Any good political organizer knows the importance of finding campaigns that are doable and winnable. And then there are times when you just look around for an easy win in order to give some credibility to the cause and to galvanize the troops to boost their confidence. And then there were times when you just throw in the towel, declare it a win, and go out for a beer.
After 7 months and 27,000 miles, 37 states and 2,854 gallons of gas we have decided it is time to put the Big Pig out to pasture and start planning the Victory Party. What a long, strange, wonderful, introspective, eye opening trip it has been. In these past 7 months we have slept in 33 RV Parks, 5 Wal-Mart parking lots, 22 friend’s and family’s homes, 17 hotels and 2 trains…but never at the wheel.
Back in June we were thinking we would get through the entire school year but the kids were longing to be with other kids, I was longing to be with a larger community that talks more, and Evan was longing to be with people who weren’t whining. Although Evan would much prefer to be attending Spring training in Florida and teaching math through baseball statistics than digging through our storage facility looking for computer cables so he can connect up the technology to start the job search, even he is appreciating the normalcy of living in a house that doesn’t move.
Last week we signed a 6 month lease on a 3 bedroom flat in Brookline, MA. Brookline is known throughout the state for its excellent public schools. Given our long history in Boston and numerous friends on the ground with open arms, it has been a soft landing. The kids have completed a day and a half of school and initial indications are that Headmasters Penelope Snodgrass and Reginald Higgenbothem from RV Elementary have kept them up to speed!
In the words of Simon, “Mom, our 3 bedroom apartment feels like a mansion. Our old house in London must have been a palace.” It is all about perspective. Spend 7 months in an RV and anyplace is a step up.
I have been amazed at how quickly you can put a life back together. Kind of like a blow up bed. Pull it out of the box, add some hot air and next thing you know you are sleeping comfortably. It is wild to think a mere month ago we were flying back from Hawaii and here we are getting ready for the 6th grade dance and looking at the merits of gerbils vs. hamsters for a pet.
Where is the Big Pig? Comfortably parked on our friend’s horse farm in Carlisle, MA. The same horse farm where we were married 14 years ago. We will be cleaning it up to sell in the next couple of weeks. Needless to say, if anyone is interested in having their own adventure – please be in touch for a test drive!
Over the next couple of months we are both hoping to land meaningful employment in the Boston area, and then buying a house and staying put…for awhile. As our fellow travelers can attest - once a traveler, always a traveler.
We will keep the web site up and posting blogs about our reentry, stream of consciousness writing, poems, jokes, and who knows – information about our next adventure.
Thank you all for your interest in our family’s odyssey and support along the way!
Yours in Everlasting Adventure,
Wendy
Monday, 15 March 2010
Friday, 26 February 2010
Our Own Personal Billgramage
Arkansas is a place you can forget about for months (or even years) and then a whole bunch of references to Arkansas can pop up in an afternoon. For example, in discussing weird laws you might note that it is illegal to keep an alligator in your bath tub in Arkansas, but it is perfectly legal to gather road kill and eat it. As most Southerners note when you receive an invitation with an RSVP it stands for – Roasted Squirrel Very Possible. There are also a bundle of musical references when it comes to Arkansas. Just think about the great fiddle song Arkansas Traveler or, more relevantly, Kris Allen, the American Idol’s 8th season winner who is from Conway. Then, of course, there is Johnny “The Man in Black” Cash who was born in Kingsland, and Billy Bob Thornton from Hot Springs. Who knew?
Our Arkansas adventure began when we woke up in Sulphur Springs, Texas in the Highcrest RV Park. Our only agenda item was to make it to Hot Springs, Arkansas that day before the National Park closed at 4 PM. Not a far drive. We had some time. We were cruising along Route 30, crossed over the boarder into Arkansas and then there was the exit marked “Hope”. Say it with me, “I still believe in a place called Hope.” (WJC, 1992 Democratic National Convention, NYC)
We were just passing through Arkansas. We didn’t mean to have a religious experience. But I suppose most people who have religious experience never really plan them. “Hello God? I would like to book a transformative experience next Tuesday at 2:30 pm.” But since The Holy Bible is the Official State Book of Arkansas, should I be surprised?
William Jefferson Clinton put the state on the map and, as we told our kids, if Clinton hadn’t won the election, Evan and I might never have been married. And if we had never married, well…they just might want to put down their books and iPods and pay attention as we made our own personal Billgrimage.
Similar to Bill Clinton, Evan and I have our own assorted past. We first met courtesy of the Dukakis/Bentsen Presidential Campaign in 1988 (we came in second) but it was the Clinton Inaugural that cinched the deal. Don’t most couples think of their relationships in terms of Presidential Administrations and campaign cycles? Try it. Every four years take a look at your relationship, give things a shake down, re-elect the good parts, re-place the ugly and re-build on a stronger foundation. Getting married in 1995, our marriage has been our own personal bridge to the 21st Century.
I had nothing to do with the Clinton/Gore1992 winning campaign. November of 1992 I listened to the election results on a radio in a tea shop on Freak Street in Kathmandu, Nepal. Evan, however, was there. Evan had been volunteer extraordinaire for the campaign spending weekends doing wild things organizing rallies and parts of the famous bus trips and spending the final week in Little Rock helping coordinate election day operations for their boiler room.
Given his fabulous organizational and tactical skills once the campaign was over, he was asked by the Presidential Inaugural Committee to head up the Opening Ceremonies at the Lincoln Memorial. Evan took a 3 month sabbatical from his job at McKinsey and Company in NYC to move to DC for the wild ride. In January 1993 Evan hired me, freshly back from Nepal, to head up the 3000 volunteers. Talk about having Hope.
Fast forward to 2010, on I-30 in the Big Pig. We get off in Hope, AR. We find Clinton’s boyhood home. I am behind the wheel and I over-shoot the house. I slam on the breaks, Divine intervention. The traffic stops. I pull a U Turn in the midst of traffic -- hopeful I could do a three point turn in the midst of honking cars. I held up traffic for a good 5 minutes as I slowly drive by the boyhood home of the 42nd President of the United States while Evan snaps pictures. We sigh. It is a fine house -- compared to our RV it is a mansion!
We continue down the street and stop at the Super1Foods in Hope for milk and fresh produce. A bit of Manna from Hope. Evan does the shopping and the boys and I take a walk. Wow. Not a lot of hope in Hope. This is a sad town and the boys and I inadvertently found the saddest part. Walking behind the grocery store we cross over the train tracks, past the abandoned houses and into a neighborhood that looks so forgotten even the residents don’t know where they are. After 20 minutes we make our way back to the RV feeling more hopeless then hopeful.
Back on the road, we make it to Hot Springs for the night and on the next day (Sunday) we head over to Little Rock to the William J Clinton Presidential Library and Museum. Over the past 7 months we have been to Abraham Lincoln’s home and museum in Springfield, IL, Dwight Eisenhower’s boyhood home and museum in Abilene Kansas, and Lyndon Johnson’s home in Johnson City, Texas. All those places were about history. The Clinton Library was about our own memories, some shared, some separate.
There were photos of the fireworks display that Evan signed the contract with the Gucci Brothers for, video clips from the concert Evan organized, the daily schedule from July 12, 1994 when Evan and I were part of the advance team at the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin, T-shirts just like the three I have in our storage facility from AmeriCorps.
Our own Billgrimage reminded me of the incredible Hope we had in 1992 and the excitement I felt for our country. It helped to reenergize me and remind me how one person can make a difference. Yes, the 1990’s was full of naïveté and decadence but there was energy and tingles too. I think about tomorrow (I still don’t want to stop) and where our shared nation is headed and I want to be a part of it and to help raise the standard of expectations – starting with myself. I am hearing Michael Jackson singing Man in the Mirror. I am pledging myself anew.
I am an FOB, and I am proud. That is why I yell, so very loud. Alright.
Our Arkansas adventure began when we woke up in Sulphur Springs, Texas in the Highcrest RV Park. Our only agenda item was to make it to Hot Springs, Arkansas that day before the National Park closed at 4 PM. Not a far drive. We had some time. We were cruising along Route 30, crossed over the boarder into Arkansas and then there was the exit marked “Hope”. Say it with me, “I still believe in a place called Hope.” (WJC, 1992 Democratic National Convention, NYC)
We were just passing through Arkansas. We didn’t mean to have a religious experience. But I suppose most people who have religious experience never really plan them. “Hello God? I would like to book a transformative experience next Tuesday at 2:30 pm.” But since The Holy Bible is the Official State Book of Arkansas, should I be surprised?
William Jefferson Clinton put the state on the map and, as we told our kids, if Clinton hadn’t won the election, Evan and I might never have been married. And if we had never married, well…they just might want to put down their books and iPods and pay attention as we made our own personal Billgrimage.
Similar to Bill Clinton, Evan and I have our own assorted past. We first met courtesy of the Dukakis/Bentsen Presidential Campaign in 1988 (we came in second) but it was the Clinton Inaugural that cinched the deal. Don’t most couples think of their relationships in terms of Presidential Administrations and campaign cycles? Try it. Every four years take a look at your relationship, give things a shake down, re-elect the good parts, re-place the ugly and re-build on a stronger foundation. Getting married in 1995, our marriage has been our own personal bridge to the 21st Century.
I had nothing to do with the Clinton/Gore1992 winning campaign. November of 1992 I listened to the election results on a radio in a tea shop on Freak Street in Kathmandu, Nepal. Evan, however, was there. Evan had been volunteer extraordinaire for the campaign spending weekends doing wild things organizing rallies and parts of the famous bus trips and spending the final week in Little Rock helping coordinate election day operations for their boiler room.
Given his fabulous organizational and tactical skills once the campaign was over, he was asked by the Presidential Inaugural Committee to head up the Opening Ceremonies at the Lincoln Memorial. Evan took a 3 month sabbatical from his job at McKinsey and Company in NYC to move to DC for the wild ride. In January 1993 Evan hired me, freshly back from Nepal, to head up the 3000 volunteers. Talk about having Hope.
Fast forward to 2010, on I-30 in the Big Pig. We get off in Hope, AR. We find Clinton’s boyhood home. I am behind the wheel and I over-shoot the house. I slam on the breaks, Divine intervention. The traffic stops. I pull a U Turn in the midst of traffic -- hopeful I could do a three point turn in the midst of honking cars. I held up traffic for a good 5 minutes as I slowly drive by the boyhood home of the 42nd President of the United States while Evan snaps pictures. We sigh. It is a fine house -- compared to our RV it is a mansion!
We continue down the street and stop at the Super1Foods in Hope for milk and fresh produce. A bit of Manna from Hope. Evan does the shopping and the boys and I take a walk. Wow. Not a lot of hope in Hope. This is a sad town and the boys and I inadvertently found the saddest part. Walking behind the grocery store we cross over the train tracks, past the abandoned houses and into a neighborhood that looks so forgotten even the residents don’t know where they are. After 20 minutes we make our way back to the RV feeling more hopeless then hopeful.
Back on the road, we make it to Hot Springs for the night and on the next day (Sunday) we head over to Little Rock to the William J Clinton Presidential Library and Museum. Over the past 7 months we have been to Abraham Lincoln’s home and museum in Springfield, IL, Dwight Eisenhower’s boyhood home and museum in Abilene Kansas, and Lyndon Johnson’s home in Johnson City, Texas. All those places were about history. The Clinton Library was about our own memories, some shared, some separate.
There were photos of the fireworks display that Evan signed the contract with the Gucci Brothers for, video clips from the concert Evan organized, the daily schedule from July 12, 1994 when Evan and I were part of the advance team at the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin, T-shirts just like the three I have in our storage facility from AmeriCorps.
Our own Billgrimage reminded me of the incredible Hope we had in 1992 and the excitement I felt for our country. It helped to reenergize me and remind me how one person can make a difference. Yes, the 1990’s was full of naïveté and decadence but there was energy and tingles too. I think about tomorrow (I still don’t want to stop) and where our shared nation is headed and I want to be a part of it and to help raise the standard of expectations – starting with myself. I am hearing Michael Jackson singing Man in the Mirror. I am pledging myself anew.
I am an FOB, and I am proud. That is why I yell, so very loud. Alright.
Thursday, 25 February 2010
Small Pleasures
When you don’t have much space, everything is small. Even your pleasures.
This adventure has taught me to notice things again. When you live your life fast and have too much, you forget to see. Or maybe you don’t have the time to see.
I still remember the very first pedicure I got when I was 34 years old and very pregnant and couldn’t see my feet, let alone touch them. That pedicure was heaven. Every pedicure since has been a let down because it wasn’t as needed.
Some of the small pleasures I have let myself indulge in on the trip are:
Enjoying the lavender shampoo I bought in Hawaii. I bought the conditioner too. It felt decadent. It reminds me of Corringham Road in London and teaching Simon how to pull off the flowers, rub then between your hands and smell. Heaven. Finding the lavender farm where I bought the shampoo was unexpected and beautiful on the hills of Haleakula on the island of Maui.
Taking an extra couple of minutes in the shower at the Elvis Presley Boulevard RV Park shower room to sit in the plastic green chair and use a pumice stone.
Not waking the kids for 5 minutes so I can sit at the table and write a little bit with a cup of coffee. Coffee – it is all about the ritual. Even on the road. We have a fancy espresso maker. It feels decadent to live in an RV with a $300 coffee maker.
Closing the door to the bathroom.
Walking slowly.
Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror – really looking.
Tucking in my 8 year old baby even though he doesn’t need it. Singing him songs even though he doesn’t ask for them anymore.
Sorting through my small jewelry zipper bag of earrings and necklaces I brought with us and remembering the stories of where they all came from.
Making phone calls to friends.
Lying in the back of the RV and being joined by Josh and having him comment on my aging face, Evan, the world, what he wants to be and how exciting it is to be 12 years old and to have the whole world in front of you.
Sorting emails by name and thinking about my friends and how lucky I am.
Re-reading emails I wrote ten years ago. Laughing at my problems that today are barely memories.
Perspective.
This adventure has taught me to notice things again. When you live your life fast and have too much, you forget to see. Or maybe you don’t have the time to see.
I still remember the very first pedicure I got when I was 34 years old and very pregnant and couldn’t see my feet, let alone touch them. That pedicure was heaven. Every pedicure since has been a let down because it wasn’t as needed.
Some of the small pleasures I have let myself indulge in on the trip are:
Enjoying the lavender shampoo I bought in Hawaii. I bought the conditioner too. It felt decadent. It reminds me of Corringham Road in London and teaching Simon how to pull off the flowers, rub then between your hands and smell. Heaven. Finding the lavender farm where I bought the shampoo was unexpected and beautiful on the hills of Haleakula on the island of Maui.
Taking an extra couple of minutes in the shower at the Elvis Presley Boulevard RV Park shower room to sit in the plastic green chair and use a pumice stone.
Not waking the kids for 5 minutes so I can sit at the table and write a little bit with a cup of coffee. Coffee – it is all about the ritual. Even on the road. We have a fancy espresso maker. It feels decadent to live in an RV with a $300 coffee maker.
Closing the door to the bathroom.
Walking slowly.
Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror – really looking.
Tucking in my 8 year old baby even though he doesn’t need it. Singing him songs even though he doesn’t ask for them anymore.
Sorting through my small jewelry zipper bag of earrings and necklaces I brought with us and remembering the stories of where they all came from.
Making phone calls to friends.
Lying in the back of the RV and being joined by Josh and having him comment on my aging face, Evan, the world, what he wants to be and how exciting it is to be 12 years old and to have the whole world in front of you.
Sorting emails by name and thinking about my friends and how lucky I am.
Re-reading emails I wrote ten years ago. Laughing at my problems that today are barely memories.
Perspective.
Pieces of the Puzzle
Simon had a dream the other night about a puzzle. Each of us was a different piece of the puzzle. 5 pieces in total. The RV had a piece as well. In his dream the puzzle was breaking apart. Simon’s interpretation was that we are all together now but when we finally land in a proper house we will all break apart because we will get too busy in our own individual lives to be together.
Josh thought it meant that it was the RV trip itself that is breaking us apart because we are together too much, don’t have our own lives, and are driving each other nuts.
When Evan and I discussed it later – out of ear shot of Simon - Evan saw the dream as a fear Simon has of reintegrating into society and that Simon sees we have become closer as a family and likes us all be near him and available.
I thought it meant he had eaten too close to bedtime.
The dream was a catalyst for a bigger conversation about the trip and if it has brought us closer together or further apart.
The trip has taught us how to play together, trust each other and how to disagree.
It has taught us that families are made up of individuals and individuals will disagree. But we are a family and we aren’t going any where so we need to learn how to disagree in a way that isn’t hurtful or disrespectful.
It has taught us that we are a family that loves to play board games, have parties, read books, watch the Walton’s, swim at water parks, likes stupid jokes, love and respect our national parks, support our public libraries, visit friends and family, turn the water off when we brush your teeth, and play Farkle.
We are a family that doesn’t like puzzles.
Josh thought it meant that it was the RV trip itself that is breaking us apart because we are together too much, don’t have our own lives, and are driving each other nuts.
When Evan and I discussed it later – out of ear shot of Simon - Evan saw the dream as a fear Simon has of reintegrating into society and that Simon sees we have become closer as a family and likes us all be near him and available.
I thought it meant he had eaten too close to bedtime.
The dream was a catalyst for a bigger conversation about the trip and if it has brought us closer together or further apart.
The trip has taught us how to play together, trust each other and how to disagree.
It has taught us that families are made up of individuals and individuals will disagree. But we are a family and we aren’t going any where so we need to learn how to disagree in a way that isn’t hurtful or disrespectful.
It has taught us that we are a family that loves to play board games, have parties, read books, watch the Walton’s, swim at water parks, likes stupid jokes, love and respect our national parks, support our public libraries, visit friends and family, turn the water off when we brush your teeth, and play Farkle.
We are a family that doesn’t like puzzles.
Friday, 5 February 2010
RV'ers in Paradise
We made it to Hawaii. I know the locals spell it Hawai’i but I find it a bit embarrassing spelling it that way, let alone pronouncing it with a V for the W and a hiccup at the end. Like Americans who speak with fake British accents in London, do they think they are getting away with it? Here is a secret: Brits find Dick Van Dyke’s British accent in Mary Poppins a complete laugh. Posers.
Back in September, when I was freaking out about the ominous trip in front of us, I never really thought we would make it to Hawaii. I thought I would be committed long before then. But here we are, RV’ers in paradise. (Please sing this to the tune of Jimmy Buffet’s, “Cheese Burger in Paradise/Heaven on earth with an onion slice…” but substitute “heaven on earth with a room that’s nice” for the onion bit since I neither like onions nor the size of our RV bedroom)
The Big Pig is taking a vacation in Tempe, AZ parked in the lot of the Days Inn. While I thought there might be a magic button (a la Ms. Frizzle of The Magic School Bus fame) that would transform the Winnebago Itasca Impulse into a flying contraption – or at least a 29 foot raft – the secret button turned out to be a cross-over switch you push in case you run down the engine battery and need to jump it off the house battery. (Note: I actually know what that means)
So here we are in Punalu’u – actually Nehelu’u - on the Big Island of Hawaii. this truly is a paradise. And as if it needs underlining - Simon found a coconut and we spent a good four hours as a family figuring out how to open it up. Kudos to Josh who finally smashed the bugger with a well placed lava rock. A lava rock. Doesn't everyone have one hanging around on their lanai?
What I am wearing: My favorite Laura Ashley summer nightgown with the blue and green flowers my Mom got me a few years ago. 100% soft brushed cotton. Modestly (but not particularly stylishly) covered up with a light weight pink bathrobe I picked up in Holland this past spring. I have worn the bathrobe only three times in the past seven months. I finally feel justified that I brought it because I am wearing it. And my Wal*Mart (God forbid I don’t mention Wal*Mart in a blog) reading glasses.
Where I am sitting: On our lanai. You know you are in an exotic locale when people use the word lanai like it was a normal word. If you call your patio a lanai I think you get a better resale value, or the moniker of pretentious. But it is ok to call a lanai a lanai when you are close to the equator.
We have a 1 bedroom condo on a golf course right next to the only black sand beach on the island of Hawaii. There is a little framed tile hanging on the outside of the lanai next to the sliding glass door that reads, “Mahalo for removing your slippers”. Mahalo is the Hawaiian word for thank you. Slippers are the accepted word for flip flops. Flip flops are the Shoe Wear Formerly Known as Thongs. But now Thongs have an entirely new meaning.
People say the word “Mahalo” a lot to tourists in Waikiki on the Island of Oahu where 80% of the population lives, and most of the tourists visit. I think they are trying to make you feel like you are in the know because you are using a non-English word. They are letting you in on a secret.
But I have noticed now that we are on the Island of Hawaii that nobody but white people use the word.
What I am drinking: Vanilla macadamia nut coffee out of a coffee cup with the picture of a hibiscus on it.
What I am looking at: Coconut trees, palm trees, bougainvilleas shaped into bushes that separate our little yard from the gold course. The Pacific Ocean is beyond that and the sun keeps popping out from behind the clouds as I type.
What I hear: So many trilling birds that I don’t know the name of. Red capped sparrows, bright yellow/green parakeets, small mourning doves. And the crashing of the waves.
Where are the boys: Asleep.
What I am thinking: Why the hell can’t I relax? Why can’t I be one of those people who smiles when they talk and is content to savor the smell of the coffee and the warmth of the sun on her face. Sun on my face! Oh God! I haven’t put on sunscreen yet. Skin cancer here I come.
Simon has a cold. Should we really go snorkeling when he has a cold? Kayak out to Captain Cook’s Monument – a mile long kayak? Sun stroke. Sharks. Mean waves. We will flip over and be trapped underneath and drown.
I stayed up until 1 AM finishing the book Day after Night by Anita Diamant, the author of The Red Tent. Yes, another WWII historical fiction book about women and their plights that I tend to be drawn towards. Then I tossed and turned for another hour wondering why is it I am so drawn to books about WWII. Is it because I married a Jew and I want to feel closer to the tribe? Because I have had such an incredible life and I feel guilty that anyone should have such luck and this is the least I can do?
Now I am back to the Do It Yourself Lobotomy Kit idea. If I just had a small lobotomy I could turn off the constant chatter…oh never mind. I am in Hawai’i. Embrace it already. It is a beautiful day. The four of us are together and we are healthy and our biggest decision is do we teach school for a couple of hours before or after we go kayaking.
If I ever have a tile made to hang up on my lanai I want it to read: “It is better to have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.”
Mahalo for reading this.
Here I am blogging from the lanai:
Back in September, when I was freaking out about the ominous trip in front of us, I never really thought we would make it to Hawaii. I thought I would be committed long before then. But here we are, RV’ers in paradise. (Please sing this to the tune of Jimmy Buffet’s, “Cheese Burger in Paradise/Heaven on earth with an onion slice…” but substitute “heaven on earth with a room that’s nice” for the onion bit since I neither like onions nor the size of our RV bedroom)
The Big Pig is taking a vacation in Tempe, AZ parked in the lot of the Days Inn. While I thought there might be a magic button (a la Ms. Frizzle of The Magic School Bus fame) that would transform the Winnebago Itasca Impulse into a flying contraption – or at least a 29 foot raft – the secret button turned out to be a cross-over switch you push in case you run down the engine battery and need to jump it off the house battery. (Note: I actually know what that means)
So here we are in Punalu’u – actually Nehelu’u - on the Big Island of Hawaii. this truly is a paradise. And as if it needs underlining - Simon found a coconut and we spent a good four hours as a family figuring out how to open it up. Kudos to Josh who finally smashed the bugger with a well placed lava rock. A lava rock. Doesn't everyone have one hanging around on their lanai?
What I am wearing: My favorite Laura Ashley summer nightgown with the blue and green flowers my Mom got me a few years ago. 100% soft brushed cotton. Modestly (but not particularly stylishly) covered up with a light weight pink bathrobe I picked up in Holland this past spring. I have worn the bathrobe only three times in the past seven months. I finally feel justified that I brought it because I am wearing it. And my Wal*Mart (God forbid I don’t mention Wal*Mart in a blog) reading glasses.
Where I am sitting: On our lanai. You know you are in an exotic locale when people use the word lanai like it was a normal word. If you call your patio a lanai I think you get a better resale value, or the moniker of pretentious. But it is ok to call a lanai a lanai when you are close to the equator.
We have a 1 bedroom condo on a golf course right next to the only black sand beach on the island of Hawaii. There is a little framed tile hanging on the outside of the lanai next to the sliding glass door that reads, “Mahalo for removing your slippers”. Mahalo is the Hawaiian word for thank you. Slippers are the accepted word for flip flops. Flip flops are the Shoe Wear Formerly Known as Thongs. But now Thongs have an entirely new meaning.
People say the word “Mahalo” a lot to tourists in Waikiki on the Island of Oahu where 80% of the population lives, and most of the tourists visit. I think they are trying to make you feel like you are in the know because you are using a non-English word. They are letting you in on a secret.
But I have noticed now that we are on the Island of Hawaii that nobody but white people use the word.
What I am drinking: Vanilla macadamia nut coffee out of a coffee cup with the picture of a hibiscus on it.
What I am looking at: Coconut trees, palm trees, bougainvilleas shaped into bushes that separate our little yard from the gold course. The Pacific Ocean is beyond that and the sun keeps popping out from behind the clouds as I type.
What I hear: So many trilling birds that I don’t know the name of. Red capped sparrows, bright yellow/green parakeets, small mourning doves. And the crashing of the waves.
Where are the boys: Asleep.
What I am thinking: Why the hell can’t I relax? Why can’t I be one of those people who smiles when they talk and is content to savor the smell of the coffee and the warmth of the sun on her face. Sun on my face! Oh God! I haven’t put on sunscreen yet. Skin cancer here I come.
Simon has a cold. Should we really go snorkeling when he has a cold? Kayak out to Captain Cook’s Monument – a mile long kayak? Sun stroke. Sharks. Mean waves. We will flip over and be trapped underneath and drown.
I stayed up until 1 AM finishing the book Day after Night by Anita Diamant, the author of The Red Tent. Yes, another WWII historical fiction book about women and their plights that I tend to be drawn towards. Then I tossed and turned for another hour wondering why is it I am so drawn to books about WWII. Is it because I married a Jew and I want to feel closer to the tribe? Because I have had such an incredible life and I feel guilty that anyone should have such luck and this is the least I can do?
Now I am back to the Do It Yourself Lobotomy Kit idea. If I just had a small lobotomy I could turn off the constant chatter…oh never mind. I am in Hawai’i. Embrace it already. It is a beautiful day. The four of us are together and we are healthy and our biggest decision is do we teach school for a couple of hours before or after we go kayaking.
If I ever have a tile made to hang up on my lanai I want it to read: “It is better to have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.”
Mahalo for reading this.
Here I am blogging from the lanai:
Saturday, 30 January 2010
The Wal*Mart Beauty Salon: A Hairy Experience or Just a Good Deal?
I love oxy morons. Jumbo shrimp. Plastic silverware. Just wars. Butthead. Clogged drain. And who would have thought I would have another to add before we started the RV trip – let alone an oxy moron I could actually walk in to. Yes ladies and gentlemen, I am talking about the Wal*Mart Beauty Salon.
But first, we need to talk about hair. Let’s be real. Does anyone like their hair? Too thin, too thick, too straight, too curly, wrong color. Very few people I have met will honestly say, “Yes, I like my hair.” Certainly not me. While other girls would brush their hair for hours, I never had enough mass to keep me busy for more than a minute or two. While other girls would take a hair band and wrap it around their pony tails twice, mine would go around my thin little strands 4 times and then still fall out. Every hairdresser since I was 12 (when I first started going to hair dressers – prior to that it was a bangs cut and trim in the kitchen) acts like they are giving me new, vital, secret information by letting me know in a hushed voice, “honey, you have thin hair.” Well, at least there is one thing thin on my body.
I remember my father making a comment to me somewhere in my early teens about my hair and then making the jump to his mother…old cue ball. More fodder for future nightmares: Bald by the age of 20. Luckily, I really don’t care. And as a person who is not particularly fussy about her outward appearance and has trouble passing up a swimming opportunity, having my thin hair is, in some ways, a blessing. My hair dries really fast.
Every once in a while Evan and I have little conversations about how lucky the other one is because they married someone who comes with some obscure special skill that they didn’t realize before the vows were taken. Evan, for example, is The Coupon Guru. When ever we arrive in a new place, which is quite often in the past 7 months, he is going through the free newspapers and circulars that are at the front of the local grocery stores that everyone else walks right by. He finds all sorts of 2 for 1 restaurant deals, internet deals, and special deals for families living in RVs with red headed boys, bald husbands and thin haired wives. My added bonus that I brought to the marriage is that I don’t spend money on my looks. “Just think how much money we have saved over the past 14 years because I am low maintenance in the beauty department!”
Since we have been homeless I have had my hair cut twice. Once in Dillon, Montana in late October for $24 by a nice chatty hairdresser named Cheryl who told me way too much information about her relationship with her husband and a second time last week in Scottsdale, AZ.
We were visiting my Mom who is a new arrival to the area and has yet to find a hairdresser she likes. Mom and I had a couple of hours to kill and Mom, as only a mother can, let it be known in her most gentlest of ways, that it was time for me to get my hair cut. Yes, my 76 year old mother still mothers her 47 year old baby. I guess it never ends.
So there we were. Driving the strip malls of the Happy Valley – just north of North Scottsdale and coming up empty on the Beauty Salon front. I spy a Sally’s Beauty Supply shop which I figure might be a good place to do some reconnaissance / information gathering -- get some reliable information from people in the know. I pull up and leave the car running and jump out. There is a long line at the cash register of relatively coiffed women who I figure are locals. I decide to treat the long line of women as if they have gathered there just for me and put out the general question: “Excuse me women, I am new to the Scottsdale and looking for a place to get my hair cut, does anyone have any suggestions in the area?” A woman with jet black hair and many boxes of hair products in her basket takes the bait and says, “There is Roxy’s across at the mall or Wal*Mart next door. Roxy’s is pretty pricey and you need an appointment.”
Back in the car I lay out the options to Mom. No choice. We pull into Wal*Mart. Now, I have used Wal*Mart on and off for a lot of things over the past 7 months on the road trip. I have slept in their parking lots in Kansas, Wyoming, South Dakota and North Dakota. I have eaten their food, worn their clothes, decorated the interior of the RV for Christmas all with Wal*Mart products. And now I am about to go under the Wal*Mart knife…um, scissors. A new form of Wal*Mart Baptism. Is the next step to go to the Wal*Mart Tattoo Parlor and have their logo put upon my inner arm? Or perhaps go to City Hall and change my name to Wendy Wal*Mart? When does it end? I am thinking of the red and white barber pole in front of the barber shop at the Golder’s Green Tube station where the boys and Evan would make their pilgrimage every 6 weeks or so and how the red and white stripes represents the bloodletting that was the primary function of past barbers – the local surgeons. The white stripe was the white bandage used before the bloodletting and the red stripe for the bandage used after the bloodletting.
We enter the beauty salon portion of Wal*Mart. Yes, there are two beauticians available right now. Right next to each other. We are lucky, the woman at the front lets us know. On Saturday at 12 noon there is usually a line out the door. Mom’s beautician is male, has a wild black Mohawk and stinks of cigarettes. My beautician is a chatty Korean woman and our conversation is mostly about kimchi and how you either love it or hate it.
We emerge 30 minutes later with matching hair do’s for $17.95 a piece for a wash, cut and blow dry. The experience, like my thin hair, is less hairier then expected.
But first, we need to talk about hair. Let’s be real. Does anyone like their hair? Too thin, too thick, too straight, too curly, wrong color. Very few people I have met will honestly say, “Yes, I like my hair.” Certainly not me. While other girls would brush their hair for hours, I never had enough mass to keep me busy for more than a minute or two. While other girls would take a hair band and wrap it around their pony tails twice, mine would go around my thin little strands 4 times and then still fall out. Every hairdresser since I was 12 (when I first started going to hair dressers – prior to that it was a bangs cut and trim in the kitchen) acts like they are giving me new, vital, secret information by letting me know in a hushed voice, “honey, you have thin hair.” Well, at least there is one thing thin on my body.
I remember my father making a comment to me somewhere in my early teens about my hair and then making the jump to his mother…old cue ball. More fodder for future nightmares: Bald by the age of 20. Luckily, I really don’t care. And as a person who is not particularly fussy about her outward appearance and has trouble passing up a swimming opportunity, having my thin hair is, in some ways, a blessing. My hair dries really fast.
Every once in a while Evan and I have little conversations about how lucky the other one is because they married someone who comes with some obscure special skill that they didn’t realize before the vows were taken. Evan, for example, is The Coupon Guru. When ever we arrive in a new place, which is quite often in the past 7 months, he is going through the free newspapers and circulars that are at the front of the local grocery stores that everyone else walks right by. He finds all sorts of 2 for 1 restaurant deals, internet deals, and special deals for families living in RVs with red headed boys, bald husbands and thin haired wives. My added bonus that I brought to the marriage is that I don’t spend money on my looks. “Just think how much money we have saved over the past 14 years because I am low maintenance in the beauty department!”
Since we have been homeless I have had my hair cut twice. Once in Dillon, Montana in late October for $24 by a nice chatty hairdresser named Cheryl who told me way too much information about her relationship with her husband and a second time last week in Scottsdale, AZ.
We were visiting my Mom who is a new arrival to the area and has yet to find a hairdresser she likes. Mom and I had a couple of hours to kill and Mom, as only a mother can, let it be known in her most gentlest of ways, that it was time for me to get my hair cut. Yes, my 76 year old mother still mothers her 47 year old baby. I guess it never ends.
So there we were. Driving the strip malls of the Happy Valley – just north of North Scottsdale and coming up empty on the Beauty Salon front. I spy a Sally’s Beauty Supply shop which I figure might be a good place to do some reconnaissance / information gathering -- get some reliable information from people in the know. I pull up and leave the car running and jump out. There is a long line at the cash register of relatively coiffed women who I figure are locals. I decide to treat the long line of women as if they have gathered there just for me and put out the general question: “Excuse me women, I am new to the Scottsdale and looking for a place to get my hair cut, does anyone have any suggestions in the area?” A woman with jet black hair and many boxes of hair products in her basket takes the bait and says, “There is Roxy’s across at the mall or Wal*Mart next door. Roxy’s is pretty pricey and you need an appointment.”
Back in the car I lay out the options to Mom. No choice. We pull into Wal*Mart. Now, I have used Wal*Mart on and off for a lot of things over the past 7 months on the road trip. I have slept in their parking lots in Kansas, Wyoming, South Dakota and North Dakota. I have eaten their food, worn their clothes, decorated the interior of the RV for Christmas all with Wal*Mart products. And now I am about to go under the Wal*Mart knife…um, scissors. A new form of Wal*Mart Baptism. Is the next step to go to the Wal*Mart Tattoo Parlor and have their logo put upon my inner arm? Or perhaps go to City Hall and change my name to Wendy Wal*Mart? When does it end? I am thinking of the red and white barber pole in front of the barber shop at the Golder’s Green Tube station where the boys and Evan would make their pilgrimage every 6 weeks or so and how the red and white stripes represents the bloodletting that was the primary function of past barbers – the local surgeons. The white stripe was the white bandage used before the bloodletting and the red stripe for the bandage used after the bloodletting.
We enter the beauty salon portion of Wal*Mart. Yes, there are two beauticians available right now. Right next to each other. We are lucky, the woman at the front lets us know. On Saturday at 12 noon there is usually a line out the door. Mom’s beautician is male, has a wild black Mohawk and stinks of cigarettes. My beautician is a chatty Korean woman and our conversation is mostly about kimchi and how you either love it or hate it.
We emerge 30 minutes later with matching hair do’s for $17.95 a piece for a wash, cut and blow dry. The experience, like my thin hair, is less hairier then expected.
Friday, 22 January 2010
Tornados, RV parks and the City of New Orleans
We are in Scottsdale, Arizona visiting my Mom who has recently moved here after 30 years in San Diego. She moved here because San Diego wasn’t hot enough for her and when you have arthritis, deep penetrating desert warmth is what you would sell your best milking cow - or your condo in San Diego - for.
(“Your best milking cow…” Where did that farm analogy come from? Clearly I have been spending a little too much time in rural areas and watching re-runs of The Walton’s.)
It has been uncharacteristically cold and rainy since we arrived in Scottsdale and tonight there is a severe weather warning with the chance of tornados. I have a new relationship with tornados now that we don’t have a root cellar to climb down into from the RV. And - let’s call it like it is – tornados have homing devices for RV’s and trailer parks. Growing up in Minnesota I am all too familiar with the sirens that ring out signaling a tornado warning and the importance of getting into the basement ASAP. When I was a kid I would consol myself knowing that we would be safe because we were in the basement and besides, the tornados would go for the trailer parks and who cared about those people anyway? I didn’t even know anyone who lived in a trailer park. Needless to say, I have a different view of the situation now.
At 10 pm tonight the tornado warning was down graded to mere Flash Floods so we felt comfortable hitting the road and packed up the three bags of clean laundry we had done at Mom’s place, along with the 14 new books we checked out from her local public library called, exotically, The Arabian Branch. We bundled Simon up in his spaceman pajamas, loaded Josh down with bags, and headed out in Mom’s car to the cheap hotel we are staying at a 20 minute drive down the freeway. We aren’t staying at an RV park because, according to Steve at the OK Corral RV Park, “We booked up months ago cause of the car show.” I was kind of waiting for him to add, “Asshole” to the end of that sentence or at least, “duh.” Like I was supposed to know about The Car Show? My question is, “What are RV drivers doing at a CAR show? Traitors.”
So here we are – 10:30 pm on a Thursday night at the Bell Motel located next to the Self Storage facility along side Highway 17 in a torrential rain storm. Mom's car is parked alongs side the Big Pig. As we walked in our room the carpet was all squishy from the rain seeping in under the door.
Simon is having trouble falling asleep because he is scared of tornados, Josh is hiding under the covers playing on his I Touch, Evan just disappeared to the hotel office in search of the free popcorn. We have been moving around so much these past 3 weeks since we left Santa Monica (Anaheim, Big Bear, Joshua Tree, Kingman, Las Vegas, Grand Canyon) I am feeling like a micro waved bag of popcorn after about two and a half minutes on high – we have been bopping around so much.
Simon has just crawled into bed with me bringing with him his three stuffed animals. A bear, a panda and a turtle. These are the mainstays. The beds change, the cities change but he still has his spaceman pajamas, his stuffed animals, and the song I sing. His song. City of New Orleans by Steve Goodman. I have sung this song to him - yes, all three verses - most every night since he was 2. He is now 8. 6 years x 365 days = 2190 times singing City of New Orleans.
I normally don’t hear the words I sing anymore. Tonight I did. Appropriately, a song about travel. 926 miles worth of travel from Chicago to New Orleans. “Mama’s with their babes asleep rocking to the gentle beat…and the rhythm of the rails is all they feel.” I suppose after 7 months on the road we do have a rhythm. Sometimes it is the tapping of the keys on the computer, sometimes it is the packing and repacking, but mostly it is the constant movement. Simon is now asleep lying against me as I type. His steady breathing is a comfort to me just as my singing the same song to him each night nomatter where we are is to him.
“Goodnight America, how are ya? Don’t ya know me; I’m your native son. I’m a train they call The City of New Orleans. I’ll have gone five hundred miles before the days done. ”
(“Your best milking cow…” Where did that farm analogy come from? Clearly I have been spending a little too much time in rural areas and watching re-runs of The Walton’s.)
It has been uncharacteristically cold and rainy since we arrived in Scottsdale and tonight there is a severe weather warning with the chance of tornados. I have a new relationship with tornados now that we don’t have a root cellar to climb down into from the RV. And - let’s call it like it is – tornados have homing devices for RV’s and trailer parks. Growing up in Minnesota I am all too familiar with the sirens that ring out signaling a tornado warning and the importance of getting into the basement ASAP. When I was a kid I would consol myself knowing that we would be safe because we were in the basement and besides, the tornados would go for the trailer parks and who cared about those people anyway? I didn’t even know anyone who lived in a trailer park. Needless to say, I have a different view of the situation now.
At 10 pm tonight the tornado warning was down graded to mere Flash Floods so we felt comfortable hitting the road and packed up the three bags of clean laundry we had done at Mom’s place, along with the 14 new books we checked out from her local public library called, exotically, The Arabian Branch. We bundled Simon up in his spaceman pajamas, loaded Josh down with bags, and headed out in Mom’s car to the cheap hotel we are staying at a 20 minute drive down the freeway. We aren’t staying at an RV park because, according to Steve at the OK Corral RV Park, “We booked up months ago cause of the car show.” I was kind of waiting for him to add, “Asshole” to the end of that sentence or at least, “duh.” Like I was supposed to know about The Car Show? My question is, “What are RV drivers doing at a CAR show? Traitors.”
So here we are – 10:30 pm on a Thursday night at the Bell Motel located next to the Self Storage facility along side Highway 17 in a torrential rain storm. Mom's car is parked alongs side the Big Pig. As we walked in our room the carpet was all squishy from the rain seeping in under the door.
Simon is having trouble falling asleep because he is scared of tornados, Josh is hiding under the covers playing on his I Touch, Evan just disappeared to the hotel office in search of the free popcorn. We have been moving around so much these past 3 weeks since we left Santa Monica (Anaheim, Big Bear, Joshua Tree, Kingman, Las Vegas, Grand Canyon) I am feeling like a micro waved bag of popcorn after about two and a half minutes on high – we have been bopping around so much.
Simon has just crawled into bed with me bringing with him his three stuffed animals. A bear, a panda and a turtle. These are the mainstays. The beds change, the cities change but he still has his spaceman pajamas, his stuffed animals, and the song I sing. His song. City of New Orleans by Steve Goodman. I have sung this song to him - yes, all three verses - most every night since he was 2. He is now 8. 6 years x 365 days = 2190 times singing City of New Orleans.
I normally don’t hear the words I sing anymore. Tonight I did. Appropriately, a song about travel. 926 miles worth of travel from Chicago to New Orleans. “Mama’s with their babes asleep rocking to the gentle beat…and the rhythm of the rails is all they feel.” I suppose after 7 months on the road we do have a rhythm. Sometimes it is the tapping of the keys on the computer, sometimes it is the packing and repacking, but mostly it is the constant movement. Simon is now asleep lying against me as I type. His steady breathing is a comfort to me just as my singing the same song to him each night nomatter where we are is to him.
“Goodnight America, how are ya? Don’t ya know me; I’m your native son. I’m a train they call The City of New Orleans. I’ll have gone five hundred miles before the days done. ”
Sunday, 17 January 2010
A Time Share in Vegas Anyone?
Sometimes your time is worth a lot. Sometimes your time is worth diddly. While we have known the former, the later is definitely where we are now. And it was obvious here in Vegas.
We are staying in Vegas because we got a great deal on a room at the Excalibur Hotel. You know, the Knight-themed hotel next to the more luxurious Luxor and Mandalay Bay? 23 bucks a night. Half the cost of an RV park and we will more than double our hang out space, plus a full size bathroom. How could anyone say no? We are here for three nights in between Joshua Tree National Park and the Grand Canyon. We have been to over 15 national parks and monuments, 23 states, lots of friends and family – it is time to show the kids the seedy underbelly of America.
Right now I am questioning our thinking on that one.
So far we have introduced them to the gambling culture, smoke-filled casino floors, Breakfast of Champions Las Vegas-style (when the man walked past us at 7:30 am with a beer in both hands), one-armed bandits, video arcades, cheap buffets, The Mob, and sexism in a variety of ways from female escort services to scantily dressed women. If you haven’t been to Vegas lately, the strip (for those who decide to walk) is chock-a-block with groups of what appear to be newly arrived immigrants from south of the border, dressed in neon yellow shirts and matching hats all emblazoned with the same motto: Girls to your door in 20 minutes. They also hand out the matching business cards with the number to call.
In the 13 years since Evan and I had last been here, the free Pirate Show in front of Treasure Island has gone from being very Disney-esque to pole dancing, g-string wearing pirates. Thirteen years ago there was a battle between the British man o’ war and the pirate ship. Now it’s the ship of Sirens (the aforementioned scantily clad women) vs. the Pirates. To add misogynistic insult to injury, when the pirates decide to fire their canons at the Sirens (how else could the shows directors showcase all the pyrotechnic power designed for the original show), the pirates decide to bring the Sirens to submission by “attacking their closets, where it will hurt the most”. I apologized to Josh for taking him to this x-rated show. In a good natured way he replied, “This will be a good story to tell my friends -- Then there was the time my parents took me to see naked ladies in Vegas…”
Back to the story….
Evan drops the kids and me in front of the Excalibur so we can go check-in while he deals with parking the Big Pig in the back parking lot. We walk in the front doors, Josh and I with a rolling bag each and computers in our back packs, Simon is carrying two bags one filled with toiletries and the other with the mandatory stuffed animals. In order to check-in you need to take the long stinky walk through the casino. The coolest part about the Excalibur is the outside because you can pretend it is a castle. Inside it is a smoke-filled, darkly-lit, loud casino filled with sad, overweight people from all over the world blankly looking at electronic gambling machines as they keep pouring their quarters in, in hopes of what? Capturing the American dream, perhaps.
We make our way along the beer-stained carpet following the overhead signs to Registration. Before we make it there we are stopped by a smiling woman who asks how long we are here for and are we planning on seeing a show. Not for $70 a person we aren’t. Well, what about for $50 for the 4 of you to see The Tournament of Kings (produced by Peter Jackson, the New Zealander who also did Lord of the Rings)? Now you are talking. What is the catch? A TIME SHARE PRESENTATION!
Take me back…Minneapolis 1984. My first job out of college, well, actually my second. My first job was doing exterior painting for Low Cost Student Painters until a wind storm on a third floor ladder and I had a mishap with a bucket of stain. Second job – I called people out of the phone book for Quadna Mountain Vacation Resort in beautiful Hill City, Minnesota. “Mrs. Svensgaard? You the winner of a 5 piece set of luggage. All you have to do is go to a presentation for Quadna Mountain and the luggage is all yours. Free of charge!” I would say in my cheeriest voice. The fact it was called Quadna MOUNTAIN in one of the flattest states in the union should have been a warning.
Las Vegas 2010. Time share have changed a little in the ensuing 26 years. No longer are perky 23 year-olds calling people out of the phone book from basements for $5 an hour. They are now accosting families as they walk into Vegas hotels and offering cheap show tickets. The Grandview is a huge time share multiplex about 2 miles past the end of the strip. All we needed to do was attend the two- to three-hour presentation and fork over $50 cash now and the tickets would be ours. Dinner and theater for $12.50 each. The catch is both Evan and I have to attend. 6 hours of our combined time. In the old days when we use to think in billable hours, that time was worth a lot. Now we see our time as an opportunity to save money. We sign up.
We meet the bus at 9:30. We meet our assigned sales man Rodney at 10:15 am. The pitch starts. Wow. He is good. He tells us his story of growing up with a young single mother and his worst day of school every year was the first day when all the kids would stand up and talk about where they went on their summer vacations. Who knew so many kids from Hot Springs, Arkansas had Hawaiian vacations or went to Disneyland? But not Rodney and his sister. They got to know their backyard inside and out. Selling timeshares appears to be about appealing to people’s need to ensure that they never have bad vacations again (and make their kids love them for it). Bottom line: a two week time share in Vegas for $39,999. No thanks.
Then we met Rick, his manager He went through the numbers with us (and offered us some better deals). Bottom line: Rick started at $30,000 for two weeks (but not Christmas or New Years when they claim a lot of people want to be in Vegas) of time share with 4 bonus weeks thrown in. Rick ends at $15,000 for one week. No thanks, we are here for the tickets.
Then we are sent to the Gift Desk (for our tickets) and met with Robin. She is from Hawaii and gave us some tips for when we are there in a few weeks. She wasn’t really the Ticket Woman. She tried for a third time to sell to us. Bottom line: Every third year for $600. No thanks; Tickets please.
Then we met with Dora. She gave us the tickets.
Back to the hotel room by 1 pm with tickets in hand.
The show was great. The boys wanted us to sit through another presentation to see it again the following night.
No thanks. Some things you just won’t do. Even for your kids.
We are staying in Vegas because we got a great deal on a room at the Excalibur Hotel. You know, the Knight-themed hotel next to the more luxurious Luxor and Mandalay Bay? 23 bucks a night. Half the cost of an RV park and we will more than double our hang out space, plus a full size bathroom. How could anyone say no? We are here for three nights in between Joshua Tree National Park and the Grand Canyon. We have been to over 15 national parks and monuments, 23 states, lots of friends and family – it is time to show the kids the seedy underbelly of America.
Right now I am questioning our thinking on that one.
So far we have introduced them to the gambling culture, smoke-filled casino floors, Breakfast of Champions Las Vegas-style (when the man walked past us at 7:30 am with a beer in both hands), one-armed bandits, video arcades, cheap buffets, The Mob, and sexism in a variety of ways from female escort services to scantily dressed women. If you haven’t been to Vegas lately, the strip (for those who decide to walk) is chock-a-block with groups of what appear to be newly arrived immigrants from south of the border, dressed in neon yellow shirts and matching hats all emblazoned with the same motto: Girls to your door in 20 minutes. They also hand out the matching business cards with the number to call.
In the 13 years since Evan and I had last been here, the free Pirate Show in front of Treasure Island has gone from being very Disney-esque to pole dancing, g-string wearing pirates. Thirteen years ago there was a battle between the British man o’ war and the pirate ship. Now it’s the ship of Sirens (the aforementioned scantily clad women) vs. the Pirates. To add misogynistic insult to injury, when the pirates decide to fire their canons at the Sirens (how else could the shows directors showcase all the pyrotechnic power designed for the original show), the pirates decide to bring the Sirens to submission by “attacking their closets, where it will hurt the most”. I apologized to Josh for taking him to this x-rated show. In a good natured way he replied, “This will be a good story to tell my friends -- Then there was the time my parents took me to see naked ladies in Vegas…”
Back to the story….
Evan drops the kids and me in front of the Excalibur so we can go check-in while he deals with parking the Big Pig in the back parking lot. We walk in the front doors, Josh and I with a rolling bag each and computers in our back packs, Simon is carrying two bags one filled with toiletries and the other with the mandatory stuffed animals. In order to check-in you need to take the long stinky walk through the casino. The coolest part about the Excalibur is the outside because you can pretend it is a castle. Inside it is a smoke-filled, darkly-lit, loud casino filled with sad, overweight people from all over the world blankly looking at electronic gambling machines as they keep pouring their quarters in, in hopes of what? Capturing the American dream, perhaps.
We make our way along the beer-stained carpet following the overhead signs to Registration. Before we make it there we are stopped by a smiling woman who asks how long we are here for and are we planning on seeing a show. Not for $70 a person we aren’t. Well, what about for $50 for the 4 of you to see The Tournament of Kings (produced by Peter Jackson, the New Zealander who also did Lord of the Rings)? Now you are talking. What is the catch? A TIME SHARE PRESENTATION!
Take me back…Minneapolis 1984. My first job out of college, well, actually my second. My first job was doing exterior painting for Low Cost Student Painters until a wind storm on a third floor ladder and I had a mishap with a bucket of stain. Second job – I called people out of the phone book for Quadna Mountain Vacation Resort in beautiful Hill City, Minnesota. “Mrs. Svensgaard? You the winner of a 5 piece set of luggage. All you have to do is go to a presentation for Quadna Mountain and the luggage is all yours. Free of charge!” I would say in my cheeriest voice. The fact it was called Quadna MOUNTAIN in one of the flattest states in the union should have been a warning.
Las Vegas 2010. Time share have changed a little in the ensuing 26 years. No longer are perky 23 year-olds calling people out of the phone book from basements for $5 an hour. They are now accosting families as they walk into Vegas hotels and offering cheap show tickets. The Grandview is a huge time share multiplex about 2 miles past the end of the strip. All we needed to do was attend the two- to three-hour presentation and fork over $50 cash now and the tickets would be ours. Dinner and theater for $12.50 each. The catch is both Evan and I have to attend. 6 hours of our combined time. In the old days when we use to think in billable hours, that time was worth a lot. Now we see our time as an opportunity to save money. We sign up.
We meet the bus at 9:30. We meet our assigned sales man Rodney at 10:15 am. The pitch starts. Wow. He is good. He tells us his story of growing up with a young single mother and his worst day of school every year was the first day when all the kids would stand up and talk about where they went on their summer vacations. Who knew so many kids from Hot Springs, Arkansas had Hawaiian vacations or went to Disneyland? But not Rodney and his sister. They got to know their backyard inside and out. Selling timeshares appears to be about appealing to people’s need to ensure that they never have bad vacations again (and make their kids love them for it). Bottom line: a two week time share in Vegas for $39,999. No thanks.
Then we met Rick, his manager He went through the numbers with us (and offered us some better deals). Bottom line: Rick started at $30,000 for two weeks (but not Christmas or New Years when they claim a lot of people want to be in Vegas) of time share with 4 bonus weeks thrown in. Rick ends at $15,000 for one week. No thanks, we are here for the tickets.
Then we are sent to the Gift Desk (for our tickets) and met with Robin. She is from Hawaii and gave us some tips for when we are there in a few weeks. She wasn’t really the Ticket Woman. She tried for a third time to sell to us. Bottom line: Every third year for $600. No thanks; Tickets please.
Then we met with Dora. She gave us the tickets.
Back to the hotel room by 1 pm with tickets in hand.
The show was great. The boys wanted us to sit through another presentation to see it again the following night.
No thanks. Some things you just won’t do. Even for your kids.
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Profound observations of the absurdly obvious…
...or is it absurd observations for the profoundly obvious? From time to time a light bulb will go off in my head and a truism will hit me hard. I have been having these profound/absurd observations since my early 20’s and they go like this:
Inherited wealth. This means someone in your family bequeaths you money. This implies someone from your family has money. Usually old money. I will never come from inherited wealth.
The Olympics. Every four years (yes, I know the winter Olympics comes in the off years, but it just isn’t the same as the Summer Olympics…) I drag this one out. I will never be in the Olympics. Why this surprises me every four years I have no idea. It is not like I have ever been a competitive athlete, but nevertheless I am surprised. Curling. Perhaps curling is in my future.
Travelling. When I was 20 years old I attended Chiang Mai University and lived with a Thai Buddhist family. I had two weeks off from school and decided to fly to Nepal. My family thought I was insane. “Why would you go to Nepal, we have everything you need in Chiang Mai,” they said. It dawned on me, I was the adventurer. They had never been to Bangkok. By having me live with them, I was their adventure.
Uhuru. For our honeymoon Evan and I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. It was the most unromantic honeymoon you can imagine filled with altitude sickness and shared smelly bunkrooms, but an adventure I wouldn’t trade. I was lying on a thin cot in Kibo Hut pretending to sleep in anticipation of getting up at midnight for the final assent in order to see the first rays of sun as they hit the continent. I was a little delirious but then it came to me. Uhuru is the Swahili word for Freedom. It is also the name of the tallest peak of Kilimanjaro. And then there is Lieutenant Uhuru, the black woman on the original Star Trek! Who incidentally was half of the first inter-racial kiss on television. The other half of course being Captain Kirk.
Cashmere and Kashmir. Beautiful cashmere scarves come from Kashmir India. Or do they?
If you tell people something, they will know it. If you don’t tell someone something, they won’t. And the lesson: You don’t have to tell everybody everything.
And today…Las Vegas is in the middle of a desert. The Mohave desert. There is no water in the Mohave Desert. Las Vegas is unsustainable and will eventually dry up and flake away.
Inherited wealth. This means someone in your family bequeaths you money. This implies someone from your family has money. Usually old money. I will never come from inherited wealth.
The Olympics. Every four years (yes, I know the winter Olympics comes in the off years, but it just isn’t the same as the Summer Olympics…) I drag this one out. I will never be in the Olympics. Why this surprises me every four years I have no idea. It is not like I have ever been a competitive athlete, but nevertheless I am surprised. Curling. Perhaps curling is in my future.
Travelling. When I was 20 years old I attended Chiang Mai University and lived with a Thai Buddhist family. I had two weeks off from school and decided to fly to Nepal. My family thought I was insane. “Why would you go to Nepal, we have everything you need in Chiang Mai,” they said. It dawned on me, I was the adventurer. They had never been to Bangkok. By having me live with them, I was their adventure.
Uhuru. For our honeymoon Evan and I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. It was the most unromantic honeymoon you can imagine filled with altitude sickness and shared smelly bunkrooms, but an adventure I wouldn’t trade. I was lying on a thin cot in Kibo Hut pretending to sleep in anticipation of getting up at midnight for the final assent in order to see the first rays of sun as they hit the continent. I was a little delirious but then it came to me. Uhuru is the Swahili word for Freedom. It is also the name of the tallest peak of Kilimanjaro. And then there is Lieutenant Uhuru, the black woman on the original Star Trek! Who incidentally was half of the first inter-racial kiss on television. The other half of course being Captain Kirk.
Cashmere and Kashmir. Beautiful cashmere scarves come from Kashmir India. Or do they?
If you tell people something, they will know it. If you don’t tell someone something, they won’t. And the lesson: You don’t have to tell everybody everything.
And today…Las Vegas is in the middle of a desert. The Mohave desert. There is no water in the Mohave Desert. Las Vegas is unsustainable and will eventually dry up and flake away.
Look What's Hangin' In the RV
Wall space is limited. Knobs act as picture hooks. Choices continually need to be made about what stays and what goes. Christmas was a tricky one -- we ended up mailing a big box of lovely, but non-essential, gifts we received to my in-laws to hold for us until we have a more permanent domicile.
But we couldn’t say goodbye to Simon’s 298-piece Thornitus V9. For those of you not in the know, a Thornitus V9 is a Bionicle. If that doesn’t help, Bionicles are made by Lego and are interlocking pieces of molded plastic that when put together (after the 43 steps) make any assortment of absolutely frightening robots, usually graced with axes, swords, javelins, shields, and bows. For a family that bans guns (real or pretend) for some reason we have pardoned hand-to-hand combat weapons. Their names are as frightening as their piercing eyes and absurd number of plastic parts – Makuta, The Dark Hunters, and Scopio XV1. The Thornitus V9 made the cut and it is now in the plastic crate under the couch of the RV.
And then there are our walls. Whatever space Evan and I have shared, from our first apartment together in Cambridge, MA to the three homes we have owned in Massachusetts, Georgia and London, and the countless rentals in between, we have put up art work almost immediately. Even here in our rolling home we have things hanging from the knobs and taped onto the walls. They remind us of friends and family and help make our little house a bit more like a home.
Now presenting: The RV Collection. I like to think of these objects as amulets that are helping us on our journey.
Hanging from a knob in the kitchen is a white felt Guardian Angel made by Anna. This is our Safety and Good Parking Spaces Amulet. Anna and I met back in London at Clown School. Clowns was the name of the nursery and our 3-year olds were in the same class. No, they did not teach the children proper techniques for landing should they find themselves being shot out of a cannon – it was just a regular old North London nursery with a funny name. Anna and I would cross paths twice a day for drop-off and pick-up. Being new to the London Preschool Scene I had no idea I wasn’t suppose to talk to anyone. And Anna, a wonderful, chatty, brilliant, radiant woman from Brazil didn’t either, and so started a friendship that went beyond our sons. She joined our book group and even after their big move out of London and up to Kings Langley she still made it down once a month for our Book Group/Pub Crawls where we discussed just about anything under the sun and sometimes the book.
Anna has not only ground flour to make her own bread, she has made the bricks to build the oven she has cooked the bread in. Yes, she made the felt that she sewed into the angel. When I am whining that I have dirt under my fingernails from three states ago, I think of Anna and how I bet she would think that is cool.
In the cockpit hanging from the rear view mirror is the Obama Rama Odor Eater presented to us by Mary. This is our Good Smells Amulet that ensures burnt dinners, rotting pieces of lost cheese, and other unmentionable smells that come from sharing small spaces with 3 members of the male sex are quickly eradicated. Mary was my former neighbor and friend in London. A fellow ex-patriot our kids went to the same school and we worked together as rebel rousers shaking things up in the school and on our street. During the 2008 elections she, I and a number of other women ping-ponged so many emails – way too many, but all too funny not to pass on, about Sarah – we experienced withdrawal once the election was over. Whenever I look in the rearview mirror as I am backing up my 14,000 pound home on wheels I think about Mary, Obama and how I may have taken this whole “Yes We Can” manifesto a little too personally.
On the knob of the cupboard holding Josh’s clothes, directly above the couch, are wind chimes given to Josh by his cousin Dow who currently lives in Manila. I think of this semi-melodious light tinkling as our Spirituality Good Omen. I heard them as we were driving through the LA traffic along the 405, on the wild turns through the Grand Tetons, and they were chiming out of control today as we hit the dirt roads in Joshua Tree National Park. While they were a gift to Josh for his birthday they are a reminder to me of my brother and sister-in-law -- Dow’s parents -- who met when they were in the Peace Corps in Mali, West Africa. Throughout their life together they have lived in San Francisco, Hong Kong, Portland OR, Washington DC, Niger, London and now Manila. They make Evan and I look like amateurs at this moving thing. They may look like wanderers on the outside, but they are the most together and grounded couple/family I know and hearing the lovely lilt reminds me to take a breath.
And then there is the Tangerine rind mobile from my lovely niece Amy that hangs from an electrical knob in our tiny bedroom in the back of the RV. I think of this as our Whimsical Amulet. She made it for us for Christmas knowing we had limited space. She is a fabulous artist (as well as a yoga instructor and graduate student). She tore the tangerine peels to look like flowers and sewed them with fishing wire interspersed with clear crystal cut beads on to a piece of wood covered with twine. Amy is the kind of woman that questions the world and enjoys the process of finding the answers. She reminds me to look at things with an eye towards possibilities. Why not drive the extra ten miles to take that family photo with the Giant Artichoke in Castroville, CA? Why not take a flash light hike to experience the desert at nighttime?
The other things that are taped to the walls include Simon’s point chart, showing our dedication to education and discipline through bribery, as well as various score cards from Miniature Golf games played across the nation representing our aspiring commitment to athleticism.
All these amulets remind us that we do have a community of friends and family that are travelling with us.
But we couldn’t say goodbye to Simon’s 298-piece Thornitus V9. For those of you not in the know, a Thornitus V9 is a Bionicle. If that doesn’t help, Bionicles are made by Lego and are interlocking pieces of molded plastic that when put together (after the 43 steps) make any assortment of absolutely frightening robots, usually graced with axes, swords, javelins, shields, and bows. For a family that bans guns (real or pretend) for some reason we have pardoned hand-to-hand combat weapons. Their names are as frightening as their piercing eyes and absurd number of plastic parts – Makuta, The Dark Hunters, and Scopio XV1. The Thornitus V9 made the cut and it is now in the plastic crate under the couch of the RV.
And then there are our walls. Whatever space Evan and I have shared, from our first apartment together in Cambridge, MA to the three homes we have owned in Massachusetts, Georgia and London, and the countless rentals in between, we have put up art work almost immediately. Even here in our rolling home we have things hanging from the knobs and taped onto the walls. They remind us of friends and family and help make our little house a bit more like a home.
Now presenting: The RV Collection. I like to think of these objects as amulets that are helping us on our journey.
Hanging from a knob in the kitchen is a white felt Guardian Angel made by Anna. This is our Safety and Good Parking Spaces Amulet. Anna and I met back in London at Clown School. Clowns was the name of the nursery and our 3-year olds were in the same class. No, they did not teach the children proper techniques for landing should they find themselves being shot out of a cannon – it was just a regular old North London nursery with a funny name. Anna and I would cross paths twice a day for drop-off and pick-up. Being new to the London Preschool Scene I had no idea I wasn’t suppose to talk to anyone. And Anna, a wonderful, chatty, brilliant, radiant woman from Brazil didn’t either, and so started a friendship that went beyond our sons. She joined our book group and even after their big move out of London and up to Kings Langley she still made it down once a month for our Book Group/Pub Crawls where we discussed just about anything under the sun and sometimes the book.
Anna has not only ground flour to make her own bread, she has made the bricks to build the oven she has cooked the bread in. Yes, she made the felt that she sewed into the angel. When I am whining that I have dirt under my fingernails from three states ago, I think of Anna and how I bet she would think that is cool.
In the cockpit hanging from the rear view mirror is the Obama Rama Odor Eater presented to us by Mary. This is our Good Smells Amulet that ensures burnt dinners, rotting pieces of lost cheese, and other unmentionable smells that come from sharing small spaces with 3 members of the male sex are quickly eradicated. Mary was my former neighbor and friend in London. A fellow ex-patriot our kids went to the same school and we worked together as rebel rousers shaking things up in the school and on our street. During the 2008 elections she, I and a number of other women ping-ponged so many emails – way too many, but all too funny not to pass on, about Sarah – we experienced withdrawal once the election was over. Whenever I look in the rearview mirror as I am backing up my 14,000 pound home on wheels I think about Mary, Obama and how I may have taken this whole “Yes We Can” manifesto a little too personally.
On the knob of the cupboard holding Josh’s clothes, directly above the couch, are wind chimes given to Josh by his cousin Dow who currently lives in Manila. I think of this semi-melodious light tinkling as our Spirituality Good Omen. I heard them as we were driving through the LA traffic along the 405, on the wild turns through the Grand Tetons, and they were chiming out of control today as we hit the dirt roads in Joshua Tree National Park. While they were a gift to Josh for his birthday they are a reminder to me of my brother and sister-in-law -- Dow’s parents -- who met when they were in the Peace Corps in Mali, West Africa. Throughout their life together they have lived in San Francisco, Hong Kong, Portland OR, Washington DC, Niger, London and now Manila. They make Evan and I look like amateurs at this moving thing. They may look like wanderers on the outside, but they are the most together and grounded couple/family I know and hearing the lovely lilt reminds me to take a breath.
And then there is the Tangerine rind mobile from my lovely niece Amy that hangs from an electrical knob in our tiny bedroom in the back of the RV. I think of this as our Whimsical Amulet. She made it for us for Christmas knowing we had limited space. She is a fabulous artist (as well as a yoga instructor and graduate student). She tore the tangerine peels to look like flowers and sewed them with fishing wire interspersed with clear crystal cut beads on to a piece of wood covered with twine. Amy is the kind of woman that questions the world and enjoys the process of finding the answers. She reminds me to look at things with an eye towards possibilities. Why not drive the extra ten miles to take that family photo with the Giant Artichoke in Castroville, CA? Why not take a flash light hike to experience the desert at nighttime?
The other things that are taped to the walls include Simon’s point chart, showing our dedication to education and discipline through bribery, as well as various score cards from Miniature Golf games played across the nation representing our aspiring commitment to athleticism.
All these amulets remind us that we do have a community of friends and family that are travelling with us.
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Wild Animals, Excitement and Equipment for Your Bed
Last month when we were in Seattle, Simon and I went to the Woodland Park Zoo. A most excellent day by all accounts. It was just the two of us so we could really focus on the animals Simon wanted to see and not be distracted by the sibling rivalry that seems to be popping up more and more lately.
We were staying at our friend’s house in North Seattle and two busses were involved to get to the zoo. We walked out the door from their house, crossed the street and presto the first bus pulled up right on time. A 10 minute ride to the transfer station. It was one of those cold but bright and sunny days that makes for beautiful crisp skies and as we looked between the streets as we went whipping by on the bus, we could see Mount Rainer peaking through. The second bus ride was much longer. Enough time to take off our hats and mittens and read a couple of chapters in the books we brought with us.
After 30 minutes or so we got to the zoo and went right up to the admissions booth. One of the cool things about home schooling in the winter is we can go to places that might normally be wild and crazy on the weekend or in the summer but on a Tuesday morning at 10 am in early December – we have the place all to ourselves. The zoo was one of those places. There was a wonderful indoor play space called the Zoomasium with a tree to climb up into and take the slide down, a climbing structure that looked like something out of the Swiss Family Robinson, and a stage for live animal demonstrations. Um, no thanks. Not interested in touching the snake.
But we weren’t there for the climbing structure really, we were on safari to find: the sloth bears, the sun bears, the elephants – both Asian and African, the red pandas, the hippos, the flamingos, hawks, snakes, birds, penguins, giraffes and reindeer.
After a day well spent it was time to head to the much anticipated gift shop. I reminded Simon that with just 2 weeks until his birthday and 3 weeks until Christmas he was not allowed to buy anything for himself. Plus, he had limited funds and a long list of family members to shop for. For a good half hour we were up and down the aisles of the deserted gift shop touching everything, expanding wish lists for Santa Claus, and remarking, “ahh, I have this same stuffed snake in a storage box somewhere”.
At one point Simon asked if it was alright if he got Evan and me a combined gift for Christmas, “Would we be sad to share a present?” I assured him Dad and I were use to sharing but all we really wanted was a poem he wrote, or a song he made up or better yet, a certificate to use at a later date for good behavior in a museum. He assured me that he had found the perfect gift and needed to take a $7.00 with drawl from the Mommy Wallet where he keeps a running total of his allowance. But the entire process was really to be top secret. He needed the cash but he needed me to keep well away. “No problem, I will be over in the plastic animal section reclassifying the dinosaurs,” I said.
Once the secret purchase was made and shoved discretely into the bottom of the backpack hidden in the Woodland Park Zoo recyclable brown paper bag Simon turned to me and asked, “Can I tell you what it is?”
“No! Absolutely not! I love surprises and as an adult you don’t get many so, no I don’t want to know,” I replied, louder than I should have.
“Oh, but it is really perfect. I bet you want to know,” Simon retorted.
This went on for the 15 minute walk back through the park to the exit nearest the bus stop. Finally I relented. “Alright, you can give me one small clue.”
“Well,” said Simon, “it is a piece of equipment for your bed.”
I laughed out loud imagining things that couldn’t possibly have been sold at the Seattle Zoo Gift Shop that my 7 year old son could buy with seven bucks. Had Simon noticed that Evan and I lacked some essential equipment in the queen size bed in the RV?
“A pillow case?” I suggested, to a peal of laughter.
“Nope, you will just have to wait. But it is definitely something that is missing from your bed.”
3 weeks, the Olympic Peninsula and Oregon Coast later, the brown Woodland Park Zoo bag appeared under the tree at my brother and sister in laws house in Palo Alto with a bow on it. Evan and I opened the gift together. Simon was absolutely right. How could we have lived for so long with out this most essential piece of equipment – a stuffed panda! After 14 years our marital bed is finally fully equipped.
We were staying at our friend’s house in North Seattle and two busses were involved to get to the zoo. We walked out the door from their house, crossed the street and presto the first bus pulled up right on time. A 10 minute ride to the transfer station. It was one of those cold but bright and sunny days that makes for beautiful crisp skies and as we looked between the streets as we went whipping by on the bus, we could see Mount Rainer peaking through. The second bus ride was much longer. Enough time to take off our hats and mittens and read a couple of chapters in the books we brought with us.
After 30 minutes or so we got to the zoo and went right up to the admissions booth. One of the cool things about home schooling in the winter is we can go to places that might normally be wild and crazy on the weekend or in the summer but on a Tuesday morning at 10 am in early December – we have the place all to ourselves. The zoo was one of those places. There was a wonderful indoor play space called the Zoomasium with a tree to climb up into and take the slide down, a climbing structure that looked like something out of the Swiss Family Robinson, and a stage for live animal demonstrations. Um, no thanks. Not interested in touching the snake.
But we weren’t there for the climbing structure really, we were on safari to find: the sloth bears, the sun bears, the elephants – both Asian and African, the red pandas, the hippos, the flamingos, hawks, snakes, birds, penguins, giraffes and reindeer.
After a day well spent it was time to head to the much anticipated gift shop. I reminded Simon that with just 2 weeks until his birthday and 3 weeks until Christmas he was not allowed to buy anything for himself. Plus, he had limited funds and a long list of family members to shop for. For a good half hour we were up and down the aisles of the deserted gift shop touching everything, expanding wish lists for Santa Claus, and remarking, “ahh, I have this same stuffed snake in a storage box somewhere”.
At one point Simon asked if it was alright if he got Evan and me a combined gift for Christmas, “Would we be sad to share a present?” I assured him Dad and I were use to sharing but all we really wanted was a poem he wrote, or a song he made up or better yet, a certificate to use at a later date for good behavior in a museum. He assured me that he had found the perfect gift and needed to take a $7.00 with drawl from the Mommy Wallet where he keeps a running total of his allowance. But the entire process was really to be top secret. He needed the cash but he needed me to keep well away. “No problem, I will be over in the plastic animal section reclassifying the dinosaurs,” I said.
Once the secret purchase was made and shoved discretely into the bottom of the backpack hidden in the Woodland Park Zoo recyclable brown paper bag Simon turned to me and asked, “Can I tell you what it is?”
“No! Absolutely not! I love surprises and as an adult you don’t get many so, no I don’t want to know,” I replied, louder than I should have.
“Oh, but it is really perfect. I bet you want to know,” Simon retorted.
This went on for the 15 minute walk back through the park to the exit nearest the bus stop. Finally I relented. “Alright, you can give me one small clue.”
“Well,” said Simon, “it is a piece of equipment for your bed.”
I laughed out loud imagining things that couldn’t possibly have been sold at the Seattle Zoo Gift Shop that my 7 year old son could buy with seven bucks. Had Simon noticed that Evan and I lacked some essential equipment in the queen size bed in the RV?
“A pillow case?” I suggested, to a peal of laughter.
“Nope, you will just have to wait. But it is definitely something that is missing from your bed.”
3 weeks, the Olympic Peninsula and Oregon Coast later, the brown Woodland Park Zoo bag appeared under the tree at my brother and sister in laws house in Palo Alto with a bow on it. Evan and I opened the gift together. Simon was absolutely right. How could we have lived for so long with out this most essential piece of equipment – a stuffed panda! After 14 years our marital bed is finally fully equipped.
Monday, 4 January 2010
First Freak Out of the New Year
It is 2:34 AM in Santa Monica, CA. Never a good time to wake up and think about your life. You will never find the things you like about your life at 2:34 AM.
We head out in the RV again tomorrow after basically three weeks of indulging our collective selves in all things Christmas, family and friends. We have been staying in my brother and sister in laws lovely house on Palo Alto and now my friend Janet’s wonderful home in Santa Monica. We have been showering in proper bathrooms and have laundry facilities at our beck and call. We have been cooking in proper kitchens. We have friends and family to talk to who love us and remind us that we had lives prior to the RV. Friends and family to play board games with, learn from, share stories with and plan meals together.
Yesterday Janet, whom I have known since I was seven, and I spent the day at a Korean Message Palace in downtown LA soaking in hot bathes filled with detoxifying tea prior to the all over body lufa and head to toe message. For an hour and a half an elderly Korean woman rubbed me clean of 7 months of road warrior knots and calluses and washed my hair with eucalyptus. We never spoke, although she did ask me to turn over once.
The past three weeks have been a much appreciated vacation from our adventure.
But our 29’ reality is sitting parked in front of the house. I realize I have indulged myself these past few weeks in to thinking of the RV as a huge piece of luggage we can drive rather than a home, a lifestyle choice, my reality.
Oh shit. Here we go again. Back into the Big Pig. But these last two months on the road will be different because it is just that. Only two more months. “After 7 months of being homeless, 2 months is a piece of cake,” I tell myself. But at 2:34 in the morning it is my neurotic self that takes over.
A list! If I write a list of my issues then it will be written down and I can tackle it all in a systematic way. Virgos love lists. Very organized.
Problem: I drink too much. Solution: Stop drinking.
Problem: I am fat. Solution: Stop eating
Problem: My kids don’t eat right. Solution: Give them healthy foods.
Problem: My husband doesn’t eat right. Solution: Yell at him.
Problem: Nobody is sleeping enough. Solution: Sleep more.
Problem: We all sleep too much. Solution: Set an alarm.
Problem: We need to find a place to live. Solution: Internet
Problem: We need to find jobs. Solution: Start looking.
This freak out is different from the one in September when I was staring at 7 months of vast expanses of prairie looming in front of me. I can start to feel my freak outs as slipping back in to being more pedestrian. More like everyone else’s. Finding jobs, looking for work, fitting into my clothes. Oh brother. Now I am freaking out that my freak outs aren’t as unique anymore.
A whole new level of Freak Out. Too absurd.
Gentle Reader, may I leave you with a thought for the new year…
may 2010 be filled with something to laugh about everyday. Even if is it the ridiculousness of your own freak outs at 2:34 AM...make that 2:53 AM.
Good night.
We head out in the RV again tomorrow after basically three weeks of indulging our collective selves in all things Christmas, family and friends. We have been staying in my brother and sister in laws lovely house on Palo Alto and now my friend Janet’s wonderful home in Santa Monica. We have been showering in proper bathrooms and have laundry facilities at our beck and call. We have been cooking in proper kitchens. We have friends and family to talk to who love us and remind us that we had lives prior to the RV. Friends and family to play board games with, learn from, share stories with and plan meals together.
Yesterday Janet, whom I have known since I was seven, and I spent the day at a Korean Message Palace in downtown LA soaking in hot bathes filled with detoxifying tea prior to the all over body lufa and head to toe message. For an hour and a half an elderly Korean woman rubbed me clean of 7 months of road warrior knots and calluses and washed my hair with eucalyptus. We never spoke, although she did ask me to turn over once.
The past three weeks have been a much appreciated vacation from our adventure.
But our 29’ reality is sitting parked in front of the house. I realize I have indulged myself these past few weeks in to thinking of the RV as a huge piece of luggage we can drive rather than a home, a lifestyle choice, my reality.
Oh shit. Here we go again. Back into the Big Pig. But these last two months on the road will be different because it is just that. Only two more months. “After 7 months of being homeless, 2 months is a piece of cake,” I tell myself. But at 2:34 in the morning it is my neurotic self that takes over.
A list! If I write a list of my issues then it will be written down and I can tackle it all in a systematic way. Virgos love lists. Very organized.
Problem: I drink too much. Solution: Stop drinking.
Problem: I am fat. Solution: Stop eating
Problem: My kids don’t eat right. Solution: Give them healthy foods.
Problem: My husband doesn’t eat right. Solution: Yell at him.
Problem: Nobody is sleeping enough. Solution: Sleep more.
Problem: We all sleep too much. Solution: Set an alarm.
Problem: We need to find a place to live. Solution: Internet
Problem: We need to find jobs. Solution: Start looking.
This freak out is different from the one in September when I was staring at 7 months of vast expanses of prairie looming in front of me. I can start to feel my freak outs as slipping back in to being more pedestrian. More like everyone else’s. Finding jobs, looking for work, fitting into my clothes. Oh brother. Now I am freaking out that my freak outs aren’t as unique anymore.
A whole new level of Freak Out. Too absurd.
Gentle Reader, may I leave you with a thought for the new year…
may 2010 be filled with something to laugh about everyday. Even if is it the ridiculousness of your own freak outs at 2:34 AM...make that 2:53 AM.
Good night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)