Christmas Day 2006 Part 2

It included absolutely no Christmas presents at all. I did concede to the spirit of it though, by wearing two red bows and a sprig of mistletoe in my hair. And a red flannel shirt.

We drove up towards the mountain, taking a picnic with us. Smoked salmon, bacon and avocado sandwiches, cheese, red wine, beer, chocolate. Just the essentials.

Guess what we found along the way? Yes, a rest stop for prayer! I always thought rest stops were for stretching your legs, having a cup of coffee, going for a pee in the bushes. But I am a hardened sinner obviously and prayer stops would have benefited me in the past on long road trips. You could go in as it was unlocked 24/7.

We went in and I got to preach a sermon! My congregation of one looked bored however, so obviously I wasn't speaking enough in tongues or kissing snakes or whatever the hell they do here to convince people that religion is indeed the entertainment of the masses, if not the opiate.
It had snowed the night before and a lot of the roads Paul was trying to take were closed or really deep in snow. We would try one and then another, only to turn back each time. Every time we tried somewhere we would find a little later on that a white pickup truck (translation: 4wd duel cab style ute, Dodge) driven by Dave Smith, with personalized pink plates would be trying the same roads. I don't know whether Dave was trying for a different sort of Christmas too and whether or not he had a picnic and a flask. He did have a dog riding shotgun, though.

Eventually we found an old logging road and threw the vehicle in 4WD. We surged forwards and upwards and actually managed to find a really nice spot for a picnic and the snowman making. Dave followed us for a bit. We could never see him but I knew he was there, just waiting to catch up, waiting to surprise me in a non-prayerful rest stop activity. But there was a big bush and I was well hidden and then he turned around anyway whilst we went onwards and upwards.

Ha! Dave is a big pussy.

I made a snowman, ala Calvin and Hobbes. Believe me when I say that there is a horizontal snowman there, swimming away from shark fins. I've been playing and playing with effects to try and get the contrast up for a better view, for hours, so I'm posting the damn thing anyway.

Then homeward bound, with a detour to Paul's parents, to pickup some left behind Christmas gifts. They offered us dinner, I said 'yes' with alacrity (never turn down free meals) and we stayed for a little while.

I managed to convince his Dad, who prides himself on his outdoorsy fishin', campin' and killin' things sort of lifestyle, that in Australia you had to have a licence to go camping. You could only get said licence if you could demonstrate your ability to start a campfire with two sticks. I miss lying professionally for a living.

A very different Christmas.

Gunning for Santa

Christmas Eve in the good ole US of A
Or, how to do something totally different.

Guess who started the day with eggnog? Can you tell?

Damn, that stuff is good. About a million calories a sip, though. You buy it premixed in the supermarket and then add your own alcohol, which in this case was bourbon.

We went on to grilled oysters and mushrooms for breakfast plus champagne and orange juice.

We went to Paul's parents on Christmas Eve. All the family were there and they were very welcoming to me. They are all people with really big personalities so I didn't shine. The whole evening was great but so different to an Australian Christmas.

There was ham but that was about the only thing that was the same. They served scalloped potatoes, broccoli salad, cooked sweet apples, rolls and it was washed down with milk or water.

(Every meal here is served with those beverages, and if you go out to eat there is a huge glass of iced water immediately thrust in front of you. In 0 degree weather, because obviously I don't look quite chilled enough. If they bring a jug, I put my hands in my glass and take out all the ice, throwing it back into the jug. I am delightful to dine with. )

No crackers on the table, no silly mottos and paper hats. For dessert I had volunteered to bring that traditional Aussie icon, the pavlova. It was a huge hit and I even got kiwi fruit and mango for the top of it but, alas, no passion fruit. It was gone in 5 mins, tops.

There were quite a few highlights. I enjoyed the wall plaque above, hung directly in front of the toilet.

Paul's Dad let me hold one of his guns (he has 32; enough for a People's Liberation Army somewhere).


He let me hold his handgun, too, but then took it back off me because I wasn't holding it in the right way. We had a little conversation about it.

Him: "Don't put your finger inside the trigger guard"
Me: "This thing? (waggling my finger around in a circle sort of thing)?"
Him "Yes! Don't"
Me: "I thought you'd at least unload it before giving it to me."
Him: "It is."
Me: "So, I'm not pointing it at anybody, its unloaded, I don't even know what a trigger guard is and I am in trouble?"
Him: takes gun back firmly

I am never shooting one of those things.

Then Christmas presents under the tree. People gave me stuff too, which really touched me. I had no money (no money means $10 Aus) and didn't give anybody anything, even Paul. The family all drew names for Christmas presents, one person each. Plus kids got more and parents gave more. I got a teapot set and a coffee set. Just what I needed, non-pilfered chinaware, that doesn't say "Alderwood Engineering" on it.

It was really sad calling up my girls on their Christmas Day. I did it from Paul's parent's house as it had been suggested that I should at a predesignated time. So I did and then went into the bathroom to cry for a while. Nobody noticed so that was good. Paul brought me a couple of shots of Canadian Whiskey on the sly and I felt better. Strange to be around a Christmas celebration where there wasn't copious amounts of booze.


That about concludes Christmas Eve.

Christmas Day 2006

On this side of the world it came a little later. For something completely different, we went 4 wheel driving up into the mountains, into the snow. That was only about an hour's drive away and it was a LOT colder.

It had snowed a lot the night before so most of the roads were closed but we eventually found our way out to a nice spot high up the mountain and we had a picnic and I made a snowman.

Christmas lights

We went to downtown Seattle yesterday to see the sights. It was amazing, great little markets, lots of unusual shops. a fish market where the workers sing all day and throw fish to each other!

A nice little brewery, amazing chocolate shop and some interesting things. It was really cold and we stood at the wrong bus stop for over an hour before we got a bus but it was good just to see the Christmas lights.

Pictures of this place

The view from our apartment, looking towards the mountains.

Hey, I can cook Yank!

Biscuits!

I'd heard a lot about this American breakfast of biscuits and gravy. Of course, us Australians think sweet biscuits and they call those cookies here. So, I figured it might be something like pancakes or pikelets or scones. Nope.

Biscuits here are a yeast based product and taste totally unlike anything I've ever eaten back home. As this country is really lazy, they come in convenient pre-packaged forms that you just put in the oven and they can be bought in the cold foods sections of the supermarket, in a can.
But he convinced me to try the canned ones and said that he'd make them for me. He made me open the can, though. I am not used to breakfast foods that explode in my face, especially at an early hour of the day. You dig a teaspoon into a special weakened spot on the can and suddenly there was a loud bang and it exploded in my face, like one of those can-of-nuts-with-a-snake joke tins we all used to love as kids. That and the snapping shut chewing gum sticks when you pulled them out. I spent a LOT of money at the joke shop when I was a kid.


They come in pre-moulded rounds of dough and you simply chuck them on the baking tray.
They were so good, people! I could tell that they were immediately shortening my lifespan by at least one day for every biscuit but I'm prepared to do trade-offs. I am immediately hooked. So we've bought a few more cans since then and now a mix. I mixed it up myself. Even got fancy and added ham and cheese and herbs to some. They've just come out of the oven now and they look and smell great.

Speaking of eating, this is what I have tried in the past few days:

taffy
pomegranite vodka
hard cider
jelly donut

Let's talk food.

Twinkies, baby.

I grew up on those American comics with Archie and Reggie and good girl blonde Betty and hot bad girl Veronica. For some reason, they were always eating Twinkies. This led to an overwhelming desire to taste those oh-so-appealing cream filled sponge cake snacks. I can, however, remember even back then wondering how the cakes were able to be eaten out camping and at sports games and always kept in cupboards and yet were still not sources of food poisoning. Living in a hot NorthWest town made me very aware of the potential for salmonella or listeria contamination, something which has stuck with me all my life.

I've discovered the answer though. It's because Twinkies aren't actually made out of any basic ingredients which might be normally said to constitute the definition of 'food'. There's a lot of synthetically powerful stuff in them there creamy sponge cake snacks. Crude oil, for all I know, definitely corn syrup, the usual array of emulsifiers, transmogrifyers (is that a word?), consolidators, addictivizers, probably meth as well. But to balance it all out, the health authorities of America had added vitamins A and D. I am not making this up.

I took the first bite; waited for that awesome burst of flavor (see, no 'u'. I can spell in Yank these days!). Gagged and tried not to spit it out. The distaff side was awaiting this reaction with amusement, as he had told me that I wouldn't like Twinkies.

I struggled and swallowed it down with difficulty. The creamy centre was oily and disgusting and slimy on the tongue. The sponge cake outside was both dry and damp and tasted exactly what I would imagine a sponge floor mop would, both in texture and flavour, if I had ever had the desire to taste one. After the mouthful had gone I couldn't believe my own reaction. Surely I had been a trifle negative in my reaction? It couldn't really be that bad. Maybe I should try again, just to make sure.

I tried again. And again. And again, in a frantic trial of optimism over experience. After bite number four I was done. I used beer as a mouthwash to get rid of the taste of rotting dog and to slough the layer of slime off my lips.
So, no more Twinkies ever.

But next time around, in the food category, you get Soul Food. Oh my. I could live happily ever after with that my only vice.

You can buy everything in any store here, with a chaser

This country has a very hypocritical attitude towards alcohol and other things. For instance, you can have sex at 16 in some states, 12 in others. You can smoke at 18 and you can drink at 21. You are eligible for the draft at 18 and its a bit frightening to realise that you are legally able to kill others before you are allowed to drink.

I also don't get the ID for everything attitude. We were refused the purchase of wine because I didn't have any photo ID on me, in spite of the fact that I wasn't buying the damn stuff and I am clearly well over 21. I stood there arguing and arguing and eventually was pulled out into the parking lot by my companion, who can clearly recognise an impasse when he sees one (and who undoubtedly wants to shop there again some time).

And what's with the whole alcohol wherever the hell you buy anything else sort of attitude?

Need some more alcohol to prevent your high wearing off? The petrol station has it.

Want some booze with your aspirin to help your next day hangover? The pharmacy has it.

Shopping and feel the need for booze with your, oh I don't know, stationery purchases? Next aisle down.

People here all seem remarkably cavalier about drink driving too. The authorities post huge signs about it but they don't have RBT (Random Breath Testing) and the police are not allowed to pull you over without probable cause. This means that almost everybody will drink at least a little (or a lot) before driving, rather than avoiding it altogether on a night out as we would.

And as for the thought of walking around the corner to a shop or a bar or whatever, wash your mind out. If God had wanted Americans to walk he wouldn't have given them such big cars. 50 metres is a long way, baby.

Now that's what I call a big store

Oh boy!
Walmart.

Apparently, a word that strikes fear into the heart of the average local American. Nevertheless, for my first outing into the bustling metropolis of downtown Seattle, Walmart was the destination. It's the equivilent of K-Mart or Target, with a subtle added stench of redneck poor. It has the advantage of being relatively cheap and thus useful for those of us who have left all financial responsibility in our respective marriages and need to re-equip a household.

Everything comes in sizes that range from large to ginormous and the shopping carts are big enough to match. Its the sort of place where you can purchase a plasma tv or a specialised implement for dehulling strawberries, with a side foray into the world of perfume that comes in two gallon bottles.

Its very crowded and I have to try and remember to drive the trolley on the RHS of the extremely crowded aisles.

(As an aside, that's very un-nerving anyway, the whole traffic on the wrong side of the road thing. I am likely to kill myself when crossing the street so I hold on to an arm whenever we are walking in traffic and get sort of steered. Unfortunately, to my jetlagged senses it feels exactly like I'm being deliberately walked into oncoming traffic so I flinch and try to pull away. I've found the perfect solution now, though: I just shut my eyes and that way it works. It's kind of interesting being pulled across a 4 way intersection blind.)

Walmart trolley etiquette is apparently that anything goes if you pretend to be polite enough; saying 'Excuse me Sir' as you ram your way past Bubba whose 300 pound girth gets visciously jabbed by the trolley because he can't suck it in enough is apparently enough to excuse hostile behaviour.

Most of the staff in Walmart appear to be taken from some of the disabled workshops and shelters around and about. They are called "Associates" rather than employees and some of their behaviour can be hysterically funny. The girl who visibly rolled her eyes when we asked her which aisle bookcases could be found in, and then sprinted half away across the store to show us, was a personal favourite. I also liked the signs everywhere: "Associates (and customers) are politely requested not to climb the steel shelving".

All due credit to Walmart for hiring like this as a company policy, though.

We seem to have been back to Walmart a lot lately. We needed a bookcase, which was supposed to be one of the few non-personal items taken from his previous place. But apparently, its more of the same treatment - agree to something and then renege, because we deserve nothing less, due to our dreadful behaviour. Suitably chastened by this severe treatment, we then made our way back to Walmart to purchase a bookcase.

Tomorrow's Walmart expedition has a shopping list of wrapping paper, boots (for me - mine are not suitable for the wet around here. Seriously, I saw a car today that had moss growing all over it!), a digital camera and coffee. I cannot live any further without a camera so that I can post pictures of the most unlikely things to you all, my captive audience.

Walmart is great if I really want to laugh. My companion is very tolerant of the fact that I will be laughing like an idiot every 5 mins on average and merely bides his time. If he feels like explaining away my lunatic behaviour to anyone else, he excuses it by merely saying "She's from Australia", in the exact tone of voice that indicates I too could be an Associate at Walmart.

First entry from land of conspicuous consumption

I've just been on a carefully thought out shopping spree. Two cups, two plates, two forks... you get the drift. We have three coffee tables, one rickety chair,one rocking chair, a queen size air mattress and a computer. He bought the computer specially for me because he knows how important it is to me to write to friends and keep in touch, via the internet. Its the most expensive thing in our apartment and definitely the most decorative.

The apartment itself is just about big enough to swing a cat in: if it was a reasonably tolerant cat and didn't mind the odd crack on the head. One bedroom, middle level of a two story block, balcony, built in dishwasher/washing machine/dryer. One tiny bathroom that assumes the two of you are already acquainted rather intimately. From our balcony we can see the mountains in the distance, through a screen of fir trees. The fir tree just outside our balony has a colony of little grey squirrels scampering up and down and the whole situation is disgustingly cute, like one of those desperate Christmas cards painted by people with their teeth.

It's furnished in early Salvation Army/late parental castoff style, a decorating theme I thought I had left behind forever. Ahh, welcome back to the world of poverty.