Upon hearing squeals of toddler delight, I looked up from my book to see what was going on. Expecting to see Mia (our groups token child thus far) and her Mama playing, I realized that all the girls were doing their own thing, while all the guys were playing with Mia, doing their best to entertain her. It was interesting to see, especially since I have no recollection of that kind of scenario in my own childhood. It may have happened and maybe I just don’t remember it, but I think the roles of dads have changed significantly with my generation.
Case in point, I ran into one of my co-workers husbands in the hall at work not too long ago, his arms full with both their girls. Turns out they were both sick and he had just taken them to the doctor. I honestly do not remember my dad taking me to the doctor once. I remember him taking me to see the Rainbow Bright movie in a theatre when I was about 5 (major kudos for that – despite the fact that he brought a book with him), but never the doctor. Granted, it was easier for my mom to get off work, but it never entered my mind to call my dad if I was sick. To this day I still call my mom to complain that I don’t feel good.
Every time I walk down the hall at work, I find myself walking past offices of obviously proud dads. Every guy here, under the age of 40, proudly displays pictures of his kids all over his office. More often than not, screen savers, computer backgrounds and custom calendars are also pictures of their kids. Neither of my parents were big picture people, I’m pretty sure my mom still has my 5th grade picture on her desk, and possibly one from 9th grade. In our house growing up, they proudly displayed (and still do) my kindergarten picture on top of the piano. The most recent addition is my senior picture, which actually made it on the wall, but there aren’t many pictures on display in between. I realize that pictures aren’t a big deal to my parents, but I happen to love them. And I love walking past the guys’ offices with pictures of their kids. It gives you a nice warm feeling inside to realize that these guys love their kids so much. So for father’s day this year, I gave my dad a picture of my brother and me for his desk at work. I’m doubtful it ever makes it to his office, but I thought it was worth a shot. And hey, easy cheesy fathers day gift!
One of my favorite stories about my new dad friends had to do with swimming lessons. His daughter is Mia, and she’s about 19 months old, so really not old enough to swim, but they signed her up for “mommy and me” swim lessons. That title may now be un-PC but when I was teaching swim lessons, that’s what it was. Anyway, mommy didn’t want to go swimming so daddy takes her. I’m not sure that there is much out there a whole lot cuter than a dad taking his daughter to swim lessons. With maybe the exception of a handful of movie stars. And newborn puppies.
Along with swim lessons, I hear a number of the dads in my office talking about heading to their kids’ (insert appropriate sport here) games/meets/etc. I was born with a love of sports and while I was never great at them, I loved to play. Which had to suck for my parents because when you grow up in the middle of nowhere MT, an away game doesn’t mean across town – it means across the state. It all started with t-ball at age 5. This quickly turned into softball, which was at least within the county and then swim team in the summers, which was across all of Western Montana. I don’t remember my dad missing a single swim meet, which is really very cool. Lucky for my parents, in junior high and high school, the athletes travel on a bus to away games. I spent a lot of time on a bus . . . and my parents, my mom especially, spent a lot of time in the car an on bleachers following me.
By the time high school rolled around, I was playing three sports a year. It’s still amazing to me how parents will follow their kid around from gym to gym to watch them play sports when it’s a real possibility that the kid and or the team aren’t even good. For me, that sport was basketball. I was okay, a very long way from great, but had a 99% free throw average so managed to pick up some playing time. I remember my mom coming to almost all the games, although she never made the 4 hour trip to Eureka, and her making my dad come to one home game a season. So you can imagine my surprise when volleyball season rolled around and my dad willingly came to games. And I don’t just mean home games, but actually hopped in the car and followed my team around the state. I remember coming home from a game and having my dad quiz me on what all the signals the ref used meant. It was never a doubt in my mind that my mom would be at games and follow me around yelling for the team, but my first season playing varsity volleyball, it came as a shock every time I heard “Let’s go Hawks!” in my dads voice. My dad doesn’t put a lot of effort into doing anything he doesn’t want to do, so it was a very special surprise when he willingly and actively became interested in something I loved to do.
Flash forward 28 years after I left my post on the moon picking grapes, and I have a pretty solid relationship with my dad. (My mom too, she’s my rock, but this blog is about dads.) I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather do target practice with or tool around on a boat for an afternoon than with my dad. What I am most encouraged by in seeing the dads of my generation is the possibility that a stronger relationship will take hold sooner between father and child. I love the world where I commonly see guys hiking with their kids strapped to them, or the dads taking t heir kids to get their feet wet in the fountain on a hot day. Or even dads who brave the grocery store with a young one just to give mom a break. So while evolution has brought us things like global warming, nuclear weapons and Britney Spears, its encouraging seeing evolution moving us in some positive directions too.
July 24, 2009
July 22, 2009
I'm Living in a Glove Box
My very first car was a baby blue Plymouth Sundance. I called her the Blue Beast and she started to shake if you got above 65 mph. While speed was not her forte, she did have a roomy glove box. Why does the glove box matter you ask? Because come summer time, the glove box was inevitably filled with things for impromptu over nights. Toothbrush and toothpaste, supplies for contacts, and possibly a fresh pair of underwear all took up residence in my glove box during the summer. I lived about 20 minutes outside of town so having the necessary toiletries on hand made for less driving late at night.
Why all the reminiscing about my old glove box? Because this summer my apartment is starting to feel like that old glove box. One of the things I like about my apartment complex is that it comes with a storage unit in the basement. This is perfect for storing all of my offseason equipment. It’s filled with cook ware I don’t use all the frequently, luggage, camping gear, skis, golf clubs, etc. It probably has stuff I’ve forgotten I even own since its stuffed floor to ceiling.
The problem is that this summer, I have so much going on that nothing seems to be making it back into the storage unit before I need it again. Now this wouldn’t seem like a big deal to most, but I’m one of those ridiculous people who unpacks immediately after returning from a trip. Baring any weird circumstances, I am usually unpacked with everything in its rightful place within an hour or so of walking through the door. It’s a sickness, I know. So you can imagine how I feel about the fact that my sleeping bag has been floating around my living room for a month and will continue to do so for at least another one.
I really do keep meaning to put things away. Part of the problem is I have a mental block about going to the storage unit. It smells funny down there and since my unit is so packed (neatly, of course), it’s a bit of a production to take things out of there and/or put them back. Then there’s the fact that I’ll need the sleeping bag again next weekend, or the weekend after that, so why go to all the hassle of putting it back in the storage unit only to get it out again? Which is why there’s an air mattress taking up residence underneath an end table in my living room and a sleeping bag wedged between my couches. Oh, and don’t forget the golf clubs and camping chair tucked in behind the front door.
It’s starting to drive me crazy. Almost all of those items are going on a trip in a little over a week and I’m temped to put them in my car now just so I don’t have to look at them. Because seriously, who wants to live in a glove box?
Why all the reminiscing about my old glove box? Because this summer my apartment is starting to feel like that old glove box. One of the things I like about my apartment complex is that it comes with a storage unit in the basement. This is perfect for storing all of my offseason equipment. It’s filled with cook ware I don’t use all the frequently, luggage, camping gear, skis, golf clubs, etc. It probably has stuff I’ve forgotten I even own since its stuffed floor to ceiling.
The problem is that this summer, I have so much going on that nothing seems to be making it back into the storage unit before I need it again. Now this wouldn’t seem like a big deal to most, but I’m one of those ridiculous people who unpacks immediately after returning from a trip. Baring any weird circumstances, I am usually unpacked with everything in its rightful place within an hour or so of walking through the door. It’s a sickness, I know. So you can imagine how I feel about the fact that my sleeping bag has been floating around my living room for a month and will continue to do so for at least another one.
I really do keep meaning to put things away. Part of the problem is I have a mental block about going to the storage unit. It smells funny down there and since my unit is so packed (neatly, of course), it’s a bit of a production to take things out of there and/or put them back. Then there’s the fact that I’ll need the sleeping bag again next weekend, or the weekend after that, so why go to all the hassle of putting it back in the storage unit only to get it out again? Which is why there’s an air mattress taking up residence underneath an end table in my living room and a sleeping bag wedged between my couches. Oh, and don’t forget the golf clubs and camping chair tucked in behind the front door.
It’s starting to drive me crazy. Almost all of those items are going on a trip in a little over a week and I’m temped to put them in my car now just so I don’t have to look at them. Because seriously, who wants to live in a glove box?
July 16, 2009
Ten Years and Counting
With my ten-year high school reunion quickly approaching, I’ve been giving some thought to how things have changed over the past ten years. The important changes aren’t being able to say I have a B.S. or an M.B.A., but how other parts of my life, especially the social aspects, have changed over the years.
Ten years ago I lived in a very small town in rural Montana. I had to drive two hours to purchase underwear that didn’t come in a Haynes Her Way Six Pack from the local drug store. Like most small towns, there were advantages and disadvantages to growing up this way. Thompson Falls wasn’t exactly a cultural mecca, but my parents did a really good job making sure my brother and I were exposed to things not readily accessible to us like museums, Broadway shows, the ballet (the Nutcracker totally counts), and different parts of the US, Canada and Mexico. Although I didn’t appreciate being dragged to a Genghis Kahn exhibit at the time, and I’d still think it was pretty boring today, I appreciate that my parents took the time and effort to give me those types of experiences.
Back in the day, my house was the gathering place. We had a large day light basement with a ping pong and foosball table, a trampoline and plenty of room outside to run around. There was always food and drinks available and more weekends than not my friends and I ended up hanging out at my house. Now that I am an adult and have to buy my own groceries, I realize that having 10-15 growing kids at your house every weekend is not a cheap endeavor, but knowing where their kid was and providing a safe environment was more important to my parents than the money shelled out for Mountain Dew and Doritos.
Those days the conversations ranged from who was going with who to the homecoming dance to what we wanted to be when we grew up to how much we hated our rival high school, Plains. I don’t want to discount those years as frivolous, but we weren’t exactly trying to solve world hunger. I went to school, played three sports a year, and worked as a life guard in the summer. Looking back, life was just as it should be for a teenager. Even if you include getting my car taken away as a form of grounding for doing something stupid.
Ten years later I’m living in a trendy part of downtown Portland, Oregon, where I can purchase real underwear at any number of stores within a 5 mile radius and no longer have to explain to the bus driver why I am riding the school bus instead of driving my own car. My friends and I still aren’t trying to solve world hunger, but our topics of discussion have changed considerably. We recently toasted to the fact that none of us have to go back to school again. We all have our advanced degrees with the exception of one who moved up quick enough that it’s not necessary for him at this point. We may still not know what we want to be when we grow up, but we all have a pretty solid idea and in the interim are making decent money.
Instead of throwing sleeping bags in the bag of a truck and driving up the mountain to go camping or driving to Missoula to watch a movie, we take trips to Lake Shasta or Las Vegas. We spend our Saturdays tailgating at Oregon State football games instead of going to our respective high schools Friday night football game. Instead of Mountain Dew we’re drinking beer and instead of Doritos we’re eating vegetables. Well, most of the time anyway. And instead of playing organized sports, most of us have gym memberships or run or bike or do something to get physical activity into our lives. Most days I’m quite happy that the era of Suicides and Daily Doubles is over for me, but sometimes it would be nice having someone making you be active and get you into shape.
Amongst the girls, there are still conversations about the guys in our lives (minus the part about who we’re going to prom with), but an equal amount of discussion time is dedicated to health. I recently found myself in the middle of a conversation about fiber. I’m only 28, when did fiber intake become a primary topic of conversation? Weddings, babies, birth control, and even hemorrhoids have come up in recent conversations. I guarantee you hemorrhoids didn’t come up in conversation at 18!
Ten years has gone by quick. In the words of my cousin when he heard it was my ten-year reunion, “Daaaaammmmmnnnnnn.” Now I have to work to support myself, from paying bills to keeping my self in mass quantities of shoes. Life isn’t quite as simple as it was at 18, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. It’s a good thing when you can look back over the past ten years, the years that probably encompass the most amount of change in a person’s life, and feel pretty good about where you’ve ended up. Even if it means talking about fiber and hemorrhoids.
Ten years ago I lived in a very small town in rural Montana. I had to drive two hours to purchase underwear that didn’t come in a Haynes Her Way Six Pack from the local drug store. Like most small towns, there were advantages and disadvantages to growing up this way. Thompson Falls wasn’t exactly a cultural mecca, but my parents did a really good job making sure my brother and I were exposed to things not readily accessible to us like museums, Broadway shows, the ballet (the Nutcracker totally counts), and different parts of the US, Canada and Mexico. Although I didn’t appreciate being dragged to a Genghis Kahn exhibit at the time, and I’d still think it was pretty boring today, I appreciate that my parents took the time and effort to give me those types of experiences.
Back in the day, my house was the gathering place. We had a large day light basement with a ping pong and foosball table, a trampoline and plenty of room outside to run around. There was always food and drinks available and more weekends than not my friends and I ended up hanging out at my house. Now that I am an adult and have to buy my own groceries, I realize that having 10-15 growing kids at your house every weekend is not a cheap endeavor, but knowing where their kid was and providing a safe environment was more important to my parents than the money shelled out for Mountain Dew and Doritos.
Those days the conversations ranged from who was going with who to the homecoming dance to what we wanted to be when we grew up to how much we hated our rival high school, Plains. I don’t want to discount those years as frivolous, but we weren’t exactly trying to solve world hunger. I went to school, played three sports a year, and worked as a life guard in the summer. Looking back, life was just as it should be for a teenager. Even if you include getting my car taken away as a form of grounding for doing something stupid.
Ten years later I’m living in a trendy part of downtown Portland, Oregon, where I can purchase real underwear at any number of stores within a 5 mile radius and no longer have to explain to the bus driver why I am riding the school bus instead of driving my own car. My friends and I still aren’t trying to solve world hunger, but our topics of discussion have changed considerably. We recently toasted to the fact that none of us have to go back to school again. We all have our advanced degrees with the exception of one who moved up quick enough that it’s not necessary for him at this point. We may still not know what we want to be when we grow up, but we all have a pretty solid idea and in the interim are making decent money.
Instead of throwing sleeping bags in the bag of a truck and driving up the mountain to go camping or driving to Missoula to watch a movie, we take trips to Lake Shasta or Las Vegas. We spend our Saturdays tailgating at Oregon State football games instead of going to our respective high schools Friday night football game. Instead of Mountain Dew we’re drinking beer and instead of Doritos we’re eating vegetables. Well, most of the time anyway. And instead of playing organized sports, most of us have gym memberships or run or bike or do something to get physical activity into our lives. Most days I’m quite happy that the era of Suicides and Daily Doubles is over for me, but sometimes it would be nice having someone making you be active and get you into shape.
Amongst the girls, there are still conversations about the guys in our lives (minus the part about who we’re going to prom with), but an equal amount of discussion time is dedicated to health. I recently found myself in the middle of a conversation about fiber. I’m only 28, when did fiber intake become a primary topic of conversation? Weddings, babies, birth control, and even hemorrhoids have come up in recent conversations. I guarantee you hemorrhoids didn’t come up in conversation at 18!
Ten years has gone by quick. In the words of my cousin when he heard it was my ten-year reunion, “Daaaaammmmmnnnnnn.” Now I have to work to support myself, from paying bills to keeping my self in mass quantities of shoes. Life isn’t quite as simple as it was at 18, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. It’s a good thing when you can look back over the past ten years, the years that probably encompass the most amount of change in a person’s life, and feel pretty good about where you’ve ended up. Even if it means talking about fiber and hemorrhoids.
July 11, 2009
Everything You Can Do . . . I Can Do Too!
If I had to pick a show tune that best described me, it would undoubtedly be Annie Get Your Gun’s “Everything you can do I can do better, everything you can do I can do to.” There are some things I realize I can’t do better that the guys, for example I’m quite aware of my genetic disadvantages for dunking a basketball, but for the most part I’ve done my best to keep up with the guys. I can do anything they can do too.
In my quest to keep up with the guys I’ve done some ridiculous things over the years. I’ve jumped off of cliffs that I shouldn’t have and skied down mountains way out of my comfort zone. On the plus side, I made myself learn to do things like drive a ski boat, paddle a boat correctly, and I camp like a champ.
Living by myself has also helped to fuel my independent, I don’t need any help, if a guy can do it I can do it too attitude. I own a cordless drill and a level and can hang anything. I can change a tire. I am strong enough to move most of my furniture by myself. I even hooked up my own sound system between my TV and stereo.
While I’ve become increasingly independent and capable, I’ve forgotten how nice it is occasionally to have guys help you out. This recently came to light in two different ways. The first being that I just read Steve Harvey’s “Act Like A Lady, Think Like Man.” I find the differences in men and women fascinating, plus a single girl needs all the help she can get! One of the things that Harvey mentions is that guys know girls can do things for themselves, however guys still like to feel needed and to take care of things that are considered manly. It makes them feel useful and needed. In my aspirations to be an island whenever possible and taking care of everything myself, I forget that asking for or accepting help occasionally doesn’t mean that I’m putting anyone out.
The second thing that happened was I had a small accident while attempting to climb up a natural rock water slide. I of course tried it first myself with no help. To get to the top you had to use a rope and climb up the left side of the falls on slick wet rock wall. I almost made it up when I lost my footing and found myself dangling from a rope by one hand getting pummeled by a waterfall. Apparently other people were concerned, but my thought at the time was simply “well this did not go according to plan, but hey, all that lifting is coming in handy since I can hold myself up with one arm!” I managed to get myself turned around enough to go down the slide with some semblance of control and what I hope was some impression of dignity. And a lot of new bruises.
Since attempt number one was a bit of a bust, I planned on trying again. As I was swimming back to the rope, two of the guys in my group caught up with me. These two weren’t even my best guy friends who were also on the trip, just a brother and cousin of one of my guys. None the less, they automatically jumped up to help, one holding the rope at the bottom and one climbing up ahead of me to help me make the switch from the rope to the slide. This time around everything went smoother and I made it down the slide like one is supposed to.
Could I have gotten up the rock wall and down the slide myself? Yes, eventually. But as I reached out for the hand at the top helping me to get situated to go down the slide and let go of the rope, I decided that having help every now and then wasn’t a bad thing. Despite how much we bag on them, guys are innately good. And help coming from unexpected places or guys has a way of making a girl feel good.
Another perfect example of guys wanting/needing to help is this past winter I was supposed to drive across town to a party when Portland was hit with a huge winter snow storm. Three of my guy friends called to see if they could pick me up so I didn’t have to drive. Ironically, I am the one with the most snow driving experience. None the less, I let one of the guys chauffeur me around town on a snowy night.
In my never ending quest for self improvement, my newest goal is to realize that asking for or accepting help doesn’t make me weak. I can do everything guys can do (with the obvious exception of peeing standing up), but that doesn’t mean that occasionally I can’t take advantage of their bigger muscles and their desire to help a girl out occasionally. The good ones were raised and trained to do this; I may as well let them make their mamas proud.
In my quest to keep up with the guys I’ve done some ridiculous things over the years. I’ve jumped off of cliffs that I shouldn’t have and skied down mountains way out of my comfort zone. On the plus side, I made myself learn to do things like drive a ski boat, paddle a boat correctly, and I camp like a champ.
Living by myself has also helped to fuel my independent, I don’t need any help, if a guy can do it I can do it too attitude. I own a cordless drill and a level and can hang anything. I can change a tire. I am strong enough to move most of my furniture by myself. I even hooked up my own sound system between my TV and stereo.
While I’ve become increasingly independent and capable, I’ve forgotten how nice it is occasionally to have guys help you out. This recently came to light in two different ways. The first being that I just read Steve Harvey’s “Act Like A Lady, Think Like Man.” I find the differences in men and women fascinating, plus a single girl needs all the help she can get! One of the things that Harvey mentions is that guys know girls can do things for themselves, however guys still like to feel needed and to take care of things that are considered manly. It makes them feel useful and needed. In my aspirations to be an island whenever possible and taking care of everything myself, I forget that asking for or accepting help occasionally doesn’t mean that I’m putting anyone out.
The second thing that happened was I had a small accident while attempting to climb up a natural rock water slide. I of course tried it first myself with no help. To get to the top you had to use a rope and climb up the left side of the falls on slick wet rock wall. I almost made it up when I lost my footing and found myself dangling from a rope by one hand getting pummeled by a waterfall. Apparently other people were concerned, but my thought at the time was simply “well this did not go according to plan, but hey, all that lifting is coming in handy since I can hold myself up with one arm!” I managed to get myself turned around enough to go down the slide with some semblance of control and what I hope was some impression of dignity. And a lot of new bruises.
Since attempt number one was a bit of a bust, I planned on trying again. As I was swimming back to the rope, two of the guys in my group caught up with me. These two weren’t even my best guy friends who were also on the trip, just a brother and cousin of one of my guys. None the less, they automatically jumped up to help, one holding the rope at the bottom and one climbing up ahead of me to help me make the switch from the rope to the slide. This time around everything went smoother and I made it down the slide like one is supposed to.
Could I have gotten up the rock wall and down the slide myself? Yes, eventually. But as I reached out for the hand at the top helping me to get situated to go down the slide and let go of the rope, I decided that having help every now and then wasn’t a bad thing. Despite how much we bag on them, guys are innately good. And help coming from unexpected places or guys has a way of making a girl feel good.
Another perfect example of guys wanting/needing to help is this past winter I was supposed to drive across town to a party when Portland was hit with a huge winter snow storm. Three of my guy friends called to see if they could pick me up so I didn’t have to drive. Ironically, I am the one with the most snow driving experience. None the less, I let one of the guys chauffeur me around town on a snowy night.
In my never ending quest for self improvement, my newest goal is to realize that asking for or accepting help doesn’t make me weak. I can do everything guys can do (with the obvious exception of peeing standing up), but that doesn’t mean that occasionally I can’t take advantage of their bigger muscles and their desire to help a girl out occasionally. The good ones were raised and trained to do this; I may as well let them make their mamas proud.
July 10, 2009
I'm On A Boat
One of my favorite things about television and movies is their ability to play the most appropriate song for what is going on in any particular scene. For example, the scene in Love Actually where Keira Knightley figures out that her hubby’s best friend is in love with her and the Dido song comes on? Perfect. Sometimes I wish someone would make my life into a TV show just so some audio guys could follow me around with mood setting and/or mood appropriate music. Unfortunately no one has deemed my life interesting enough for such treatment yet.
Luckily Apple came along and invented the iPod, negating the need for my own personal sound entourage. Now I just have to flip through a couple thousand songs to find the most appropriate one for the day. A person needs different theme songs during their life to enhance events, big or small. For example, recent events in my life led me to making the All-American Rejects “Gives You Hell” my own personal anthem. It’s very cathartic to have a song to represent your feelings in various situations. I think this is why P!nk’s recent album is such a huge hit. The songs are all about her light switch relationship with her hubby and all of us can relate to what she’s singing about. Because it really is all your fault. Well said P!nk.
While my personal theme song changes often (you know, the one that would be the opening for my TV show), every now and again a song comes along that epitomizes an event so well that every time that song comes on it bring back the memories. Green Day’s “Good Riddance” reminds me of the end of high school. I love the songs that remind you of happy and fun times or major events. Like driving with the windows down in the summer on Little Beaver Creek Road singing along to " . . . Baby One More Time" or "No Scrubs."
Summer ’09 has blessed us with one of the best theme songs in a while. Since I was using some of my vacation days to spend time with friends on a houseboat on Lake Shatsa, The Lonely Islands “I’m on a boat” fit the bill perfectly. Not only was the song played about a million times during the adventure, but you’d catch people singing or humming it under their breath as well. Because hello, we were on a boat!
Another friend and I even went so far as to try and teach the two-year old on the boat the lyrics. Don’t worry, we used the clean version. Plus he really only knows the word boat so this is how it usually went down:
M&H: “I’m on a boat!”
J: “BOAT!”
Three days into the trip his mom finally figured out exactly what song we were trying to teach him. Luckily she didn’t listen to the rest of the lyrics too closely.
Forevermore “I’m on a Boat!” will be the Shasta theme song. Ten years from now I’ll be driving down the road and when that song comes on the radio (the non-explicit version of course) I’ll remember those few fun days in the sun when we really were on a boat. Where I got up on a wake board for the first time, how we remembered the Beaver flags and decorative lights but forgot soap and salt & pepper shakers, getting beaten down by a natural waterslide, waking up to Mia screaming bloody murder and spending hours in the lake on our floaties and floating cooler.
“Take a good look at me ‘cause I’m sailing on a boat . . .”
Luckily Apple came along and invented the iPod, negating the need for my own personal sound entourage. Now I just have to flip through a couple thousand songs to find the most appropriate one for the day. A person needs different theme songs during their life to enhance events, big or small. For example, recent events in my life led me to making the All-American Rejects “Gives You Hell” my own personal anthem. It’s very cathartic to have a song to represent your feelings in various situations. I think this is why P!nk’s recent album is such a huge hit. The songs are all about her light switch relationship with her hubby and all of us can relate to what she’s singing about. Because it really is all your fault. Well said P!nk.
While my personal theme song changes often (you know, the one that would be the opening for my TV show), every now and again a song comes along that epitomizes an event so well that every time that song comes on it bring back the memories. Green Day’s “Good Riddance” reminds me of the end of high school. I love the songs that remind you of happy and fun times or major events. Like driving with the windows down in the summer on Little Beaver Creek Road singing along to " . . . Baby One More Time" or "No Scrubs."
Summer ’09 has blessed us with one of the best theme songs in a while. Since I was using some of my vacation days to spend time with friends on a houseboat on Lake Shatsa, The Lonely Islands “I’m on a boat” fit the bill perfectly. Not only was the song played about a million times during the adventure, but you’d catch people singing or humming it under their breath as well. Because hello, we were on a boat!
Another friend and I even went so far as to try and teach the two-year old on the boat the lyrics. Don’t worry, we used the clean version. Plus he really only knows the word boat so this is how it usually went down:
M&H: “I’m on a boat!”
J: “BOAT!”
Three days into the trip his mom finally figured out exactly what song we were trying to teach him. Luckily she didn’t listen to the rest of the lyrics too closely.
Forevermore “I’m on a Boat!” will be the Shasta theme song. Ten years from now I’ll be driving down the road and when that song comes on the radio (the non-explicit version of course) I’ll remember those few fun days in the sun when we really were on a boat. Where I got up on a wake board for the first time, how we remembered the Beaver flags and decorative lights but forgot soap and salt & pepper shakers, getting beaten down by a natural waterslide, waking up to Mia screaming bloody murder and spending hours in the lake on our floaties and floating cooler.
“Take a good look at me ‘cause I’m sailing on a boat . . .”
July 1, 2009
Cinderella & the Skinny Jeans
Last Friday night, I was getting ready to go to dinner with my mom. Since my skinny jeans currently button without cutting off circulation and don’t make my thighs look like overstuffed sausages, I decided this was the perfect time to wear them. The only problem with the skinny jeans is that they are excessively long, which means I have to wear very tall heels with them. We’re not talking stilettos, but a solid three inch heal is required for these jeans. Even though I am a total shoe whore and love the ideal of heels, I am a flats girl at heart because lets face it, most heels hurt!
As I perused my closets full of shoes, I was debating which heels were the perfect ones for the occasion. Yes, you read that right, closets full. Technically only one is a closet, with multiple layers of shoes stacked upon each other due to lack of space. I also store shoes under my bed and in a file cabinet drawer at work. Anyway, I was perusing the piles of shoes, trying to decide which ones were perfect for a Friday night dinner. One of the red pairs? What about the teal patent leather? Or the classic black pointy toed pumps? And then my eyes caught them. The three inch black patent leather sling backs. Perfect.
Well, almost perfect. Since they’re taller than I am normally comfortable in, I hesitated to wear them for an evening out. Luckily I was taught at an early age that it takes pain to be beautiful. And I remembered that since I would be sitting most of the evening through dinner, I would really only have to stand in them for a short period of time. I can walk in the tall shoes, but having to stand around in them all night? I don’t how those girls from Sex and the City did it. I once walked home from a party barefoot because my feet hurt so badly from my heels. In January.
There was a brief period of time where I wondered if I was the only crazy girl who did this kind of thing. Buy really cute, but uncomfortable shoes, and then wear them based on whether or not she’d actually have to place any weight on her feet while the shoes were on. The thought flittered out of my mind over the excitement of my skinny jeans buttoning easily and I went to dinner in the patent leather sling backs.
The next day I was reading a book and my question from the previous evening came back to me. There was a scene in the book where the main girl was going through her closet, making the obligatory “to get rid of” pile so that the closet doors could actually shut. Her friend noticed a super cute pair of shoes in the discard pile, and inquired as to why on earth anyone would get rid of such a cute pair of shoes. The answer was obviously because despite their cuteness, they hurt like hell. Fast forward a few paragraphs, and the shoes were moved to the keep pile, since the main character figured she could wear the shoes on a night when she would mostly be sitting down. Since I had picked shoes the previous night partly based on the fact that I would be sitting most of the evening, I had a good chuckle over this. Clearly, I’m not the only crazy one!
It’s no wonder that guys don’t understand a girl’s obsession with shoes. For them, they just need a couple pairs of practical and comfortable shoes. Girl shoes go way beyond practical and comfortable. Starting at a young age, we’re trained on fairy tales to fit your fat foot in the glass slipper. Glass slippers could not have been comfortable, yet Cinderella danced for an evening in them regardless. Why? Because they completed the outfit. Obviously Disney didn’t want to come right out and say it takes pain to be beautiful, but come on, they put the girl in glass freaking high heels.
The relationship between a girl and her shoes is not meant to be logical or pain free. Cute shoes and looking fabulous comes at a price. But every once in a while it’s nice when the price includes a chair.
As I perused my closets full of shoes, I was debating which heels were the perfect ones for the occasion. Yes, you read that right, closets full. Technically only one is a closet, with multiple layers of shoes stacked upon each other due to lack of space. I also store shoes under my bed and in a file cabinet drawer at work. Anyway, I was perusing the piles of shoes, trying to decide which ones were perfect for a Friday night dinner. One of the red pairs? What about the teal patent leather? Or the classic black pointy toed pumps? And then my eyes caught them. The three inch black patent leather sling backs. Perfect.
Well, almost perfect. Since they’re taller than I am normally comfortable in, I hesitated to wear them for an evening out. Luckily I was taught at an early age that it takes pain to be beautiful. And I remembered that since I would be sitting most of the evening through dinner, I would really only have to stand in them for a short period of time. I can walk in the tall shoes, but having to stand around in them all night? I don’t how those girls from Sex and the City did it. I once walked home from a party barefoot because my feet hurt so badly from my heels. In January.
There was a brief period of time where I wondered if I was the only crazy girl who did this kind of thing. Buy really cute, but uncomfortable shoes, and then wear them based on whether or not she’d actually have to place any weight on her feet while the shoes were on. The thought flittered out of my mind over the excitement of my skinny jeans buttoning easily and I went to dinner in the patent leather sling backs.
The next day I was reading a book and my question from the previous evening came back to me. There was a scene in the book where the main girl was going through her closet, making the obligatory “to get rid of” pile so that the closet doors could actually shut. Her friend noticed a super cute pair of shoes in the discard pile, and inquired as to why on earth anyone would get rid of such a cute pair of shoes. The answer was obviously because despite their cuteness, they hurt like hell. Fast forward a few paragraphs, and the shoes were moved to the keep pile, since the main character figured she could wear the shoes on a night when she would mostly be sitting down. Since I had picked shoes the previous night partly based on the fact that I would be sitting most of the evening, I had a good chuckle over this. Clearly, I’m not the only crazy one!
It’s no wonder that guys don’t understand a girl’s obsession with shoes. For them, they just need a couple pairs of practical and comfortable shoes. Girl shoes go way beyond practical and comfortable. Starting at a young age, we’re trained on fairy tales to fit your fat foot in the glass slipper. Glass slippers could not have been comfortable, yet Cinderella danced for an evening in them regardless. Why? Because they completed the outfit. Obviously Disney didn’t want to come right out and say it takes pain to be beautiful, but come on, they put the girl in glass freaking high heels.
The relationship between a girl and her shoes is not meant to be logical or pain free. Cute shoes and looking fabulous comes at a price. But every once in a while it’s nice when the price includes a chair.
June 22, 2009
Things that go BOOM!
I always joke that my favorite movies are ones where things blow up. The more bullets spent and explosions there are the better the movie in my book. In reality, what I’m trying to say is I enjoy action packed movies. Making me watch a slow drama is equivalent to shoving bamboo shoots under my finger nails.
I didn’t realize how violent my movie tendencies were until I logged onto Netflix the other day. One of the things I like about Netflix is it will tell you that since you liked X movie, we think you might also enjoy Y movie. It will also create entire categories of movies it thinks you will like. Imagine my surprise when I go to check my queue one day and Netflix informs me it has created a “Violent Thrillers” category based on my taste in movies. Seriously, violent thrillers.
At first my thought was, this can’t be right, where did Netflix get this idea? And then I started scrolling through the movies under that category – yup, all movies I’d seen and really enjoyed. All movies with lots of bullets and explosions. Movies like American Gangster, Kill Bill and Wanted. Who knew I had such violent tendencies?
To be fair, I should have seen this coming. I’m the only girl I know who can keep up with the boys in discussing James Bond films. This morning in fact we were arguing over how many times Pierce Brosnan had played 007 (4) and which film had the character Solitaire (To Live and Let Die). I was right on both accounts. Now James Bond films aren’t the most violent movies on earth, but let’s be honest, the guy has no qualms about killing people when necessary.
What does it say about a person, when their most watched moves tend to be of a violent nature? Now I don’t know for sure, but I’m willing to bet that if I ever went off the deep end and started shooting up my office, one of things people would say was “well, she did prefer violent movies.” I’m also willing to bet that if I ever get married people wouldn’t think to say “she was a big fan of the romantic comedies,” which I am also a fan of. Hey, I may like explosions, but I’m still a girl.
Really I think it means I have a very short attention span. Movies where things blow up are loud and tend to keep you from falling asleep or diverting you attention. The same cannot be said for quiet movies that take place in the English country side where girls prance around the garden and drink tea for fun.
So thank you Netflix, for creating a category just for me. Although I’d prefer it didn’t use the term violent to describe my movie preferences, I’d be way more upset it the categories “Animation for Grownups” (a real thing!), “tearjerkers” or “super swashbucklers” had come up instead. After looking through the list of genera’s available, suddenly violent thrillers no longer seems so bad. Bring on the BOOMs!
I didn’t realize how violent my movie tendencies were until I logged onto Netflix the other day. One of the things I like about Netflix is it will tell you that since you liked X movie, we think you might also enjoy Y movie. It will also create entire categories of movies it thinks you will like. Imagine my surprise when I go to check my queue one day and Netflix informs me it has created a “Violent Thrillers” category based on my taste in movies. Seriously, violent thrillers.
At first my thought was, this can’t be right, where did Netflix get this idea? And then I started scrolling through the movies under that category – yup, all movies I’d seen and really enjoyed. All movies with lots of bullets and explosions. Movies like American Gangster, Kill Bill and Wanted. Who knew I had such violent tendencies?
To be fair, I should have seen this coming. I’m the only girl I know who can keep up with the boys in discussing James Bond films. This morning in fact we were arguing over how many times Pierce Brosnan had played 007 (4) and which film had the character Solitaire (To Live and Let Die). I was right on both accounts. Now James Bond films aren’t the most violent movies on earth, but let’s be honest, the guy has no qualms about killing people when necessary.
What does it say about a person, when their most watched moves tend to be of a violent nature? Now I don’t know for sure, but I’m willing to bet that if I ever went off the deep end and started shooting up my office, one of things people would say was “well, she did prefer violent movies.” I’m also willing to bet that if I ever get married people wouldn’t think to say “she was a big fan of the romantic comedies,” which I am also a fan of. Hey, I may like explosions, but I’m still a girl.
Really I think it means I have a very short attention span. Movies where things blow up are loud and tend to keep you from falling asleep or diverting you attention. The same cannot be said for quiet movies that take place in the English country side where girls prance around the garden and drink tea for fun.
So thank you Netflix, for creating a category just for me. Although I’d prefer it didn’t use the term violent to describe my movie preferences, I’d be way more upset it the categories “Animation for Grownups” (a real thing!), “tearjerkers” or “super swashbucklers” had come up instead. After looking through the list of genera’s available, suddenly violent thrillers no longer seems so bad. Bring on the BOOMs!
June 9, 2009
Labels Are My Crack
It all started when I moved to Portland. Suddenly I had a different group of friends, ones who had jobs and money, not the poor college kids I’d spent the last four years with. At first, I just watched from a distance, wondering what it was like. Eventually I received some of my own as gifts, just to try. Before I knew it, my normally frugal self was spending my own hard money on it. When I made an impulse purchase last week on my way home from work, the severity of the situation finally hit me. My name is Heidi, and I am an addict. Designer labels are my crack.
Growing up in rural Montana, I thought labels were North Face and Levi Silvertabs. I knew nothing of the world of Coach, Kate Spade, Manolo Blahnik and Jimmy Choo. That all changed when I moved to Portland, where every girl in the city has at least one Coach purse. For the longest time, I couldn’t fathom why labels mattered so much and why people spent so much money on them. And then I fell in love. No, not with a man, with a purse. It was a black, satiny, box-like Kate Spade. I have no idea what the actual name was. I call her Kate. The best mom in the world gave it to me for a birthday one year. The best mom in the world also gave me a small Coach and small Prada to start my collection. From then on I was hooked.
I have girlfriends who update their designer duds with the same regularity as their underwear. I tend to go with classic things I can use for a long time. Because lets face it, even though I love my labels, my frugal side usually wins out. For the first time this past December, I spent my very own money on not one, but two Kate Spade purses. To be fair, I bought them on sale through a crazy discounted website and got two for less than the price of one regularly priced purse, but I bought them none the less. I call one Kate the Second and the other Party Kate.
Buying designer labels is like taking up running. The first time is the hardest and it just gets easier from there. Since December, I’ve managed to acquire (i.e. purchase with my own money) two pairs of Coach sunglasses and a Coach coin purse. I did hold off on the Kate Spade wallet and another Coach purse. Why all the Coach and Kate you ask? Because as far as designer things go, they’re the bottom of the rung and I can’t even justify spending money on those. I can’t imagine the heart attack I would have if I bought something at full price, much less if I ventured into Louis Vuitton or Manolo Blahnik and actually purchased something.
Last Friday was when I realized I had a problem. I stopped by Nordstrom Rack on my way home and there they were. They called out to me as soon as I saw them. The perfect white sunglasses. My brother had recently informed me that girls who wear white sunglasses are hot. I figured I didn’t have anything to loose testing out that theory (besides a couple bucks) so I had my eyes open for a pair. They came home with me.
It’s a slippery slope I tell you. The first time, you’re sick to your stomach that you actually spent that much money on a purse or a pair of sunglasses and before you know it, you’re impulse purchasing them on a rainy Friday afternoon like it was nothing. I’m starting to seriously worry that Coach and Kate are my gate way drugs. Because from where I’m sitting, a pair of Manolo’s would look pretty fabulous on my feet.
Growing up in rural Montana, I thought labels were North Face and Levi Silvertabs. I knew nothing of the world of Coach, Kate Spade, Manolo Blahnik and Jimmy Choo. That all changed when I moved to Portland, where every girl in the city has at least one Coach purse. For the longest time, I couldn’t fathom why labels mattered so much and why people spent so much money on them. And then I fell in love. No, not with a man, with a purse. It was a black, satiny, box-like Kate Spade. I have no idea what the actual name was. I call her Kate. The best mom in the world gave it to me for a birthday one year. The best mom in the world also gave me a small Coach and small Prada to start my collection. From then on I was hooked.
I have girlfriends who update their designer duds with the same regularity as their underwear. I tend to go with classic things I can use for a long time. Because lets face it, even though I love my labels, my frugal side usually wins out. For the first time this past December, I spent my very own money on not one, but two Kate Spade purses. To be fair, I bought them on sale through a crazy discounted website and got two for less than the price of one regularly priced purse, but I bought them none the less. I call one Kate the Second and the other Party Kate.
Buying designer labels is like taking up running. The first time is the hardest and it just gets easier from there. Since December, I’ve managed to acquire (i.e. purchase with my own money) two pairs of Coach sunglasses and a Coach coin purse. I did hold off on the Kate Spade wallet and another Coach purse. Why all the Coach and Kate you ask? Because as far as designer things go, they’re the bottom of the rung and I can’t even justify spending money on those. I can’t imagine the heart attack I would have if I bought something at full price, much less if I ventured into Louis Vuitton or Manolo Blahnik and actually purchased something.
Last Friday was when I realized I had a problem. I stopped by Nordstrom Rack on my way home and there they were. They called out to me as soon as I saw them. The perfect white sunglasses. My brother had recently informed me that girls who wear white sunglasses are hot. I figured I didn’t have anything to loose testing out that theory (besides a couple bucks) so I had my eyes open for a pair. They came home with me.
It’s a slippery slope I tell you. The first time, you’re sick to your stomach that you actually spent that much money on a purse or a pair of sunglasses and before you know it, you’re impulse purchasing them on a rainy Friday afternoon like it was nothing. I’m starting to seriously worry that Coach and Kate are my gate way drugs. Because from where I’m sitting, a pair of Manolo’s would look pretty fabulous on my feet.
June 5, 2009
Storms and Showers
Ptown has been plagued by extremely hot weather in the past two weeks. High 80’s up to 90 degrees even, which is not the norm for this time of year. The worst part was it wasn’t just hot, it was muggy as hell. To the point that I stopped straightening my hair for work, because the humidity made it curly on my walk to work anyway. It got so bad that I actually wanted it to rain. Last night, I got my wish.
I was at the gym, finishing up my run, when I noticed that it had gotten pretty dark outside considering it was only around 530pm. Then the wind started to pick up. Ahhh, this is the storm that is being talked about on every single TV in the gym. I picked up the pace for the last mile, hoping to be able to beat the worst of the storm home.
Unfortunately, by the time I was ready to leave the gym, a torrential down pour had started outside. It even smelled like rain out, which is something I really miss by living in an area that is constantly dripping. When I had left the house that morning, it had already been 70 degrees out so of course I had no jacket and no umbrella. After running five miles in a very stuffy gym with no air, I was already dripping a bit myself, so I figured this was as good a time as any to make sure I still don’t melt in the rain.
Lucky for me, it was still warm outside, but I was soaked within the first block. I slowly trudged my way home, my feet sloshing around in my shoes after only 2 blocks. Rain drops stuck to my eye lashes and when I looked up, I even got smacked right in the eye ball with a big fat rain drop.
Ten slow and very wet blocks later, I made it home, sweaty, wet and starting to get cold. This of course is when the sky really decided to open up and provide Ptown with a very rare treat – a thunder storm. I wanted nothing more than a nice hot shower, but something held me back.
You see, as a kid, I had spent all my waking hours at the local swimming pool during the summers. Whenever it started thundering, the lifeguards booted us out of the pool until there hadn’t been any thunder for at least 10 minutes. As a teenager, I became one of those lifeguards, kicking kids out of the pool whenever the thunder and lightening started. So you can imagine my confusion as I tried to reconcile my previous experiences with my intense desire to take a shower right then.
So I did what any intelligent and independent 28 year old would do – I called my parents to ask them if I would be struck by lightening if I took a shower during a thunder storm. My mom responded with a chucking “no,” quickly followed up by “but let me check with your father.” My father of course responded with a “no,” in a tone of voice reserved for his “what the hell kind of stupid question is that?” moments.
So, I took a shower and did not get struck by lightening. All the guys I work with thought this story was hysterical – how could I not know that I could take a shower during a storm? But seriously, I’d spent a significant part of my life being not being able to get in the water during storms, what was a girl to think?
The next step was of course Google. As it turns out, the Internet community is very split among the pro-shower and no-shower. It’s all very dramatic . . . so much so that I imagine it will be a huge part of the next presidential election. Okay, maybe not that dramatic, but people have very strong opinions on whether or not you should shower during a thunder storm. It turns out that the issue isn’t the water, but the fact that the current will travel through the pipes and anything touching them.
Despite my years of training to avoid water during a lightening storm, I am making the educated decision to take a shower if I need one. Because ya, I’m a rebel like that.
I was at the gym, finishing up my run, when I noticed that it had gotten pretty dark outside considering it was only around 530pm. Then the wind started to pick up. Ahhh, this is the storm that is being talked about on every single TV in the gym. I picked up the pace for the last mile, hoping to be able to beat the worst of the storm home.
Unfortunately, by the time I was ready to leave the gym, a torrential down pour had started outside. It even smelled like rain out, which is something I really miss by living in an area that is constantly dripping. When I had left the house that morning, it had already been 70 degrees out so of course I had no jacket and no umbrella. After running five miles in a very stuffy gym with no air, I was already dripping a bit myself, so I figured this was as good a time as any to make sure I still don’t melt in the rain.
Lucky for me, it was still warm outside, but I was soaked within the first block. I slowly trudged my way home, my feet sloshing around in my shoes after only 2 blocks. Rain drops stuck to my eye lashes and when I looked up, I even got smacked right in the eye ball with a big fat rain drop.
Ten slow and very wet blocks later, I made it home, sweaty, wet and starting to get cold. This of course is when the sky really decided to open up and provide Ptown with a very rare treat – a thunder storm. I wanted nothing more than a nice hot shower, but something held me back.
You see, as a kid, I had spent all my waking hours at the local swimming pool during the summers. Whenever it started thundering, the lifeguards booted us out of the pool until there hadn’t been any thunder for at least 10 minutes. As a teenager, I became one of those lifeguards, kicking kids out of the pool whenever the thunder and lightening started. So you can imagine my confusion as I tried to reconcile my previous experiences with my intense desire to take a shower right then.
So I did what any intelligent and independent 28 year old would do – I called my parents to ask them if I would be struck by lightening if I took a shower during a thunder storm. My mom responded with a chucking “no,” quickly followed up by “but let me check with your father.” My father of course responded with a “no,” in a tone of voice reserved for his “what the hell kind of stupid question is that?” moments.
So, I took a shower and did not get struck by lightening. All the guys I work with thought this story was hysterical – how could I not know that I could take a shower during a storm? But seriously, I’d spent a significant part of my life being not being able to get in the water during storms, what was a girl to think?
The next step was of course Google. As it turns out, the Internet community is very split among the pro-shower and no-shower. It’s all very dramatic . . . so much so that I imagine it will be a huge part of the next presidential election. Okay, maybe not that dramatic, but people have very strong opinions on whether or not you should shower during a thunder storm. It turns out that the issue isn’t the water, but the fact that the current will travel through the pipes and anything touching them.
Despite my years of training to avoid water during a lightening storm, I am making the educated decision to take a shower if I need one. Because ya, I’m a rebel like that.
June 4, 2009
Sardines? Coming Right Up.
A couple years ago, I decided to take a very long flight to visit a friend who had recently moved to South Africa. Being that it was a few years ago, and I hadn’t quite achieved my travel snobbery that I currently have, I went for the cheapest flight option possible. The cheapest option possible at the time included flying out of Seattle (instead of Portland), connecting through London and then going on to Johannesburg. All in all travel included 40 hours in the air, six in the car, and I can’t even remember how many in layovers.
Now, I am not a tall person and fit relatively well in airplanes, but after 40 hours in an airplane, even I was complaining about the small accommodations. Upon my return, I emailed my friend who works for Boeing to complain about the leg room. She informed me that while Boeing builds the planes, each individual airline chooses their seat sizes, layouts, etc. After hearing this, I decided to forgive my friend for being part of the uncomfortable airline industry. Now I could focus my irritation on the airlines themselves.
Since that trip to South Africa, I have become more of a travel snob. I like direct flights at decent times, even if it costs more. I recently went with a friend to Hawaii and instead of meeting up with his flight in Seattle and having to deal with a layover; I went for the direct flight and met him at the airport. I just bought a plane ticket to Vegas, and although the flight down has a very brief layover in Seattle, it was at the time I wanted. I have decided in my old age, that comfort and convenience is well worth a few extra bucks.
With the memory of being stuffed like a sardine into an airplane still fresh in my memory, even at my vertically challenged size, you can imagine my surprise when I saw in article in the WSJ today. Turns out, airlines are again making the decision to reduce leg room. Airlines are buying the same size planes, but squeezing 10-12 more seats in each plane! Some are even taking food galleys out of planes and putting in smaller chairs. Again, I’m not a large person, but I barely fit in an airplane seat.
The one benefit of the planes with smaller seating areas is that many offer bigger over head bins. Great idea, since they all now charge for checked luggage. Anyone else noticed that it takes longer to board a plane since everyone is overstuffing a carry on suitcase and still trying to stuff it into a tiny bin? Although with more seats on the plane, more people will bring more suitcases and be fighting for space.
I understand that traveling is a privilege (as long as it isn’t for work), especially being able to afford air fare instead of having to drive places. And while I’m small and can actually fit into an airplane seat without an excessive amount of discomfort, I always end up next to the giant on the plane who has to overflow their body parts into my space. Not comfortable to start with, but imagine if you have an exceptionally large personal space bubble too.
If I barely fit into an airplane seat, I can’t fathom being around 6 feet tall and having to fit into an airline seat for hours at a time. Is it really in the best interest of the airlines to for go customer comfort to squeeze in a few extra people? All of our previous air privileges have already been taken away to save a buck – do you really have to treat us worse than sardines too?
Now, I am not a tall person and fit relatively well in airplanes, but after 40 hours in an airplane, even I was complaining about the small accommodations. Upon my return, I emailed my friend who works for Boeing to complain about the leg room. She informed me that while Boeing builds the planes, each individual airline chooses their seat sizes, layouts, etc. After hearing this, I decided to forgive my friend for being part of the uncomfortable airline industry. Now I could focus my irritation on the airlines themselves.
Since that trip to South Africa, I have become more of a travel snob. I like direct flights at decent times, even if it costs more. I recently went with a friend to Hawaii and instead of meeting up with his flight in Seattle and having to deal with a layover; I went for the direct flight and met him at the airport. I just bought a plane ticket to Vegas, and although the flight down has a very brief layover in Seattle, it was at the time I wanted. I have decided in my old age, that comfort and convenience is well worth a few extra bucks.
With the memory of being stuffed like a sardine into an airplane still fresh in my memory, even at my vertically challenged size, you can imagine my surprise when I saw in article in the WSJ today. Turns out, airlines are again making the decision to reduce leg room. Airlines are buying the same size planes, but squeezing 10-12 more seats in each plane! Some are even taking food galleys out of planes and putting in smaller chairs. Again, I’m not a large person, but I barely fit in an airplane seat.
The one benefit of the planes with smaller seating areas is that many offer bigger over head bins. Great idea, since they all now charge for checked luggage. Anyone else noticed that it takes longer to board a plane since everyone is overstuffing a carry on suitcase and still trying to stuff it into a tiny bin? Although with more seats on the plane, more people will bring more suitcases and be fighting for space.
I understand that traveling is a privilege (as long as it isn’t for work), especially being able to afford air fare instead of having to drive places. And while I’m small and can actually fit into an airplane seat without an excessive amount of discomfort, I always end up next to the giant on the plane who has to overflow their body parts into my space. Not comfortable to start with, but imagine if you have an exceptionally large personal space bubble too.
If I barely fit into an airplane seat, I can’t fathom being around 6 feet tall and having to fit into an airline seat for hours at a time. Is it really in the best interest of the airlines to for go customer comfort to squeeze in a few extra people? All of our previous air privileges have already been taken away to save a buck – do you really have to treat us worse than sardines too?
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