Tag Archives: Alan

What’s the definition of a pet?

30 Nov
Pretty much.

Pretty much.

Last week, driving to Thanksgiving, we had Alan’s kids in the back of the car. They’re close in age and both under 10, so their primary goal in life these days seems to be to irritate the living shit out of each other. At least when they’re in the car.

As a result, we try to distract them by asking questions to force a conversation. During this particular drive, Alan asked, “So, how many pets do you guys currently have at home?”

At the same time, his daughter said, “One,” and his son said, “None.”

“So which is it?” he asked.

They started a verbal tug-of-war between One and None. Alan threw up his hand, “Hang on. Let’s figure this out.”

Then he asked his daughter, “Who do you consider a pet?”

To which she quickly replied, “Ladybug.”

His son, outraged, jumped in. “Ladybug is NOT a pet. It’s an insect.”

Now THIS definitely counts as a pet.

Now THIS definitely counts as a pet.

This launched another argument, so Alan hopped back in. “Whoa! There are a few simple questions that will help us determine if Ladybug is a pet. First: would it be in your house if you hadn’t deliberately brought it in?”

Yes: Ladybug was brought into the house.

“OK,” he continued. “Do you feed it?”

Yes: Leaves, a few times a week.

“And last question, does it have a name?”

Yes: Spotty.

“Well,” Alan scratched his chin. “Sounds like it’s a pet.”

His son, not accepting the verdict said, “But it doesn’t have any personality!”

To which his daughter replied, “Does too!”

Then after a minute, she added, “You just don’t hang out with it enough.”

Fair enough.

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Advice for Amy and George: Be on your best behavior.

26 Sep

During our recent trip to Canada, we established (through the wonders of Facebook) that we had friends who planned to visit Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island about a month after us. Midway through our  vacation, I asked Alan, “Any advice for Amy and George based on our experience thus far?”

I thought he’d offer up a highlight, like “They MUST go whale watching with Captain Mark,” or “Dinner at the Red Shoe Pub.”

But after some quiet consideration, he said, “Tell them that this is one place they won’t want to have the attitude that their behavior doesn’t matter because they’ll never see these people again. Because they will.”

So true. Perhaps it’s because Cape Breton has done such a great job creating and marking scenic driving trails that all travelers tend to share the same itinerary?

For example, we drove the full Cabot Trail (primarily scenic, weaving around the highlands national park), the full Ceildih Trail (packed with Celtic heritage and music), and part of the Bras d’Or Trail (along the coast of the huge inland saltwater lake). We didn’t venture to the eastern part of the island, so we missed the Fleur-de-lis Trail, which traces more of the island’s French heritage.

And along those routes? We repeatedly crossed paths with people we’d seen earlier on our trip. The couple from the whisky tour at Glenora? Seated next to us in the restaurant forty kilometers down the road for lunch. The couple who loudly made love (and I’m being generous with that term) in the motel room sharing the wall with our headboard? Sipping coffee across from us at breakfast the next morning – and again outside a restaurant on the other side of the island two days later.

A quick note on that: Cape Breton has limited lodging options. There were no real hotels, so we generally found ourselves choosing between a B&B or a motel that looked like it was plunked from the 1950s – still cute rather than creepy. When we checked into our first motel, Alan looked skeptical. “I’m pretty sure these places rent by the hour,” he commented.

I rolled my eyes. “Did you see any other options? Do you think someone’s going to buy a national park permit so they can drive up here to have motel sex?”

But then, two hours later, we started to hear an odd knock along our wall and our headboard shook. We looked at each other: Seriously?

Of course we muted the television for a minute so we could confirm that a moose wasn’t head-butting the building. If we’d had any question, it was quickly resolved. So we turned the volume back up, trying to ignore our neighbors. But they kept going. And going. If it had been a vibrating bed that took quarters (remember those?), they would’ve needed two rolls.

In the morning, as I stepped out to head to breakfast, their door opened at the same time. I couldn’t help but pause to retie my shoe so I could see what they looked like – I was picturing fake boobs, bleached hair and guy wearing multiple gold necklaces. Out stepped a seemingly conservative couple in their late 50s, looking like they’d just dropped their kids off at college.

All righty then.

So that’s the advice we have for George & Amy when it comes to Nova Scotia: Stalk or be stalked, but always be polite. And also? You can probably save a bunch of money if you negotiate your lodging by the hour. Apparently that’s acceptable.

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Travel Post: First 48 Hours in Nova Scotia

2 Sep

I had no idea what to expect when Alan and I boarded a flight for Halifax Saturday. After only a two hour flight, we descended into what appeared to be a forest. There were dense trees – and nothing else – as far as the eye could see.

At this moment, Alan remarked, “Nova Scotia is known as Canada’s Ocean Playground.” Given his timing, and since (to my knowledge) he’d done absolutely no research on our destination, I assumed he was being a smart ass. Until that motto greeted us on the license plate of our rental car. One point for Alan.

We hopped in the car, leaving Halifax in our rearview mirror as we made our way to Cape Breton, where we anticipated gorgeous scenery, a great music scene and a solid dose of Celtic culture.

In case you’re not familiar with Cape Breton, it’s an island that was primarily settled by Scots. There are Gaelic signs dotting the road, advertising square dancing or Ceilidhs – live, informal music gatherings pronounced as “kay-lees.” It also is home to the Cabot Trail, showcasing some of the most breath-taking scenery in North America.

Among the highlights during our first 36 hours:

  • Dinner at the Red Shoe Pub in Mabou – featuring some amazing scallops and the promise of live music (if only I hadn’t gone to bed early!)
  • Fresh blueberry scones at the farmer’s market in Mabou
  • A tour and single malt tasting at the Glenora Whisky Distillery
  • A road-side music store featuring only Nova Scotian and New Brunswick artists
  • Sunset on the Cabot Trail
  • Fresh lobster rolls!

Sorry, I recognize this isn’t pithy and I should probably rename this blog MundanePants, but I’m just trying to provide a bit of context for the <hilarious> posts that will undoubtedly follow this week. Because if I happen to catch a moose running with a deer in its basket, or a baby seal seal doing a handstand on a whale, I don’t want to have to back-up to explain that these miraculous feats aren’t happening in Washington DC. Are we cool?

Guess what’s on tomorrow’s agenda?

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A terrifyingly wet playground

30 Aug

Pretty Much…

Alan and I took his kids to Splashdown Waterpark yesterday. I’m still recovering, so I don’t have time for a full post. Instead, I’ll just share a few pearls of wisdom with you:

First: the Lazy River is actually pretty fun when you’re not sharing it with turds. Seems obvious, but if your only other waterpark experience was like mine, then this actually comes as something of a revelation.

Also: the Lazy River is also a far cry from lazy. It’s more like a treadmill. We spent the better part of two hours playing tag by swimming laps around the lazy river. Not sure about the kids, but I’m wiped out.

Second: Water Slides? Kind of terrifying. I’ve never liked the closed-tube kind because it makes me claustrophobic, so I thought I was wise by choosing the open slide. I should’ve realized my instincts were failing me when I saw that the closed-tube version had a congo line forming to ride it, while the open slide essentially had a wad of tumbleweed milling about on its steps. Instead, I thought, “Suckers!” as I sprinted past.

Then halfway down, spinning wildly in circles and banking like a professional luge athlete, I found myself grabbing blindly at the sides of the slide, trying to slow myself so I wouldn’t go flying off it. And while they don’t have a mirror at the bottom, if Alan’s expression was indication, my face morphed from “Oh shit!” to “Thank the Lord!” as soon as I exited the slide. One and done.

Third: If you have a weave (by which I mean an elaborate hair piece), please don’t go to a waterpark. Or, if you’re going to go, then twist that mess up on top of your head. Otherwise, you look crazy walking around with butt-length hair, trying to keep it dry when you’re at a place called SPLASHpark.

Finally: I could spend an entire day watching people sit on the in-pool water fountains. At one point, Alan’s son was sitting on one and I caught Alan’s eye. “I’m not sure what’s happening,” I whispered, “but I’m pretty sure it’s either going to end with your son shitting in the pool or sporting a boner.”

And with that we left.

You’re welcome, Splashdown.

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Time flies when you’re…

17 Aug

Caught by the Kiss-Cam at a Wizards Game!

Three years ago today, Alan and I had had our first date.

We didn’t realize it was a date at the time. We were just two friends from college who hadn’t seen each other in almost 15 years. We’d reconnected on Facebook and realized we were in the same city and thought it’d be fun to grab a drink.

So we met for a margarita at a Lauriol Plaza – a Mexican restaurant within walking distance from my place. That was my first experience waiting for someone I hadn’t seen in so long. I stood in front of the restaurant, eyeing every guy who walked up, searching for some trace of the Alan I’d known in school, wondering if 15 years was long enough for him to become unrecognizable.

You’re probably rolling your eyes, saying, “Hey Dumbass, didn’t you just tell us you’d reconnected on Facebook? Which has photos?”

And you’re correct, but your name-calling is a bit insulting. Because, Dumbass, we all know that people tend to put publicity stills of themselves from the thinnest/prettiest/follicliest (<– new word) times of their lives. In other words: Facebook is not to be trusted.

Alas, when he finally did approach, I recognized him immediately. THERE was the same southern gentleman l’d known back in school, holding the door for me so I could enter the restaurant, carrying himself as if he had a board shoved up his back because somewhere along the line he’d been taught proper posture.

And just like that, our friendship was rekindled. And then some.

The years fell away and all that had happened between graduation and that moment seemed like collections of short stories we’d been saving up just to tell each other. And we did. And we have been. For three  years without pausing.

I know, three isn’t much. You’re probably knowingly shaking your head, thinking, “Silly kids. They haven’t even hit the thick of it yet.” And you’re right. But three’s enough to know that I’ve found someone I never run out of words with. And who always has an ear for me.

The way I figure, that has to count for something right?

Happy anniversary, Alan. Here’s to many more…

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