Travel Tales

At this time in America one doesn’t have to be a frequent flier to know the rules. In fact, I would say one pretty much needs to live under a rock not to know that liquid toiletries must be no more than 3 ounces, and all such items must be packed in no more than one one-quart plastic bag that can be easily removed from carry on items for x-ray by TSA.

I, of course, was behind two such amateurs/rock dwellers on my way out of Hartford on Tuesday. And, since I was somehow in the family friendly aisle, those people happened to be behind two families traveling with infants, strollers, and car seats that needed to be inspected. But because I understand that going through security can be a hassle these days, I had given myself plenty of time, so I didn’t panic. I kept my cool, took deep breaths, and waited my turn. I got through security without incident, then found the cocktail lounge closest to my gate and had a drink.

My first flight left on time and arrived early in Chicago. I had lunch, a couple of glasses of wine, and ended up waiting at the gate for my delayed flight to Seattle. Once on the plane, I waited a bit longer, because—as the pilot informed us—they were waiting for a bag to be brought up from the cargo hold. Apparently there was a passenger who simply could not be separated from his or her bag. Why s/he had allowed her or himself to be separated from it in the first place is not something the pilot shared with us. But I kept reminding myself you’re on vacation, it’s okay. No hurry.

Despite the TSA hassle in Hartford, and the delay in Chicago, I had—as we would say on a report card—a cooperative, positive attitude on that second flight. On more than one occasion I asked the two people seated to my right (I had the aisle seat) if they wanted to get up and stretch. With about an hour and a half left to go, we all got up and went to the bathroom and I waited for the others to get back to our row so we could file in without stepping over each other. I even offered everyone gum on descent.

I got here safe and sound--with stories to tell about the amateurs in Hartford, and the first class passenger’s bag in Chicago. In the end that’s all that matters. The getting here, that is. Well maybe both.

The PNW

My first trip to the Pacific Northwest was in 1992 (91?) for Tamara's first wedding, which I will never mention again. We had lots of things to do and lots of fun, and I met some great people, but didn't do anything very touristy, really. Honestly, it could have been a trip to Cleveland as much as it was a trip to Portland, Oregon. (No offense, Tam.)

Since then I have lost count of the number of times I have been to the Pacific Northwest, to Portland and to Seattle (where Tamara now lives), sometimes both cities in one trip. In my life before teaching, I took several business trips to those cities, and always extended my visits if I could to spend time with Tamara, her son Matthew, and eventually her second (and much better) husband John and second son Jack. I have explored some things with her and her sons, like Mt. Rainier, and some things on my own, like Mt. Hood, the Columbia River Gorge, and the Oregon desert during what I call the Summer of Tevas, when at 35 I needed to prove to myself and anyone else who doubted that I could go on a vacation that wasn't all about drinking, eating, and shopping. And I did it. I even went white water rafting. By myself. (Well, on a tour.)(And, no, I didn't go overboard.)

I love the PNW, as they like to call it. I love Pike Place Market in Seattle, home of the original Starbucks and the original Sur La Table. I can't wait to walk through the spectacular fresh flowers and then create my own Verbena lotion at The Soap Box just around the corner. I love Portland and its Saturday Market with the scent of patchouli wafting through the stalls overflowing with pottery. And as much as I love the Brookline Booksmith, there is something completely unique and lovable about Powell's, the coolest bookstore ever really (and on steroids), where new and used books are shelved together. I couldn't be more thankful that Tamara is going to try to get me there this visit, although it means a 2.5 hour/140 mile drive to indulge my inner bookworm (and so that I can replace a couple of first printing hardcovers of Elinor Lipman books that I was kind enough to lend, but never got back!).

I haven't been in 6 years, which is way too long by any standard, especially for a woman who loves the PNW, loves to travel, and has a dear friend there. I leave today, and know I will have a very good time, a vacation like the one I had with Jill back in April in San Diego. Which is to say the day trips to fave places are icing on the cake. The real treat will be sitting, chatting face to face, not finagling phone calls between time zones, sipping coffee in the morning and wine or cocktails in the evening, laughing so hard that my cheeks will hurt.

TTFN. I'll post from there.

Addendum

Nothing says sexy like a peeling scalp. And the sunburn that precedes it feels fantastic.

Add that to my list of 40-something woes: thinning hair with increased exposure at my part line.

PS Oh, and wish me luck that I don't get cankles on my flight to Seattle tomorrow.

Hair Salons

In my twenties I vowed never to patronize a hair salon whose name was a hair-related pun for no other reason that I find them hokey, corny, and unoriginal. Hair to Eternity. A Cut Above. [Insert image of me sticking a finger down my throat.] And, lucky me, I lived in a town near an airport, which provides fodder for a whole sub-genre of names, like--yes--Hairport. Runway Styles. Feel free to let your imagination go wild here.

Conveniently, at the time I disavowed said salons, I lived in Boston and had my hair done at Michael Salon in Coolidge Corner. There. Perfect, I thought. Call it a salon and people will know what your business is. Attach your name to it and we can tell you are serious about it. You are putting your reputation at stake. Who cuts your hair? Michael. Not some gum-snapping parody of herself that I would expect to find in the pun-named salons. Even though I know that’s not really fair. It’s just my thing. Or not my thing.

I don’t like fake sugar. I will drink diet colas but I do not like white diet sodas (lemon lime or ginger ales, for example) and I don’t like diet desserts. (Really, what’s the point? I’d rather have fruit than fat free, sugar free something or other. Gross.) Hearing someone say anywayS sends a chill up my spine, Jell-O makes me gag (I force myself if there’s vodka in it), I find tongue piercing vile, and I don’t like salons with pun names. And now I am a hypocrite.

The truth will set you free. I go to Headliners Salon and Day Spa, in Tolland. A few years ago, when I was the Yearbook Advisor, my staff chipped in for a gift certificate for me. This is a salon they were aware of, close to the town in which I teach and they live, closer still to the UConn Storrs campus where so many of our students go to college. It’s not particularly convenient for me, unless it’s an after school appointment, but it was a generous gift certificate, and I was between salons—moving haplessly and dissatisfied from one salon to the next, when I found myself happy with my haircut and foil and the stylist who had an appointment available. I have been patronizing the salon ever since.

Which is not to say I’m over the pet peeve necessarily. I just drive there on autopilot now and try to ignore the name. When I’m asked where I have my hair done I say softly, Headliners, and with more volume (no pun intended) SALON and DAY SPA.

So don’t think for a minute you’ll find me toasting to a Happy New YearS with a glass of White Zinfandel. Ever.

PS Thanks, Jill, who reminded me today, after reading my homage to her, of something about which I had not yet ranted...

Topics

Jill asked me to follow "Relative Craziness" with a funny post. She said it would haunt her too... But obviously I've been at a loss for a humorous topic; I haven't written in two days, and I was on a bit of a roll. It's not that I don't want to oblige. Jill has been supportive of my writing for as long as I can remember. I figured it was the least I could do. So, why, after I left her feeling sad can I not think of anything to make fun of about myself, a pet peeve to rant about, a silly memory to share?...Now that I think of it, she asked me to write about my April vacation week with her in San Diego, and here I am about to fly off to Seattle in the middle of my summer vacation, and I haven't done that yet either.

Hmmm...

I don't think it's any Jill-specific defiance. As I said, she checks my blog often, compliments often, and tells me to keep writing, much the way I supported her as a musician and vocalist. I would go to her gigs when she was still living in Connecticut (where was American Idol 20 years ago? Hello?!?! She definitely would have won!) and never tired of her beautiful voice and telling her she was just great, she nailed the Aretha tune, she brought tears to my eyes.

There may, however, be a touch of Psych 101 defiance that lingers in these occasionally achy bones, some rebelliousness that does what I'm told not to, and procrastinates when I should just get it done. I'm thinking the writing was on the wall when in sixth grade I coordinated a walk-out to demonstrate our dissatisfaction with what we saw as unfair discipline. (If we were noisy in the cafeteria during lunch, the lunch ladies would rat us out to the gym teacher, who worked us to the max--with cockroaches and other military calisthenics. When someone passed out and he couldn't do that anymore, he made us sit on the gym floor, completely silent and unmoving. Hence the walk out.)

Either that or maybe I have simply been enjoying myself by the pool, where I refuse to bring my laptop, catching up on reading novels, making friends with other pool regulars, relaxing and refueling, waiting for the next idea to take hold.

Eventually I'll think of something funny. Promise.

Relative Craziness

My family is far from perfect. We have our own garden variety dysfunctions—communication issues; some lingering, outdated ideas in some members of the elder generation that frustrate some of us in the younger; a predilection for sending members off on guilt trips—but those issues have settled in and become part of our big family. That is, I think we are all pretty aware that it is exactly how we function. We gingerly maneuver over and through these obstacles that litter open and honest love. And we do love each other. Relatively peacefully. With lots of laughter and fond memories, respect for and appreciation of the multigenerational extended family that gathers still for every holiday, we are a big happy family.

I was reminded of how fortunate I am to have this relatively peaceful family when I was at the pool the other day and a young woman, a guest of someone in my complex, came into the pool area with her two boys—one around 12, one 3 (not yet potty trained). For the entire time she was at the pool, she accosted someone on her cell phone. It didn’t qualify as a conversation because it was a whole lot of screaming and excessive dropping of F-bombs. Tell that f*cking wh*re he’s my f*cking husband and she needs to get the f*ck out of my f*cking house! Even I, Queen of Expletives, was offended. But mostly, how my heart broke for those boys, especially the older one who was old enough to understand, who was left to take care of his little brother (half brother, it appeared) while his mother went on like a lunatic and pretend everything was okay…when, really, it was hideous. Eventually, she grabbed the younger boy who had stepped out of the water when she barked at him to, and told the older one she was taking his brother to feed him some lunch.

“Will you make me a sandwich too?” he asked.

“We’ll have to get take out or something later,” she snapped back and hurried off. In other words, no.

It haunted me, haunts me still. I wonder if the older boy ate lunch that day. I wonder if every day is like this for them. I wonder if those boys will ever know love without chaos.

The craziness in my life is sane, I realized. I am fortunate that I have never had to live with this kind of chaos. So much so that I will happily pack my own bags for my next guilt trip.

Handbags

I love handbags. I have loved them since I was a little girl, I remember, when they were called pocketbooks. A pocketbook had a short handle and a metal frame and made a snapping noise when you closed it. A pocketbook is what my grandmother used to carry to church, with little more inside than a handkerchief, her rosary beads, and a piece of rye bread in a plastic bag that she'd tear apart and share with us on the way home from mass to make sure we didn't have any Eucharist stuck to the roofs of our mouths. Now I call them handbags and purses, totes and bags. And I still love them, as much I do shoes, and not just because they always fit.

Of course that is true to some extent, as there are no fitting room incidents that are a prelude to a purchase, although I am one who will stand in front of a mirror at the store and take a look at how the bag looks hanging on my shoulder if that is how it is meant to be carried, or how it looks while draped at my elbow. And I can outgrow a bag. Well, my mood can. I have former favorite bags, in perfectly good condition, sitting in the bottom of my closet in Sterilite boxes.

My handbags come in many varieties--to match those many moods --but most are black and fit more than a woman should carry. I never leave home without a cosmetic bag full of pharmaceutical panaceas, and lipstick in two shades with matching lip liners. I carry a wallet as big as some people’s purses, and a Filofax I cannot yet upgrade for technology. I usually carry at least one small journal, a variety of writing implements, and sometimes a novel. I have my sunglasses, and my regular glasses, and random papers and coupons.

Eventually I downsize from a black tote that can fit all the aforementioned (as well as a small freshman or two), to give my shoulder and back a break, and begin to use a purse more as an accessory. I’ll use smaller bags in different colors, and will change my bags to match my outfits. My resolve to stop shopping for bags dissolves around then, and I again look for that bag that will give the perfect pop of color or be just the right size and ergonomically correct, and my bag collection grows again. As it did the other day when this tote spoke to me from where it sat on a high shelf. But really, how could I not want this bag? This structured half tote-half handbag that matches my toenail color , gives pop to my black and white summer outfits AND has patent leather handles and trim? Exactly!

Eventually I will get sick of changing bags or will no longer have enough time to do so and I will switch back to a big black tote and wish I could manage with just my grandmother’s pocketbook.