There and Back

I am pleased to report we survived our first round-trip visit to the east coast with Max in tow. We were THOSE PEOPLE with the baby on the plane 4 times, (both legs of our trip had layovers) but it could have been far, far worse. As it was Max and I both woke up with colds on the morning of departure, so I was terrified that his ears would be killing him. And though he definitely had some uncomfortable moments (which were mitigated a bit with bottles and food), he did really well considering.

We spent the first two days of our trip at Camp Hi-Rock in Massachusetts. It was the camp’s 60th anniversary and Jim was able to meet up with friends he hadn’t seen since his camp counselor days. We were lucky enough to get an enclosed room in the infirmary with a private bath. Pretty rustic by most estimations, but luxurious by camp standards. There were probably only 5 daddy longlegs per square foot instead of 10. Luckily we brought a PeaPod for Max, so at least his sleep was happily bug-free. I was a little worried that the enclosed space would freak him out, but we gave the tent a trial run a couple of nights before we left and he wasn’t bothered at all. He’s a pretty adaptable guy and like his mom, loves to sleep regardless of the venue.

There was obviously a lot of feeding and napping to negotiate, but we did manage to take a few walks and a nice hike to Bear Rock, which overlooks a beautiful valley. We saw lots of interesting moss. Yeah, moss. I had to take a picture because it was so cool. It looked like astroturf, but it was velvety to the touch.

Here’s a shot of Jim and the happy camper. The sunglasses lasted almost a half an hour, which was a half an hour longer than expected.

On Sunday we headed to New Hampshire to visit Jim’s parents, brother, sister-in-law, and nephews. A few of his cousins joined us Sunday and Monday, so there was a lot of activity with kids running pell-mell and plenty of food to be had.

On a random note, I continue to marvel at the vast quantity of Dunkin’ Donuts establishments in the greater New England area. I like donuts as much as the next guy, but the abundance in the city of Keene, NH alone is staggering. There are FIVE Dunkin’ Donuts in a city of approx. 22,500. In contrast, the city of Boulder, CO, (population approx. 83,500) has not a single Dunkin’ Donuts, and only 2 other donut vendors that I could locate. So if you do the math, in Keene there is one donut shop for every 4,500 citizens, and in Boulder there is one donut shop for every 41,750 citizens. Insanity! It’s probably a good thing that donuts are in short supply out here because I could still stand to lose a few pounds, but I guess I’m curious as to why people in New England are so happy for the fried, frosted dough. Must investigate.

Anyway, we made the journey back to Colorado Wednesday night, and I’m still in recovery mode to some degree. I have to say I’m very relieved that our next big trip (to Florida for Thanksgiving) will involve a direct flight and only one destination instead of two. Max is pretty adaptable, but it’s probably best not to push our luck.

No grace under pressure

After a series of minor mishaps over the Thanksgiving weekend, it has become clear to me that I perform very poorly under pressure. I used to think I had a decent head of my shoulders, but apparently that is no longer the case. Now the best I can manage in a crisis is jumping up and down and yelling for help. And now for the trail of evidence:

STRIKE ONE
When we pulled into my parents’ garage after a relatively uneventful trip from Denver (aside from the cage-match-quality dog wrestling that Banjo & Rooster engaged in for no less than 2 hours of the drive) I breathed a big sigh of relief. I’m not big on road trips to begin with, and sitting for 7 hours in my present “condition” is less than comfortable. We said our hellos and dragged some of us stuff into the house and then returned to the garage to get the rest of our gear. That’s when I noticed that the garage was full of smoke. It occurred to me that the car might actually be on fire.

At that point I started yelling for help. I didn’t open the garage door or anything that might actually make sense. I just started yelling. Help quickly appeared and my dad (who is always cool in times of trouble) raised the garage door while Jim started to investigate. I was still standing several yards away, jumping up and down and yelling “I think it’s on fire! I think it’s on fire!”

As it turns out, it wasn’t. We didn’t discover the root of the problem until the following day (a leaky oil pump) but it clearly wasn’t a fire, and I clearly overreacted.

STRIKE TWO
I was just starting to calm down after the false fire alarm when we had another brush with disaster. After eating dinner and some delicious pie, I let Banjo out into my parents’ backyard. It didn’t occur to me that he was unfamiliar with their sliding glass door. So unfamiliar, that when he came sprinting back to the house, he didn’t bother to stop. He plowed smack into the door, nose first. I saw the whole thing and I was convinced he’d done irreparable harm, like maybe smashed his nose or neck or who knows what else.

So I started yelling. And jumping up and down. And insisting that Jim pick Banjo up and check for missing/broken parts. Meanwhile Banjo had stopped yelping and seemed to be just fine. But I still spent the next few hours watching him closely for signs of concussion and lamenting the fact that I had failed to pull the screen door shut in front of the glass so he could have avoided such a cruel fate.

STRIKE THREE
I’ve always been a little afraid of pressure cookers. Despite their wonderful quick-cooking abilities, they seem menacing with their tight seals and their loud steam and their cautionary warnings about cooling them down properly before opening. In fact, I had been bugging my mom to replace her pressure cooker for a couple of years because it was a bit leaky and that doesn’t work well with the whole “pressure” concept.

She ignored me, of course. She seems to have a sentimental attachment to pots and pans. Anyway, when she threw some potatoes into the aged cooker while we were making Thanksgiving dinner, for once I only had a mild sense of dread. I figured it’s worked before, it will work again. That is, until 15 minutes later when the pot started spewing hot water uncontrollably and making a horrible noise. That’s when I pulled out my favorite trick. I started jumping up and down and yelling for help. Do you see a common thread here? I could have reached over and turned off the stove but instead I stood there screaming “Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it!” as my mom calming grabbed a pot holder and moved the bubbling mess over to a burner that wasn’t in use.

Needless to say the pot was hastily retired and I had the final proof that I’m completely worthless in a crisis situation. Three strikes, I’m OUT!

How can this be? I was a lifeguard in high school. I saved kids from drowning on a few of different occasions. And when I was in college I stopped at the scene of a messy car accident and helped out with some basic first aid. What has become of me? What’s going to happen if a few years from now our kid falls and breaks his arm? Am I just going to stand there and yell? I really need to get a grip. Maybe I should have Jim create some mock emergencies so I can practice my reactions. Because I’m starting to feel seriously pathetic.

I love being right

I’ll admit I’m a bit of a bleeding heart. Well, OK. It may be worse than that. It’s not unusual for me to cry during the news, and I’m often outraged about the injustice of this, that, or the other thing. And granted, there is a lot to be outraged about in this day and age. But one thing I’m generally not is a sucker. I’ve spent enough time in big cities, and I’m enough of a skeptic (even with my sympathetic tendencies) that I can usually smell a con a mile away.

Despite all of this, I did something when we were in San Francisco a few months ago that Jim was CONVINCED was suckertastic. We were walking through North Beach after dinner one night when we noticed a woman pleading with a hostess outside of a restaurant. She briefly tried to get our attention with an “excuse me” but since Jim and I were chatting I didn’t notice until we had almost passed by. That’s when I heard the woman say “See? No one will listen to me!” and I promptly turned on my heel and asked “What is going on?” The woman was clearly distressed. She was holding her cell phone in one hand and some kind of ID badge in the other. She said that she was in town for a conference, and had gotten out of cab and accidentally left her purse and wallet behind. She called the cab company and the driver was going to deliver the purse to her hotel, but she had no money and thus no way to get back to her hotel. She was totally unfamiliar with San Francisco, and was completely freaked out because no one would believe her story.

At this point, even though Jim was standing behind me I could tell he was rolling his eyes. And sure, tales like this are a common way for cons to prey on unsuspecting or kind-hearted people. But there was something different about this woman. She was genuinely upset, and almost on the verge of tears. And she was shaking. I also thought it was interesting that she had approached hostess at a restaurant, because I doubted someone who “worked” the area would do something like that. They would more likely target people who looked like tourists or suckers. And maybe we looked like both, but the hostess didn’t.

And then I though, “What if this were my mom?”. What if my mom were in an unfamiliar city and she left her purse in a cab, and no one would help her? I can imagine it happening. That’s when I pulled open my wallet. I only had a five and a twenty, so I gave her the twenty and told her it should get her back to her hotel. She thanked me profusely and asked for my business card so that she could pay me back. I actually ended up writing my home address on a card because I had already quit my job. I wished her good luck, and we headed down the street she thanked me again and called me an “angel”.

As soon as we were out of earshot, Jim said “I cannot BELIEVE you just did that! Look—she just passed by a cab!” We turned around and watched her walk towards a bar. I responded with “Well, maybe she’s going to ask for directions or something?” But doubt crept in. Jim kept on, saying, “Sorry, but you just got taken. She’s off to get drunk on your dime”. And I started to believe that he was right. And I felt kind of sick because I really do trust my feelings and I’m almost never wrong. How could I be such an idiot? But some part of me still felt like I did the right thing. There were too many signs that pointed to the woman being genuinely in a tough spot.

After we got home a few weeks went by and Jim said “I think we can rest assured that you’ll never see that twenty dollars again”. And I thought he was probably right. Even more annyoing than the loss of twenty smackers was the fact that my instincts must have failed me. How disillusioning.

Well guess what arrived in the mail last week? A letter from the woman in San Francisco. It was postmarked in Oregon. She explained that after her trip to SF she unfortunately lost her job. But she wanted to write and thank me for helping her during a tough time. She said she’ll never forget her “angel”, and that she’s hoping to have a permanent address by the time I receive her Christmas card. I ran outside to the side yard where Jim was working on a landscaping project and yelled “You’re never going to believe this!” And he didn’t. He was amazed.

I’m so glad I trusted my gut and helped that woman out. Even if she never repays me, I’ll know I did a good deed. And I’ll have the satisfaction of being right. Again. Not that I’ll rub it in or anything.

The Best Museum Ever

Here’s a bit of advice: if you’re ever in San Francisco, hustle on over to the Musee Mecanique in Fisherman’s Wharf. Yeah, I know the Wharf is an infamous tourist trap (I did my best to avoid the area when I lived in SF), but trust me—it’s worth wading through the gobs of people to check this place out. It’s FABULOUS. It doesn’t just house tons of wacky fortune telling machines (Zoltar or biorhythms, anyone?) and weird games involving executions (among other bizarre scenarios). It also contains relics like Pong and Millipede. That’s right people, Pong. And coin-operated games about opium? Come on!

These crappy pictures I took with our digital camera are enough to inspire me to put a digital SLR high on my list of “wants”, but you’ll get the general idea. I was afraid Jim was going to pull something trying to beat the arm wrestling machine. He didn’t see the stern warning until he’d nearly lost an appendage.