Well . . .

The other day, I passed a child on my way to the parking lot. I asked him how he was doing.

"Good," he answered.

"You tell her, 'I am doing well.' Not, 'Good,'" his grandmother corrected. "That is not the proper way to answer her question."

She looked at the boy pointedly, but he was too busy playing with some plastic (educational? I hope, after that reprimand) toy. He had the right idea. I would have ignored her too, but she kept talking.

"We have to start young, breaking these children of their bad habits. So many kids learn to answer that question the wrong way."

I almost said, "You should hear the way most kids speak at school. You would have a lot of bad habits to break, and you might be called a few naughty things while imparting your knowledge."

Instead I said, "Adults do it too!" with a nervous chuckle.

Then I fled from the Grammar Nazi Grandma as quickly as possible.

But I have been thinking about this exchange all weekend mostly because I went grocery shopping this morning.

I cringed every time I was asked, "How are you today?" by a guy restocking the organic produce because in my head I was thinking, "I want you to know that I know I should be answering this with, 'I am well.'" But what I actually said was, "Good," because I was also thinking, "I just want you to move so I can grab a head of lettuce."

I was asked five times in ten minutes, "How are you today?"

And every time, I replied with, "Good!"

"I am aware that this is incorrect grammar," I muttered to my husband, Dan.

"Isn't it just one of those things that people have said for such a long time, so now it's okay?" he asked.

"Not according to the Grammar Nazi Grandma."

But here is the thing. Most of the time, I am in a hurry when someone asks me how I am doing.

If I answer with, "I am well," that phrase is three times longer than, "Good!"

I think, "Fine," sounds abrupt and slightly sarcastic.

Just answering with, "Well," can easily be mistaken for, "Well . . ." as though I am not done with my thought process, and I am about to give a detailed account as to how I am really doing.

And doesn't "I am well" sound a little pretentious anyway? I might respond this way if I were trying to impress someone in a my-grammar-is-better-than-yours moment. But I don't want to behave that way around underpaid grocery workers who spend long shifts on their feet dealing with rude customers and neurotic shoppers (a.k.a. Me).

Of course, now that I've written this, I will probably be very careful about my response to the question, "How are you?" for a the next few months. Don't be surprised if I answer you with a huffy sniff and a tortoise shell cigarette holder dangling from my lips, "I am quite well."

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Adventures in Cross-Country Skiing (RE-POST FROM 1/15/07)

Since I published this blog post, my skiing abilities have improved. But I still have issues. While I am hitting the (fairly flat) slopes this weekend, please enjoy reading this re-post from 2007.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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HBO Preview Sucks More Time From My Life

As if I don't watch enough TV already . . .

Saturday morning, I found my husband, Dan, sitting on the couch, setting several timers on our DVR.

We barely have the time to watch our "high priority, fully committed-to-watching" shows. Our DVR is never empty.

Our recordings are grouped into a "Becky" folder and a "Dan" folder, and I usually watch my General Hospital episodes every evening from the bathroom while washing my face. (Little known fact: I have been watching General Hospital since I was five. I don't care how silly soap operas are. Don't judge me.)

Plus, Downton Abbey just started, Sherlock comes back next week, and Portlandia returns in February. Getting through all of your favorite TV shows is a stressful profession.

So you can imagine my dismay when I wake to find Dan setting timers to record more television.

"But Becky, HBO has a free preview this weekend."

(We used to pay for HBO. We quit subscribing though because we were trying to watch less TV.)

I started to sigh, but then I saw what he was recording.

"Cloud Atlas!" I shouted.

I just read the book and proclaimed it (mostly to myself and Dan because I don't have very many friends) my favorite book of the year (even though it was published in 2004—I'm a little behind). A few weeks ago, Dan and I had been looking for it on Netflix and Amazon streaming.

"I recorded some other stuff for you too," Dan said, encouraged by my enthusiasm, "Behind the Candelabra—" I shrieked—"Six By Sondheim—" I shrieked a little louder—" Gangster Squad—" (eye candy, baby) even louder.


"Are you going to squeal after everything I say?" he asked. "I recorded Admission too."

Then we started reenacting Community because our lives revolve around television.

"Don't squeal. Don't squeal."

I shut my mouth and started to do a funny dance with my shoulders.

"Okay, go ahead and squeal."

And I did.

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Rescuing the 1%

A couple of years ago I wrote "Rescued By the 1%," a heartwarming tale about generalizations involving wealthy tourists in Sun Valley, Idaho. This year my husband, Dan, and I spent our tenth anniversary in this favorite vacation spot of ours once again surrounded by Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

But this year, it was our turn to rescue the 1%. And I have to admit, I was not nearly as enthusiastic about taking time away from my fun-in-the-snow schedule as those who helped us out two years ago.

Dan and I were skiing (Nordic skiing—remember, faithful readers, my aversion to heights). The sun was warm that morning, and we decided to shed some layers after our first trail. We had found the perfect parking spot, a single spot right off the ski trail, away from the bustle of Galena Lodge.

As we approached our car, we saw that a couple had attempted to pull into what was not so much a parking spot but a snowbank next to us. They were stuck just like we had been stuck two years ago.

I stopped. You know that split second where you have to make a choice between doing what you want and doing what is right?

"Maybe we should turn around and pretend like we didn't seen them," I muttered to myself.

But then I thought, "What if the 1%-ers just drove by us two years ago and pretended like they didn't see us? In fact, as I recall, not one person drove by without stopping and asking if he or she could help."

"What are we going to do though? We don't have a rope or phone service up here," I told myself. "All I wanted to do was take off some clothes and go skiing again." (That sounds a lot kinkier than necessary.)

But then I reminded myself, "You never know how everything might turn out. Just go to your car."

So I did. Of course, Dan was already there because he doesn't have conversations with himself like I do. Actually, those of you who know him will say, "He doesn't seem to have conversations with much of anyone."

"Are you okay?" I asked the couple.

The man was behind the wheel of the car. The woman was trying to shovel enormous amounts of snow from around the wheels with a shovel about the size of a window scraper.

"We tried to make a second parking spot," the woman said with a sigh. "If you're leaving, we might be able to swing around into your car tracks."

"We weren't leaving," I said, realizing I didn't sound nearly as compassionate as I probably should have. "We were just coming back to shed some layers."

Dan and I stood there, staring at them helplessly, trying to figure out how we could help.

"This happened to us two years ago," I told the couple, "and someone came along with a rope and pulled us out of the snow."

"Do you have a rope?" the woman asked.

Dan shook his head.

"I guess that means you don't have one either?" I asked.

The woman thought for a minute.

"I do have a kayak strap!" she said with renewed hope and started to fish it out of the trunk.

By this time, the man had come out of the car to survey the situation.

"Would you be able to push the car while he drives?" I asked Dan.

"Maybe . . ."

It was decided that we all three would push—Dan, the woman, and me—while the man accelerated. Dan also backed up our car to make a path for the stuck vehicle. If that didn't work, we would try to pull it out with the rather wussy-looking kayak strap.

We never had to test the strength of that kayak strap because we were able to push the car through the snowbank and into the car tracks. It took us a few heave-hos and a lot of burnt rubber inhalation, but we were able to push the car over the snow and onto flatter land.

"Yay! We did it!" I said, sounding a little too surprised at my newly discovered physical prowess. I have to admit, I was feeling something akin to a runner's high.

As the couple was leaving, they thanked us.

"I'm sure that's exactly how you wanted to spend your afternoon," the woman apologized.

I thought back to my initial hesitation with a twinge of guilt.

"Like I said, this happened to us two years ago, so we know how aggravating it is to be stuck."

"Well, you've done your good deed for the day," the man said. "Have a great time skiing."

And we did.

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