The Chronicles of Marge

In Search of The Tacky

Tomorrow is the Ugly Holiday Jumper Day at work. After we did this 2 years ago, I returned my ugly jumper to the K-Mart because I felt the $15 I spent on the sweater could go to better use. So when this year rolled around, I was without an ugly jumper but felt confident that the K-Mart would not let me down. Boy, was I wrong. There I was at 7:30 tonight wondering why the hell the merchandise at K-Mart had made such a drastic change as of late because there were no ugly sweaters to be found. So I decided I needed to go into a store in which I had not stepped in 8 years: Wal-Mart. Surely Wal-Mart would have some tacky shit.

Apparently not.

I was getting nervous, and Jason I and were carting around perishable groceries in the car, so I dropped him off at home and headed to one of the worst places in the world during the week before Christmas: The Mall. Y'all, I hit every department store in that joint. And you know when JCPenny doesn't carry a single ugly holiday jumper that there is a problem—a problem called People Apparently Buy This Crazy Shit and Wear it WITHOUT IRONY. In near despair, I stopped in at the Target and ended up crying in the parking lot. When I got home, I busted in the door all anger and noise. Jason, God bless him, had a candle burning and was playing some George Winston in anticipation of my mood. Of course, I yelled at him anyway and then went to the closet and pulled out my sewing machine.

One hour and many nasty things said later, I had put together this piece of work:

It's definitely no jumper, but it is ugly and it may fall apart as tomorrow progresses. I hope I at least get an A for effort. Fredo, our bathroom flamingo, thinks I should.

In Case This Comes in Handy One Day

Jason told me this morning that he dreamt of zombies last night, and I was not surprised. You see, we recently plowed through the first season of The Walking Dead like the end of the world was upon us. And sometimes I wonder if it is. I know, nothing like The Chronicles to add a nice dose of Anti-Optimism to your holiday season. But whatever. I’m thinking that possessing a certain amount of preparedness on the subject of zombies or any other post-apocalyptic event might not be a bad idea. Actually, just consider this a Christmas present from me to you titled “What I’ve Learned From The Walking Dead and What May Come in Handy at the End of Times If You Manage to Survive.”

1. Leave the sheriff’s hat behind. No one cares about any authority you might have had back when the world was populated by 7 billion humans. Also, you will look like a fool.
2. Don’t move toward past civilizations, and for the love of God, don’t go there more than once. Move away from civilization as you once knew it.
3. In the words of the Starks of Winterfell: winter is coming. So maybe think about preparing for what future you hope to have. Find a place with a good water source. Hunker down. Plant a garden. And by all means, start working on that wood pile for winter. You’ll be thankful you did when it’s 30 degrees outside; you’ll also have some really good-looking biceps and abdominal muscles.
4. Finally, listen to the redneck. He’s the only one who knows how to hunt and has any sense on matters of survival; he is also kind of hot if you look at him in a certain light, but heck, I’ve always had a thing for a man who looks like he’s been chopping wood versus one who looks like he deploys hair gel on a regular basis. 

And although I did not marry a redneck, and you may think I’m shit out of luck on point 4, I’ve got the next best thing: a Chatham County boy who grew up in a log cabin that didn’t have any indoor plumbing and who knows how to fell a tree. Also, my father taught be how to haul wood with the best of them, so I think Jason and I will be just fine when the zombies come.

The Via Alpina: Part 5

Thirteen miles in the rain was both sensational and horrible at the same time. Actually, I exaggerate. It was probably only 9 miles in the rain, but we might as well pretend it was the whole way because once you are wet, you are wet.

We started our morning under a cloudy sky. At the top of the first pass, which was less than an hour into our hike, a cool but light rain began falling. This was just in time for us to make it down a bed of scree, but, lucky for us, the path was built with a series of metal footholds, large rock steps, and a metal cable for most of the way down. It sounds tricky, but it was one of the safest and calmest parts of the trail.

Then we hit a stretch that snaked along the grassy slope of the mountain. It was raining but it was quick going, except for some amateur sheep herding on our part, and we were confident that the estimated time of 5 hours and 45 minutes from Prinz-Luitpold Haus to Tannheim, Austria, was accurate.

It was not. Somebody lied.

Nine hours later we rolled into the village looking like two strung out crazy people hell bent on finding a hot shower and a hot meal. And then a bed, a bed in which you decide never to leave because after 13 miles in the rain, you decide you will never go Out There again.

So back to the trail...the easy grassy part ended like it was going out of style, and we encountered a section where the trail just kind of hung to the side of the mountain, and thus we hung onto the trail via several secured areas with cables and handholds. Also known as Tough Slippery Shit in the rain. And then the rain started coming DOWN, at which point Jason decided that he needed to put on his thermal underwear shirt and I was all, Dude, it’s called underwear for a reason. So there he was shirtless in the pouring rain, and I’m trying to help him pull his shirt down because clothes often curl up when they come in contact with wet skin, but then I was firmly reprimanded because my freezing cold hand accidentally touched his back and it pained him to the core. Obviously, I’m never helping with that again.

We continued on but we became very cold, so we started walking quickly. And then I really needed to pee, but there was no flat land and there were no trees. So World, I did something every hiker knows goes against code: I pulled my pants down and peed right there in the middle of the trail. And for a split second I thought about getting out the toilet paper and wiping but then I said screw that because there is nothing worse than wiping yourself with already wet toilet paper. And I won’t speak about that subject any more.

We then got to a section about 30 yards long that was secured by a cable because one side of the trail dropped off steeply. And at that moment in my life, I realized a fear greater than my fear of heights: it was the fear of dying in the freezing cold rain on the side of a mountain. So I went forward without giving a shit about falling to my death, and when I got to the end, Jason said, “You took that like a boss.” And I was all, “On a sunny day, I would have peed in my pants, but today, not a chance.”

Shortly thereafter, we entered a whiteout zone as we descended to the Schrecksee, which roughly translates to “frightening lake” in German.

The lake was only the halfway point of our day, and to add to the frightening nature of this fact, we were then introduced to the true elements of hell: mud—as in slippery, soul-sucking mud. Sometimes we had to go up it, but mostly we ended up sliding down it. It was slow going to say the least.

Finally, we saw something that looked like civilization: Vialpsee, a long lake in the valley way below—and let me stress the way below part. Because the worst part of the trail was to come: the part of the trail where you can see freedom in your future, but you just can’t get to it yet. On this part of the trail, Jason and I had to use our hands to crawl down a rock face while praying to God that our feet would hold as we moved one leg at a time in giant stretches. I think I about blew a hamstring, and it’s possible that I cried then because I was tired and hungry and wet and had been unable to sit down all day and was forced to urinate for the second time on a human foot path. But a hot meal and a warm bed were in my future—you know, just 2 more miles down the road.

Thanksgiving 2011

It is 6:30 a.m. Thanksgiving morning. I write this from the darkness of my living room, which pretty much sums up the way I feel about Thanksgiving this year. My family—the core six of us—had planned to spend the holiday in New Orleans, and for a family whose holiday motto is Same Time Next Year, Y'all, this was a big deal. But then those plans went away at the last minute for reasons I won't explain on the Internet but which can be summed up in the following two words: Family Drama. 

I spent most of the weekend crying, more for the disappointment of not going to New Orleans with my family and less for the drama. Jason and I also tried to come up with a fun family alternative, but no one seemed willing, able, or excited. In a nutshell: I have lost all motivation toward the holiday this year...except toward thoughts about food.

So yesterday, I decided to make a cheesecake, and whatever Jason and I decided to do today would involve that cheesecake. Thus, we ventured to the Whole Foods on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and Y'all, it was getting real in the Whole Foods parking lot if you know what I mean; in addition, they were out of the special little buggies that I so love, but Jason graciously offered to carry a basket for me instead. 

I needed to buy some graham crakers to make the crust of the cheesecake, and of course the entire selection at the Whole Foods was in excess of $4 a box and I also wasn't sure if any of them would actually taste like a food product, so I went with the cheapest box.

A mistake.

I got home and opened up that package of graham crakers and it was like looking at a box of square cow chips, and then I put one in my mouth it tasted like a cow chip too. I was not sure that butter and brown sugar could remedy the situation, but I was too tired to go back out into the world to buy some cheap and highly processed and preserved graham crakers that didn't taste like shit, so I carried on and made the cheesecake.

While the cake was in the oven, my grandmother called to invite us to her house for Thanksgiving dinner. Secretly, Jason and I had already planned on attending, but we had not told anyone because I felt like maybe the family needed to try something new for the holiday, something called Uncertainty, but obviously no one in my family is capable of dealing with that so they have to preempt any surprise with a phone call. I swear not less than 5 minutes later, my mother called to say that she was not going to my grandmother's house but would be having Thanksgiving at her house and we were invited and that was okay with my grandmother, but of course whatever we deciced to do would be fine with everyone and no feelings would be hurt. And if you are from a Southern family you know what that means: anything you decide will be fine as long as it is what your mother wants.

I went to bed last night not telling anyone where Jason and I would end up today. But trust me, we will arrive at someone's house carrying a pumpkin cheesecake with a cow dung crust, and I will tell folks that my feelings won't be hurt if they don't eat the cheesecake. So of course they will eat it to avoid feeling guilty because that is just how these things work.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Via Alpina: Part 4

Things You Should Know Before Staying in a Matratzenlager

• It is possible you will share a room with 40 people you have never seen before in your life. Heck, you might even share the same sleeping surface with 10 people you have never seen before in you life. Mentally prepare yourself for this in advance, but rejoice when you discover the establishment is only 30% full.
• There’s a chance the hot chocolate will cost €3 and will taste a lot like warm water. 
• Find an English speaker, even if you embarrass yourself in the process, and ask them what time dinner is served because after backpacking 8 miles, you’ll be glad for a meal. However, understand that food must be airlifted into this remote location, which could translate into some “special time” in the toilet later on in the evening. 
• And speaking of toilets: it will be cold in there because the window is somehow always open no matter how many times you close it. Share this information with your backside in advance because sitting down will be startling.
• Unless you are lucky enough to score a double room, you will have absolutely no alone time while staying in the establishment. And if you are like me and Jason, after a full day on the trail, all you will want is to rest in a secure location for a couple hours before dinner and then retreat there immediately after you eat and go straight to bed—you know, at the really late hour of 7:30 p.m. But instead, you will most likely be in a 40-person room, and taking a nap in a 40-person room at 4:30 in the afternoon is a bit uncomfortable, and if you go to bed at 7:30 p.m., you might as well write the word LOSER on a piece of paper and tape that to your head as you sleep. And it doesn’t even matter what language the other guests speak because they all know what that word means and they will think you are one even without the sign, so why not be bold about it. 
• You will see people naked or at least partially naked and most likely they will be older than you and will have no qualms about being naked because they have been alive for almost seven decades and just don’t give a shit anymore. For example, I saw one dude who was pushing 70 STRIDING across the room in nothing but his black briefs and a tank top (I would call it a wife-beater, but he was European and I’m just not sure the term works for a European like it works for an American), and then he walked down the hall and THEN WALKED DOWN THE STAIRS because why put clothes on to visit a cold effin’ toilet in a cold effin’ Matratzenlager around a bunch of people who have never seen you in your underwear before? But because I was staring, I knew the answer to that question. You see, I was not staring in horror; I was staring in a state of Hot Damn because, seriously, if I was 70 years old and had legs like that, I’d be walking around in nothing but my underwear too. Hell, if I was 33 years old and had those legs, I’d be in little but my underwear most days. But alas, there is this thing in my life called cellulite, and all I have to say about that is Where are my pants?

The Via Alpina: Part 3

Our first day of backpacking on the Via Alpina was completely wonderful. We hiked from Oberstdorf to the Prinz-Luitpold Haus, starting the day with a ride up the Nebelhorn cable car. It cost €37 for two and was worth every penny in time and enegry saved. At the top, we started along our path for the day, the infamous Laufbacher-Eck Weg. I had great anxiety concerning this path. I knew there was a via ferrata along the way, and I had seen pictures of a trail barely hanging onto the side of the mountain. But walking the trail put my fears to rest. Yes, this trail clung to mountain, but the grass gave me a great sense of security and the the trail was actually a fairly easy, level walk for the first half of the day. It was kind of like hiking through the Lord of the Rings. Without orcs. Or Viggo Mortensen (whose absence in Middle-Earth could have put a downer on any day, but it did not on this day). And do you know why? Behold:

After 4 miles of this, I was sure that the via ferrata was a figment of the Internet—that was until we reached a place where before us we could see the path cut into the rock face of the mountain. I kid you not, it was a sheer drop to one side. I had the sinking feeling that I was about to lose my breakfast and not out of the uppermost region of my body either. I could feel the panic taking over. And then I witnessed a scene that I will never forget. Standing along the cliff on the edge of the trail was a man yelling patiently and encouragingly at his wife. His wife had taken a few steps backward and was cowering in a posture of defeat. I could not understand a single word they said, but at the same time, I knew exactly what they were saying. It went something like this:

Man: Come on, you can do this. Just hold onto the cable with both hands and don’t look down. It’s not that steep.

Woman: That is so easy for you to say. You aren’t afraid of heights. You can do everything, but I will fall to my death. I can’t do it. I won’t go on the trail. I hate you for bringing me here. I hate you.

Man: Damn it woman. You will not fall to your death. You will be fine.

Woman: I will be killed!

Man: Well, what would you have me do?

Woman: You just go on. Just leave me here. I will be fine. I will go back the way I came—crawling in shame and fear, and alone—but just go on without me.

So there I was, on the verge of having the same frustrating conversation with my husband. And all of a sudden, I knew that it was my moment—it was my moment to be strong for all of the women of the world who were being yelled at by their spouses because they were afraid of heights. So I had Jason attach my poles to my pack; I had him promise me that he would be right behind me and would not leave me; and I grabbed that via ferrata cable like my life depended on it, and I went forward. In my family, we call this Taking the Bull by the Horns, and it looked something like this:

That’s right, you don’t even need proper calf muscles to do this. All you need is the proper motivation, also known as Imminent Humiliation. So I rounded the corner of the trail to safe ground and felt a sense of accomplishment I had never felt before in my life on a trail. And 2 minutes later, the woman who was too afraid and in a state of distress rounded the corner as well, and I really felt as if I had done a great service to humanity.

Oh, and my husband was totally proud of me too.

The Via Alpina: Part 2

Day 2: Hiking Around Oberstdorf

The Benadryl I took last night in an attempt to get a good night's rest did not work so well, and because of that, I knew that it had rained most of the night, and I was nervous that our weather for our first day hike in Germany would be bad, but it was not. The clouds opened up to reveal a glorious, warm day. We started the morning at an assigned table in the breakfast room of our Gästehaus. We were the only Americans there. Actually, we were the only English speakers there, so of course, they assigned a lone old German man to our table. God bless him, all he wanted to do was have some good morning conversation, and he got stuck with us. But we tried nonetheless, and he talked a lot, and we nodded our heads in agreement, and then we learned the German word for brewery, and we said a few things in German about beer and the trail we hoped to take, and then the man went with that and talked some more until the inevitable awkward moment of silence, at which point we excused ourselves.

We then headed to the edge of town where we saw a gathering of people. It was already 10 a.m., which is late for me to get started on the trail, so I was anxious but also curious as to what was going on. And then we heard a noise, very faint and from on high at first, and over the next 10 minutes, the noise grew louder and eventually turned into this:

Y’all, it was the yearly herding of the cattle from the mountains into town for the winter, and it was spectacular—and not just from the standpoint of 100 cattle racing down a mountain: we experienced our first Lederhosen of the trip, and I admit I have been a bit obsessed with them ever since. I mean, I think about Lederhosen now on a daily basis. And not only do I want to get some for Jason (and yes, you are thinking the same thing I am right now: he totally has the thighs for them), I want to get some for myself.

Anyway, we then started our hike to Gestruben, first going through the Oytal valley, which was surrounded by steep green mountains, which we then climbed. One thing I quickly learned on this trip: the Germans are not afraid to send you straight up a mountain. Within 5 minutes, I was covered in sweat. And then at the top, we hit this soul-sucking mud in which our feet sank and stuck with every step. After a half mile of that, I felt like I was wearing shoe lifts and I wondered what it must feel like to be Tom Cruise. BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND and then I came to my senses.

But the mud eventually ended and we climbed to the highest point on our trail, where Jason announced that he felt like he was about to have a Sliding into First and Feeling Something Burst Moment, to which I said, “I have toilet paper,” to which he responded, “There aren’t any trees here.” And somehow, bless his heart, over the next 2 and a half hours, he made it down the mountain and back to our room without experiencing any Moments of a Lifetime out there on the trail. However, after it was all said and done and Jason was showered and committed to never eating Quark again—dear lord, we still don’t know what that food is and why they serve it at breakfast and what you are supposed to put it on—he told me that he learned a valuable lesson: it is not a good idea to sit on the toilet and flush at the same time. To which I said: No shit, man.

(And for those of you who are interested, Jason just let me know that he is going to start a blog entitled, “My Wife Is Always Constipated.” It will debut sometime during the holiday season, after I have spent a couple of nights at the in-law’s house.)

The Via Alpina: Part 1

Jason and I took our yearly 2 weeks of holiday in September, returning on the 25th. Of course, I am  just now getting around to writing about it. Let’s just say that upon returning home, my job kind of took over my life and the thought of sitting at a computer to do anything other than required reading about diseases, disorders, and the drugs that might cure them makes me naseaous. But I really want to write about our trip, not necessarily because it will entertain any of you but because it’s a way for me to relive it. And speaking of living, goodness, did we ever live. In a nutshell, over 13 days, we hiked approximately 120 miles, 80 of which was spent backpacking, in the German (and some of the Austrian) Alps. The 80 miles of backpacking was along the purple Via Alpina, one of the five long-distance hiking trails across the Alps. We did the section—well, most of the section—from Oberstdorf, Germany, to Garmisch-Partenkirchen and then branched out from the purple trail to finish in Mittenwald.
All of these installments will be taken straight from my hand-written journal (and embellished, of course, as needed). My apologies in advance if any of these stories are boring; please remember that I wrote most of them after a long day on the trail.

Day 1: Arrival in Oberstdorf

The joys of Lufthansa. Seriously, this airline rocks. We made a point of taking the direct flight from Charlotte to Munich, which was a little more pricey than a US airline but totally worth it. Regardless, neither Jason nor I slept a wink on the ride over, and I regretted not taking a couple of Benadryl with that second free glass of wine, but oh well (and the flight attendant was very generous with pouring the wine—I think he was rewarding me for speaking to him only in German even though half of what I said I am sure was unintelligible).

So upon arriving in Munich, where every other American was making a beeline for Oktoberfest like it was no tomorrow, Jason and I proceeded to take five trains and one bus to the small, but bustling, village of Oberstdorf. We easily found our Gästehaus, which was run by a middle-aged cigarette-smoking woman wearing a traditional Dirndl outfit that looked more like it was bought from Heidi’s House of Alpine Pleasures, and we immediately took a 2-hour nap. We then ventured into town to explore a bit and, of course, discovered a gelato stand, which made for the perfect supper. By 6 p.m., Jason was sound asleep in the bed beside me. I then got nervous that I would never fall asleep again in my life, so I popped a couple of Benadryl and called it a day.

Advice from Phil

I called my father the other week to inquire about the quality of food offered on Lufthansa flights—you know, for no apparent reason. I forgot that my father remembers nothing about the food he eats and will consume anything and everything placed before him, so he shed little light on the subject. However, this did not hinder him from giving me the following advice: Before you get on the plane, eat a couple of those Metamucil bars, and then eat a couple while you are on the plane; you'll appreciate it later. 

I should have expected as much from my father. I mean, he once had his belongings searched by the police while he was staying at a hotel in India. And do you know the one thing the police found interesting enough to confiscate? A platic ziplock bag that was smuggled in from America and filled with BRAN BUDS.  

Sadly, I can't say that I have not packed similarly before. The apple, my friends, does not fall far from the tree.

House Update: Summer 2011

So a few Saturdays ago—you know, the one that was 104 degrees and therefore made most of humanity incapable of movement—Jason and I sought refuge from the heat in the coolest place in our house: the basement. I thought we were going down there to organize the stuff we have but never use (and of which I should be ashamed), and, granted, we did a little of that. But lo and behold, I turned my back for five minutes and Jason had some box cutters and a pry bar in hand and was ripping up the edge of the carpet.

Back story: our basement mirrors the size of our upstairs, but only 400 square feet of the basement are considered finished. We’ve been in this house for almost 5 years and have largely ignored this “livable” area because it always seemed a bit gross and unappealing—aged carpet, yellow walls, unattractive ceiling tiles, windows that don’t open. As depressing as the basement may sound, it's a good representation of one of the main reasons we bought our house: by and large, the house was kind of depressing-looking and no one else in Durham wanted to buy a sad and unappealing house on a busy street in a sidewalk-free area of town. 

And that makes me think of the show House Hunters, which Jason and I watch a lot. Actually, Jason would revise that statement to say that his wife falls asleep during a lot of House Hunters, but what do you except when it’s past 9 p.m. and I’ve had a glass of wine, dude? Anyway, we are always amazed at the wish lists that folks have, particularly American buyers. They all want everything brand new and stainless steel. They want these giant bathrooms that I’m convinced they don’t realize they’ll have to clean one day. They want giant master bedrooms, which I guarantee will be used 80% of the time for sleeping and 20% of the time for collecting piles of dirty laundry. Lots of folks want a pool, and for that, you might as well write Pine Needles, Acorns, and Drowning Bugs at the top of your house hunting wish list because that’s what you are going to get unless you add Hot Young Pool Boy to the list and then, of course, by all means GET THE FREAKIN’ POOL AND INVITE ME OVER. And finally, everyone on House Hunters wants a tray ceiling—or rather they see the tray ceiling in the house and have a structural spiritual awakening thinking it means their house is well built and what not, to which I say, DIAGONAL SUBFLOORING, fools. (And yes, I realize I’ve probably offended most of my readership because you either have a tray ceiling or you have no idea what diagonal subflooring is and what that means in terms of the structure of your house, but still, The Chronicles are about life as Marge knows it and not about your tray ceilings and hot pool boys.) Anyway, apart from a low price, Jason and I had only three things on our house wish list: (1) the house needed a big sunny yard for the growing of tomatoes; (2) the house needed a full basement that could facilitate woodworking and give refuge to power tools and a Vogue magazine collection; and (3) the house needed to have good bones but otherwise look like a piece of shit so we wouldn’t feel bad about tearing it apart and putting it back together.

Needless to say, we got exactly what we wanted.

So back to the 104-degree day, which concerns Point 2 but pertains largely to Point 3 on our wish list...Jason and I ended up removing 400 square feet of carpet, 400 square feet of foam padding, and 400 square feet of tiles that had their heyday back in a middle school cafeteria built in 1972. We then discovered the concrete foundation of our house. It all looked something like this:

And then we went further, and it looked something like this:

Yes, we cut out some drywall JUST BECAUSE WE COULD.

But then we discovered something else. As Jason was removing some of the baseboards, he came across what every homeowner fears: a colony of termites, which was obviously not on our wish list. So instead of getting a new roof—which we still need to get sooner rather than later—we had to pony up what amounted to a mortgage payment to remove these little bastards from the premises, and from here on out, we’ll be paying, in essence, a yearly HOA fee to keep them from returning.

But at the end of the day, we can’t complain. If we had not be so hot aside or if we had an affinity for nasty old carpet, we might never have found the termites. And to be honest, Jason and I are just excited to be back at one of the things we do best: tearing shit up. It’s much easier than putting it all back together, although after you do put it all back together, you have the satisfaction of saying, damn, we’re good. And that looks something like this:

And if that seems unimpressive, consider that when we started it looked like this: 

And not only did we do it all by ourselves, WE ARE STILL MARRIED.