October 28, 2011

Glimpses of Significance

October has been chaos.  Not a little chaos; a lot of chaos.  And I haven’t handled it by writing; I’ve handled it by avoiding writing.  I don’t have one long story to tell, because the chaos has crowded out lengthy experiences that are worthy of being retold.  Instead, I’ve mined the month of October for a few glimpses of significant moments; times when I’m sure I am where I am supposed to be.

Bowling with John

It’s the final countdown of our hour-long bowling game, and in three minutes they will shut down our lane.  It’s John’s turn, and he’s slowly walking up to the line.  I hand him his ball and tell him this is his last turn, so he’d better make it count.  He swings the ball by his knee like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, and finally lets go.  It cruises down the hardwood floor and knocks down all but three pins.  The screen above our head flashes a warning sign of sixty seconds.  “I’ll go grab your ball and then you have one last turn,” I tell him.  “We only have a minute!” 

I pass him the ball and he starts swinging again, faster this time.  He releases it down the lane and, to everyone’s delight, he gets a spare.  We cheer and he lights up with the joy of victory.  We’re all gathered around him and he’s clapping furiously, and then it dawns on us:  he gets an extra turn.  I race back to the retrieval and hand him the ball, but I’m too late – the lights have dimmed.  It doesn’t matter, because John is glowing.  “Throw the ball anyway, John,” Mike instructs him.  “You earned it.”

***

Death Cab for Cutie

 
“…they would make your name sing, and bend through alleys and bounce off other buildings…” we sang as we danced, all shoulders and elbows, until the purple light turned toward our faces and Lindsay asked, “Is that a spotlight for us!?” and my reply was, naturally, “what else would it be?”  And so we kept dancing.
 
 
 
***
Family Birthday Lunch for Mom
 
After a month of coordinating schedules and switching appointments, we all finally gathered at Mom and Dad’s to celebrate our number one gal: my mom (you know, the volunteer of the year).  She’s officially gluten-free now, which presented its challenges, but we dove in head-first.  Everybody brought a dish, we all gathered around the table, and we proclaimed that we were just as satisfied without the pesky wheat products.  Even the cake was rich and chocolately, despite being made with garbonzo beans.  “Who knew we could be so progressive?” we thought.  “We’re so cutting edge.”
 
As we left, we realized it wasn’t gluten that we missed at all, but each other.  Flocking from our respective homes to one table became a fresh priority, and we renewed our dedication to family gatherings.

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September 30, 2011

Rocket Woman

Last night some of my coworkers and I went to an indoor skydiving facility called iFly Seattle.

All I have are two words: Mind. Blown.

I have always wanted to go skydiving but that little detail about possible death has held me back for some reason.  So when Mike told me that one of his clients had just built an indoor skydiving facility where the rate of death is 0%, I was intrigued.  Then one of my coworkers, who has gone skydiving before, suggested it as a team-building activity, and I jumped (but not out of a plane) at the chance.

We arrived at the building having no idea what to expect.   We didn’t even completely understand how it worked — a tunnel of air?  That can hold up a person?  And that person doesn’t die?

We checked in and sat in a little classroom for a ten minute lesson on how to position our bodies in the wind, how to read the instructor’s hand signals, and that no, somersaults are not allowed for beginners.

Then came the this-is-becoming-real part: the flight suits.   We were each fitted with a surprisingly comfortable jumpsuit and then told to put earplugs in our ears.

This should not have been difficult.  I put them in and felt like they were set when the instructor walked over to me, looked at each of my ears, and then said, “No.  These will fall out.”  He took them out, rolled them tight, pulled my ear away from my head and jammed the earplug so far in I swear it touched the back of my eye.

After that, I was legally deaf.

Helmets were passed out, goggles were strapped on our faces, and we were finally ready — to be Team America, apparently:

Since one of my teammates had skydived before, we graciously allowed him to lead us into the unknown.  The instructor gave the wind controller behind the glass the thumbs up to turn on the air, and it occurred to me that Mr. Wind Control really just looked like a DJ, which I found far too casual for the activity at hand.

Our teammate stood at the door of the giant wind tunnel, and then he leapt into it and I immediately decided I was not going next.

He was flailing all around and then suddenly he got himself in the pose we were taught, and just like that, he was flying.  The instructor gave him tips here and there, but mostly he was hovering in the air as we all cheered him on.  Well, we could cheer as loud as we wanted but due to hundred mile an hour winds and mind-bending earplugs, he probably just saw a bunch of silent muppets through the glass, waving our arms around.

In a split sixty seconds his turn was over and I was up.  I did a little deflection dance, trying to get the person behind me to go ahead of me, but the instructor was having none of it.

I stood at the doorway and jumped across his arms.  The intensity of the air hitting my face and the weightlessness of my body was immediately disorienting in the best possible way.  I got into position as quickly as I could, and after he moved my arms around a bit, there it was: I was floating.  I was also grinning like an idiot.

I couldn’t stop laughing as I realized that this felt completely natural and also like the best thing I’d done in years.  The instructor spun me around and I saw all of my teammates through the glass giving me the thumbs up, which made me feel like I must not look quite as ridiculous as I felt.  That or they were just glad it wasn’t their turn yet.

All too quickly, my minute was over and I jumped back onto the ground.  I felt absolutely fantastic, like I had just been shaken alive from a stupor.

Easily the best entertainment of the experience was watching other people fly.  I had to physically restrain myself from falling off my chair with laughter as each teammate went.  It wasn’t that they were any better or worse than me, it was just the sheer absurdity of watching someone you know get pummeled by 110 mile an hour winds.  People’s cheeks were pushed back and their lips were rumbling like a cartoon character falling off a cliff.  As each person got out of the tunnel it took them a minute to realize their entire chin was covered in saliva.  Oh, this was good entertainment.  Good indeed.

We all got to go a second time, and this time I was confident and the instructor knew it, too.  He saw me steady myself and then he showed me a head nod, teaching me to turn my face so that my whole body would spin.  It was insanity — I would barely turn my head and I spun like a top.  It was unreal.

At the end of our session our instructor said that no one was behind us in line, and if we’d like to go for an additional minute it would be $20.  No one hesitated.

Ha.  I tried to trick you there.  Did you fall for it?  Did you think I’d spend $20 without hesitation?  If you did, this is likely your first time reading this blog.

Everyone else went a second time, and I sat there telling myself I’d already spent $66 on this, and I’d likely be back to bring Mike and other family members, so I didn’t need to go.  But as each person went I could hardly stand to watch their glee.

As the last person exited, I jumped up and yelled, “OK I’ll do it!” into the deaf ears of everyone around me.

I don’t know if it’s because I held out, or because I’d done well the last time, but I’ll never forget what the instructor did next.  Ten seconds after I entered the tunnel and was floating, without warning he gave Mr. DJ the thumbs up and the force of the wind shot us thirty feet into the air, twisting and turning and flying all around the top of the tunnel, racing back and forth and driving downward and upward.  I went absolutely bananas, totally ballistic with joy.  It was exactly what I’d imagined Peter Pan must have felt as he dove in front of the moon in Hook.

One of my coworkers later told me, “I’d never seen you so happy!  It was incredible!”

Best $20 I’ve ever spent, hands down.

We all left the building completely elated, telling each other what we’d felt and who was funniest.

There is one drawback to indoor skydiving, and it’s significant: the experience is just too brief.  There’s no way around it.  Three minutes of flying only convinces you that you want more.  Which is a pretty brilliant marketing plan, but it’s also torture when you realize it’ll cost another eighty bucks to return.

It’s just a hunch, but I suspect I’ll gladly part with my cash if it means I can give the DJ the thumbs up and rocket to the moon.

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September 17, 2011

Corn People vs. Coffee People

Every time I go running in my neighborhood I play a little game called “The Smile Game.”  The rules are simple and anyone can play.

Whenever I’m approaching someone who is facing me, I smile.  Usually I go for teeth, but not every time.   I do this as a social experiment,  and because I like to cheer people up.   It’s really the only time I’m an unbridled optimist.

Sometimes I go a little crazy and actually speak to these strangers, but it’s rare.  About a month ago I was just cresting a steep hill that left me winded and exhausted.  On my way day down, I passed a man who was gasping for breath but still running up the hill, and I smiled at him.  He smiled back through asthmatic heaves, and I felt a burst of camaraderie with him so I said, “Good work!”  He didn’t breathe any easier because of my encouragement, but he did manage to say thanks, and for a moment it was like we were on the same team.

I’m working up my courage to put my hand out for a high-five, but the rejection from that would be too much to recover from.  Can you imagine a stranger jogging toward you and suddenly her hand is raised to eye-level and she’s smiling at you?  It would either be awesome or terrifying.  Or it could completely backfire, and make men believe I’m using the high-five as a conversation starter.  Shudder.

I have learned a myriad of things about humanity through this game.

1.  Unless I smile first, no one will smile at me.  This is fact.  I think I have recorded maybe two unsolicited smiles and they were on particularly sunny days, so they really can’t count because good weather warps Seattleites’ mental states.

2.  In general, women my age are the worst.  They almost always fall into the non-eye-contact category.  The fierceness with which they refuse to look at me makes me feel like we’re competitors in the national running championships.  It always boggles my mind, so I continue to smile.

3.  Those who appear too shocked to react before I pass are people who are jaded and used to being overlooked in life.  They want to smile at strangers, but they are sick of being rejected and therefore never do.

4.  Those who never make eye contact, and therefore have no idea that I am grinning like an idiot, I forget quickly.  These people are clearly on their own road and do not need a cheerful encounter with me.

5.  Those who smile back are fantastic, wonderful people who make me feel like I’m a unicorn riding a rainbow.

6.  Those who obviously see me and yet do not give even a hint of a smile are jerks.  Period.

Sometimes I wonder if Kirkland’s lack of friendliness is really just geography.  Mike’s grandparents, who live in Iowa, sent us a subscription to their favorite local magazine, “Our Iowa.”  Its pages are bursting with state-wide pride about their friendliness, with little quotes from cartooned farmers scattered over the pages that say, “There are no strangers in Iowa, just friends you haven’t met yet!”   They have little inside jokes like “You know you’re an Iowan if you wave to people in other cars that you don’t even know.”

Seattleites don’t do this.  We don’t wave from cars.  You’re lucky to get a wave even if we do know you.

I think that’s part of why people don’t smile on the street here.  We already know no one is going to throw any love our way, so we just stick to our mission and move on.  If Iowa has t-shirts that say “Iowa — America’s Front Porch,” Seattle should have t-shirts that say, “Seattle — America’s Closed Front Door.”

But that doesn’t mean I have to pull my cap down around my eyes and stare at the concrete.  I’m going to keep grinning, not to give the impression that running is effortless, but to give the impression that acknowledging people is.  The Seattle rain is chilly enough; we don’t need countenances to match.

If all else fails I can always purchase one of the many bumper stickers available in this month’s Our Iowa.  I’m leaning toward the one that says, “Iowa Rocks!” with the giant ear of corn furiously strumming a guitar.  When you think about it, it’s really no odder than a manic redhead running down the street accosting strangers (who are just friends I haven’t met yet).

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August 24, 2011

El Hostel de Reph

For the past several weeks I’ve been haunted by the realization that I am not able to live up to my own standards. 

Not ethically, thank God, but etiquette-ly, which might be worse.

Mike and I recently hosted Siri and Casey in our home while they were in town for the other other royal wedding.  They booked one night at the hotel across the street, but the rest of the time they stayed on our floor.

I know, the horror.

To be fair, they have stayed with us before, so they know our square footage exactly.  But that doesn’t change the desperate feeling I encounter when I see my guests waking up after a night on an air mattress. 

Look, I get that it’s normal to have people stay on one’s floor when there’s no other choice, and it helps out-of-towners save some cash, and it’s not the worst thing in the world. 

Unless you write about etiquette on your blog all the time.

We tried to mitigate the situation and do what I would tell anyone else to do: let the guests sleep in our bed.  We even laid down on their air mattress in protest, insisting that they go sleep in our bed.  It turns out doing that is akin to the classic restaurant standoff, “I’m paying the bill,” “No, I’m paying the bill,” until both of you hates the situation enough that the only gracious thing to do is give in.

The chaos of being involved in a family wedding at the time didn’t help either.  We were all sharing one bathroom, and after three days we were out of fresh towels.  Due to the hectic schedule of out-of-towner dinners, the rehearsal dinner, and the wedding itself, I had no time to do a load of laundry.

It was an etiquette-obsessor’s nightmare.

Let me be clear: our guests never once complained.  They were gracious beyond description and even thanked us daily for the hospitality.  I told them hospitality was a loose term in this case, but they insisted.

Long after they’d departed, I was still consumed with thoughts of how I could possibly improve our situation without moving to a three bedroom home.  I continued to be at a loss until we spent the night at the home of two of our good friends.

Their entire home is 540 square feet.  It is a free-standing home, not a condo.  It is completely adorable and should be highlighted in a design magazine for optimizing small spaces.  When they invited us to spend the night, we could not imagine where we would be resting our heads.

We shouldn’t have worried; they invested in an air mattress that blew our minds.  It’s double layered, so when inflated it looks like it has a box spring and a mattress, and it is about two and a half feet high so when getting into or out of the mattress it feels like a normal bed. 

The best part — the box spring covers only about two-thirds of the mattress, so the mattress portion rests over a couch.  The result looks like a fold out bed from a couch.  We slept great.

The next morning we were singing the mattress’s praises when they told us they were actually trying to sell it due to their upcoming move into a bigger place.  Would we be interested, they asked?

Sold.

Though this won’t totally alleviate my feelings of hostess failure, I’m convinced the Reph Hostel has just upgraded to bed-and-breakfast.

Now accepting reservations.

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August 9, 2011

The Other Other Royal Wedding

Forgive me for not covering the royal wedding of Zara Phillips, I had another royal wedding on the brain — that of my little sister, Sam.

Sam and her new husband Aaron were married on July 22, and it was a fantastic day.


Sam and Aaron were engaged in November 2009, so this one was a long time coming.  We were all so thrilled and ready for this day, and we had a great time getting ready for it.

Sam hooked all of the bridesmaids up with the best bridesmaid gift I’ve ever received — a leather jewelry travel wrap, flip-flops for the dance floor, and a can of Sophia Coppola champagne to settle the pre-ceremony jitters.

Don’t we look relaxed?

Sam had the genius idea of choosing Tart dresses that can be wrapped dozens of ways so each bridesmaid looked unique.

But who cares about the bridesmaids?  The only one anyone wanted to see was the bride!

She was stunning, and the ceremony was really beautiful.

…and brief — just the way Sam and Aaron wanted it.  That thing was over in less than 20 minutes.

But that doesn’t mean it didn’t make me wish I’d carried tissues down the aisle instead of flowers.  When Sarge (Aaron’s nickname in our family) read his vows to Sam, I worried I would lose it — tears or wobbly heels, I wasn’t sure which would bring me down first.

Luckily, before I could fall apart, we were all cheering as they recessed down the aisle and headed for a celebratory photo session.

Some formal, some….not so formal.

That’s when it hit me the relief I was feeling;  I hadn’t realized that I was subconsciously holding my breath the entire day, wanting so badly for everything to go well.  After the ceremony many guests asked, “How are you feeling?” and I kept replying, “Relieved!  Everything went so well!”

And it only got better: dinner was delicious, the music was rocking, and everyone kicked up their heels for a good time on the dance floor.  In the middle of dancing around ecstatically, I tried to tell each out-of-towner how grateful my family was that they had traveled so far to celebrate with us.  Something about twisting and shouting made me realize how fantastic it was to have them there.  I looked around the dance floor so grateful to God for such incredible friends and family: Amy and Brian, Siri and Casey, Beth, Debbie and Amy, and Grandma, Tom and Jackson.

Erin and I each gave a toast honoring our little sister, and it felt really special sharing about our unique relationships and our hopes for her future with Sarge.

Everyone says that your wedding day flies by in a blur, but no one warned me that it feels the same if you are a family member of the bride.  The entire reception felt like 45 minutes to me — it absolutely raced forward, and I kept trying to breathe it all in before it passed.

The most important thing, the best part to watch, was how much fun Sam and Aaron were having.  They were beaming the entire evening, totally overjoyed over their new marriage.  It was such bliss to witness.

After running down a sparkler-filled aisle to their classic Rolls Royce, they flew to Puerta Vallarta for a week of recovery.  That’s my word for a honeymoon– it’s therapy after planning a wedding.

They’re back now and settling into newlywed life in their new condo in Bothell.  From what they tell me, all is well.

Congratulations, Stanley and Sarge!

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July 18, 2011

Shower with Care

I am pleased to announce the publication of my second guest post for Clise Etiquette!

The topic this time?  Bridal and baby shower etiquette – true minefields of social awkwardness.

The author of the blog, Arden Clise, is the well-known Seattle authority on business etiquette.  As the founder of Clise Etiquette, Arden works as an etiquette consultant, speaker and business etiquette columnist for the Puget Sound Business Journal. 

Many thanks to Arden for so generously allowing me to share her space again.

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July 6, 2011

Yawn (Amid Scandal)

Prince Albert II married Charlene Wittstock last weekend, and it really didn’t rise above expectations.

At least I prepared you — when you saw her signing her marriage license in the legal ceremony, her pantsuit didn’t alarm, did it? 

Thanks to some decent WBO fashion sleuthing, you were totally prepared for a wide-legged, powder-blue pantsuit.  Though it hasn’t been condemned adequately in the fashion blogs, the fact that you can’t find a full-length picture of it anywhere speaks volumes.  It’s like the Monaco police are trolling the internet, deleting the offense.

Despite the Eagles concert, fireworks show, celebrity chefs and oceans of champagne, the occasion failed to herald the kind of attention Wills and Kate received.  In fact, the event fell so low on the British royalty priority list that they only sent Prince Edward as a rep. 

(You know, Prince Edward, the youngest of Queen Elizabeth’s children, the groom in another forgettable royal wedding, the Earl of Wessex…OK I know you stopped reading half a sentence ago.)

Let’s take a look at the Armani dress in the religious ceremony the following day:

According to a press release, Armani explains his design:  “The idea was to go for a completely modern look, without an obvious sense of nostalgia or revivalism.”  I’m not sure what that means, except that apparently it took a lot of work.  According to multiple sources the dress took 2,500 hours to create and featured 40,000 Swarovski crystals and 20,000 mother of pearl teardrops.  The veil alone took 100 hours to embroider.

And yet…it doesn’t wow me.  It is certainly beautiful, but it didn’t send me to the moon the way Kate’s did.  I’m pretty sure it’s the chest and stomach area — something about that just doesn’t win me over.

As for Albert, he looks like he’s on a float in an age-inappropriate Disney World parade, dressed as an unattractive version of Prince Eric in The Little Mermaid. 

But it’s not like anyone was looking at him anyway.

I will say the ceremony setting was beautiful, and the castle was a picturesque backdrop.

Something is amiss, however, when the bride is  the only one at the wedding who sheds a tear.

Though I don’t think we have to struggle to suppose what brought the waterworks.  It was widely reported that just days before the ceremony, yet another woman hit Prince Albert with a paternity claim.  According to The Telegraph, ”Monaco officials privately admitted there is “truth” in a rumour that Albert faces a paternity test.”

Nothing like a paternity test to get you excited for the big day!

Did I mention the woman accusing him hasn’t had the child yet?  She’s still pregnant…I’m no mathematician, but I’m pretty sure that didn’t happen prior to Charlene and Albert’s four-year relationship.

See?  Even princesses have to deal with baby mama drama.

In the end, Charlene may be getting the last laugh.  After all, her new name is Her Serene Highness, Princess Charlene.  Even Duchess Kate isn’t an actual princess by title (though when you’re guaranteed to be queen one day, who’s counting?).

I, for one, am rooting for her, and will raise a glass in the hope that all of Prince Albert’s future children are Princess Charlene’s.

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