How Well Do You Travel?

This week we're preparing for a week at the "beach".

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I should explain why I put "beach" in quotation marks. I'm a Floridian, born and bred. I grew up 45 minutes from Daytona Beach. To me a beach has salt water lapping at it and washing over the carefully constructed sand castles. If there's no tide, is it really a beach? In high school my best friend and I were known, once I had my driver's license and a car, to cut classes and go lie on the beach all afternoon. I had the burns to prove it. I have the basal cell carcinoma excisions to prove it.
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Okay, I'll stop being a snob. I'll say lake, you can say beach. It's not much different from how we refer to the mountain cottage or cabin, when it's really a beautifully decorated and fully equipped two-bedroom house.

We're going to Lake Erie for a week. The Jazzman and all his friends have been making this trek for years. They all know each other well. They are used to traveling and vacationing together.

I've traveled as far as Cleveland with them before, but that involved hotel rooms—each couple in their own room. This involves several shared houses. I'm the new kid on the block. They don't know what to expect from me. Do I snore? Do I hog the sole bathroom? Do I drain the water heater? Do I sleep 'til noon or rise at 4:30 a.m. to make lots of noise?

J.R. (who died twelve years ago today, may he rest in peace) and I traveled with friends and adult family several times. The classic story is the first trip to Hilton Head, when we drove the other couple's RV down and it had serious engine problems once on Hilton Head. The mechanic had to come to the condo to discuss the problem with the vehicle's owner, who was sitting on the couch in the living room, unabashedly flossing his teeth.

Okay, if flossing your teeth in public is the worst thing you do, that's not too bad. This guy also berated his wife morning, noon and night. Now that got real old!

I believe I'm a considerate fellow traveler, and I think I'm pretty flexible. And I always want to make a good impression, so there should be no problems.

After all, we already have reservations for New Year's week on Hilton Head Island, and we want to take friends along, so it's in my best interest to be a good housemate.

Oh, the picture on today's post? That would be the Jazzman, in all his summer-vacation-at-the-beach glory. I think the coming week is going to be filled with laughs!

(Thanks, Amy H., for the photo.)

(And you're wondering about the couple with the unkind, berating husband? They divorced a few years later. Understandably!)

You're *How* Old?

As you know, I'm 60 years and one week old today. When I say 60, it seems impossible. I know I've lived a long life, walked a circuitous route, but 60? How did that happen?

I'm lucky to have many friends, many good friends, who span a wide age range. One of my best friends and favorite people is 26. Every time he sees me, he hugs me. And a number of friends from my former job are in their 30s and 40s. Many of my Tucson friends are in their 30s, with a few in their 70s.

When I'm with a friend, I forget how old I am. I think I'm the same age my friend is. We have similar interests, we pursue similar activities. How can I be 20 or 30 or 35 years older than that scintillating person?

Then I get home and look in the mirror and I'm shocked that a 60-year-old woman with hidden gray hair and age spots on her hands is looking back at me!

I guess this age-forgetfulness is a good thing. If I think I'm able easily to walk three miles or throw a pot on the wheel or stand up and sit down repeatedly for a three-hour rehearsal, then maybe I'll retain the ability to do those things.

If I stay around young people and communicate with young people, will I retain my young outlook on life?

I can only hope. And keep trying.

Leaving the Saints

I spent three years of my life in and around the Mormon church. I married a LDS man and embraced his lifestyle in my neverending quest to fit in—somewhere, anywhere.

I made many good friends during that phase of my life. And, of course, lost them all when I left him and left that church family. No one cared that my life had been threatened. No one cared that I went to sleep every night in fear that I would not be alive to wake up in the morning. When I heard "Leaving the Saints" discussed recently, I just had to read it.

I was touched by Martha Beck's writing. I found her incredibly open, and felt awestruck by the turmoil she must have experienced to lay these thoughts and feelings down on paper.

Since finishing the book, I have read several criticisms of it written by other members of Dr. Beck's family. We each have our own memories of how things happen. She has recounted her memories, and I respect all she lost—and gained—in doing so.

I was raised in a strict religious environment that is, in practice, similar to the LDS practices—specifically in health and dress restrictions, but also in some beliefs of what to expect in the end times. You've heard my schtick: I was raised Seventh-day Adventist, then I married a man who was raised Southern Baptist but got off into all the charismatic stuff, then I married a Lutheran, then a Mormon, and then a golfer. I liked the golfer's religion the best.

All joking aside, I would have to say I don't like religion. I don't like people presuming they're better than everyone around them, simply because they hold different beliefs. I don't like the rampant criticism that accompanies many religions—in my experience, the Adventists. I don't like the thought that if I vary one whit from the stated game plan, I am a horrible person. I want to be unconditionally loved and accepted while I mature and grow as a human being.

Can't we just be nice? Can't we speak the language of kindness?

When I was on Match hoping to find a nice man with whom to share my life, I stated in my profile that I was "spiritual but not religious". For me that translated to, "I don't really know what I believe, but please just let me believe it. Or not believe it."

So my interest was piqued by the following passage in "Leaving the Saints":

The word religion comes from the Latin religos, meaning "to tie together again." On a grand scale, I think this means the reconnection of all souls, all spirits, all the bits of divine creation that briefly imagine they—we—are separate and alone.

Instead of tearing people, families, groups, … apart, why can't organized religions seek to build their members up, imbuing them with a sense of togetherness, unity, and self-worth.

Don't tell me what a sinner I am—don't tell me of everything I'm doing wrong. Encourage me to want to do things right. Encourage me to be a better person.

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There was one more passage that set the chimes in my head to ringing. Dr. Beck was describing the work she had begun in Phoenix after she and then-husband and children left Utah. In helping students prepare for and advance their careers, she would counsel:

"You'll know when you're in the wrong job interview," I'd say during a lecture, "because the pit of your stomach will tell you to get out. Your first daily priority should be stillness, attention to what you really know and what you really feel. Don't 'network' into meaningless relationships with colleagues who bore you; find the people who can make you laugh all night, who turn on the lights in your heart and mind. Do whatever work feeds your true self, even if it's not a safe bet, even if it looks like a crazy risk, even if everyone in your life tells you you're wrong or bad or crazy."

I feel like she described my current state of life. I left a sure job with a good salary in which I was absolutely miserable. I have a wonderful new job where every day I'm scared about being able to pay my taxes but where I love my work. I can always make more money. I can't make happiness.

And in my personal life, I have always been serious. Hyper-serious. Always trying to do things right. Always seeking approval and love. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I have this wonderful man who loves me and encourages me and helps me. And makes me laugh. Daily. Uproariously. Laugh-giggle-titter-smile-guffaw-laugh. Laugh.

My life is beyond good. My life is a miracle!

Brain, Please Don't Fail Me Now

Yesterday morning I glanced at the family's shared calendar and realized I had to go to Akron-Canton Airport today to pick up the vacationers when they returned from Denver. The calendar said 1:20, so I had the perfect opportunity to schedule a detour to my favorite salon and hairstylist in Fairlawn to have repair done to my Horrible Haircut.

I scheduled my haircut for 10:30, which would give me plenty of time for some lowlights and a cut, then time to work on my laptop while waiting for the family to arrive. After picking up Jaci's van, I started driving toward Akron, with just enough time to make the entire schedule work.

About a third of the way to Akron, I glanced toward the back of the van and realized, to my horror, that the kids' booster seats were not in the van. Someone had borrowed the van in their absence, removed the boosters, and forgotten to return them to their rightful seats.

Oops!

When I spoke with Jaci to tell her the situation, I asked if they were at the airport yet. "No," she replied, "we don't have to go for several hours." I said, "But you're arriving here at 1:20, right?" "No," she said, as if to a child, "we're leaving at 1:20."

Oops!

Hair done, I quickly called one of my work buddies and hooked up with two friends for lunch. Then I sat in the Fairlawn Barnes & Noble for an hour-and-a-half of work. Then I headed for Canton and sat in the Border's for another couple of hours.

When I arrived at Border's, I found the restroom to prepare for settling into a chair for two hours. I noticed that the restroom was particularly gross, and thought that unusual for a ladies' room. Then, when I left my stall, I noticed a urinal. Hmmm, I thought. That's also unusual for a ladies' room. I washed my hands as quickly as possible, then opened the door to inspect the sign. In big white letters on a black sign: "Men's".

Oops!

If you find my brain, would you please return it to me?!

Pour More

Son of a gun! Did you know June is National Iced Tea Month?! This is my month, People.

Since my first glass of iced tea at the Steak 'n' Shake on Orlando Avenue in Winter Park when I was about 18, I've been addicted. Add.I.Cted!

Just plain ol' tea. Lipton is best. No sweetener. Occasionally a slice of lemon. But brewed. Absolutely brewed. Never out of a fountain.

Hand me a glass of sweetened tea and pretend it's unsweetened? I'll spit it out. It's an abomination.

Snapple or Arizona Tea? If I'm in the middle of the desert and that's absolutely all that's available, I'll drink it. But I won't savor it.

If a restaurant doesn't have their iced tea prepared, I'll ask for hot tea and a glass of ice.

And I'm usually packing a few Lipton Tea bags in my purse just in case the restaurant only has frou frou tea.

And speaking of Steak 'n' Shake, Daddy would let me drive his Corvette when we circled through the parking lot. That's where he taught me that you unobtrusively wave one hand to other 'Vette drivers without lifting the hand from the steering wheel. Your right hand, usually. You never wave so as to draw attention to yourself. Be cool.

Corvettes, Steak 'n' Shake, and iced tea. Ah, youth.

Now if they'd just bring back the fried egg sandwich, I'd be their biggest fan.

How Does That Foot Taste?

One more quick Chicago story:

As we entered the Museum of Science and Industry, I walked over to the "Enter Here for Tickets" sign and started navigating the ropes to get up to the clerk, even though there was no one in line. The Jazzman, of course, ducked right under the rope and went straight to the clerk. As I was walking, I was reading the sign to see what our tickets would cost and whether the senior citizen discount began at age 60. It didn't; it was age 62.

The entry price for adults was $15 and for seniors, $14.

Jazzman had already handing the money to the clerk and was waiting for change when I walked up and said, "Oh well, we're not senior citizens yet. Aren't you glad we're not senior citizens?" I wondered why he gave me a Look. Then the clerk said to him, "That's $28, and here's $12 change," as he handed Jazz his change and the tickets.

Oops. He had asked for senior tickets, and the clerk had done what he had probably been instructed to do—don't argue or ask for proof of age.

(Well, at least I said it quietly. Maybe the clerk didn't hear me. Maybe.)

I laughed the whole way up the escalator into the exhibits. Jazz and I both have a tendency to put our feet in our mouths. Then we twist and shove to see if we can get them farther down our throats.

Trust me, they're not tasty. But the incidents are rather humorous in retrospect.

The Ultimate Schmoozer

(Look at that face. Look at those sweet cheeks. Don't you just want to pinch those cheeks? What a sweetie!)

Oh, where was I?

I laughed all weekend at the schmoozability of the Jazzman.

Incident 1: We got onto the train at Alliance earrrrly Friday morning. The conductor stopped to check our tickets, and the Jazzman immediately reached out to shake his hand and introduce himself as a fellow conductor and secretary/treasurer of his UTU local. He always teases me about my membership and pride in Pi Beta Phi. He says he was in a fraternity—Phi Zappa Krappa. Well, his union identity is damned close to my Pi Phi identity, in my opinion. I kept teasing him about it all weekend as he introduced himself to every conductor we came across.

Incident 2: Continuing with the fraternity of conductors, I told you earlier about our having bought $6 round-trip tickets from the Ogilvie Transportation Center out to Ravinia. In the furor of the thunderstorm and heavy rain, one of the tickets fell out of Jazzman's pocket, never to be seen again. We had just boarded the train for the return trip when he realized it was gone. The sassy, constantly-joking young conductor came by to take our tickets, and Jazz told him it had gone. He tried to make the argument that we went out together, so we must have had a ticket, but got no leeway from the conductor. The conductor said he'd be right back, and went to finish collecting tickets. When he came back, Jazz whipped out his N&S ID and said, effectively, "Can't you give a brother a break?" The young conductor just moaned and said, "Man, you're killing me." We rode free back into the city.

Incident 3: A very nice young desk clerk checked us into the hotel on Friday morning. (Okay, I'll admit it. At our age, everybody is young!) We went up to our lovely king room. There was nothing wrong with the room. It was a very nice room. But as we looked out the window at the building across the street, Jazz suddenly said, "I forgot. I read that we should ask for a lakeview room." He called back down to the young man at the desk and said, "Do you have any lakeview rooms? I'm here on a special anniversary with my lady and wonder if there's anything you can do." (Jazz, of course, didn't divulge that it was the anniversary of my birth sixty years earlier.) The clerk told him to come back down to the desk, where he gave Jazz keys for a suite! A friggin' suite!

I never would have dreamed of doing something like that. But Jazz, the wheeler and dealer, knows whose hand to shake and when to shake it, and doesn't miss an opportunity to do so!

It was a lovely suite, and a lovely weekend!





So, the moral of my story is: if you need some special deals cut and some hands shaken, I've got your man!