Make a Wish...

This year on my birthday I woke up and just stared at the ceiling feeling frustrated and, quite frankly, a little lost. Though I knew I had made the right choice in leaving a good job and starting fresh in the Pacific Northwest, I couldn’t help but wonder when would this unknown future of mine finally kick in. When would the leaves from the money tree start to fall? I decided to throw out a request to anyone listening, asking for some sign that everything would be okay on the road ahead. And then, I got out of bed to start my day. 

My initial birthday plan was to head out of Portland, find a strenuous hiking trail to conquer, then follow it by a soak in a natural hot spring. But bad weather scratched those plans so I opted for a hike locally.  

As I put on my trail shoes the phone rang. It was someone from ABC’s Good Morning America, wondering if I could drive out to Timberline Lodge --about an hour east of Portland -- and help produce the unfolding story of three missing hikers on Mount Hood. Without hesitation, I said, “absolutely!” He suggested I pack an overnight bag but not to be surprised if I were asked to stay even longer.  

I arrived at Timberline Lodge (http://www.timberlinelodge.com/) just as the snow started coming down hard. So I took in the historic landmark as quickly as I could. The lodge had been built in the 1930s under Roosevelt. It was adorned with beautiful art work, big stone fireplaces, and stairways with carved etchings. Its exterior also served as the Outlook Hotel in the movie The Shining. Pretty cool. 

But I wasn’t here to sightsee: I was here to work. And all the mayhem surrounding the missing hikers’ story brought back memories of both why I got into journalism and why I got out. The information we were receiving from authorities wasn’t looking good; one hiker had been found dead and his two companions were still missing. As the snowstorm raged on outside, the Sheriff’s office called off the search for the night.  

It was only then I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. The only people left were a reporter from the Oregonian and me. We decided to have dinner at the Timberline’s Cascade Dining Lodge, considered one of the finest restaurants in Oregon. Besides, it was still my birthday after all…why not treat myself? After an amazing meal with complimentary champagne and a delicious glass of pinot noir from a local winery, we topped the night off with an incredible dessert. Here I was celebrating my birthday with a handsome stranger and I was working hard, making some money. It was a far cry from the “lost” feeling I had at the start of the day. I went from melancholy in the morning to the craziness of a last minute job offer, to taking a trip afterall. Talk about a complete 180.  Or, well, at least a 160. 

And though I realized the events of the day weren’t necessarily the path to my *unknown future*, as I blew out my candle, I knew everything really would be okay. I thanked those special angels out there for giving me this renewal of hope -- and I made a wish that the hikers on Mount Hood were safe, warm, and filled with love.

Update: at this blog posting the two hikers remain missing and ground search efforts have resumed. Please keep the hikers and their families in your thoughts and prayers.

The FAT fight.

Flying, especially during the holidays, can be a big hassle. But my first trip out of Portland to see family in the Midwest was nearly perfect. And as I prepared to return to the Northwest I thought, “what could possibly go wrong?”

Turns out? A lot.

I arrived at the Detroit airport with luggage and license in hand. A US Airways employee, who we’ll call Jerome (because that’s what his name tag said), looked at my license and before I know it, I’m hearing him say: “You … license … 20 pounds lighter… back then.”

SNAP!!!

Was this guy for real? Did he really just say that?!

Here I was, carrying a backpack filled with organic food and feeling pretty good about my body.  I was even “good” about how I ate over the holiday. But this man’s comment brought me crashing down.

The scene that followed wasn’t pretty.

As I practically threw my “30-pound” suitcase at him, I hissed, “you should be careful what you say, mister.” He apologized. But it was too late. I had let him get to me. I fumed as I went through security. I fumed even more as security took away my yogurt, because we all know what kind of destruction lies inside an 8-ounce container of Greek yogurt.

I was so upset I couldn’t think straight. So I called US Airways to complain about Jerome. The lady on the other end of the phone was as appalled as I was and encouraged me to email customer relations. I quickly fired up my laptop only to find I’d have to pay $9.95 to get WiFi. Fine. I thought: I’d wait to get home to deal with the Jerome drama.

As fate would have it, Jerome was the person checking our boarding passes to get on the plane as well. I decided I’d ignore him. But as I handed him my pass, he apparently remembered me because he looked at me and said, “again, I’m very sorry.” I responded with a curt, “sir, I’ve already called US Airways.” Jerome looked away, visibly upset, and whispered, “okay.” And that was that.

But as I headed to my seat, I felt my throat constrict and tears well up. Why couldn’t I have just said, “that’s okay Jerome, we all make mistakes?” Instead I was as mean to him as he’d been to me. As I sat down, I thought about all that happened. It was so random. So out of the blue.

Until suddenly I remembered something from the night before. My sister-in-law and I had taken my nephews to the science museum for one last night of fun. When we gave the girl at the register our last name she mentioned she had gone to high school with one of my cousins who happened to be an amazing athlete in track and field. As we walked away I joked, “clearly, she wasn’t on my cousin’s track team.” It was a snide and totally unnecessary remark about this young girl’s figure ... an ugly comment about a perfectly nice girl who had done absolutely nothing wrong to me.

As I waited for the plane to take off it all started to make sense. It’s called Karma. So I thank you, Jerome, for your comment and the lesson I learned from this experience. And while flying during the holidays can sometimes be painful and annoying, it can also be incredibly enlightening.

Soaking up the holidaze...

There’s something to be said about returning home for the holidays; to the place where the people who know you best can say just the right thing to turn on your happy face or hit the button that turns you red with anger. One minute you’re laughing and the next your younger brother is making a joke about that adolescent girlie mustache you once had above your lip. During the holiday season this is more than sibling rivalry: it’s all out war with both of us digging deep, hoping to find the most humiliating story we can and share it with the rest of the family.

This rivalry also extends to my young nephews who can show absolute adoration for one another, then flip in an instant by slugging and tugging when no one is looking. Add to that the sugar buzz that comes with holiday treats and you’ve got full on laughing and crying from “Jojo keeps tickling his nuts!” to “D-man punched me in the stomach!” It probably didn’t help that I bought each of them fake poop as a present. They are boys after all; plus I figured my coolness factor would fly off the charts. What I didn’t anticipate was their non-stop re-enactment of taking a rather tough bowel movement. Next time they’re getting a fish.

But this wasn’t a holiday weekend filled with just nuts and slugs. For about an hour each night there was a calmness that settled over the house. What was this power that lulled little children into a mesmerized state of Zen? What could make little kids and adults laugh together in unison over the same joke? Well, his name is Spongebob Squarepants and I have new admiration for him. Years ago when I first discovered this somewhat flamboyant fictional cartoon character while visiting friends, I turned in amazement and whispered “is Spongebob gay?” to which my friend replied, “We don’t discuss that because it doesn’t matter either way”. And she was absolutely right. It doesn’t matter if he’s straight or gay because when his buddy Patrick comes prancing on the screen in fishnet stockings igniting laughter among a family of all ages, you can’t help but appreciate the humor on so many levels.

And the moral of the story this holiday season? Young or old, straight or gay, mustache or not? Family is family, regardless of blood, and when you have the opportunity to be together and share in the moment, take advantage of it.  Because these are the folks who will always be there for you, poop or no poop. 

The Age Old Game of Lying...

When I was a kid I couldn’t wait to get older. Now that I’m 42, that’s not the case so much anymore. But this week the age game seemed to play a starring role in my life. First, a friend confided she wasn’t sure how she’d react to turning 50, even though she’s years away. Then, another scolded me for asking a mutual friend her age, saying “you should never ask a lady her age.” What is that all about anyway?  Why not?  

The climax came when I discovered a guy I met shortly after moving to Portland had lied about his age. I’d always suspected it but now that I was certain, I couldn’t help but think “Really dudeman, this is how you start off relationships?” Shaving off five years of his age meant he was almost ten years older than me, not just the four or so I was led to believe. Which explains a lot… like the blank look he got on his face when I talked about watching The Jetsons every Saturday as a kid.    

The biggest thing about this to me is: why lie? What purpose did his lying achieve? Was he that insecure and sensitive about his age?  Are we ALL too sensitive about our ages? 

Obviously there’s a difference between lying about your age and refraining from revealing it. Regardless, I try to see age as just a number and I’m a friend to all numbers. Sometimes it’s a good thing, sometimes it’s not. When I was 27, I asked my 9-year-old neighbor if she thought a guy I liked might like me back… to which she shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I’m nine.”

This week I had friends over for a spaghetti dinner. Our ages ranged from 26 to 42. The weekend was consumed with college football surrounded by friends and lots of strangers. The ages probably ranged from 5 to 75. And every single one of those ages is perfectly fine. I’m a firm believer that having friends of all ages keeps us young. 

Life is short and the aging process is inevitable. Perhaps it’s our responsibility to represent our age whatever that number may be. Besides, no one gets out of here alive and the longer we’re here the older we get. So why fight it? Embrace it. Own it. Just don’t lie about it. 
 
 
 
 
 

Cool, hip and almost fearless...

I’ve always thought women who ride bikes on dirt trails are cool, hip, and fearless. And given the chance, I figured I’d try to be one of them. My friend Vicky is one of those women and this week she drove from Northern California to come visit me. She was also writing a piece for singletrack.com, an online magazine geared toward the bicyclist. In my opinion, it doesn’t get much cooler, “hipper” or more fearless than that.

Our plan was to ride a dirt trail at a nearby park. It sounded easy enough and it was… until we rode up to a single track and decided to give that a try instead. A single track is a dirt path typically only the width of a bike. But that’s not how *I* would describe this single track. This one was skinny and muddy and, frankly, I thought I was going to die. As I wobbled, weaved, and panted my way uphill, I silently prayed I wouldn’t fall into the rock-filled creek. Vic was cheering me on from the top. I, in turn, was secretly cursing her for making me do this. But in truth, when we got back to the main dirt drag, I felt exhilarated.  

That exhilaration lasted until we got back to my house, because that was when I found out that several of my former CNN.com colleagues had been laid off that day. The live, streaming news service known as CNN.com Live was no more, or at least it was not going to be the way I’d always known it. Having worked at the network for nearly 15 years, I had witnessed layoffs before but this one hit really close to home. CNN.com was the place I had always felt most comfortable. And although I had left on my own in June, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like had I stayed. I will always cherish the few pictures I have from my dotcom days.   

 One thing is certain:  there is life after CNN… and so far it’s pretty awesome. Anything is possible and there is so much out there to see. I mean, who would have thought five months after leaving the network I’d be trying something I never even put on my To Do list? Here I was in the Pacific Northwest; riding my bike on a single track, eating dirt, wearing dirt, and actually enjoying being one with dirt. For a brief moment in time I was cool, hip and almost fearless.

Call me superstitious...

I failed the knowledge portion of the Oregon driving test this week. I mean, who knew passing a person on horseback who’s raising his hand means the horse is nervous? And how many horses use Interstate 5 anyway? Add on top of that a $60 ticket for accidentally parking in a loading zone, then finish out the week with a flat tire after running over a nail, and there you have my unlucky week. Why all this misfortune? Simple: A black cat had crossed my path as the week began.  

Mind you, I have nothing against black cats as pets. It’s just when they cross my path, I get a little unnerved. 

Normally I would have turned the car around to avoid the situation altogether. But I had a friend with me and the last time I did that with a friend in the car I had to listen to him call me “crazy” all the way home.  

Well crazy is as crazy does and I’m not crazy. I just try to protect myself. It’s sort of like self-insurance, really. I knock on wood, avoid walking under ladders, and tend not to pick up pennies that are tail side up. But I wouldn’t describe myself as extremely-fundamental-superstitious. After all, I no longer lift my legs when crossing railroad tracks.   

And the week wasn’t all doom and gloom. From the street sweeper cleaning up the leaves to my friend Sarah, a poised and pretty woman, replacing my upper radiator hose in just minutes, there was plenty of positive too. Other moments included hiking up Multnomah Falls, catching sight of a rainbow after days of rain, and walking to Mt. Tabor, a few blocks from my house, to check out Mount Hood and a gorgeous sunset. 

Wandering around the park, I reminisced about the week that was and realized there were some lessons to be learned. First, study the driver’s manual first because twenty-six years of driving just doesn’t cut it. Second, failure comes in all forms. Deal with it and prepare to give the state of Oregon another five bucks to re-take the test. And finally, black cats wandering the streets of my neighborhood need to stay out of my path. Really, it’s for their own good. After all, I still haven’t passed that driver’s test yet. 

Writer’s note: this week’s blog is dedicated to my late cat Fatboy Sly, a fun-loving mostly black cat.

So old school it's new school.

I’ve often heard and said that duct tape is a must have in every single woman’s home. My admiration for this type of tape is pretty high up there. I mean, I’ve used it for everything from weatherizing my house to securing the front of my HVAC system! A month ago I decided to use it to stop a leaky radiator hose under the hood of my car. I figured if duct tape has always held up for me before, why would it ever stop? But, as will be the case with high expectations and delusional bliss, my duct tape was finally letting me down by coming apart and melting right off the hose. I guess every relationship does have its limitations after all. 

 The end came Halloween night on the way to a party with friends when, of course, we were all dressed in costume and ready for fun. We managed to temporarily fix the car problem, (with said beloved duct tape, of course), but the future of Subie remains uncertain. Though I do still love the tape, I’m not sure I can trust it anymore. 
 
 
 

The next day, with my friend Sarah visiting from Atlanta and without a reliable car, we took our friend Chris up on his offer to go sailing along the Columbia River on a gorgeous November day. With Mount Hood prominently featured in the background, the sheer beauty of our surroundings reminded me why I moved out here. Looking around, I also noticed how Captain Chris was surrounded by four single women on his sailboat… and can only assume he might be enjoying the beauty of his surroundings as well. 

This took me back to a conversation earlier in the week while visiting friends at their home as they taped their weekly podcast for Geek in the City www.geekinthecity.com. The scene was so old school it was new school! Sitting around later, they told me about a former radio host who used to advise guys on how to pick up women. For example, he would tell them to find ATM receipts with large balances, write down their numbers and hand them out to the ladies so they’d be impressed by their financial status and return a call. Seriously? And this worked? According to my guy friends, it did.  

So I guess my advice to my single gal pals is to be very wary of guys who hand you their number on an ATM receipt with any kind of balance showing.  I don’t care what they say: that’s just kind of ridiculous. But then I remembered that all my gal pals aren’t the type to be led by big balances anyway. In many ways, these women are like me, just trying to find ways to keep things together in life… most likely with some nearby handy dandy duct tape.