Smiling in the Face of Cable TV

Let me state right up front, I am NOT a crier. I’ve often wondered at my lack of emotional response in heart-tugging situations. Unlike other women—for instance, my friend Pat who I swear tears up at any mention of babies or upon hearing any Irish song (even though she’s not Irish)—it takes a lot to activate my waterworks. Put it down to my Dutch stoicism.

By all rights, I should be all smiles right now. It’s a new year, and there’s a lot to cheer. Small things, like the sunlight streaming through the windows, even though it’s cold outside; the great cup of coffee topped with whipped cream I’m sipping on; and my Christmas cactus, a memorial from my dad’s funeral 15 years ago in December, is blooming like mad in spite of my brown thumb.

The big things—really, huge things—can be checked off too. Curt and I are both gainfully employed; we and our entire family are healthy and speaking to one another; my 88-year-old mom still lives on her own quite successfully and contentedly.

So, why are these tears running down my cheeks? Not for missing Curt, who just left on another business trip, or for the girls and grandkids, with whom we’ve spent a lot of time over the holidays. No, I didn’t shed a drop at parting with anyone.

But there’s a new kid on the block this year: cable television. Last month we finally succumbed to a package deal too good to pass up and became subscribers. No longer will I be forced to stand by silently while others discuss “What Not to Wear” and “House Hunters International.” And that’s what’s bringing on the blubbering.

Cable TV has unleashed my inner teddy bear. For the life of me, I don’t recall anyone ever warning me about the potential emotional impact of watching inane reality shows. Shows like “Say Yes to the Dress,” where the bride-to-be is missing her late mother as she shops for her wedding gown; and some show on which grown adoptees search for their birth parents, and sometimes when found, the birth parents don’t wish to meet them. Then there’s the one (“Hoarders”? I’m not really sure) where the family has to confront their emotional and physical clutter due to the father’s dying of leukemia.

I’m sure that this new world of virtually unlimited programming will become old-hat. After all, one can’t watch everything on several hundred channels, so hopefully I’ll learn to pick and choose so I won’t be blindsided by emotion.

Then maybe I can get worked up over something more deserving of my tears. Like a peek at the bathroom scales, perhaps? Nah. My grandkids love me pudgy or thin, and dark chocolate makes me smile every day.

Happy new year, everyone! May you find many reasons to smile this year. If you need to, lay off the cable. But apparently everyone else already knew that.

Peace and Quiet

This was our year for all the kids and grandkids to be with us for Thanksgiving: our three daughters, son-in-law, grandkids Will, Catie, Jack, Autumn and Ada, plus friends Paul and Nancy. In all, thirteen for dinner, but only nine spending the night. And only seven spending the weekend.

I love this truism about the joy of hosting your grown children and their kids: The sweetest sight in the world is their car turning into the driveway, and the second sweetest is the same car backing out when the visit is over.

Post Thanksgiving, I can appreciate that wisdom. Sure, the toys are back in the toy closet; the dishwasher has been run and emptied one more time; four loads of sheets and towels are laundered; the craft paint spots have been eradicated from the kitchen table and tile. On the other hand, I don’t have anyone with whom to read a bedtime story. Or delight in the immense depth of the bath water in the spa tub. Or sing me a song about ballerinas. (Don’t tell me Curt can fill in; he had to catch a plane for Canada this afternoon. And while he likes deep bathtubs, he knows diddly squat about ballerinas.)

In the midst of all the “I’m hungry,” and “Can we make a gingerbread house,” and “Where’s the kitty?” and “I want to play with that!” and “Come and watch me,” interspersed with shrieks and laughter and mittens and shoelaces and toilet needs, it’s apparent from this vantage point why nature has determined that human beings have their offspring while the parents are still relatively young. I’m amazed to realize that Curt and I also once handled all the tumult of a young family with such aplomb, and I have new admiration for grandparents who are called upon to raise their grandchildren.

Still, I already miss the wild enthusiasm of Will, age 6, whose favorite expression is “Who doesn’t love (fill in the blank)!” As in, “Who doesn’t love Thanksgiving dinner!” even though he doesn’t really love most of what was served at Thanksgiving dinner. His favorites were the grape tomatoes on the appetizer platter, the sparkling juice, and the dinner rolls. His assessment of the star attraction as it was prepared to go into the oven: “That’s a live turkey!” His sister Catie, age 3, decided in that one look that she no longer likes turkey. Can’t say I blame them; that’s basically why I’m vegetarian myself. Even so, at the dinner table Will marveled, “Grandma, you made all of this!”

And I love the way they make me laugh. Catie’s dad Dave remarked, “When you get older, Catie, you’ll be able to get me coffee.” Catie’s response: “I’m free and free-quarters, and I can get all the drinks I want for myself.” Let Daddy get his own damn coffee.

But then again, I have only myself to please at dinner tonight. I’ll go for slightly past-its-prime leftover pasta, Chex mix and Ghirardelli 60% dark chocolate chips. I can’t look at stuffing or sweet potato casserole right now. Please. Though they’re still buried in the fridge somewhere.

So, let me see. Tonight:

Gramps the cat dozing blissfully, check.

Everything in its rightful place, check.

Me with my feet up and a good book, check.

Troll books and ballerinas, no check.

Conclusion: Peace and quiet is both marvelous and overrated. At least I have some new Christmas ornaments—snowmen and stars freshly painted in muddy blue and gray tones because too many colors were applied, all signed illegibly on the back. I’m sure they’ll look great hanging on the tree next to the ones their mom and aunts painted 25 years ago.

Besides, the whole clan will be back in four weeks for Christmas. Life is good.

Viva Las Vegas

As an Iowa schoolgirl, I and my schoolmates were treated to annual assemblies featuring the world travels of Al Bell. In outlandish costumes, bringing artifacts and animals and showing films from places like Newfoundland and Egypt, Mr. Bell introduced a generation of landlocked middle-American children to the reality of a vast world.

But did this impressionable pre-adolescent girl get bit with the Indonesia bug? No, it was that great philosopher of the Twentieth Century, Elvis Presley, who first stirred my travel dreams. His melodic extolling of the beckoning allure of Las Vegas just sounded so upbeat and happenin’:

Bright light city gonna set my soul, gonna set my soul on fire,
… turnin’ day into nighttime, turnin’ night into daytime…
If you see it once you’ll never be the same again.

Not being the kind of place I wanted to vacation with my parents, I quietly added it to my bucket list under the heading “Someday.” As a churchgoing young mother of three, I hid that list under a pile of laundry, schoolwork and choir practices. At various times over the years, I’d drop hints to friends, sisters and/or daughters that we might plan a trip together. (My husband wasn’t interested, so I needed a traveling partner.) But I soon found that, like Curt, not everyone shared my dream of visiting Sin City, even with the tales of drinks flowing freely and cheaply; 99-cent prime rib buffets stretching endlessly; and hotels practically giving away their rooms in return for our coins in their slot machines.

Me, Juli and Mary in front of Caesar's Palace

So I bided my time, and my patience was rewarded this past summer when I met two new friends who eagerly agreed to join me in checking this item off my bucket list. Mary and Juli had both been to Vegas before and were game to give it another go. Since our acquaintance was based on four hours together while under the influence of a couple of martinis apiece, as we traded emails planning the trip I reasonably began to question the wisdom of committing a weekend to traveling with them. They had known each other for years; would I be the odd man out? Were they regretting that they’d agreed to include me? On the fun-loving spectrum, would they turn out to be rowdy, devil-may-care hedonists, or prim, early-to-bed schoolmarms? I know which end of that spectrum I fall on, much as I like to pretend it were the other.

The view from my room at night

The three of us met up at the Paris hotel, where we checked into lovely rooms on the 30th floor overlooking the Eiffel Tower and the Bellagio fountains. With temperatures in the low 80’s, we ambled along the Strip, having lunch outdoors and shopping at Caesar's Palace. A seafood dinner at Aquaknox was followed by a show at The Mirage, Cirque du Soleil’s Love, with seats in the seventh row. I don’t want to review the show here, but let me just say that this Beatles extravaganza was probably the most amazing live performance I’ve ever attended, barring even the Bavarian accordionist on the riverboat last month.

The three of us with the backdrop
of the water wall at SW

The next day we got a tour of the fabulous Wynn and Encore casino resorts, with dinner at SW overlooking a manmade lake featuring a colorfully lit water wall. That night we saw another Cirque-type show, Le Reve, featuring diving, feats of strength and special effects over a million-gallon water setting. This one was Mary’s favorite, while I had become a bit blasé from the sensory overload by this time.


Speaking of sensory overload, that’s a pretty fair two-word summary of the Vegas experience. Street performers—one of which scared the pants off me when the “statue” moved—and huge themed hotels with sculptures and structures and waterfalls and fountains, and Elvis’s lights and the ubiquitous hum of the casinos, incomparable people-watching for those who enjoy that sport, the free-flowing food and drink. However, from those early days Las Vegas has evolved into an expensive, upscale destination with nary a 99-cent buffet in sight, and drinks running $13 a pop. Lucky for us that Mary provided lots of perks, compliments of her connections in the travel industry.

Now that I’ve covered the niceties, the reader might be left to wonder about the parts I’ve left out—those in-between-dinners-and-shows times. What about the debauchery? What about the gambling? What about the SIN, for crying out loud?

As it turns out, the very best way to visit Las Vegas is with someone who has no prior expectations of how you’ll behave. I highly recommend it. Next year, maybe Newfoundland.

Curt, Me, and Hugh: A Travelogue



Hugh? Or maybe his unknown
brother, Herb?

Hugh Hefner was among the passengers on our Danube River cruise.

OK, not really, but this guy certainly was a reasonable facsimile. If he’d been sporting a bathrobe and had 20-year-old hotties hanging off him, it would have sealed the deal.

While Hugh was certainly a bit on the elderly side, it was apparent that the average age range skewed toward over-50 on this trip. One of Curt’s first observations at our welcome session: “We may be the youngest people on the boat.” This actually reveals more about the sorry state of our age-denial than about the age of the other passengers, because it didn’t take long to realize that a considerable percentage of those “old people” were about our age. That should have come as no surprise, as it’s not the sort of trip most people would take with young families. No, it’s the sort of trip that appeals to Curt and me: plenty of amazing sightseeing in foreign countries with all our creature comforts attended to by English-speaking crew members. Comfortable lodging, minimal packing and unpacking, great food and drink, and never having to worry about how much a liter of petrol costs.



Looking down at the village of Melk from the abbey

Though that doesn’t mean our trip was stress-free. Au contraire! Get this: We had to wake early so that we could breakfast on chocolate croissants (me) and sausages (Curt) before catching our scheduled tours of cathedrals and palaces (sorry to say I didn’t note what Hugh ate for breakfast). When shopping in the historic cities and villages, we had to cipher the dollar equivalent of euros. The weather was unseasonably cold and cloudy for October, requiring us to pile on unattractive, chub-inflating layers. And one time at dinner, the parmesan atop my tomato soufflé didn’t foam properly. Life can be cruel, can it not?

  

Our feet and legs were definitely tired at the end of each day, having roamed cobblestoned streets, climbed steps to monasteries perched atop cliffs, ambled through palace gardens, and gawked at castles. Having been bored by reading about these things in the history books—the wars, the invasions, the influence of the Church—it’s amazing how being there makes it all come alive and infinitely more interesting. So at the risk of boring my readers in kind, I’ll just skim over the highlights.


 

Inside the Melk Abbey Cathedral

 


Vista along the picturesque Danube Wachau Valley

 

Curt and me at St. Matthias Church, Budapest

Each day began with a tour of a different city. We began in Budapest, the city split in two by the Danube—modern Pest with its picturesque Parliament complex and Old City Buda with its massive hilltop castle complex. The next day we docked outside Vienna, where after the city tour (and a purchase of some Viennese chocolates) we toured Schönbrunn Palace, the ruling Habsburg family’s summer residence that employed 4,000 servants in its time. We cruised through scenic Wachau Valley, lined with villages, spires, ruined castles, vineyards, and ended up the next day at Melk, Austria, home to a 900-year-old abbey with a library of medieval manuscripts and a baroque cathedral. We then entered Germany, with our first stop in Passau, the City on Three Rivers, where we attended an organ concert in rococo-style St. Stephan’s Cathedral featuring a 17,000-pipe organ. Next was Regensburg, a fabulously well-preserved medieval city that escaped World War II bombing with its 12^th-century stone bridge and stained glass cathedral. Regensburg is also where Curt purchased his most prized souvenir, a rabbit-hair fedora, from Europe’s finest hatmaker (which also made a hat for the Pope for his 80^th birthday).

That afternoon the sun finally made an appearance, and we had an excursion to a seventh-century monastery, Weltenburg Abbey, with stunning views of the Danube River Gorge. After a tour of its ornate cathedral we enjoyed beer and pretzels from the on-site brewery, founded in 1050. Back on the ship, we entered the canal system and made our way upriver through 20-some locks to Nuremberg, where we ended our trip. This city is famous for its WWII Nazi rallies and was heavily bombed; it was rebuilt with every effort at maintaining 13^th-century authenticity. There we shared a table in a lively biergarten with two elderly German ladies who spoke no English.

Each evening we enjoyed a cocktail hour back on board, followed by a wonderful multi-course dinner accompanied by fine wines, and then music and dancing. With just 150 passengers, we met some wonderful people who enhanced the whole experience. In the “small world” department, we met a couple from Wheaton, Illinois, the city in which I work and is just down the road from our home; and a woman who taught elementary school in Ankeny, Iowa, back when Curt and I were both in high school, and who knew many of our teachers.



Fortunately, all was quiet on the terrorist and toxic sludge fronts. We fell a little short of my goal for the trip of getting in plenty of QAT*, but we did make it to the hot tub once. Considering we came home with vastly broadened horizons, an extra pound around the middle, and a pope hat, I’m calling it a winner. 

*Quality Ass Time; see October 14 post 



The Sky’s the Limit

I’m just your average, everyday, born-and-bred Midwesterner. Meaning, when you look up “mainstream” in the dictionary, there’s a picture of me. To top it off, my Dutch heritage seems to have imparted a genetic tendency toward thriftiness. As Curt so elegantly puts it, I “squeeze a nickel until the buffalo farts.” (I apologize for my crudeness, but that’s a direct quote.)

So when it comes time to plan a trip, I look for deals. Usually our destinations are chosen on the basis of how good a deal I can get. And it generally goes without saying that we’ll be flying economy class. Until our recent trip to Europe, that is. At Curt’s insistence we cashed in some of his frequent flyer miles to go business class for each nine-hour flight (plus one connection) from Chicago to Budapest, Hungary, and then back from Nuremberg, Germany.

Having scant experience traveling in this exalted fashion, I can’t say whether Lufthansa’s accommodations exceed industry standards, but baby, I can tell you it’s sa-weeeet. 

Tasting the good life in the business-
class lounge in Munich (yes, that's
a bloody Mary, not a beer)



Waiting in the special spacious, quiet, comfy-seated lounges before boarding, we were plied with wine, espresso drinks and extensive snack options (including sausage, beer and pretzels in Munich). Upon boarding the plane through our separate jetways, we were directed to our 150-degree-reclining seats with lumbar massage at the press of a button, full-size blankets and pillows at each seat. The German-accented, perfectly made up, elegantly bunned flight attendants brought us champagne to sip as we waited for takeoff. Once in the air, steaming towels were distributed that we might cleanse ourselves of the filth encountered rubbing shoulders with the hoi polloi in the airport. (I was reminded of the only time previously that we were upgraded to first class when all three of our girls were young. When asked “Would you like a hot towel?” by the attendant, daughter Kim asked her “What for?”) After the white tablecloths were draped over our tray tables, chef-inspired meals such as sesame-crusted tuna pastrami with glass noodles, accompanied by a choice of fine wines, were delivered from carts bedecked with vases of gerbera daisies. 

The return flight west was daylight all the way, since we left at 4:00 p.m. and arrived in Chicago about 6:00 p.m. (seven-hour time difference). In our own little business-class restroom, decorated with its own gerbera daisy, I mooned Iceland through the window positioned directly over the toilet.

That we might not suffer boredom, each seat featured its own screen with a wide choice of on-demand movies, TV shows, and even video games. (I tried Tetris but couldn’t really get the hang of the remote.) On the trip east I mostly slept, but coming home I watched part of Eclipse (decided it wasn’t doing it for me), Zoolander (very funny), Sex in the City II (great clothes), Toy Story 3 (grandson Will had warned me it was very scary), and a documentary on Bora Bora.

Having embarrassed myself with my wide-eyed wonder over flying business class, can you imagine what I’d be like if we’d been in first class? As far as I could tell by craning my neck trying to look past the curtains dividing the cabins, the main difference was that first class got red roses instead of daisies. But for all I know, they may have been served rock lobster tail by George Clooney and entertained with a live performance by Paul McCartney.

So … where to next? I think I’ll check out deals for Bora Bora. Though, Honey, if you’re reading this: you’ll have to work extra hard to accumulate the miles we’re going to need now that I’ve tasted the ways of the privileged.





Wherever the Water Takes Me

What makes for a fabulous vacation? Different things for different people, undoubtedly.

Growing up in Iowa in the ’50s and ’60s, my idea of a fabulous vacation was my family’s annual trek to Ideal Beach Resort on Lake Miltona in central Minnesota. Dad was an avid fisherman who spent dawn to dusk trolling the lake for walleye and northern pike while Mom held down the cabin, sweeping away the prodigious amounts of sand we kids dragged in and then frying each day’s catch for supper. God knows why she considered this a vacation for herself; for one 18-year period during which she often had babies in diapers, she had to boil the diapers on the stove after hauling water to the cabin, which lacked indoor plumbing until about 1960. Mom, always a meticulous housekeeper, cooked three meals a day for two weeks for five or six people in that rustic kitchen. I’m not sure whether a restaurant even existed within 20 miles of the place.

That two-week interlude each July was Shangri-La to us kids. For us, and apparently for Mom, too, what the resort lacked in amenities was amply compensated for by its location on a wonderful natural beach with an enormous, shallow, sandy-bottomed swimming area. Our days consisted of donning and doffing swimsuits hung out back on the clothesline between wearings, never quite dry because of the humidity. Running down the dock and hurling ourselves into a big tractor-tire inner tube. Shrieking in the rolling waves on a windy Fourth of July. Lolling lazily on a big beach blanket in the sand, transistor radio tuned to the Top 40. Catching minnows, building sand castles and collecting shells. Mining the treasures at the resort store, like Black Cows and Sugar Daddies and candy necklaces and those six-packs of miniature wax Coke bottles (what IS that stuff, anyway?). Roasting marshmallows at a beach bonfire, all the while reeking of the mosquito repellent which would never be strong enough to deter the blood-sucking hordes of those summer nights.

Somewhere in the nostalgic recesses of my mind lurks that carefree child splashing in the waves. Until the last few years, though, the sorry state of our finances allowed little more than an annual family pool pass to assuage my grown-up aquatic yearnings.

Finally in middle age, the kids out of college and Curt and I both gainfully employed, we began a serious pursuit of vacations combining my favorite water-based activities with plenty of QAT (the family acronym for Quality Ass Time, which itself is shorthand for Activities Best Pursued While Sitting on Your Ass). These have tended toward beach-bumming and ocean-gazing, with a few snorkeling excursions thrown in if we were feeling particularly energetic.

This weekend, though, we leave on a different kind of vacation, one that we expect will educate and illuminate. Destination: the beautiful blue Danube, starting in Budapest, Hungary, and ending in Nuremburg, Germany. One week being guided through ancient monasteries, castles and cathedrals, accompanied by on-board lectures and strudel-making demonstrations, fueled by hefty doses of Viennese coffee, German brewskis and a glass or two of European wine. We’re a little worried about the potential for rain, and yes, we heard about the toxic sludge making its way toward the Danube from a tributary. And yes, the U.S. State Department has issued a travel alert warning citizens traveling to Europe to be cautious of the threat of attacks. But we’ve had this trip planned and paid for way too long to let sludge or vague references to terrorists deter us.

And did I mention we’ll be traveling on the river? We will not only broaden our horizons, but we get to do it mostly on the water. Hopefully all that on-shore culturizing will allow plenty of time for QAT. After spending days trudging along quaint and historic cobblestoned paths, I’m envisioning our sore muscles soothed in the riverboat’s hot tub as we gaze in awe at the passing scenery reflected in the tranquil hues of the river. Is that asking too much?

I'll let you know.

Nine Things I’m (Probably) Not Writing About

This blogging business is harder than it looks.

Especially for someone like me: a procrastinator, a perfectionist with a mile-wide lazy streak. I used to wonder why I had such trouble making decisions; a rare flash of insight tells me it’s because I’m afraid to make the wrong one. So I don’t make one at all. Which in itself, of course, is a decision not to do ANYTHING. Like when nothing seems like a good topic for a blog post.

I started off writing I Run in Jeans with some optimism. I’ll post something three times a week! No, that’s too aggressive, twice a week is sufficient. Wait … I don’t want to wear my readers out. I think three times in two weeks is enough. But no, once a week is really plenty. It’s not for the readers—it’s for myself! After all, it’s just for fun! I enjoy writing! So what if I don’t post for a whole month? It’s not like I’m getting graded or anything. And I don’t care whether anyone else reads it anyway! Wait, who am I kidding? I thrive on the feedback!

My modus operandi is generally this: Take a germ of an idea and just start writing about it until I see where it takes me. The approach will reveal itself in the process. (Or maybe it will be a blog about nothing! Just like my all-time favorite sitcom Seinfeld.) Knowing that it might take me some time to make sense of my germ, and that I'll undoubtedly change directions several times, I procrastinate.

In the past couple of weeks, during which I haven’t posted a new entry, I have been obsessing about what I could be posting. It’s not for lack of inspiration that I’ve not written anything; it’s more for lack of conviction that the concepts have any entertainment value. Because above all—OK, make that in second place right after good food—humor is what makes the world go ’round. What about love, you ask? Well, duh, food and humor ARE love. That’s the truth as practiced in my family, anyway.

Parked at my Dell desktop with a bloody Mary (containing blue-cheese-stuffed olives on a toothpick), I briefly reconsidered a few of my recently discarded blog topics:

1) My birthday. I turned 57. Big whoop. Everyone has a birthday every single year. The aging thing has been done to death.
2) Thoughts on my husband’s five-month unemployment, and how that affects aspects of our relationship. Except he reads this blog. And it’s not really funny. And I really do care about his feelings.

3) The five-mile Walk for Women’s Wellness I did with my granddaughter Autumn last weekend. And how my hips ached afterward. Again, big whoop. 

4) Being a vegetarian and eating beef stew the other night, and how delicious it was. Hmm … maybe I CAN get some mileage out of that one. But I’ll have to be careful of the soapbox.

5) Couples’ book club last Saturday. Enjoyable, but nothing inspired me.

6) Losing Sarah, one of the people on my staff at work, whom I greatly valued as an exceptional employee and as a quality human being. She’s getting married and moving away. SO not funny. Ob-la-di, ob-la-dah, life goes on.



Gramps, so named because of the long gray hair
protruding from his ears.

7) Our gigantic, incredibly furry Maine coon cat, Gramps. Cats in general appeal to a rather narrow audience. He’s kind of funny, but he’s also kind of a bad cat. Like, he claws the furniture and pees on shoes. But here’s a picture of him, since I’m probably never going to write about him in depth.

8) Getting my hair cut and not liking it. I TOLD Michelle I want to grow it out! She said she was barely trimming it! Why is it so short? Really, that’s about all there is to say about the matter.

9) Lighting our fireplace for the first time this season. Reading the Sunday paper and drinking coffee in our pajamas until noon. As lovely a picture as that paints, let’s face it: booooooorrring.



Unfortunately, none of these brilliant topics has taken hold and expanded itself into post-worthiness. But you never know; if I grow desperate somewhere down the road my readers may find themselves being regaled with details of the lame discussion from book club, or my latest aches and pains. Or maybe I’ll just keep posting about what I didn’t post about. And I hope you think my cat is cute.