Running on Empty

Too many occasions of being empty recently. Trip to Carolina Mom’s in The Swede’s 8 cylinder, petrol-guzzling SUV brought pump sticker shock to this 6 cylinder, higher mpg girl. Over $50 US to fill the tankage each time – ouch! – and price has gone up since. My ’95 Mazda keeps-on-goin’-with-no-car-payment model receives daily affirmations and praise, but when I have to heave it into the crush yard, these freakin’ prices have me wanting more choice and less cashola for hybrids.

The perky little beverage fridge recently purchased at CostCo is now sadly empty of the case of wee 8 ounce Coca-Cola bottles, chilled to perfection and the right refreshment skosh after watering the potted plants in the scorching late Atlanta afternoons. Having seen some SPECT scans of brains on caffeine, I momentarily swore off the stuff. But those bottles and that cold taste take me back to my Grandma’s house in Buckroe Beach, when the bottles were bigger (and you could return ‘em for cash) and she put ‘em in these black and gold lamay koozies to mind the sweat potential on her cherry furniture and piano. I’d set one down next to the typewriter in her attic office, where I’d write a missive asking yet again for a sleepover (as if my folks didn’t expect it every time). I’ve learned since that Grandma didn’t have a lot of patience for little kids – her profession of teaching calculus at Hampton University was the right audience age for her liking – but she won an academy award for putting up with my antics. Or was it more the Nobel prize for toleration? Her house and the former institute, now university are still there, tho' Fort Monroe nearby has been decommissioned and will soon be full of park goers or snob residents, depending on how the wonks lobby (and empty of Army staffers).

Empties have been rattling in my car as well. No, no alcoholic binges in the present. Just the aluminum bones from the drained cans of sparkling water, which I’m trying to fake my body into believing is my new soda. It’s fizzy! It sparkles! But my grumpy, caffeine-addled brain ain’t buying it.

But the big empty peeve? My HP OfficeJet LX, circa 1993, is out of ink. I’ve gone practically paperless – I read & review everything on my laptop, and print occasional directions and errant expense reports. I haven’t bought a new ink cartridge for the printer in – oh, mebbe 3 years? Well, damn if they don’t make the suckers any more. I can find after market knock offs and refill kits for about $50 US. But a new printer costs about that, and now the printers are so cheap and it’s all about refilling the empties. Where the hell was my ingenuity not to get in on THAT racket?

So, fill ‘er up. Load the gas tank: cha-ching. Trip down memory lane with the case of coke bottles. Bribe the brain to let go of the sugar buzz. Acquiesce and buy the new printer. But when I slip, I do have a place to fill up. My new wow can be found at QuikTrip, where for 59 cents you can get a 32 ounce drink with your choice of ice – crushed or cubed. Heaven! The crushed is almost as good as the “rabbit pellet” ice I loved at the cafeteria at the HQ building at Kennedy Space Center. One of these days, I’m gonna get me one of those rabbit pellet ice makers installed where I live, and I will be able to fill up my cup any damn time I please. Yeah, I’ll lose my teeth faster, but my cup will always be full.

Yankey Doodle Damdandy!

Summertime in the South. Despite the drought conditions, the potted hydrangeas are faring well enough.

So, my pop is a Yankee Doodle Dandee. He’s been visiting of late, and in honor of his happy to you day (and, oh yeah, the American Independence holiday), The Swede and I hosted a cookout. How many blokes DOES it take to mitigate the unintended hickory chip fire on the chargoal grill?

A small crowd, albeit most enthusiastic enough to stay for the fireworks in the distance at the municipal park. Despite the rainout for the finale, which my father watched as a lightning magnet under his golf umbrella.

In the midst of heading abed, the phone rang. Carolina Mom sounded sleepy, scared, and disoriented. Righteously so. Two trees had fallen on her home, and she was awakened by the cacophonous noise and the sights and smells of the electric box on her house dancing an Irish jig. Good news: no loss of life, hers or the sweet girls Duchess and Druscilla (of the feline variation). Bad: much house action. Heading there to lend labor, TLC, etc.

The occasion for this post draws me to the date, and a folk band. The Fifth of July, and Eddie from Ohio. They are on the evergreen list of things that don’t suck, with wondrous harmonies, fantastic live performances, and clever lyrics. Known entities since my teenage years. To wit, I share the following "Fifth of July" song lyrics:

One if by land,
Two if by sea,
Three if by phone or facsimile.
Four if by plane,
Five if by boat,
Six if bilingual,
Seven by goat.
Eight by ten glossies of me ….

Happy to you day, wherever you are, be you Yankee Doodle Dandee or otherwise.

Paris: Smokers, Big Sunglasses, and People Watching

June 15-19: Final stop, Paris, and the best hotel of the trip ... the free one, via cashing out hotel points. Was greeted by an herbal statue, and am still working on The Swede to add one to our yard chez nous.

The mad dash included greatest hits - Arc de Triomphe, Tour Eiffel, Musee d'Orsay, Louvre, Notre Dame, Sainte Chappelle, Musee Rodin - and a few Monet showcases - L'Orangerie in the Tuillieries and Musee Marmottan. But people watching was the most enjoyable. On the walk from the Marmottan, we ducked for cover from the weekend urchin water balloon war. Sunset over Place de la Concorde and the Tuillieries had locals and tourists milling, while we enjoyed a picnic.


Everyone smokes in Paris. Trip to Italy last fall didn't see nearly as much. All the girls are into Jackie O, big-A sunglasses, and iPods a'plenty. English speaking is more obvious and less resisted by shop owners, urchins, and average strangers. The city is still dirty - littering in museums next to priceless art was commonplace and disturbing. Graffiti is up, big time.

Our last night - street cafe hopping in Place St. Michel, where the requisite art nouveau metro photo is not without its own guest - the wee chat on the bar awning spied as we dined below. We were off the next day back home to our own, not so wee chats.

Packing included the use of one of my favorite things that don't suck - the "oh crap" duffel bag (OSB) that folds into nothing, but stows away a week's worth of laundry. We managed to make the trip home without breaking into the Belgian chocolate meant for The Swede's office mates and my visiting family, but it's doubtful either portion will last long upon arrival.

Brussels: Beer and Chocolate

Dateline: Wednesday, 14-June: Laundry day, in Brussels. Home of the EU, the Smurfs, and the impertinent Mannekin Pis. The clean but rank laundromat was made pleasant by an al fresco breakfast: pain du chocolat and juice outside on the street, where the air was consumable. The rain caught us on the way back to the Hotel Ibis. Gaufres with nutella as a breakfast second course, some Rick Steves recommended sights, and then we hit the 4 chocolate shops on the Grand Place and acquired 100 grams each of Godiva, Neuhaus, Galler, and Leonidas, quaffed with Kriek and Framboise beers. The white chocolate from the latter two were deemed superlative. Cards, Hoegaarden, and world cup soccer in the hotel pub during the afternoon rainshower, Italian pub grub, and better sleep, as the sky approached darkness compared to the Swedish light fest. Chocolate and beer, yummm. Homer Simpson heaven.

Swedish Baby Bling

Ok. So perhaps I identify a bit too much with Eddie From Ohio's song "1,000 Sarahs", where a girl isn't allowed to get her ears pierced until she's 12, no matter what. I mean, really. What does it hurt to let a prepubescent youth put on some lip gloss, pierce her ears, and rush just a bit headlong into being a bit too glammed up for her britches? "Because your sister didn't have them done until she was 12" is not parental righteousness; it's the I told you so defense.

Still, I suppose some parents could be too lax in letting their kids adorn themselves with piercings, tattoos, and such. The Swedish seem to be more flexible than the average American. You decide.

A Helan Gar Utfart

The evening of Saturday, June 10th found us with jumbotron action for Sweden’s first game in the World Cup. A disappointing 0-0 tie, but a spectacle by the water in Sodertalje, nonetheless.








Sunday, we dined with The Swede’s uncle and family; a grand affair, with a table spread the likes that found us wondering which glass housed which alcoholic beverage. Since herring was served, “snaps” was in order, as well as the traditional Helan gar song. The natives sang first, and our hosts graciously provided “Svenglish” lyrics but righteously mocked our attempts to sing along.








The afternoon’s Bocca, warm weather, and company found us reluctant to go.




Monday, we took a chance on a tour of nearby Stockholm. And Mamma mia, we found a great street perch to catch the changing of the guard. The marching band, who struck up a tune that took a while to figger out its Fernando familiarity, only to finally pin it down as ABBA’s “Waterloo.” Who knew? We chased it with a great tour of the Vasa museum and the oldest ship that never quite sailed. So ended our Swedish sojourn, and we were off to Brussels.

Välkommen from Sweden!

Well, we started out fresh. Freshly showered, a fresh repast, and connections begun. We wung ourselves eastward to Scandinavia for a familial trek to Sodertalje, Sweden. Plane to Stockholm was diverted 250 km southwest due to air traffic control system failure, but a few hours, another flight, some trains and automobile, and my own handsome Swede sherpa'd us into lodgings and the rendez-vous with famdamily. Light knoshing at the local Australian pub, and sleep. Today we sojourned about the town, haunting the hometown of Bjorn Borg and the Swede's father, visiting festival grounds, observing Swedish fowl

and foul Swedes all about the village - albeit, high school grads celebrating, so we gave 'em some slack. Grub at a Croation-owned pub, where English was short on the menu, but World Cup action in large relief. Twilight on the Swede at 10 pm finds us saying hey da for now.