Category: Uncategorized

  • Reflections in a Mountain Town

    Reflections in a Mountain Town

     

    I sat judging the man from my seat at the bar. And a bar stool, as many know, is a perfect spot from which to judge.

    The man looked out of place in this crowded old west style saloon as he clung tightly to the straps of his fancy backpack. Made of quilted black leather, the Prada backpack boasted a large silver logo tag and many fat shiny silver zippers. The man spun in circles, looking confused. I imagined the man thinking, “Did I take the wrong exit? This can’t be Vail.”

    Under the warm light of a gigantic wagon wheel chandelier, the backpack glittered as the man spun, like a disco ball prop on the wrong movie set.

    ***

    Silverthorne, Colorado is not Vail, Colorado. It is a mountain town, but not the tourist attracting charming kind. Given its proximity to the charming kind, there are signs of “transition,” but for now, Silverthorne is something of a utilitarian community. The town is an exit off Interstate 70, where in the summer, drivers in pursuit of scenic vistas stop for gas and bug spray, and where in the winter, skiers (in attempt to cut their losses) pull off for more affordable accommodations. The skiers plan of course being to get back on the I-70 early the next day, heading to world famous resorts and “score first tracks.”

     

    On this stormy winter night, that became our plan too. Done with staring at four lanes of solid red taillights, my husband Mark and I pulled off and checked into the Luxury Inn and Suites. It was our last option as the Quality Inn and Suites and the Comfort Inn and Suites didn’t have any rooms left, or suites. Given the promise indicated in any of these names, one couldn’t go wrong. In our case, “luxury“ meant a room with damp carpet and a missing thermostat that looked like it had been ripped out the wall.

     

    “Hope you’re good with 79 degrees,” I told Mark as, using only my thumb and forefinger, I dragged the bedspread off the bed and stood it in the corner.  And it did stand. Resistant to gravity, and with stories to tell, the bedspread became an unnerving presence in my periphery.

    ***

    Deciding to stay in Silverthorne is how we ended up at the Mint Steakhouse. A place where you pick your cut of meat from a glass display case, and then grill it yourself. A clever concept not only in keeping with the tough cowboy vibes, but, if you don’t like how it is prepared, you only have yourself to blame. Holding on to a tray weighted with metal tongs and two raw, prime-cut filets, Mark strode to the men’s only grill room (not really, but pretty much) with purpose and swagger. God speed, I thought, as I went in the opposite direction to get a drink, and people watch.

     

    And that is when I spotted the man. He stood like a bolder in a river of oversized plaid flannel and ski jackets making their way around him. Eventually loosened him from his stupefied position, the man began to shuffle backwards in my direction. With no natural instinct to check behind him, the man kept shuffling backwards, heading directly toward the server station where three opened bottles of Coors Light awaited pick-up. His backpack was getting dangerously close to the row of beer bottles, closer, and then closer still. Of course, I should reach out to stop him. Of course, I should. Normally, I would. Of course, I normally would, but, don’t we want to see whether or not a Prada backpack can roll a strike? The backpack took out two of the three bottles. Not bad.

     

    “Hey buddy!” called out the age 60-something bartender, clearly a seasoned pro. His periphery vision kept him abreast of all the goings-on at his bar, and he immediately ran over with a rag, “Watch your backpack! Hey buddy!”

    The man turned and blinked at the bartender.

    “Your backpack.”

    Another blink.

    “It’s okay buddy, I got you.”

    As the bartender cleaned up, and opened new bottles of Coors, he started to sing one of the theme songs to Dora the Explorer.

    “Backpack, backpack! Backpack, backpack!” He set out new bottles for pick-up. “Backpack, backpack.” He kept singing until the man blinked himself backward and disappeared into the crowd.

    It was perhaps because I had appreciated the Dora song, and that I wasn’t talking to anyone, that the bartender noticed me, and I became his singular audience member for the following jokes. In between fielding the many drink orders for both the patrons at the bar, as well as the dining room, the bartender would stop in front of me to deliver another joke.

    Three in total, and in this order.

    Joke #1:

    “Did you hear about the blind prostitute?”

    I shook my head.

    “You gotta hand it to hand it to her.”

    I nodded my approval.

    The bartender raced off to mix a few drinks, but it wasn’t long before he was back. He leaned in conspiratorially.  I leaned in too.

    Joke #2:

    “How do you spot a blind man on a nudist beach.”

    I shook my head.

    “It isn’t hard.”

    Without waiting to see how it landed the bartender hurried off to take a couple’s order at the opposite end of the bar, quickly stopping to top off a sitting draft beer on the way.

    I leaned back. I get it, but I don’t know. I just don’t think of a nudist beach as a place where one goes to be aroused. I think of it as a place where one goes when one is over being constricted by social norms and elastic waistbands. Maybe the blind man was at the Playboy mansion pool…but wait, he needs to be naked too. A naked party at the Playboy mansion?

    Before I could finish workshopping it, my bartender was back.

    Joke #3:

    “So, Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse are in the middle of a divorce trial…”

    He paused for a moment.

    “Wait, you’re not easily offended, are you?”

    I shook my head.

    “So, they are in court and the judge says, “Sorry Mickey, saying that Minnie is crazy is not grounds for a divorce. And then Mickey says, “No judge, you don’t get it. I didn’t say Minnie is crazy. I said she is fucking Goofy!””

    And then he was off again.

    Across from where I sat, encased in the vintage oak of the western bar, was a large etched mirror. I stared at my reflection, a new person to judge. I had to ask myself the most obvious question for someone in my position; what was it about my face that made me look like someone who’d laugh at a Minnie fucking Goofy joke?

    If a focus group was asked to look through a stack of headshots and pick out the face most likely to love a Minnie fucking Goofy joke, would my photograph end up with the most fingerprints on it?

    “Her,” one unpaid participant would say, holding up my photo, “can’t you just see her throwing back her head and screaming with laughter at that?”

    (By the way, I say “unpaid” because I suspect this survey would have a tight budget, but you never know.)

    “Yeah, definitely,” another unpaid participant would agree, wanting to earn his keep via free cubed cheese, “she totally looks like someone who would dig a Minnie fucking Goofy joke. Or, like, any joke that involves blind people.”

     

    ***

    “I don’t get it,” Mark said, after we had found a booth and sat down with our overcooked steaks, “what does someone who would laugh at this Mickey joke even look like?”

    I wasn’t sure, I had to admit. But I suspected it was someone with chapped lips and deep nasal folds.

    Mark studied the steaks he had grilled, he looked concerned.

    “Do you think I need face filler?” I ask.

    Mark put his first forkful of steak in his mouth, then sat back and began to chew. It was going to be a while before I got my answer. For the millionth time that day, I was forced to control my inherited irrational impatience.

    I couldn’t do it.

    “Mark!”

    With some effort, Mark swallowed, “Xenia, I have to say, I’m just not following you. Do you think this steak is overcooked? I think it might be overcooked.”

    Mark forked the entire steak and held it up for scrutiny.

    Of course, the steak was overcooked. If the kitchen had prepared it, I would have sent it straight back, and with some words to go with, because I have more inner Prada backpack in me than what people are seeing.

    ***

    Later that night, while Mark brushed his teeth in bathroom, I laid in bed under the sole sheet.

    In one corner of the room hot air blew through a damaged ceiling vent. It looked like someone had pulled a chair over, stood on it, and punched the vent. Likely the same person who had ripped out the thermostat.

    And in the opposite corner of the room, sidelit by slivers of outside light that snuck by curtain security, the bedspread still stood tall. A bad ass. If it were alive, I bet it would have a raunchy sense of humor, but who knows, with bedspreads it is sometimes hard to tell.

    It occurred to me that I’m bad at memorizing jokes. Up until now, I had only known two, so if I were in a situation where I’d be killed unless I told three, I’d be dead. I memorized the two jokes I know when I was 7 years old. They both came from the back of a 1980s McDonald’s Happy Meal box.

    Joke #1

    What did the ocean say to the shore?

    Answer: Nothing it just waved.

    Joke#2

    What kind of pet plays music?

    Answer: A trumpet.

    These two jokes, always in this order, were a one-two punch in my elementary school days. The jokes–and my mom’s open-door policy to gum and Fig Newtons (we lived directly across the street from school)–got me an in with the popular crowd. And then, as an adult, I returned to these jokes to win over a new friend’s young kids. Worked every time, and always, the mother would smile and look relieved, as if my effort to make her kids laugh settled a concern that I was someone who didn’t like children. It wasn’t enough, apparently, that I had two little kids of my own…but fair enough.

     

    Maybe, as with my ‘80s Happy Meal box jokes, these just happened to be the only jokes the bartender remembered, and it really had nothing to do with my face. I doubt it, but maybe. If I had sat at the bar any longer (I was pulled away by Mark who wanted me to come and watch him overcook prime filets), would he have come back to deliver more? When he turned and saw my empty stool, was he possibly relieved?

     

    All I know is that since I have written down and possibly overthought his jokes, I’ll remember them. This makes me a little nervous. The upside is I now have five jokes at the ready, a number that could possibly save my life someday. I just hope I don’t get some kind of joke telling Tourette’s syndrome and blurt out the wrong joke to the wrong audience. Unfortunately, I suspect I will.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • A Life on Display

    A Life on Display

    Our townhouse in Denver overlooks a beautiful park. On the edge of the park, there is a public outdoor fitness course which one man in the entire Denver Metro area uses.

    On that morning, he was there, hitting every station in earnest, making the city planner who had fought for the balance board proud. “Installing this course without a round balance board on a spring would be an unforgiveable disservice to the community!” I imagine the planner had yelled, banging a fist on the table so hard he lost sleep that night wondering if he had gone too far. Or chosen the right battle.

    If the man in the park had looked up mid pull-up he would have spotted me, a woman standing at a large 2nd floor window across the street, watching him. Only I wasn’t watching him. Or, I had been for a second, but then something caused me to adjust my focus to the windowpane inches in front of me. There, at the height of my forehead, was a hole that could have only been made by one thing, a bullet.

    ***

    “It’s a good thing you weren’t standing at the window when the gun was fired,” my husband Mark said later that afternoon as we studied both the hole in the window, and then the one in the living room wall opposite the window. I had assumed the gun had been fired from right across the street, in which case the bullet should have ended up in the ceiling. I picked a piece of dry wall up off the floor and shoved it into the hole.

    “Don’t you think?” asked Mark.

    “Think what?”

    “Don’t you think that it was a good thing you weren’t standing at the window when the gun was fired?”

    I turned and stared at him.

    “I sure do,” I said.

    Mark nodded, relieved to have found something we could agree on.

    ***

    I wasn’t looking for open shelving, open shelving found me. We bought the townhouse because of the windows with park views, and not for the two, prominent wall mounted open shelving units inside the main level living area. I am more of closed cabinet/junk drawer person, but I took on the challenge of decorating these shelves, and it quickly became an obsession. I shaved hours off my sleep schedule to watch every YouTube video on how to style open shelves. There are a lot, and I thumb-up’d them all.

    ***

    In the first days of my obsession, Mark didn’t understand. “What are you doing?” He’d ask, watching me move a decorative item from one end of a shelf a little more towards the middle, or more daringly, to another shelf altogether (a move I would not recommend trying if you’re prone to vertigo.)

    “I’m elevating our space,” I’d say. And this would shut him up because who doesn’t want an elevated space?

    Mark became used to me flying off the couch in the middle of a movie to start the rearranging.

    “There she goes!” he’d say, watching me turn a wooden box a quarter inch clockwise. “That made all the difference.”

    The funny thing is, it really did.

    Sometimes, as I’m moving a photo frame to sit more at a casual angle or turning a hand carved bowl to feature its best side, I wonder if I shouldn’t be doing something more useful with my time. This always turns out to be a fleeting thought though, as there are frames to adjust and bowls to turn and they aren’t going to do it themselves.

    ***

    The bullet had embedded itself inches from a carefully curated selection of books. Books I choose simply because the jacket covers pulled in colors from the rug and wall art to create a cohesive look. It is one of many professional decorator tips and tricks I now have in my arsenal.

    Several books I choose because they were inspirational along with being the right color.  One should surround oneself with inspirational items to not only elevate the space, but elevate the soul, one decorator with a more holistic approach had advised.

    I found myself buying books titled, “The Bucket List, 1000 Adventures Big & Small” and “Epic Journeys, 245 Life-Changing  Adventures,” and “1,000 Places to See Before You Die.”

    These how to live your best life before it’s too late books now felt especially poignant sitting just inches from the new bullet hole in the wall.

    We aren’t going to dig the bullet out. And likely we aren’t going to patch it until we sell the townhouse as a bullet hole is not a great selling point.

    For now, I have decided the hole is part of the story my shelves are trying to tell. A reminder to hit that bucket list as time could be more limited than you think.

    ***

    “Based on the trajectory, the gun was shot as far as a mile away,” the officer told us when we made our police report. “Where the bullet entered is almost parallel to where it ended up in the wall.”

    The officer spotted Mark’s hospital badge on the kitchen island.

    Another reason we bought the townhouse was its proximity to the hospital where Mark works. It is just a two-minute drive when he gets called in the middle of the night to help victims most often related to incidents involving drunk drivers, and, of course, guns. And there is a surprising number of people getting hit by the city’s quiet, stealth-like electric commuter train.

    “You work at Denver Health?” The officer asked.

    “Yes.”

    “Thank you for all you do.”

    “No, thank you for all you do.”

    The two exchanged nods of mutual admiration then looked over at me. It was all I could do to stop myself from gesturing to my shelves.

    “I will get back to you if we hear of anything.” The officer told Mark. To me he said, “don’t worry. Obviously, no one was targeting you.”

    The officer shook his head and almost chuckled at the thought that I could be a victim of anything other than a totally random act of violence.

    ***

    The next day I spotted my neighbors, the balcony girls, who were splitting a bottle of wine. I talked to them from my own matching balcony. I told them about the bullet hole in our window and they told me that the same thing had happened to the neighbor on the other side of me about a year ago.

    “So…I guess I just army crawl around my place from now on?” I suggested.

    “It is good for the core,” Mia replied.

    The balcony girls are really balcony women. Diane is around my age. Her wife is Mia is maybe 7-10 years younger. In the two years we have had this place my interaction with them has only ever been balcony to balcony or balcony to sidewalk, me being the one on the sidewalk.

    Only once I saw Mia on street level. It was last summer. I had opened my garage and there she was, idling in her own garage. If I took five steps and crossed the narrow alley I could touch her. She wore a polo and baggy shorts and had leg sleeve tattoos I hadn’t noticed from afar.

    Seeing Mia off balcony was like catching Santa Claus off duty. I remember a day years ago when after sitting on Santa’s lap at a fancy holiday brunch, my kids and I spotted Santa later in the restaurant’s parking lot. The kids watched him with wide eyes as he yelled into his cell, (at an insolent elf, I told the kids) before tossing an old gym bag in the back of his car and slamming the door shut.

    On this hot afternoon, Mia became a kind of Santa.

    “Do you want a popsicle?” she asked, “I have a popsicle fridge.”

    “You have a popsicle fridge?”

    She waved me over to see. I stood next to her as she opened the door to one of two full sized fridges, only this one was a freezer, and it was indeed full of popsicles. Popsicle sticks of the alcohol variety. It was like the opening of the briefcase in Pulp Fiction. The glow from inside. My expression of awe.

    Mia grabbed a few sticks and held them up, “Margarita, Strawberry Daiquiri, or Pina Colada? I also have other kinds.”

    “Margarita, please.”

    She handed it to me, then reached in the popsicle fridge for another margarita pop.

    “Do you want a second one?”

    “Okay” I said. “Just in case.”

    ***

    Back on the balcony Diane was sympathetic, “sorry, that happened, hope the window won’t be too expensive to replace.”

    “I think it is some idiot shooting his gun off from his porch on the other side of the park.” Mia said, “don’t worry, you obviously weren’t targeted.”

    “Oh my god, for sure you weren’t the target!” Diane agreed.

    I had never thought I was the target. But the fact that this was the third time someone assured me that I wasn’t was starting to feel offensive.

    ***

    As I waited for the new windowpane to arrive, I kept a careful eye on the glass surrounding the bullet hole; a sunburst of cracks that I hoped wouldn’t spider.

    But mostly I returned to my life as a benign entity. A shadow passing back and forth behind a row of large windows. A tender of decorative displays. An extra playing the role of “woman hit by stray bullet” in a box office thriller. The director would be sure to shoot my bit scene at an angle so as not to see too much of my face, otherwise they would have to pay me more than an extra’s day rate.

    ***

    As Mark had noted, it was a good thing I hadn’t been at the window when the gun was fired. Also, it was a good thing I hadn’t been across the room, standing by the shelves, doing my thing. If I had, I wondered how long it would take for me to realize I had been shot.

    Shelf-styling isn’t known to be dangerous. That I could be shot doing it, and while home alone, would be unexpected. It probably would have taken me noting the hole in the window to figure it out.

    The shelving units are sturdy as they are mounted to the wall. I imagine I would have clung to them to slow the fall. A chance to review my curated collection of “favorite finds” on the way down. One final time.

    The Bucket List book lists “1000 adventures Big & Small.” That is a lot, but many of my items on my shelves were collected from trips. I’d be pleased seeing that I had checked off more than a few adventures in the book.

    A set of gold camels I bought in the ancient city of Petra, #555. Photos scuba diving in Belize, #700, and skiing in Chamonix, France #129. A box of silver Baoding Balls I bought just outside the Forbidden City in Beijing  #455. A pair of wood carved penguins I got in Antartica. Antartica happens to be #1000 on the book’s proposed list. Which may make sense. I was on a ship with many elderly passengers. When I asked them why they chose a trip to the white continent many would say because it was the only continent they had yet to explore. The last box to check on their bad-ass bucket list.

    ***

    I would eventually find myself on the floor. My balcony girls not realizing my need. My husband busy working on another person’s gun wound, a person who was likely targeted.

    I would scan the items on the lowest shelf which was now at eye level. Normally not one of the more visible shelves, I had given this shelf the least attention, and in that moment I’d realize in horror that it showed.

    There were three items on the shelf, a potted succulent, a colorful Peruvian vase, and a framed photo. The photo was taken in the driveway of my brother’s house when he hosted our sister’s wedding. It is of my daughter and four of my nieces in matching pink bridesmaids dresses shooting hoops as they waited for my sister to get ready. Not in the Bucket List book, but frame-worthy all the same. All three items were placed side by side and too much so. It felt flat. The items needed to be more staggered. And then, I’d make my final decorative adjustment while bleeding out. A multi-tasker till the very end.

    The framed photo and vase I’d be afraid to touch, too easy to knock down and not have the strength to pick up. The succulent was my best bet. I’d reach out and push it back just a little, and then a little more. And that would be enough. This new position would be more pleasing to the eye because staggering items on a shelf adds dimension, and dimension adds interest.

    And creating moments of interest is the secret to an elevated space.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • What are the odds?

    What are the odds?

    Every so often, just when you think you’re going to make good time on knocking out the day’s “to do” list, you have an encounter that grinds time to a halt.

    Such was an encounter recently when I brought my son Anders to a retro looking barber shop before a trip to L.A. (As evidence in the cover photo, when the person next to you is barely visible due to your hair, it might be time for a trim.)

    “I’m sorry, I don’t see an appointment for Anders Hammerberg,” the stylist at the front desk said. She was in her thirties, her dyed red hair piled high in a messy bun. “We are all booked, but I can schedule him for another day.”

    I pulled up a text on my phone.

    “I have a text here confirming his appointment for 2:00 pm today.”

    But the stylist wasn’t interested in looking at my text, just the computer screen which she checked again, and then shook her head.

    “No. I do not see an Anders Hammerberg on the schedule at all today. And I can’t cut his hair now because I have someone else at two….”

    I’m about to give up when she continued, “I’m waiting for an Anders Sanders.”

    “Oh!” I said, “well, that’s probably my son.”

    “No, it’s Anders Sanders,” she repeated.

    “I know, but what are the odds that you happen to have an appointment for a different Anders at 2:00 today?”

    “Oh, you’d be surprised,” she replied, “the universe creates like-mindedness all the time. Like, yesterday morning, I only had clients named Chris.”

    A part of me wanted to ask how many clients she had yesterday morning. If she had had eight, that would be impressive if they were all named Chris. If she only had two, then not so much.

    But I didn’t want to get off topic.

    “But Anders isn’t that common of a name,” I said.

    “Oh, I know a ton of Anders!’” she replied, rolling her head back like I wouldn’t even be able to fathom the number.

    Once again, I wanted to ask more questions, like, “a ton?” But, this had become a delicate enough interchange as it was. And one that had me stumped. My lack of movement prompted her to look at the computer again, and she read out loud the phone number next to Anders Sanders’s name. It was my phone number, and I relaxed as surely this was the proof she needed. That’s why she thought to check it.

    “Yes, that’s me. That’s my phone number,” I said. “I think the woman I talked to on the phone when I made the appointment just put in the wrong last name, or maybe I didn’t give her a last name and she needed to type in something.”

    “Or, she put in the wrong phone number,” the stylist countered, looking up at me with a one-eyebrow raised in a look that said, “bet you didn’t think of that, did you?”

    She paused and thought for a moment. I held my breath, hoping that inside her brain she was putting together the pieces to a 2-piece puzzle.

    It did seem like she had solved something.

    “Wait a minute is your last name different from your son’s?”

    “It is,” I answered slowly, and now in my own brain I quickly tried to figure out how things might play out if I told her my last name was Sanders. She would see that it wasn’t my name on my credit card. But maybe she wouldn’t notice? Or maybe if she did I could just shrug and be a bad ass about it. I’m not a bad ass. Did I have enough cash in my car? I think I might have enough cash in my car…

    She looked at me, excited, “what is your last name?”

    Just say it. Say your last name is Sanders.

    “It’s Rutherford,” I answered.

    Boo.

    “Oh, because I thought for a moment that maybe it had just been put under your last name…”the stylist looks genuinely disappointed. I could relate, I was disappointed too.

    “I know, and that was a good idea.”

    I looked at Anders. At some point he went from being age 3 and three feet tall with stick straight light blond hair to age 16 and 6ft 3” tall with brown super curly hair.

    “I want to grow it out as big as possible,” Anders will announce, and with his dad’s enthusiastic support.

    “The bigger the better!” Mark will say.

    It had taken a lot to finally convince Anders to trim it, just a little.

    “Okay, how about this,” I said, “can I leave my son here and if Anders Sanders doesn’t show up, then can you cut his hair?”

    “Of course!” the stylist answered cheerfully, “let’s give it five to ten minutes.”

    “Great.”

    I walked with Anders over to a chair in the waiting area and slipped him my credit card.

    “I mean, what are the odds there is another Anders booked at 2:00 with the exact same phone number?” I whispered to him.

    “No, let’s start here,” my son whispered back, “what are the odds of anyone naming their kid Anders Sanders?”

    What were the odds of someone naming their child Anders Saunders? I wondered.

    Finding out the answer to this went on the top of my “to-do” list. Of course.

    On Facebook I found 10 people named Anders Sanders. Out of a world population of 7.8 billion, that’s ten more than I expected. Most live in Europe. Looks like one in Japan. In any case, if my calculations are correct, the odds of anyone naming their child Anders Sanders are one in 780 million.

    End note: Turned out Anders Sanders was a no show, and Anders Hammerberg got his trim making it more likely to get a clear shot of anyone who happens to be next to him in a photo.

     

     

     

     

     

  • What to do if you run out of gas

    What to do if you run out of gas

    I couldn’t believe it, I had run out of gas. After 15 years I knew my Toyota well. I knew that the needle on the gas gauge could hover in the red zone for miles and miles till it became bored by its own bluff. So, when my car shuddered to a stop in the middle of heavy, downtown traffic, a part of me was impressed. “Good for you,” I thought, “finally following through on a threat.”

    I turned on the hazards and called my husband Mark for help. Then I took in my situation. After years of being just a benign driver used to merging in relative peace, I was now that driver. The jackass everyone will want to get a good long look at as they maneuvered past.

    The way I saw it, after turning on the hazards and making the call for help there were only 2 options:

    1. I could stay in my car and take it like a woman (meaning one who plans to avoid eye contact by playing Words With Friends on her phone.)

    2. I could get out of the car and go get Thai food.

    Turns out it is easy to avoid eye contact with angry drivers when you are a block away at a strip mall Thai restaurant. As my Toyota flashed apologies on my behalf, I debated my spice preference on a level from 1 to 5 chilies. I used to be a solid 4, but I wasn’t so sure anymore. The idea that I might drop to 3 made me nervous I was having an identity crisis.

    Later, holding a paper bag containing an order of pad thai and chicken curry, spice level 3 chilies, I found Mark, holding a bright red gas can next to my car. And he was talking to a police officer.

    “Here she is,” Mark nodded to me, relieved.

    The female officer was young, her long dark hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail.

    “You’re the driver of this vehicle?” she asked me.

    “Yes.”

    She looked down at my bag of Thai food, then back up at me.

    “Did you leave your vehicle unattended?” she asked, incredulous.

    On top of the food bag, a hot and crispy eggroll peeked out from its paper sleeve, but I decided now wasn’t the time to eat it.

    “Was I not supposed to?” I said finally..

    “You never leave your vehicle unattended!” And now she looked pissed. “I was about to have you ticketed and towed!”

    She motioned to the tow truck parked nearby. Behind the wheel the driver was taking an open-eyed nap.

    “Get your vehicle off the road now, or I’m having you ticketed and towed!”

    “I’ll fill it up,” Mark said, and scurried to over to the side of the car.

    “You just can’t run out of gas like this!” said the officer. I nodded to show her I agreed, that one just can’t run out of gas like this. Its is not a good idea. Why would someone do this? It occurred to me that this was the first time I got scolded by someone old enough to be my daughter and it felt very Freaky Friday-ish. I didn’t want my young cop mom to be mad at me, and so I said…

    “It was his fault,” I pointed at Mark, “he left me with an empty tank.”

    “She’s right,” Mark said quickly, looking up from the gas can, “it was my fault.”

    “I don’t care whose fault it is, get your vehicle off the road or I’m going to have you ticketed and towed!”

    “I can’t figure out this cap, I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Mark, fiddling with the cap, “I wonder what this little lever thing is for…”

    At the top of the bag, the egg roll was getting cold.

    “We’re almost out of here,” I promised the officer. Then, stalling for time, I started babbling like we were buddies about how bad game day traffic has become, and how there should be more gas stations near the CU campus when she interrupted me.

    “You’re a menace,” she blurted.

    I’m a what?

    “You’re a menace to the community!”

    I was not expecting such…strong language. I must have looked as startled as I felt, because glancing at me she seemed to feel a need to explain.

    “Look at all this mayhem you’ve created,” she gestured to the traffic around us.

    Menace? Mayhem? I was tempted to move close enough to her to whisper, “mom? Is that you?”

    “Okay, I got the cap off!” Mark called out as if he just solved all the sides of a Rubix Cube.

    The officer sighed, realizing he hadn’t even started filling the car with gas yet.

    “You need to move your car now or….”

    I knew what she was going to say next. I was tempted to cut her off by singing the rest of the sentence.

    “…I’m going to have you ticketed and towed!” I’d belt out, “Ticketed and towed, ticketed and towed, high ho, ticketed and towed!”

    My instinct was that this would be in character for a menace.

    As I surveyed my handiwork – the honking, the drivers calculating how late they are going to be to wherever they’re going, I began to think of ways I could show up more as the resident community menace. Something more inspired than just running out of gas. One thing I knew for sure, I would need to change the direction on Thai food spice level. Next time, 5 chilies.

    “…I’m going to have you ticketed and towed,” the officer finished.

    But by then I was on to her. She was not going to have us ticketed or towed. I reached in the bag for the egg roll. She was not going to because she knew that having us fill the tank and drive off on our own was the quickest way of extracting her life from mine. I know a bluff when I see it.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • The Hunt for the Northern Lights

    The Hunt for the Northern Lights

    Every once in a while I look up, and I’m reminded that I live in Alaska.

    That reminder may come in the form of a stunning view, or as a large mounted animal head (they’re everywhere), or as a sign along a hiking trail that only I seem to find funny.

    (Another sign I couldn’t help but stop and note is mentioned in this post, https://pokingthebear.org/ways-to-summer-in-alaskas-playground/)

    But sometimes it is a combination of things that create a moment. Like this moment I briefly filmed here, it is just so Alaska. From the bar, to the people, to the conversation, to the weather, to the young snowmobilers…or, I should say snow-machiners because “snowmobile” is a lower 48 word.

    And, next to me there is my husband Mark, being so Mark by worrying about “someone getting run over.”

     

    “Our kids are not getting on snow machines!” Mark responds when I suggest it,  “The only thing worse than crashing your snow machine, is  having it run over you after you crash.” As a trauma surgeon, he has seen more than a few patients who would prove the point.

    But, while we are still in Alaska, there a couple of things we still need to check off the list, and that is seeing the Northern Lights and snow machining (Mark will come around) and perhaps doing both in one place. I imagine the four of us flying across the snow as the green lights of the Aurora Borealis swirl overhead.

    Borealis Basecamp:

    How cool is this place?!

    It’s night and 7 degrees at this camp an hour outside Fairbanks. There are five people in the lobby; myself, my son Anders, my daughter Tatum, Tatum’s friend, and an employee.

    The employee is a large man, mid-30s, wearing a bandana as his covid-wear of choice. The length of the bright red bandana layered over his much longer rusty red beard has a cohesive, almost stylish look.

    “Mom, Anders isn’t wearing a face mask!” Tatum suddenly notices, thrilled to have something on her brother that I have no choice but to publicly respond to.

    “Anders! Go back to the car and get it,” I say.

    The man raises his hand up to stop him, “You’re okay, I don’t care.”

    Anders stops and looks at me just as my husband Mark enter the lobby.

    “It’s a democracy here,” the man continues.

    “What’s happening?” Mark asks, confused.

    “Dad, Anders isn’t wearing a mask!” That’s Tatum again.

    Mark is no longer looking confused. There was a time when getting in his son’s face meant having to bend down, but as of recently, like in the last two months, it simply means standing upright and eye to eye.

    “Anders, did you hear the man?” Mark scolds, “This is a democracy, do you know what that means? It means the majority has voted that masks are what we should be doing, so why aren’t you wearing yours?!”

    “That’s not what I’m saying,” the man says, but Mark can’t hear him because Mark hopped on another train. Same station platform. Opposite direction.

    Mark walks Anders outside, leaving me in his awkward wake, something I’m used to. I’m a little surprised Mark misinterpreted the man though. Speaking of moments that remind me I’m in Alaska and not our hometown Boulder, coming across someone resistant to the mask isn’t uncommon. Compared to other countries, Americans in general don’t like taking orders, but Alaskans ten times more so.

    “That’s not what I was saying,” the man repeats, “I wouldn’t be wearing a mask if I wasn’t required to as an employee. I’m not scared.”

    I nod.

    Personally, when it comes to masks, there are times like this one when I wish I had a mask that covered my entire face. Then I could just shut my eyes and try to sleep.

    The lobby is now very quiet. I’m at a loss for words.  And, Tatum is at a loss for a brother to tattle on.

    The man breaks the silence, “I actually think I have the antibodies because in March there were a lot of people here from China and Japan.”

    Now I’m awake. There is this rumor I have been meaning to investigate.

    “Oh, right, they come here because…?” I ask, referring to the rumor.

    “Yeah, it is some sort of fertility tradition they have,” he shrugs, “I don’t know.”

    And he looks like he doesn’t want to know, but I’m curious. I’m going to have to officially look into this one once we get to into our room, I mean, igloo. Here at Borealis Basecamp, the accommodations are referred to as igloos.

    https://borealisbasecamp.net/?gclid=CjwKCAiA8Jf-BRB-EiwAWDtEGrj7kOntNcmRHF5MCyw_fHB3sreIrRhBCkbpFEAp48hjhQe0_TIlThoCKdwQAvD_BwE

    The Perfect Place to See the Northern Lights, and Conceive a Gifted Child?

    “Have you heard that rumor about how Japanese travel to Alaska to conceive a child under the Northern Lights?” I ask Mark after we are led to our igloo.

    “No, why would they do that?”

    “It’s believed to result in a “gifted” child.”

    “Well, too bad we didn’t know, because we’re 0 for 2.”

    I looked it up, and from what I can tell it is just a rumor.

    https://soranews24.com/2015/02/14/is-it-true-that-japanese-go-to-alaska-to-copulate-under-the-aurora-【myth-busters】/It started on an episode of “Northern Exposure,” a popular 90s show I have never seen. “Oh you have to watch Northern Exposure!” almost everyone would say when we announced we were moving to a small town in Alaska. But, along with “Leave it to Beaver” and “Welcome Back Kotter” “Northern Exposure” is not streaming on Netflix or anywhere.

    As it turns out, we did not see the lights at Borealis Basecamp.  It is possible that we were too late into winter, and the skies were filled with clouds.  I wasn’t too surprised as checking on Aurora activity is something I check on more than the weather itself and I knew “activity” would be low. https://www.gi.alaska.edu/monitors/aurora-forecast.

    The perfect place to see the Northern lights, unless there are clouds.

    Those clouds prevented viewing of the Northern Lights, but they did provide another particular benefit of the Alaskan north: snow.

    The weekend that we visited the Borealis Basecamp, they had just started dog sledding in earnest.  They are true competitors, but they will offer to take tourists on sledding adventures to subsidize the considerable expenses of running a bonafide competitive dog sled operation.  The prior weekend, they were using wheeled carts for lack of snow.  When we were there, they just switched to actual sleds.  Our guide loved it.  “When I’m done with you, I will do another 25 mile training run,” he said.  “Then, I’ll switch dogs, and we’ll do another 25 miles.”

    The next day, clouds continued to fill the sky.  And, they continued to provide ample snow, enough for a snow machine expedition.  Finally, Mark had consented to let the kids go, and even drive.

    And while we didn’t get the northern lights swirling overheard, we did get something I hadn’t realized I wanted to see.

    “Is that the Alaska Pipeline?” I ask our guide as we approach what I thought at was another ski hill. But these weren’t ski hills, apparently during much of our ride we had been on top of the pipeline. More than half of the 800 mile pipeline is above ground.

    Snow machining past the Trans-Alaska Pipeline? I say that counts as an “Alaska moment.”

    Now, while not seeing the Northern Lights was disappointing we weren’t too upset as we did see the Northern Lights on an October trip to Fairbanks with my brother Ken. October usually means clearer skies.

    We loved the lodge where we stayed. It was affordable (certainly in covid times, and it was more classic in terms of style. https://atasteofalaska.com

    To catch the lights of Aurora Borealis though you had to head out to a field behind the lodge. When I heard the lights were active (and they can be very fleeting) I’d run out to that field, trying snap shots of the sky along the way but without spilling wine from the glass I had in my other hand.

    Because I have my priorities in order, I managed to save every sip of the wine, but my photos were terrible.

    Fortunately, out in the field there were other lodge guests who we quickly befriended. One of them was  a professional photographer who offered to shoot a family portrait of us the next day. Where we actually look like an almost sane family.

    And he sent me his images of his shots of the Northern Lights from the night before.

    I’ll admit, this is a little better than the shots I took. http://www.toddrafalovich.com

    End Note:

    Todd and his wife will be traveling with my brother this summer (if all goes well) to revisit the village my brother lived in as a peace corps volunteer several decades ago. I’m almost tempted to join if only to lose another 10lbs quickly. https://pokingthebear.org/the-art-of-seduction/

    I can’t wait to see photos from that trip, and how the village may have changed.

    Visiting my brother in Garli village, Mauritania, Africa. A long time ago.
  • To Travel, or Not to Travel

    To Travel, or Not to Travel

    That is everyone’s question.

    The decision to travel in Covid-times is not a simple one. Do you postpone doing anything or going anywhere until next summer? Or the summer after? Or the summer after that? Or do you proceed with caution in what could be the new normal for quite sometime.

    Weighing risks vs benefits was it’s own skittish journey that fluctuated with the daily news. On one of those days when the news seemed more positive (relatively) that things were opening up, and restrictions were being lifted, I chose to keep plans to travel with the kids to Colorado to see friends, and celebrate my father-in-law’s 76th, and my dad’s 86th birthdays.

    And, we had to fly because to road trip it would be a 3,300 mile road trip from Alaska to Boulder one way. Alaska is as remote as it sounds, and our town that much more so. There is one highway to and from the Kenai Peninsula, and now just one airline left (the main airline we used to use to get to Anchorage International Airport just filed for bankruptcy).

    It’s no wonder many residents not only own a boat, but a plane. In another post I mentioned envying our neighbors quarantine life. Well, I forgot to mention many of them also own a little plane making the boundaries of where they self-isolate almost limitless. And likely, stunningly beautiful.

    When you hear the neighbors coming home, you know it’s time to swim off the runway.

    I didn’t really want to write another post that was covid related. The subject is exhausting us all. But, on my 5-hour flight back to Anchorage from Denver I couldn’t help it. When you’re on a plane these days, it’s practically the only thing you think about.

    So, I thought I’d go ahead and offer advice on flying in these virus times. Aside from a mask, and all the obvious.

    4 Suggestions:

    One: Pack Food or Eat Before Your Flight

    In the third row of first class sits a family, a mom, dad, and a baby on mom’s lap. From the bulkhead seat one cabin back, I can only see the dad, and I am watching him as he pours a mini bottle of Jack Daniels into his Coke, and munches on a wedge of artisanal cheese.

    I wonder if he can sense someone watching him. From above my mask my eyes are locked on what I have decided is the ultimate feast.

    A flight attendant heads down the aisle and I stop her.

    “Is there any chance there are any extra snack boxes?” I ask, “like, for purchase?”

    Like in the old days.

    “No,” she looks at me like I’m nuts, “not back here.”

    I’ve made her realize something and in a subsequent and clearly necessary move, she unhooks the curtain that separates our two cabins and closes it.

    The curtain is sheer, it softens the vision of the world beyond my grasp but only a little. Actually, I decide it is not so much a curtain but a veil. The veil of seduction…

    Next to me, my daughter Tatum, who was trying to sleep, opens her eyes.

    “No, not back here!” she mimics, a little too loudly, before shutting her eyes again.

    The flight attendant’s move reminds me of the first time I ever saw or heard of Jerry Seinfeld. He was doing stand up on TV, oh so many years ago, and there was a bit in his act about a flight attendant shutting the curtain to close off first class, but not before first staring down everyone in second with a look that said, “maybe if you all had worked a little harder…”

    I wish we had worked harder, because I’m hungry.

     

    At the time of this post, due to Covid, boxed food and alcohol is no longer available in economy and economy plus. At least on Alaska Airlines and United.

    My first knee-jerk reaction to this was that it might be a bit of  “Covid Theater.” Some of these “it’s to keep you safe” rules seem a little curious. To me, at least. For example, when I got a haircut at the salon I used to frequent, as I’m manhandling the credit card machine and exchanging paper receipts, I’m told we can no longer add the tip onto the credit card. They want to keep everyone safe, so now the salon only allows cash tips to be handed by patron to the stylist to minimize physical interactions.

    Or there was the restaurant I went to, an old favorite of mine, that currently won’t make certain cocktails.

    “I’m sorry,” the waitress says when I ask for a (skinny version) margarita, “we don’t make margaritas anymore because, you know…”

    I stare at her blankly.

    “…it’s too much touching, and Covid…”

    I look down at my huge chopped salad which has no fewer than 12 ingredients.

    “But we can do other drinks, like a rum and coke.”

    “Could I have a tequila and club soda?” I ask.

    “Of course!”

    “With a few wedges of lime?”

    “No problem!”

    “Oh, and Miss?”

    “Yes?”

    “Could I have a shot of Grand Marnier on the side?”

    “You got it!”

    So, that was my first thought – why is it safe for passengers in first class to nibble on a cracker for the duration of a 5 hour flight, mask-free? But not safe for economy passengers?

    Here is where I do a U-Turn though. Serving people in economy may be too many masks off. And my guess is the exchange of credit cards could be the bigger issue. I don’t know, but for the first time I’m trying to defend Alaska Airlines and United. We can’t afford to lose another airline.

    I finally find in the side pocket of my bag a zip lock with six almonds left, and I’m giddy. As I savor them one by one, I see through the curtain/veil that the dad is out of his seat. He turns and heads towards the back of the plane, which peaks my curiosity.

    Why would he leave first class?

    He steps around the curtain and opens the lavatory door directly across from my seat.

    Why would he choose to use the lavatory in the economy cabin?

    I smell the answer. In his hand is a diaper that, judging by the smell and heft of it, probably should have been changed 45 minutes ago.

    He shoves the diaper into the bathroom’s small trash, and this time he must surely feel my eyes on him, because he looks sheepish as he scurries back to his seat in first class. A flight attendant appears with another mini bottle of Jack Daniels for him. It’s perfect timing.

    I wonder what would George Costanza on “Seinfeld” would do in my situation? He’d feel compelled to say something for sure, and I wish I could watch it.

    Two: Invest in a hand-extending Shark pincher.

    Along with packing your own food for a long flight, I’d advise packing this hand-extension pincher.

    It doesn’t have to be a shark, there are other animals to choose from like a dinosaur. But whatever you choose, keep it handy.

    On the other side of Tatum, the passenger in the window seat was a man who slept most of the 5 hour flight, but without his mask covering his nose. Either it had fallen, or he had pulled it down. It just hung by his mouth.

    If I had had this shark pincher I could have used it to delicately pull the man’s mask back up over his nose without waking him. Hopefully. Or else it could get awkward.

    Three: Be Prepared to Have Weird Dreams

    Is this a weird thing to even mention?

    Even though at the airport you wore the mask and reapplied sanitizer every step of the way, there is still an unsettled feeling that might linger for the length of your visit. Or, at least it did mine. Maybe it stems from being untethered from quarantine base.

    Due to the age and health of my parents, we didn’t stay at the house I grew up in. Instead, we stayed at a brand new Residence Inn by Marriott in Boulder. It added another level of strangeness. The upside is that it was interesting living like a tourist in my own hometown. I even started doing more “touristy” things like hiking trails I never thought to hike in all the years I was a local.

    With my kids spending most nights over at their friends’ homes, I was often sleeping alone in an almost totally vacant hotel. And on those nights my dreams were especially eerie and vivid. Apparently, I’m not the only one having such dreams. It’s a thing.

    https://www.futurity.org/dreams-covid-19-pandemic-2371132/

    https://www.nytimes.com/2020/04/13/style/why-weird-dreams-coronavirus.html

    According to one scientist, since the virus is an invisible threat, people are dreaming about it using wild metaphors. The virus could take the form of a swarm of bees, or an approaching dust storm, or in my case, an attacking bear. Or, I could just be having my usual dream about an attacking bear.

    Four: Know the State Regulations for Travelers

    Alaska has a very low level of Covid-Positive cases compared to other states. It was easy leaving, but re-entering was another matter. Like Hawaii, where they are not afraid to jail tourists for wandering onto the beach unless cleared, Alaska is strict. There would be hoops we’d need to jump through before returning to Alaska, those hoops being covid tests.

    Test 1:

    Prior to flight,  we went through a drive through covid testing place in Colorado. It was on the top floor of a hospital parking garage.

    Several health care workers surrounded our car, and we each had a stick inserted so far up into each nostril that it must have been sampling brain matter.

    Yes,I did get my daughter’s permission to post this photo on my blog. She responded that she’s not worried about anyone seeing it.

    I also have a video of the process.

    Tests 2:

    At the airport in Anchorage days later, it was a similar test, but this one was self-administered, and, more importantly it was pain-free.

    Airport covid control

    I asked if this was as accurate as the first one we had in Colorado. The one that left scars on my frontal cortex surely had to be more accurate, right?  I was told it was just as accurate, and it is the new test that they are using more frequently. So that’s some good news, especially if more airports/borders adopt this testing and it becomes part of travel for the interim…

    End Note:

    A big highlight of our trip was my dad’s 86th birthday celebration. I had requested of my niece/goddaughter to avoid any depressing topics (unlike me). But, stubbornness runs in our family.

    Here she is lecturing grandpa on the finer nuances of Covid’s influence on the political landscape.

     

     

     

     

     

  • Minding Your Own Business in Alaska

    Minding Your Own Business in Alaska

    I’m watching kids get off the school bus from the heated seat of my 5-star crash & rollover safety rated SUV when another parent pulls up next to me. He’s on an all-terrain-vehicle (ATV).

    As my son climbs into the back seat of my car, I can’t help but stare as one kid hops on behind the dad on the ATV, while two other boys sit down on the plastic sled tied to a rope behind it. The kids hold onto their backpacks as the dad revs the engine then takes off.

    If this is Alaska dad 2020, I would love to have seen Alaska dad 1980.

    I have to be admit, a rebel part of me envies cool ATV dad, and for sure both Anders and I envy the kids. Watching them made me nostalgic for my 80’s childhood when “helicopter parenting” or “safety first” wasn’t a thing. I often see kids here operating ATVs alongside the highway or on snow machines. And then there was my gun instructor, who was 12 years-old, https://pokingthebear.org/teaching-kids-about-guns-familys-first-lesson-in-firearms/

    It’s no wonder my husband received that recruitment postcard with a headline that screamed, “Work and Live in Alaska’s Playground! Orthopedic Surgeon needed!”

    Back in Boulder, Colorado the site of someone flying down the road with helmet-less kids bouncing behind it in a $12 sled would have had every mom dialing child services, hands shaking with purpose and outrage. Here though, there is a definitive “mind your own business” understanding. It’s more than an understanding, it is the culture, and people choose to live in a place called the Last Frontier for this reason.

    The School Dress Code Debate:

    Alaska’s don’t-tell-me-what-to-do way of life explains why pot is legal, kids are taken out of school all the time for hunting trips or similar reasons (“mom, I swear no one goes to school here why cant I just skip this one day!”) and actually, why so many families homeschool their children. This last subject came up the other day when I called a cab to take me home from the airport (I didn’t check to see if Harry was available, https://pokingthebear.org/they-have-uber-here-his-name-is-harry/)

    I asked the cab driver why he home schooled his kids, and why his now grown son who is a public school teacher has his own kids home schooled. The driver was quick with an answer, “we don’t like having the government dictate what our kids need to learn. They have so many rules, it’s ridiculous!”

    But, there is a line when it comes to Alaska’s don’t-tell-me-what-to-do ways. And one thing that marks that line is a yoga shirt.

    My daughter’s favorite shirt used to be a yoga top that had a hole cut out in the back (see end post example). Paired with leggings, it was the kind of top that every girl wore back in Boulder, CO from grade school all the way through the students at CU, and beyond. But then, in Boulder everyone looks like they are headed to a Crossfit or yoga class and that’s because they probably are. It explains why the town regularly makes it to the top of any list highlighting the country’s fittest cities.

    https://www.today.com/health/fittest-city-boulder-colo-once-again-tops-list-2D79486823

    When I saw Tatum’s favorite shirt in the donation pile, I was surprised. I asked Tatum why she didn’t want it anymore she explained that she had been “dress coded” at school.

    “Mom, it was so embarrassing!” she whined, “a teacher pulled me aside during passing period and everyone was looking at us!”

    Apparently, my daughter hadn’t been informed of the ol’ 4B rule.

    The “Rules of the Four Bs”

    Females Can Not Expose:

    1. Butt
    2. Boob
    3. Belly button
    4. Back

    There is definitely a more conservative religious undercurrent here compared to Boulder. I was expecting that. Its just that out of all the people to be busted for dressing inappropriately, the least likely candidate would be Tatum. She’s a high school sophomore and still won’t wear a bikini because it shows too much skin. Last time I let her pick out a swimsuit it was one designed for a pregnant woman; a billowing tank style top attached to swim bottoms. She’d be happy if full swim bloomers from the 1900s came back in style.

    My daughter is tall and a size 2. The last time I was a size 2, I was two. When she bought this particular open back top I had actually been excited by her daring. “It’s time she started wearing something more fun, edgy, and form fitting,” I thought, “She should do it while she can!”

    And with those thoughts, it was official. I had turned into my mother.

    “Oh Xenia, another baggy sweatshirt? Booooring! If I were you I’d wear tight dresses like Sophia Loren!” this is was what my mom would say every day except on the days she swapped out Sophia Loren’s name for Marilyn Monroe’s.

    “Bye Bye Saai Susie!” She’d often call out as I left the house for school.

    My mother is Dutch-Indonesian and she speaks both languages. “Saai” (Sigh-ya) is the dutch word for “boring.” I had a friend named Susie who only wore blue jeans and t-shirts. My mom started referring to her as Saai Susie, and then she started referring to me as Saai Susie. And now I look at the way my daughter dresses and all I can think is, Saai Susie.

    Apparently the only one in this generation line-up who was never a “Saai Susie” is my mom.

    My mom in a “candid” shot of her playing with chewing gum.

    For one season in 1981, my mom threw me into the talent show and beauty pageant circuit. My “talent” was hula dancing naked. Well, almost.

    I remember begging my mom to let me perform any other kind of dance but hula. I had a dance school choreographed number to Micheal Jackson’s “Billie Jean” why couldn’t I do that? For me, at that age, I just felt hula was not cool. But, I had no choice. My mom claimed hula would help me stand out, “because all the other girls would be doing ballet, jazz, or tap routines, but no one would being doing a hula dance!” And she was right, no one else was, and that’s because hula was not cool.

    My costume also helped me stand out. I remember my instructor assuring my mom that I could wear a leotard or tank top instead of a bikini top. And that doubling up on hula skirts would give me more coverage. She clearly didn’t know my mom, who dismissed the teacher’s suggestions as absurd. “You have to look like a real island girl,” my mom said as she colored my underwear with flesh-colored face make-up.  “And real island girls don’t wear anything underneath.”

    My mom also picked out the song I danced to, it was called “Princess Pupule.” Lyrics tell a story of a girl who loved giving her papaya away. “Oh me-ahh, oh my-ahh, you really should try a little piece of Princess Pupule’s papaya!” At that age, I didn’t recognize the song as being provocative in any way, and I’m so glad I didn’t.

     

    Princess Pupule getting ready to give her papaya away (before getting herself some Karmelkorn)

    If there was anyone who had a chance of being outraged that Tatum had been dress coded, it would be my mom. I couldn’t wait to tell her, and bask in her rant.

    “I know the shirt your talking about,” my mom said over the phone, “yes, it did show a lot of her back.”

    I had never felt so alone.

    “Mom!”

    “No, I thought the top was very cute,” my mom explains, “but, you knew people there would be more conservative.”

    Of course, I knew that.

    In general, I’m not opposed to school dress codes. I secretly always wanted to go to a school with uniforms so I didn’t have to think about it.

    “Wedgie-Gate”

    The bigger issue is dress codes tend to have a gender bias. They just do. My kids are on the swim team and while 17-year old boys wear suits that look like they’re meant for a toddler, the only one disqualified this year for lack of coverage was a girl in Anchorage wearing a school issued uniform. The disqualification was overturned after some backlash, but  “Wedgie-gate” raised a lot of questions, and made national news.

    https://usdailyreport.com/2019/09/21/breckyn-willis-dreamer-kowatch-jill-blackstone-alaska-high-school-swimmer_n_2895.html

    Of course, I am glad that my daughter doesn’t wear skimpy crop tops, barely there skirts, and that she isn’t handing out even sample sized portions of papaya. I just think that in her particular case, being reprimanded for wearing the singular “edgy” clothing item she owned tested her confidence. Being publicly embarrassed by being cited for a dress code violation, on the first week as a new student no less, was just something of a set back. Not devastating. But, wrong person. Bad timing.

    https://jezebel.com/what-high-school-dress-codes-teach-our-daughters-1709156504

    On the flip side, we are probably more conservative than most of our neighbors when it comes to what our kids can do, and participate in. I’ve been at my laptop this past hour, sitting on my lumbar support, memory foam, no-slip seat cushion, occasionally looking up to watch a couple of teens (maybe a bit older, hard to tell) flying across the lake on snowmobiles. It looks like they are going 90 MPH. I don’t know if it is the same riders, but I see a pair of snowmobiles daily, and sometimes I see their headlights at night. They are having a blast. And I can only live vicariously as snowmobiles are not in the cards for us, for now, but I’m working on it. Being an orthopedic surgeon who covers trauma call, Mark has seen the aftermath of snowmobile accidents. “No way are we going to go snowmobiling,” he has said, “but, we can go nordic skiing across the lake!” As if the two activities are interchangeable.

    Well, we do share the same beautiful view with our snowmobiling neighbors. And, although a lot slower, we literally follow in their tracks (I’m a newbie to nordic ski, following trails makes it easier.)

    Winter on the lake, getting used to this whole, no-heel-attached-to-ski craziness.

    The kids often complain that their dad is too cautious, whining when he won’t let them roll down the car windows. “Do you know how many times I’ve seen someone lose a foot or hand from sticking it out a window?!” he’ll shout as he almost crashes the car while fumbling for the windows power lock button. At this point the kids and I always ask, because we genuinely want to know, “no, how many times?” But, my husband is vague on the numbers.

    Mark makes it sound like he regularly has a trash bin filled with arms, legs, and heads in the corner of his OR but I suspect it doesn’t really happen that often. It does happen though:

    https://auto.howstuffworks.com/car-driving-safety/accidents-hazardous-conditions/lose-head-hand-out-vehicle-car-window.htm

    Snowmobiles are out, at least for now, but every day here is turning my husband into Alaska dad bit by bit. It won’t be long till he decides he needs an ATV for shoveling snow and hauling wood to his bbq smoker.

    So, who knows, maybe someday I’ll be cool ATV mom, loading up my helmet-less, seatbelt-free kids behind me before peeling out from the school bus stop. I could do that. And, as long as I don’t show any boob, butt, belly button, or back, it’s not like anyone is going to stop me.

    https://psmag.com/politics-and-law/alaska-land-of-contradictions-4

    School appropriate?

    Basically, this is the top my daughter wore, only it had long sleeves.