Sausage fest.

a few minutes here and a lot doesn't matter anymore
a few minutes here and a lot doesn’t matter anymore


Someone needs to tell the butcher that I really don’t speak that much Portuguese.

I’m certainly not going to do it. It’s doing too much good for my ego. Never mind that my fluency extends little further than identifying a few local sausages.

Evidently my pronunciation is quite good.



“e Alheria?”


Then, pointing…

“e que…?”  


And the flood gates open. A steady stream of beautiful Portuguese rolls over me. And I mean “over”. Somewhere in the middle I think he mentions the beef is raised locally and I take a risk. With wide impressed eyes I reply,



And on he goes

Yes, someone should talk to the butcher.

And the neighbor…

the fish monger…

every taxi driver in town…

Not the cheese lady though. Nope she was on to me in a second.

“Do you want to speak English?” she offered before I got one sentence out.

I almost cried.

“No, I want to speak Portuguese, I’m just very bad at it.” I told her.

It wasn’t until later that I realized my declaration might have carried more weight had I made it in Portuguese

No matter, she helped me out anyway by peppering our conversation with as much Portuguese as she suspected I could handle. Which was awfully big of her. I mean, it’s not her job to help annoying foreigners communicate.

And maybe that’s the point she was trying to get across. Maybe using English over her native tongue was her way of saying,

“You know, it’s nice that you want to learn my language, but I’m really just here to sell cheese.”

But how would I know?

Maybe I’ll ask the butcher…


Portugal so far…

why do I feel like this should be an album cover?
where have theses been all my life?
where have theses been all my life?

Best of Ireland


It’s been a long week. I’m wrecked and there’s still more to do so if you don’t mind I’d like to take a quiet moment for thoughts of Ireland…

If you don’t mind…I promise to bring you with me…


Irish bests that you may not have heard of before:

Get in my belly! And bring your friends.
Get in my belly! And bring your friends.

Best kept secret:

The CHEESE. OMG. It’s not fair to even try to describe the heaven produced here. Yum? Oooo, ahhh? Yeah, lacks a bit. What’s more this perfection is not restricted to just the milk of the bovine. The things the Irish do to goat and sheep milk is so delightful I do believe that if they started milking their horses for cheese, I wouldn’t hesitate to try some.

Not. Kidding.

The only question: Why is this a secret??


Best pint:   

Galway Hooker. Sorry Guinness, though I never was a huge fan of beer’s dark side, so take that as you may. It’s also possible my love of Galway city has me biased. After all there are a lot of great beers being crafted in (other less wonderful cities in) Ireland today.

But where else in the world can you have “a couple hookers” sent to your table without getting into trouble?

Yes, best beer all around.

The only question: why isn’t it sold all around??


Best asset:

Her people. Lovely, caring, and kind. This isn’t news, right? I’m pretty sure every advertisement for Ireland ever made mentions this.  

The only question: has every advertisement for Ireland ever made done them justice?

In my opinion, no. Not by a long shot.

And maybe that’s why they keep mentioning it. Because saying it once isn’t enough.



How to get your wife to rotate your tires

it's not unpaid child labor, it's a coveted maintenance internship.
it’s not unpaid child labor, it’s a coveted maintenance internship.


Mowgli wanted to rotate our tires and I did not.

It’s not the first time we’ve disagreed. It won’t be the last. That’s marriage. It wouldn’t even have been an issue if not for the fact that, a couple weeks ago, we decided to sell the car.

Causing Mowgli to really want to rotate our tires

And me to really not.

For what it’s worth, I stood on solid ground. Tire rotation is preventative maintenance and the car was for sale. SALE. Not to be ours any longer. I could hardly be bothered to put fuel in the thing let alone concern myself with uneven tire wear.

But Mowgli wouldn’t let it go and thus forced me to employ diversionary tactics. I packed our precious free time with activities so that there wasn’t any room for superfluous auto care.

Because I love him.

Then, finally, we had a prospective buyer and I thought the whole episode could be put behind us.

I was wrong.

Once again Mowgli brought up the damn tires and now, with time no longer on his side, he needed my help.  

“No. Hell no.” I told him. “Not for a million dollars, not for a billion. Not even for love. Why? Because it doesn’t need to be done.

“I thought you’d say that.” He replied and then my husband, the love of my life, said the ugliest thing I’ve heard come out of his beautiful mouth ever.  

“Alright,” he told me, “I will just do it tonight…after dinner…”

After dinner. *GASP* After Dinner! *GASP AGAIN!*

Can you believe the impudence? After dinner is together time, family time, us time. It is for relaxing in each other’s company only. Cell phones are off, cocktails poured, and conversation engaged in. We might play a game but “after dinner” is always labor free.

And Mowgli knows this. Suggesting he work “after dinner” was akin to suggesting he hit a strip club, booze up with the boys, gamble away our savings then fall asleep on the couch in the middle of a video game marathon.

In other words, my husband had just told me that my refusal to help sparked in him a Cro-magnon fire that would burn all night.

I didn’t go down easy. I’ll tell you that much. I stewed hard for a good thirty minutes.

Then I rotated the tires.

Or, more accurately, I talked our sons into rotating the tires.

I still had to supervise (they’re just boys) and that’s almost more work than doing it yourself sometimes.

So I’m still mad.

And just because the car rides smoother and the guy bought it on the spot, doesn’t make me wrong.   





Life Edit


Is it age and wisdom that gives one an unquenchable thirst for change?

Or is it simply total exhaustion followed by too much wine?

You work hard, play hard, learn the rules, break a few, get ahead, fall behind, start over more times than you can remember and after a while, you are a prime target for a good bottle of wine and some serious self evaluation.  

Or maybe that’d be a cheap box of wine and a bucket full of crazy ideas?

(don’t judge me)

Either way, you’re ready for a life style renovation. I know I am.

It’s time for a culling.


This year I’ve decided I’ve no space in my life anymore for:

Unattractive or uncomfortable undergarments. I just can’t. Life is too short to feel anything but relaxed and gorgeous all the time.

Besides, there is far too much CCTV these days. Remember when you could release the fabric clinging to your tushy without it going internet viral? Good times.   


I am also totally over:

Self induced drama that doesn’t come in book or video form. I’ll listen to your story when the final season airs, but this ear is not available for details of your trashy self in progress.

Pull yourself together and quit wasting your energy on anything that isn’t making someone’s life better.

Or don’t and come to a tragic end.     

Either way, until there’s a book deal, do not involve me.


I am absolutely giving up:

Being angry about things I can’t change. The world will forever find something to disagree about, rain’s gonna fall even though I’ve made plans and, no matter how hard I beg, donuts will always be fattening for my thighs, but never my boobs. *sigh*


And to wrap up this year’s life purge, I have but three words:

Nylons no more. Maybe I’m late to this party, but what were we thinking? Nylons embody everything that should be eradicated from women’s fashion: lack of durability, complete discomfort, and absolute pointlessness.

They don’t even keep you warm.


Ahhhh…I feel better already. 

Now its your turn. What are you going to dump this year?


Ode to the internet

It’s been an exciting, exhausting, interesting, one of a kind summer culminating in one off schedule blog, so I’m calling it a win.

Better late than never.


Ode to the internet


When I’m lost, you find,

When I forget, you remind.

You’re order when I’m behind

My tasks you keep outlined

And who is best in this world at helping me unwind?

(It’s you, internet)

It breaks you help me fix,

How to? You know the tricks.

You’ve all the hottest flicks,

And news and politics!

Are any needs unmet, with just a few mouse clicks?

(Not a one, internet)

In peaceful quiet solitude,

You trained me in gourmet food,

Your unassuming attitude,

Keeps me grounded, keeps me glued

You, an arrogant know it all? This I will not conclude.

(because you, internet, are perfect)

Genius I used to lack.

Panic used to attack!

But then the whip went crack!

And now I am on track!

Where would I be, I shudder to think, if you’d not had my back?

(In a bad way, internet. In a bad bad way)

Stay cool, keep fit,

You must not quit!

However you sit,

Don’t cease to transmit.

For if you fail, if you die, I’ll probably lose my….






Ever get the feeling the universe is out to get you? Really out for you, like the universe has a team dedicated to making your life hell?

Meet Bob and Stan…


Bob: Morning Stan.

Stan: Morning Bob.  

B: So what kind of chaos is on the docket for our girl today?

S: You’re in luck my friend. We’re slotted for a Total Mental Breakdown!

B: No kidding? That’s awesome! When do we start?

S: I’m way ahead of you Bob. She’s fell into the toilet at 6 am (I had her husband leave the seat up). Then about 20 minutes ago she scalded the roof of her mouth with coffee.

B: Nice.

S: She’s in the shower now. I was just about to cut the hot water. You want the honors?

B: Wow, thanks man! Hmmm, that’s odd. That maneuver usually pisses her off but her vitals didn’t even move.

S: Huh. Maybe she’s still waking up. She’s going for more coffee. Quick, fill the refrigerator with empty milk cartons.

B: Wow. She doesn’t even look irritated. What now?

S: Don’t worry. I’m going have one kid call her name repeatedly from another room while the other spills orange juice all over the floor. Add a ringing phone in the background and cue the crazy dog…

B: You are the master Stan.

S: It’s all in the wrists….Dang it! Nothing? She’s a rock today.

B: She has been hitting the gym a lot.

S: Clearly it’s affecting her. Hang on, I’ve got this….

B: Rain storm. Brilliant. It was supposed to be a beautiful day and she did her hair already…hey, wait a minute…did she just shrug?

S: Grrrr…That’s it. Make her go outside.

B: How?

S: Trip the car alarm.

B: OK she’s moving. What the…where did that umbrella come from? Is she singing and dancing? She looks like she’s enjoying herself.

S: Unbelievable!! She’s wants fun? I’ll show her fun…

B: Ouch. That’s going to sting. How did you get her to trip over her own feet anyway?

S: This button, but don’t tell. We’re not supposed to use it. A gust of wind should take care of that umbrella. Now, hit that lever over there.

B: What does it do?

S: Locks her out of the house.

B: Brutal.

S: Hey, I have a job to do just like everybody else.

B: OK, her smile is gone, but I’ve got no indicators of mental instability.

S: One of the kids is letting her back in. I’m going to have him make a snide comment then laugh at her. That always works.

B: Uh oh Stan. You’re perfect day destroyer just became a memorable mother son moment. They’re laughing together. She’s in too good a mood.

S: Oh yeah? Wait till her little boy starts screaming profanities and lights a joint….

B: Whoa buddy…isn’t that taking things a bit too far?

S: I won’t be beaten.

B: Um, hey Stan buddy? When was the last time you got out of here and had a good nights sleep?

S: Sleep?? With all this work piling up? She used to be so paranoid! Now look at her! It’s disgusting.

B: Ok pal, step away from the control panel. Maybe we should call it a day. I’m sure we can convince the boys upstairs to bump her meltdown to tomorrow.

S: I don’t know…

B: Aw come on. Let’s get a beer and make it an early night. Tomorrow we’ll hit it first thing and really give it a go, poor sleep, power outage, maybe give her…

S: …an infectious disease??

B: I was going to say computer virus.

S: Are you kidding me?

B: A really bad computer virus. Lost data and everything.

S: Promise? Really bad? Like that one from last year that made her cry?

B: You bet.

S: Alright…I am kind of tired.

B: That’s the spirit. Remember, tomorrow is a new day!

S: You’re right. Thanks Bob. You really know how to cheer a guy up.

B:  Anytime pal, anytime.




Game of Life

This is a reprint of a previously published post because summer still has me in a choke hold…


Start. Roll a 2.

Graduate and land employment!

Move ahead 4 spaces. Draw a card from “Bright future” pile.

Vacation home!

Move ahead 4 more spaces. Buy a new car.

Roll a 7.

Career’s on track, money in the bank. Plan for early retirement.

Move ahead 6 spaces. Draw a card from “income/output” pile.

Ask for a raise, get shot down. Discover you hate your boss and your job. Accidentally announce your feelings at the Christmas party.

Move back two spaces. Open credit line at the closest bar.

Roll a 9

Babies! Congratulations.

Move back 10 spaces. Begin perpetual grovelling to your employer. Give blank check to the hospital. Decrease income by 1/3. Increase credit line at the bar. Loose a turn.

Roll a 3.

Youngest child starts kindergarten. Take a breath.

Roll a 2

Send spouse back to work

Move ahead 3 spaces. Dig retirement dreams out of the rubble. Sneak a peak at the light at the end of the tunnel.

Move ahead 5 spaces. Draw a card from the “Things you least expected” pile.  

Youngest takes up extreme sports. Oldest accepted to student exchange program in Iran.

Move ahead no spaces. Subtract 12 years from your life expectancy.

Roll an 8.

Parents move in with you

Move back 1 space. Sell vacation home. Maximize credit line at bar.

Roll a 4.

Distant dead relative leaves you money!

Move ahead 2 spaces. Answer phone call from the IRS and draw a card from “Murphy’s Law” pile.

With remaining inheritance pay off: bar, youngest child’s medical bills and Taliban so that oldest child can leave Iran. Have enough money left over to buy wine.

Roll a 1.

Illegitimate Iranian Grandchildren. Draw a card from the “no one said it would be easy” pile.

Roll again.

Unintentionally knock die off the game board. Watch it tumble under the table.  

Follow it.

Bring the wine.  

life interrupted

It’s summer in Ireland which, it turns out, is remarkably similar to summer in Alaska which, is to say, things are busy.  

Really busy. Moments become history before I’m done experiencing them and the days swirl with such energy that I go to bed dizzy each night.

(or maybe that was the wine?)

Anyway, one would think, with all the experience I have navigating busy Alaska summers, I would be well prepared for my first Irish one, but this is not so.

(Unless, of course, “well prepared” has suddenly become a synonym for “horribly blindsided” in which case, I am a rock star)

Due to this, for the next few weeks (hopefully no more than that, but I am not optimistic) instead of fresh fun, I will be imitating network TV and filling the blog-sphere with re runs.

don’t hate me.

Anyway, to get things started here’s one from a few years ago that one or two people thought was kind of funny… 

Barbie and Superman walk into a bar

Hope you enjoy it.

and happy summer everyone 🙂 


Wrong, wrong, wrong


There are few things in life that I consider sacrilegious and almost all of them have to do with food.

For example, I will not tolerate overcooking fish and steak. Furthermore I believe those who claim to not like fish or steak while at the same time refusing to eat either unless overcooked, should be burned at the stake…perhaps with me broiling a filet to perfection on the same fire…

I also have no patience for people who’ve not learned proper foods identification. Last Saturday my son ordered “pancakes”. What arrived, however, was very clearly “crepes”. What?? Understandably, I nearly lost my mind. Though he insisted they were in fact delicious, I would not be tamed. Culinary anarchy it was! And resulted in a restaurant boycott. The world will not descend into madness on my dime, no sir!

Speaking of madness, everyone needs to sit at the table as soon as a meal is served (better yet, before) and stay until the end, no excuses. (Dear family, I love you but…legs will be broken…) Seriously, a tree died so you could park it while breaking bread! Shall you not honor that sacrifice??


Anyway, this list goes on. But rather than bore you with every tenet of my Foodology, Gastronomicism, Culinaranity…

I ask only for conversion, utter devotion and strict adherence to my belief system


There is room for all types of foodies in this world.

Except people who don’t know how to set a table, they have to go…and anyone who’s never opened a cookbook…or thinks cheese in a can is real…or eats spam on a regular basis…

I mean….Namaste



Getting it out there


Though marriage and kids were never a certainty for me, one thing was: if I did go that route I would be as open as possible with my children. My family would talk about everything. Our house would be a temple of discussion and my children would not for one second think that any subject was taboo.

Then, reality. I married a quiet man who gave me three quiet boys. Faster than you can say bob-is-your-uncle (not that anyone in my house was ever saying that or anything else for that matter) my dream evaporated. Instead of a house of congress, ours was a monastery (sans the singing) and instead of stimulating banter, our days were filled with hours and hours of mom-ologue.

Well, I pacified myself, it worked for Hamlet.

(I forgot, of course, that Hamlet’s audience paid to hear him babble on.)

“Mom, stop talking” wasn’t any of my son’s first words but it was definitely in the top ten. Once it hit the airwaves it became a popular tune too, losing favor only when my offspring figured out they had Olympic sized tuning-out skills.  

Still, I was undaunted believing it my parental duty to pave the path between us with sensitive subject matter. Over and over and over again.

If only I’d remembered about puberty.

Welcome back to hormone hour on adolescent radio! Up next, “Mom you’re so embarrassing.” by The Tween’s, “Talk to the hand” by Attitude City and everybody’s favorite “Watch me slam the door” by Bob Rocker and the Parents Are Lame singers!

OK, OK, I was a teenager once. I know how important privacy is. I was hip to their desire that I shut-my-pie-hole and I would give them space. But there was still stuff they needed to learn and it was still my job to make sure they learnt it.

So I downloaded one of “those” books (you know the kind I’m talking about) and, in a modern day equivalent to wrapping it in a brown paper bag, I discretely delivered it to their online devices.

Later, in darkness, I waited.

“Hey.” I whispered, starting at my shoes, the sky, the inside of my eyelid, anywhere but at my son because the only way to talk to a teen is with ambiguity.

Conversation? What conversation? I’m just standing here…breathing loudly… To the casual onlooker this wasn’t a mother and son talk this was a drug deal – far safer territory.

I spat out what I’d done adding quickly, “If you read it I promise to never bring up this subject again.” Then I held my breath.

 “Alright.” He replied.

Was that sarcasm? Did I see an eye roll? Was it possible we were good? Since I’d just sworn to never bring it up with him again, would I ever know?

“Mom stop.” He said, turning to leave. “I said I’d read it, let it go. And quit talking to yourself. It’s embarrassing.”

Only time will tell, but I’m calling it a win.







Eventually, everything is funny