Come Road Tripping With Me

Welcome to my road trip diary. The following took place over Presidents' Day weekend. Our primary purpose? To shop til we drop. This is how Dan and I roll . . .

The facts are these:

February 18
We stop at a restaurant in Layton, Utah. The greeter holds the door open for us as we exit.

He says something like, "How was everything?"

I can't exactly hear him, so I just say, "Thanks."

He says, "Sounds great! Have a good one!"

Dan and I leave feeling as though we have just had an odd conversation in total non sequiturs.

At our hotel, the elevator on the right makes a strange bumping sound. Even stoic Dan looks alarmed. A few nights ago, I had a dream about getting stuck in a hotel elevator. Could it have been a premonition? Later, we take the middle elevator. It squeaks upon landing in the lobby.

"That sounds better," Dan says in a desperate attempt to reassure me.

There is no hair dryer in the room. Every time I pack for a trip, I debate for hours about whether or not I should bring my hair dryer.

"Yes, I think there will be a hair dryer in the room," Dan always answers me for the fiftieth time.

We even refrain from booking hotels that make no mention of hair dryers under the amenities in the AAA book.

For once, I didn't worry. And I didn't ask Dan if I should bring one. And Dan didn't have to say with an exasperated sigh, "Yes, I think there will be a hair dryer in the room."

Dan even checks under the bed. No hair dryer.

We go to the hot tub. One of our room keys gets mixed up after another hot tub patron has lain all over our stuff on a nearby bench. I figure she has taken our key by mistake. Dan goes back to the whirlpool room to see if he can find it. He finds a stray key near the girl's resting place. It doesn't work either.

February 19
We go shopping at the outlet mall in Park City. My eyes water in the cold air.

I say to Dan, "Everybody is going to think you're making me cry, and then they will give you dirty looks. That will be funny."

He doesn't think that sounds funny.

I am more than willing to brave the cold and buy clothes but not without complaining about J. Crew's crazy high prices regardless of its use of sweatshop labor.

"And do you know what a banana republic is? Who would name a store after such a terrible atrocity?"

Then I buy a blouse, sweater, and scarf at the Banana Republic outlet. I feel like a hypocrite. "I didn't pay full price though," I tell myself. The cashier sees my ID and tells me he is from Boise and is a BSU Bronco fan.

Dan and I decide to eat at Ruby Tuesday. We walk the streets of downtown Park City singing every "Ruby" song that comes to mind.

"Destination unknown. Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby Soho . . ."

"Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby. And do ya, do ya, do ya, do ya know what you're doing, doing to me . . ."

"Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday. Who could hang a name on you . . ."

We go back to Salt Lake City after dinner. We see the movie Chronicle.

"You're a fun date," Dan says afterward. "I can take you to sci-fi movies, and you like them!"
(Please refer to Wonder Dan Turns Me Into a Sci-Fi Nerd.)

I start to get the sads.

"I like vacations, but they end so fast. Then we have to go back to the real world and never see each other again."

Dan gives me a strange look.

"We'll see each other."

February 20
The elevator we take to the lobby vibrates all the way down. Dan makes a face.

"Don't do that!" I say. "You're supposed to be the calm one."

We have to check out of the hotel with what I am now calling the "Faux Key." We concede that it shouldn't matter. The clerk will just assume we never tried the key, since it was a spare, and that we never knew it didn't work in our door.

"Some people cut up their hotel room keys anyway," I tell Dan. "They think their identities can be stolen from the magnetic strips. So the workers are probably used to the keys not being returned."

"People are weird."

We go shopping at The Gateway.

A few years ago, I found a girl arguing with herself in the bathroom at this shopping center. And I don't mean she was just talking to herself like I do from time to time. She was having a full-on altercation with herself. . . in different voices. I thought there was someone else in the bathroom with her.

Today at The Gateway, I call my husband who has wandered to another store. He can cover five stores to my one.

"Where are you?" I ask Dan.

"I'm right here," says a boy who is passing by. He is obviously eavesdropping on my phone conversation. He grins. He looks about sixteen.

Time to go home.

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See Dan (and Me) Run

On Saturday mornings, my husband Dan and I jog together on a greenbelt path near our neighborhood. I used to be a lone runner, not wanting to share my me-time with anyone, but I have come to appreciate this new routine. I discovered that, even though I enjoy me-time every once in a while, I also enjoy Dan-and-me-time. Dan doesn't talk much anyway, so when I really want me-time during our morning jogs, I say, "I won't be talking to you. This is my me-time." He is fine with that. In fact, sometimes I even get a "Yes!" with a fist pump out of him.

I am not sure if this Saturday custom of ours is quite as pleasurable for Dan as it is for me. Dan is the only person I know who finishes a workout and acts like he has just had an entire mouthful of teeth pulled.

“Didn’t that feel great?” I ask him every week after our run.

By this time, I am usually bouncing around the trail head parking lot. Jogging has the same effect on me as five cups of extremely strong coffee, and I am talking about European coffee, not the weak American stuff.

“It was okay,” he replies in a low monotone.

He is the only person I know who gets a “runner’s low” rather than a “runner’s high.”

“Doesn’t it make you feel good?” I ask.

“No. It makes me feel tired.”

Here is an example of our typical morning jog. I am sure you will be as baffled as I at Dan's lack of post-run enthusiasm when it is obvious how much fun we have together on these weekly jaunts.

Me: “Did you lock the car door?”
Dan (perhaps with a sigh or a roll of the eyes): "Yes."
After our run, Dan unlocks the car door with his keyless entry.
Me (teasing): “You didn’t lock the door after all!"
Dan: (No reaction.)
Me: "Ha ha! I made a funny.”

One weekend, we saw a young couple running. The man was pushing a stroller. The woman was running behind him.

Me: “That will be us if we ever have kids. You will push the stroller, and I will run behind you.”
Dan: "You always say we won't have kids though, so I guess I don't have to worry about that."

Another weekend, we passed a middle-aged, white-haired man walking a gargantuan dog with hair as white as his owner's. On our way back to the car, we passed him again. He was only a little ways from where we had first seen him.

Me (a little too loudly): “That’s only as far as he’s gone?”

Our morning runs occasionally spark interesting discussions on various social issues. These conversations are often times one-sided. Translation: I chatter to myself incessantly.

Upon seeing a sign in a resident's yard that reads, "No spray zone: Owner maintained," I suggest that we post one in the cracks of our driveway.

Me: "Then no one will spray near our house. People do that all the time. Sometimes they even spray our driveway! Like we don't take care of our weeds or something."

Dan points out the controversial no biking zone on north side of the Boise River every time we reach that part of the path.

Me: “They should just lift the ban. It would encourage alternate transportation, and those rich people should want to promote greener living.”

I always end this particular type of conversation with: “Are we just too liberal for Idaho? Do you think we’d feel conservative if we lived in Portland or Seattle?”

Dan (mumbling): "I dunno."

We usually end our jogs with Dan making an observation like: "People are friendly on the greenbelt.”
Me (again, a little too loudly): “Yeah, I have to say to myself, ‘Don’t make eye contact, don’t make eye contact!’ It's annoying how everyone wants you to say hi to them.”
Dan: “I thought that’s what people like about Boise, that it's friendly and safe. It's better than having to worry about getting shot.”
Me: "That's a comforting thought."

Finally he decides to talk, and that's what comes out of his mouth.

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Just Another Valentine's Day Post: Are You Sick of the Day of Love Yet?

Buying gifts for my husband Dan can be quite a challenge. I am not the most creative gift-giver. Luckily, Dan prefers that I get him something off of his Amazon wish list. Dan and I are practical people and very opposed to gag gifts. So, although it doesn't lend itself well to surprise or spontaneity, at least I know that buying something off of his wish list guarantees satisfaction. But Dan has not added to this list since Christmas, and I am left to my own devices for Valentine's Day.

Now I am not going to tell you what I ended up getting Dan for Valentine's Day because he won't actually receive it until this Tuesday. As much as I value all of my readers, I won't spoil the surprise, as unsurprising as it probably is, for my husband. I am simply here to discuss my Valentine gift-giving dilemma.

I don't really care much for Valentine's Day. Our wedding anniversary is more meaningful as far as our "romantic journey" goes.

I have noticed that the greeting card company capitalizes on this stupid holiday by selling cards that say "To my husband, your love means more to me than anything in the whole entire world, you are my life, I do not know how I ever got by without you, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah . . ." Am I really expected to buy a cheesy card that goes on for pages and pages for a man of as few words as my husband?

The other night, I was telling Dan about my disgust for the sappy sentiments in these cards.

"If you even consider buying a card that is sparkly and romantic-looking, you have to sift through poorly-written poetry about the sun rising and setting on your man, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah . . ." (Picture me moving my hand like a puppet during th, "blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.")

"That's why you buy a funny card and then write your own sweet, but short, message."

Dan, King of the One-Word Answers, emphasized the word "short." Like I said - practical man of few words.

While researching "romantic" ideas, crossing my fingers that I would not run across anything too humiliating, I found that the Valentine-Gifts-for-Men category included such priceless nuggets as "Customized Love Books for Couples," "Panty-grams for Him," "Romantic Coupon Books," "Ultimate Stock Car Ride-Along Experience," and "Microbrew of the Month Club."

Gag . . .

That's what I call from the Redneck Sublime to the Chauvinist Ridiculous.

Although I won't completely reveal my Valentine's secrets, I will say that I usually settle on food of some sort, mostly so that Dan can "share" his "gift" with me. But I always struggle with my aversion toward the exploitative labor practices of the Hershey's and Nestle corporations. So I spend a lot of time online looking for "green, responsible" chocolate and confections. (Then I sheepishly remember that I ate a handful of Hershey's Kisses in the faculty lounge yesterday.)

But it's the thought that counts, right? Besides, Valentine's Day is just a made-up holiday created by our consumer-driven, materialistic society to make single people feel slightly depressed. (Single people, please don't feel depressed. Valentine's Day is not that important to me either.) However, it is a good excuse to demand a pretty bouquet of flowers and an expensive dinner. That doesn't sound consumer-driven or materialistic at all, does it?

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The Day the Server Went Down

Last week at work, our tech people told us to plan for a computer-free day that Friday. They were taking the school server down. If the server was not taken down, some sort of catastrophic event along the lines of the Y2K meltdown would occur. (Those alive during the year 2000 will recall that the Y2K meltdown never really happened either.)

When I asked if I could use my computer for interactive whiteboard, non-network-related purposes, I was told in quite panicked overtones, "Do whatever you want! You might crash your whole system!"

"Yeah, whatever," my software engineer, computer genius husband scoffed that evening. "As long as you stay off the network, you should be fine."

Funny thing - the next day, the word (from our district tech) was that we would be able to use our computers as long as we unplugged our network cables. No e-mail or internet, but all other programs were fine.

"So," I philosophized, "let the Y2K-like hysteria begin!"

Did I mention our report cards were due the following week?

That Friday started like any other Friday. But when my 15-minute morning break rolled around, I rushed over to my computer, prepared to check my district e-mail, lest there be some music-related fire I had to put out. I stopped.

"Wait!" I said, probably out loud since I have a habit of talking to myself. "I can't check my e-mail! I can go to the bathroom, refill my water, get off of my feet for a few minutes!"

My lunch break rolled around a few hours later.

"Oh yeah. No e-mail!" I reminded myself. "I can work on my to-do list projects instead!"

That afternoon, I sent my ninth class of the day out the door, sat down, and took a breath. (I rarely breathe during the day. Checking my district e-mail takes the place of breathing on most days.)

"Wasn't it freeing not having access to internet or e-mail today?" I asked the teacher who occupies the room next to mine. We were having a conversation, a rarity in the afternoons when we were typically on our computers tying up all the loose ends that had manifested in the hours after lunch.

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "I feel like I actually got some work done!"

The lesson I took from the experience was this: Sometimes it's okay to disconnect, unplug, and tune out.

Of course, that doesn't account for the thousands of e-mails (including a few "fires") that greeted me on Monday morning. Apparently, the server was back.

Hello "delete" button!

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