my eyes covered for a lot of it, but I couldn't block the sound. Ugh. About halfway through the movie, I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. Good thing I'd slipped my heels off, because I jumped up and practically flew over the others behind me as I bolted out of the theatre doors.
Next thing I knew, I was waking up on the cold floor with two security people standing over me, freaking out. Everything was spinning. I hadn't puked, but I'd most assuredly fainted. They told me not to move. They called paramedics. I insisted on sitting up. The paramedics were there quickly and at first they thought I was drunk; then they thought I was on drugs; and then maybe crazy. As time (minutes) went by and I felt better and better, and let them take my blood pressure, etc., they decided that I'd been so stressed out by the movie that I must've been holding my breath, blocking the flow of oxygen to my brain or something like that. Yeah. Great. Because THAT wasn't embarrassing! Once I drank some water and felt fine again, I went back in the theatre. I sat next to Erika and told her what happened. "What?!" She whispered to Billy what had happened, who whispered to the Absentia guys what happened. Erika also mentioned something about me smacking the shit out of those guys. Again, that sounded reasonable. I kept my eyes averted for most of the rest of the movie.
Finally both movies were done and we went out for drinks as a group. The Absentia guys felt bad, but when they realized that I really was fine, they thought it was super cool that I fainted from fright. I guess that's a pretty good compliment. I guess. I don't know. I can't imagine I'll be watching another scary movie for a long, long time. If ever.
The rest of the vacation was pretty great. We had amazing Japanese food for dinner one night at a teeny, teeny, tiny restaurant named Kazu. The next night we had incredible French at L'Express. We walked all over from downtown to the old city and up to Mont Royal. We went back to Kazu for ramen (only served at lunch). We had poutine. We had crepes - twice. We found a place that made the best iced lattes in the entire world. We ate and ate and ate and ate. It was four full days of being tourists and it was glorious. It was also the longest I'd ever been away from my peeps. I missed them. I was ready to come home and cover them with kisses. Which I did.
Oh! I almost forgot! The second night we were there, our hotel phone rang around 3am. I don't remember it, but Erika says I jumped up in bed but didn't answer it. The next morning, our message light was flashing. Someone had left us an obscene message. It's not totally, totally nasty, but it's pretty bizarre - almost clinical. Here it is, if you're interested (but consider yourself warned that you shouldn't play this at work or in the presence of children):
Changing subjects abruptly, because there is both a) nothing more that can be said about that, and b) there's not an easy way to open this next part (although I realize this is not the most appropriate way, either, for which I'm truly sorry).....
Two nights ago, right after dinner, my husband received a call informing him that his uncle had died in a car accident. Naturally, it was very upsetting. I wanted to be there for Dude. I wanted to offer as much comfort as I could. We put the girls to bed. Dude washed the dishes and went to bed. I stayed up and watched tv, falling asleep in the family room and waking up at 3am. I started to do the usual routine of taking Belly out of my bed (she goes in there sometime around midnight every single night) and putting her back in her own. I then climb in between her and her sister and Dude gets our bed all to himself. That night, though, I thought Dude needed my snuggles more than the girls, so I slipped in next to him. The miracle was that neither girl woke up until 7am, at which time the Bug bounded in demanding to know what was going on - "Why are you in this bed??" The very, very unfortunate turn of events was that neither Dude nor I could sleep. It was fairly uncomfortable sleeping in our bed together. He was hot next to me. And I guess I was a hot lump next to him, too. We're not used to it anymore. There was once a time when I couldn't sleep if he wasn't lying next to me. Now? Forget it. I need two girls who toss and turn throughout the night or no one. What a difference four years make, huh? Dude said it was a nice idea, but maybe next time we try it, we should wait for a weekend when he doesn't have to work the next day. Sigh. This whole situation honestly has me thinking, "What the fuck?"
It's 8:27am
And these are a few of the funny little things my daughters have said already this morning:
"Mama, you have the prettiest, skinniest, best wrists I've never seen." Gee. Thanks.
"Ask me how many children I have." How many children do you have? "Five. I've been busy." Damn! I'd say!
Belly to Buggy: "Please call me Little Rachael. If you call me Michael again, I'm not going to be your brother anymore."
"Excuse me, but I can't help you because I have to nurse my baby. Sorry, Mom. You can clean up by yourself, though."
"I'm on the phone. Please shhhh. Thanks." No response from me. "I said be quiet." Silence on my part. "For real, Mommy. If you can't be quiet than I'm going to have to put you in your room." Blank stare from me. "If you'd be quiet, than you'd hear me." We just looked at each other. "Fine. I'll take it in the other room."
Who are these people?
Camping: Rachael-style
You know, I loved camping when I was growing up. My family never had any money, so camping trips were our family vacations. I loved the ride in the family vehicle - making a nest in the back with blankets and pillows and listening to cassette tapes in my walkman. I loved the tent and the being outside and the lack of rules and the fact that my dad had a penchant for packing a gallon of salsa and giant bags of tortilla chips. I really, really loved all of it. As I've gotten older, the shine has worn off a bit. And since I've had kids, I downright dislike it. I don't like all of the logistics involved and the bugs and never being warm enough. I always wish that I was in a hotel or back at home. I've decided that I loved it when I was a kid because I didn't have to do anything but show up (and really, I didn't even have a choice in the matter). Adult camping is laden with responsibility and that just doesn't seem like a vacation to me.
Dude and the girls, on the other hand, absolutely adore camping. They have gone on several daddy-daughters trips and I always manage to beg out of it. We spent a night camping on a friend's farm about a month ago and that was mostly fun, but I still found myself annoyed with Dude's needing to have the girls' feet clean before they crawled into the sleeping bag. So petty. So trivial. But really, it was a reminder that there are rules and just because you're camping doesn't mean that you can overlook them, not even for a night. Sigh.
Fast forward to a few days ago. Dude really wanted to take the girls camping at some place he'd read about that was supposed to be super cool - up on one of the mountains in the coastal range. He said that I didn't need to feel obligated to go but was welcome to if I so desired. I didn't desire. Not one bit. But I'm going to Montreal on Wednesday for a long weekend and I felt guilty that I would be skipping out on this family outing. So I said I wanted to go. I even smiled when I said it. I just couldn't live with the guilt if I didn't go. Besides, there was the promise that we were going to go to the beach, too. THAT I love.
Dude took Friday off work and we set out midday toward the Pacific. The girls napped in the truck and all was well when we made the turn-off up to Saddle Mountain State Park. It was beautiful. Except the road was seriously twisty-twervy and I started to feel like I was going to puke. And the temperature was dropping at an alarming rate. And it looked like it had just rained. Uh oh. Cold, wet, and pukey - this was starting to be a recipe for me being a complete bitch, try as I might to reel it in. We finally got to the parking lot and Dude got out to see if there was a campsite available. The girls woke up and had to pee. I got them out of the truck and headed to the bathroom, both girls whining and crying that they were freezing cold. Such fun this was gonna be! Dude was walking up when we got back to the truck and I said, trying not to sound hopeful, "Are the campsites full? Or is there one for us?" He sort of laughed as we loaded up the little crabapples back into their car seats. "Let's head down toward the beach and to another campsite down there. This is obviously too cold." YES!!!! I mean, that sounded like a solid plan. It was 1pm. The temperature was 55 degrees on that mountain. Dude, being a smart man, knew staying was asking for trouble.
Back down in warmer weather and on a less windy road, I called the other campground. They were full for the weekend. We looked on the map. Dude called another place or two. Everywhere was full. So fine. It would be a day trip to the beach. I was pleased. The girls were aching to play in the sand. Dude was happy that we were happy. We found a cool beach north of Seaside where you can drive right out on it, meaning we didn't have to be pack mules and could have our snacks and towels and toys and EVERYTHING right there. Golden! And we had a ton of fun. Belly and Buggy would happily spend all day every day making sand castles, so they were filled with pure joy. I got nicely sunburned, which means I will be nicely tanned by tomorrow. Dude frolicked in the freezing ocean a bit, which made him happy. In fact, we were having so much fun, that Dude suggested we see if we could find some cheap lodging for the night. Um, no argument from me!
We ended up staying in a one-bedroom condo just over the grassy sand dune from the beach we were at. And had dinner at the restaurant across the street. The condo complex had a pool and a hot tub, so we played around in those before bed. It was all just.... perfect. And this morning we got up, ate breakfast (so convenient that we had all that food packed for camping), and made our way back down to the beach for several more hours in the sunshine and sand and surf. We packed it in at lunchtime and headed back to Portland.
When we got home, there was a box waiting on the porch: two Le Creuset baking dishes that I'd forgotten I'd ordered. This was the best camping trip ever. EVER! But Dude says I'm not invited on the next camping excursion because suddenly it becomes expensive. And really, that's fine with me.
Now for the onslaught of pictures.....
Buggy and Belly in sand heaven
Making a sand angel
And then auditioning for Chris Isaacs' Wicked Game video
Basking in the sun
Dude being a beach stud
Happy me
Beach family portrait
The dunes
The sky reflected in the water
Porn names are helpful
I've been doing a lot of research this week into being a personal chef - who else is doing it in Portland, what they're charging for which services, etc. It's sort of exciting and sort of overwhelming all at the same time. I'm definitely cheaper than the four or so that I found and I also realized that not everybody is professionally trained, which boosted my confidence a bit. I need to set my pricing by portion size. I need beautiful marketing materials. I need to figure out exactly what licensing and insurance I need. I also need to come up with a name for my business. I asked for name suggestions on Facebook, noting that my porn name - Violet Nash - doesn't work. I was trying to be cute, but someone suggested Violet Nosh. I kind of love it. I'm not married to it yet, but I kind of love it. It's food-related, but not specific. Any of you have other suggestions?
My mind is swirling with the possibilities and logistics of all the different things I could do with this. There's the straight-up personal chef gig (I cook for you in your kitchen), but there are also little tangents that I'm contemplating. One being the potluck dish option: give me 24 hours notice and I'll make you a delectable dish to take to your next gathering. I could have a whole menu available for people to choose from including appetizers, side dishes, main dishes, desserts, brunch, etc. That would be incredibly easy.
I could also offer a soup service. Again, beyond easy. There's a soup service with bike delivery that is fairly popular here. They post three different kinds of soup each week on their website and you can order it directly there. They then deliver your soup with bread and a salad. It's $19 for a quart of soup and $32 for two quarts of soup. Um, that seems kind of pricey for soup - one of the cheapest things to make. But the ease of having it delivered and not having to think about it is what people pay for. Why not add a soup delivery to my offerings? I keep thinking of little things like that. I don't want to spread myself too thin, but soup is crazy easy and delicious.
The groceries I buy are mostly organic and the meats/fish are all from New Seasons, our local version of Whole Foods. The proteins are all labeled as to where they came from, if they were grass-fed, wild-caught, etc. I don't always buy organic if the option isn't readily available to me, though, so Dude suggested I say that my food is morganic - mostly organic. Yes or no? Cute or dumb?
So this week I made chicken wings and steamed broccoli and a surprisingly good rice-grain salad with dried fruit and hazelnuts for my clients. I had told them at our first meeting that I make excellent buffalo wings (my dad's special recipe). They finally asked for them, but it was the mom and the two kids who were discussing it with me and the one kid said, "Can you make them not barbecue, though? I'm tired of barbecue. Can you do something with lime?" Well, little pain in my ass, then they're not my excellent buffalo wings, are they? They're something else that I will have never made before, but if you want me to experiment on you, sure. I'd be happy to make something else. With lime. For your 11-year-old picky palate. He suggested I go to this wings restaurant that he likes and buy some sauce. I bit my tongue, but wanted to suggest that he could just go eat at that restaurant if that's what he really wanted. I know, I know - these are the clients and I cook for them. But why does the kid get to make "helpful" suggestions like that and the mom just sits and smiles? Ack.
Anyway, I made a marinade with lime juice, soy sauce, apricot jam, and a couple other things and they came out pretty good. They weren't MY wings, but they were good. And apparently, they loved them. The grain salad was my favorite part of the dinner. I used this harvest grain blend from Trader Joe's, added dried cranberries, dried apricots, crushed hazelnuts, parsley, and a dijon-balsamic vinaigrette. Dang it was good. Unfortunately, I forgot to take pictures when everything was ready and pretty. So, um, here. Here's my plate when all was said and done....
I don't think I'll be using that picture for my marketing materials.
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