July 2: Rock Werchter Music Festival, Belgium

After a long day of driving the day before, during which time the GPS stopped working until we could diagnose and replace the problem, we were ready for the music.  Although Green Day was to headline this particular day (out of four) of the Werchter Fest, it was Jack who brought us to Beligium for the event.  I love Jack Johnson, and after searching for tour information earlier in the summer, decided to meet up with him here for some much needed face time with my old friend.  We don't personally know each other, but I like to imagine if we did, we'd be great friends.  The words of a modest stalker?  No, just a lover of the man's music.

The day was glaringly hot, so much so that the venue had set up various cooling stations around the outdoor concert site and the water cannons were used throughout most of the day's events.  Your favorite bands will not only entertain and interact with you, they'll spray you down from the stage, too!  Glorious.  We were even approached by people collecting photos for some kind of promotion for the site.  They carried a mobile shower you got to stand under to cool off.  In return, you getting wet went into their archive of images from which to pull.  We opted not to participate, but I kind of wish we hadn't.  A cold spray of water would have been heaven.

As is common at such large events, there were two stages, and I was quite surprised that my pal Jack, as well as my girl, Corinne Bailey Rae performed on the smaller of the two.  You'd think the semi-indoorness of the smaller stage, being completely covered by a large, permanent tent, might lend some relief from the ungodly heat.  This was not the case.  In fact, I think we were protected from any breeze that may have kicked up under there, but the stifling heat and sticky sweatiness of it all was worth it when both Corinne and the Jack lit up the humble stage.  Corinne's bluesy sound was a nice warm-up for Jack's laid back play.  A little happy that Europe hasn't seemed to have discovered the brilliance that is Mr. Johnson, such that his show was happening in a slightly more intimate setting, I wasn't shy about getting as close to the front as I could push.  Five or so bodies back from the gate that held the adoration from crawling onto the stage, I sang along with the small crowd and smiled at the fun of it all.  Even when there's some stupid guy who pisses you off by grabbing and shoving you aside so he can force his way closer, it's hard to stay mad when the whole room is swaying and singing in unison.

Corinne Bailey Rae, beautiful and elegant



She HAD to have been dying with all that gorgeous hair, but she sang to us like we were friends.

Jack Johnson being amazing

His voice is like cool water, refreshing and soothing; his music like waves carrying you along in an easy sway.  Whether jamming on an electric guitar or ukalaylee, he was amazing to watch.



In a quieter moment between songs, a woman yelled out something to Jack, presumably something along the lines of 'want to come home with me' or 'need some company after the show,' to which our dear Jack turned, smiled, and replied simply, "I'm married," before grabbing a different guitar for the next song.  Love it.  A man, and musician at that, who could have most any woman in the vicinity and announces his marital status with a proud grin and a chuckle is severely sexy, God help me.  That combined with his very calm and relaxed demeanor make him irresistible to me, which explains two of the countless things I love about Chris.  It's okay that he can't play a guitar and sing to me, he does more important things like listen and make me laugh.  

Paramore, who put on a really fun show.  This girl's got crazy energy!

Billy Joe one of the many times he addressed the massive crowd.

Clearly a fan of Europeans, Green Day put on an amazing and energetic show, bringing people up on the stage several times to sing along, and even sing lead with the band with Billy Joe stepping back to applaud.  One girl received a guitar as a thanks for coming up and performing for us, which was awesome.  They covered current songs, as well as a few from the days of Dookie back in th early 90s.  The energy was high, the music loud, and the night a blast.

In the end we returned to a hot hotel room to try to get some sleep before the drive and ferry ride to England the next day.  

July 3

Upon entering the UK, Chris dove right into left-side driving like a champ.  It's a highly uncomfortable feeling at first, driving on the left, entering traffic circles to the left, and hugging corners to take left turns.  Even seeing cars coming toward you in the right lane, you find yourself wanting to drift over to the familiar side - it's exhausting to concentrate on driving correctly all the time!

Something we found quite nice was the radio stations all being in English, and many DJs talking about American Independence Day coming up.  One DJ took a call from an American living in England who was requesting a song for the holiday, and it was funny to hear the DJ exclaim, "I love your accent!" and comment on how it's odd that Americans call a barbecue a "cookout," as the woman who called in described her plans for the holiday.  

As for Chris and I, we'd be spending our nation's birthday touring the English countryside the following day, finding it kind of funny that we were spending it in the land from which some of our nation's earliest inhabitants broke free.  There's nothing like visiting the motherland, eh?

Until tomorrow, then.  Cheers! 

Back to Business

And so we're home...it's a hard thing returning to regular life and all its obligations after a full 2 weeks of playtime.  I can't imagine what it's like for people who take an entire month (or more) of vacation.  As I don't  tend to blog while I travel, in the next days I'll be systematically recounting the days of our most recent trip, beginning in Werchter, Belgium and ending on the Princess of Norway, with pictures and modest promotion of some really fantastic places to sleep and eat, in the case that you find yourself in the areas we visited.

For the sake of organization, here's a crude Table of Contents for what's to come:

Rock Werchter
The 4th of July in the English Countryside
The Highlands of Scotland
Loch Ness
The Isle of Skye
Edinburgh
Glasgow and Bernie's House
The Trip Home

I have to say that Scotland has become one of, if not my very favorite place in Europe.  The people, the food, the landscape...hard to beat.  Yes, I said the food, in fact, I'm toying with the idea of devoting an entire blog post to the fabulous food of Scotland, as I think it's gotten an unfairly bad rap.  But as there is much to do between getting ready to host people at our house for an evening, then my best friend for 3 weeks (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!), along with unpacking and returning to normalcy, so the blog will be spread out as my breath between tasks this next week.

More to come, so stay tuned!

The Boogeyman

Shadowy fingers reaching across the wall; the thing that goes bump in the night; the monster under the bed waiting for you to drop your feet, every child has known her version of the Boogeyman.  I used to check my closet religiously each night before bed.  Even in high school it was a ritual that had become so normal I still did it, and to this day I can't fall asleep if the closet door is ajar.  (My husband loves that one.)  As a child, I was convinced there was something crouched beneath my bed waiting to grab my ankles, so if I had to leave once tucked in for a drink or a visit to the bathroom, not only did I run as fast as I could out of my room, I jumped as far as I could off my bed first.  This is normal, right?


In the same way I believe there is an innate need to give an identity to the beholder of all that is good, I think there is equal need, especially during childhood, to do the same for that which terrifies us.  The Boogeyman is the embodiment of irrational fear, the source of every child's nightmares.  And for many years (and I can guess many people), the Boogeyman has been the dentist.


Few people enjoy going to the dentist; this is something I can say with some certainty.  Whether it's the high pitched sound of the drills or the anticipation of pain, dentists and fear seem to go hand in hand.  And although in most cases the pain we endure is our own fault for allowing the condition of our teeth to deteriorate to begin with, it's in our nature to associate that pain with the hand that holds the drill.


I visited a new dentist this morning, something I've been putting off for months.  A year, really.  Since we moved to Germany in January 2009, to be precise.  And why?  Because I'm scared, that's why.  Because I know what I'm guilty of, ignoring certain things in the hopes they'd go away.  (Does that EVER work?)  And so it was during our trip to Provence this year when I experienced pain so intense, I was, for all intents and purposes, temporarily debilitated until it passed.  And it did pass, which made it easy to forget the promise I'd made in the thick of the pain to see a dentist as soon as we got back home.


Two months later, and that minus a week after I got the name and number of a friend's dentist, I finally made the call, yesterday.  I know it's silly that I hardly slept last night, but I didn't.  I think it was part embarrassment and part fear, both of the pain and that I might have the most terrible set of teeth this dentist has ever seen.  (It should be said I've got decently nice teeth, fairly straight with nothing odd to speak of.)  When I arrived to Dr. Winkelmann's practice first thing this morning it was like walking up the spiral staircase of someone's home, but more professional.  The waiting room was decorated with travel photography (which I would later learn were my dentist's own), and was complete with a relaxing water fountain, magazines in both German and English, and a water and coffee station.  The staff was friendly and warm, not so typical in these parts, and although I often prefer to work with people not so familiar with Americans, like the grocer in my town, I loved, loved, loved how seemingly Americanized Dr. Winkelmann's bedside manner was.  When we met he shook my hand and listened to my concerns, answered my questions (something else not so typical here), and explained how it would all work.  He asked where I was from, and it turns out he has a condo not far from my hometown in Florida.  Somehow the fact that he was familiar with where I'm from makes me trust him more, that and his grandfatherly nature, gentle and kind, wise and confident.  I adored him immediately.  He told me that if our seats were reversed, he would be the biggest chicken there is when it comes to pain, and that this has greatly influenced the way he practices.  I believed him.  And even though the news after the X-ray was not in my favor, and it was clear a root canal was necessary, I wasn't as scared as I'd been going in.


So I had a visit with the Boogeyman this morning and he gave ma a root canal, and it hurt.  But it wasn't totally unbearable, and he prepared me for it, apologetically, explaining he could numb me to my toes but he couldn't numb the nerve beneath my tooth.  After it was done he explained what happened both times the pain jumped in, and just having someone willing to explain everything both before and after the procedure made me feel better.  I'm a question asker; I like to know things.  He sent me on my way with a smile and I can say without pause that I am not scared to return Saturday to wrap this thing up.  Even though there was some pain involved, it was quite obvious to me that Dr. Winkelmann worked very hard to be as gentle as possible (even when he was initially taking a look around my mouth), and my affinity for old men only helps matters.  


I guess in the end, the Boogeyman is never as scary as you expect, and the fear is really all in our heads anyway.  In some cases, he might even turn out to be a kind, old man who decorates his office with photographs of his family travels for you to stare at while he fixes your teeth.  I love my new German dentist.

Sonisphere 2010 - Prague

It's the first time The Big Four of thrash metal have played together, and for thousands of metal heads, it was an historic event to attend one of this year's Sonisphere Festivals.  Each show went from midday to about six the next morning, before loading up and moving on.  Headliner Metallica was preceded by Anthrax, Megadeth, and Slayer, along with a half a day full of other metal bands.  As I am married to a metal head, this was a big deal show to be a part of.  The timing of this event worked out well to make this Chris' early birthday gift this year, with VIP tickets and all.  As we tend to be budget travelers, it was a big deal to go for the VIP tickets, but having guaranteed access to the Golden Circle, this festival's name for the pit area closest to the stage, made it worth the extra cost.

We stayed in Prague and drove the 50km or so to the festival venue the morning of.  The Sonisphere Festival was held at an abandoned military airport in the middle of nowhere, and I'm not sure we would've found it without help from the satellites above.  We were sure someone had messed up, either us or the British lady who lives in our GPS, when we were the only car on a narrow and unpaved road stretching into a heavily forested area.  Soon enough, though, we joined up with a long parade of cars and vans, and even a few tour buses, loaded up with metal heads on their way to the fest.  (It turns out we'd entered the area on the opposite side of "town," hence the initial lonely driving.)  Traffic was slow moving, and we passed more than our share of roadside peers, as in rows of urinators lining the road.  When the trees pulled back from the road, the landscape became one of dead, concrete buildings with no glass left in the window openings and lots of graffiti.  I wanted to jump out to photograph a few of the creepier sights, but didn't want to hold us up as the cars began moving more quickly.  We were driving through the middle of a horror movie in Eastern Europe, and visions of Hostel entered my mind.  The cars were eventually funneled into grassy fields separated into parking and camping areas, and a few quick conversations with the neon-yellow-vest-clad gentlemen, pointing out the letters VIP in the upper corners of our tickets later, we'd found OUR parking.  While we gathered our things from the car, scattered clumps of people emerged across the field from the forest that surrounded us.  Maybe it was just that we'd recently watched the movie, 28 Weeks Later, but they looked to me like wandering zombies.  

Leaving the car parked a few yards from the private entrance for VIP ticket holders, which was just a couple hundred yards from the main stage, itself, we entered the main stage area of the venue.  The festival site was separated into three areas; the main stage area, a second stage area of equal size, and a central area between the two where some carnival rides had been set up among the stands selling food, beer, and concert merchandise.  It seemed our tickets got us early admission to the main stage area, and we leisurely strolled around the grounds, checking out the food and T-shirt selections and using clean - CLEAN - port-a-potties, while movable fencing and red-vested security guards held back the masses.  The zombies pressed up against the fence, eyes watching us and desperately wanting in.

Before they opened the barriers to let everyone else in, we decided we'd see what other perks our blue wristbands would afford us.  Heading into the VIP tent set up next to the entrance, we turned in two out of the six tickets we received upon entrance for some cold beers, and I was thrilled to see that they had Coke Light on hand!  (Past music festivals in Italy NEVER offered Diet Coke, just Coke, tea I didn't like, and water, so this was exciting.)  Along with 3 free beers each, we'd be getting free non-alcoholic drinks all day, free (although mostly nonexistent) snacks, a separate line of port-a-potties, picnic tables and space under the tent in the case of bad weather, and a raised platform from which to view the stage.  It was awesome.  I think the best part of all, aside from guaranteed entrance to the Golden Circle, was the space.  Because there were clearly fewer people with the blue wristbands, there'd be shorter lines to use the restroom (and fewer people using them), and a much shorter wait for beer.

(These are NOT the VIP toilets)

A few years ago the extent of my hard rock appreciation skimmed the surface as I could sing along to a few Metallica and Korn songs.  Enter Chris and the start of my love of music festivals.  A seasoned rock and metal fan, Chris was already familiar with the scene of such a gathering, but it took some getting used to for me.  Just like a football game, the air buzzes with a common love and anticipation, a shared feeling of excitement heightened by alcohol.  I remembered very quickly how hypnotic live music is, how intimate a feeling it is to see a musician's face while he cranks out words everyone around you knows, too.  Something moves through you when every inch of a massive outdoor venue is filled with the sounds of guitars, drums, vocals, and the mutual admiration that exists between the best bands and their fans.  So at 5'3", I'm proud to say that this suburban Florida girl can rock with the best of them, though I might stay back when the pit opens up in the middle of the crowd.

Speaking of height, it's not such a nice thing being short at event such as this.  A little stinky when it's hot, and a little painful when it gets rowdy, it's all armpits and elbows, quite literally.  What is nice, though, is that when an elbow does come down on top of your head, instead of a lump and a headache, you're more likely to get a surprised apology and a little pet.  Sure, at times an apology may take the form of someone else's beer being poured in your mouth before you can say, No thanks, as was the case when a guy was shoved back and, in turn, shoved me.  This is the brand of kindness here, and kindness is kindness, backwash and all.  If you can appreciate it, it's pretty nice.

The soft pats on the head and free beer reminded me of past kindnesses in the midst of scary looking rockers.  When I was fifteen and attending my first alternative rock concert (Humm, the Toadies, and Bush), I'd managed to push my way right up to the front while Gavin Rosdale sang "Glycerin" to us - I swear we made eye contact.  When he moved on to a more rambunctious song and the crowd started jumping and shifting in unison, my foot got nailed down while the bodies pushed back into me.  As I fell backward, unable to catch myself, I remember being shocked when the enormous, bald rocker man to my left actually lifted me out of the sea of people and set me back down square on my feet, patting my head and smiling before turning his attention back to the stage.

When I was seventeen and attending a Seven Mary Three show in downtown St. Petersburg, of course I pushed my way to the front again, eager to show I was just as tough as the hardcore fans around me.  It didn't  take long to get knocked down, and as I was easily shoved to the ground, some advice from a friend at school echoed through my head.  "If you get knocked down, always reach out your hand and someone will pull you up."  My hand shot out as high as I could reach it, and low and behold, somebody snatched it, giving me a hardy tug and pulling me away from the stomping feet.  I remember being surprised that the person who'd saved me from a certain stomping was one particularly serious looking guy who had earlier glared at me when I was pushed into him, though I can't see that making him mad at a show like this.  I think it was the fact that he hadn't returned my excited smile, so I figured he was mean.

Devil Driver

Anthrax

Alice in Chains

Crazy eyes from the lead singer of Alice in Chains

Megadeth

Metallica

Bernie from Scotland

Along with a host of other festival goers, whose sobriety was questionable at best, we met a guy named Bernie.  Bernie approached us, asking if we spoke English.  The cynical side of me immediately suspected we were about to be asked for money, as this friendly guy with a Scottish accent explained how he'd come to Prague alone for this show not realizing how far out of Prague it was actually taking place.  He asked if we'd camped.  No.  He asked if we'd taken the train.  No.  Unwilling, perhaps, to offer the information but at the same time, unwilling to lie, when he asked how we did get there we told him.  We drove, and I was sincerely surprised when he didn't ask for a ride back to the city, and was appreciative of the printed out info we gave him regarding getting to the venue by train.  He seemed genuinely thankful for that little bit of help, having apparently been stressing all day, trying to figure out how he was going to get back.  You see, thinking the festival was just outside of town, Bernie had gotten into a taxi and ended up spending quite a lot for the ride out to the middle of nowhere, which didn't even bring him all the way to the fest site; he'd walked a couple hours down the same narrow, creepy roads through the forest we'd driven earlier, only later in the day when they were vacant.  His cash was low and being on his own, he admitted to being a little scared out there with all the crazy people in this Eastern European country.

After a little while Bernie gave us another handshake of thanks and disappeared into the crowd, anxious to move away from a few shnockered Czechs rocking out in front of us.  I felt a little ashamed of my own paranoia, having so quickly assumed this guy was out to con us.  Having lived out of the States for several years now, I've learned that my deep-rooted fear of strangers and assumption of bad intentions is very American.  Not that I'm not proud of where I come from, but I think Stateside living teaches us to lock our doors while driving through cities and distrust people we don't know.  And with good reason, as everybody seems to know of someone snatched right out of their own car and robbed, and we've all seen the movies where gullible people are conned by the charming murderer.  It was that side of me that kept me from immediately offering further help to this lone Scotsman, but given time to reflect and talk about it together, Chris and I decided that if we saw him again, we'd offer to take him back to Prague with us.  

He found us again during Slayer, the second to last band of the night, and everyone smiled a hello beneath the blaring bass.  Bernie started to explain in my ear how he'd been able to find out that the last train would be leaving a good two hours before the show was to be over, but before he could finish, I told him we were going to offer him a lift anyway.  It was like we'd saved the man's life, and he made sure we knew how grateful he was to not be left out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night on his own.  When we all walked to the port-a-potties between sets together (he said he was going where we went), I told him no puking in the car, and to make sure he left any knives behind with a laugh.  He swore up and down he was a nice guy, and I believed him.  

A couple rounds of beers for all and lots of cheering later, the show was over and it was an amazing one.  Superior parking made for an immediate exit from the grounds, though not a quick one.  It was like trying to drive through a parade of zombies, as the car was surrounded by slowly walking, and sometimes stumbling, metal fans drunk off beer and exhaustion.  We floated down the narrow lane, once again, through the dark and creepy forest that surrounded the abandoned airport, and we saw exactly what we would have left our pal Bernie to had we gone on without him.  

When we got back to Prague, Bernie wasn't certain and so couldn't really tell us where his hotel was, but was happy to be dropped anywhere in the city he could grab a taxi to get him there.  When he saw the big, yellow Erotic City up ahead, the same visual marker Chris and I had come to associate with our hotel, he laughed and said his hotel was just past it to the right, and we could let him out right there.  We are not the type to give someone a ride from a concert and not drop them where they're going, so we pulled around back of his hotel and parked.  

After all, it was our hotel, too.  

What are the chances?  It's unbelievable that out of all the thousands of people at the festival, Bernie asked us for help (we certainly weren't the only English speakers there), and even more so that we were all staying at the same hotel in Prague.  Believe me, there are many, many choices in this city, like anywhere else.  After a moment of laughing disbelief, we all swapped email addresses and made plans to meet up in Glasgow next month, where Bernie lives and it turns out we'll be visiting in Scotland.  Again, what are the chances?  Bernie has promised us a royal welcome with bagpipes and all, but we'll just be glad to see a familiar face and meet his wife, Sara, who couldn't make the trip on account of being 6 months pregnant with their first.    

So it turns out there are a lot of good people still out there, and we were glad to help one out.  Not only did he not rob or kill us in the middle of the woods, the guy actually hid cash under the blanket in the back seat.  I guess our refusal to accept gas money didn't fly.  

I love music festivals :)  

There You Are

It's been an especially long week, even though in theory, it arguably should've been a quick and easy one.  Either way, glad it's over and we'll soon be rocking out to some lovely metal.  That's music, if that was unclear.

Tonight was book club; we read The Help, by Kathryn Stockett.  Wonderful read.  Loved it.  Cried, even.  Twice, actually.  Melody prepared some good old macaroni and cheese with salad, and pecan pie for dessert.  Southern comfort on a plate, and appropriately so given the story we would be discussing.  I won't ruin it, just go buy it and read it tomorrow.

As always, it was a kicked back evening of girl time, laughing over good food and wine, sharing our opinions and sidetracking from time to time for extra flavor.  There was a new (to me) face tonight and I'm afraid I may have gotten a little too comfortable (or tipsy), but she laughed along with my outbursts of randomness.  I hope she'll be back; she was nice.

By the end, my friend Liz had moved to the seat closest to me and it was nice to have a few minutes of private talk while the girls discussed things like the Twilight Series and bidets.  Liz is moving to Georgia on Saturday and I haven't let myself think about it beyond feigning anger at her for leaving.  The truth is, had one (or both) of us been a little more proactive in the beginning, I kind of know deep down she would've been one of those deeply embedded friends in my life for the long haul.  Scratch that, she's somehow become that anyway, but I guess we could have enjoyed a closer proximity for longer had we not waited so long.  As we both played on the quieter, shy side, it took us longer to recognize that we tend to function on the same level.  She called it having the same quirks as we walked to our cars tonight.  I call it instant connection, like all of sudden I looked up one day and said, "Oh, there you are."  And even though she'll be gone in a couple days, and no one knows when we might cross paths again, I feel like something really special developed very quickly in the space between Liz and me, and I'm so glad it did.  I'm also glad I waited to let escape a few tears until I was safely tucked in my car.  Crying would have only made for a harder departure, and Ashley was ready to go :)  

I know, I sound like I've got a crush, and I guess I do.  A relationship is a relationship is a relationship, meaning, whatever the type or depth, it comes down to the same fundamental core of connection.  The excitement of discovering a new connection with another person is thrilling, whether that connection includes sexual chemistry or a shared love of random, wandering and open conversations, free of judgment and full of laughter.  I met Liz at the very first book club get-together at Farrah's last June, and I remember hearing her say to Farrah that I didn't seem shy at all (I'd introduced myself immediately in a socially bold moment).  Since then our conversations have gone from sporadic to religious at these get-togethers, and from polite to meaningful.  Liz took me out for Indian on my birthday this year and always hugs me like she means it when we run into one another.  If I had to give it a name, our funny little friendship, I'd call it Comfort.  It's like once we noticed each other it was instant kismet, it just took us a little while to notice.

So thank you, my friend, for noticing me and letting me know the strong pull was mutual.  I'm fortunate to have had you nearby for a while before life threw in some distance for kicks.  Somehow I don't worry that we won't keep in touch, nor do I question whether or not we'll get together again sometime.  In time.  For now, enjoy the next adventure, keep doing your awesome mom thing, and take care of you.  And never worry about the difficulties of goodbye, because between friends that doesn't really exist anyway.

Love you.

Get There Early

On Saturday I was downtown again for the Writer's Group meeting.  As I decided to drive this week, I was accidentally there a half hour early.  Now usually if I am in control of the situation I get there early, but throw in a train to catch or a husband to bring along, and early tends not to happen.

At any rate, there I was, poking around outside until Jim M. walked up, key in hand, waving a friendly 'Good Morning' to me.  Since I haven't taken a turn running a meeting yet, I took the opportunity to check out the goings on of the morning, how to get the key and where to leave it when we're done, the setting up and making of the coffee.  Jim P. showed up a few minutes later and told me he was the Coffee Man, so I stood back and tried to help at the same time.

Down in our regular room at the end of the hall at the DAZ, I opened a few windows and took a minute to look out over the square below.  Every Saturday this square is littered with many stands and more people, buying and selling everything from old dolls to supposed antique furniture, buttons to CDs.  There was a band playing somewhere hidden by the trees, and they were boisterous already at 9:45.  As we waited for the rest of the group to arrive I sat at the long table and opened my notebook.  Aside from the swinging music outside and Jim and Jim's photography talk, it was a quiet moment.  It was still.  I started to think about how nice it felt not to have to rush and to have a few minutes to just be in a place.

I've been reading a book called The Happiness Project, by Gretchen Rubin, and in the beginning of her account of a year-long project to heighten her own happiness, she sketches out not only some major life rules, but things she's learned to be true in her own life.  This morning I have learned a wonderful rule that works for me, which also translates to a lovely truth.  Get there early.  (The truth part comes from the getting there early.)  Wherever you're going, show up early.  Not only does arriving to whatever the destination may be eliminate the stress that comes with being late, embarrassing you or perhaps insulting your host, it also creates and opportunity to experience something unexpected from an otherwise planned outing.  Which brings me to another function of early arrival, in that it obliterates the robotic rhythm of pure errand-mode, i.e., get there just in time, do your thing, leave as soon as it's done, move on to the next item on the list.  This kind of going through the motions leaves no room for life to happen between stops.  And although errands are important and necessary to the continuous productivity of our daily lives, who remembers the sale on cucumbers?  It's the man who bumped into you, spilling both your grocery bags and making you late, who reminded you of your Grandad and made you smile.

So on this beautiful, sunny Saturday morning, because I got there early, I got to learn some of the rules of hosting Writer's Group, listen to a couple of photo pros talk shop, and people watch from the DAZ window.  And I had a little realization that is simple in itself, but meaningful having now written it down for myself.

Our Little Goat

She's done it again, but let me start by confirming that Heidi is okay, happily running around like a puppy, snapping at my hands as they grab for her front paws (which she hates) and jumping in circles.  She didn't lose her appetite and there were no mysterious messes to clean up when I left work mid-day from worry to come home.

We're all very happy that, if she absolutely had to root through Chris' backpack, find, and then eat an entire pack of gum, that at least it wasn't of the sugar-free variety.  When Chris came downstairs this morning to leave for work he found the evidence all over the entranceway floor.  Like a good daddy, he hopped online and looked up the possible effects such a thing can have on a dog.  Even though there is more of a chance the gum could cause a blockage because of Heidi's small size, the worst case would have been if the gum was sugar-free, as sugar-free gum has xylitol, something highly toxic to dogs.  (Seriously, Heidi may have a death wish.)  Luckily for everyone, Chris happened to pick up a pack of Juicy Fruit while in the States last week, so the main thing to watch is whether or not the baby has trouble doing her business.

What caused the sick stomach that sent me home from work early, despite Chris' email saying that there didn't seem to be anything to worry about, was the reading I did that talked about how eating gum can cause a dog's blood sugar to soar and the possibility of seizures.  Our Heidi has a history of seizures.   So I got to spend the afternoon watching her for shaking, weird behavior, and pooping.  With the helpful hint from a co-worker Stephanie, I picked up some Omega-3 on the way home to help things move along in the intestinal area, and boy did it work.

So Heidi's fine, aside from some gummy poops and probably a funky feeling tummy.  (Seriously, I obviously had to check it outside, and it's kind of oddly funny when you're holding a piece of gummy poo on the end of a stick.)  Now it's just a matter of stubborn-old-lady-proofing the house, as it seems a once very well-behaved pup who wouldn't even dare chew on anything not hers, has grown into the type who shreds paper when she's mad and eats whatever smells good.