A Whale of a Time

Alan and I got our first visitors to California this week when his parents came to town. It’s a welcome visit for several reasons: 1) It’s lovely to have people besides Marti to talk to and 2) We get to play host and tour guide, which means seeing our favorite sites and eating at our favorite spots while exploring new places and having adventures with the W clan.

Lar and Shar got to town on Saturday so we had a low-key meal at our favorite pizza joint. We had to make it an early night because on Sunday we had to get up at 5:30 so we could leave for Monterey to catch our whale-watching adventure. Now, I must preface this entry by saying that there is no way, even with my immense talent for writing and description (ha), that I can do justice to the awesomeness of the whales we saw. If you’re ever lucky enough to get to go on a whale-watching trip, I sincerely hope that you are as fortunate as we were.


Doped up on Dramamine and bundled up in a hooded sweatshirt and a jacket, we ventured out on to the open sea. I popped in my minty gum from the get-go to stave off any gnarly sea-sick taste that might occur. I took the advice of a wise sage to hold on to the rails, or bench, to tell my brain that I was OK. I don’t know if it was the Dramamine, the mint, the advice, or divine intervention, but I managed to avoid feeling sick—although I can’t say the same for others on board.

I’m going to say it was divine intervention, though. And here’s why. We cruised out onto the water for what seemed like an hour. At the beginning you’re looking out for otters and sea lions, basically any form of life you can get your eyes on. But after our biologist on board announced that she thought she saw whale spouts a mile and a half up ahead, I pretty much gave up hope that I would see anything on my own. When we reached the whales, we had to wait for them to surface. What happens is that they come up, stay near the surface to take about 5 or 6 breaths, and then dive back down for food for several minutes. They turned out to be humpback whales—and there were two of them. Since they move fairly slowly, it’s easy for the boat to stay with them. When they’re diving, you’re waiting anxiously for them to resurface again to get another glimpse. It was amazing. Then, it got even better.

On about the fifth time they resurfaced, the first whale to surface nearly took out our boat. Whether he was showing off or what, we’ll never know. I missed the action, but I turned and saw a huge splash, literally feet from the back of our boat. They were back up. Alan and I went to the other side of the boat. A couple of seconds later, the other came up and splashed out of the water—a semi-breach. Then, moments later, the other whale came flying out of the water, clearing the water completely, and made a huge splash. I can’t even tell you. I got a little choked up, I’m not gonna lie. To see a 40-50 foot whale, weighing upwards of 70,000 pounds, jump out of the water, doing what it just does naturally, it was amazing. Our biologist was about as shocked as we all were, telling us, “We can pretty much turn around and go home now; it’s not going to get any better than that.” I guess only about 1 in 10 trips get to see a breach. We ended up seeing several.


We stayed with the humpback whales for quite awhile, watching them surface and dive again and again. Then we heard a sighting of a pod of killer whales and headed off to find them. They had the same method as the humpbacks: surface for air for awhile, and then a big dive for food. Killer whales are much faster, so when they came up several minutes later, they could be quite a ways away and you had to speed up to them again. We stayed with them until we had to head back to land.

I was glad to get my feet back on land. And although I lost my sea legs quickly, I have a feeling those whales will hold a place in my memory as the most amazing site I’ve ever seen for much, much longer.

Messy Desk

My desk needs to be cleaned.

Pasta?

There’s a restaurant in downtown Palo Alto called Pasta?

No, that’s not a question. That’s the name: Pasta?

Still looks like I’m asking a question, I realize. But I’m not the one who named the restaurant. Each time Alan and I walked by Pasta-question-mark we’d make jokes and ask each other the same question over and over, while raising our hands in a questioning manner: Pasta?

Pasta?’s name reminds me of that Head-On commercial that plays during Wheel of Fortune (yes, still watching). The group that is collectively watching the woman apply Head-On goes, “Apply directly to the forehead????” and the announcer goes, “Apply directly to the forehead!!” and then the group goes, “Apply directly to the forehead!!” as if they’ve had a Head-On epiphany. That may seem unrelated to Pasta? but my point is this: There is a place and time for punctuation (as an editor I know this) and sometimes unnecessary punctuation only serves to annoy.

We decided to try Pasta? after making fun of it so much. First of all, my ravioli tasted almost exactly like those Weight Watchers Smart Ones I eat for lunch. Which is fine when you’re paying $2.50 for a quick-and-easy low-cal lunch, but not fine when paying $10 and expecting restaurant quality. Alan’s fettucine alfredo was also unappetizing, and he insisted my version is better, which, hello, my fettucine alfredo is tasty so that’s no surprise. Now, when we see Pasta? we say “no-exclamation-point” and keep right on walking.

P.S. Just found a fantastic review on this place, another location, but the comments apply nevertheless: "Pasta? is aptly named. It's shorthand for so many questions that you might have: Is this stuff really pasta? Why did I eat here?" The reviewer also said he usually raises his middle finger when walking past the place. Looks like he says "Pasta? No!" as well.

The Scarlet Letter...of sorts

If people out here in California knew about my previous poo practices, I have no doubt that I would be tarred and feathered, or at the very least branded with a letter P. In California, though, I have been angelic and faithful in cleaning up after Marti. While it's the least glamorous aspect of dog ownership, I never fail. And here's why:



You see, in California, people make a big stink (pun intended) when you fail to pick up after your dog. I'd actually noticed the recalcitrant dog owner not taking care of business, if you will, but I hadn't yet gotten worked up to the point of making a pooping-dog circle-with-a-line-through-it sign yet, let alone three. That's right: There are three of these signs up within 10 feet of each other.

Alan thinks the dog on the signs look kinda like Marti. And it does. But as an eye witness, I can attest that the dog on the sign should be much, much larger.

No Reward for the Kind

I’ve been out of town for a few days, so those of you begging me to post are finally getting your wish. I had to go to Kansas City for a work meeting on Monday and Tuesday, so I made a weekend of it. After a crazy streak of travel, I’m officially done with flying until late October. And after my flight last night, I think I could go a year without flying and be fine.

I was on Southwest and had checked in early, so I was in group A, which meant I’d get the pick of the litter when choosing my seat. I picked my aisle seat toward the front of the plane and settled in for the three-hour flight. The empty middle seat next to me got filled by the third-to-last guy to board the plane. Then there are two kids left to find seats. A 5-year-old and a young teenager traveling alone. The flight attendants call for volunteers to give up their seats so the kids can sit next to each other. No one responds. The flight attendant asks again. No one responds. Finally the flight attendant is like “Please people, they’re KIDS TRAVELING ALONE.” It was a bit ridiculous. So I reach up and ring my attendant button. The guy next to me is like, “They need two seats together” like he’s not willing to move. Buddy, you were just one of the last people to get their seats, in the MIDDLE SEAT. It can’t get much worse than that (I soon learned that yes, yes it can get much worse, which he must have known). The girl caddy-corner from me volunteered to give up her seat so that the kids can at least see each other and talk. I then relocated to what I call “Hell on a Plane.”

I should have known. I should have known. Of course the only seats left on the plane are going to a) be middle seats and b and more importantly) next to people that the general public chose not to sit next to unless forced. Because the kid that I was forced to sit next to was a kid whose row I quickly passed up when I was finding my original seat. He was probably about 12, chubby and had trouble written all over him. In the course of the flight I found out that he can’t sit still, likes to kick and pester people, has a small bladder and smells foul. With a capital F.

The kid knew the two girls and grandma in front of us, and I soon knew why they’d stuck him in another row by himself. So, so luckily, I had a portable DVD player so I was able to stick on my headphones after I got tired of him constantly leaning over to look at my issue of O magazine. He proceeded to touch my untouched box of food, trying to get my attention to ask, probably, “Why the heck aren’t you eating this?” or “Can I have this?” The other kid to my right, luckily, was a gem. He was my ally during the flight, one of those people who is a kindred spirit because, although his luck wasn’t nearly as bad as mine, he still had a sense of smell and could feel the vibrations from the constant kicking. He would roll his eyes with me as we put up our tray tables and got out for Chump to go to the bathroom—twice. He held my DVD player when the girl in front of me dropped her pen and just KNEW that it was under her seat and could I please look for it?

My DVD player’s battery eventually died—after an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm in which Larry puts an “inappropriate” tape into a VCR and inappropriate scenes begin playing on my small screen. I felt a little bad, because the kid probably shouldn’t have seen what he did, but really, how was I to know that CYE would start showing a little skin? After the battery died, I pulled out my iPod as quickly as I could to avoid as much contact as possible. The headphones have never come in so handy, because even with them on, I knew that he never stopped talking out loud, trying to get someone to give him attention.

When the plane finally landed, Chump wanted to get off as quickly as possible. That entailed saying “Excuse me!” while trying to push me aside and out of his way when no one was even close to being able to move off the plane. I’m pretty proud of myself for being as calm and patient as I was during the whole flight. After that experience, I figure I’ve paid my dues. I should have at least a year of wonderful seatmates coming my way.

Me in the Kitchen

As I've mentioned before, cooking and I don't always get along. A couple of weeks ago, I did make a mean pot of chili, no recipe needed. I was pretty proud of myself, chopping onions and peppers and throwing ingredients willy-nilly into the mix. It came out deliciously spicy, and I'm hoping I can recreate it.

However, the gold standard of all baking perfection, the Chocolate Chip Cookie, has evaded me for a couple of years now. I follow the recipe to the letter, yet my cookies consistently fall flat. Before, I could blame my oven for my baking woes. But now that I've moved to a different oven, I can hardly point the finger at the appliance. After all, when you're pointing your finger at something, there are three more fingers pointing right back at you.

I've tried butter instead of margarine and vice versa. I've gotten new baking soda. I've mixed ingredients according to package instructions. For a while I was convinced that every time I was forgetting to add the 1/4 cup when the recipe called for 2-1/4 cups of flour, but I've been extra careful on that step for awhile now. The only thing I haven't tried is new measuring spoons.

I can't complain too much though because luckily, the pancake-flat cookies always taste delicious. My most recent batch of cookies was a near success. The first two cookie sheets came out in utter perfection. Beautiful cookies, not too flat, not too fat. But the third and fourth cookie sheets came out as thin as paper and crumbled to the touch once cool. And they came from the same batch! I'm baffled. Here, my poor, pathetic, delicious cookies.



As you can see, there are a few wonderful separate cookies in there. But the rest of it is one crumbled cookie mess. It just meant I had to take more caution when transporting them to eat them at my desk. And Marti doesn't care what the cookies look like. She wants one. NOW. Here she is, using her paw to reel in my hand in hopes of getting a cookie. This is how she tries to fish for food, whether it's cookies or broccoli.

Wheel of F_rt_ne

Luckily, Alan’s grant will be submitted next week, so my lonely nights should soon be ending. Or getting a little less lonely, anway. Our nights right now consist of Alan coming home at about 6:30, eating dinner, watching Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune, and then Alan heading back up to work. Sounds dorky and boring, I know. But these shows have become the highlight of the night and have given us many laughs over the past week or so.

First, Jeopardy! has been the celebrity version for the past week, which means: Much easier! We spit out answers left and right and feel really smart. We pretend it’s the real version.

But Wheel of Fortune is where the fun begins. A few weeks ago on Friends Week the puzzle was:
All you can eat tac_ bar

Two minds are better than one, so the friends opt to solve the puzzle…and can’t get it! It came out as “All you can eat taaaaacccc bar!” Too funny. (If you still haven’t guessed: Taco. Taco, people!)

Now, when solving Wheel of Fortune puzzles at home, it’s common to shout out guesses in the hopes of getting it right. Which is what Alan does. But on some occasions, I know that his shout-out is what he really thinks is the correct answer. The clue:
__tter_ups

In his most amazing guess ever, Alan shouts, with conviction: OTTERPUPS! Oh. Of course. Otterpups. As in offspring of otters. That’s right. Because we all know about lioncubs and humanbabies and such.

The answer is actually “buttercups.” I hardly got any glory for guessing, but that was only because I couldn’t stop crying, I was laughing so hard at OTTERPUPS!

And because you’re in a hurry to guess, you don’t always get to put a lot of thought into your guess. In this clue, Alan and I both made terrible guesses. Category: Living Thing

Fini__y
_a_s

I yell, “Finicky Lass!” while Alan shouts, “Finicky Mass!” while the guy on the show yells, “Finicky Cats!” which of course makes way more sense than our guesses. I didn’t realize that the second “s” in lass should have been up there if that was right; Alan’s scientific rationalization that “mass” could be a living blob of some sort; why it would be finicky, only Alan knows. We obviously aren’t that great at Wheel of Fortune. I guess that’s why we’re at home, not at the wheel, winning thousands of dollars.