What Makes Me Laugh

I used to say things like, “I could never live anywhere that didn’t have the four seasons.” Meaning snow, of course. The older I get, the more I hope to never say never, because right now I feel like I could live somewhere without the four seasons, very easily.

Yes, I ski. Yes, I get out during the winter. Yes, I do think snow is pretty, especially on the mountains on a clear day. But I have to say, the dark that comes with the cold around here makes me irritable, and the cold can be painful for someone with as poor of circulation as I apparently have. My hands double as ice cubes for most of the winter. I don’t even need to get an ice pack for an injury. I just put my hands on my neck or my knee, and get immediate relief. I wonder if that’s what they call a healer?

Unfortunately for Doug, I sometimes try and warm my hands or feet on his body, and he yelps like an animal in pain every time. I just don’t know why. Huh.

As I’ve noted before, amnesia sets in around here once the weather starts to warm up a bit, and you forget that you ever had thoughts about living in the South Pacific because summers are so perfect. But right now I wish I was a snow bird, and could fly until I felt the sun on my face and heard waves crashing from an ocean nearby. Wouldn’t that be lovely?

I can’t even type the word “tradition” now without hearing the song from Fiddler on the Roof  and wanting to follow the first with another, louder, “Tradition!”

Last weekend I traveled to Canada for the second annual mother-daughter get-together over the Martin Luther King Jr. long weekend. This year’s entertainment highlight was an Off-Broadway production of Fiddler in Calgary.  I’ve been humming, “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match! Find me a find!” ever since. It’s really hard to get those songs out of your head and I’m not kidding.

In the vein of traditions, Doug and I stopped at my parent’s ranch before heading north. A night at the ranch means a.) the early morning wakeup call from the rooster and chickens; b.) the real wakeup call from KSEN, the local radio station my parents listen to over breakfast. I woke up during the middle of the Swap-n-Bulletin board.

“This is Sharon, and we’d like to sell our dishwasher. It runs pretty good, but it has a little problem with the soap tray staying open — shouldn’t be too hard to fix. We’re asking $50 or your best offer.”

I put my pillow over my head. I’m not a morning person.

KSEN has always had an entertaining morning radio show, complete with a police report, a discussion with the local used car dealer, and a daily polka that my mother delighted dancing to just as the school bus pulled up in front of our picture window.  Talk about embarrassing!

Anyway, it woke me up in time for us to cross the border at a little border station manned by my least favorite border guard. This guard loves to come up with paranoid theories. Even though he has seen me a thousand times (okay, maybe not a thousand, but a lot) in past crossings he has rerouted me to a different border because he thought that my nephew wasn’t really my nephew, but a man I had married to help me declare Canadian citizenship after crossing the border (Real Story: My nephew was going home from college with a lot of stuff and I was going to a conference). He also detained Doug and I because he thought he had kidnapped me because our last names are not the same.  He took Doug inside to interrogate him and asked, “Who’s the girl?” in a threatening voice. Real Story: Doug and I were just married, without passports (no need for them yet) and on our way to a Bob Dylan concert.

Once we reached Cochrane, Alberta (our final destination) we melted off our border anxieties with a trip to the salon for a mother-daughter pedicure/manicure.

I was good and relaxed before the all-female let’s-help-our-friend-get-through-her-divorce party where we sampled (I’m not kidding) drinks called Sour Pusses. Did you know they have napkins for this kind of party? Awesome!

Canadian women are lovely, but I spent a good chunk of the party either getting attacked by the hostess’s cat (I thought the cat was purring when I petted it because I couldn’t hear over all the loud female voices, but it was actually growling at me), or trying to avoid talking to a Birther conspiracist about Barack Obama  (this was my sole contribution to MLK day).

Between the early morning chickens, KSEN, the Birther theories, and the Sour Pusses I ended up so exhausted that I had to lie down on the hostess’s couch to put my feet up, hoping that I could either fall asleep or convince the rest of my party that 10:00 wasn’t too early to go home.

On Sunday, Laura and I headed to Hot Yoga for a sweaty session of stretching (if you’re curious, hot yoga is like going to a yoga session conducted at a military boot camp in Florida in August but somehow relaxing). Then we all took quick showers before Fiddler, which was awesome (thank you Mom!), and finished the day up with a fried turkey dinner cooked up by the men in our life (and no, I’m not kidding about this either).

What else would you expect from my travels?

I’m leaving for Tennessee tomorrow for what may be my final appearance ever as a bridesmaid or bridesmatron (I know, you’re drying your eyes right now, aren’t you?). I expect to experience both culture and culture shock in the South, and hope I don’t get lost (I’m getting a handy GPS unit for my car just in case).

Doug is not traveling with me this time, which makes me both sad and relieved for him that he won’t have to experience any of the new airline security measures (including a ban on bathrooms and anything in your lap). Hopefully I won’t have to experience them either since I’m only traveling domestic flights.

I’m planning to stay calm, cool, and collected while flying, even if I have to grab the stranger’s hand sitting next to me upon takeoff. Keeping the bride calm is also one of my duties (as noted in the final instructions sent by the bride last eve). I plan to keep on reminding her that fortunately I’m not helping her prep for a spinal tap or a terrorist attack. It’s only a wedding!

Meanwhile, I’m going to summon my inner Southern Belle and my inner Buddha (is it possible for both to reside in the same body?) and try to keep calm as I deliver a toast, wear a dress that is slightly too tight for breathing, and wear heels while nursing a knee injury from my Christmas ski (don’t ask, it’s too embarrassing to tell you that it happened right after I got off the lift – before any real skiing had even begun). Oh, and I’m taking notes, lots of notes. While keeping calm.

Happy New Year!

6:20 a.m.

Worry Wart

Day two of the Vegas adventure started at 6:20 a.m. with a more-than-slightly hungover me waking to the alarm of a text message. You should just lay there, my body said. But my brain had different ideas, so I fumbled for the phone and opened it under the covers to read the message from my sister. She had just faxed her marathon confirmation to the hotel so that I could prove I wasn’t a malicious runner’s packet stealer to the Vegas race organizers.

With this news in hand, I tried to go back to sleep, but all I could think about was my plan for getting those packets.

“I have a situation,” I’d start, or “Have you ever been in a Canadian blizzard before?” or “I’ve already picked up my packet, but my sister is somewhere between here and Alberta and won’t be arriving until after you’ve gone home for the day. Why don’t you be a pal and wave the identification requirement?” In that last scenario, I kind of imagined myself as a Soprano, handing someone a bribe who was being “difficult.”

Getting jittery that the fax may not have arrived and my sister would be on her way to the airport soon I bagged the sleep and used the light from my cell phone to find my clothes (so I didn’t wake Crystal). Dressing took approximately 10 times as long as it should because I couldn’t find a pair of pants in the dark and after remembering Crystal finding glitter on the floor last night I began to get paranoid that someone wearing a sequined dress broke into our room and stole my jeans. When you’re hungover, this seems like a reasonable theory.

8:15 a.m.

Fax in one hand, a $3 bottle of water in the other, I start to walk back to the Runner’s Expo to save a $10 cab ride. Over the course of the two miles, I stopped four times to pee. A little worried about the race and getting dehydrated, I was drinking water like crazy, and paying for it. Not only that, but my toes had suddenly started to hit the front of my shoes. My feet had swollen. A lot. This does not make for a good half marathon.

9:00 a.m.

Lost In Translation

When I finally reached the front of the line for Corral #12 (runners had different waiting gates) I took a deep breath and said, “I have a situation.” And they had a solution. Yes, the actual place I was directed was called “Solutions” and they had already heard about the delays, and bada bing bada boom I had the race packets in hand. The only problem was that I couldn’t find my way outside to a cab. I’m serious. I have never been so lost inside before. I wandered around the convention center and casino for a good half hour before I found a door that offered a glimmer of hope. Crystal thinks they do this on purpose so that you’ll get so tired you’ll just sit down and gamble, and I think she’s right.

3:00 p.m.

In the middle of shopping for a new dress I called my sister to check on their travel, and she says, “Guess where we’re at?” Calgary. Turns out the delays have stacked up and they won’t be leaving now until 4:00, and were on standby from Salt Lake City to Vegas. And the big bummer is that they are going to miss out on “O” the Cirque de Soleil performance in water playing at our hotel that night. Crystal and I weren’t planning on going, but I had picked up the tickets for my sister, and now that they couldn’t make it … well, a circus performance couldn’t be missed, right?

7:00 p.m.

O

I don’t think I’ve ever seen more than five minutes of Cirque de Soleil, even on PBS, so this was a new experience. We had incredible seats and most of the time I had a series of questions running through my head while watching the acrobatics like, “Who are these people? Ex-Olympic-gymnasts? Even ex-Olympians have bad days, am I going to see someone die tonight?” Seriously. I felt afraid for the acrobats and actors for most of the show. The most incredible part was the set, which opened up to an Olympic diving pool for parts, shallow pool for others, and completely dried up at times.

9:15 p.m.

Immediately after the show I texted my sister and heard great news back. They had arrived on the second flight and were just picking up their luggage at the airport. Crystal and I went for a late night carb loading dinner at the Italian restaurant and waited for their arrival. When they finally showed up, I thought their bad luck had ended, but instead I found out that their carry-on (which included all of their running gear) was left on the shuttle from the airport.

To Be Continued ….

A little spectacular scenery is as good for the soul as a laugh.

The thing about hiking in New Hampshire is that you can be standing at the bottom of the mountain, enjoying a warm day, and yet at the top you’re hoping not to die from exposure.

We climbed Mount Eisenhower with Doug’s brother Don, who fearlessly led us up the mountain as if climbing a 1,000 granite rocks were nothing. I have to say — I missed the West’s switchbacked, graded trails. Or, at least, my calves missed those trails the next day. New Hampshire trails are not for wimps. They are straight up and straight down and if you think that 6 miles don’t sound like much, well, think again.

When we reached the top a fog had settled in, and a fierce wind blew around us so we bundled up before making our attempt at the summit. Mount Eisenhower is part of the White Mountains, a range that includes Mount Washington, which truly has the worst weather in the lower coterminous United States. Today’s weather at the summit included 80 mph winds and snow.

I always like to pretend I’m readying for the the summit of Everest so I wrote “attempt” but it really wasn’t that bad. We were mostly worried about Don, who was wearing shorts, but claimed not to even feel the sting of sleet that fell on his legs.

From the top you’re supposed to be able to see Mount Washington, the tallest mountain in New England, but we could barely see our knees.

We did see a fox though, who was headed quickly into the brush to look for any remnants of lunch we might have left behind.

I think he had the last laugh.

On Tuesday I was waiting for the bus to take me home, reading a book, and checking my watch every few minutes.

My fellow commuters were stretched out on the university’s lawn, plugged into ipods or blackberries or books. The bus was late, but they didn’t seem too concerned.

I, on the other hand, had just walked like an Olympic speed walker for a little over a mile to get to the bus stop on time and my heart rate wasn’t down to a normal level. I watched my fellow travelers for cues as to whether to be alarmed, but they seemed relaxed. Finally, fifteen minutes after the scheduled departure time another bus pulled up to pick up passengers and a woman approached the driver.

“Did you ask her about the Livingston bus?” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “The driver got lost. He’ll be here soon.”

“He got lost?” I repeated back to her. “Lost?”

This might be possible in Seattle, or Los Angeles, or somewhere a hell of a lot more urban than Bozeman, but if you’ve been in Bozeman, Montana for more than a day you’ve probably seen the whole town, or at least the main routes.

We all stood around chuckling at the thought of someone lost in Bozeman and legitimately worried about our trip home. When the bus arrived a woman immediately said to the pushing-sixty-year-old driver, “We’re going to Livingston. Exit 330.”

“I’ve only been there once,” he said. “Last year, so you may have to give me directions.”

Directions? In a town where you can make approximately two right turns and get to the Interstate that will take you directly to Livingston? I couldn’t help myself. I had to laugh. We all did.

Once he picked up speed on the Interstate I thought our worries were over, but I was wrong. He hit the tight curves in the canyon too fast and we all swung back and forth across the leather seats like we were on a carnival ride. For some reason, this sparked another round of giggles among us, and we laughed for a good ten minutes about our driver’s initiation to the Livingston commute.

Montana isn’t a state known for its public transportation system. People live in hundreds, not tens, of miles from each other, and most places aren’t served by either Greyhound or Amtrak. I shouldn’t complain about the bus – it is after all an incredible free perk for commuters who travel to work the 25 miles between Bozeman and Livingston.

And it’s also a remedy for people who are driving impaired. I joke to Doug that you can tell who in town has had his license jerked for a DUI. He’s riding a bike past our house, in a 30 mph wind, gripping his cowboy hat in one hand, and pedalling fast with his faded cowboy boots. He’s clearly not a recreational mountain biker. He’s in need of a bus.

All I can figure is sometimes we all need to be slowed down a little bit, or maybe even lost.

Just not at the same time. This is what traveling in Montana is like. One night you’re picking up a thin, white terry-cloth towel from a hotel when you notice a warning sign posted in the bathroom that says, “Please do not use the ‘white linens’ for removing makeup or cleaning your shoes. That’s what the tissues are for,” and the next night you’re sleeping at a bed and breakfast where Michael Keaton rests his head before his hunting trips. 

I’ve been doing some “business” travel the past week, and since I work for The Wilderness Society, this includes getting to know some spectacularly wild landscapes and staying in some really out-of-the-way places.

Upper Missouri River Breaks National Monument

Montana is the 4th largest state in the union, and its reputation for beautiful, mountain scenery is justified. It’s just that about two-thirds of the state is more prairie than mountains and rarely visited by tourists. This isn’t all that bad, but when you show up in small prairie towns like Glasgow, or Malta, or Fort Peck, you just never know what kind of accommodations you’ll find. 

I called Doug from the Fort Peck Hotel and said, “So you know how some places you wish they would restore the historic features, like the woodwork? Well, this place doesn’t need to do that, since from what I can tell, they haven’t done anything at all to it since the 1930’s.” I didn’t want to use the shower, it looked so old, and the ceiling sagged in a few places over my bed. Blinds covered the window, with a pink sheet draped across the top for decoration. But what really puzzled me is why they offered six bars of soap and no other toiletries. Six bars of soap? I hardly use up one in a month at home.

But you know what, it’s better than staying at a chain hotel with no character at all, a place so homogenized that you’re not sure whether you’ve landed in Montana, California, New York, or New Jersey. I’ve been at conferences at Best Westerns where I’ve really had no clue about what was outside the conference center. The beauty of small towns and small town hotels is that they have character. They’re different. They even spawn different kinds of crimes.

Recently, two men got into a fight about the population of Hilger (which might have 50 year-round residents), and one man ended up dead at the end of the argument. I often pass through Hilger on my way to the Charles M. Russell National Wildlife Refuge, and I’ve never seen a population sign, but it’s tempting to go into the Rainbow Bar and ask, “So how many people live in Hilger?” and then slip out when the debate begins.

Glacier National Park

I thought that Flight of the Conchords  had the funniest tourism posters, but my own state has outdone the brilliant comedians. 

Travel Montana, which is in charge of promoting Montana to tourists, is running a series of magazine advertisements featuring scenic Glacier and Yellowstone National Park photographs and the slogan “Montana: There’s Nothing Here” with the accompanying ad copy:

“There is nothing here. Nothing but grizzlies and wolves and bison and trout. 

Nothing but fresh huckleberry pie for breakfast—with a friendly conversation on the side. 

And nothing but the growing embers of the evening’s campfire to remind you that we get to do it all over again tomorrow. Montana. You just never know.”

Um. Montana. You just never know? 

As the Great Falls Tribune pointed out today, this is a little underwhelming (and puzzling, I might add). They paid someone to come up with that?

What’s wrong with our official monikers? Montana is the Treasure State, some also call it Big Sky Country, and William Kittredge dubbed it, The Last Best Place. Now, Tourism Montana has provided us with, “Montana: You Never Know.”

 The Tribune commented, “That’s like saying “Montana: What the heck?” or “Montana: north of Wyoming.”  

Without any expectation of payment, I would like to nominate a few slogans for Montana Tourism to consider as well, such as:

 “Montana: Thank god it’s not Wyoming,” or “Montana: The Last Best Place to buy your second home.” 

Or how about:

“Montana: Only 9 months of winter.”

My Floridian father-in-law is terrified of grizzly bears, so for him I’d like to suggest,

“Montana: Grizzly bears aren’t as scary as alligators,” or “Montana: Where you don’t have to buy an air conditioner to survive.”

But seriously, Montana is paradise in the summer, and as wild and beautiful a place as you’ll ever see, and I do recommend a trip.

So, how about: “Montana: Let’s keep it that way.”

Adelaide from the airport

Saying adieu with Hannah

On the flight back to America, I collected a few more travel tips to share with my savvy readers. If there is one universal law about life I think it’s that you learn the best lessons the hard way.

Travel Tip #4: Clothes expand in your suitcase

It’s a fundamental law of traveling. What was an easy suitcase to close when you left becomes a wrestling object that makes you pant, sweat, jump up and down, and squash things that are likely to squirt gooey substances all over your clothing.

Only once in my life did I listen to my inner voice of reason and pack light. It was dreamy. I spent 10 days in Belize with a backpack smaller than the size of most school backpacks. Sure, I wore the same clothes nearly every day, but I didn’t have to hunt to find that one thing that I knew I brought but I didn’t know where I put it, or wait for baggage claim, or worry about thieves.  

Unfortunately, I didn’t learn my lesson, and this trip I packed about five books too many (gearing up for the long plane ride), not enough underwear (you can’t depend on finding a laundry), way too many clothes (at a certain point I couldn’t tell what was clean or what was dirty so it didn’t even matter), and a curling iron (what was I thinking?). I should have brought about half a suitcase full and left the rest.

Packing is really an art form that should be taught in high school right along with typing (or keyboarding, as they say these days). Next time, I vow to pack light.

Travel Tip #5: If you’re panicked about missing your flight, don’t try and rush through customs.

Ok, I’m more than a little ashamed of this story. We arrived at the Adelaide airport several hours early for our international flight. No problem. We lingered with Hannah until she boarded, and then sauntered the few gates down to where we should be boarding. Oh. It’s glassed off. Oh. We need to go through another security point. Oh. We need to go through customs.

At this point, I’m sweating it. It’s boarding time, and the customs officials are taking it slow and easy. I put on my most charming voice and ask two couples in front of us if their planes are boarding right now, and oh please, would you allow us to jump in front of the que since our plane is about to take off for New Zealand without us? Thank you.

Then, we finally get to the customs official, and she helpfully says, “Ok, it looks like everything is in order except you haven’t filled out this form. You’ll have to go fill that out over there and bring it back to me.”

Next, I got a little crazy, and tried to tell her that our plane was leaving and couldn’t we just fill it out right there? I swear, when stressed, I could feel the rude American just creeping out from under my skin where I had tried to bury it and deny that it ever existed. For two weeks I had been as quiet as possible (trying to dodge the loud American stereotype), polite in line, smiley with strangers, and very clear with taxi drivers that I loved Obama and never voted for Bush.  

All of that goodness fled in a mere five minutes until Doug, seeing reason, pulled me over to the table to fill out our forms. Then, he told me that he wasn’t wearing his reading glasses and couldn’t fill out the form. I think I had a panic attack right there. In a split second, I started to fill out my form, hyperventilate, and read off the various lines to Doug. “First line is first name,” I shouted. “Second line is your birthdate!” while he muttered, “Damn. I think I put my occupation where my country of origin is supposed to go.” Ahh!!!

We finally return to the desk, and the customs official smiles at us and says, “Don’t worry. They won’t leave without you. They come back here to find you if you don’t show up.” She leans in closer to me and delivers the final blow, “No panicking. We don’t panic in Australia.”

We made the flight in time for economy class boarding and for Doug to ask me if I needed medical attention.

Travel Tip #6: Don’t wear fleece clothing on an international flight

So, I bought this really cute gym outfit from Eddie Bauer at Christmas that doesn’t look like sweats, but really is (it’s tailored fleece after all). I thought, “This will be perfect for the plane. I won’t get cold. It’s comfy. I can sleep in it.”

Well, I could sweat in it too. After my panic attack at customs, I still had about 20 hours of travel left to go and I was already afraid to lift my armpits up. I applied some wet towels and new deodorant but the damage was already done. My other clothes were checked and there was little I could do when the airplane didn’t cool down from tropical temperatures. Even in good times, when the airplane stays cool and I stay cool and I wear enough deodorant, I want to burn the clothes I wear when I travel. This time, when I got off the plane, the urge was almost unbearable. If I was a little more off my rocker I would have started a fire made from fleece in the airport bathroom, but instead I just changed and have banned the said items from my sight for the next millenia. Still, I wouldn’t put it past me to do it in the future.

Travel Tip #7: Don’t watch sad movies on the airplane

I knew what I was getting into. I avoid movies where the animal dies at the end for a good reason. I just couldn’t help myself. I deliberately chose to watch Marley & Me on the airplane, knowing full well how it would turn out, but resolving that this time, just this once, I would be able to control my emotions.

Yeah right. I collapsed into hysterics at the end, trying to rub the tears off my face slowly, like I was scratching an itchy spot, so that I wouldn’t scare the little old lady sitting in the window seat who probably was wondering why I hadn’t taken my meds that day.

All during the movie I had been laughing and chuckling, pretending that it would be a happy ending and telling Doug, “Oh, you have to watch this. It’s really funny!”

And then, the dog died, and I couldn’t bear it, and all sorts of totally humiliating fluids were coming out of my face like a storm and Doug was trying to calm me down saying, “Well, I guess I won’t be watching that movie.”

Travel Tip #8: If your flight is over 12 hours long, business class is worth the extra money

Filing on the plane from Auckland, New Zealand to Los Angeles, I couldn’t help but stare at the pods in business class with outright envy. They had space, real space, enough space to lie down and maybe enough space that they could avoid having their feet swell and pure hypochondriac, “oh my god, I’m going to get a blood clot” moments on the plane.

I’m not going to lie. I had the worst seat. We were seated in the middle aisle (the dreaded middle land of nowhere), Doug on the aisle, and I in the middle of the middle aisle seats, next to a man who had one foot in my seating area and who refused to speak when spoken to. I swear he was meditating the entire time on me disappearing.

In crowded situations like these, every little thing starts to disturb you. For instance, Doug’s stuff had started to wander into my space — his shoes, his travel pillow, his book, and when he was a little bit grumpy when I woke him up to go to the bathroom I admit to being a bit more emphatic than necessary when I plonked everything back into his space and then leaned in. “Just because we’re married does not mean you get to hog my space on the plane,” I whispered passionately in his ear. Fortunately, he was asleep again by then.

Travel Tip #9: Don’t go to the bathroom after you’ve run through the entire airport to catch your flight.

It was the last flight. The flight that we had been waiting for, dreaming of, for over 20 hours. The flight home. And if we missed this flight we would be stuck in Salt Lake City overnight, if not longer. We had ten minutes. We ran. We ran like we had never run before. From terminal D to terminal A. Past bathrooms, past the obese person being dropped off at his gate by cart, past food, down escalators, up escalators. At one point I almost had to cry, “Go without me. I can’t make it. You can! Save yourself!”

Then, relief. A line at the counter, people were boarding at our gate, so Doug fled for the bathroom.

 ”Bozeman!” cried the man at the gate. “Yes,” I panted. “We’re right here. My husband. Is just. In the bathroom. He will. Be back. In a minute.”

A minute went by and the man looked at me. “We’re closing this flight in one minute. He needs to be here by then or we’re closing this flight.”

I ran towards the bathroom, not knowing if I had the courage to run into a men’s bathroom and yank my husband out by his unzipped pants but willing to do so if I had to.

He saw me coming. I waved and made a face like a close family member was dying. He ran. They scanned our boarding pass and urged us to hurry.

And then we ran some more. To the furthest gate in the extension off of the main terminal.

I slid into my seat like an animal dying from respiratory distress and the second little old lady to sit next to me asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be. All right. In a second.” Cough. Inhaler. Cough.

And then a voice on the loudspeaker. “Folks, this is your captain speaking. We’re just going to be a few more minutes. Looks like we’re still waiting for some delayed passengers to reach the airplane. Sorry for the delay. We expect them here in the next 15 minutes.”

The next 15 minutes? I just ran like a track star with a heavy suitcase for probably a mile and nearly had to drag Doug out of the bathroom by his pants and you’re waiting another 15 minutes for more people? We were supposed to leap on and you were supposed to take off! That’s the best ending possible! That’s the only ending that justifies my heart rate!

I don’t know what to say to conclude this long rant except that we did eventually make it home. I showered three times before I felt clean. I buried my washed fleece outfit in the back of the closet where it may stay forever. And I swear to you that I will never, ever run through an air terminal again.