COM(plane)ING

          Remember when flying was fun?

          I remember actually dressing up to go on an airplane trip. We’d plan our outfits the night before, and get up in time to primp properly, because my mom always told us that we should look nice when traveling on a plane. It was a special occasion. Now, sweats, comfy jeans and even pajama bottoms seem to be the style of choice, probably because the planes are filthy, uncomfortable, and let’s face it, flying is not much of a treat anymore. Back in the day, it was an elegant and privileged adventure, with hot meals served to everyone…..on real porcelain plates and with real stainless steel utensils (including knives). The upbeat and friendly stewardesses – who are now called flight attendants - would give us packages of cards, plush blankets, gold wing pins, and sometimes even goodie bags with special pens and activity books. Most flights, we were invited into the cockpit – which is now called the flight deck - to visit with the pilots and see them at work. Often we’d be allowed to press the speaker button when they wanted to make an announcement or sometimes even put on headphones to listen to the air traffic controllers. I remember even wearing the captain’s cap on one occasion. These days I assume there are pilots up there, but rarely, if ever, do I see them. There is no personal connection, other than a brief introduction on the PA, which makes the loss of control and comfort even harder for people with (ahem) control issues….

          And during the hay days of travel, when that seatbelt sign would go off, the clearly audible and uniform clicking sound of everyone unbuckling would signal social time. People would spring up and roam the aisles, cigarettes in one hand, and their free rum and coke in the other, as they chatted, joked and mingled with their fellow travelers.

          Those were the days.

          Today, I’m on an airplane that is so small and stuffed it makes factory farming quarters look roomy. I am sitting at the very last seat that doesn’t recline because it is up against the wall of the noisy and reeking toilet – um….lavatory. They guy in front of me does have a seat that reclines, however, and he is taking full advantage of the extra few inches he gains through leaning back….because the person in front of him is reclining and infringing upon his knee room….because the person in front of her is also reclining….etc. I am the unfortunate soul who just happens to be at the end of the dominos of reclining seats. It’s the end of the line for me. The back stops here. And even though I’m on an aisle (which is more the width of a balance beam), I am unable to stick out my lengthy leg due to the fact that there seems to be a steady flow of desperate people standing almost on top of me as they wait for the smelly toilet to my left. For god’s sake. It is only a 2-hour flight. Could we not hydrate just this one time? I bet half of the 70 people on board have ventured to the loo so far. I’m thinking of paying off the flight attendant to stop serving liquid....

          Anyhow, I keep my knee pressed into the seat in front of me, and my feet tucked uncomfortably under the seat….because who knows what mayhem may befall this poor heard if I were to accidentally trip someone into someone else….who would knock a plastic cup of water over onto someone else…..whose hot coffee would bump out of her hand onto the leg of the person she doesn’t even know….who is squished up beside her….and can’t get out to clean up….because there is no room and the seat belt sign is on…..? So, scarf over my face to diffuse the unusually horrible smell coming from behind me, and knees pressed into the back of the man in front of me, I try to look at the positive. At least there’s no baby beside me…..

          Yes, they are cute, but they’re not mine, and so I don’t want the things pulling at my hair or spitting teething biscuits into my face. It’s usually what happens, and experience has shown me that the less attention you give to the little rug rats, the more they will attempt to get it. Being that we are in an era of explaining everything to kids and not saying ‘no’, it usually takes the entire flight of negotiations for the parent to finally convince the 18 month old to leave the unfriendly and boring lady beside them alone. If they’d only let me, I could explain things a lot easier….

          In any case, it’s difficult for parents to control their trill seeking, energy bundles these days since they can’t chase them up and down the aisle anymore, and because the little whippersnappers aren’t allowed to bring the ultimate favored and reliable toddler restraint mechanism either; The car seat. God, I loved those things on planes. The five-point harness ensured the kid couldn’t escape, making words like “Stay in your seat, Sweety!” make every parent look like they were in control. That’s easy parenting. Nowadays, parents disembark a plane looking frazzled, haggard and embarrassed, while people like myself try to soak up the graham cracker baby spit with tiny non-absorbent acrid paper napkins. (By the way…why do airplane napkins always smell like sour cream and ammonia?)

          And the ban on toddler tack is just one of the many new ‘policy changes’ and ‘FAA regulations’ on planes today. During the rare moments I break out of my self-induced protective zombie mode, I notice more and more finger wagging and restrictions on every flight. This time, we were just told that the seat pocket in front of us is not to be used for storage… Huh? What is it to be utilized for then? Used gum? Apparently, it’s safer to hold your computer, book, water bottle and magazines on your lap, than to have them snuggly secured in an overly elasticized compartment. I can imagine during excessive turbulence or a (gasp) crash landing all of us sardines holding tightly to our paraphernalia….and screaming babies…. Would I really be concerned about my book and stainless steel water bottle if we were going down, or would I toss the things in the air and worry about trying to get into the ‘crash’ position....?  Which, by the way, would be effectively impossible for me in the space provided, since on this plane for Pygmy’s, leaning forward positions the bridge of my nose at the top of the man’s greasy head in front of me.

          But I digress.   As we begin our descent, I am told to power down my electronic device…because typing while holding my computer is evidently more dangerous than lightly balancing it on my cramped legs, and the energy emitted by my screen is a hazard to the planes sensitive system. Frankly, I think the energy emitted from the guy’s buttery head in front of me is more of a hazard than any computer. Believe me, it’s scary…..and oh so close to my face. Clearly, I am completely skeptical of the notion that my little laptop can affect equipment in the cockpit. If that is the case….I am never flying again, since no one actually verifies that everyone has indeed ‘powered down’.  What if Helen left her stuff on? Does that mean we're doomed?  It can’t be that delicate of a system....right?  Psaw!

          And now I’m wondering where the heck I put that tiny package of peanuts. I’m a little afraid to approach the seat pocket in front of me for a couple of reasons:  1)  There could be some used gum in there,  and  2)  My actions may be misinterpreted, and I could be sited by the air marshal on board…..who could literally be the slick guy in front of me.

          Good God.  Terra Firma is more than just a rock band to me....

If The Shoe Fits

         Why is it so difficult to buy a pair of shoes?

          I would say my feet are relatively normal, for a 5’11” woman. I consistently take a 10 ½ ……but a 10 if the shoes are made in Brazil…..and an 11 if they are made in China. They are not extra wide, nor ultra skinny and a normal width usually fits me just fine…unless they are made wide like Dansko’s or narrow like Lucchese’s….

          Why can’t there be some consistency in shoe land? Anyone and everyone seemingly designs shoes these days, and all of them have their own sizing style and formula. Apparently, shoe people can’t seem to agree on one standard blueprint for shoes. Wouldn’t it be reasonable to expect a 10B to fit like all other 10B’s? Of course the shape of the shoe would change the fit slightly, but the basic template should be the same. No?

          There is obviously no shoe supervision.

          Trying to fit my son for a simple pair of running shoes proved to be a complicated and time-consuming experience. I had ordered the shoes, since running around town from place to place is the most inefficient way to look for shoes, especially when your trying to fit it in between guitar lessons and hockey practice. The box arrived, and as only a few familiar pairs were ordered, I figured the decision could be made before dinner…..a shoe-in for the Salomon’s…. and my son would finally have un-mashed toes. He’s not that hard to shop for being that he is pretty laid back and not at all that picky, and his feet are pretty normal for a large and wide flat-footed 12 year old. You would never have guessed that however, had you been listening to our discussion….

ME:       “No, Honey… you need to undo the laces to get it on. Yes, flip the back up…you’re smashing it down. Use your hands to help. Is all the stuffing out?”

SON:       “My sock is all bunched up. I can’t get it unwrinkled. Now it’s bunched at the heel. Check it out! Hey I think this sock is bigger than the other one!”

ME:        “Does the shoe fit?”

SON:       “I don’t know. Does it? My toe would be at the end, but the front goes in a bit, so my toe gets smushed to the side…and doesn’t touch. Is it supposed to get smushed to the side?”

ME:       “Well, how does it feel? Comfortable? Stand on it. You’re going to be walking in them, not lying on the floor….”

        Son takes off running full speed down the hall to ‘test’ them out.

SON:       “Um…my heel kind of slips….but the other one’s color is weird. Do you think it’s weird?”

ME:        “Forget about the color…..it’s a cool orange, dude! Try on the smaller ones. What size are they?”

SON:      “Um…this one says it’s a 9, but a it also says 41 1/3 in European sizes and 7 ½ UK. That doesn’t seem right. My other shoes were an 8 US, but 41 European. Should I try on the 8 ½ or 40 2/3? The color is better.”

ME:         “What? Ya. I already told you to try them on. You can’t tell just by looking at them. Sheesh! Try on one of each then you can compare. Is one foot bigger than the other?”

SON:       “I don’t think so. Do you have one foot bigger? That’s weird, Mom.”

ME:         “Just get over here and let me feel for your big toe. Stand on your foot though, I can’t tell anything when you’re foot is up in the air and you’re lying upside down on your back!”

SON:        “I’m wiggling my toes….can you feel them? No! That’s not the end…that’s my middle toe! Mom, press harder! Geez. Feel it? Ow!”

ME:         “They both feel about the same to me. Which one feels better to you?”

SON:       “The 9 is good with a big sock, but in the 8 ½ my heel doesn’t slip. Let me get my old shoes that are too small and compare that way.”

            He gets his dirty broken down sneakers that are missing laces and have holes in the sides.

         

           “They are so comfortable, but my toe is at the end. It says they are an 8 ½! No way! They are so much smaller than the other 8 ½. Do you think they changed their sizing? Wow! It says they are a 25.5 in Japan. If I were in Japan, what size would I be? 26? Why are there so many different ways to size a shoe? Have you ever been to Japan? And imagine if I were in England….my foot would only be a 7! But here I’m a 9…but my hiking boots are a 10. And why can’t these new ones feel as good as my old ones?”

        Mom sighs, pulls at her hair, looks at her watch and takes a sip (gulp) of wine…..

MOM:       “We have to make a decision. Which shoes? Any shoes?”

        Son takes off running down the hall again. Twice. Then throws the ball for the dog…..and plays soccer with the stuffing from the shoes.
                  
                  “For god sake. Make a decision….or put them back in the box! Come over here. Let me see them again.”

SON:        “Guess the smaller ones are better, because I felt like tripping a bit with the big ones. Or I could put an insole in them….or wear two socks… Nah. Guess the smaller ones. But aren’t they a strange color, Mom? What color is that? ”

MOM:       “Color is fine. It’s not about color, and it’s burnt orange. Are you sure of the fit?”

SON:          “Guess so. But DO NOT throw out my old ones ‘till these get broken in.”

MOM:        “You’re not keeping those disgusting shoes that don’t even fit. You’ll get hammer toes and bunions and then this process will be even more tedious!”

SON:           “Yes! I’m keeping them! I love them! Besides, I still wear them….they’re not that small, and they are so much more comfy! I’ll save the other ones just in case. Thanks for the shoes, Mom. You’re the best.”

        I’m a haggard madwoman, that’s what I am….

Shear Madness

           I don’t know what made me think that I could cut my own hair.

         You’d think it would be straightforward....cut-and-dried…..especially since I’ve done it so many times, but it never turns out right…and usually requires a repair trip (or two) to the salon. My poor hair stylist friend must get tired of biting her tongue and pretending I’ve succeeded, every time I get the compulsion to do my own hair. She’s talked me out of so many potential disasters, but on this particular occasion, my mane sponsor was not reachable, and I basically had no one to bring me to my senses and order me to ‘step away from the scissors…’ So, it’s her fault….

         I wasn’t planning on doing the whole head, but jut the fringe part….and maybe a little around the face. What could be so difficult about that? Having been to the salon since I was about 10 years old, I always felt that I could possibly learn to cut hair rather easily. After all, I’m observant and a quick study and thought that I’d essentially been in class while sitting in those fun rotating and crafty height varying chairs anyway. Engrossed and concentrating on the stylists as they shaped my mane into something manageable, you’d think I would have learned something…..through osmosis. I’ve seen hundreds, if not thousands of haircuts, and so what’s wrong in thinking that some of it may have rubbed off? Beauty school or not, wouldn’t it be reasonable to assume that I could do at least as well as the gal who made my son’s hair look as if he’d been caught in a weed-eater?

         So, thinking that I’d learned from the best…and from my mistakes, I felt confident when I went downstairs and searched the junk drawer for my best kitchen scissors. My intentions were to simply blend the fringe into the sides, removing some of the weight and reshaping the angles around my face. I knew the lingo, and as it seemed pretty uncomplicated, I felt sure of the process.        

         It started out okay, with a precise little slice here, a strategic little slice there, but then, as my scissors were not all that sharp, I was forced to back the hair up the to near the handle of the blades and cut close to the fulcrum. Careful to not shape the hair into the dreaded Billy Ray Cyrus mullet of the 90’s, I was slow and methodical with each clip. It was all advancing fairly well, until a chunk got caught at the dull tip of the scissors, and as a rare stunner occurred, the utterly blunt blades somehow hacked off a 3” long section directly in front of my ear. “Okay then!” I said out loud, immediately surrendering to the botch job, and knowing that hat (winter) season could save me if all else failed. “So maybe its a few more layers than I originally planned, but it might be kind of cute…” And so I continued to chop away until both sides were equally pruned and an astonishing amount of strands coated the bathroom counter. Hmm.

         While drying my hair I noticed that the right side was a little thicker than the left so, equipping myself with my big Singer scissors, I again attacked my head. I was feeling pretty good about saving a $75 trip to the salon and actually quite proud of my skills, until I noticed the time and decided to pick up the pace in order to make my appointment only 45 minutes away. Quickly, yet still trying to be creative in eliminating some of the heaviness, I chopped at upward angles into the bangs alternating with slices in long swoops down the sides. “Ken Paves should be worried”, I thought…..

         Suddenly, in my overconfidence and lack of concentration, I somehow lost control of those scissors, and on a swift up-chop, plunged the blade straight into my left eye!  Ow. Holding my hand over my face and hysterically running in circles around the bathroom, I was terrified to look at the damage. What if I had blinded myself? What would I tell people? Not only would I have a horrible haircut, but now I’d have to wear an eye patch?! How pathetic would I look explaining to everyone that I was cutting my own hair (!) when I idiotically mishandled my scissors and cut out my eye in the process? I’d never live that one down. I’d probably have to move to another country…..

         But after calming down and realizing that my eye didn’t really even hurt, I decided to face the truth and assess the situation. Removing my hand, I noticed that my eye was completely fine! There were only a few tiny pieces of cut hair in the corner, but other than that, there was no evidence of any kind of eyeball violation or injury. Phew. Rejoicing, I started bouncing around the bathroom, then smugly decided that my brilliant idea to use dull scissors in the first place was what saved me from a trip to the emergency room and years of humiliation. You see there is method to my madness……everything for a reason….

         So, pleased with my handiwork and relieved that I still had two eyes, I proceeded to clean up the bits of stray hairs around the sink.  Just then, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and to my horror noticed that my eyelashes over my left eye were…..half gone? My scissors had not cut my eyeball, but had instead sheared my lashes to half-mast!   Great.  Now I looked like I had a thyroid disease or that crazy impulsive hair pulling disorder….tricho-something-mania.

         And of course, the only false eyelashes in this house were the sparkly red ones my daughter wore for Halloween.   Deciding that particular look might not be the best for my doctor appointment, I smoothed my recently layered hair in towards my face and around and over my frameless eye.  I piled on heaps of mascara to the remaining mini-lashes, and put on a cap with a big low brim. Not bad….if I was going for the saucy-40-something-housewife-hip-hop-wanna-be look.  Maybe the red eyelashes would be okay.  Sigh.

         Hey, didn’t Paul McCartney start a whole new mustache and beard trend when he had herpes and used his hair to conceal the breakout?  Who knows, maybe the ‘one eyed shaggy kitchen chop’ will be the next new craze.

         Remember, you heard it here first.

Fierce Fashion

        I have always noticed that people will use whatever authority they have, no matter how small, but I just recently discovered that the force in which the authority is imposed is inversely proportional to the level of power that person holds.

         That’s right, the smaller the dog, the bigger the bark.

        

         Thelma, the dressing room attendant at Macy’s was analogous to an miniature overweight Bulldog and had a thunderous bark. Standing about 5’4” tall and 4’5” wide, she kept control of that dressing area with orders, rules and demands that she continuously growled at the ladies changing.

         “Let’s go ladies! People waiting.” She yipped as I stepped up to the end of the hall with my one little skirt. I was the only one waiting, and felt a little embarrassed for causing her to yell, but then she turned around, looked me in the eye and flinging her arms up ordered me to stand back.

         “Get to the back of the hall.” She commanded.

         Obliging, and a little jolted, I stepped back a couple of feet.

         She continued to harass the others in rooms then looking at me twice, she waddled over, got right in my face and said, “The back of the hall! The back! Get back! It’s for security reasons!”

         Security reasons? What could happen at a Macy’s dressing room in a 10-foot hallway? Did she think I would loose my head over some ladies cute sequined mini and rip it out of her arms as she exited her room? Was she worried about fashion friction? Clothing clashes? Trend Tiffs? Absurd. Nevertheless, sensing that Thelma was clearly not in the mood to entertain my questions and cross examination, I quietly stepped back another few feet to the entry of the hall. Apparently, I failed to follow her orders correctly however, because that dressing room demon exploded into furry. Perhaps had there been a clear line on the floor, or a sign indicating the area in which a patiently waiting shopper was to stand, I would have avoided raising Thelma’s blood pressure and causing a scene, but there wasn’t….and I did….

         Swaying side to side, Thelma stormed over to me, repeatedly poked me in the arm and directed me to back up so that I was under the doorway….obstructing the only egress in the area. Thinking that this was a probable violation of a fire code, I asked the irritated Napoleon if she really meant for me to be blocking the doorway.

         “Listen, lady, I don’t make the rules, I just order them!” she yelled at me. “Now just stand there….and don’t lean against the wall either. Let’s go ladies! How long does it take?!”

         Don’t lean against the wall? Now Thelma was just saying things to irritate me, I was sure, and just as I was about to forgo trying on the adorable skirt, and thinking about how I could get back at the witch, three doors flew open and she frantically waved me over. The exiting ladies gave me the ‘you’re in trouble now….why did you have to say anything?’ raised eyebrow looks and bolted from the area.

         Slightly flustered and not really caring about the skirt anymore, I began to change anyway. Just then, there was a pounding on the door followed by “Are you still trying on that one skirt?”

         “Um…ya. Is that okay?” I asked anxiously.

         “Just don’t take all day!” She retorted.

         I had barely entered the damn room, and knew no one was waiting, so what was the hassle about? Was she just tormenting me for kicks? I hated that I felt nervous and nettled in that dressing room. Thelma was throwing me off balance, and half expecting her to poke her chubby head under my door, I began to feel claustrophobic. I knew I had to get out immediately, so not even trying on the skirt, I buttoned up and left.

         But just to be nice…and fearing an attack for leaving the skirt in the room, I brought it out and handed both the hanger and piece of clothing to Thelma.

         “Put it on the hanger!” She snapped as she waved her hand in front of my face.

         That did it. A person can only take so much abuse.

         I looked down into her beady eyes, and as I held the skirt up to her face, I calmly said, “I think your position as dressing room attendant probably includes more than yelling orders and harassing people. You put it on the hanger, Thelma. It’s your job.” And I flung both skirt and hanger into the vacant room.

         I’m frankly surprised I made it out of there without a bloody nose or a cracked kneecap.

        

         Halleluiah for internet shopping.

Trip (Up)

       A Holiday: Leisure time away from work devoted to relaxing or pleasure.

       To Relax: To make less tense.

       Airport: A huge disorganized building filled with a chaotic mash of frantic people hauling excessive baggage and gear in an uncontrolled and confusing manner.

       Relaxing? Less Tense? What was I thinking?

       It is ironic that many of my holidays begin and end with the most exhausting and trying element of the trip: The Airport.  I definitely have ‘airport aversion’, and usually by the time I’ve arrived at my destination, my ‘relax factor’ has plummeted by 50%, my appearance is disheveled, and I’ve unavoidably upset someone or more likely been reprimanded for sitting in the wrong place, asking too many questions or complaining about the food.  As expected, this little jaunt to NYC was no different.  All I can say is thank god for noise cancelling earphones, dark sunglasses and lavender oil….

         I have no confidence in…anyone at airports…and as such, I never check a bag, no matter the length of my trip.  Unfortunately and without a doubt, my checked bag will indeed get lost, bumped or delayed, for one reason or another, which has led me to conclude that basically a checked bag is a lost bag.   One time, on a 4-day trip, my misplaced luggage took 3 days to get to me, and let me tell you, there are only so many ways to wear a black t-shirt….and socks really can have a personality all on their own…  It’s a curse I’ve been saddled with, and in order to avoid hours of negotiations and arguments with the most incompetent and unconcerned lost luggage bozos, I carry everything on.  If it doesn’t fit in that teeny carry-on, my purse, coat pockets or can't be worn, it doesn’t go, no matter how much I think I might need it.  Needless to say, I’m frequently at my destination lacking in something, and wishing I had brought another pair of shoes, sweater, pants….or all three.  No one said sacrifices are painless, but when it comes down to it, I’d rather be wrinkled and repeated than forced to buy “I Love New York” t-shirts because my clothing is on a world tour.  Besides, on this particular trip, I didn’t think the people of Manhattan would really care that my one pair of shoes were more akin to slippers and that my t-shirt had been slept in.  And at the Broadway production of “Hair”….well, the actors were naked….and hairy.…so I already felt secure in my outfit.  Strangely, I did keep humming the song from “Midnight Cowboy”,

        “Everybody's talking at me.

         I don't hear a word they're saying,

         Only the echoes of my mind.

         People stopping staring,

         I can't see their faces,

         Only the shadows of their eyes.”

        So, crammed carry on, loaded with 5 days worth of clothing and accoutrements, and already worn out from my self imposed travel packing restrictions and preparation, I arrived at the airport an hour before my flight so that I’d have time to make it through security, grab a coffee and ……get dressed.

        My boots, my belt, my sweater (which I frankly saw as part of my upper layer and not an item which needed to be removed), my watch, my hat, my bracelet and my scarf all got piled in a muddle on the ominous grungy conveyor belt.  Additionally, before I could pass through the metal detector, my computer was removed and separated into its own bin, my lotions and potions that had been previously placed into their own little individual containers……which were within their own little individual baggie…..were then put into another little individual rounded tub.  My boots were also made to enter the machinery solo, but were denied a container by the agent, as they were scary looking black things that I suppose needed to be scrutinized without restraint.  Following, my coat, sweater, hat and scarf were in another bin, while my bracelet, belt and watch were segregated into yet another small bucket.  Finally, my purse and carry-on suitcase brought up the rear.  I surveyed the conveyor belt and noticed that there was a ridiculous 20-foot long string of my belongings positioned in heaps along the table…and I, now a participant in the mass disrobing happening around me, was barely clothed, shoe-less and exposed with merely a flimsy boarding pass for protection.  The things we do under fear…  I looked around and noticed downward glances and uncomfortable quietness as the people in line nervously unbuttoned, unzipped and unbuckled their attire in order to obey the strangely smug and delighted agents and their repeated orders.  Or maybe they averted their eyes to avoid the peep show in the next lane:  At 6:30am, it’s just hard to look at a sweaty obese man in his plumber-butt jeans wife-beater top….  

       But finally, having passed the metal detector test and now waiting for all my stuff to hopefully pass too, I questioned if I would be able to gather and replace it all in time to make my flight.  I wondered why I had spent the time getting dressed in the first place, when I would just be required to remove everything and redress merely an hour later…. Next time, I’m seriously contemplating arriving in my pj’s with my clothes ready to wear at the top of my bag.  Why get dressed twice?  And wouldn’t it be reasonable for TSA to position a mirror at the end of the screening scrutiny?  Someone like me needs a little reflection after the dissection and inspection!  I already look like a bag lady carrying my load, and getting dressed hastily, under observation and mirror-less, commonly leaves me with my sweater buttoned incorrectly, my belt missing a loop, or a pant leg caught in my boot.

      Every time, I’m a wreck…and that’s even before I get to the plane.

Signing On

        “Sign Sign everywhere a sign 


        Blocking out the scenery breaking my mind….”

       So it appears that I’m obsessed with signage now.

       I’ve been observing street signs the last couple of days, and I’m fascinated by the complete lack of creativity in the names. I know I live in a simple and straightforward town, but one would think that just a little vision would go into the naming of a complete road. After all, shouldn’t a sign that is branding an entire row of houses or businesses with a specific identify be a little more thorough in its label? Shouldn’t the people responsible for the letters that distinguish that location put at least a little thought into the legacy that specific street will hold? That sign, as little as it may be, possesses huge power and strength. That sign presides over the entire length of that thoroughfare, avenue or path. That sign gives you the high-sign every time you go by. That sign better be exceptional.

       But not in this reserved and careful town….

       Here, the streets are named in the manner of which you would expect them to be in a sleepy Podunk: “Wilderness Drive”, “Ranger Road”, “Sunset Drive” and even the ultra thoughtless and apparent “Center Street”. Yawn. No ingenuity can be found, and in fact, I would venture to say that there was complete laziness in the dedication of the streets here. I tried to find a name that made me reflect or question, but there was no sign of creativity anywhere. How great would it be to live on a drive named “Sex” or a path named “Psycho”…..?

       I’ve searched all over this place, and I could find nothing more original than “Hard Winter’s Lane”. Gee, one can only wonder what the winter was like that year…. And I’ve actually lived on a road named “Heck of a Hill”. Try to get the UPS people to deliver up there! It’s actually not that bad of a hill, but the name precedes any attempt to persuade the transport people of that fact.

       It gets better though. Our lack of creativity and sluggish sign dedication is not only evident in the naming of streets after wildflowers, dead founders and creeks: We have a lane named “Pizza Lane” right where -gasp- the pizza place is. What if the restaurant changes its menu? What if a Chinese place takes over the building? Can Confucius say confusion?!

       But the winner of the ultimate apathetic and unimaginative street name in this town has to go to… “No Name Street”. I had a doll named “No Name” once, but I was a terrible 2 years old, and I believe my decision to not name the thing was simply an act of contempt. In any case, I was certainly not responsible for characterizing a complete residential area.

       What were the people thinking? Or…not thinking. It was probably during the early 1900’s when violent range wars were customary, wolves were eating away at cattle herds, and entire crops were being lost to drought. There was no time to contemplate a frivolous sign! And in order to silence the street sign secretary, some petulant and cantankerous sheepherder probably just filled in the paper work writing “No Name” under ‘Street Address’. Then, to get back at him, the sign authorities mercilessly and maliciously went forward and actually named his street “No Name Street”, effectively slapping him in the face.  Must have been a sign of the times.  Wonder if he was the dead sheepherder found in the blatantly named Death Canyon?

      Ah – the sheepherder got me ruminating!

      Signing off.          

What's In A Name?

     Driving to school and noticing signs, the kids asked me why the motel was called “Motel 6”….and then why the “Super 8” was super so many times over.

     I explained that when both of those motels originated, the cost was reflective in their names: “Motel 6” rooms were all $6 in 1960-something, and “Super 8” offered rooms for $8.88 ten years later.

     Their eyebrows raised and mouths agape, I could see their little brains calculating the cost of a movie and popcorn these days. Skeptical, and probably thinking that I must have just fabricated my response to avoid admitting ignorance, my daughter asked, “Are they still that price?”

    “Ha! No…they’re not…and in fact I think it might be false advertising at this point!” I said…actually really wondering if it might be….

     I guess back when “Motel 6” was launched, naming your motel to be representative of the price of a room was great advertising. After all, with revenue of only 6 bucks a night, you might need to save money on advertising, so why not utilize your signage in the most advantageous manner? Smart business. Besides, knowing the theory and spotting a giant “6” just off of the highway would tend to encourage a stop and facilitate in the selection for a dog-tired, blurry-eyed and overworked trucker.

     Somehow, I just don’t see that naming method working today, even though that big 6 is still indicative of an inexpensive room. In keeping with the tradition of price disclosure however, I think they should update their sign to read “Marginal Motel 56.99 (*price varies depending on location and time of year)”. Okay - so maybe that would prove problematic for the trucker whizzing by at 90 miles an hour….

      But imagine how simplified our hotel choices would be if the places did actually employ the candid method of naming their businesses. You could choose from “Steep Sleep”, “Bad Bed & Basic Breakfast”, or the “Poor Quality Inn”. ….Because let’s face it, the “Renaissance Inn” doesn’t have any sort of 14^th Italian influence nor neoclassical architecture enhancing their boxy buildings, and “Best Western” certainly does not paint an accurate picture of the best western hotels that I’ve ever stayed in. Nevertheless, I have noticed a consistency in roof color at all “Red Roof Inn’s”…..

     Come to think of it, perhaps some hotels do follow this naming process, and I’ve just never really acknowledged it. Maybe the “Motel 6” ideology inadvertently taught us to be inattentive and unmindful to signage, and over the years, we’ve simply ignored the subtle and calculated indicators! Maybe….the “Four Seasons” is just really short for “It Will Take You Four Seasons To Pay For Your Stay”….!

     It’s all there. I just need to start paying more attention.

What Would Elmer Do?

        My son killed a rabbit this past weekend.

      My husband claims that the hunting process is essential in our son’s development, and consequently they go hunting together often. They both love it; stalking the animal, shooting it, skinning and gutting it...and it’s all supposed to be a necessary experience for a boy, “in order for him to develop into a confident man”, I was told. (A man who needs to conquer nature and ruin some harmless fuzzy bunny’s fun?) Thankfully, our daughter doesn’t care to hunt that much. Wouldn’t want her growing up to become a confident man....

       Actually, in our house, we believe that if you are going to eat meat, you should participate in the entire hunting/gutting/packaging process so that you can really appreciate your meal. There is something about knowing where your dinner came from and how it got onto your plate, that makes ‘giving thanks’ hold a lot more value. And I believe that it’s absolutely hypocritical to have an aversion or abjection to hunting, but then buy a pretty steak in the store or restaurant. Besides, it’s the ultimate organic meal when you’ve absorbed yourself into nature and labored for sometimes days prior to sitting down for your burger.  In this case, the solo skinned rabbit has been lying shrouded in a plastic bag in our fridge since Sunday…..and today is the day I’m supposed to prepare it for dinner.

        I tried, I really did….to slip that bald bunny from its bag, but the more I looked at it, the more I felt nauseous. I’m not new at the ‘from meadow to menu” thing, and I have indeed successfully participated in several hunts and their following procedures. Fluffy however, had me repeatedly trying to hold on to my breakfast.

        It looked like an aborted fetus… and although I kept telling myself that it was just a silly wabbit, I still couldn’t get over the vulgarity of that skinless thing. Elk burger is one thing, and even an elk steak is tolerable, but an entire body is just a little macabre to me…especially when it looks like one of those disturbing photos the anti-choice people distastefully plaster around.

        After returning Peter Rabbit to the refrigerator, and contemplating my culinary conundrum, I sent a text to my brother. A fantastic cook, who can make Grape Nuts taste good, I knew he’d have the answer to how to cook the damn thing in the most flavorful way but with the least amount of contact possible. My message said “Please Help” and a photo of the carcass was attached.

        I could tell I sparked his gastronomic curiosity and overwhelmed his imagination with delightful thoughts of Cuisse de Lapin Confites or something….but I obviously hadn’t been specific enough because his response to my plea suggested cutting it up, braising it with onions and garlic, before adding paprika and essentially turning it into Paprika Rabbit. Braise? Cut it up? Was he out of his mind? Did he forget he was texting me and not Jeffrey Dahmer? I dread cooking to begin with, and already feeling like I was part of some sick ritual, I wasn’t about to cut up anything.

        So, I decided to go my own route, and plunk Bugs into a large pot and roast him. Squeezing the body out of the sack, I tried to think happy thoughts, but the little legs kept poking into the sides and the furless body slipped between my apparently insubstantial fingers. Gagging, I shook the thing free, and as it tumbled into it’s final resting place on top of the carrots, celery and potatoes, I quickly slammed the lid onto the pot. The twisted irony of Flopsy floating atop a layer of carrots required that I get some air….

       So now, Thumper’s marinating in the pot in the fridge. I’ll throw him into the oven just in time for dinner…so that our son can complete the cycle.

       The things we do for our kids….

       Tonight I’ll be eating salad.

Yo, What’s Up Dog?!

     My dog is having an identity crisis.

     Understandably the continuous ‘conversations’ I have with him has him a little confused, but the number of uncharacteristic actions has reached an extreme level.

     I always knew there was something unique with my Australian Shepherd, Hamlet, from the get-go, but when, after a couple of years, I had yet to hear him bark, I knew he was not like any dog I’ve ever owned. Granted, he had never been around many other dogs, or anything that woofed, yapped or howled (although my husband may not agree), but isn’t barking simply an innate action for a dog? At first I thought he must have some problem with his vocal cords, but then I wondered if maybe he just didn’t know that he was supposed to bark. Was he that out of touch with his natural mannerisms? Wasn’t he supposed to be conscious of the fact that interpreting usual doggie situations like “I have to go outside to pee” or “There’s a moose in the yard eating our trees” without a telltale bark, is a little difficult for humans? Couldn’t he figure out that we don’t have that dog sixth-sense trait, and could use a little yelp-help when trying to be good dog owners?

     We tried to teach him, but even after several lessons with all of us (except the dog) barking at the door and simulating the standard and expected canine action, the Ham never did learn. Each time we began a new ‘How To Get Someone To Open The Door’ session, he’d just stand there looking at us with what I supposed was his ‘you guys are idiots’ grin and then sit back and watch the show.

     Then, as if to show us how clever and observant he was, Ham began opening doors himself. Now, levers, thumb latches or even round knobs are no match for my dog and if we don’t lock the doors…inside and out….we often come home with the front door wide open, or the kitchen door swinging in the wind. Normally a little fresh air is fine, but when you’re upstairs wondering why it’s so cold you can see your breath, or how the heck the pile of leaves got in your hallway, it’s more than a problem. And maybe locking doors is commonplace in other towns or cities, but in our little community, it’s not the first thing you think of when you leave the house…or are in fact in your house. It takes effort to bolt all doors…all the time…and now rarely an hour passes by without someone frantically asking the most frequent question in our house: “Are the doors locked?!” You’d think we were paranoid lunatics if you didn’t know what we were attempting to avoid.

         And it’s absolutely necessary for us to be vigilant with our door locking, for reasons other than tolerable heating bills. You see, Hamlet has a penchant for baked goods and chocolates too, and if there are goodies of any kind left anywhere he’ll eat them…if he is in the house….or can get in the house. We’ve lost pumpkin pies, sugar cookies, carrot cakes, chocolate bars and brownies to our sweet-toothed shepherd, simply because we’ve forgotten to lock him out or hide the stuff in the fridge, microwave or closet…. Oddly, we can leave elk burger, chicken or juicy steak on the counter and he won’t touch it, but if something has been baked with butter, sugar and flour, or has the least little bit of cocoa in it, he can’t control the urge. Remarkably, he never eats the entire creation, but just nibbles on a few cookies, or half a cake or the top of the brownies. He just wants a taste, and I guess you have to respect him for his restraint and willpower to stop. Maybe that’s why he never gets as sick as a dog from his forages, but just contently lies around in his favorite position - legs crossed at his doggie knees and head leaning against the wall - with that cheeky and blissful grin on his face.

         Most recently, Ham’s been helping himself to a comfy position on our red velvet couch. Sitting on the sofa is new behavior for our furry friend, and I can only guess that it was the natural next step in his attempt to simulate human beings. I also suppose that after breaking in to a house and eating a few sweets, a deluxe place to rest might seem appropriate. After all, he is 35 in dog years, which is like 65 in human years, and I bet he thought he’d earned the right to a comfortable spot to watch TV. He does indeed have a plush dog bed, but I think he thinks it’s a cruel joke…and unfair that he has a mere 4 foot round area in which to lounge, when we have access to a whole house.

     The problem I see is that Hamlet doesn’t know he’s a dog. There are no ill intents or ‘acting out’ scenarios, but instead just an identity complication. The poor thing doesn’t know he’ll never be top dog in this house…or that he has about a dog’s chance of ever getting a glass of chardonnay with his bowl of lunch. Frankly, he’d avoid a lot of disappointment and gruff words if he only acknowledged his authentic self! Should I get him a canine councilor?

         Maybe, had we called him Rover or Spot instead of the name of a contemplative and tormented man, our expectations would have been clear. Loyal yet unpredictable….intelligent yet impetuous….how can we blame our extraordinarily brilliant animal for living up to his namesake? We may just be the ones who messed things up from the start. Maybe we’re the ones who need to change our perspective and think of the situation differently, and perhaps we could learn some new tricks. Maybe… instead of thinking of him as a dog, I’ll try a different approach and start pretending that he is an inconsiderate uncle….with a low IQ and sugar addiction…..just out of the correctional facility….and with very poor motor skills and a shedding problem…That might make it easier for me to remember to lock the doors and hide the cookies. After all, I’m sure to be a lot more cautious when there’s a deranged and capricious relative roaming around the house, n’est-ce-pas?

     “Uncle Hamlet! Get your disgusting slobbery mouth away from the apple crisp…and close that door!”

     Oh boy. I’m obviously desperate…

The Land of the Lost

        It was a cornucopia of lost and forgotten items. Sweatshirts, pants, jackets, shoes, water bottles, books, musical instruments and backpacks were mounded and heaped in the back of the Middle School lunchroom, establishing the entire room as a Lost & Found area. The items had outgrown their designated cardboard box, and like a self-multiplying organism, they seemed to expand exponentially, until things were strewn across the floor in an outrageous chaotic mess. I had never seen so many homeless things in one place at one time, and I wondered if many of the kids came to school naked, shoeless and without books……since obviously their belongings were not with them….

         When I shared my amazement with a staff member, she said that last year they had so many pieces of unclaimed clothing that they ended up sending them to a village in Ghana or Uganda….. Holy cow, our Middle School effectively yet unwittingly provided for an entire village in Africa! Do the parents know their kids are so philanthropic?

         But how does a kid loose some of this stuff and not attempt to locate it within that special box? As the container expands to the point of absurdity, I can understand how retrieval attempts could be overwhelming, but then again, sometimes you just have to dig in. Didn’t somebody care that they lost their tuba? How the heck were they going to play in the upcoming school concert without that thing? And what about the down jacket I saw crumpled up in the middle of a pile? Wasn’t that kid wondering why he was so cold in just his t-shirt? You’d think that the frost forming on his arm hairs would flag him that something was missing. Or maybe he simply traded it for another one from the box…. And the eyeglasses; there were several pair – but those poor kids probably couldn’t see to find them.

        I started wondering what the most unique and oddest item was that was ever placed in Lost & Found….and so I checked with the ‘Oracle’: Google. X-rays, crutches, dentures, and guns were just a few of the strange things reported, and apparently, the San Diego Fair once had a walker in their lost and found for a while. Huh? A walker? How did that person leave the fair? Must have been the day the evangelist was there performing miracles…..

         But the most puzzling lost item to me is the solo shoe. There are rarely pairs in the Lost & Found, which is strange enough, but it’s the solitary shoes situated outside…in open spaces….that I find bizarre. You see them on the road, in the woods, on the beach, at the lake, and in some of the most peculiar places you’d believe a solo shoe could be. I’ve seen outcast sandals, boots, flip-flops and running shoes - and it’s the unknown and indefinite circumstances belonging to each piece that gives me a kick. I wonder if that backpacker got out okay with one hiking shoe, and if that fisherman knows he lost his sole. And I’m always curious when seeing an isolated shoe on a beach if it actually belonged to someone that was right there once…or someone in Japan…or someone who was violently pushed overboard the side of an elaborate cruise ship by her jealous and merciless lover….

         I have to say;  it is the mystery associated with solo shoes on the roadside that fascinates me the absolute most, however. I see them regularly, and each time, I question how the hell one sad shoe ends up mangled and partnerless on the edge of a major roadway. Was there a hitchhiker named Cinderella who was so excited and anxious to get a ride that she lost a shoe when running to the stopped car? Was some guy just carelessly hanging his leg out the window while driving when a gust of wind came up and stripped the shoe from his foot? Was someone tired of being a goody-two-shoes? Perhaps there was an argument underway when one person said to the other, “That’s it! I’ve had enough of you….I’m throwing your shoe out the window!”

         “Go for it Judy. Never liked the left one anyway…..and I bet I find a spare up here at the next intersection! But just you wait until the shoe is on the other foot!”

        I’d love to know the stories.  If only those soles could ‘talk the walk’.

The Bottom Line

        My guard was down, but the seat was up.

         I fell in.

         I’m sure in his hurried excitement to get to the airport at 6 am, my husband simply forgot to put the seat back down on our toilet. I know there was no malicious intent or even playful joking involved, but rather it was purely accidental….an oversight. I know this, because after 17 years of living together, and several dialogues pertaining to the seat conflict, it has become perfectly clear that the thing belongs down, against the porcelain oval bowl, in a friendly and unthreatening position. His reckless slip-up today however, left me uttering words that would have embarrassed a sailor….

         It’s the middle-of-the-night or the-first-thing-in-the-morning visit to the facilities that ordinarily requires some vigilance. I’ve been soused before, so in order to avoid potential repeats, I employ certain methods. Being that it is typically dark, I usually approach the depot in a cautious and mindful manner, placing my hand down gently behind me in order to survey, through touch, whether or not the barrier is in place. Sensing the seat, I can then continue into the full-seated position and go about my business. If my hand instead feels the cold and inhospitable rim, I rise, fix the problem and avoid disaster. No use taking the plunge if you don’t have to. There are other ways to make a splash….

         This morning however, I must have been just as unconscious as my negligent husband because I didn’t use the hand trick. I just sat; totally trusting and artless in my actions. How foolish. When I realized I was not going to land safely on that perfectly manufactured injection molded plastic, I panicked. I had this sinking feeling…and in the millisecond it took for me to fly past the clammy edge and hit the water, I actually thought that I could pull myself out of it. “My quads are strong…I can get back up!” I thought, but either my feet were not positioned for an effective squat, or I had simply gone beyond the point of no return. In any case, I plunged ungracefully into that bog, triggering a string of words and actions that drove my dog into hiding.

         It’s just another shortcoming in the human design, I guess. Women need to sit, and men like to stand. As if there weren’t enough to debate about, the inconsistency of our relief routines has contributed to many arguments about toilet ownership, moments that are gender divisive, disputes regarding bathroom aesthetics, and uncomfortable derrière dousings. But can you blame the guys for not wanting to sit? It’s certainly more efficient and sanitary to stand…and it’s a lot less stress on the knees! No wonder women require twice as many knee replacements than men. Up. Down. Up. Down. Crack. Crunch. Imagine how many squats a woman has done by the time she’s sixty? (approx. 6- 8 times a day x 365 x 60……yikes.) Let’s just face it: We are mismatched un-loaders and contrasting drainers, and something needs to be done. We need a pee-er review.

         Of course, there are always those automatic toilet seats with the electronic lids. I’ve never actually seen one in action, but I’ve heard that they’re guaranteed to end ‘toilets wars’ for good. Hmm. For some reason they never became particularly popular in North America, and I can only guess that it must have something to do with skepticism, distrust, and loss of control. What if the thing malfunctions and gets stuck in the down position? What if gets stuck in the up position?! What if a freakish short circuit causes the seat to quickly go up and down repeatedly, forcing the unlucky standing male to have to aim through a moving target? They’d have to be seat-sensible and stream-spry all the time….which is obviously not possible, or I wouldn’t be writing this piece in the first place!

         The bottom line is that until a man does a couple hundred thousand squats and bathes his tush in tepid toilet water a dozen times, he has no argument. How could he possibly relate to our toilet torture and our immersion miseries? The way I see it is that leaving the seat down is just an act of courtesy. It’s compassionate and thoughtful….it’s like pulling out a chair for a woman. So, please guys, give us a break.....Let us take a seat.

She Was A Teenage Werewolf

        The mixture of a full moon, excessive sugar, raging hormones and limited sleep was a recipe for disaster from the beginning. We were fully prepared for a challenge, but when I picked up my daughter, after her long night of Halloween revelry and a sleepover, I could have sworn that she was different. Maybe it was the poor lighting in the car, or the distortion in my convex ‘conversation-review-mirror’, but she looked a little green and bloated, with red eyes, and disheveled hair…..and I think her head might have been spinning…. Dismissing it as candy-corruption and fiesta-fatigue, I didn’t comment on the situation, but simply and silently drove home. I tuned the iPod to Cat Stevens “Peace Train” just in case….

         But my sweetie-pie never returned last night. Her loving and stimulating demeanor had been taken by the Halloween demons (knew she should have worked harder on her disguise), and replaced with a diabolical beast. I tried to kill that beast, and rescue my obviously overcome daughter, but the spirit was powerful and all my attempts were failures. And not being religious at all, and having no clue as to how to draw out a fiend, at one point I contemplated Googling “How to Exorcise at Home” or “The Parents Guide to Teenage Exorcism”, but I was frankly concerned with the potential results. Sticking to the basics then, and being uncertain as to what the beast feared the most, I put extra garlic in the salad, and walked around armed with the flower spritzer…….the closest thing to holy water I could find.

         Despite my endless attempts however, the evening ended in tremendous frustration, revoked privileges, and with a repeatedly slammed door leaning solo and hinge-less against the wall in the hallway….

                  “….cause out on the edge of darkness, there rides a peace train….oh peace train sounding louder, glide on the peace train….”

         

         Fading in and out of possession, I caught glimpses of my delightful girl this morning at breakfast. The Halloween hangover was evidently wearing off and I even perceived what I thought was a smile when she politely asked about her door being re-attached. By the time we made it to the bus stop, there had indeed been a giggle, but it wasn’t until she hugged me and said, “I love you” before hopping on the bus, that I knew she had finally defeated the monster inside. Whew. That was scary.

         Thank god Halloween only comes once a year.