Culture Infusion

The author in front of the museum

There must have been a small pile of parts left over the day I was created. That’s the only way I’ve ever been able to explain the glaring lack of an artist’s bone in my body. It’s long been apparent to me that some other lucky person on the September 1953 baby production line got mine, and I was stuck with a double measure of pragmatist bones.

Please understand, anyone who got the extra artist’s bone: I know that art appreciation can be learned. I took a class or two in college and enjoyed them. The information just didn’t stick. So while I fear being branded an artistic dimwit, I confess that I like my art to look like what it is supposed to represent. And I like it done with finesse and attention to detail, please.

A Picasso (yes, I got in trouble for using a flash)

Such were my musings today as Curt and I strolled the galleries of the Art Institute of Chicago. We started with the easier stuff: the great masters of the 18th century. I marveled at the attention to detail, the realistic portrayals. In my gradebook, nothing earns a painting an A+ faster than intricately painted lace cuffs and perfectly rendered coils of hair. I could be heard musing admiringly, “It looks almost like a photograph!” Realism does have its drawbacks, however. It was difficult for me to imagine a practical way to display, for example, a finely and intricately wrought painting of a guillotined head by Gèricault. My best guess is that a true artist doesn’t worry about such mundanities as where it will look best in the living room.

Then we moved on to the Impressionists. Things started going a little haywire for me here, because while Monet and his ilk are widely admired for their pioneering methods, Monet’s works failed to excite in me a fervor for the nuances of finely stacked hay in various lighting situations. The subject is realistic enough for someone of my mindset; it’s just the lack of details in the execution that puts me off. 

The Lipchitzes: Is this how you'd want to be memorialized for all time?

We finally made our way to the highly lauded new modern wing of the museum, housing contemporary art, which opened just over a year ago. We could appreciate the merits of many of the pieces, though others completely befuddled us. The Picassos are interesting for their bizarre composition; other pieces simply caused me to scratch my head. One enormous piece, probably 10 by 16 feet, was all black with some plaster texturing in places on the canvas. And there was Modigliani’s portrait of a Mr. and Mrs. Lipchitz (pictured). How P-O'd would you be when the artist showed you this finished portrait and handed you his bill for services rendered?

"Venus de Milo with Drawers" by Salvador Dali

While I don’t have a framed poster of dogs playing poker in my home, I actually kind of get why people are drawn to that type of art. But lest my readers think me a hopeless reverse art snob, let the record show that right this minute I am looking at an abstract Picasso print on my office wall, which I like very much. It complements the stickers-on-construction-paper composition of moons, planets and spaceships created especially for Grandpa by our grandson Will, hanging on the opposite wall. I know which of the two speaks to me more.

But I know you’d love our black velvet Jimi Hendrix portrait. Now that’s great art.

Making Memories: Family Vacation

Three days stretched interminably when I was ill at home with Curt out of town a couple of years ago. Perversely, three days pass awfully quickly when you’re having a great time.

The Welsh Waterpark Wingding 2010 may, by popular acclaim, become an annual affair. Sure, the Wisconsin Dells have a certain reputation for middle-American cheesiness, but it’s hard to imagine a better combination of attractions to appeal to all ages.

Cousins Will and Autumn with the Wilderness Moose

Our first day, Angie and Christina and I agreed that people who don’t like waterparks are just plain nuts. What’s not to like? Kids large and small being entertained for hours with plenty of energy-exhausting activity and no complaints of boredom. Riding the waves on tubes. Mini-golfing. Underwater breath-holding contests. Grandma Bonnie’s accidental mooning of unwitting Lazy River patrons (note to self: wear one-piece swimsuit next time). And no, we didn't get a picture of that. Margaritas and rum punches and virgin piña coladas sipped under a giant umbrella. Reading magazines in the sunshine. Adults acting like kids, going down slides and jumping in pools and floating.

Christina, Angie and Catie waiting for the waves

I had to explain to Jack and Autumn that my enthusiastic screaming on my way down the slides was not coming from fear, but exuberance and excitement. Christina is about as bad as I am in that department. Our three-year-old Catie, though, didn’t emit a peep, other than afterward: “That was SO MUCH FUN! I didn’t scream.”

Due to a seating shortage, Jack made himself a couch out of barstools

And then there were the small, unanticipated things we got to enjoy just because we were spending time together. Sitting around in our pj’s sipping coffee in the mornings, discussing topics great and small. Curt cooking his famous cheesy eggs and frying up the pig meat. Placing bets on which U.S. city’s population is fourth largest, and which is the largest city in the world. Dominoes tournaments. The kids drinking milk through chocolate straws. The whoopee cushion Jack and Autumn “won” at the arcade. Uncle Dave’s teasing of 11-year-old Autumn about potential marriage to a Jonas brother, and of 13-year-old Jack about his secret admiration of Garth Brooks.

The mini-golf course is a fearsome place

Five-year-old Will had a little trouble saying goodbye on the morning of our departure: “Dad, can we please just stay one more day?” Then, “Please just two more hours?” and “How about one more hour?” When that didn’t work, “Can we go to Grandpa and Grandma’s house?”

I felt exactly the same, Buddy. Next year, maybe we can make it a whole week.

It’s No Tropical Island, But ...

... when your adult children invite you to go on vacation with them, it doesn't need to be anywhere exotic.

Where to go, then? When our middle daughter Angie proposed the idea earlier this summer, we spent a couple of weeks trying to decide. She and her family live in Des Moines, Iowa; the rest of the family live in and around Chicago. Our top five priorities were:
1) inexpensive,
2) sun,
3) water,
4) family fun, and
5) inexpensive.

Various destinations were considered and rejected: Orlando, been there; Mexico, no passports for the kids; a lake resort in the Midwest within driving distance for everyone, all sold out; everything else, too expensive. Taking another look at numbers 1 and 5 on our Top Five list, the Wisconsin Dells came under consideration, chiefly because of the drivability. Tightwad that I am, I checked eBay. Bingo! A four-day, three-night vacation at a great price, waterpark passes included.

I’ve long been a fan of waterslides, wave pools and such. Put me in a tube (not a tube TOP, thanks anyway) and plop me on the Lazy River ride on a sunny summer day, and I’m good for hours. By all appearances, our daughters and grandchildren have inherited this affinity. Waterparks offer the perfect combination of frenzied activity and inertia—a definite winner for kids, energetic adults and those of the lazier persuasion.

We leave tomorrow, and the nine of us—Curt and I, youngest daughter Christina, 13- and 11-year-old grandkids Jack and Autumn (they belong to oldest daughter Kim, who can’t join us), Angie with husband Dave and their 5- and 3-year-olds Will and Catie—will all be sharing a 3-bedroom condo with full kitchen. Angie and Christina are in charge of meals and snacks, no easy task as there are vegetarians, a gluten-free eater, some picky eaters as well as some unabashed carnivores among us. Angie’s already prepared the monster bars, brownies, trail mix, and by popular request, purchased the Anderson-Erickson French Onion Dip. (If you’re not from Iowa, you must add this to your bucket list. Trust me.) So far, Christina (the single, city girl) is signed up for bringing the Truvia (non-caloric sweetener) packets.

As intelligent as our offspring are (no prejudice there at all), I suspect they exploit their knowledge of our eagerness to spend time with them to their financial advantage. The fact is, I don’t even care. I know we’ll be rewarded with endless laughter (I’m telling you, these kids crack us up), hours of great conversation, and (warning: sappy sentiment approaching) memories to last a lifetime. How can one put a price on that? Dominoes, hikes around the lake, snacking, maybe a movie or two, and undoubtedly some popping of wine corks after the grandkids are in bed will round out our activities.

I’m just hoping that my eBay purchase proves to be all it was represented to be. If there’s any trouble, I’ll have to up the ante or the kids might decide to vacation without Mom and Dad next year. St. Louis? Cleveland? Peoria? Somehow I don’t think those options will pass muster. Better tell them to get their passports in order, just in case. Priorities Number 1 and 5 be damned.

Life Management 101

Who’s to say when a person’s behavior crosses the line between normal and peculiar? It’s a very thin line, in my book. Label others’ methods of dealing with life’s irksome little challenges “quirky,” if you will, but I prefer the term “resourceful.”

Some people, I’m told, perform their daily grooming routine in a particular, inflexible order, allowing the peace of mind that comes from knowing they never leave the house (unless interrupted mid-ritual) without flossing or deodorizing. Others hang their underclothes on doorknobs and chair backs throughout the house to air-dry after removal from the washing machine, saving the trouble of buying and setting up a drying rack. Still others count the number of steps it takes to walk from a remote parking lot to a building, so that they can accurately estimate the distance they’ve covered (just let me know if you want more details about how that works).

So why would anyone find my Clothing Management System to be peculiar? I myself find it remarkable that most people don’t even have a Clothing Management System. For the past, oh, 20 years or so, I’ve kept a log of what I wear to work each day. And I find it to be quite logical, reasonable and advantageous, thank you very much.

My extremely low-tech but effective method requires only a yellow legal pad and a pencil with an eraser, kept handy in the nightstand drawer. Each season I transfer the previous year’s list of options to a fresh sheet, omitting those I no longer want to wear. After each shopping trip I fill additional lines on the sheet. Every night before bed I look over the list and choose the next day’s outfit, marking a date next to it. If I change my mind, no problem—that’s what erasers are for. I’m freed from: a) standing in my closet each morning blankly staring at rows of clothes; b) running the risk of repeating an outfit I’ve recently worn; and c) leaving a perfectly good article of clothing languishing forgotten at the back of the closet.

“Someone’s cheese has slid off her cracker,” I see emanating from a thought bubble out of the tops of my friends’ heads when I’ve attempted to convey the many merits of my system. They shake their heads pityingly, smile uncomfortably and change the subject. Despite the system’s obvious advantages, I’m not aware of a single convert over these many years. I’m left to conclude that, on the list of problems to be solved, apparel management is way down there for most people.

But just think about it: If ever a crime were committed in which the eyewitnesses described the perpetrator as a tall, middle-aged, brown-haired woman wearing a light blue blouse and black skirt, could you whip out your Clothing Management System and prove incontrovertibly to the investigators that, AHA! You were wearing the taupe cable cardigan that day? No, YOU could not. But I could!

And of course, one could always buy a pedometer instead of counting one’s steps from the parking lot, but how resourceful would that be? It wouldn’t be, that’s how.

The Office: Kitchen Freebies

The paradigm is well established in my office: If there’s anything you don’t want but can’t bear to throw away, bring it to work to share with your less discriminating co-workers. Just stick on a post-it note declaring the item “FREE!” and plop it on the shelf in the kitchen, the one site everyone is sure to monitor regularly because that’s also where the snacks show up. Dollar-store hand cream, Kenny Rogers CDs, discount coupons, even Christmas decorations—all make for great pickin’s. The implicit message is clear: “My colleagues have such low standards, someone is sure to want my crap.” Kind of like a garage sale, only no quarters are required.

Castoffs from desk reorganizations—cracked stacking trays, ancient calculators, linty Office Max mouse pads and all manner of outdated filing system tools—used to make a regular appearance, but these proved so unpopular that they now go straight to the circular file. On the other hand, if edible, the leavings can be quite popular: the gloppy bean dip left over from a weekend party, the Smarties from the Halloween candy, the picked-over bagel halves (always the raisin ones) from a meeting. These don’t require any kind of signage, as any food item seems to disappear without prompting. I swear someone actually finger-licked the perfectly good chocolate sprinkles out of the bottom of a so-called “empty” donut bag. Ahem.

So it wasn’t too remarkable when the other day, a bottle of Bath and Body Works Sensual Body Lotion—jasmine vanilla scent—appeared in the ladies’ room, just sitting there on the ledge above the sink, someone’s castoff. By placing it in the restroom instead of the kitchen, it was clear that the anonymous donor intended it for use by all of us undermoisturized female cubicle dwellers. But the word “sensual” in the name invited closer scrutiny. “Awaken your senses … relaxes the mind and inspires sexy self-confidence,” the fine print read. “Breathe deeply for best results.”

Now, mind you, mine is a distinctly religious work environment. One where “sexy self-confidence” is not de rigeur. One where “awakened senses” might actually get you hauled up by Human Resources. And anyway, do they really want us relaxing our minds at work? Well, I squirted out a little of the lotion on the back of my hand and rubbed it in, just to test it, and immediately regretted it. Not because every male from four floors suddenly sprang wolflike from the elevators. (Note to HR: Unfortunately, that did NOT happen.) But the stuff does reek intensely. And linger. Let’s just say that deep breathing would not be prudent.

When I walked into my office the next morning I found the Sensual Body Lotion on my desk with a post-it note attached: “FREE!” Obviously someone WAS overcome by my sexy self-confidence.

Calling It Quits

After a long, tumultuous and ultimately unfulfilling affair, I am finally breaking it off.

Our flirtation began innocently enough way back when. Every Sunday morning before church my mom would treat us kids to a donut variety pack: airy long johns iced in chocolate or vanilla; bismarks with the jelly oozing out; glazed twists that you could unfurl and eat in a long rope. And oh, the cream-filled ones! My brother and sister and I would scramble out of bed on Sundays to try to get first pick. Love, thy name is Donut.

During my first pregnancy my passion blossomed at the Hy-Vee bakery, when I couldn’t turn my gaze from the glazed, raised six-packs. Freed from sibling competition, about once a week I'd down three after Curt left the apartment for work. Ashamed of my gluttony and wanting to hide my rendezvous, I’d be forced to eat the other three as well. (I needn’t mention the negative effect my illicit lover had on my weight.)

On weekend trips to Iowa to visit family, I’d bestow the love on my own kids by picking up a dozen assorted on our way out of town. Anticipation of spending time with my beloved made the five-hour drive just a whole lot more tolerable.

As I matured, I pondered the profound questions of love and life. If I were marooned on a desert island with only one food available for the rest of my life, what would I want? Hands down, Dunkin’ Donuts buttermilk donuts, or “gut bombs” as they’re affectionately known in my family.

Through the years, the donut and I conducted an on-again, off-again relationship through various weight-loss regimens; my self-discipline always gave way as my desire overcame me. But a weird thing happened, so slowly and insidiously that I didn’t see it coming. One day, probably five years ago or so, it hit me with a jolt as I bit in: this donut has lost its power over me, and I haven’t really enjoyed our encounters for a long while. I was only going through the motions out of habit. I could throw it, unfinished, into the trash without a baleful second look. I don’t think I love donuts any more.

How did I grow immune to their charms? Is it health awareness? Did my tastes simply mature? Or is it possible they just don't make 'em like they used to? For a while I was in denial; I thought we were just going through one of those “down” times every relationship experiences; the feelings would return if I just stayed the course. Lord knows I’ve tried to keep our liaison going. Each time donuts appeared in the kitchen at work, I took one; I’ve made halfhearted purchases at Krispy Kreme. Just this morning, passing a donut shop, I pulled in for one last tryst. I bought two, for old times’ sake. But I only ate half of one, and the bag mocks me from the kitchen counter.

No more denial. I’m sorry, Gut Bomb, but we’ve come to the point that you just make me feel ill. You can't hurt me any more. I'm over you. I hope we can still be friends.

Arachnophobia

Unlike many others, I am not arachnophobic. Spiders are a little unnerving, sure, turning up unexpectedly with all those spindly legs and hairy bodies. I wouldn’t volunteer to lie for hours in a spider-infested casket to earn the Guinness record or anything. The thought of eating them alive for a reality show competition a la Patti Blagojevich* gives me the heebie-jeebies.

But I feel the same or worse about any other creepy crawly creature. If I see a spider in my house, I don’t jump up on a chair or scream for Curt to come kill it (in fact, Curt is more afraid of them than I am). And, if offered enough money, I’d reconsider the spider-infested casket scenario. In general, though, I’m content to just keep out of their way and let them serve their duty in the ecological chain, eating other insects and spinning their webs and living their spider lives.

Why do I bring this up? It’s because of the glass of water I keep on my bedside table in case I wake up during the night parched with thirst, which often happens. No need to get out of bed or turn on the light. Sometimes, though, I don’t wake for a swig of water all night long. Sometimes the untouched glass is still sitting there in the morning, waiting for me to take my first hit upon arising groggily, with barely a downward glance.

Let’s just put it this way: Fear Factor producers, I’m ready for your call.

*If you’re not from Illinois, you may not know that P.B. is the wife of our disgraced former governor. She did us Illinoisans proud on the 2009 TV show, “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.”

Curt and Bonnie’s Excellent Adventure

Now that it’s over, I can say it was an excellent adventure. Don’t ask Curt, though. He probably needs a couple of weeks.

When our friends Paul and Nancy suggested going canoeing, it sounded like the perfect way to spend a gorgeous summer afternoon. Unfortunately, Paul’s first choice of outfitters wouldn’t rent out their equipment because the record rainfall this summer had swelled the Rock River to hazardous conditions. But he found a willing outfitter on a smaller, safer river, the Kishwaukee. Did that give us pause? Not a bit.

They picked us up early for the hour-long drive, stocked with coolers full of sandwiches, wine, watermelon, and pasta salad for the sandbar picnic we anticipated. The morning started a bit foggy, but by the time we arrived at our destination the sun was bright with enough clouds to bring episodic relief. We bumped down a puddly, mud-packed road and found ourselves smack-dab in the middle of a campsite where the campers were just crawling out after the previous night’s party. The outfitter’s place of business was strewn with tents, broken-down vehicles, garbage, vomit, and three brutally revolting port-a-potties which we were desperate enough to utilize. We remained undaunted, waiting an hour past our appointed time for the proprietors to render operable one of their dilapidated shuttle buses.

Eventually the bus made it to the drop-off site. Pictured are the four of us, spirits still high, ready to embark on our (reputedly) three-hour idyll. (This is the last picture destined ever to be taken by this camera, God rest its soul.) Curt portentously entertained us all with a few bars of the theme song from the movie Deliverance as we shoved off in two canoes. Within moments, we discovered that we leisure canoers were dealing with a swifter current than we’d bargained for.

Everything went swimmingly (ha, ha) until I decided to take some photos. Owing to my brief distraction--and according to Curt’s later (unsolicited) assessment, my poor grasp of basic canoe techniques--the tree limbs we collided with dumped us in an instant into the rushing current, leaving us entwined with the tree limbs and struggling to the surface. We clung to the capsized boat and watched our oars, as well as our cooler full of delicacies, rush away from us. Apparently the roar of the water drowned out my helpful remark: “What should we do?” Not getting a response, I grabbed for the life jackets, which we had not deemed critical enough to actually wear, and was swept downstream myself. Paul and Nancy were able to grab one oar out of the water and to help me hang on to the side of their canoe. By the time we reached an accessible sandbar to pull out, Curt was nowhere to be seen.

We waited, hoping he’d come floating along, but he didn’t reappear. We worried, of course: Had he been injured? How would he even begin to free the canoe from the limbs, right it, empty the water and maneuver it in this current without any oars? We shouted at other passing canoeists, asking if they’d seen him. “Yes, we saw him,” they shouted back as they flowed along. Why hadn’t he asked for their help? Should we try to go back somehow? Should we eat some cheese from Paul and Nancy’s stash? Finally, after what seemed ages, Curt appeared on the opposite bank, having single-handedly heaved the canoe out, climbed out himself, and walked the path downstream to find us. Relieved to see him in one piece, now all we had to do was find a way to get a paddle over to him on the opposite bank so he could go back for the canoe. Paul tried to ford the river carrying a paddle, but had to turn back due to the current.

Our salvation came in the form of a group of tubers who stopped at the sandbar to cook hotdogs. One of the young men valiantly forced his way upstream to a spot he knew was shallower, waded as far across as possible, and then hurled the paddle with all his might onto the opposite bank. We cheered as Curt retrieved it, hoping he wasn’t wallowing in a patch of poison oak. In ten minutes more he came paddling our ill-fated canoe down the river to rejoin us.

All’s well that ends well, right? We completed the trip, which played out quite uneventfully (Curt having sustained only slightly worse scratches and bruises than I), enjoying the unspoiled views and speculating how much we’d be charged for the lost life jacket and paddle. The current slowed as the river widened. The salad and blueberry crisp were fish food, and the wine and water bottles were at the bottom of the river; but Nancy’s sandwiches tasted mighty good.

Will we do it again? Probably. But our young tubers, who reportedly enjoy their sport every weekend, were surprised that the outfitter sent unwitting amateurs into such a strong current. They suggested a trip to the Farm and Fleet, where tubes and cooler floats can be had for as little as $15. Considering the loss of a camera and cell phone (not to mention my flipflops and Curt's hat) on top of the canoe rental, that’s a real bargain. So what if tubing is less adventurous? We probably wouldn't need Advil, Valium and jacuzzis afterward, either.