The Inconvenience of Convenience

I ponder at how small the world has become through the most innovative invention: the jet. I recently flew to San Francisco in mere matter of about an hour and 45 minutes. An astonishing feat considering it would take me 15 hours by car, or several months on foot. Or several decades by hitchhiking. (Nobody picks up hitchhikers anymore. It's very disappointing). The airplane is the most convenient means of traveling long distances. 

Once the airplane delivered me to the SFO airport, I excitedly ran through the place in great anticipation of seeing a dear friend whom I had not seen for a while. After a whirlwind of socializing my trip was over. Far too soon. And so, I was deposited at the airport yet again to return to where I had come. 

I passed through security in about fifteen minutes. Now, the reason for the delay in security was the fact that a family in front of me, with three kids, had seemingly never gone through security. They required detailed instructions and re-instructions as to what to do with their bags, belts, laptops, iPads, cell phones, liquids, gels, drones, headphones, jewelry, shoes, sweatshirts, and apparently mental issues rooted in childhood too. This family held up the line with their incompetence. I was getting impatient and my arm was getting tired holding my poorly packed pack. The woman in front of me looked at me and we had a moment of shared irritation. How dare they inconvenience us. We are clearly important people who have somewhere to go see and to be seen ourselves. (Obvs). 

Fiiiinally, upon successful completion of security I then went over to check my departing flight. I studied the screen until I found my flight. Next to my flight there was a notation saying that instead of leaving at 7:30 PM, my United flight had now been changed to leave at 10 PM. 10 PM!  “Ugh” I thought, “This is why I fly Alaska. This would Never happen on Alaska!” (Cheap plug for Alaska airlines here). 

How unjust for me to be inconvenienced! I already was delayed in the security line by a massive, endless, unbearable, five minutes. Now you may not know this about me but I happen deserve a life completely and devoid of irritants. I really do. I don’t deserve to be stuck in traffic. Or to have flights delayed. You see, I am a princess who is entitled to strut through life easily without ever ever being inconvenienced. In frustration, I furrowed my eyebrows, huffed, clenched my fist and stamped my foot like an indignant three year old. (I am really pretty convincing at being an indignant three year old due to my unbelievably low level of maturity). But, it was at that moment when I was given the ability to check my privilege. I have the great privilege to even have an opinion about airlines. 

Many, dare I say most world citizens don't have the privilege to form opinions about airlines. Flying is beyond the realm of their dreams. Like, they're aware people fly in airplanes, but it's not anybody that they know. When I came to that realization, I gave myself a much warranted lecture. (I find that one effectively changes people by yelling and giving lectures. It's a very effective communication strategy). (That was a joke). I told myself, "You bratty little brat! Nobody likes a brat. Seriously, nobody likes you and nobody ever will unless you grow up and change literally every thing about you, okay?" I then added "Dumbass!" for dramatic effect. I felt defeated and humbled by my own self-lecture. And so, in my defeat, I heaved a long dreary sigh as I sat down in a chair. It was going to be a long several hours. And, my kindle wasn't charged. And, I had forgotten my laptop at home as I had left the house in such a fluster. So, I got out my phone and wrote this. 

The thing is - we’re gonna be inconvenienced in this life. And while it is devastating to the more immature of us (i.e. moi) - dude, get over it. We should be surprised when things do go according to plan sans inconveniences. Because guess what? Air travel is actually amazing. It really is. Even if flights are delayed. 

Eventually my flight boarded and took off. There we all were at 34,000 feet up, eating pretzels, and breathing recycled air. The weighty pressurized tube somehow charged across the sky at 500 miles per hour by some scientific phenomenon I don't have the brain power to comprehend. The plane unceremoniously landed with no fanfare and deposited the pasty tired travelers. Pasty, tired, privileged travelers who conveniently were transported a great distance in just one hour and 30 minutes. 

Covert Romantic Plotting

I recently found myself needing to gain access to my old hotmail account that I made when I was in high school. So, I put in my (immature and ridiculous) original email and then used my ancient password. Well, it didn't work. So, I tried some other old passwords but came up empty handed. I was then given the option to recover my password by answering a security question or having the hotmail wizards send me a text with a recovery number to type in. "I'll take the recovery question," I thought. After all, I know myself quite well. I felt confident in the answering of the question. Until I read the security question. This was my security question created at age 16.

"Who do I like?" 

When I saw that's what the 16 year-old version of me created as a security question, I could not help but emit loud guffaws! I was reminded that I am not the person I have always been - I used to be a boy crazy teen sitting on my blow-up furniture, twirling my hair, applying self tanner, and dreaming about the boy that I uh, "liked." I did this all whilst carelessly failing pre-algebra. 

Now teenage girls who happen to suffer from boy crazy developmental disorder require a gaggle of girls with whom to conspire. And, I had just that. At social events, we would have clandestine meetings that consisted of plotting, scheming, and hushed chortles. We advised each other on how to land a man. "Stalk him. Then you could impress him with your 'detective skills'" or, "Stand outside his window and sing 'Make you Happy' by Celine Dion." We'd make plans to bewitch our teenage crushes. Then, we'd proceed with all dispatch to lure them into our enchantment.

But of course, we could never talk about the boys who we happened to like using actual names. Otherwise, someone may overhear our conversation. They undoubtedly might find out! Mortifying! So, at these conspiratorial meetings, we would come up with code names for our hopeful matrimonial allies. 

One target of affection happened to have the initials KM. His name was Klaus Meister. In order to conceal his identity (actually, more to conceal the identity of the liker). We came up with the nickname "Shackles." Why you ask? Let me explain. You see, my friend Keiko, and I were subjected to being the children of vitamin evangelists. My mother, and Keiko's mother would frequent the same vitamin dealer. Thus, we were both regularly administered a dosage of a vitamin drink called KM - made by a company called Shaklee. Now, when you meet a fellow minor, who is also at the mercy of a mother who happily espouses Shaklee products, - it creates an profound, deep, everlasting bond that crushes through bedrock. Nothing bonds two people like shared childhood trauma. Anyways, when we saw Klaus, er "Shackles," at various social events - we would alert each other of his presence by saying things like: "I spot Shackles at 3 o'clock" and nobody knew what on earth we were talking about. 

I had a crush on a young man called Theodore Arrington. Actually, maybe it was more than a crush. I mean, I did refer to my feelings for him as "an out of control forest fire." Anyways, he had initials of TA. So we obviously called him "Tallahassee." Again, people who weren't "in the know" didn't know what I mean't when I said, "Tallahassee is such a dish!" And, when my accomplices sang back in unison, "Dishee dishee Tallahassee!" It only elicited blank stares from those who did not speak our language. Now, had I said "Theodore is a babe and a half!" those in close auditory proximity would have noticed the surging teen hormones - which, of course, would have been a huge embarrassment alert. 

Now, the idea for code names was a genius idea. But, not such a genius idea when one decides to make it a security question answer to their hotmail account. Who did I like when I was 16? Was the answer to my question "Tallahassee?" Was it "Theodore?" Was it "Theodore Arrington?" Was it "Shackles and Tallahassee?" All caps? No caps? Was it a code name of a guy that has long since been forgotten? I feel like "Lord Pimberly" may have been a code name. Maybe it was that guy called Jeff who I sat next to on the bus on the school ski trip. There was that really cute guy who worked at the organic hippie store. Maybe the password was "organichippiestoreguy." Maybe it was...gosh.. this was getting tough. As I scratched my head and banged my forehead, I made a decision to give up (something I often do). As a teen, I had crushes on a lot of guys. I mean, I wasn't discriminating at all. 

Digging into the depths of my romantic past  - or shall I say "could have been a romantic past" was too hard. There was simply too much material. In the end, I opted to have my password reset via a text message code. And guess what? My old hotmail account still exists!

The Language on the Shop Signs

This evening - like many people across this great country - I engaged in my civic duty of voting. As I walked up to the ballot box, which had the words "Ballot Drop Off" written in several languages, I waited for an attractive handholding bi-racial couple to cast their ballots. The woman was of Asian descent and man looked to be of Latino descent. We made eye contact and shared a silent acknowledgment of our voting participation. 

Later, as I took my passeggiata. I encountered a young Latino boy shooting hoops in his driveway. I greeted him with a smile and he grinned and waved at me (which, of course, made me grin too). As I sashayed about my neighborhood - I encountered a woman who looked Latina running and we too addressed one another with a smile as we passed. When I came nearer my home, I watched the post lady delivering packages - she looked to be Punjabi.

My neighborhood is a quiet unassuming place but very diverse. The other day, there appeared to be a quinceanera and mariachi music was blasting from someone's garage. One can smell various ethnic cuisines wafting through the air around 6pm on any given evening. There are Filipino, Vietnamese, Punjabi, Mexican, and Honduran people who live here. Many of the signs on the stores, in this neighborhood, are written in Vietnamese or Spanish. It's a place where immigrants live and where those of us who had the great fortune of being born in America - are a minority. 

Now, my rainy hometown was probably similar to this about 100 years ago. In my rainy hometown, many the of the folks there are of Scandiwhovian or Scandisomething ancestry. Thus, there is a higher percentage of people with blue eyes, blonde hair (or a variation of it), and a bit of height. In that rainy place, there is a large white and blue building that says "Suomi Hall" on the outside. There is a hall there for "The Sons of Norway." Many of the streets have Scandinavian names too. 

I've heard my aunts tell me that they had to go visit their grandmother (who lived with them upstairs) once per day and speak Finnish to her. I imagine the families in my neighborhood have grandparents that live with them. I'll bet the children are subjected to speaking their parents native language with their grandmother too. 

Over the generations, the rainy town has lost most of the Scandinavian languages yet the Nordic heritage still lingers. There is a store in Main Street that sells Scandinavian goods - such as Marimekko textiles, reindeer hides, Marttiini knives, and those little Swedish horses (dalecarlian for all you vocabulary increasers out there). And, there is an annual Scandinavian festival complete with a May Pole. But now, the signs on the shops are in English, not Danish or Swedish. 

And ya know what? Whether in my quiet unassuming neighborhood or the rainy town - we all get to vote. Voting gives all Americans, no matter where they come from - what language they speak, or what their hair color is - a chance to participate in the oldest democracy in the world. 

And that, dear reader, is probably the most beautiful thing about America. 

An Encounter With Drifters

I just love it when the day gives you what you don't expect. Sometimes, these things can wreck your day (say a car accident), but sometimes they are a pleasant surprise and teach new life lessons or give one an unexpected outlook. That happened tonight. I decided I would take a dip in the communal hot tub that the residents of my complex enjoy before it closed. So, I robed myself in the proper attire and sashayed across the street to the hot tub.

I was sitting quietly in the tub when two people appeared out of the dark. A guy jumped over the fence and said "Mind if we join you?" Following close behind him was a girl. These people clearly were not residents of the housing community. They both had on jeans, boots and a lot of chains and studded accessories, which they probably classified as jewelry. But, I figured "who cares if they mooch off a hot tub?" And also, how was I, a twenty-something female sitting in a hot tub going to stop them? So I said "I don't mind." And I didn't mind.

The guy removed his shirt and then began to lower himself into the hot tub. He looked at me quickly and said "Do you mind?" And I replied "well...you could take off your boots.." "Ha, I'm too lazy!" and with that he plopped himself into the hot tub with a grin on his face. "We don't have bathing suits," he informed me. "Fair enough," I thought. The girl then joined us, she was wearing a bikini top and jeans. She informed me that her bikini top was her only bra. "Fair enough," I thought again. They pleasantly introduced themselves to me and we began to converse.

I knew these were interesting people, so I decided I would make the most of this situation. "Where do you live?" I asked the guy. I was naively thinking he lived in east Portland and found himself on the west side jumping fences to soak in restricted hot tubs. "I'm homeless," he replied. I wondered if that meant he slept on friend's couches, in shelters or on park benches. So I asked him "Where do you sleep?" "Mmm, mostly under overpasses and stuff,' he replied. I informed him that he was going to be awfully wet tonight as he was wearing his regular street clothing (including his sturdily built lace-up black boots) and he happened to be immersed in water.

I then turned my attention to the girl. I asked her where she was from and she told me some town in California. Somehow I found out that she had been in Austin and well, Portland is often compared to Austin. I wanted to know what it was like and she said she didn't like it because the cops were jerks. I suppose when you're a street kid, the town sheriff matters because they hassle you to stop sleeping on park benches and to not pan handle and what not. To people like me, the friendliness of the cops really isn't a reason for me to like or dislike a place. I've never had a proper run-in with the law.

Anyways, I learned quite a a bit about this girl. She was homeless for three years in her town in California but then things went south. She had to pay to sleep in the homeless shelter and there just weren't enough resources for homeless people, so she left. She hitchhiked all over the country. She had most recently been in Kansas City and had been in Portland for just a week. I asked her how she got from place to place and she told me through truckers. This rang an alarm in my mind. "Do you ever feel unsafe?" "Well, I'm still alive!" she replied. She then informed me her methods of hitchhiking with truckers and how she sits in the truck for a moment before it takes off. Apparently, drifters and street kids learn how to read people pretty well and she told there are characteristics you can pick up on right away. Sometimes she gets out of the truck and other times she decides it's safe. She has never had a regrettable experience.

I mostly conversed with the girl as the guy was contorting his body in unusual ways, making funny faces, emitting a variety of sounds, and being generally happy. But the girl was a chatty one and I wanted to know her story. She had a horse when she was young and she sometimes worked as a stable girl in whatever town she ended up in. Normally people didn't let her ride their horses, but she did know what she was doing. She found a cat in a storm drain and gave it a very long name, which I can't remember, but it goes something like this: storm-scuff-death kabie-gutter-babe-something-something-sheba-the-third. She and the guy had just met hanging out somewhere downtown. I commented to her that I think there is only one guy like the guy she just met. He certainly marched to the beat of his own drum and was a friendly one. She informed me that he was indeed pretty unique, but you meet interesting people when you live on the street.

I really have no idea what the world of the drifter is like. I've only seen the movie "Into the Wild" (and read the book, and bought the t-shirt). But, I have met some people when when you ask them where they live they say "nowhere." And, these people did quite strike me as those types.

I said I would cover them if security asked about them. I would just say I have my hot tub pass and they are my guests. I liked these kids, even though, I do have to admit, they had their issues. But they certainly weren't snobby and they were very friendly. I also think they enjoyed me asking them lots of questions. I wanted to ask them more like "What about your family?" or "Do you have any rooted relationships with anyone or do you just drift and meet random people constantly?" I wondered if they had a vision for their future. Did they think they could really do something with their lives? Did they even want to? Did they think this life could go on forever? I mean, it's cute and interesting and exotic when you're 22 to be a street kid/drifter...but time has a way of, well, moving on.

A group of Indian guys joined us (probably engineering students working on their master's, hey sorry for the stereotype there, but stereotyping serves a relevant purpose!). I think they thought the street kids were weird, and they were. We didn't talk to them. But, I realized there were two groups in the hot tub and I was a part of the homeless group, although I have a home.

After awhile, I got lost in my own thoughts and we all became silent and let the bubbles in the hot tub boil us and make noise. I had gotten a lot of information out of them and I was feeling too relaxed to make anymore conversation so, I said goodbye to them. "Thanks for putting up with us," the guy said. "Well, thank you for making it interesting," I replied.

I then wrapped a towel around myself and slipped into my $80 trendy travel sandals, feeling a bit pretentious. And yet, I knew these kids were not judging me for having expensive shoes and access to a pretentious hot tub.

Dogs and Crooks

There are people out there who know me personally and have had ample time to observe my strange psychology. These "so-called people," have probably even come to a dubious conclusion about my character. But before you people start saying all manner of nonsense about who I am. Let me, at the very least, defend myself! There is one thing I most certainly am not: an axe murderer. Yes, go tell it on the mountain. I am not a a dangerous villain to be dealt with carefully. I am simply a quiet unassuming caucasian female. (And Regis Philban fan). So, now you're probably wondering where all this paranoia of mine is coming from. Why am I defending my character so fervently? Where did I get such ideas that people think I'm dangerous?

Well, it's not people. It's actually animals.

I was walking down the street, in a most unassuming way, when a cute dog on a leash stopped walking and slinked back to the side of the sidewalk as I merrily passed by. The owner then told the canine "It's okay. She won't hurt you."

Of all the nerve! Of course I won't hurt the dog. Why must the owner assure this canine that he is in fact safe in my presence? I love dogs! My middle name is Dog! (Okay, I may be exaggerating). The only thing I might be tempted to do to the canine is reach down and give it a good scratch. I am very talented when it comes to scratching canines on their rump and ears. Actually, it's a violation of animal rights for me to let that talent do to waste.

At such an offensive comment, I found myself quite cross. "I'm a nice girl. I'm so approachable! What's the big idea?!" I defensively thought to myself. I then considered glowering at the animal but then I realized that I would give the animal something to fear. So, I decided against it. I decided not to let this minute misunderstanding bother me.

Next time I see a dog that fears me, I am going to give it a reassuring smile and talk to it in a breathy and soothing voice. And, I'm not going to take things so personally.

So remember, don't let silly things bother you. Even if someone (or some animal) gives you the wrong look or says the wrong thing. Well, it's all probably just a misunderstanding. It doesn't mean you're a crook, okay?

On the Topic of Wrangling Wild Northern Beasts

When I was a large/massive/weird child, I used to read books about horses, play with toy horses, draw pictures of horses, and memorize horse anatomy and breed types. For three years I religiously and selfishly prayed every night that God would use my polished manipulation skills to convince my parents to get horses. My parents were impressed with my knowledge and enthusiasm and my prayers were answered. So, we resurrected our falling down barn and built a barbed wire fence on our acreage. We ended up getting two inseparable Arabian sisters who had rebellious teenage attitudes.

Horse ownership isn’t all glamour and glitz. Frankly, it’s peasant farm labor. I shoveled monumental amounts of horse sh--, carried buckets of water up the hill to our barn, (since our barn had no running water), and loaded heavy hay bales from the truck into the loft. Then there is cleaning their hooves, tacking them up, bathing them, feeding them, getting them shod, and dealing with their neurotic tendencies and impossible psychology. Horses are exhausting.  

I haven’t done much horse riding since I was a kid. However, I’ve resurrected that hobby and I’ve found myself a little petulant horse to ride. She’s a feisty Icelandic/Paso Fino horse. She has a bushy black main, a little brown face with a bump on her nose, small dainty legs, and a ballooning belly.

And she’s a little pill! She tries to eat when we’re riding in the meadow – even though she’s just eaten and is, in fact, full. When I make her trot, she tosses her head in defiance, trots for a few steps, and then stops. I have to keep my legs glued to her sides to keep her trotting (and even that doesn’t work). It’s exhausting and harder than doing a wall sit. She bucks when I make her cantor. And then runs towards the barn, hoping to be done with the torture. It’s like dealing with an obstinate two year old. Now I know how you parents out there must feel.

I tried to manage her naughty behavior by saying things like “No!” or “Don’t do that!” Then I tried rewarding her positive behavior. I said affectionate and comforting things when she did as I said, like “good girl!” and “you’re doing such a good job.” It was somewhat successful. But then she just went back to her usual wayward ways. So, in a moment of frustration, when she refused to listen to me, I slapped her butt. She jumped a bit and then did every thing I told her to do from there on out. She figured out that when I mean business, I mean business.

We made a good team. I felt like a wild county girl with the power to domesticate a large beast (by beast, I mean small pony). I patted her and told her she was distinguished and esteemed. She beamed in delight as she tottered about. 

After the frustration and joy, I eventually dismounted my beast and de-tacked her. Then I sat down in the shade, put on her halter and she lazily grazed by me. Eventually, I put her back into her pen and stroked her. She stood next to me rubbing her head digging into my belly. I put my arm over her head and tousled her chin. And she nuzzled her little head into my armpit and gave me horse hugs. 

It was nice to know that after all we’d been through. The roller coaster of emotions - we were still friends.  

A Playful Case of Dysphagia

Ha – you take-things-for-granted person. You probably don’t even know what dysphagia is. You probably think it’s the name of a beautiful Italian actress in one of those confusing foreign sub-titled films, or a province in Northern Spain, or a flashy new car model. All of those guesses are wrong. You’re off. Way off. Dysphagia actually means having difficulty swallowing. And, it’s no fun at all.

You’ve probably never even thought about swallowing!

We swallow about 6,000 times per day. We swallow our food, our saliva, and even foreign objects – quarters, fish bones, and beer caps to name a few. And no one thinks about swallowing. Except Speech Pathologists. They think about. They think about it all day. Then they go off and read books about it. They need to get lives. 

I met a sick cute little old lady with dysphagia recently. She was Spanish-speaking and so I had to slosh out a pathetic Spanish word salad as a means to communicate with her.  Poor her. I should send her a sympathy card. I need to go to the post office to get stamps... Anyways, back to my poignant story.

I haven’t spoken Spanish for a very long time. So, I kinda majorly suck. But, we made it through.

Anyways, this cute old lady called me “mi amor,” and made a point to say “gracias” and “adios” when I left. (Maybe she felt she had to be extra nice to me because she thought I was mentally disabled). But, when I bossed her on how to swallow, she got all sassy and playful and repeated “unn traaagiiiito!!” and looked at me with a mischievous edentulous smile. Then we laughed. Then we smiled. Then we giggled. Then I said it back to her and wagged my finger - with my usual dopey grin. Then we laughed again. Then we smiled. Then we got back to business. 

That lady made my day and put a smile on my face. When I got to thinking about why it because she was endearing but also because we played. We joked around and we didn’t even know each other. We even had communication barriers - her with no teeth, and me with my crummy Spanish. This got me to thinking about playing. Adults need to play more. Seriously. Most of the adults I know are stone-faced, almost all the time. We’d all enjoy our lives more if we played more. And we might even like each other - without having to dole out bribes. Think about the money that could be saved by not having to bribe people with extravagant gifts!

So, if a sick little old lady, with dysphagia, can play and joke – with an outright stranger, and in broad daylight, well, then so can you and I!

Listen to what your mother said and “go play!”

Play!