The Most Wonderful Time of the Year?

"It's the most wonderful time of the year . . . " or so the traditional Christmas carol says.

But every year, I'm bothered a little more by the commercialism that surrounds the holiday season. We can blame capitalism and corporate America all we want. But the consumers themselves, whether or not they are manipulated pawns in a supply and demand market, bear some of the responsibility in making Christmas into a maniacal chaotic mess.

For instance, take one of the biggest shopping days of the year, Black Friday. Its title alone sounds an awful lot like a holiday that signifies the crucifixion of a Messiah rather than a festive day of clearances and seasonal sales.

And the stories generated from holiday shopping are enough to make me want to hole up in my house beginning the day after Thanksgiving until at least the second week of January.

One of my colleagues told me about a woman jumping on top of a platform and lying on the canvas covering discounted items before the canvas was even lifted.

Another friend of mine told me about a woman chasing a man to a department store checkout screaming, "That's mine. He took mine!"

And there are always the heartfelt stories about people stealing toys out of children's hands.

This year, the Boise mall advertised that it would be giving out free Nintendo Wiis to the first people in line on Black Friday.

This announcement caused a riot. The horrifying episode was captured in a photograph on the front page of the paper. Teenagers' faces were smashed against the glass doors of the stores. Men, women, and children were being shoved and trampled from behind. The looks of anguish on the consumers' faces said it all . . . "Merry Christmas!"

Perhaps manufacturers are manipulating customers into these shopping frenzies by only shipping ten to sixteen units of their products to each store in order to get publicity. Maybe advertising agencies spend millions of dollars researching how to target certain demographics. Sure, corporate America spends most of its time figuring out how to appeal to our materialistic human nature.

But that's capitalism, baby! It doesn't mean we have to act like barbarians.

So, is Christmas the "most wonderful time of the year," as the song says? Let's look at rest of the lyrics.

"There'll be much mistletoeing, and hearts will be glowing when loved ones are near. It's the most wonderful time of the year."

Maybe that's the sentiment on which we, as a society, need to focus - family, loved ones, what's happening inside our hearts. Then maybe Christmas would be the most wonderful time of the year.

Adventures in Mountain Biking

It is time once again for another installment of my "Adventures in . . . " series because I have had yet another extreme sports adventure.

For those of you who are faithful readers of my blog, you can probably guess that my definition of an extreme sport is relative, and only couch potatoes and anxiety-ridden recluses would agree that an adventure has truly taken place.

On my thirtieth birthday, also known as my early mid-life crisis, I received a shiny new mountain bike from my husband. His intention, of course, was that I would learn to mountain bike and that we would have yet another mutual outdoorsy hobby.

We researched trails together, looked at mountain biking association websites, and read comments and tips posted by fellow bikers on message boards. I even learned some mountain biking lingo.

Oh yes - mountain biking has its own lexicon. For example, "bailing" means getting off the bike in a hurry, as a last resort (or first resort in most of my rides). "Singletrack" means a trail with only one ribbon of tread, which our mountain biking book describes as "pure fun" (until someone comes at you from the opposite direction).

After extensive research and Dan's reassurance that we would only ride beginner trails for a while, I was ready.

I've learned that an adventure is not truly an adventure unless I have a complete melt-down. And the first time I ended up on an unprotected mountain ridge, that's exactly what happened. Apparently, mountain biking requires one to ride one's bike up mountains every now and then.

I enjoyed all of my mountain biking experiences until that day in Sun Valley, and I can't even say that I totally hated this particular experience. But when I realized I had climbed up the side of a mountain on two wheels with no barrier of trees protecting my view of the valley below, I "bailed."

I stood on the side of the mountain, my bike the only thing preventing me from teetering over the edge into an abyss of grassy meadows.

"Dan, why do you always make me do things I don't want to do?"

Dan, who had been forced to bail as well, breathed in the fresh mountain air, peered over the side of the mountain, his toes dangling off the ridge.

"I thought you liked mountain biking."

Unfortunately, my husband has quite the memory. Just a half-hour earlier, I had been rambling on and on about the beauty of nature and how we should do this more often.

Unable to argue with his logic, I walked my bike down the hill. Eventually, we entered a patch of trees, and I was able to ride the rest of the way down the mountain.

When we reached the bottom, I said, "That was fun. Let's go on another trail."

Dan did take me on one more trail that afternoon . . . a very flat, greenbelt trail. He knows my mountain biking style.

Are the Frequent Flyer Miles Really Worth it?

What do you think caused the most stress on my summer vacation?

I have two words for you: United Airlines.

However, I will admit that, since my recent jaunt to the Midwest, I've heard an overwhelming amount of horror stories involving, not just United, but most of the major airlines in our country. Boy, does that make me feel better to know that it happens to everyone, that it wasn't just the way I was dressed or the way I smelled or the way I talked that provoked the airline to treat my husband and me with such blatant disregard.

Actually, our airline experience was really such a side-splitting, humorous event that I don't even know how I'm going to contain myself as I write this post.

First of all, imagine Dan and I running through the Denver airport, trying to make a connection that was sixty gates away, after our flight out of Boise had been delayed thirty minutes due to a problem with the radio transmitter. And when we finally reached the gate, five minutes before the plane was supposed to take off, we were told, "The cabin door is already closed. We can't let you board." Hysterical!

Then we were directed with an ambiguous wave of the hand to "customer service." After wandering aimlessly around the gates for a few moments due to a lack of clear directions, we ended up at two rows of computers underneath a sign that read, "Customer Service Kiosk." Dan felt right at home. I, on the other hand, wanted to talk to an honest-to-goodness, sympathetic human being.

So, we were booked on a flight through Chicago, the very flight we had intentionally avoided when buying our plane tickets because we didn't want to deal with the delays out of O'Hare. Hilarious!

We headed to Gate B37, only to find out our flight had been moved to B45, a gate we had already passed on our way to B37. I mention this only because my engineer husband, who always strives to travel the shortest distance between points A and B, became extremely uncomfortable with the prospect of backtracking in order to make it to our flight. I managed to get him there, however, though it proved to be a very traumatic experience for him.

At the gate, I asked the airline worker if our bags had made it on our original connecting flight to Cincinnati. She looked at me as though I had antennae growing out of my head. "Well," she said indignantly, "of course, your bags will fly with you."

Our bags never made it on the flight. In fact, when Dan's suitcase was delivered to our hotel in Cincinnati at three o'clock that morning, the couriers left me Mr. Hacker's suitcase from Batesville, Indiana and took my suitcase to none other than Mr. Hacker. What a riot!

I did finally receive my luggage, after being left on hold with United for two hours, talking a couple of times to a woman in India who was tracking my suitcase in Indiana, and hyperventilating and crying uncontrollably over the phone to a dispatcher named Lynn at Priority Couriers. If all else fails, play the crazy woman card.

The High School Reunion

Disclaimer: This post does not reflect on Michele, Jesse, or Dan, the three attractive, kind, and successful people who accompanied me to my 10-year reunion.

Happiness is the balding, overweight 20-something jocks who still don't know your name, and you don't care anymore.

Happiness is when the three wild guys who would show up drunk to homeroom every morning avoid the bar and walk around from table to table with a cult-like vacant stare, not really remembering anybody from high school but trying their darnedest.

Happiness is when the drunken party girl is still drunk, only now instead of being funny, she's just pathetic.

Happiness is knowing she must have a lot of time on her hands to deal with the hangover she's going to experience tomorrow.

Happiness is laughing at the guy who tells everyone, "I don't know how to break this to you peeps but - uh - I'm kind of a big deal in Boise."

Happiness is having lived in Boise for over a decade and never having heard anything about that guy. But did you see that huge article that featured me on the front page of the Idaho Statesman a few months ago? (Okay, so it was a teaser on the front page and a full article on the front of the Life section.)

Happiness is knowing that most of your clothes from high school are too big for you now, and you can see that most of the people in the room wouldn't be able to say that.

Happiness is the fact that you are not one of the two crazy girls in the corner asking everybody, "Where's Craig? If Misty comes, we're still going to kill her." Huh? Who are those people?

Happiness is knowing that the guy who used to sexually harass you and make fun of your body is now bordering on obesity and has a nice set of man boobs.

Happiness is knowing that the other guy who used to sexually harass you is now a born again off-the-deep-end End Times fundamentalist who lives his life in guilt-ridden repentance.

Happiness is knowing that you have only been married once in the ten years since high school, you are still married, and if you ever have kids, they will all have the same father, not five or six different ones.

Happiness is appreciating the few sincere people who do remember you from high school and say to you, "I was so sorry to hear about your mother."

Happiness is not knowing, remembering, or recognizing most of the people at your 10-year reunion.

My Husband, the Ninja

I ran across one of my old diaries, entitled The Ramona Quimby Diary, the other day. The Ramona Quimby Diary, named for the popular children's book series by Beverly Cleary, provided prompts for budding child writers such as "My best friend is ______ because _______ ."

I found one of my responses to the July 5, 1985 prompts particularly interesting. It read "The person I like best in my class is" - Jacob Cohen - "because" - he is quiet.

Even at age eight, I knew what I wanted in a guy.

As I entered the dating world, my family evaluated my boyfriends according to how much they talked. Of course, I was not aware of this until my dad said, after I had been married a couple of years, "I never liked that one boy you dated in college. He talked too much. You would have never lasted with a guy like that."

That was my dad's way of saying I needed someone who could stay quiet and listen for enormously long periods of time while I chattered incessantly about some book or movie or song or opera or feminist topic.

And I found just that in my husband, Dan the Ninja.

When my parents first met Dan, they raved about his great listening skills and his quiet, calm personality.

But then we started to realize that, occasionally, Dan would just disappear into thin air. We would be sitting in a restaurant or at a baseball game or some other social outing, when I'd notice the empty seat next to me.

"Where's Dan?" I would ask.

"I don't know. Did you see him leave?" my mom would say.

"No. Did you?" I would ask my dad or my brother.

And they would say, "No. Where did he go?" or "I didn't hear anything. He's really quiet."

This conversation would continue for about five more minutes or until Dan returned, whichever came first.

After several instances of misplacing my husband in restaurants and at various social events, I asked him how he was able to slip away, unbeknownst to any of our friends, family members, or me.

"Because . . . I'm like a Ninja!" was his reply, as he made little ninja gestures with his hands.

"Oh. That's nice," I was so glad I had asked.

A few weeks ago, Dan and I attended the Weiser Fiddle Festival with a couple from our church. As we stood in the will-call line, our friends suddenly asked, "Where's Dan?"

I looked toward the empty spot next to me in line.

"He disappears all the time," I explained. "He thinks he's a ninja."

"Oh. That's nice," they said.

So, if you're dating one of those quiet, mysterious types, watch out. You could end up with a ninja on your hands.

Hooters for Haircuts

The other night, a male acquaintance told me about a visit to a local hair salon called Tight Cuts. He said the stylist gave him a massage and asked about his plans for the evening, and when he told her he had none, she tried to set him up on a date with one of the other stylists.

He asked my brother and husband, who were also privy to this conversation, if they had ever been to Tight Cuts.

"No, but I'm going now," was my brother's reply.

"Becky gets mad at me if I even look at the building when we drive by," was my husband's reply.

He didn't ask me if I had ever been, for obvious reasons.

Let’s take a moment to discuss Tight Cuts, or as I wittily call it “Hooters for Haircuts.” Tight Cuts is a noble and dignified business establishment that daily graces Boise with its presence. Tight Cuts is a hair salon that goes way above and beyond the call of a, ahem, haircut.

The Tight Cuts radio commercial advertises female employees dressed in black leather and tight white shirts, hence the name "Tight Cuts." It promises female hair stylists who ooze sex appeal and perform slow massages on the neck and scalp. The commercial clenches the deal by telling men that Tight Cuts will “treat you like a star.” We all know that the way to a man’s heart is through his ego.

According to its website, Tight Cuts is a hair salon that promises to transform a man’s haircut from a “boring chore to wanting more.”

And the men who frequent the joint are obviously there for the deep conversation and the – uh – outstanding customer service. One man quoted on the website describes his stylist in this manner, “the lady is smokin’, and who can complain about a hottie like her giving you a massage?”

As if men weren’t inundated with enough unrealistic images of gorgeous, subservient women who cater to every whim of the male desire, here is yet another industry that has tapped into the lucrative business of exploiting the female form.

I don’t expect that the Hooters or Tokyo Massages or Gentlemen’s Clubs or Tight Cuts of the world will ever disappear. It's just too bad that our society makes it more profitable for a woman to be employed on the basis of her physical appearance as opposed to her - well - any other other attribute that requires a brain.

On Turning 30

Last week, I turned thirty. I also found a gray hair. And I realized I wasn't in my twenties anymore. Just in case I didn't get the message, my family took me out to dinner for my birthday, made me wear a black lei, and handed me a black rose and a box of Correctol.

I'm not worried about aging, although I haven't always been so content about life's maturation process. When I turned sixteen, I spent the whole day crying, locked in a closet. Sixteen brought with it too much responsibility - learning how to drive, thinking about college . . . I suppose I wasn't the most logical sixteen-year-old.

Even though I'm thrilled to be thirty, I think my husband (Dan just turned thirty in April) and I may be going through an early mid-life crisis. A few weeks ago, we were discussing moving to Barcelona or maybe Ireland and giving up our careers to write books (that would be my dream) or program video games (that would be Dan's).

Then Dan said, "You don't like to fly over water" and that ended our mid-life crisis conversation.

"You know what your mother and I did during our early mid-life crises?" my dad said during a visit to Boise. "We had you - hint, hint!"

Yes, it seems that age thirty is also the age when people start asking THAT question.

From friends who have experienced the wonder of parenthood to mother-in-laws who say, "It's Mother's Day - I'm allowed to ask" to fathers who are saving your old Fisher-Price toys "just in case," turning thirty means you have to come up with a really good excuse as to why you don't have kids and why you're not even trying.

I just tell everybody I already have 550 kids (my music students), the best method of legalized birth control available.

Aside from a non-existent maternal instinct and a couple of black balloons, I've had a pretty smooth ride into age thirty. And sorry, Dad. For our early mid-life crises, instead of having babies, Dan and I bought new mountain bikes instead. But at least you won't have to worry about us moving to Ireland.

The Joy of Caller ID

Dan and I finally did it. We finally broke down and ordered caller ID. After all, we are living in the 21st century.

Before you ask, yes, we both have cell phones. We bought those about three years ago. And our cell phones have all sorts of neat features - caller ID, call waiting, text messaging (which I still have yet to figure out), speed dial.

But at home, when our phone would ring during our pre-caller ID days, we would freeze, drop whatever we were doing, and stare at the receiver in apprehension.

"Should we answer it?" I'd ask.

"I don't know. Should we?" Dan would reply.

"I don't know. Is it a real person or a telemarketer?" I'd say.

Just so you don't think my husband and I are totally primeval, we are on the no-call list. Apparently, the no-call list does not keep telemarketers from calling people who already utilize the services about which the telemarketers are calling (i.e. credit card companies, banks, etc.).

Anyway, by the time Dan and I would decide whether or not to answer the phone, the answering machine would pick up the call, and we'd race into the bedroom, waiting to hear either a familiar voice or a dial tone.

When greeted by a dial tone - no one ever calls us anyway - I'd say, "What if it was Grandma? She doesn't always leave a message."

Then I would dial *69. The missed call was always a toll free number, obviously not my grandmother but a telemarketer.

I think it was the enormity of the *69 charges on our phone bill that finally prompted us to get caller ID.

With the caller ID package, we also received a second feature called call waiting, such a practical necessity in this day and age, as if one phone call at a time is not enough.

Actually, in case you didn't catch my facetious tone, I despise call waiting. There's nothing that frustrates me more than being in mid-sentence (which is my most natural state) and having someone say, "Can you hang on? I've got another call."

I expect to be put on hold when I call the electric company but not when I'm talking to a friend. Most call waiting doesn't play jazzy elevator music either, so holding while waiting to talk to one's friend is not nearly as entertaining as holding while waiting to talk to the electric company.

Needless to say, I don't use call waiting. I just let the line beep at me if someone's trying to call when I'm on the phone. That rarely happens. Like I said, no one ever calls us.

Caller ID, however, has proven to be a welcome addition to our telephone service. Now when the phone rings, Dan and I gather at our phone, stare at the receiver in apprehension, wait for the identification of the caller to appear on the tiny digital screen, and breathe a sigh of relief.

"Toll Free. Let the answering machine get it."

Adventures in Cross-Country Skiing

As you have probably guessed by now, when I got married, I was introduced to a plethora of new experiences, most of which consisted of taking some sort of physical risk and/or required aerobic exertion.

My husband has never quite convinced me that snowboarding is indeed an enjoyable, exhilarating winter sport, as opposed to the nerve-racking, heart-palpitating, blood pressure raising activity I know it to be. I compromised, though, and agreed to take up cross-country skiing.

I had even gone cross-country skiing a couple of times prior to meeting my husband, although my encounters with the sport were limited to skiing on short, flat, well-groomed trails with a trained instructor.

During what I fondly call the honeymoon period of my marriage, Dan and I decided to go cross-country skiing for the first time as a newlywed couple. It was, in fact, on our honeymoon that the following event occurred, and it was the period of our marriage before I had revealed my anxiety-ridden personality to my husband,

“I’ve been tons of times,” I said, feigning indifference and expertise.

When we reached the Nordic lodge, Dan handed me my boots and skis.

“Shouldn’t we take a lesson first?” I asked. “It’s been a while since I’ve skied.”

“They have cross-country lessons? It’s so easy. Anybody can do it,” was his response.

In reality, it was a little like riding a bicycle. Pretty soon, I looked so good that Dan said, “Let’s go on some blue trails!”

Now, green trails are the easy trails, blue trails are the moderate trails, and black trails . . . well, even during the honeymoon period, I had made it clear that I was not going to ski any black trails.

Against my better judgment, I followed my husband onto a blue trail. And I was doing great, until I approached my first hill. Hills are the very reason I do not “downhill ski” and instead choose to “cross-country ski.”

As I rolled down the hill, I yelled, “I told you not to take me on a blue trail!”

When the laws of gravity finally finished with me, from my prostrate position in the snow, I began to blame Dan for, not only my fall, but all of the terrible catastrophes throughout history – wars, famines, plagues, etc.

“But wasn’t going down the hill just a little bit fun? At least until you fell?” he asked.

I did make it down a few minor slopes after the first disaster and did eventually admit that it was fun . . . when I didn’t fall.

The final hill on the trail, however, appeared to be long and steep from my perch, and I stood pensively at the summit, contemplating my imminent death.

“You could really hurt yourself on this hill if you don’t know what you’re doing,” another skier said to me, as he glided gracefully down the slope.

So I took off my skis and walked down the hill which, apparently, was not the smartest solution either because the snow from the hill froze onto my boot binding, making it impossible for me to snap my skis back into place.

One of the Nordic trail employees, who happened to be skiing by, returned to the lodge to call for help. A few minutes later, an emergency snowmobile showed up to give me a ride back to the lodge; by that time, the snow had melted off of my boot, and I was able to put on my skis again.

My husband was rather embarrassed by the incident. Yet the newly gained enlightenment regarding his new wife proved to be invaluable.

We still cross-country ski in the winter, but we stick to the green trails.