I am the worst gift wrapper in the world. Most of my gifts are wrapped in pieced-together paper. My excuse is that I am recycling scraps of wrapping, but the truth is I just have a habit of underestimating the amount of paper needed.
My husband is a gift wrapping master. I think it has to do with his engineer brain. That meticulous, patient, visual-spatial brain that allows him to spend hours staring at computer code also transforms him into the Martha Stewart of gift wrapping at Christmas time.
"Look at the fancy design I made with this ribbon," Dan says proudly, holding up a perfectly wrapped present, topped with a cutely looped red bow.
I admire his work and smile at him encouragingly, thankful that he has so eagerly completed this task which means there is one less item on my holiday to-do list.
Dan and I barely made it through our first Christmas together as husband and wife before he started taking on all of the gift-wrapping assignments. Whenever we have to wrap gifts for family or friends, Dan immediately volunteers his talents before I can even offer.
His gifts are the only gifts I am permitted to wrap anymore. A typical Christmas morning finds Dan examining his presents from me - the wrinkled paper, the scraps of jagged wrapping on those troublesome ends that have to be folded up like a paper airplane (I was never very good at making those either), the gobs of tape with bits of hair and rug debris stuck to the bottom.
"That looks pretty good this time . . ." he says, furrowing his brow.
Not only am I the worst gift wrapper, but I am also the most conspicuous gift wrapper.
First of all, Dan knows exactly where all of his gifts are hidden, and it's only because of a strict code of honor that he does not go looking for them (and because he already knows what he is getting year after year since he closely monitors our credit card statements - another byproduct of his engineer brain).
"You'll never find them. They are hidden somewhere you would never go," I boasted this Christmas.
"You mean under the bed in the doll room?"
It didn't help that when I went to hide his presents this year, I slammed the garage door and ran past him in a blur, shouting behind me, "Stay where you are!"
Along the same lines, when I go to wrap his gifts, I hop over to wherever he is in the house and say in a sing-song voice, "Don't follow me . . . I'm doing something secret . . . I'm locking the door . . ."
"The doll room doesn't have a lock . . ."
"Shoot!" I say. "Well then, don't come in any closed doors . . ."
By contrast, Dan disappears (which doesn't alarm me at all because Dan disappears quite often - refer to my blog post entitled, "My Husband, the Ninja"), secretly emerges a few minutes later, and sets his elegantly wrapped gifts under the tree.
Once, I told Dan a story about one Christmas during my early college years when my mother forced me to volunteer at the Salvation Army. I was spending a lot of time sitting around the house, whining about my weight and my appearance, and my mother was tired of my self-absorbed ramblings.
"You are going to spend some time helping others who have real problems," my mother said.
She sent me to the Salvation Army. I was assigned to gift wrapping duty.
“They actually let you wrap gifts?” my husband asked incredulously.
"That’s not the point. My mother taught me a lot about the detriment of self-pity that year."
“Still," muttered Dan, "they let you wrap gifts . . . Did they see the finished product?”
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Sometimes the Holidays Are Not So Joyful
One of my dearest friends lost her mother to pancreatic cancer yesterday, the day before Christmas Eve. In light of this terrible tragedy, I decided to postpone my typical witty repartee and dedicate my Christmas blog to my friend and my friend's family. It hardly seemed appropriate that I would write about my lack of gift-wrapping skills or the blue trail I conquered on my last cross-country skiing trip when my friend is suffering such terrible heartache right now.
My own mother died from cancer six years ago this January. The holidays are an excruciating time for anyone who has suffered loss, whether it happens in April, June, July, or December. But when we hear about a loss right before Christmas, it resonates deeper with us for some reason. Perhaps that is because Christmas is inherently a holiday about birth and renaissance. But death occurs when it occurs, oblivious to our cultural celebrations.
Our society handles death so strangely. At funerals, people will say you were "so strong" because you "didn't even shed a tear." That is called being completely numb and in denial - not unhealthy or abnormal, but it's still a manifestation of grief. Standard bereavement leave is about three days. We are told the grief process takes about a year, when that is just barely enough time for the shock to wear off. Then we are expected to be back to normal, when, in reality, nothing is ever "normal" in the same sense again.
When my mother died, I was so frustrated with the pat answers I would receive (especially from Christian friends). The other night when my friend called me after learning the devastating prognosis, I wanted so badly to encourage her that I am afraid I might have fallen back on some of the standard grieving jargon. For that, I apologize profusely.
The three most profound comforts when my mother died were snapshots that didn't require words at all. I remember my brother, Steve, and I sitting on either side of my mother waiting for the mortuary to take her away. I was seated on her right, Steve was on the left. We looked at each other and sighed wearily, almost in relief, in that brief moment clearly understanding what the other was feeling. I remember one of my best friends Tara hugging me at the funeral reception, her daughter in her arms, silent tears in her eyes, no words exchanged, just shared grief. And I remember my Aunt Rita and Aunt Jan helping in the kitchen and around the house, cooking, cleaning, taking care of the things my dad, brother, and I were too tired to think about.
I would get (and let's be honest, still get, because grief doesn't ever leave us completely) so angry - at God, at Dan my husband, at friends who didn't call enough and when they did call not actually wanting to talk to them, at the woman at church who was supposedly dying of cancer and everyone kept trying to get us to do this and that for her family and for her. But she hadn't died yet, and there I was dealing with death in its realest, most absolute form, not with some predicted death in the far off future.
And no matter how many friends or family members surrounded me during the days leading up to and following the funeral, I eventually found myself completely and utterly alone, in solitude and darkness, unwillingly encountering yet another wave of the human grieving experience.
Death never leaves us. There is always a void. Nothing is ever the same again. Especially during the holidays. Even when Dan and I fill our season with fun Christmas-oriented activities or we spend time with our new family, I still miss . . . something.
But eventually, there are moments of solace and consolation. My mother was an author and a journalist, and because of this, I still have record of my mother through her writings and her old diaries. Sometimes, I can hear her voice so vividly that she seems to be standing in the room with me. And in spite of my theological skepticism on the issue of ghosts and spirits, I could swear she was watching me during my performance of Anna in The King and I. Maybe these are God's ways of assuring us that He's still there even when we don't believe it. And, my dear friend, there may be times when you won't believe it.
Remember my friend, my sister, I love you.
My own mother died from cancer six years ago this January. The holidays are an excruciating time for anyone who has suffered loss, whether it happens in April, June, July, or December. But when we hear about a loss right before Christmas, it resonates deeper with us for some reason. Perhaps that is because Christmas is inherently a holiday about birth and renaissance. But death occurs when it occurs, oblivious to our cultural celebrations.
Our society handles death so strangely. At funerals, people will say you were "so strong" because you "didn't even shed a tear." That is called being completely numb and in denial - not unhealthy or abnormal, but it's still a manifestation of grief. Standard bereavement leave is about three days. We are told the grief process takes about a year, when that is just barely enough time for the shock to wear off. Then we are expected to be back to normal, when, in reality, nothing is ever "normal" in the same sense again.
When my mother died, I was so frustrated with the pat answers I would receive (especially from Christian friends). The other night when my friend called me after learning the devastating prognosis, I wanted so badly to encourage her that I am afraid I might have fallen back on some of the standard grieving jargon. For that, I apologize profusely.
The three most profound comforts when my mother died were snapshots that didn't require words at all. I remember my brother, Steve, and I sitting on either side of my mother waiting for the mortuary to take her away. I was seated on her right, Steve was on the left. We looked at each other and sighed wearily, almost in relief, in that brief moment clearly understanding what the other was feeling. I remember one of my best friends Tara hugging me at the funeral reception, her daughter in her arms, silent tears in her eyes, no words exchanged, just shared grief. And I remember my Aunt Rita and Aunt Jan helping in the kitchen and around the house, cooking, cleaning, taking care of the things my dad, brother, and I were too tired to think about.
I would get (and let's be honest, still get, because grief doesn't ever leave us completely) so angry - at God, at Dan my husband, at friends who didn't call enough and when they did call not actually wanting to talk to them, at the woman at church who was supposedly dying of cancer and everyone kept trying to get us to do this and that for her family and for her. But she hadn't died yet, and there I was dealing with death in its realest, most absolute form, not with some predicted death in the far off future.
And no matter how many friends or family members surrounded me during the days leading up to and following the funeral, I eventually found myself completely and utterly alone, in solitude and darkness, unwillingly encountering yet another wave of the human grieving experience.
Death never leaves us. There is always a void. Nothing is ever the same again. Especially during the holidays. Even when Dan and I fill our season with fun Christmas-oriented activities or we spend time with our new family, I still miss . . . something.
But eventually, there are moments of solace and consolation. My mother was an author and a journalist, and because of this, I still have record of my mother through her writings and her old diaries. Sometimes, I can hear her voice so vividly that she seems to be standing in the room with me. And in spite of my theological skepticism on the issue of ghosts and spirits, I could swear she was watching me during my performance of Anna in The King and I. Maybe these are God's ways of assuring us that He's still there even when we don't believe it. And, my dear friend, there may be times when you won't believe it.
Remember my friend, my sister, I love you.
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
A "Sew-Called" Feminist
When my mother died, I somehow inherited her sewing machine. I am not exactly sure why anyone would think that I would be interested in owning a sewing machine. I have been quite vocal throughout my lifetime about my disdain for stereotypical gender roles and, as a result, refused to learn how to sew - that is until I was an adult and, out of necessity, had to figure out how to sew on a button.
However, I never learned how to sew on a machine. My mother tried to teach me once or twice when I was a child, but I soon lost patience and spent my sewing lessons playing with my Barbies instead (because Barbie is not about stereotypical gender roles at all . . .).
For some reason, my brother didn't want the sewing machine, and my father's wife already had a machine - probably a newer model than my mother's 1960-something Signature from Montgomery Ward.
"We had it tuned up for you!" my father exclaimed proudly as he carried the machine into the living room, holding it from the bottom - like an over-sized box - since the plastic handle was broken. Apparently, sewing machines are like cars and require tune-ups every now and them.
"What do I do with it?" I asked.
My dad shrugged. He was just relieved to get it out of storage.
The sewing machine lived in our garage for a few years. Sometimes it would catch my eye when I was getting out of the car and I would say, "I should do something with that thing."
"No you shouldn't," the pseudo-feminist voice in my head would say. "Just because you are a woman doesn't mean you need to know how to use a sewing machine."
A few months ago, I was in a theater production where I had to sew curtains. I could either spend hours hand-stitching the curtains, or I could run them through a machine in about half the time.
So my husband and I dragged the sewing machine into our house, wary of inconspicuous spiders that may have made their homes in this odd contraption we were introducing into our abode.
We gathered around the thing, owner's manual from approximately 1968 in hand. Upon opening the manual, I was overwhelmed with words like "zig zag" and "monogramming" and "overlock," and I promptly handed it over to Dan.
I soon discovered that engineers make much better seamstresses than . . . well . . . me. Dan sat down and threaded the machine with a dexterity that I had not previously realized he possessed. And as you have probably guessed, Dan is a lot more patient than I am which is a necessary attribute for a skilled seamstress.
"Loosen the hand wheel," he said in soothing tones. "Now put the thread through the tension discs. And pull the thread through a hole in the bobbin - "
"What the heck is a bobbin? Is that really a word?"
Dan held up a little round metal object with multiple holes on the top and the bottom.
"This is a bobbin. You have to get the thread from that - " he pointed to something (that I now know is) called a spool "to this -" he pointed to the bobbin.
"How do you know all of this?"
"It's in the owner's manual," he said. (Finally, a man who reads the instructions.)
The first time I attempted to "wind the bobbin," the spool flew across the room.
"Is it supposed to do that when the bobbin is full?" I asked.
Dan frowned and picked up the empty spool.
"I don't think so. But that was pretty cool."
I also jammed the bobbin case in the machine when it didn't lock into place as quickly as I thought it should.
"You have to be gentle with it," said Dan a half-hour later, the amount of time it took him to undo the damage I had caused.
And with that, he petted it, murmured softly to it, and swiftly popped the case into the machine.
"You're the Sewing Machine Whisperer," I said, a little in awe of my husband's newly found talent.
Eventually, I was able to stitch straight enough to sew curtains. At first, while working on those infamous curtains, my thread kept snapping, and a nice woman at the theater fixed the tension on the machine (whatever that means). But I did finish the job and even accomplished it in less time than it would have taken me to hand-stitch.
Where is my sewing machine now, you may ask? Is it still in garage? No, it now sits in one of our guest rooms, right next to my miniature dollhouse. Has it been used since my curtain-sewing days? Well, no. After all, I wouldn't want to be forced into any sort of stereotypical gender role, especially not one that requires that much patience.
However, I never learned how to sew on a machine. My mother tried to teach me once or twice when I was a child, but I soon lost patience and spent my sewing lessons playing with my Barbies instead (because Barbie is not about stereotypical gender roles at all . . .).
For some reason, my brother didn't want the sewing machine, and my father's wife already had a machine - probably a newer model than my mother's 1960-something Signature from Montgomery Ward.
"We had it tuned up for you!" my father exclaimed proudly as he carried the machine into the living room, holding it from the bottom - like an over-sized box - since the plastic handle was broken. Apparently, sewing machines are like cars and require tune-ups every now and them.
"What do I do with it?" I asked.
My dad shrugged. He was just relieved to get it out of storage.
The sewing machine lived in our garage for a few years. Sometimes it would catch my eye when I was getting out of the car and I would say, "I should do something with that thing."
"No you shouldn't," the pseudo-feminist voice in my head would say. "Just because you are a woman doesn't mean you need to know how to use a sewing machine."
A few months ago, I was in a theater production where I had to sew curtains. I could either spend hours hand-stitching the curtains, or I could run them through a machine in about half the time.
So my husband and I dragged the sewing machine into our house, wary of inconspicuous spiders that may have made their homes in this odd contraption we were introducing into our abode.
We gathered around the thing, owner's manual from approximately 1968 in hand. Upon opening the manual, I was overwhelmed with words like "zig zag" and "monogramming" and "overlock," and I promptly handed it over to Dan.
I soon discovered that engineers make much better seamstresses than . . . well . . . me. Dan sat down and threaded the machine with a dexterity that I had not previously realized he possessed. And as you have probably guessed, Dan is a lot more patient than I am which is a necessary attribute for a skilled seamstress.
"Loosen the hand wheel," he said in soothing tones. "Now put the thread through the tension discs. And pull the thread through a hole in the bobbin - "
"What the heck is a bobbin? Is that really a word?"
Dan held up a little round metal object with multiple holes on the top and the bottom.
"This is a bobbin. You have to get the thread from that - " he pointed to something (that I now know is) called a spool "to this -" he pointed to the bobbin.
"How do you know all of this?"
"It's in the owner's manual," he said. (Finally, a man who reads the instructions.)
The first time I attempted to "wind the bobbin," the spool flew across the room.
"Is it supposed to do that when the bobbin is full?" I asked.
Dan frowned and picked up the empty spool.
"I don't think so. But that was pretty cool."
I also jammed the bobbin case in the machine when it didn't lock into place as quickly as I thought it should.
"You have to be gentle with it," said Dan a half-hour later, the amount of time it took him to undo the damage I had caused.
And with that, he petted it, murmured softly to it, and swiftly popped the case into the machine.
"You're the Sewing Machine Whisperer," I said, a little in awe of my husband's newly found talent.
Eventually, I was able to stitch straight enough to sew curtains. At first, while working on those infamous curtains, my thread kept snapping, and a nice woman at the theater fixed the tension on the machine (whatever that means). But I did finish the job and even accomplished it in less time than it would have taken me to hand-stitch.
Where is my sewing machine now, you may ask? Is it still in garage? No, it now sits in one of our guest rooms, right next to my miniature dollhouse. Has it been used since my curtain-sewing days? Well, no. After all, I wouldn't want to be forced into any sort of stereotypical gender role, especially not one that requires that much patience.
Monday, August 09, 2010
Start Spreading the News . . . and All of the Other Clichés Surrounding the Big Apple
"I can't write a blog about my trip to New York! I'm not trendy enough. What am I thinking?" I wailed from my television-viewing perch in our midtown Manhattan hotel room.
I was watching a show on NYC nightlife, one of those cable access-type shows that are broadcast in hotels to entice tourists into businesses and shops and restaurants and nightclubs in the hopes that we tourists will spend lots of money, drink lots of alcohol, and thereby stimulate the local economy.
Obviously, I knew nothing about participating in nightlife since it was 9:30 p.m. on day two of my excursion, and I was sprawled out on the bed (despite the onslaught of bedbugs in New York hotel rooms as reported on the Today Show that morning), living vicariously through the twenty-somethings on the T.V. screen who were getting their groove on at some hip hot spot in some random area of the city.
In fact, I got the impression that I did not know the first thing about how to truly experience the city. Dan and I opted to cram our days full of sightseeing activities that centered around "educational" experiences - cultural tours, museum visits, hop-on/hop-off bus rides, etc. Quite often, we were the only North American tourists on these ventures.
"Americans must just come to New York to party," Dan observed.
By the time we came back to the hotel from our pack-as-many-activities-into-24-hours-as-we-possibly-can missions (which has always been Dan's and my modus operandi when traveling), the last thing I wanted to do was go back out on the town and party. And I couldn't use old age as an excuse. Those women on Sex and the City are all older than I am. (Later that week, we saw four Broadway shows which made me feel a little more connected to the city's nightlife.)
Our New York vacation had gone smoothly so far, and NYC was definitely a unique city, crowded and fun, never lacking in entertainment, each day full of incessant energy. I am assuming most people feel the same way about the city, hence the nickname "The City that Never Sleeps." But prior to our visit, we encountered some leery skepticism that overshadowed the widely publicized positive aspects of the city and planted a few preconceived notions in our minds.
When people found out Dan and I were planning a trip to New York, I received all sorts of warnings from fellow travelers about avoiding pick-pockets and muggers and how to figure out where not to go. Never had I heard so many cautious travel tips when preparing to visit St. Louis, Chicago, Washington D. C., San Francisco, Philadelphia, Seattle, or any other large U. S. city.
"Always carry your purse in front of you."
"Get a money belt . . . with a padlock"
"Walk like you know where you're going, and don't ask for directions."
"Don't make eye contact with anyone."
"Don't expect people to be friendly."
"Don't take pictures. They will know you are tourists."
"Don't carry around a map (which was going to be excruciating for my husband who reads maps for fun on a daily basis). They will know you are tourists."
When traveling, my mantra has always been, "Be smart . . . and don't get ushered into any unmarked cars like in the government espionage movies."
Was NYC really going to be that different from any other metropolitan area? Was I going to have to revamp my whole way of thinking when it came to travel? Was I not going to be able to document any of my experience by snapping the occasional picture or picking up a touristy brochure here and there?
As it turned out, Manhattan was not any different from any other city as far as its safety or friendliness. In fact, it felt safer and seemed cleaner than most places I had traveled. And half of its population is made up of tourists anyway, so we weren't the only ones snapping pictures on the street or asking questions.
What I did find is that people are just people. Some people are friendly; some people are mean. Some people are honest; some people are deceitful. Some people are vegetarian and eat at local organic delis; some people still buy fur at Sax Fifth Avenue (you can decide which is the more humane option). Some people like to party at Manhattan hot spots; some people like to take walking tours in Greenwich Village (that would be me).
During my first couple of days in the city, I ran across a political group handing out fliers about voting Republican in the next election. I saw a man wearing a t-shirt that read "Welcome to America. Now speak English." I heard a tour guide say "I just love the working class! They are so friendly."
"I feel like I'm in Idaho," I grumbled.
I guess people are the same everywhere.
Only one of my preconceived notions was proven to be true - the notion that New York drivers are erratic. This cliché became part of my New York paradigm after watching the movie Elf. "The yellow ones don't stop," Will Ferrell says, referring to the taxi cabs. Earlier in the movie he had been hit by one. (Pathetically, Dan and I spent much of our Manhattan trip quoting dialogue and looking for landmarks from Elf.)
The yellow ones really don't stop. Neither do the sedans or the buses or the vans or the shuttles or the pedestrians for that matter. Who needs traffic lights or crosswalks? Just dart across the street between cars when there is a slight break in traffic. Did the light just barely turn green? Honk your horn just to make sure the person in front of you saw it. Do you need to talk to one of your passengers, Mr./Ms. Shuttle Driver? Go ahead and turn around, and don't worry about keeping your eyes on the road. Those brake lights shining on the cars in front of you are overrated anyway. And you have terrific reflexes.
During one of our tour bus rides, a taxi passed us on the left side of a narrow street, boldly driving into oncoming traffic.
"They think they own the streets. But if they hit us, they are goners, and we just keep right on going," our guide smirked.
Dan and I just laughed, finally desensitized to the insane traffic in New York and accepting that, yes indeed, the bus probably would keep right on going.
Rather than regurgitate a daily activity log which would probably be the length of a novel (as I said, when traveling, Dan and I try to accomplish as many activities in every 24-hour period as possible), I'll just highlight some of my most interesting Big Apple observations. Some of my encounters left me saying, "Only in New York . . . " Others just reinforced my belief that sometimes people are just people.
CBGB is now a John Varvatos boutique that sells pants somewhere in the neighborhood of $800. You may not appreciate the tragic incongruity of this, especially if you are not familiar with CBGB. Don't feel bad. Dan and I were the only two people on the New York Night Tour who knew what our guide was talking about. Look it up on Wikipedia. Then you too can shake your head at the materialism in our capitalist society.
Also in the Bowery (if I remember the location correctly), there was a Halloween store displaying the face of a devil right next to a church.
We ate lunch in a deli, and our table was next to three gorgeous, model-type twenty-somethings. They chatted throughout their meal, but when they finished eating, they pulled out their phones and spent the next fifteen minutes texting in silence.
I broke down crying at the World Trade Center Memorial Museum. A woman walked over to me with a Kleenex. "The tissues are free, honey," she said. Her son had died in the 9/11 attacks.
We got stuck in a downpour while visiting the Statue of Liberty. While waiting in line for the Ellis Island ferry, the wind started blowing pretty fiercely. From behind us, we heard children squealing and someone yelled, "Hurricane!" A father was attempting to protect his baby by putting a plastic sack over her head (hmmm. . .). When the ferry pulled up to the dock, there was a stampede toward the boat. One lady shoved her way in front of us, slamming her open umbrella into my face. "I'd hate to see these people in a real emergency," I muttered to Dan.
When touring Lincoln Center, our guide asked everybody where they were from. "Australia," "Milan," "Brazil." "Idaho," we said a little sheepishly. "Idaho?" the other tourists said, almost in awe, probably supposing it so obscure that it must be exotic. "They are from America," the guide explained. "Idaho is a beautiful state. It gives us the most wonderful potatoes."
There was a chain link fence, an impromptu 9/11 memorial, in Greenwich Village that was covered in tiles decorated with artwork from all over. "It was such an act of hatred, yet all of the artwork on these tiles is about love and peace," our guide said as we perused the memorial. It was true. Not one tile pointed a finger of blame or even hinted at anything negative. The tiles were illustrations of hope and rebirth and peace and community. Then she turned to Dan and me and pointed to a tile in the center of the fence, "Where did you guys say you were from? Here's one from Iowa."
At the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA), Dan, upon viewing one of Jackson Pollack's masterpieces, said, "I could splatter a bunch of paint all over a canvas." To which I replied, "And you wonder why American tourists have such a bad reputation."
So I guess I could write a blog about my trip to New York after all because my experience didn't have to be about clubbing all night. It didn't have to be about designer handbags or $800 pants. It didn't have to be high end or trendy. As I heard one local say, "Go ahead. Get out there and make your own New York."
I was watching a show on NYC nightlife, one of those cable access-type shows that are broadcast in hotels to entice tourists into businesses and shops and restaurants and nightclubs in the hopes that we tourists will spend lots of money, drink lots of alcohol, and thereby stimulate the local economy.
Obviously, I knew nothing about participating in nightlife since it was 9:30 p.m. on day two of my excursion, and I was sprawled out on the bed (despite the onslaught of bedbugs in New York hotel rooms as reported on the Today Show that morning), living vicariously through the twenty-somethings on the T.V. screen who were getting their groove on at some hip hot spot in some random area of the city.
In fact, I got the impression that I did not know the first thing about how to truly experience the city. Dan and I opted to cram our days full of sightseeing activities that centered around "educational" experiences - cultural tours, museum visits, hop-on/hop-off bus rides, etc. Quite often, we were the only North American tourists on these ventures.
"Americans must just come to New York to party," Dan observed.
By the time we came back to the hotel from our pack-as-many-activities-into-24-hours-as-we-possibly-can missions (which has always been Dan's and my modus operandi when traveling), the last thing I wanted to do was go back out on the town and party. And I couldn't use old age as an excuse. Those women on Sex and the City are all older than I am. (Later that week, we saw four Broadway shows which made me feel a little more connected to the city's nightlife.)
Our New York vacation had gone smoothly so far, and NYC was definitely a unique city, crowded and fun, never lacking in entertainment, each day full of incessant energy. I am assuming most people feel the same way about the city, hence the nickname "The City that Never Sleeps." But prior to our visit, we encountered some leery skepticism that overshadowed the widely publicized positive aspects of the city and planted a few preconceived notions in our minds.
When people found out Dan and I were planning a trip to New York, I received all sorts of warnings from fellow travelers about avoiding pick-pockets and muggers and how to figure out where not to go. Never had I heard so many cautious travel tips when preparing to visit St. Louis, Chicago, Washington D. C., San Francisco, Philadelphia, Seattle, or any other large U. S. city.
"Always carry your purse in front of you."
"Get a money belt . . . with a padlock"
"Walk like you know where you're going, and don't ask for directions."
"Don't make eye contact with anyone."
"Don't expect people to be friendly."
"Don't take pictures. They will know you are tourists."
"Don't carry around a map (which was going to be excruciating for my husband who reads maps for fun on a daily basis). They will know you are tourists."
When traveling, my mantra has always been, "Be smart . . . and don't get ushered into any unmarked cars like in the government espionage movies."
Was NYC really going to be that different from any other metropolitan area? Was I going to have to revamp my whole way of thinking when it came to travel? Was I not going to be able to document any of my experience by snapping the occasional picture or picking up a touristy brochure here and there?
As it turned out, Manhattan was not any different from any other city as far as its safety or friendliness. In fact, it felt safer and seemed cleaner than most places I had traveled. And half of its population is made up of tourists anyway, so we weren't the only ones snapping pictures on the street or asking questions.
What I did find is that people are just people. Some people are friendly; some people are mean. Some people are honest; some people are deceitful. Some people are vegetarian and eat at local organic delis; some people still buy fur at Sax Fifth Avenue (you can decide which is the more humane option). Some people like to party at Manhattan hot spots; some people like to take walking tours in Greenwich Village (that would be me).
During my first couple of days in the city, I ran across a political group handing out fliers about voting Republican in the next election. I saw a man wearing a t-shirt that read "Welcome to America. Now speak English." I heard a tour guide say "I just love the working class! They are so friendly."
"I feel like I'm in Idaho," I grumbled.
I guess people are the same everywhere.
Only one of my preconceived notions was proven to be true - the notion that New York drivers are erratic. This cliché became part of my New York paradigm after watching the movie Elf. "The yellow ones don't stop," Will Ferrell says, referring to the taxi cabs. Earlier in the movie he had been hit by one. (Pathetically, Dan and I spent much of our Manhattan trip quoting dialogue and looking for landmarks from Elf.)
The yellow ones really don't stop. Neither do the sedans or the buses or the vans or the shuttles or the pedestrians for that matter. Who needs traffic lights or crosswalks? Just dart across the street between cars when there is a slight break in traffic. Did the light just barely turn green? Honk your horn just to make sure the person in front of you saw it. Do you need to talk to one of your passengers, Mr./Ms. Shuttle Driver? Go ahead and turn around, and don't worry about keeping your eyes on the road. Those brake lights shining on the cars in front of you are overrated anyway. And you have terrific reflexes.
During one of our tour bus rides, a taxi passed us on the left side of a narrow street, boldly driving into oncoming traffic.
"They think they own the streets. But if they hit us, they are goners, and we just keep right on going," our guide smirked.
Dan and I just laughed, finally desensitized to the insane traffic in New York and accepting that, yes indeed, the bus probably would keep right on going.
Rather than regurgitate a daily activity log which would probably be the length of a novel (as I said, when traveling, Dan and I try to accomplish as many activities in every 24-hour period as possible), I'll just highlight some of my most interesting Big Apple observations. Some of my encounters left me saying, "Only in New York . . . " Others just reinforced my belief that sometimes people are just people.
CBGB is now a John Varvatos boutique that sells pants somewhere in the neighborhood of $800. You may not appreciate the tragic incongruity of this, especially if you are not familiar with CBGB. Don't feel bad. Dan and I were the only two people on the New York Night Tour who knew what our guide was talking about. Look it up on Wikipedia. Then you too can shake your head at the materialism in our capitalist society.
Also in the Bowery (if I remember the location correctly), there was a Halloween store displaying the face of a devil right next to a church.
We ate lunch in a deli, and our table was next to three gorgeous, model-type twenty-somethings. They chatted throughout their meal, but when they finished eating, they pulled out their phones and spent the next fifteen minutes texting in silence.
I broke down crying at the World Trade Center Memorial Museum. A woman walked over to me with a Kleenex. "The tissues are free, honey," she said. Her son had died in the 9/11 attacks.
We got stuck in a downpour while visiting the Statue of Liberty. While waiting in line for the Ellis Island ferry, the wind started blowing pretty fiercely. From behind us, we heard children squealing and someone yelled, "Hurricane!" A father was attempting to protect his baby by putting a plastic sack over her head (hmmm. . .). When the ferry pulled up to the dock, there was a stampede toward the boat. One lady shoved her way in front of us, slamming her open umbrella into my face. "I'd hate to see these people in a real emergency," I muttered to Dan.
When touring Lincoln Center, our guide asked everybody where they were from. "Australia," "Milan," "Brazil." "Idaho," we said a little sheepishly. "Idaho?" the other tourists said, almost in awe, probably supposing it so obscure that it must be exotic. "They are from America," the guide explained. "Idaho is a beautiful state. It gives us the most wonderful potatoes."
There was a chain link fence, an impromptu 9/11 memorial, in Greenwich Village that was covered in tiles decorated with artwork from all over. "It was such an act of hatred, yet all of the artwork on these tiles is about love and peace," our guide said as we perused the memorial. It was true. Not one tile pointed a finger of blame or even hinted at anything negative. The tiles were illustrations of hope and rebirth and peace and community. Then she turned to Dan and me and pointed to a tile in the center of the fence, "Where did you guys say you were from? Here's one from Iowa."
At the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA), Dan, upon viewing one of Jackson Pollack's masterpieces, said, "I could splatter a bunch of paint all over a canvas." To which I replied, "And you wonder why American tourists have such a bad reputation."
So I guess I could write a blog about my trip to New York after all because my experience didn't have to be about clubbing all night. It didn't have to be about designer handbags or $800 pants. It didn't have to be high end or trendy. As I heard one local say, "Go ahead. Get out there and make your own New York."
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Two Flat Tires and a Family Picnic
For some reason, Boise had very few nice spring days this year. Let’s put it this way – it snowed at the end of May. So when Mother Nature finally decided to bestow upon us at least one day of warm, temperate weather a few weeks ago, Dan and I decided to take advantage of it. We skipped church and attempted our first long bike ride of the season.
I wasn’t feeling adventurous enough to go mountain biking but wanted a change of scenery from our typical greenbelt ride. We compromised and tried a dirt trail that followed a creek behind one of the city parks.
We had been riding for all of ten minutes when Dan said, "Is my back tire flat?"
It was, the culprit - a goat head. Having learned our lesson two summers ago when Dan's tire went flat on the way to the Lucky Peak Reservoir, we always carry a pump with us and our tires are full of neon green gloop. We own a patch kit, but when deciding whether or not to bring the patch kit on our rides with us, this is how our conversation typically proceeds:
Becky: "Aren't you going to bring the patch kit?"
Dan: (Sigh) "I don't know."
Becky: "Don't you remember when your tire went flat on the way to Lucky Peak? You said (in my best Dan the man voice) 'We need a patch kit.' So you bought one. Why don't we bring it with us?"
Dan: "It's just one more thing to carry."
Becky: "It's not that cumbersome."
Dan: "I would need the tools to take the tire off too."
Becky: "What's better - a few extra tools or a flat tire?"
Dan: (Sigh) "We're not going that far."
And never mind trying to get him to bring along an extra bike tube, even though I've heard from reputable sources that this is a necessity during long biking excursions. Who needs a tube when you have got magical green gloop?
There we were, Dan pumping and spinning the tire (apparently that helps the gloop seal the puncture), green slime oozing out of the sides, while I held the bike steady.
"Psst . . . " the tire hissed as Dan pumped air into it.
"I don't think that's a very good sign," he said.
We gave up and headed home.
A couple of hours later, after Dan had replaced his bike tube, we were ready to give it another try. We decided to ride the Boise Greenbelt, a paved trail, more likely to be void of goat heads - or so we thought.
"Is my tire flat?" I asked after the first twenty minutes of our journey.
Indeed it was.
We pulled over and attempted, for the second time that day, to pump and spin. An enormous goat head nestled comfortably in my front tire, sinking its prongs in between the treads, oblivious to the nuisance it was creating for us, oblivious to the fact that the we had already encountered its equally irritating brother or sister a few hours earlier.
Having no luck with the pump and spin method, Dan took off for the car - a twenty-minute bike ride away - and I walked my defunct vehicle of transportation to a nearby park, which was fortunately only five minutes down the greenbelt on foot.
"Do you want me to fix your tire?" an older gentleman dressed in multicolored, logo-plastered spandex asked as he rode up behind me.
"My husband already tried. The green gloop's not working."
"Do you have a tube?" the biker asked.
I shook my head.
"You should always carry a tube."
Determining I was safe after I explained to him that my husband was going to pick me up at the park, the man pedaled away satisfied that he had imparted his biker wisdom on me and that I would never venture onto a bike path without an extra tube again.
In the park, I found a shady spot where I perched myself, cell phone in hand, futile bicycle beside me. I also had a full view of the strangest family picnic I have ever experienced. I discovered I could watch the entire scene underneath my sunglasses without the observed party knowing what I was doing. I even set my head forward for part of the time, making it look as if I was gazing straight ahead, while watching them from a side glance because, quite honestly, any one of them probably could have taken me in an instant, and I had left my pepper spray at home.
The picnicking family consisted of about six adults, three females and three males, and many, many scantily-clad children under the age of four. I assumed they were family because several of them resembled one another, and all of them seemed to possess similar linguistic knowledge.
"If you don't sit down, I'm going to kick your [expletive]" said the woman - who seemed to be in charge of the food - to a man, the only one with (and who could afford to have) his shirt off.
"Why's she [expletive] crying?" said another man to a lean, fair-skinned woman who was carrying a baby on her hip while the "[expletive] crying" child tottered after her.
"Because he went to the [expletive] playground without her. She wanted to go," the woman - presumably a mother of sorts - explained.
"Mommy," a child of about four called out to the lean, fair-skinned woman, "does she want to come play?"
"Oh, now you come get her," she remarked (now the baby on the hip was crying). "Thanks for thinking of someone else for a change."
I'm guessing this was "he" who had gone to the "[expletive] playground" without the crying child.
The correct response would have been, "Umm, Mom, I'm four. By definition, I don't think of anyone else but myself."
Before he could reply to his mother, the shirtless man started to chase him around, which prompted the woman in charge of the food to spout off a string of words that I probably shouldn't have been hearing, much less the four-year-old being chased by this woman's source of distress.
Finally, she ended her tirade with a dramatic "I can't do this!" and sunk onto the picnic bench in a (rather large) heap.
Meanwhile, a stocky bearded man threw his hands in the air and stomped away from the picnic, followed by a red-headed woman shouting, "Where the [expletive] are you going?"
"Do you [expletive] hear her? She's always like this!" the stocky bearded man yelled. "I can't deal with it!"
"You can't [expletive] go anywhere," the redhead said. "I signed you out. Your [expletive] is my responsibility. Please," she begged (my heart twinged a little), "just try to get along."
For a split second, I wanted to mediate and help model proper communication skills, but that's when I noticed the lean, fair-skinned woman and the woman in charge of the food were about ready to fight. And yes, the baby was still crying on the fair-skinned woman's hip. I thought it best if I stayed out of it. Plus, the stocky bearded man was stomping my way, the redhead in tow, and I still didn't know from where or what he was "signed out." At that moment, Dan arrived to rescue me from my flat tire.
I had two thoughts as I piled my bicycle onto the back of our 4Runner: 1) It would have been funnier had children not been involved and if it had been a movie and not people's lives I was watching unfold and 2) Were all of their family functions like this? Or did I just catch them on a bad day?
"You know," Dan said as we drove off, "we did skip church this morning. Maybe the two flat tires was God telling us we should have gone to church."
"You don't believe in a punitive, retaliatory God," I pointed out.
"I know, I'm just joking . . . kind of."
"Well," I said, the family picnic I had just witnessed still fresh in my mind, "whatever it was, Someone has an interesting sense of humor."
I wasn’t feeling adventurous enough to go mountain biking but wanted a change of scenery from our typical greenbelt ride. We compromised and tried a dirt trail that followed a creek behind one of the city parks.
We had been riding for all of ten minutes when Dan said, "Is my back tire flat?"
It was, the culprit - a goat head. Having learned our lesson two summers ago when Dan's tire went flat on the way to the Lucky Peak Reservoir, we always carry a pump with us and our tires are full of neon green gloop. We own a patch kit, but when deciding whether or not to bring the patch kit on our rides with us, this is how our conversation typically proceeds:
Becky: "Aren't you going to bring the patch kit?"
Dan: (Sigh) "I don't know."
Becky: "Don't you remember when your tire went flat on the way to Lucky Peak? You said (in my best Dan the man voice) 'We need a patch kit.' So you bought one. Why don't we bring it with us?"
Dan: "It's just one more thing to carry."
Becky: "It's not that cumbersome."
Dan: "I would need the tools to take the tire off too."
Becky: "What's better - a few extra tools or a flat tire?"
Dan: (Sigh) "We're not going that far."
And never mind trying to get him to bring along an extra bike tube, even though I've heard from reputable sources that this is a necessity during long biking excursions. Who needs a tube when you have got magical green gloop?
There we were, Dan pumping and spinning the tire (apparently that helps the gloop seal the puncture), green slime oozing out of the sides, while I held the bike steady.
"Psst . . . " the tire hissed as Dan pumped air into it.
"I don't think that's a very good sign," he said.
We gave up and headed home.
A couple of hours later, after Dan had replaced his bike tube, we were ready to give it another try. We decided to ride the Boise Greenbelt, a paved trail, more likely to be void of goat heads - or so we thought.
"Is my tire flat?" I asked after the first twenty minutes of our journey.
Indeed it was.
We pulled over and attempted, for the second time that day, to pump and spin. An enormous goat head nestled comfortably in my front tire, sinking its prongs in between the treads, oblivious to the nuisance it was creating for us, oblivious to the fact that the we had already encountered its equally irritating brother or sister a few hours earlier.
Having no luck with the pump and spin method, Dan took off for the car - a twenty-minute bike ride away - and I walked my defunct vehicle of transportation to a nearby park, which was fortunately only five minutes down the greenbelt on foot.
"Do you want me to fix your tire?" an older gentleman dressed in multicolored, logo-plastered spandex asked as he rode up behind me.
"My husband already tried. The green gloop's not working."
"Do you have a tube?" the biker asked.
I shook my head.
"You should always carry a tube."
Determining I was safe after I explained to him that my husband was going to pick me up at the park, the man pedaled away satisfied that he had imparted his biker wisdom on me and that I would never venture onto a bike path without an extra tube again.
In the park, I found a shady spot where I perched myself, cell phone in hand, futile bicycle beside me. I also had a full view of the strangest family picnic I have ever experienced. I discovered I could watch the entire scene underneath my sunglasses without the observed party knowing what I was doing. I even set my head forward for part of the time, making it look as if I was gazing straight ahead, while watching them from a side glance because, quite honestly, any one of them probably could have taken me in an instant, and I had left my pepper spray at home.
The picnicking family consisted of about six adults, three females and three males, and many, many scantily-clad children under the age of four. I assumed they were family because several of them resembled one another, and all of them seemed to possess similar linguistic knowledge.
"If you don't sit down, I'm going to kick your [expletive]" said the woman - who seemed to be in charge of the food - to a man, the only one with (and who could afford to have) his shirt off.
"Why's she [expletive] crying?" said another man to a lean, fair-skinned woman who was carrying a baby on her hip while the "[expletive] crying" child tottered after her.
"Because he went to the [expletive] playground without her. She wanted to go," the woman - presumably a mother of sorts - explained.
"Mommy," a child of about four called out to the lean, fair-skinned woman, "does she want to come play?"
"Oh, now you come get her," she remarked (now the baby on the hip was crying). "Thanks for thinking of someone else for a change."
I'm guessing this was "he" who had gone to the "[expletive] playground" without the crying child.
The correct response would have been, "Umm, Mom, I'm four. By definition, I don't think of anyone else but myself."
Before he could reply to his mother, the shirtless man started to chase him around, which prompted the woman in charge of the food to spout off a string of words that I probably shouldn't have been hearing, much less the four-year-old being chased by this woman's source of distress.
Finally, she ended her tirade with a dramatic "I can't do this!" and sunk onto the picnic bench in a (rather large) heap.
Meanwhile, a stocky bearded man threw his hands in the air and stomped away from the picnic, followed by a red-headed woman shouting, "Where the [expletive] are you going?"
"Do you [expletive] hear her? She's always like this!" the stocky bearded man yelled. "I can't deal with it!"
"You can't [expletive] go anywhere," the redhead said. "I signed you out. Your [expletive] is my responsibility. Please," she begged (my heart twinged a little), "just try to get along."
For a split second, I wanted to mediate and help model proper communication skills, but that's when I noticed the lean, fair-skinned woman and the woman in charge of the food were about ready to fight. And yes, the baby was still crying on the fair-skinned woman's hip. I thought it best if I stayed out of it. Plus, the stocky bearded man was stomping my way, the redhead in tow, and I still didn't know from where or what he was "signed out." At that moment, Dan arrived to rescue me from my flat tire.
I had two thoughts as I piled my bicycle onto the back of our 4Runner: 1) It would have been funnier had children not been involved and if it had been a movie and not people's lives I was watching unfold and 2) Were all of their family functions like this? Or did I just catch them on a bad day?
"You know," Dan said as we drove off, "we did skip church this morning. Maybe the two flat tires was God telling us we should have gone to church."
"You don't believe in a punitive, retaliatory God," I pointed out.
"I know, I'm just joking . . . kind of."
"Well," I said, the family picnic I had just witnessed still fresh in my mind, "whatever it was, Someone has an interesting sense of humor."
Monday, April 12, 2010
My Attempt at Spontaneous (a.k.a. Bohemian) Travel
Some prior thoughts . . .When Dan and I decided to vacation in Oregon over spring break, I managed to convince him that we should be spontaneous. A little background information - spontaneity is not one of my many virtues. I have three to-do lists - one at home, two at school - and about 5 calendars. I make up a monthly meal grid from which I draw my meticulously detailed grocery list. Every evening, I hang my clothes for the next morning on the bathroom door. This may not seem that unusual except that I also lay out my Monday morning outfit every Friday evening.
In other words, I wasn't surprised at the reactions I received when I told my family and friends that I would be taking a "Bohemian" journey through Oregon.
"If we were really Bohemians, we would be crashing on strangers' couches, and we wouldn't have spent so much money on tickets to the Shakespeare Festival or the Muse concert," Dan pointed out. "Besides, Bohemians aren't members of AAA."
So what if we had a AAA Tour Book and a couple of pre-planned events in specific cities? This was my version of a non-drug induced On the Road. The fact that we had no hotel reservations and no itinerary (at least for the coast part of our trip) made me feel creatively impulsive.
"You won't be able to handle it," my brother, Steve, said.
"You'll be in tears by the second day," my dad said.
"You will hate Dan by the end of the trip," Steve concluded.
"Oh ye of little faith!" was my response. "I'm doing this for the writing material."
A couple of evenings before we left, I found Dan in our Hybrid, reclining the driver's seat as far as it would go.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking to see if the Hybrid is comfortable enough, in case we have to sleep in it," he replied.
The night before we left, I caught Dan acting very un-Bohemian - looking up road reports, Googling maps, checking hotel availability.
The morning of our venture, Dan decided (after spending an hour researching Oregon's weather forecasts) that we would take the 4-Runner. I felt slightly sorry for him. He had been looking so forward to taking the Hybrid on its first road trip.
He handed me several sets of road directions printed fresh off the Internet.
"I know this isn't very Bohemian," he said, "but you don't even have to look at these. Just pretend like they don't exist."
We crawled into the SUV and plugged in Dan's iPod.
"At least the 4-Runner's seats are more comfortable for sleeping," Dan observed.
Monday, March 29, 2010 - Bend, OR
We had just pulled out of our neighborhood when Dan asked me if he had shut the garage door.
"I didn't see."
"I'm pretty sure I did."
"You had better go back."
He turned around.
"We're turning into your parents," he said.
All of my family vacations began with my mother demanding that my father drive back by our house before leaving town to make sure the garage door had shut properly.
"Except you're almost as OCD as I am," I said.
After we were what seemed to be about an hour outside of Ontario, Dan asked me to pull out the maps he had Googled.
"You were supposed to take the Weiser exit," I told.
Dan pulled the 4-Runner over into a gravel pit ("See we're off-roading," he said. "Very rugged.") and glanced at the Oregon/Washington road map. He wanted to see if he could take an alternate route.
"Unpaved . . . huh."
He concluded we should turn around and head back to the Weiser exit.
"Bohemian," he muttered. "Whatever that means."
"I think we should use the maps now and not try to be that Bohemian anymore," I said.
Funny thing though. It turned out we were only 15 minutes outside of Ontario. It seemed I had miscalculated the time we had already been on the road.
Several "Lost" podcasts later (which had been eagerly downloaded by my techno-geek husband just for our road trip), we ended up in Bend, Oregon.
We walked into a cute riverside hotel for which we had no reservations; however, Dan did admit later that he had checked out room availability on the AAA website the night before. Like I said, I think he might be as OCD as I am.
"Isn't it fun to walk into a hotel and say, 'I'd like a room for the night?' " I asked.
"But then I have to talk to people. If I just make the reservations online, I can just say, 'Reservations for Duggan.' "
Day 1 Travel Details:
- Lunch on the road at Austin House Cafe and Country Store (nestled in the Blue Mountains)
- Dinner at Bend Brewing Company (Interesting fact: Humanitarian organization Rise Up International is currently displaying and selling local art on the restaurant's walls. Proceeds will help fund a Rise Up International school in Bihar, India.)
- Lodgings: The Riverhouse Hotel and Convention Center
We woke up to news reports of heavy snow on the Oregon highways.
"Make sure you are carrying chains," the perky meteorologist said. "Have a sparkling day in central Oregon!"
And almost on cue, snow began to float to the ground outside our hotel window. Dan decided to take a different road to Ashland so that we could stay on the less mountainous highway a little longer.
As it turned out, we drove through a few quick bursts of snow, nothing that was sticking to the roads, nothing that required chains or four-wheel drive.
"We probably could have taken the Hybrid through this," Dan sighed.
After lunch in Klamath Falls, Dan drove around in circles for a while, trying to figure out how to get back on the highway.
Eventually I said, "There's 6th street. That looks familiar. 6th street turned in 140, I think."
"Why didn't you tell me that?"
"I did when we came into town."
"You're supposed to be navigating."
"I'm being Bohemian. Besides, I can't read maps."
In order to pacify Dan, I pulled out the map.
"We need to find 97 South," I predicted.
"I don't know what happened to 97, but I don't want to go to Winnemucca," Dan shook his head. "I should just look at the map before we leave anywhere instead of depending on you. All I get from you is 'Find 140, 97, or 66 and flip a coin to decide which way to turn!'"
"66! Straight, no, turn!"
"Straight," corrected Dan.
"Turn."
"Straight."
"Look at the arrow!"
"Where do you see that?"
"No! Straight!"
"Ashland, 61 miles," Dan sighed with relief.
We arrived in Ashland safely in spite of my defunct navigational skills. We perused the copy of L. Ron Hubbard's The Way to Happiness next to the Bible in the dresser drawer. ("Preserve your teeth" is included as part of his moral code. He's absolutely right. I know I'm much more amiable when the dentist reports that I have no cavities.) Then we headed to dinner where we eavesdropped on the 70-something lady behind us who was predicting that the world would end in 2012 due to Earth Karma.
We ended our evening at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival's production of Hamlet. Purists may have gone into cardiac arrest at this contemporary presentation - Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were cast as women, the play within a play was set to hip-hop, sign language was used as a communication tool especially between Hamlet and his father's ghost - but by the end of the night, Hamlet was my new favorite Shakespeare production. And I consider myself to be literary purist of sorts.
Day 2 Travel Details:
- Breakfast at The Riverhouse Hotel (complimentary)
- Lunch at Nibbley's Cafe in Klamath Falls, OR (local diner, country decor, quilt hangings, creative menu with creative titles - i.e. "Charlie Tuna on an Inner Tube")
- Dinner at Larks Home Kitchen (emphasis on Pacific Northwest cuisine)
- Lodgings: Ashland Springs Hotel (nine-story historic hotel, built in 1925)
We made our way to the coast. This was our last night without a specific destination and without hotel reservations. The impromptu portion of our trip was almost over. We spent our time on the road listening to every Muse album ever released, preparing for Saturday's concert. Unable to live without my to-do lists (not very Bohemian, I know), I also jotted down a few Oregon Coast goals.
Becky's (not all that ambitious) Oregon Coast To-Do List
1) Find a blown glass float on the beach in Lincoln City.
2) Tour a lighthouse.
3) Track down a historic covered bridge.
4) Go whale watching.
5) Visit the Sea Lion Caves.
We stopped at the Dear Creek Elk Viewing Area on our way to Reedsport. A fellow elk viewer recommended we visit the Umpqua Discovery Center up the road, so we made our way there next. We hiked on a Dunes trail between Reedsport and Florence. Then we drove up 101 to the Sea Lion Caves. Check number five off my list!
We stopped at the Heceta Lighthouse, but we were too late to tour. Instead we walked to the lighthouse to view the ocean.
"This is like 'Lost,'" Dan said as we trudged up the dirt path. "I wonder if I will see my house in the lighthouse mirror." (Just a quick "Lost" reference that only fellow fans will understand.)
A little while later, when we were pulling out of the lighthouse parking lot, a truck made a sharp turn in front of us.
"Geesh," I commented.
"He's probably got a wife next to him saying, 'Turn here! Turn here!'" and I might add that Dan used his most high-pitched girlie voice on those last two exclamations.
By this time, I had started to get a little nervous about not having a place to stay and about not knowing how far we were going up the coast that night. The fact that all the quaint oceanfront inns and bed and breakfasts along 101 had signs out front that read "No vacancy" did not reassure me.
Originally, we had thought we might stay in Lincoln City so that I could search for my float first thing in the morning. But it was becoming apparent that we wouldn't make it before dinner. We decided to spend the night in Newport, and we did find a room with an ocean view.
That evening at dinner, I lamented that I was not a successful Bohemian traveler. Even without a definitive itinerary, I had managed to create a tour schedule of sorts with my Oregon Coast to-do list.
"We didn't even know we were staying in Newport tonight," Dan offered. "That's very spontaneous."
Day 3 Travel Details:
- Breakfast at Ashland Springs Hotel (complimentary)
- No lunch today. Too much snacking in the car.
- Dinner at Georgie's Beachside Grill in Newport, OR (Northwest cuisine, almost every table in the dining room has a view of the ocean)
- Lodgings: Best Western Agate Beach Inn (a little older - 70's/80's - both in decoration and structure, but has several amenities and beachfront rooms for decent rates)
Dan woke up saying, "What should I do to Becky for April Fool's?"
As we stood in line for the Yaquina Head Lighthouse tour (we had already visited the Chitwood Covered Bridge outside of Newport - check off number three - and the Cobble Beach tidepools that morning), Dan said, "I just thought of a great April Fool's joke!"
"Does it have anything to do with heights?"
Dan just laughed.
I must have been prophetic although it had nothing to do with Dan's elusive prank. I had no idea that touring a lighthouse would involve climbing a spiral staircase with 100+ holed steps. On my ascension, a nervous-looking 10-year-old passed me and said, "It's scarier coming down."
"That's what I was afraid of," I remarked as I crept on, gripping the railings on both sides.
I made it, even though I had to crawl on my hands and knees up the last four stairs. Surprisingly, I made it back down as well.
Outside the lighthouse was a whale watching viewpoint.
"Look! A gray whale!" Dan said immediately following it with, "April Fool's!"
"Was that it? Your big joke? You didn't even give me time to believe you."
We didn't see any whales, although we didn't spend a lot of time really looking for them (failed attempt at to-do list item number four). We did comb the beach in Lincoln City, but we arrived to town so late that I was pretty certain all of the floats had been discovered (failed attempt at to-do list item number one). We did find a few broken sea shells though before driving on to Portland.
Day 4 Travel Details:
- Breakfast at Starfish Grill (hotel restaurant)
- Lunch at Local Ocean Seafood in Newport, OR (fresh, local seafood on display describing how, where, and by whom the fish were caught, easy to make sustainable seafood choices)
- Snacked on Tillamook Ice Cream at Snack City in Lincoln City.
- No dinner which Dan regretted after he was reminded how cranky and sullen I get when I skip meals.
- Lodgings: The Nines in Portland (very swanky, we'll discuss this later)
Dan and I stayed at a very swanky hotel in downtown Portland called The Nines. We checked in Thursday evening and were greeted in the lobby by music that sounded like it belonged in A Night at the Roxbury. I half expected to find a head-bobbing Chris Kattan and Will Ferrell waiting for us in the elevator.
A little starstruck by the glitz of the hotel, Dan and I had to run outside and stop the valet from parking our car twice so that we could retrieve items we had forgotten to bring with us.
Finally the valet said, "If you forget anything else, just call us, and we can bring it to your room for you." He took off before we had time to stop him again.
We also rode the elevator up and down a few times before we figured out how to swipe our room key and punch our floor number.
"Are you going up?" the other guests would ask us quizzically as the elevator opened on the first floor revealing us standing there yet again with our luggage slung over our shoulders.
"We're attempting to," I muttered.
The hotel featured contemporary art throughout its corridors and on its walls, two restaurants, an atrium lobby, and an extensive fitness room with personal trainers. Our room included an HD flat screen television, a clock radio with an iPod dock and remote control, a plush window seat, a refrigerator, and a conversation area with a beaded light hanging from the ceiling. The toilet didn't flush though. I guess nothing is perfect.
We spent our first day in Portland sightseeing. We visited the Nob Hill (or "Northwest" to the locals) and Pearl Shopping Districts.
In Nob Hill, I found a cute local food co-op. I love visiting local food markets and groceries when I travel. For some reason, my husband thinks this is an odd practice.
"You walk up and down the aisles like you are window shopping," Dan said. "It's a grocery. Most people go to groceries to buy food, not browse around."
Next, we toured the Chinese Gardens where I received the following fortune - "Your natural wit will be your fortune." Hmm . . .
Dan's fortune read, "A current problem will solve itself."
"I wonder if I am the problem mentioned in the fortune," I said. Dan's response was an evil laugh.
After the Chinese Gardens, we ended up in Powell's City of Books.
"It covers an entire city block!" I had exclaimed when I first read about it in our tour book.
"Great. We'll never get you out of there."
Dan was right.
Day 5 Travel Details:
- Breakfast at The Urban Farmer (complimentary with gift card, hotel restaurant)
- Lunch at Elephant's Delicatessen in Nob Hill (features local foods and produce both on its menu and in its adjoining market)
- Dinner at Jake's Famous Crawfish (Pacific Northwest seafood, eclectic clientele)
- Lodgings: The Nines in downtown Portland
Dan and I spent a rainy afternoon at the Portland Saturday Market. Three people dressed up as the Easter Bunny, a Gorilla, and a Zebra held cardboard signs asking for spare change. A hemp goods store advertised "glass pipes upstairs." A busker played bongos in front of the vendor tents. One generous shopper gave gloves to the poor folk musician who was performing in the windy downpour that had plagued Oregon off and on all week.
Saturday evening was the Muse concert - our primary reason for this Northwest journey - and it did not disappoint. It was probably the best live concert I have ever attended, complete with laser lights, live video footage, skyscrapers, interactive art, and sci-fi/political/conspiracy theory-riddled music. In fact, I would need to write a separate post in order to do justice to this particular experience. It was the perfect way to round out our journey.
Day 6 Travel Details:
- Breakfast at The Urban Farmer (complimentary with gift card, hotel restaurant)
- Lunch at the Portland Saturday Market (Chicken souvlakia pitas)
- Dinner at the Newport Grill across from the Lloyd Center (Pacific Northwest seafood)
- Lodgings: The Nines in downtown Portland
We left Portland Sunday morning still in a frenzy over the previous night's concert. We decided to head back to Boise via the Columbia Gorge. Dan was excited because he had been trying to take the perfect fern picture, and he was pretty sure there would be several patches of ferns along the Gorge. Dan had been obsessed with the ferns in Oregon. Ferns in Idaho (especially Eastern Idaho where Dan grew up) do not look as "prehistoric" (as Dan says) as the ones along the water in Oregon.
"Ferns!" I'd hear all of a sudden from the driver's seat. "Ferns on a rock! Lots of ferns!"
Dan pulled off into a scenic viewpoint and climbed out of the sunroof, camera in hand, in an attempt to get the perfect fern picture. Unfortunately, that picture didn't quite capture the lushness of the ferns that had beguiled my husband.
Multnomah Falls proved to be a fern Nirvana for Dan, and we were finally able to get a satisfactory fern picture. We also snapped a few photos of me standing on the very-high-off-the-ground Multnomah Falls (Benson) footbridge, just to prove that I had in fact ventured out onto that slab of cement.
Our last stop was at the Stonehenge replica in Maryhill, Washington.
"We can reenact the final scene from Tess of the d'Urbervilles when Tess and Angel Clare flee to Stonehenge after Tess kills Alec d'Urberville," I said much too enthusiastically. "The police find her asleep on the altar and arrest her. I'll be Tess. You be Angel."
And with that I plopped down on the "altar." Dan, slightly confused by my sudden excitement and probably hoping I would get up so as not to embarrass myself in front of the other tourists, shrugged and snapped my picture.
Feeling slightly guilty about not going to church on Easter Sunday, Dan (now with a sense of accomplishment after taking his fern picture) and I spent the last portion of our trip listening to Jesus Christ Superstar. After that album was over, we ended our vacation as we had begun it - listening to "Lost" podcasts. It seems that we had come full circle.
Day 7 Travel Details:
- Breakfast at Starbucks across the street from our hotel (avoiding the Easter buffet crowd)
- Lunch at Subway in Hood River, OR
- Dinner at Sumpter Junction Restaurant in Baker City, OR (model train that runs through the restaurant, walls filled with historical locomotive photos and memorabilia)
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Token Valentine's Day Blog
Part One: Using the Day of Love to Your Advantage
Valentine's Day is just the type of holiday I would normally oppose. This holiday, with its roots in the Middle Ages, was originally intended to celebrate something as noble as love and affection between cherished admirers. It is now just another example of Western World commercialization, in the guise of sentimental greeting cards, heart-shaped chocolates, and red and pink flowers. I like to think it's against my principles to enjoy the materialistic aspects of our consumer-driven American holidays, but I love chocolate and roses and being the center of attention. So I guess I'm a bit of a closet Valentine's Day fan.
In my experience thus far as a relatively young married woman, Valentine's Day is the one holiday when my husband allows me to make all of the decisions, from the restaurant to the movie. He even gives me a gift I want instead of the typical present I receive from him - a CD that does "double duty" which translates into a CD he knows I'll like but one that he also wants to add to his prolific collection.
How did I make Valentine's Day, in spite of all the cheesy cellophane-wrapped packages and gigantic heart-holding teddy bears, work for me?
1. Tell him to send flowers to your place of work.
When Dan and I started getting serious, I was very specific about what I wanted for Valentine's Day.
"You will send red roses to me at work every Valentine's Day. I don't want a CD. I want flowers."
"Don't you want to be surprised?" Dan asked.
"No. I want flowers."
I learned this not-so-subtle approach from my mother who used to say, "You have to train these guys. And don't just hint around. Beat them over the head with what you want."
At least Dan follows directions well. A friend of mine had told her husband for decades that she wanted flowers sent to her office and nothing more. He kept trying to get creative, sending her barbershop quartets, singing telegrams, and messengers dressed up in over-sized heart outfits. Eventually she gave up and told her husband not to send anything else to her work.
2. Choose the most sentimental chick-flickiest movie. No superheroes, aliens, or blown-up buildings allowed.
So maybe you love action movies with lots of explosions or horror flicks with violent torture scenes. If this is truly your choice and not his choice then by all means, watch all the blood and guts you want. Valentine's Day is about you making the decisions.
I try to choose a film that I would never get Dan to even consider any other time of the year. Throughout the other 364 days of the year, I see all sorts of movies that feature post-apocalyptic themes, gun-wielding FBI agents, superheroes from graphic novels, etc., etc., etc. On Valentine's Day, the only movies I will agree to see have titles like Steel Magnolias, Sex and the City, or anything with English subtitles.
3. Choose the restaurant, and don't worry if it's not his favorite place to eat.
Dan does not love fondue. He thinks it's too much work to go to a restaurant only to have to cook your own food. Guess where we go on Valentine's Day? Or sometimes I'll choose a restaurant with dishes that he can't pronounce.
The last couple of years, we have eaten dinner at the Ashley Inn in Cascade, Idaho. They have something even better than coq au vin - dancing! Dan promises me one dance every Valentine's Day. "So choose the song wisely," he always adds.
Part Two: Valentine's Day 2010
When I received my roses this year (which, by the way, were especially beautiful), the teachers had to remind me to open the card. The reason I had neglected this seemingly trivial action was because Dan writes the same thing every year - "Happy Valentine's Day. Love, Dan." He only says that much because I told him he has to write more than "From, Dan."
"What does it say?" they asked.
"I'm sure it just says 'Happy Valentine's Day. Love, Dan.'"
But this year, Dan had added "Looking forward to our trip together" to his message.
"Ohhhh . . . how sweet," my colleagues sighed.
"Can you have your husband talk to my boyfriend?" one teacher asked.
"I have the best husband," I said proudly, omitting the fact that I had established Valentine's precedents early in our relationship that Dan was expected to follow.
But I do have the best husband, and he takes direction very well.
The "trip" to which Dan referred in the card was a quick weekend getaway to the Ashley Inn in Cascade, Idaho. We decided to take the roses on our trip. That was an adventure in itself.
I suggested that we buckle the flowers in, but Dan had already put the backseats down. He decided to wedge the vase between our two duffel bags.
"That doesn't look very stable," I said.
"Let's see!" and with that, Dan peeled out of the garage and hopped the curb.
The roses hobbled and teetered and probably would have fallen over had I not grabbed them.
When I pointed out again that our arrangement didn't seem very stable and that the vase had been on the verge of tipping, Dan said, "It is either going to fall over or not. It can't almost fall over."
"Yes it can," I said. "It's not black and white, like being pregnant; if you're pregnant, you're pregnant, not a little, not a lot, just pregnant. A vase of flowers is different. It can fall, it can not fall, or it can almost fall."
Dan turned into the next neighborhood to readjust the flowers.
I spent the rest of the car ride worrying about the state of my roses. Every time Dan took a curve, I deliberately glanced back at the flowers eliciting "The flowers are fine" from Dan. Eventually I started to get carsick from riding backwards in the passenger seat, and I gave up.
Instead I would glance at the wobbly flowers in the rear view mirror from time to time until Dan said, "Why don't you hold them in your lap the entire trip? That way, you could really enjoy them."
We made it all the way to Cascade without a major catastrophe. I guess a small part of me was hoping the flowers would dump all over the backseat leaving a mass of petals, foliage, and dirty water just to prove my point. But, alas, it was not to be. My husband was right once again which, I hate to admit, is usually the case. And we were able to enjoy my beautiful intact Valentine's roses all weekend long.
Valentine's Day is just the type of holiday I would normally oppose. This holiday, with its roots in the Middle Ages, was originally intended to celebrate something as noble as love and affection between cherished admirers. It is now just another example of Western World commercialization, in the guise of sentimental greeting cards, heart-shaped chocolates, and red and pink flowers. I like to think it's against my principles to enjoy the materialistic aspects of our consumer-driven American holidays, but I love chocolate and roses and being the center of attention. So I guess I'm a bit of a closet Valentine's Day fan.
In my experience thus far as a relatively young married woman, Valentine's Day is the one holiday when my husband allows me to make all of the decisions, from the restaurant to the movie. He even gives me a gift I want instead of the typical present I receive from him - a CD that does "double duty" which translates into a CD he knows I'll like but one that he also wants to add to his prolific collection.
How did I make Valentine's Day, in spite of all the cheesy cellophane-wrapped packages and gigantic heart-holding teddy bears, work for me?
1. Tell him to send flowers to your place of work.
When Dan and I started getting serious, I was very specific about what I wanted for Valentine's Day.
"You will send red roses to me at work every Valentine's Day. I don't want a CD. I want flowers."
"Don't you want to be surprised?" Dan asked.
"No. I want flowers."
I learned this not-so-subtle approach from my mother who used to say, "You have to train these guys. And don't just hint around. Beat them over the head with what you want."
At least Dan follows directions well. A friend of mine had told her husband for decades that she wanted flowers sent to her office and nothing more. He kept trying to get creative, sending her barbershop quartets, singing telegrams, and messengers dressed up in over-sized heart outfits. Eventually she gave up and told her husband not to send anything else to her work.
2. Choose the most sentimental chick-flickiest movie. No superheroes, aliens, or blown-up buildings allowed.
So maybe you love action movies with lots of explosions or horror flicks with violent torture scenes. If this is truly your choice and not his choice then by all means, watch all the blood and guts you want. Valentine's Day is about you making the decisions.
I try to choose a film that I would never get Dan to even consider any other time of the year. Throughout the other 364 days of the year, I see all sorts of movies that feature post-apocalyptic themes, gun-wielding FBI agents, superheroes from graphic novels, etc., etc., etc. On Valentine's Day, the only movies I will agree to see have titles like Steel Magnolias, Sex and the City, or anything with English subtitles.
3. Choose the restaurant, and don't worry if it's not his favorite place to eat.
Dan does not love fondue. He thinks it's too much work to go to a restaurant only to have to cook your own food. Guess where we go on Valentine's Day? Or sometimes I'll choose a restaurant with dishes that he can't pronounce.
The last couple of years, we have eaten dinner at the Ashley Inn in Cascade, Idaho. They have something even better than coq au vin - dancing! Dan promises me one dance every Valentine's Day. "So choose the song wisely," he always adds.
Part Two: Valentine's Day 2010
When I received my roses this year (which, by the way, were especially beautiful), the teachers had to remind me to open the card. The reason I had neglected this seemingly trivial action was because Dan writes the same thing every year - "Happy Valentine's Day. Love, Dan." He only says that much because I told him he has to write more than "From, Dan."
"What does it say?" they asked.
"I'm sure it just says 'Happy Valentine's Day. Love, Dan.'"
But this year, Dan had added "Looking forward to our trip together" to his message.
"Ohhhh . . . how sweet," my colleagues sighed.
"Can you have your husband talk to my boyfriend?" one teacher asked.
"I have the best husband," I said proudly, omitting the fact that I had established Valentine's precedents early in our relationship that Dan was expected to follow.
But I do have the best husband, and he takes direction very well.
The "trip" to which Dan referred in the card was a quick weekend getaway to the Ashley Inn in Cascade, Idaho. We decided to take the roses on our trip. That was an adventure in itself.
I suggested that we buckle the flowers in, but Dan had already put the backseats down. He decided to wedge the vase between our two duffel bags.
"That doesn't look very stable," I said.
"Let's see!" and with that, Dan peeled out of the garage and hopped the curb.
The roses hobbled and teetered and probably would have fallen over had I not grabbed them.
When I pointed out again that our arrangement didn't seem very stable and that the vase had been on the verge of tipping, Dan said, "It is either going to fall over or not. It can't almost fall over."
"Yes it can," I said. "It's not black and white, like being pregnant; if you're pregnant, you're pregnant, not a little, not a lot, just pregnant. A vase of flowers is different. It can fall, it can not fall, or it can almost fall."
Dan turned into the next neighborhood to readjust the flowers.
I spent the rest of the car ride worrying about the state of my roses. Every time Dan took a curve, I deliberately glanced back at the flowers eliciting "The flowers are fine" from Dan. Eventually I started to get carsick from riding backwards in the passenger seat, and I gave up.
Instead I would glance at the wobbly flowers in the rear view mirror from time to time until Dan said, "Why don't you hold them in your lap the entire trip? That way, you could really enjoy them."
We made it all the way to Cascade without a major catastrophe. I guess a small part of me was hoping the flowers would dump all over the backseat leaving a mass of petals, foliage, and dirty water just to prove my point. But, alas, it was not to be. My husband was right once again which, I hate to admit, is usually the case. And we were able to enjoy my beautiful intact Valentine's roses all weekend long.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Did You Write a Thank You Note Yet?
The other day, my husband and I were discussing the art of thank you note writing with my father and his wife, Emmy, who were visiting from out of town. My dad made a comment along the lines of "Thank you notes are Emmy's responsibility (translation: the woman's job)." Dan, my typically silent husband, chose that particular moment to actually contribute to the joviality of the moment.
"What's a thank you note?" he asked with a little smirk.
Emmy and my dad laughed. I'm pretty certain my dad said, "Good one, Dan."
I rolled my eyes at Dan's comedic timing (and at my father's borderline sexist comment) and informed my family that a little over six years ago, Dan really didn't know what a thank you note was.
Perhaps he knew the definition of a thank you note. He just saw the writing of thank you notes as an unnecessary evil, an archaic practice implemented by the Establishment to turn us all into etiquette-conscious conformists.
When Dan and I were married, I introduced him to the correct way of writing thank you notes and somehow convinced him that, "Yes, we do have to write a thank you note for every wedding gift, even the ones we're planning on returning."
"Can't we just print out a generic note with a fill-in-the-blank for each item?"
"Emily Post says thank you notes should always be handwritten."
"Who?"
"Never mind."
We split the task of writing our wedding thank yous. However, when I discovered that one of his notes read, "Thank you for the towel. Dan and Becky," I realized I had better make sure all of his notes met my more-than-one-sentence standard before mailing them off.
I was raised writing thank you notes for everything. I had a grandmother and a great Aunt Alice who expected a thank you note the week after every birthday and holiday that includes gifts. Considering they lived in southern Illinois and I lived in Boise, Idaho, that meant I practically had to write my thank you notes on Christmas day.
And if I didn't get the thank you notes out in time, my poor mother would get the brunt of it.
"Well, Alice is mad because she hasn't gotten a thank you note from Becky." "I just don't know what could have happened to Becky's thank you note. Maybe it's lost in the mail. Should I call the post office?"
"Don't call the post office," my mother would say. "Becky always sends a thank you note. I'm sure she's just a little behind."
Then my mother would call me and beg me to hurry up and write my thank you notes. Sometimes, I would have to write two or three because my grandmother and Aunt Alice would forget they had received them.
Occasionally, when they were happy with my timeliness, they would spend their phone conversations with my mother reading her the thank you notes I had sent.
Now that I am the one who talks to my grandmother and Aunt Alice on the phone, I hear about all of the thank you notes they receive from my brother, from Dan, from my dad, and of course, from me.
About two years ago, my Aunt Alice said, "You have always been so good about sending your thank you notes out right away. You're just like your mother. She would be so proud." I think that was the nicest compliment I had ever been given, even if it did revolve around a silly archaic practice of societal conformity.
Here's why:
When I was seven years old, a boy named Jeremiah in my second grade class showed up at my front door with a vase of fresh cut flowers.
"You want these?" he asked, thrusting the flowers into my face.
"Sure," I said and slammed the door in his face.
My mother made me write him a thank you note. It was the most embarrassing thing I ever had to do during those first seven years of my life.
"It doesn't matter if you wanted the flowers or not. He did something nice for you. Now you need to show your gratitude."
I didn't tell my mom that when I handed Jeremiah the thank you note I told him that my mother had made me write it. And I didn't tell her that I gave him the note like I was 007 delivering a top secret formula for a nuclear bomb, lest some other second grader would see me and think I had a crush on him.
Later we found out he had stolen the vase from his mother's collection, and he had been chased out of one of my friend's yards for cutting flowers from her dad's garden. I probably wrote a thank you note for an item that should have ended up on the black market.
But that wasn't the point. The moral of my mother's lesson was one of self-sacrifice, doing things you really don't want to do in order to show a little kindness once in a while. And if writing thank you notes is the one way I can be a little less self-absorbed, I'll participate in that unnecessary evil any day.
"What's a thank you note?" he asked with a little smirk.
Emmy and my dad laughed. I'm pretty certain my dad said, "Good one, Dan."
I rolled my eyes at Dan's comedic timing (and at my father's borderline sexist comment) and informed my family that a little over six years ago, Dan really didn't know what a thank you note was.
Perhaps he knew the definition of a thank you note. He just saw the writing of thank you notes as an unnecessary evil, an archaic practice implemented by the Establishment to turn us all into etiquette-conscious conformists.
When Dan and I were married, I introduced him to the correct way of writing thank you notes and somehow convinced him that, "Yes, we do have to write a thank you note for every wedding gift, even the ones we're planning on returning."
"Can't we just print out a generic note with a fill-in-the-blank for each item?"
"Emily Post says thank you notes should always be handwritten."
"Who?"
"Never mind."
We split the task of writing our wedding thank yous. However, when I discovered that one of his notes read, "Thank you for the towel. Dan and Becky," I realized I had better make sure all of his notes met my more-than-one-sentence standard before mailing them off.
I was raised writing thank you notes for everything. I had a grandmother and a great Aunt Alice who expected a thank you note the week after every birthday and holiday that includes gifts. Considering they lived in southern Illinois and I lived in Boise, Idaho, that meant I practically had to write my thank you notes on Christmas day.
And if I didn't get the thank you notes out in time, my poor mother would get the brunt of it.
"Well, Alice is mad because she hasn't gotten a thank you note from Becky." "I just don't know what could have happened to Becky's thank you note. Maybe it's lost in the mail. Should I call the post office?"
"Don't call the post office," my mother would say. "Becky always sends a thank you note. I'm sure she's just a little behind."
Then my mother would call me and beg me to hurry up and write my thank you notes. Sometimes, I would have to write two or three because my grandmother and Aunt Alice would forget they had received them.
Occasionally, when they were happy with my timeliness, they would spend their phone conversations with my mother reading her the thank you notes I had sent.
Now that I am the one who talks to my grandmother and Aunt Alice on the phone, I hear about all of the thank you notes they receive from my brother, from Dan, from my dad, and of course, from me.
About two years ago, my Aunt Alice said, "You have always been so good about sending your thank you notes out right away. You're just like your mother. She would be so proud." I think that was the nicest compliment I had ever been given, even if it did revolve around a silly archaic practice of societal conformity.
Here's why:
When I was seven years old, a boy named Jeremiah in my second grade class showed up at my front door with a vase of fresh cut flowers.
"You want these?" he asked, thrusting the flowers into my face.
"Sure," I said and slammed the door in his face.
My mother made me write him a thank you note. It was the most embarrassing thing I ever had to do during those first seven years of my life.
"It doesn't matter if you wanted the flowers or not. He did something nice for you. Now you need to show your gratitude."
I didn't tell my mom that when I handed Jeremiah the thank you note I told him that my mother had made me write it. And I didn't tell her that I gave him the note like I was 007 delivering a top secret formula for a nuclear bomb, lest some other second grader would see me and think I had a crush on him.
Later we found out he had stolen the vase from his mother's collection, and he had been chased out of one of my friend's yards for cutting flowers from her dad's garden. I probably wrote a thank you note for an item that should have ended up on the black market.
But that wasn't the point. The moral of my mother's lesson was one of self-sacrifice, doing things you really don't want to do in order to show a little kindness once in a while. And if writing thank you notes is the one way I can be a little less self-absorbed, I'll participate in that unnecessary evil any day.