Dear Airline That Will Fly Me to Europe This Summer,
I like to read on planes. I don't like to meet new people. I don't even like to talk to my husband when I'm on an airplane. Flying is the one time in my life that I have an uninterrupted chunk of time to read. And since I will be flying to Europe, that chunk of time should be nice and long.
You already force me to sit for hours in a seat with arm rests that fit snugly around my waist, to sit for hours with so little leg room that any slight adjustment in my crossed legs or posture feels like a cataclysmic event to the people in front of me. (And keep in mind, I'm only five-foot-two.) You force me to relieve myself, after pouring cranberry juice down my throat, in a closet that has been known to test positive for E. coli, fecal bacteria, and H1N1. And the water in said closet? Also occasionally E. coli-ridden.
I will put up with all of those less than comfortable aspects of flying as long as you let me read.
Therefore, here is my one request - please don't put me next to these passengers:
Elderly man who served in World War II
He spent the entire trip telling me his life story, very interesting too I must admit, but it wasn't in a book. And like I said, I want to read when I fly. Whenever I would attempt to open my book, he would pull out another family photo from his carry-on bag and tell me a story about his kids, his (deceased - which was sad) wife, or the war. When we were taking off, he told me that if a pilot doesn't lift off within forty-five seconds of hitting the throttle, then that's it. You're dead meat. I now have him to thank for my recently-developed, debilitating anxiety during lift-off.
Loud or crying child who kicks my seat the entire ride
Enough said . . . Sorry parents with young children.
Agitated man who takes his frustration out on loud or crying child
Until airlines have a baby/small child section, I have to accept the fact that children will be loud, children will cry, and children will kick the back of my seat, through no fault of their own or their parents.
One man I got stuck next to was already agitated when I crawled over him to get to my seat. This was before they told us the plane was delayed in taking off because of a fuel pump indicator light. When the attendant announced this, the man went ballistic - growling, squirming, sighing in exasperation.
We happened to have several children seated around us, and every time one of them squealed, he would shift his position and let out a long, deep, pointed breath.
Eventually, he muttered, “Shut up!” just loud enough so that I could hear him, but he apparently was not gutsy enough to confront the kids or parents.
He was reading My Life by Keith Richards, but he was so busy groaning and rolling his eyes that I don't know how much Rolling Stones debauchery he actually absorbed.
At the end of the plane ride, one little girl in front of us stood up on her seat, turned around, and said “hi” to him. He said “hi” back to her, through gritted teeth. Even he couldn't resist responding to her toothy grin.
A couple of minutes later, he was on the phone with his mother, and his attitude changed tremendously.
“Hi Mom," he said in a soft, syrupy voice. "The plane just landed. See you in a bit.”
I wondered if the inevitable, upcoming visit with Mom was the true source of his agitation.
In conclusion, Airline That Will Fly Me to Europe, all I ask is that you allow me the simple pleasure of reading. If you can't guarantee my bags will arrive on time or that I will have time to eat a proper meal during my layover or that I will be able to lean back in my seat without sending someone's gin and tonic sprawling into his/her lap, at least allow me to read in peace.
Sincerely,
Becky Duggan
National Duggan's European Vacation Episode #2
National Duggan's European Vacation Episode #3
National Duggan's European Vacation Episode #4
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
My Collegiate Self Rears Its Head Again
At the beginning of July, I went back briefly to Boise State University and took Orff Level I to be certified in the popular music education methodology inspired by composer Carl Orff. I say I "went back" to BSU because, even though the course was only two weeks long, I still had to apply to the graduate college, buy a parking permit, and - my personal favorite (note the sarcastic tone) - pay fees and tuition. I felt quite collegiate again, spending two weeks on campus complete with the SUB (Student Union Building), University library, and school of such and such buildings.
It has been three years since I received my Master's Degree and ten since I received my Bachelor's. Needless to say, I reverted, once again, to my obsessive, anal college ways.
"What do you mean 'revert?'" Dan said. "It's not like you're any less anal now that you're out of college."
Despite my husband's opinion, I did regress into my former, type-A personality, academia-centered, college student self. Some might go so far as to just call me a nerd.
I was scared of getting into trouble with my professors. I wanted stickers (A+s) on all of my assignments. I had fairly extensive homework every night. I couldn't get my handwritten musical notation to look quite right (no, we weren't allowed to use Finale or Sibelius), and I spent a lot of time erasing and rewriting, reminiscent of my undergrad self hunched over staff paper, composing the perfect 12-tone serialist piece for Music Theory IV.
During a philosophical discussion in class, my collegiate self made a comment about music being a core academic discipline by Plato's standards.
One of the professors taking the course later asked me, "Do you have your Master's Degree?"
I told him I did. Actually, my collegiate self probably phrased it like, "Why yes, indeed I do."
"I thought so," he said, adding that he figured I had taken an educational philosophy/theory/whatever class.
"I think I just picked that knowledge up somewhere along the way in my professional reading," I said in my most scholarly tone.
What college course is complete without that annoying student who questions, contradicts, tries to "catch" and correct the teacher, and tells everyone else what to do? No, it wasn't me, even though I have made my collegiate self sound rather snooty. But there was one student in the class who fit that description (this is the time when I warn everyone to be nice around me because you could end up in my blog).
I thought I was the only one who had noticed this super obnoxious behavior until a fellow student, who seemed habitually calm and collected by nature, whispered during an activity, "She drives me crazy."
At the end of the course, we received our certificates at a mini graduation ceremony. We were music teachers after all, so our graduation consisted of recorder, dance, and Orff instrument performances. Our families were invited, and a classmate and I joked about our two supportive, engineer husbands sitting in the middle of the room, arms crossed, watching the proceedings stoically and silently.
One of the instructors invited our family members to join a folk dance. Dan made eye contact with me and shook his head subtly. He eventually joined the circle when realized he would have been the only one sitting out. It's all about blending in with him.
I was assigned to one of the more technically difficult xylophone parts in the Orff piece, and I was quite nervous about this, being a vocalist by trade and not a percussionist. I was so distracted by my xylophone-playing anxiety that I only played about 10% of the time in the recorder ensemble. But I nailed the xylophone part in the end.
As Dan and I left campus that afternoon, my collegiate self made one last comment before vanishing to boring Academia-La-La-Land for another few years.
"I'm going to frame this and put it on the wall," Collegiate Self said, admiring the certificate, "and then I'll have more diplomas than you."
It has been three years since I received my Master's Degree and ten since I received my Bachelor's. Needless to say, I reverted, once again, to my obsessive, anal college ways.
"What do you mean 'revert?'" Dan said. "It's not like you're any less anal now that you're out of college."
Despite my husband's opinion, I did regress into my former, type-A personality, academia-centered, college student self. Some might go so far as to just call me a nerd.
I was scared of getting into trouble with my professors. I wanted stickers (A+s) on all of my assignments. I had fairly extensive homework every night. I couldn't get my handwritten musical notation to look quite right (no, we weren't allowed to use Finale or Sibelius), and I spent a lot of time erasing and rewriting, reminiscent of my undergrad self hunched over staff paper, composing the perfect 12-tone serialist piece for Music Theory IV.
During a philosophical discussion in class, my collegiate self made a comment about music being a core academic discipline by Plato's standards.
One of the professors taking the course later asked me, "Do you have your Master's Degree?"
I told him I did. Actually, my collegiate self probably phrased it like, "Why yes, indeed I do."
"I thought so," he said, adding that he figured I had taken an educational philosophy/theory/whatever class.
"I think I just picked that knowledge up somewhere along the way in my professional reading," I said in my most scholarly tone.
What college course is complete without that annoying student who questions, contradicts, tries to "catch" and correct the teacher, and tells everyone else what to do? No, it wasn't me, even though I have made my collegiate self sound rather snooty. But there was one student in the class who fit that description (this is the time when I warn everyone to be nice around me because you could end up in my blog).
I thought I was the only one who had noticed this super obnoxious behavior until a fellow student, who seemed habitually calm and collected by nature, whispered during an activity, "She drives me crazy."
At the end of the course, we received our certificates at a mini graduation ceremony. We were music teachers after all, so our graduation consisted of recorder, dance, and Orff instrument performances. Our families were invited, and a classmate and I joked about our two supportive, engineer husbands sitting in the middle of the room, arms crossed, watching the proceedings stoically and silently.
One of the instructors invited our family members to join a folk dance. Dan made eye contact with me and shook his head subtly. He eventually joined the circle when realized he would have been the only one sitting out. It's all about blending in with him.
I was assigned to one of the more technically difficult xylophone parts in the Orff piece, and I was quite nervous about this, being a vocalist by trade and not a percussionist. I was so distracted by my xylophone-playing anxiety that I only played about 10% of the time in the recorder ensemble. But I nailed the xylophone part in the end.
As Dan and I left campus that afternoon, my collegiate self made one last comment before vanishing to boring Academia-La-La-Land for another few years.
"I'm going to frame this and put it on the wall," Collegiate Self said, admiring the certificate, "and then I'll have more diplomas than you."
Friday, July 15, 2011
In Which I Discover the Perils of Hiking During a High Water Year
Over July 4th weekend, Dan and I hiked Norton Lakes near Ketchum, a hike that we have taken so many times that the doomsday anxieties and inhibitions that often accompany my outdoor excursions didn't even cross my mind. Turns out, I was too hasty to throw caution to the wind.
To get onto the Norton Lakes trail, you have to ford a creek at the trailhead. Typically, it is a fairly narrow, fairly calm creek with lots of large rocks to hop across. But because of the unusually abundant amount of snow runoff and precipitation this year, the narrow, calm creek more closely resembled a fast-flowing river complete with whitewater rapids right where Dan was insisting we cross.
"It's not a river!" Dan shouted at me, not out of anger, but because he had to talk loudly in order to be heard over the rushing water.
"It's the freakin' Mississippi!" was my rebuttal, as I stood in the creek, foamy water lapping at my shins, its current threatening to push me over at any moment.
By this time, people were starting to stare. For some reason, the trail was busy, and it appeared that no one else was bothered by the rambunctious state of this so-called "creek." In fact, parents were allowing their children to ford the creek, albeit a little further downstream, leading me to believe that there might be a calmer section somewhere.
Two thirty-something hikers watched Dan and me as we attempted to cross the creek. They made little effort to hide their mirth as they applied their sunscreen.
Another family watched us curiously as I stumbled across the slippery rocks, falling onto my husband who essentially ended up dragging me through the water as I hung onto his shoulders.
At the base of one of the mountains, we came to another wider-than-usual creek crossing.
I watched in envy as two hikers (coincidentally, the same couple Dan and I had entertained at the trailhead) easily walked across a fallen tree trunk, hopped to a separate stump, and bounded over a narrower part of the creek to the other side.
The fallen tree turned out to be too high for me, a sufferer of severe acrophobia. I found another log, wobblier than the first option, that crossed about three-quarters of the creek.
I began by lunging onto log, keeping one foot behind me on the dry land - kind of like that scene in Elf where Buddy (Will Ferrell) takes a department store escalator up in a low lunge position, scared to ride such a strange contraption due to his lack of experience with escalators at the North Pole.
Dan, who had followed the other two hikers swiftly across the creek, was looking on, slightly amused, from the other side.
I scooted across the log on one leg, dragging the other leg behind me through the water.
“Come on, ballerina,” Dan said, referring to my 14 years of classical ballet training (which obviously is not of any use whatsoever when fording a raging body of water.)
"I can’t be graceful when it’s a matter of life and death.”
“It’s not a matter of life and death. The creek's not deep enough.”
“Okay," I conceded, "a matter of life and embarrassment to death.”
At the end of the log, I splashed to the other side of the creek quite un-gracefully and fell into Dan's arms.
I came up with a personal definition of "fording a creek" that afternoon:
Part of Speech: Verb . . . totally
Definition: "Lurching over underwater rocks with enormous splashing, forcing Dan (the loving husband who has remained relatively dry to this point) to venture back into the water as I fall into him, and he drags me out of the creek the rest of the way."
“I don’t know why you crazy, outdoorsy types don’t die more often with your high-risk behavior.”
"This trail isn't that treacherous, Becky," said Dan.
At that moment, we encountered a group of kids (very loud kids who seemed very unconcerned about the danger of this dark and dusty trail) on their way to fish in one of the lakes.
“See, even those little kids can do it!” Dan said encouragingly.
Fortunately, I made it back to Boise alive. And on our return to the trailhead, we found a calmer and safer spot to cross further down the creek.
"Why didn't we cross here before?" I asked.
"You want to go back over and try it again?"
"No, thank you. One outdoor adventure per day is enough for me."
To get onto the Norton Lakes trail, you have to ford a creek at the trailhead. Typically, it is a fairly narrow, fairly calm creek with lots of large rocks to hop across. But because of the unusually abundant amount of snow runoff and precipitation this year, the narrow, calm creek more closely resembled a fast-flowing river complete with whitewater rapids right where Dan was insisting we cross.
"It's not a river!" Dan shouted at me, not out of anger, but because he had to talk loudly in order to be heard over the rushing water.
"It's the freakin' Mississippi!" was my rebuttal, as I stood in the creek, foamy water lapping at my shins, its current threatening to push me over at any moment.
By this time, people were starting to stare. For some reason, the trail was busy, and it appeared that no one else was bothered by the rambunctious state of this so-called "creek." In fact, parents were allowing their children to ford the creek, albeit a little further downstream, leading me to believe that there might be a calmer section somewhere.
Two thirty-something hikers watched Dan and me as we attempted to cross the creek. They made little effort to hide their mirth as they applied their sunscreen.
Another family watched us curiously as I stumbled across the slippery rocks, falling onto my husband who essentially ended up dragging me through the water as I hung onto his shoulders.
At the base of one of the mountains, we came to another wider-than-usual creek crossing.
I watched in envy as two hikers (coincidentally, the same couple Dan and I had entertained at the trailhead) easily walked across a fallen tree trunk, hopped to a separate stump, and bounded over a narrower part of the creek to the other side.
The fallen tree turned out to be too high for me, a sufferer of severe acrophobia. I found another log, wobblier than the first option, that crossed about three-quarters of the creek.
I began by lunging onto log, keeping one foot behind me on the dry land - kind of like that scene in Elf where Buddy (Will Ferrell) takes a department store escalator up in a low lunge position, scared to ride such a strange contraption due to his lack of experience with escalators at the North Pole.
Dan, who had followed the other two hikers swiftly across the creek, was looking on, slightly amused, from the other side.
I scooted across the log on one leg, dragging the other leg behind me through the water.
“Come on, ballerina,” Dan said, referring to my 14 years of classical ballet training (which obviously is not of any use whatsoever when fording a raging body of water.)
"I can’t be graceful when it’s a matter of life and death.”
“It’s not a matter of life and death. The creek's not deep enough.”
“Okay," I conceded, "a matter of life and embarrassment to death.”
At the end of the log, I splashed to the other side of the creek quite un-gracefully and fell into Dan's arms.
I came up with a personal definition of "fording a creek" that afternoon:
Part of Speech: Verb . . . totally
Definition: "Lurching over underwater rocks with enormous splashing, forcing Dan (the loving husband who has remained relatively dry to this point) to venture back into the water as I fall into him, and he drags me out of the creek the rest of the way."
“I don’t know why you crazy, outdoorsy types don’t die more often with your high-risk behavior.”
"This trail isn't that treacherous, Becky," said Dan.
At that moment, we encountered a group of kids (very loud kids who seemed very unconcerned about the danger of this dark and dusty trail) on their way to fish in one of the lakes.
“See, even those little kids can do it!” Dan said encouragingly.
Fortunately, I made it back to Boise alive. And on our return to the trailhead, we found a calmer and safer spot to cross further down the creek.
"Why didn't we cross here before?" I asked.
"You want to go back over and try it again?"
"No, thank you. One outdoor adventure per day is enough for me."
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