No backpacks, dahlink. And would you like some creamed cod, a typical northern Italian dish?

It's weird to be with someone who has traveled more than I have, by a long shot. 

I'm used to being the worldly one. It's been over thirty years since I left the peripatetic lifestyle of my childhood, during which I lived in 5 different countries before graduating from college, and travelled to many others. I still see myself as a world traveler. In a group of non-Foreign Service brats, I'm usually the one who has been everywhere.

So dating Greg has been an eye-opener, and somewhat humbling. 

He has been everywhere. His everywhere far exceeds my everywhere.

Whenever we plan a trip, it's always an exercise in whittling down options to places he hasn't visited. And we rarely succeed.

With our first trip together in the spring of 2021, when there were still lots of COVID restrictions in place, I said, "what about driving down the PCH? I've never done that." 

"Oh, I've done that. I did it with an old girlfriend. We argued a lot."

"OK. How about a road trip through Idaho? It's so beautiful and I've never been."

"I did that a couple of years ago."

We've gone through multiple rounds of this over the years. Ireland? He's been many times. Prague? Yep. Spain? Claro que si´. Portugal? Indeed. Cambodia and Vietnam? Check. Turkey? Uh-huh.

At some point, I may have said, "oh for fuck's sake."

When we settled on Iceland, I took a certain satisfaction in having been there before, whereas he hadn't. 

With the Alaska cruise, I had been to Alaska to run a marathon a million years ago and he had never been, so that was another check in my ledger.

That's where the list ends. But I can get a leg up if and when we go to Cyprus, Venezuela, Israel, or Egypt.

The good thing is he doesn't mind going places he's already visited. Another good thing is he always has great ideas.

Because of my work schedule, it's easiest for me to take a trip when school isn't in session, i.e., in June after the school year ends, or over winter break. But winter break is a particularly expensive time to travel.

A few weeks ago, we were spitballing about winter trip options, and he mentioned skiing in Europe. Maybe the Dolomites, and we could also see Venice. 

"Oooooh," I responded. "That sounds amazing!"

I have never skied the Dolomites (or anywhere in Europe). I have never been to Venice. Of course, he has done both, but is happy to go back.

So I started looking at flights and discovered that they were outrageously expensive in December. 

Then I thought, what about later in the winter? Maybe in February over my birthday?

The flights were a third of the December price. 

So that's what we're going to do. We got our tickets three nights ago.

I've started looking into developing a schedule for where we'll be and when. Checking out hotels. 

Greg, on the other hand, likes to wing it as far as making reservations goes.

"I've traveled all over the place and frequently don't make reservations - we can just find something!"

No. 

We will not be doing that. Ever.

He actually suggested that when we were planning our 2021 Iceland trip, during which we would be road-tripping around the country. In one of the only countries in the world that was allowing travel-starved tourists in. Over the summer solstice, which is the high season. Or we could just rent a camper-van.

Again, no. 

I ended up making reservations without telling him. 

For skiing in the Dolomites, the pass gives you access to a bunch of different resorts that are near each other. You can do these incredible tours and ski from resort to resort and town to town.

"Where do you think our home base should be? Which town?" I asked via text. "I can start looking for hotels."

He responded that we'll be skiing from town to town and he'd need to map it out.

I was confused about the logistics.

"Where will we stay? Will we be staying in a different place every night?"

The answer was yes. Under his plan, we would ski with backpacks carrying toiletries, shoes, and a change of clothes.

In my head, I was Gary Coleman. Whatchu talkin bout Greg.

"Where will we put our other stuff?"

"A locker." 

"A locker where? I don't understand."

"Any hotel or train station."

No.

So today I went online and found a company that will transfer your luggage from hotel to hotel in the various ski towns. I don't want to ski while carrying around my clothes and toiletries and shoes. I don't want to spend three days wearing the same change of clothes. I want to have my stuff and be able to go out for a nice dinner and not look like a shlub. 

He agreed that that would be a viable option, even though he didn't think carrying our stuff in a backpack was a big deal. 

Then he sent me a gif of Zsa Zsa Gabor wearing a fur coat, dripping with diamonds, and drinking in the back of a limo. 

I'll admit that it cracked me up. He's a funny dude.

I dunno. I feel like there's a happy medium between the woman who said, "I've never hated a man enough to give him his diamonds back," and being 53 and skiing with a backpack and traveling like a college kid with a Eurail pass. I'm a grownup, dahlink. 

In any event, we have a solution. 

Now I can fire up my Mango app and start brushing up on my Italian. 

I used Mango to learn Italian six years ago, when my parents went to Lucca for a month after my mom retired from the State Department. It's not a program that is going to take you to fluency, but it's great for learning enough to speak comfortably as a tourist.

As with many language learning apps or books, some lessons focus on a particular sentence or phrase that you work on. Mango's most hilarious offering came in the section when you learn about cooking and food and how to order in a restaurant. 

"Prendo il baccalà mantecato, un piatto tipico del nord italia."

I'll have the creamed cod, a typical northern Italian dish.

At the time, my mom and I were both using Mango to study the language, and the baccala mantecato lessons cracked us up to no end. We would practice speaking with each other and no matter what we started talking about, some how we brought it around to creamed cod. Which neither of us has ever eaten, largely because it looks and sounds disgusting. I'm not a fan of creamy fish.

Before we go on trips, Greg likes to watch YouTube videos about the places we'll be visiting.  Other people Netflix and chill. We watch YouTube and yell at the people who post boring travel videos.

"No one is interested in the fact that you got the check-in time wrong for your hotel, bozo!"

One of the videos we watched takes you through the nightlife in Cortina d'Ampezzo, one of the ski towns that is supposed to be super fun and have great food. 

Including, the guy said, creamy cod, a dish that is popular in northern Italy.

My eyes grew wide. "Baccalà mantecato! Baccalà mantecato!! A typical northern Italian dish!!!" I exclaimed. 

Greg looked at me like I was deranged. 

I was very excited. 

Nonetheless, I'm not going to be ordering creamed cod when we go to Italy. 

But if I did, I could do it in Italian. 

I've got sunshine on a cloudy day with my girl

When I was pregnant with Josie and found out she was a girl, I was worried that when she became a teenager, she was going to turn on me. 

The cliche´ of the teenage girl gremlin is so entrenched in the parental ethos. I know I was a little bit gremlin-ish when I was 14, though my mom says that it was more mood-swingy-ness than anything else. Being happy one minute and then crying the next. And it was short-lived. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I haven't really had a fight with my mom in almost 40 years.

As for my own daughter, all I ever wanted was for her to be sweet and smart and funny and happy. 

Holy shit, did I ever hit the jackpot. I keep waiting for the gremlin to appear, but she never has, and I'm getting the feeling that she never will.

I know I overuse the term "delightful" to describe her. Out of curiosity, I checked the thesaurus to see if there was something else that captured it. And the answer was, not really. 

She gets up for school in the morning without a fuss. She is sweet and agreeable in her demeanor - for her to get fussy with me is incredibly rare. She has a tendency to drape herself over me like a sloth. We'll be at the grocery store and she will put her arm around my shoulders and sort of hang there. She has cool taste in music and movies. She studies and gets good grades. She is truly, truly one of the funniest people I know. She surrounds herself with lovely friends. 

She is also beautiful, but to me that is the least interesting thing about her. 

She is extraordinarily sensitive and self-aware in her relationships with people. Last week she came into my room one night, crying and upset about a situation and needing advice. She felt that she was involved in something that wasn't good for her, but also didn't want to give it up. She talked about going back and forth between the two positions in her head and her gut. Her friends were telling her she was messing up and needed to take certain action, but she was at war with herself about what to do.

We talked and I told her that her friends needed to calm down. She wasn't messing up or putting herself in a bad situation. There was nothing about the situation that required any particular action at that point in time. If and when it got to that point, she could figure it out then, but right now, everything's fine. 

I can say with absolute certainly that I never had that level of emotional intelligence when I was her age.

She calmed down and I made her laugh. Then we watched the Barbie movie together.

This past Sunday, it was her 14th birthday. 

A while back, Greg and I had talked about going to Crested Butte for the weekend to do some mountain-biking and hang out at this festival that struck me as supremely silly. When he suggested it, I said, please tell me that we would be attending this ironically, because I am 100% certain that I will find it ridiculous. I took to calling it Woodland Fairy Burning Man. 

Anyway, the weekend coincided with Josie's birthday. Crested Butte is six hours away, and we wouldn't have returned until late afternoon. Josie had made plans to do something with her friends, and I asked her if she wanted me around or if she cared if I was gone that weekend. 

Initially she said it was fine. She said this repeatedly. 

But as the time approached, there was something that felt off to me. Maybe it was my own feelings of guilt. Maybe there was a vibe I was picking up. Maybe both. 

So last week I said, "I want you to be completely honest with me. Would it bother you if I went out of town and didn't make it back until 6 or 7 on your birthday? It will not upset me at all if the answer is 'yes.'"

She was quiet for a second and then said softly, "I want you to stay here. I only said that before because I didn't want you to feel bad."

"Then I will stay here and have a great day hanging out with you," I said. "I can't wait." 

And she gave me a big hug. 

On Sunday a few of her friends came over.  One of them made a piñata for her and filled it with candy. Josie is the absolute queen of trashy snacks - her favorite is Flaming Hot Funions, which should tell you everything you need to know.  So I bought lots of junk food. The girls jumped on the trampoline. They listened to Josie's vinyls (apparently nobody calls them "records" anymore). They gabbed about everything and nothing.

One of her friends stayed for the night. We had birthday cake and Chinese food and watched Some Like It Hot, one of Josie's favorites. She loves Marilyn Monroe movies.

It was a super fun night and I was thrilled that she wanted me to be a part of it. 

Happy birthday, my darling girl. You are one of the great blessings of my life.

Apple, meet tree. Tree, meet apple.

So last week I bought this new mountain bike and she's adorable and cool. I was all excited to ride her. She's mint green and built for a shorty like me and has less than 100 miles on her. Practically new. 

I'm calling her Minty, per my friend English's suggestion

We decided to go mountain biking on Sunday. Greg suggested a ride that he described as mellow and flow-y, and then sent me a link with a description. 

I immediately had a stomach ache. Mountain bike rides are rated similarly to ski runs - this one was rated a blue/black, or "intermediate/difficult." I found a YouTube video of it, and it looked terrifying to me. It still seems daunting, though after getting a ride in, it's definitely something I can aspire to and probably try later in the season. 

But not yet. I asked if we could start with something easier. 

I am a novice mountain biker. I have done it maybe 10 or 15 times in my life. I am a good athlete and always up for a challenge, but mountain biking can be scary and dangerous and it requires technical skill that I do not yet possess. 

This ride would be like a total beginner skiing down a blue/black run after a few days of lessons. No one would recommend it. 

So we decided on a local mountain that is definitely on the easy side. You climb up to the top of a mesa and then it's mostly flat and pretty easy. But it was still a little bit scary. 

We started fine but then headed up a part of the trail that was a bit rocky. I have ridden on rocks before but it had been awhile and I don't have muscle memory built up for this sport the way I do with skiing. I was too much in my head and I couldn't remember what I was supposed to do. Within the first 5 minutes, I fell twice. 

Which made me tense up and feel super anxious. 

Which made me grumpy and disagreeable. 

I caught up to Greg and said, "I think I'm going to sell this bike. I'm not enjoying this."

To be clear, I fully realize how idiotic and unreasonable I was being. 

Predictably, he said, "WHAT??" 

I grumped around and generally acted like a pill. 

I felt stupid and incompetent. I felt like once again, I was in a situation where Greg was an expert and I was a moron who couldn't do anything right. He's better than I am at just about everything.

After a while, we made it to the western edge of the mesa where you can get off the bike and climb up for some great views of the front range. I was still out of sorts and I could tell that Greg was (understandably) annoyed with me. 

But then when I got back on the bike, something clicked. My brain and my body remembered what to do. I started riding comfortably and realized how much fun it was. It was a beautiful day and everything was green and flowery from all the rain we've had. 

When we got back to the car, I said, "that was fun!"

He gave me a look. 

I acknowledged that I had been pissy and childish, and I apologized. 

We decided to head to a local biker roadhouse - like, a legit biker place where everyone wears leather vests with their club's logo on the back and lots of American flag patches - to have some lunch. On the way, I told him the story of when I taught Josie to ride her bike. How crazy and unreasonable she was. 

And then it hit me. 

I had just recreated the entire experience. 

Convincing myself that I couldn't do it? Check.

Getting on the bike and then lacking confidence and making mistakes as a result? ("I couldn't go - the rock was in my way") Check. 

Acting like a crazy asshole? ("Mama, this bike is broken! It doesn't work! This bike is stupid!").

Lamenting that I was a loser? ("I ride like a baby and everybody thinks I'm stupid")  

Figuring it out and exclaiming cheerily how great it was, thereby giving the people around me whiplash? ("Boy, I sure was complaining a lot, but now I'm doing really well") 

Check check check. 

I don't know why it had never occurred to me. My darling daughter, whom I had always thought of as taking after Jason, is just like me. 

Or I am just like her. 

Greg reminded me that it's a dangerous sport and that he respected the fact that I could do it at all. He reminded me that the hard part is what makes it great. It's something to be conquered. 

He's right, of course. 

I mean, I will still probably act like a crazy person sometimes. It would be boring if I didn't. 

On the way home, we stopped and got ice cream. 

As I told Josie all those years ago, ice cream makes everything better.

Summertime, and the livin' is easy

 Yesterday was the last day of school in the school district I work in. My kids' schools get out for summer next week, but as far as I can tell, they stopped doing anything of substance about 2 weeks ago. 

My role in the district involves student matters - special education, discipline, truancy, civil rights matters, the day to day of school administration. 

Which means that the day after the last day of school - today - my workload and my stress levels drop precipitously. Teachers go off-contract and everyone is on vacation. My phone stops ringing. The flow of emails reduces to a trickle. I can work on the stuff that has been sitting on the back burner, but at a leisurely pace. 

It's so nice. It's so chill.

Greg and I are leaving for vacation a week from today. We're going on a cruise from Montreal to Boston.

I truly never saw myself taking cruises on the regular, but this one is going to be awesome. I've never been to either Montreal or Quebec City, and we're going to have time in both cities to sightsee and stroll around and soak up the beauty. We will enjoy the charm of Prince Edward Island and towns in Nova Scotia. Kayaking in Halifax. Hiking in Acadia National Park in Bar Harbor, Maine. Seeing Ali and Josh in Boston. 

The ship itself will be a means of transportation, but with beautiful views and yummy meals and dressing for dinner and being gently rocked to sleep by the movement of the ocean. 

And no cell service. No calls from children asking me for money, no coworkers saying, "I know you're on vacation but I have a question..."

It's romantic and fun and relaxing. 

I need it. It's been a tough year. 

Zeke completely cratered his first semester of high school. It took every bit of effort I had to cajole and nag and cry to get him over the line. 

This semester has been a massive improvement. He is objectively incredibly smart - all he needed to do to get As and Bs was to go to class and pay attention. And he did. It's been an incredible relief.

But he's still a 15-year-old boy. He's mean. He's ornery. He argues about everything. Every day it's a struggle to get him up and out to school on time. He's a slob. 

I love him. He also drives me insane. 

Josie, on the other hand, is easy and delightful. It's like she knows I can only handle one gremlin at a time.

Work is fine, but things are always hectic during the school year. 

So summer is welcome. I'm looking forward to time with Greg, time with the kids paddleboarding at the reservoir, the Boulder shows for Dead & Company's final tour, a visit from college friends, seeing my family at the Outer Banks. I bought a mountain bike to replace the one that got stolen last summer, so I can do some hiking and biking. 

I sent a picture of it to Greg. He said, "let's go to Fruita!" and sent me this:

I do appreciate his confidence in me, even though there's no way in hell I have the skills to do something like that.

More likely, it would be another in a long line of outings with Greg that ends up with me being bruised. There have been a number of falls off the bike - both mountain and road - that resulted in gorgeous bruises on my ass. Taking a tumble while roller-skating and having massive bruises up my hands and arms from putting them down to catch my fall. Getting bumped around on rocks that we climbed while hiking. And of course, the ruptured ACL.

But at this point, it's funny. I'll take it. Life is an adventure.

So yeah. Summer. All good.

Girls on film

I’ve come to the realization lately that when it comes to my age, there is a disconnect between how I feel or how I think I look, and how I actually look, at least as far as younger people are concerned. 

I mean, for the most part, and most of the time, I feel like I look OK and probably a little younger than I am. I’m not down on myself in the looks department. 

Maybe this is helped by the fact that my daughter, who is my lovely and enthusiastic cheerleader, routinely tells me how beautiful she thinks I am and that I look 35, tops. 

“Mom, everyone in my school thinks you’re so pretty.”

“I’m not sure how that could possibly be true given that I know maybe 6 or 7 people in your school, but that’s very nice of you to say.” 

I digress. This is not about whether or not I am pretty. 

What makes me think about this is that when Greg and I are out in public together, we tend to be very affectionate and a little PDA-ish. Not inappropriately so, but it’s there. He often has his arm around my shoulders (probably because with our difference in height, it’s comfortable for him, like leaning on a counter) or we’ll hold hands or give each other the occasional smooch.

I’ll joke that the younger people around us are probably like, “gawd, why are those old people making out? Gross.” 

We went to New Orleans for the week between Christmas and New Year's. We both adore the city, and I was particularly excited because while I have been in recent years, I haven't been there as a tourist since I was 20 years old. It's such a sexy place, and I wanted to go as a grownup with my dude and have a week of fun and romance.

We did all kinds of great touristy stuff. We walked all over the city and rented bikes and rode up to Lake Pontchartrain. We rented a car and went to see a plantation that focuses its historical presentation entirely on slavery (much like the Holocaust museum, it is powerful and astoundingly well done, and it wrecked me emotionally). We went to the World War II museum. We did a riverboat jazz/dinner cruise. We went to a Billy Strings show. We went to the Sugar Bowl.

We also partied non-stop, listening to live music, eating all the things, drinking all the cocktails. 

I am not exaggerating when I say that I ate bread pudding and/or Bananas Foster every day, sometimes more than once. Breakfast was eggs and biscuits and grits and bacon and whatever else I felt like loading onto my plate. Po’boys. Jambalaya. 

Both. Each. 

“Hey, let’s have lunch! Time for a Hurricane!” Or a Sazerac or a Vieaux Carre or a Paloma - you get the idea. 

No lie, by the time we came home, I was so bloated that I looked 5 months pregnant. 

It was totally worth it.

The ultimate party was New Year’s Eve. We bought tickets for the party at The Spotted Cat on Frenchman Street. It’s a great small music venue, and rather than leave the place open to the public as it normally is, they sold tickets to provide music and drinks and fun on New Year’s while also assuring that they would have a reasonable number of people without insane crowds. We put on party clothes, i.e., he wore a shirt with a collar and I put on a dress that showed lots of cleavage, and we danced and took advantage of the open bar and had a blast. 

At least recently - now that I’m old – I haven’t gone to New Year’s Eve parties and the goal is to make it to 10 p.m. so I can call my family when it’s midnight on the East Coast. This year we were out partying until almost 3 in the morning.

  

After we left The Spotted Cat, we walked down Frenchman, smiling and happy and schmoopy. At that point, we were wearing gold top hats.

There were lots of blue and purple lights. We did not eat the magical gum from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory that turned Violet Beauregard blue. 

This group of kids (and I say “kids” but they were probably in their mid- to late twenties) passed us and one of them said to us, “oh my god! You guys are gorgeous, and looking way too elegant for this scene!” 

We laughed and thanked them and wished them a happy new year. We chatted with them about the party scene and then mentioned that it was late and time for us old folks to think about packing it in for the night.

“No way! You don’t look old at all!”

“That’s very kind of you. I have a daughter who tells me that but I think she’s just being nice.”

One of them said, “I have an older sister who has kids - you’re not that old! You look fantastic for your age!” 

It reminded me of that scene in Clueless when Cher and Dionne are trying to set up their teachers - who are in their thirties - and they see them flirting on a bench and say, “old people can be so sweet!”

One of them had one of those cute instant cameras that takes mini photos, and they asked if they could take our picture.

"Sure, why not?" we said.

Now, remember how I said that our PDA isn't inappropriate? That's not entirely accurate. Occasionally, for example, Greg will let his hand slide down my back to the point that I might have to point out the obvious - that we're out in public and not invisible.

It happened a few times in New Orleans.

"Still not invisible!" I'd remind him.

Anyway, so the kids on Frenchman Street want to photograph us, and one of the guys said he was a photographer and would pose us.

"Cool! We can finally get a well-composed picture of ourselves instead of relying on selfies!"

I was imagining him having us stand at a certain angle and facing a certain way so that the light hit just right, and it would be worthy of a frame and a prominent place on the mantle.

But then he said, "now Wendy, you face the light pole and hold onto it like you're bracing yourself, and Greg, you hold onto her hips and push up against her from behind like you're ---"

"Wait, what??"

"No really, trust me, it'll be great!"

So he took the picture and it is beyond hilarious. I am holding the lamp post and laughing so hard and Greg is behind me with this huge shit-eating grin and I truly wish I could post it here and show it to you.

But alas, I work for a large public school district and enough people in the community - and their attorneys - know me that I have to be careful. And while the picture really isn't dirty or unfit for public consumption, I'm not putting it up on the internet. If you know me well and have my email or phone number, reach out and I'll send it you. It's so funny.

In any event, we were still not invisible, but I didn't even care. I guess we're not such old fuddy-duddies after all.

Happy New Year!