French Princess

In some of what I have written before I have talked a little about how my parents struggled when I was growing up.  We lived in several different houses over the years as our family rode the waves of our household economy.  Sometimes were better than others but it wasn't until I was in the 8th grade that my parents finally began to purchase their own, new furniture.

Our family finances took a turn for the better when we were renting a house on Higgins Way.  We wound up buying that house but initially we moved into it "as is" and the room Linda and I got was clearly a boy's room.  The wallpaper showed the blue, yellow, red, and brown repetitive images of baseball and football scenes.  It took a while but we got used to it.

Linda and I shared a room most of our lives.  Lisa, five years younger, got her own room from the beginning and inherited my grandmother's beautiful furniture when she moved from her home in Sacramento.  She still has it.

Linda and I, on the other hand, shared a hodgepodge of unmatched pieces of hand-me-down dressers and bureaus.  One I remember was a dresser attached to a wardrobe, the door of which was completely unattached.  Whenever we wanted to get into it we pulled the entire door off and then just shoved it back into place when we were done.

My dad could be kind of impulsive.  It was not unusual during this period for him to walk out of the house, get into the car and come home with a new treasure - like our first color television which we got while living in this house. But when my parents came home from Sears one night and my mother announced that our dad had purchased new bedroom furniture for Linda and me, I was over the moon! I couldn't even begin to imagine how my life would change with brand new bedroom furniture.  How special I would feel!  Going to bed that night I was filled with the excitement of a five year old on Christmas Eve.

When my dad was out of earshot my mother took us aside and prepared us to be a bit disappointed.  He had selected the furniture himself and my mother had tried to steer him to something else, a little more grown up,  but he was adamant.  We are 14 and 15 but it mattered little to me what it looked like - it was new, and more importantly, it was built for girls.

I remember the day it arrived.  We were at school and I was distracted all day long.  When we finally got home my mother was standing at the door of our bedroom, waiting to see our reaction.  I remember clearly feeling like I was running and crawling to that door at the same time.  I can't tell you which I actually did but when I saw it I was caught up in a young girl's dream!

It was a set of French Provincial little girls' furniture and my mother needn't have been concerned.  I was ecstatic!  It was the most beautiful furniture I had ever seen - even if it wasn't.  We got two large dressers, a desk and a vanity!  The top of the vanity lifted up to reveal a mirror and a deep space to keep make-up, brushes, and all "beauty" goods.  Movie star dreams commenced!  I couldn't wait to sit at the elegant desk to do my homework.  The experience of studying math would be so - elevated!  Each piece was shiny new, smooth, no scratches.  Lovely, pristine, white and curvy, with gold accents, antiqued hardware, and plastic tops so they could be easily be kept clean.  I had left for school that morning as discombobulated as the furniture I had lived with for so many years but now, I was transformed into a sophisticated woman of the world!   It was so French and I was so in tuned with it!  It was so -- international!

My dad has always had the uncanny ability to choose gifts that suited each of us perfectly.  I remember so many of them: a toy "genie" in a glass bottle as an child, a ruby ring, pearl earrings, a spectacular antique perfume decanter, and many more - I still have them and cherish them.  But I don't think anything matched the bedroom furniture.

I remember this as I think of my dad, living for the past many, many years in Copenhagen.  I rarely ever see him and we don't talk or write as much as we should.  He was a difficult dad but he was a good one.  While he could be hard to understand sometimes, his temper could flare easily, and sometimes his moods could be dark, he knew his girls - better than we knew him.  And he dreamed for us.

Looking back on that furniture now, it was not "keepsake".  It is out of fashion.  And we outgrew it.  But as an awkward 14 year old, I needed to feel a bit like a princess.   I was a princess on the day that furniture was delivered - in a way that only my daddy could make happen.

The Point

So last week I had to go to Vancouver, Washington to hold my sister's hand while she prepared for a surgery.  I say "had" because I knew she had nothing to worry about but it was pay back time for the uncountable times I called her after mentally giving myself cancer so that she could talk me down from the ceiling.  Plus she asked me to come - which she has never done - so I knew she was scared.  

And when someone asks, you go.

Two planes from Burbank and I arrived in Portland.  Let me just tell you now - I could live at the Portland airport.  Upscale, tasteful, clean, lots of boutique-y stores and shops and restaurants and even - unbelievably - a full-on spa - in case you want a Swedish massage between planes.  

Linda was there to meet me - at 11:30 p.m. and I was bone tired.  Back at her flat I got a chance to see her husband, Lee and youngest son, darling Colvin before pulling rank and taking his bed.  We had a big weekend ahead.  

I woke up way too early on Saturday, insuring that I would be running on empty all day.  This was not good because I was going to meet my great nephew and nieces (aged 3 months to 3.5 years) for the first time.    They are beautiful, precious, wonderful children and here is the lesson I took away with me:  I may not actually be a grandma, but I have passed into grandma-dom.  The realization of this completely freaked me out  made me feel warm and fuzzy.  Even so, I could have a week of deep sleep and still not have the energy to keep up with three toddlers.  I couldn't help but watch them run and jump and squeal and cry and play and eat and spill and undress and argue and climb and hide and fall and get boo boos and pull out every toy in the house and leave them all over every surface and drop their favorites in the toilet and have meltdowns and want to do everything they were told not to do and need changing and need walking and need bouncing and not nap - not once - not for 5 minutes - and wonder how I ever did it myself 23 years ago.  

In truth, I never did it well.   

But I watched everyone around me exhibit unending patience - something I never had and now, didn't need to have because everyone else had it in such abundance.  And so I remained calm.  All in all a very pleasant visit.  

And I got to hold the baby.  Yummy.

By Monday morning we were all thoroughly exhausted but we were up early to get to the hospital.  It wasn't until she was in surgery that it occurred to me that something could go wrong.  I was relieved when they wheeled her into post-op and then into her private room where she slept all day.  I sent Lee and Colvin to a movie since I didn't think Colvin should have to spend an entire day in a hospital room.  

I sat with Linda and read the book she had brought.  It only slight distracted me from the circumstances at hand though, as I could not reconcile that here was the girl who was wildly popular, the same girl who every single one of my few boyfriends ultimately fell in love with, the rebel, the fairy, the bohemian - and she was lying in a hospital bed, some gray in her hair, a grandmother - recovering from a surgery that was not elective.  This seemed like a rehearsal for something that will surely happen eventually, hopefully many years from now.  But I thought "what's it all about?"  

By the way,  Linda is fine.  This wasn't the kind of thing that has any kind of impact on her health.  Basically it was a hernia that happened to be fairly close to her heart.  It is no longer an issue at all.  But the reality is that life goes so fast, too fast, and I know I keep harping on the whole aging thing, but it is strangely fascinating.  We so love life, cling to it, and we are here for a blink of an eye.  So what is the point?

I was reminded of "the point" at my bible study Tuesday night.  "...no human mind has conceived the things God has prepared for those who love him -" (1 Corinthians 2:9)

Love Him.  That is the point.  After that, everything else finds its peaceful perspective.

Stupid Stuff I Learned Today

Bob is a documentary addict.  He has watched uncountable documentaries on virtually every subject imaginable.  Today it is raining.  So we sat down to join him in his interest.  On with Netflix and we settled into a documentary about - are you ready? - chickens!  (The Natural History of the Chicken, 2001.)

Among numerous bizarre stories (including a chicken that survived beheading - and went on tour!) were stories of people who loved chickens, raised chickens, babied chickens, bred chickens, and slaughtered chickens.  But of all the many stories of people and their chickens there was one singularly ridiculous inspiring story of a woman who had a number of chickens that she treated as pets.  They were free range chickens and she allowed them a good deal of "supervised" play each day.

One day she had them all out when a nor'easter hit.  She quickly gathered them all only to find that "Number 7" was missing.  Out they all went searching until they finally found good ol' Number 7 and found her frozen.  Like any good mother, the owner was not about to give her chicken up without a fight so she commenced mouth to beak resuscitation.

Number 7 survived.  It was, a stupid story  a miracle!

Oddly enough, back in the 90's when this happened, it got worldwide coverage (I don't remember the story myself but there was evidence enough in this documentary to validate the claim).  But the story does not end there.  No indeed, for the owner soon came across an "animal communicator" and it was decided that they would like to ask this now world-famous chick all about her amazing experience.  The chosen question:

"When you were frozen, near death, did you see a white light and were you traveling toward it?"

(Um, don't I have laundry to do?)

Number 7 answered (via the animal communicator) "Yes.  Yes there was a warm white light and I traveled toward it and got to it and then was told: You must go back.  Its not your time. And as I traveled back I realized that I still had work to do.  Not just to lay eggs but to let people know that there are miracles.

Because Number 7 had been such an extraordinary animal with a (super) extraordinary experience they decided that she needed a more significant name than Number 7.  So they named her Valerie and she answered to that name ever after.

Now here's the deal folks.  This woman was dead-on serious.  She believed this.  After all, it was her initial intercession that saved the bird in the first place.

Ahem.

Bob needs something new to do.

Wish List Fever

It is disgusting but it is true.  Thanksgiving is still a week off but I have been sucked into Christmas Wish List mode.

In truth, I have been shopping in advance for several years now but this time I really am offended by the Christmas commercials that began airing October 1st.  Tonight they are lighting the Christmas tree at one of our outdoor shopping areas - one of last to do so.  And I got my first Christmas card on Tuesday.

Shameful!

Be that as it may, I must wag the finger at my own self because I am chomping at the bit to get started.  Bob just sold a house so I can actually put together a reasonable (and by that I mean modest) shopping budget.  But this year I haven't a clue what to get anyone.  Really.  So instead, I have been dreaming of a wish list of my own - something I haven't done in a very long time.

Now there are a number of things I should put on my wish list - because I am a big girl and I need to think about things that I actually truly need.  Like a new mattress.  Ours is like a zillion years old now.  It was a cloud when we bought it - a fluffy, soft, pillow top California King.  But years of sleeping in the same spot mashed the pillow top on either side of the mattress where each of us sleeps to the point of creating an apex in the middle of the bed.  Every night we ran the risk of sliding off the incline plane that was created  - so we needed to brace ourselves before falling asleep - starting as close to the center as possible and slowing rolling down the hill in hopes that we wouldn't wind up on the floor before the morning alarm went off.  So we turned the mattress over only to see a tag labeled:  "This Side is Not A Sleeping Surface".  But the other side wasn't either, so how bad could it be?  Well if you like springs poking at you with each breath all night, its not so bad.  But it turns out, I don't like that so much.  But I also don't like the $1,000 it will cost me to replace it with a quality product.  Plus it would mean I was the only person that would get a Christmas gift this year.  So no, a mattress is not on the list.

I also need a new dryer.  Forget that.  And a new refrigerator.  Ditto.  My car needs new tires.  Absolutely not!  How about getting the shower re-grouted?  Okay, now I'm really thinking crazy.  All of these things need to be purchased -  on a regular day.

The fact is, no matter how old I get, no matter what the need, on Christmas morning I still want a toy.

And you spell that: i-P-a-d.

The Airport Diaries

It's Sunday and I'm finally home having spent this entire past week on the road for business.

I had been alternately excited and dreadful of this trip.  Another whole week away from home to places I have never been before to try to win the confidence and business of some potentially big clients.  Naturally, I waited until the last minute to prepare for what I knew would be uncountable hours spent in airports.  (I needed to cover my gray roots before I left but waited until 10:00 pm Sunday night and got distracted, leaving the formula on waaaaaay too long.  My head looked positively radioactive, the shade of red coming in just this side of "Bozo".  I wondered how it would play in Nebraska.)

I prepared myself for the check in process.  I hate it.  It isn't that I have to take off shoes, belt, earrings, etc., unpack my computer, put everything into individual bins to be scanned and expose my naked x-ray outline to some unknown twenty-something male (at least they have us lift our arms - women my age will appreciate what I'm getting at here), it is how rushed you feel in doing all of this as scores of people are behind you desperate to get through this as well.  I had to go through this process four times this week and it is anxiety provoking.  I prepared myself Sunday night as I went to bed by telling myself to breathe normally through the process and pray.  It was helpful but still, it all feels like cattle prodding.  Moooooooooooooooo!

At 5:30 a.m. Monday morning I was on my way to the Burbank airport for the first leg which took me to Las Vegas where I would catch a connecting flight to Omaha.  I was immediately assaulted by ching, ching, ching, ching, ching upon arrival.  Vegas won't even let you wait till you collect your baggage before they start collecting your money.  Slots are everywhere and so are armies of people from all walks of life,  intentionally dressed for this city.  Lots of glitter, lots of flash, lots of clothes with playing cards woven in the fabric - a Vegas "uniform" of sorts; an apparently appropriate "couture" regardless of the 10:00 a.m. hour.  (My hair fit right in.)  Everyone looked tired from a weekend of being robbed.

I trekked far across the corridors lined with bingo and poker machines, around corners, passing boutiques of skimpy fashion (regrettably in all sizes) to my connecting gate to wait for my plane heading for Omaha.  Once there, with a couple of exceptions, I appeared to be the youngest person waiting to board - an unexpected delight!  (Relative youth is still youth!) Everyone else was about 10 years older and apparently they all knew one another.  It had been an annual trip to Vegas for a steer show.  Hmmm.

I sat next to a couple who told me about the big flood last year in Omaha and how the state had suffered from it.  Flying in for the landing there was nothing but flat for as far as you could see: large parcels of land with dead or dying trees.  Whatever color Nebraska has to offer at this time of year had been bleached by flood and the subsequent drought of this year.  (Perhaps the color of my hair would make up for it.)  The couple sitting next to me told me they lived in the foothills.  They must live hours away.

Getting off the plane, I walked into the arrival gate.  This Monday morning, the Omaha airport was host to a smallish group of sedentary looking seniors, eyes fixed on the TV monitors - tuned not to breaking news of Hurricane Sandy - but to a woman dressed as a banana screaming at what was behind Door Number 3.  Vegas dreams die hard in Nebraska.

The next morning I got up a little early to accommodate three consecutive shampoos to try to reduce the drama of my hair color.   The water running down the drain looked like the shower scene from "Psycho".   I headed off to my appointments, and then again to the airport where I was Wisconsin bound by route of Chicago O'Hare where I had a two hour layover before my connecting flight to Milwaukee.  I have been to O'Hare many times before but I was dismayed that in such a huge hub there were no electrical outlets anywhere to be found for passengers needing to re-charge.  My cell was dead and I knew I would need its navigation feature once I got to Milwaukee.  Adding to this dilemma was the fact that my connecting flight was on the other side of the terminal (once again).  I asked for directions and upon hearing where I was headed, a very kind young man driving one of those in-terminal transports designed for disabled people and senior citizens, offered me a ride.  I felt like a lazy cheater but I hopped on anyway.  Good thing.  It was about a 10 minute ride that covered the length of about 30 football fields.  I would have surely missed my flight and have been a very old woman with bloody stubs for feet had I had attempted to walk it.  Once there though, I did finally find an outlet - against a wall with no chair.  It was there for airport staff to plug in vacuums and stuff but I plugged in and stood uncomfortably, trying to keep my carry-ons corralled until they called my plane.

The plane was one of those tiny 18 row tin cans.  We all had to walk outside in the cold, past real airplanes on the runway to board our little toy.  There were two seats on either side of the aisle.  I was in the very last row, assigned to sit next to a tremendously large man who spilled into my seat space and had the scent of someone who had worked very hard all day long on a chain gang.  Directly across the aisle was an empty seat next to a thin sleeping Asian man.  I longed for that seat, but because I am a rule follower, I took my seat next to the big man.  Truthfully, I feared that I would offend him if I opted for the alternative.  I didn't want my assigned seat mate to think I found him repellent by choosing a thin, groomed man over him.  I was an idiot.  A quick conversation midway through the flight revealed that he thought New Yorkers deserved what Hurricane Sandy did to them.  He was repellent and I no longer cared if he knew I thought so. I leaned far away from him and read about the equally repellent Jackson family, fighting with lawyers and each other for Michael's estate in this month's issue of Vanity Fair.

Finally, we arrived in Milwaukee and the airport was deserted with the exception of those few of us getting off the plane.  It was 10:30 p.m. and I still had to get a car and get to the hotel.  Milwaukee is currently chewed up with new road construction so I managed to get lost in the detours on my way to the Hyatt Place Hotel - 8/10 of a mile from the airport.

It is bone cold in Wisconsin already.  This was my first time there and I immediately knew I would not be returning until about June.  I braved the walk from the car to the lobby where the sweet receptionist wanted to explain all about the hotel and find out if I wanted to sign up for Hilton points.  It was now about 11:30 and I was ready to drop with fatigue and I realized I had only enough energy left to walk to my room or punch this girl.  As tempting as it was, I opted for the former so after signing up for the points I made it to my unexpectedly lovely room! Here is my unsolicited plug:  Hilton Place Hotels are really great!  Cheerful, contemporary, tasteful, roomy, comfortable, clean, and convenient.  Too bad I would only be conscious for about 40 minutes total - 10 minutes that night and 30 minutes in the morning before checking out.

Another day of appointments and off to the airport to fly to Detroit to catch a connection to Columbus.  I've never been to Michigan and Detroit was a surprisingly nice airport.  I guess I expected it to look like a deserted automotive assembly plant.  Another walk to the other side of the terminal - I took full advantage of all the people movers.  No matter that I was carrying only a purse and a computer bag - by now the weight of both made my arms feel not just as if they were being pulled from their sockets but like they were going to rip right off my body.

I had taken up the practice of people watching by now.  Airports are a great place for it.  My imagination  about all the people walking past me kept me amused until I realized that they were likely making up the same stories in their heads about me.  Taking a quick mental note of my appearance - I immediately stopped the game myself and prayed others would do the same.  It was so unfair of them to judge me.

I thought about the fact that 6 flights in 3 days was increasing my odds of being in a crash but this time I was seated next to a young priest.  I felt better.  The priest and I talked the whole way to Columbus and I asked him a lot of questions about the Catholic church and found that we Protestants misunderstood a lot of their beliefs - particularly about the Virgin Mary.  It was fascinating to have some of the "peculiarities" of Catholicism explained.

Columbus was another deserted airport by the time we landed - and very wet - but at least I didn't need a car here.  I jumped in a cab and closed my eyes all the way to my hotel at the Convention Center.

Appointment, appointment.  Conference, conference, conference.

Finally, Saturday morning found me back at the Columbus airport waiting for my ride to Phoenix where I would again walk across the terminal for my connecting flight to back to Burbank.  These flights were uneventful except for trying to take up Sudoku.  I had never played before and I only had a pen.  It was maddening!  Very much like thinking you've got a crossword puzzle nailed only to find that one letter that doesn't fit.  Except I think you need to be smarter for Sudoku.  And I was a complete failure.  So now I have a new obsession.

Finally, 8 airplanes and 9 airports later I am home.  In all, I accomplished most of what I wanted to accomplish.  And I got an extra hour of sleep because we set the clocks back.  And I don't have to face it again.  Until Friday when I fly to Portland to see my sister through a surgery.

In the meantime, I shall look for a Sudoku mentor.  People with no patience need not apply.