Author: baraimondomecom

Well, when was the last time I had stepped on an airplane? Spring of 2022 maybe? Now we were headed to Denver to see The Darlings. We could have driven the van and camped, but even Running Barb has second thoughts about sleeping outside in January. 

We left for the airport around 150 hours before the flight. With Metro, you just never know. We arrive at Metro’s Red Line. There’s a train there. Good sign. Get on the train. In a few minutes the train starts to move. Things are looking good. The train pulls into each station and stops to let off and let on passengers. Wow. It’s really working! We switched lines at Gallery Place, and the Yellow Line, too, was running in a predictable and orderly fashion. Always grateful for happy surprises.

We got to the airport about a year before departure time. We see that yes, people are flying again, as evidenced by the long, snaky line at security. Long. Snaky. Now – some people swear by TSA PreCheck. Others think it is a big scam by The Man to squeeze greenbacks out of everyday people who have more important things to do with their cash. 

“Use TSA PreCheck! You won’t have to take off your belt!” “Use TSA PreCheck! You won’t have to take your computer out of its sleeve!” “Use TSA PreCheck! You won’t have to take your three-ounce bottles out of your toiletry bag!” “Use TSA PreCheck! You will have to give us 78 dollars!”

Does that sound convincing to you? 

We stripped down to our undies and filled twenty-three bins apiece with shampoo bottles, electronic devices, shoes, jackets, an assortment of pocket change, an old tissue, and a belt. We watched as our goodies rode the conveyer under the watchful eye of a dedicated TSA agent. Another one stood by barking out instructions. “Take off your shoes! You don’t have to take off your socks! If you are over 75 you don’t have to take off your shoes! But you might have to take off your socks!” And the like. 

On the other side we gathered everything into a big pile, and threw it back into the suitcase. I sat on it to zip it shut. 

Was that so terrible?

Next to the gate for the “Won’t-Check-My-Bag” challenge. From the minute we got there the gate agents made threatening noises about how passengers would have to check bags if they (the bags) wouldn’t fit into the overhead bin. They made us do the math. “We have eleven-forty-eight passengers and only room for sixty-two bags. Something’s gotta give, people!” They encouraged you to volunteer to check your bag, or else they might run out of space and force you to check it just before you boarded. They even would allow you to board immediately if you volunteered to check your bag. Dude, who cares about boarding right away? My seat is reserved. My luggage space is not. What I want is to not have to wait for my stuff for even one second (!) at the spinning carousel when I get off.

All of these warnings resulting in passengers hunching as close to the line up space as possible so that when our boarding zone was called we would be the first in that zone. Everyone was seemingly polite and courteous, but we all knew the stakes were high, so when the agent called “Zone three,” ninety-nine luggage toting desperadoes shoved into place. The countdown continued. “Folks, we only have room for three bags, a lunchbox, and a child’s purse. Your luggage probably is not going to fit in the overhead. You can volunteer to check it now.” 

Every passenger clutched and re-clutched our respective suitcase handles. You’re gonna have to pry it from my cold dead fingers, buddy.

Finally we boarded the plane with our bag and headed toward our seats. Most of the bins were closed, but I sensed a possibility toward the back. The aircraft was almost the size of Maryland, so it took a while, but there it was, the reward we had all been hoping for, a bin with space enough for the Sahara Desert. We neatly tossed our bag up there, not taking up any more room than we deserved, so that some other sucker wouldn’t be left holding a bag. We took our seats and smugly clicked in. 

Moral of the story: When it comes to your baggage, never let it go.

With all the turmoil and upset going down in our nation’s capital, we must remind ourselves of the importance of voting.  

Choosing a winner is not something you should take lightly. Votes have consequences. You need to pick the best representative for the job. You should not be discouraged by voter suppression, gerrymandering, or any other nasty or nefarious scheme. You should have full confidence that your vote will make a difference. You – yes you! – can influence the choice of who will be the next fat fellow in charge.

I write, of course, about the Fat Bear Week competition of Katmai National Park and Preserve, Alaska, where normal people like yourself get to choose who comes out on top.

Every year in the summer and fall bears meander over to the rivers and streams of Katmai (and elsewhere) for a meal. Actually, many meals. Throughout this period millions of salmon swim upstream, back to the place where they were born. Their roots, you could say, if fish had roots. Tasting opportunity (aren’t they smart), bears hang out around the water and scoop up the fish that come along, munching and crunching them with their four-inch long, razor sharp teeth. Our bear buddies have to build up their fat reserve in order to make it through winter hibernation. According to the National Park Service, “For bears, fat equals survival. Each winter, bears enter the den where they will not eat or drink until they emerge in spring. During this time, they may lose up to one-third of their body weight as they rely solely on their fat reserves. Survival depends on eating a year’s worth of food in six months.” 

You might feel like that’s what you do pigging out on a pizza on a Friday night, but honey, you don’t even come close. A single salmon provides about 4,000 calories, and the biggest bears can eat up to 40 salmon a day, taking in a up to 160,000 calories. That’s a lotta Papa Johns. Why, I can’t even bear the thought of eating that much! These giants also go for the choicest parts – skin, brain, and eggs – the ones highest in fat. Yum!

After gorging themselves they hunker down into their den. During this time they may give birth to a cute little bear brood. Then, when they come out in the spring they are hungry again! It’s like having a high school football player around. Without the unbearable driving.

During the spring they feast on plants and berries. Then comes summer and the whole shebang starts all over again.

Watching and learning about the bears shows once again how interesting and amazing nature is and how it sparks so many deep questions, like “How close can I get to this bad boy, anyway?  

Can’t make it to Katmai to see the competitors in person? No worries, hitch a ride with our pal Sam! If that doesn’t work, there’s always the bearcam. That’s as close as most of us will ever get. 

Fat Bear Week voting is open October 4-10. Cast your ballot now. May the most qualified critter win!

I am a cultured person. I have been to many of the iconic sites in the world: the Louvre, the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Hagia Sophia, the Uffizi Gallery, the Taj Mahal, even the Milwaukee Art Museum. I seek out unique world landmarks that teach and that demonstrate the awesomeness of the human experience.

And so, when I saw a message about the National Bobblehead Hall of Fame and Museum I knew I had to find a way to drop on by.  

The NBHOFAM is located on the second floor of a commercial building in downtown Milwaukee. Like so many fascinating places it is not easy to get to – you have to climb a set of stairs. Once you are there you are warned – as is the case with so many cultural spots – not to touch anything until you get to the gift shop. Once you pay the fee – $5.00 – you are free to walk around and soak in the visual effect and meaning of the distinctive objects. 

First, you learn about the history of bobbleheads. You may not be aware that “Chinese nodding head figures are documented in England and Continental Europe as early as the 1760’s.” A pair of these figures sold for nearly $36,000 at an auction in 2010. Pretty sure the heads that we saw in this museum weren’t fetching this amount.

Apparently the English George IV was really into them as well. This was during the late 18^th and early 19^thcenturies. This guy had a complicated history. According to Wikipedia, his rule was “tarnished by scandal and financial extravagance.” It’s no wonder he looked to bobbleheads for security in a tumultuous time. 

Nikolai Gogol’s main character in his famous short story “The Overcoat,” Akaky, had a neck “like the neck of plaster cats which wag their heads.” First written reference to a bobblehead!

Bobbleheads really took off from the 1960s on, when sports teams started adopted them as mascots. Today, the NBHOFAM houses around 6500 bobbleheads of every size, background, and genre. From athletes to intellectuals, from entertainers to human rights advocates, if you are even mildly famous, there is a pretty good chance that there has been a bubblehead created of you. Here are some examples of some of the better-known figures.

What a party! Over Labor Day weekend we stayed at a large private campground near Detroit. These places give new meaning to the word “camping.” There is space here for about 50 gazillion ginormous RVs. RVs can stretch up to 45 feet long, about the length of my first apartment, a one-room attic on top of a garage. (I liked having the garage because I had a space for my bike.)

Once you park these RVs they do all sorts of interesting things. The sides of them can pop out to make them wider. Some give you a balcony. Others stretch out longer in the back. There’s just no end to the amount of space you can find in these babies. (The same was not true of my first apartment.) 

When I pack our van it’s “one shirt or two?” “The green socks or the blue ones?” “Do I really need to bring that long sleeved shirt?” Some of these RVs have two bathrooms and a walk-in closet. Guess you don’t have to make the hard decisions when you can just bring everything you own with you.   

When we got to the campground the first thing we noticed was the number of vehicles on the road. The (previously mentioned) RVs, trailers, cars, trucks, ATVs, and golf carts. Lots of ATVs and golf carts. Nobody walks anywhere. It was like rush hour for the motorized set. (Which maybe makes sense for Motor City.) Every campsite we saw was full, and what with vehicles, chairs, tables, grills, propane tanks, strings of lights, and giant American flags the place was bursting at the seams. This made us a little nervous, since we didn’t want our teeny weeny van to be wedged between a monster Montana and a massive Minnie Winnie. 

We asked for a tent site. The nice lady behind the counter said they have a few “rustic” sites left. Turns out these are a patch of ground in the trees with no running water or electricity, and lots of mud. Perfect! We took the site for two nights. We look like outcasts. Everyone else is chummy and chummily close. We are solitary and in the mud. Just the way we like it. 

It’s just as well because we are not living like the people around here. The campground has all kinds of activities over the weekend: a Hawaiian luau, karaoke, tie dye, a corn hole tournament, and so much more! And what are we doing? Laundry!

But on the way to laundry we experienced lots of fun things. This morning we were wakened at 3:30 by someone in one of the aforementioned ATVs who parked it near our van with its lights blasting. She was calling out an indecipherable name. Her dog? Child? Husband? We never found out. Eventually she skidded out and went away. Today we took a walking tour of Detroit. We found out that the United States and Canada are building a border bridge named after hockey player. We learned that Detroiters call hot dogs “Coneys.” And that the current General Motors headquarters building looks like the setting for “Silo.” Always something new to know! 

Next we went to the Detroit Jazz Festival and ate a spanakopita lunch in Greektown. Detroit is way cool and you should visit it someday. You don’t even need an RV, ATV, or a VIP. Rusty ol’ rustic will do! 

Recently I have been spending some of my days leafing through items from my life. My sixth-grade report card. Books I loved 20 years ago. Family photos. And to be honest, I have been throwing lots of stuff out. It’s a symbolic reminder that some phases of my life are just plain over. It’s also an opportunity for me to examine with the benefit of time all kinds of choices and experiences. 

I found an article I wrote for a medical journal when my children were young, detailing what it was like to raise deaf children. At the time there was barely an internet, newborn hearing screening was just beginning, and it was rare to see a deaf person portrayed in a positive way in media. Early intervention programs, which are supposed to support families with infants and toddlers, were mostly useless when it came to folks with deaf children. Looking back, I hardly know how we managed. 

But it all worked out, and our kids turned out just the way we wanted them to: smart, successful, extremely good looking, highly amusing, and, added bonus – killer rock climbers. 

Perspective

Published in Infants & Young Children, Vol. 12, No. 4, April 2000.

I was fast asleep early one recent Saturday morning when my 5 year old son, Asher, came bounding into my room. He excitedly tapped me on the shoulder several times to wake me up. As I rolled over into consciousness, barely opening my eyes, he proudly announced he could count to 100. He immediately launched into a demonstration of this new skill, racing through one set of tens to the next, stopping and slapping his head from time to time with a grimace when he skipped a number and had to go back, pausing after each nine. When he was close to the end he slowed down, reciting the numbers with more flourish and drama: “ninety-EIGHT … NINETY-NINE …  ONE HUNDRED!” He stopped and stepped back in a glow, leaving me to appropriately ponder this impressive demonstration.

Through a sleepy haze, I smiled with the kind of satisfaction I have experienced countless times over the years. It was not just that he could count to 100 – that was nice, but expected. I was more gratified by knowing that Asher, who is profoundly deaf, would not have reached this level of language, cognition, self-assuredness, and, well, counting, if he had not been immersed in American Sign Language (ASL) since the day he was born.

Asher has a sister, Meira, who is 5 years older than he. Like most hearing parents, when my husband, Dennis, and I found out she was deaf just before she was a year old, we were devastated. We thought her deafness would relegate her to a dark, lonely future with limited learning ability and career opportunities. We questioned whether she should be able to become self­-supporting, fulfilled, or even happy. Fortunately, our pediatrician was perceptive enough to know that we would benefit from talking to other parents of deaf children. She referred us to two families she knew. When I talked to and visited those families, I saw that the expectations for their deaf children were very much like the expectations I had for my daughter but feared I had to give up. The children attended schools designed for deaf children, and the families used sign language. The parents could read their children stories, help them with their homework, and discipline them when necessary. Their lives were normal. They had warm, loving relationships. They attributed much of this to their ability to communicate clearly with their children through sign language.

The signing families we met influenced us quite a bit. We began to see sign language as a natural way for deaf people to communicate. Meeting additional families of deaf children, some who signed and some who did not, confirmed this. At the same time, we did want Meira to be able to speak so that she could communicate with hearing people who didn’t know sign language. But we knew that this might take years, if it happened at all. So we choose to use ASL signs in English word order and speech with her at the same time, using “simultaneous communication” or “sim-com.” It was a somewhat awkward process at first. We literally had to check the sign language dictionary every time we wanted to tell her something. However, it was surprisingly effective. Within weeks Meira was understanding our signs, and shortly after that she began signing back, first in the nondistinct motions of sign babbling and baby sign, then in real signs. Although in some ways it was strange to us that these were our child’s first words-we had been expecting something quite different, to say the least – it was every bit as exciting as if they had been spoken. We were communicating at last.

We also had the opportunity to meet deaf adults. While scary at first, this was enlightening. They were very patient with our beginner signs and our constant requests for them to repeat what they said. Their interest in our daughter­ or perhaps it was the bond they felt with her­ was apparent. Over and over they told us what a wonderful thing we were doing for our daughter by learning to sign and how they wished their parents signed. Learning about their experiences was important to us. It helped inform our decisions in a way that our own experiences as hearing people could not.

Contrary to our fear that deaf people spent their lives feeling as though they had a loss and wishing they could hear, the deaf adults we met were satisfied, well-educated individuals with professional-level jobs, interesting hobbies, and much to our relief, even a good sense of humor. They fit very much the ideal we had for Meira before we found out she was deaf. The main difference was that their primary language was ASL.

We used sim-com with Meira for the next 2 years. When she was around 3 years old, we moved to a bilingual-bicultural philosophy using ASL and English as separate languages. Adopting this view was nor something that happened overnight. Like any parents of deaf children, we wanted to be sure that Meira acquired fluency in English. In the beginning, we felt that speaking while signing would be the best way to accomplish it. The more exposure to English, the better, right? But as the concepts we were trying to convey became more complex, using both languages at the same time caused each language to lose its integrity. The spoken English would be somewhat understandable (to a hearing person already fluent in English), but the signing looked simply confusing. It is difficult to try to use two languages at once. It was not fair to make Meira guess what we were trying to convey. We found that turning our voices off while signing improved clarity, so that is what we did. We began explaining to her (in ASL) the differences between English and ASL. We encouraged her “reading” and attempts at writing and sent her to both private and in-school speech training.

Today, we sign in ASL when we are gathered around the dinner table catching up on our day. We sign in English when we are reading Language Arts homework. We sim-com when Meira has a hearing friend over. We have short conversations that rely mainly on speechreading for practice. And when I am trying to open the door while carrying four bags of groceries, Meira doesn’t have any doubt that I am saying, “Open the door! Please!'”

It was into this environment that Asher was born. He signed his first word, “Daddy,” when he was 9 months old. He is beginning to read and write, and he tells us richly detailed stories about the events in his life, whether they happened last year when he was 4 (“a long, long, long time ago!”), last week (“Hmm, it was either Tuesday or Wednesday … “), or in the future (“I will love you forever and ever.”).

My husband and I are often asked why our children don’t have cochlear implants. The simple answer is that we don’t see any voids in their lives that a cochlear implant would fill. They have full language access at home- even our extended family signs. They have full language access at school – they attend a school for deaf children. Meira is an excellent writer, producing mystery stories and poetry. Asher writes thank-you notes to family members who bring him his favorite toy – trains. They have deaf friends, and they have hearing friends. They have hearing aids and receive speech training. They play sports and go to religious school. They have full, rich lives.

It is well known that the most successful users of cochlear implants are late-deafened adults and the least successful users are prelingually deaf children. This fact should come as no surprise. A late-deafened individual has a lifetime of hearing memories on which to draw while attempting to decode the imperfect signals of a cochlear implant. A prelingually deaf child is relying on this imperfect signal to learn language. Because cognition, social development, and knowledge about the world-and everything else that follows – are so important and depend on appropriate language acquisition, it seems rather risky to depend on this device, particularly when a deaf child’s visual system is fully functional.

Families whose child receives a cochlear implant go through intensive pre- and postoperative procedures. Before the child is considered a candidate, children and families undergo a variety of physical, audiologic, and psychological tests. Parents must demonstrate commitment to developing their child’s speech skills. If the implant team is not satisfied the family will follow through to the extent desired, the child is denied an implant.

After implantation, families must enroll their children in an educational or speech program that supports the implant. Families bring their children to an audiologic clinic a number of times for mapping and to a speech therapist for many hours of intensive speech therapy. Implant teams work closely with families, audiologists, speech therapists, and educators to support the implant. If an implant team does not view a particular educational program as adequate to support the implant, the team will help the family advocate for change in the program. Families invest large sums of time, money, and emotion in support of the implant.

There are studies whose authors report that children with cochlear implants are more successful than children without implants on a variety of discrete measures, such as phonologic awareness or identification of words in an open set. However, no study has attempted to separate out how much of the child’s success on these measures is a result of implant and how much is a result of the selective nature of the cochlear implant process, the support of the cochlear implant team, the number of hours spent in speech therapy and auditory training, and the time and emotional commitment of the family. There is no evidence to show that such narrow skills, which are not even universally learned by children with cochlear implants, translate into higher language, cognition, or quality of life for the child.

Furthermore, because cochlear implants in young children are relatively new, there are no long-term studies of possible detrimental effects. As such, implants are still in an experimental stage. Finally, if deafness was so terrible that it required surgical intervention, wouldn’t deaf adults be standing in line to obtain cochlear implants for themselves and especially for their children’ Yet adults who are deaf from birth almost never seek out a cochlear implant either for themselves or their children.

“But don’t you want to give them every option?'” you ask. That is what we are doing. First and foremost, we are giving them the option to lead normal lives, free of unnecessary surgery. Free to express their thoughts, dreams, and emotions in the ways they can do best. Free to engage in any playground activities they like without fear of damaging their (very expensive) medical device. Free to determine, as adults, what type of amplification device(s) they would like to use, whether that is a cochlear implant or something else.

In closing, here are some things you can do to support deaf and hard of hearing children and their families as you set up newborn hearing screening programs in your hospitals.

• Include deaf and hard of hearing persons and families of deaf and hard of hearing children in an advisory capacity. They know better than anyone the effect of hearing loss on everyday life and contribute important, unique perspectives.

• Provide structured opportunities for parents of deaf and hard of hearing children to meet other parents of children with hearing loss and deaf and hard of hearing adults. Parents of newly identified children who meet successful parents develop confidence that they, too, can successfully parent their child. Parents who meet successful deaf and hard of hearing adults can envision a bright future for their child.

• Learn about the deaf community and deaf culture. Many children identified with hearing loss will be a part of this community sooner or later. Medical personnel and other service providers can develop a more positive view about the potential achievements, contributions, and quality of life of children with hearing loss if they become familiar with the adult members of this community.

• Ensure that parents of children identified with hearing loss receive information from a variety of sources, not just medical and audiologic ones. Healthy child development depends on many factors in a child’s life, including full access to communication, acceptance of the child within the home and community, and appropriate environ­ mental stimulation. Other groups and agencies, such as parent organizations and schools for the deaf, can provide important information that can help parents enhance the development of their child as a whole person and often provide a perspective that differs from the medical perspective. Better informed parents will make better informed decisions.

• Ensure that early intervention programs and services are available to meet the needs of children with hearing loss and their families. Early identification is only efficacious if the child and family receive immediate, appropriate intervention. Programs and services should ensure that these children develop language – whether spoken or signed – at a rate on par with that of their hearing peers. Parent counseling and training should be offered, including training in child development, sign language, and activities that promote children’s speech and audition. Counseling and training should be available in the parents’ native language. Children who have multiple disabilities should receive services designed to address their developmental needs.

I am grateful – and Meira and Asher are, too! – that my husband and I began signing with them as early as possible. My fervent hope is that other families of deaf and hard of hearing children have the same opportunity. Universal newborn hearing screening and intervention programs are spreading far and wide. These programs must be set up in ways that will support successful outcomes for all deaf and hard of hearing children. Support for sign language and the deaf community is a critical component of any universal hearing screening and intervention program.

You think you have your day all planned out, then something happens. 

I had just closed my front porch storm door after seeing my grass cutter guy off, when I heard a loud pop over my shoulder and what sounded like shards of glass tinkling to the floor. My, what could that be? I looked back at the door and saw that it had shattered into a bazillion pieces. More breaking was happening as I was watching. Sections of the pane were popping and splintering, all on their own. New cracks of all kinds and lines and shapes continued to appear, along with accompanying splitting noises. Chunks were falling to the floor in turns. I watched for a moment while the slivers fell and smashed some more once they hit the ceramic tile floor. So weird! Felt like an indie movie.

To be honest though, while I thought it looked really cool and like nothing I had ever seen before, I kinda wished it was happening at someone else’s house.

No matter. I closed the main door to keep more fragments from falling into the house. And I helped the glass still remaining in the door along by poking it out of the door. Get this thing over with, I thought. I pulled the main door over so that it was almost shut, and poked the rest of the glass out with the end of a broom. Smashed glass everywhere.

Okay, next is “Safety first!”I suited up, wearing:

• Leather gloves (must have been the cheap kind, cuz I still got cut (I’m fine!)),
• Eye protection (well, swimming goggles), and
• Sensible shoes.

I continued jabbing the glass out of the door. It was a serious amount. I swept it up with the broom. You have no idea how much glass these doors hold until it lies in chips on your floor and walkway. Next I had to wrestle out the now-empty frame that held the glass. A butter knife to the rescue! I pried the plastic parts that anchored the frame out of their snug spots. Now, the frame was empty. The easy part was over. But how to dispose of all this mess? I couldn’t just throw it in the trash. Some unsuspecting sanitation worker might end up with a giant slash when he least expected it. That is so not okay!

I found a couple of cardboard boxes to put the glass in. I bent and mangled the frame and wrapped it in bubble wrap. I taped everything tight.

I swept the glass from inside and outside the house. Then I vacuumed it up. Felt pretty strange to be running the vacuum cleaner over my front yard.

Next I measured the glass space and went on line to order replacement panel for the door. The company said it would be delivered in three days. What a country! 

In the meantime, there is a gaping hole in my door where the glass used to be. When the main door is open I can walk right through the hole to get into my house. It’s kinda fun. It’s like something your mother would never let you do when you were little. So I walked in and out a bunch of times. And again and again. And even one more time when I knew someone was looking.

Never figured out what set off the giant glass adventure. The replacement will be here soon, though, and I can’t wait to install it. 

And from now on, I’m using the back door. 

This iconic figure (Barbie, not Barb), has been quite popular lately.

When I was a little girl I loved Barbie. And her best friend, Midge. I had a carrying case that held one doll (Midge was on her own, sorry), a small closet, and a bunch of tiny hangers for her tiny clothes. I was so excited anytime I got a new outfit for her. The clothes came in a framed flat box that displayed all the beautiful accessories.

My Barbie had a nurse’s uniform, with a special origami-influenced cap and a military-style cape. I spent many an hour dreaming about how I, too, would become a nurse someday, flinging that exotic cape over my shoulders as I raced off in my stiletto sandals to deliver a hot water bottle to yet another ailing patient. What a hero!

I always thought of Barbie as having the ideal life, pursuing a career (many, in fact), travel to far off places (such as those outside of Bellmawr, New Jersey, where I grew up), and interesting adventures, which I was free to create. 

I didn’t have a Barbie Dream House, but I fashioned a home for her with stuff I found at home. Three books stacked like stairs led to a sunken living room, like the kind you saw on tv. Scraps of fabric marked a sofa and a bed. A hand mirror became a swimming pool. With these options I could spend hours designing Barbie’s space. 

One of the worst things was when you lost one of the shoes. They were really tiny, and they never stayed on, so this was a common occurrence. And when you stepped on one, that spiky heel really hurt. But you needed to stay on top of this. You wouldn’t leave the house with one shoe on, one off, would you? Luckily most of the outfits came with the exact same shoe, so you always had a back up.

When I got older I found out there were people who hated Barbie. Her boobs were too big, her waist too small, her neck too narrow. Barbie’s proportions would lead little girls to have unrealistic expectations of their own body, so it was said. I had no idea. I thought her problematic body part was her knees. My Barbie was not the bendable type, so she was not able to sit properly behind the steering wheel of her flashy convertible. Instead, she had to sit with her legs splayed over the hood. This clearly contradicted reality. And safety! However, I don’t think this misrepresentation led me down the wrong path. Today I own three bikes, a clever campervan, and a sporty two-door with a stick shift and a sun roof.

I love my knees.

So, my time with Barbie and Midge was pretty good. I never wanted to be Barbie, mostly I wanted Barbie to be me. Isn’t that what it means to play?

Even though we are travelling in a camper van there is the odd night when we end up staying in a hotel for one reason or another. You might think that staying at a generic, nondescript chain hotel is kind of dull, but I think it is severely underrated. The room we stayed in recently had a great view of the highways and parking lots that make America so must-see. Plus we enjoyed the neon billboard from the Exxon next door that flashed “Elf Bar” all night long. I never found out what an elf bar was, but I felt like I was in Times Square. You just never know what surprises are in store!

Lodging in a hotel does require a whole ‘nother layer of readiness, though. You have to prepare yourself to sleep in a real bed, use a bathroom that you are not sharing with a bunch of “Home is Where We Park Our Camper” strangers, and cook without a stove.  

Oh, sure, you could pick up an Eggplant Tofu from Panda Express or a Boom Boom Chicken Po’ Boy from Sheetz, but once you spring for a hotel room who has that kind of money? Today, hotel rooms provide a teeny weeny fridge and a convenient microwave, so the food possibilities are endless. There are simple solutions to the challenge of the hungry human. 

One of my cook-inn favorites is what I like to call “Mexican Fiesta Night.” Here’s how you do it. 

Ingredients:

Tortillas. Probably you’ll have to buy them at the store, because it’s a little complicated to make them from scratch in a hotel room. So buy a few!

Refried beans. You can pick up a can at your favorite Kroger. Get the kind where you don’t need a can opener. 

Sharp cheese. Make it easy on yourself, buy it already grated!

Tortilla chips. Special travel treat.

Guacamole. Easy enough to make with an avocado, a splash of lemon juice, a clove of garlic, and a sprinkle of salt. But there is no shame in buying it already made.

Fresh corn on the cob.

Cherry tomatoes. (Those are the itty bitty sweet ones.)

Jalapeno peppers (fresh or canned).

Steps:

First, you need a plate. You might be able to find one in the lobby where they serve those skimpy breakfasts, but if not, just tear a couple of sheets of paper out of your notebook and use that. (You brought your notebook up with you, right?)

Sprinkle some cheese onto the tortilla and put it on the so-called plate.

Smear some refried beans onto the tortilla with cheese. Pop it into the ‘wave for one minute. Take it out and spoon some guac on it. Cut up the tomatoes (You brought your pocket knife up with you, right?) Cut up the jalapenos. Don’t touch your eyes. Toss them on to the tortilla. Arrange it on your notebook paper with a few chips on the side.

Husk the corn, fill your hot pot with water (You brought your hot pot up with you, right?). Break the corn in half and throw it in. Boil it. You may have to do two rounds if you have two people and/or two ears of corn. 

If you’re smart you will have brought some cerveza with you to wash it down. This is easy. You don’t even need to be cooking in order to bring some Corona up. 

And there you have it – a special, easy to fix meal that tastes like a million bucks, and you dont even have to leave a tip! 

After the big chow-down, curl up on the king-sized and channel surf for reruns of Modern Family. The end of a perfect evening.

See you in the snack food aisle!

The other day I was in my favorite store, Goodwill, when I came upon some irons for sale. They were not just any irons. They were Rowenas, which are known to be the best. Take a look here and here. 

I wanted to shout to the other shoppers “Hey, good deal over here!” but they were busy perusing videos, tvs, and old dvds,.

It is a little known fact that ironing clothes is one of life’s special pleasures. You take a cotton shirt off the clothes line. It looks terrible, full of crumples and wrinkles. You power up your Rowena to high, make sure the water tank is full, press the steam button to watch the little clouds puff, and you are good to go.

First, the collar. You lay it flat on the ironing board and start at the pointy ends. First the outside, then the underside. You control the spiky part of the iron to get into the little area of the collar tips.

Now you move to the shoulders. You position the left one on the narrow part of the ironing board, with the front and back of the shirt hanging down. You go over the smooth part of the shirt, towards the back. You use the iron tip to get in between the gathers at the front of the shirt. When this is complete you move to the right shoulder.

Now you are ready for the back. You have to start with the shirt off center, because the board can accommodate only a third of it. You move over the left third, then the middle third, then the right third. You have a lot of fabric to work with. This is the area on which you can glide the iron the furthest. 

After the back, the front. This is the most important. Left side, right side, getting into any tucks at the top. 

Arm fronts, including the cuffs around the buttons, left and right. Arm backs.

Then you give it a once-over, checking to make sure the shirt is sleek as can be. You place it on a hanger, button it at the top, and give it plenty of room in your closet so that it is protected from any threat to its tranquility.

While you are performing all of these thoughtful actions you feel the warmth of the iron and the fabric, you hear the hiss of the steam, and you smell the whiff of transformation.

How often in life do you get to ease out the wrinkles this easily? Ironing is a way of taking control of a messy problem and creating a beautiful refuge that you want to crawl into. It is a calming and purifying experience. It is a way of bringing a small degree of peace into a chaotic world. 

This morning I was out for a bike ride on a beautiful trail near my home. This path runs through the woods along a creek. You can spot wildlife there from time to time. Today I saw an owl sitting on a branch scoping out his next prey. A lot of neighborhoods back up to the path, and I am always happy to see others enjoying the route as much as I.

The path has a few flaws. It crosses some busy streets, and often there is only a crosswalk to protect bicyclists and pedestrians when they cross. This means you have to rely on the willingness of drivers to stop, but even before that, you have to rely on the drivers’ ability to see you. 

I’m pretty visible. I wear a hot pink jacket, a bright red flashing light on the back of my bike, and a white strobe on the front. Anytime I cross traffic I stop and evaluate the situation. I never assume a driver will halt – even if he has a red light. If the driver is close enough, I make eye contact to make sure he sees me. And even if the driver is stopped and following all the rules of the road, I make sure I skedaddle out of his way asap, because, well, a car is bigger than a bike. Oh, and one other thing – I try to look like the friendliest bicyclist around. (Totally against my nature, I know.) I wave at everyone, smile, signal which way I am going every time, mouth a giant “thank you” when drivers pause at a stop sign, and try to show how much I appreciate their willingness to share the road. Even as I mentally track all the actions they are taking to make the road unsafe for me. 

Today while riding I came upon a crossing, stopped, and looked both ways. There was a car coming from each direction. I waited until both stopped completely, and I pedaled across the road. Waving, smiling, signaling, etc., Miss Congeniality and all that. Another bicyclist was coming from the other direction and flew across the road past me. A millisecond later I heard a loud metallic thud. I turned to see the bicyclist crumpled alongside a guardrail by the side of the lane. He had been hit by one of the cars that obviously was no longer stopped. 

The drivers of both cars and I ran over to see if he was all right. There was no shoulder on the road, so they left their cars in the lanes where they were and put on their flashers. The cars behind them began to line up. That’s when the noise began. Drivers up and down the street leaned on their horns and started shouting. They started to go around the scene, screaming at us as they past. The driver who did not hit the bicyclist called out to them that someone was hurt and we had called 911. A woman in a neon vest stepped out of a school bus and started walking over. “Oh, someone coming to help,” I thought. Hahahahahahahaha! She was coming to shout too. 

After a few minutes it seemed like the guy was more or less okay, so I told the drivers I would stay with him until the ambulance came, they could get on their way. Traffic was running again. But soon two giant fire trucks and a flashing police car parked themselves in the middle of the road. Cars began backing up one more time. Didn’t hear any honking though.

I hope it is not like this where you live, but around here, this kind of behavior comes out every time a driver has to wait, say, a quarter of a millisecond before he can move forward. Yesterday I was out running near the high school during morning arrival time. Several students were crossing the street in a crosswalk, and a driver was patiently waiting. Just what she was supposed to be doing, yay! The driver behind the waiting car was losing her mind, leaning on her horn and waving her arms wildly. She had several loose dogs in her car who were jumping around like mad. Pretty sure she thought that the first guy should plow straight into the school kids. Maybe doggie daycare doesn’t let you show up late. 

Road systems in the United States are designed for the convenience of drivers. Bicyclists, walkers, parents with baby carriages, people using wheelchairs, and pretty much everyone who is not ensconced in the metal protection of a car has to cultivate hypervigilance in order to remain alive. Driving is an automatic activity – red means stop, green means go, yellow means go faster. Drivers don’t interpret green to mean “go, but make sure there is no one in the cross walk,” or “go, but don’t smash into anyone,” or “go, but if the car in front of you is isn’t moving, maybe there’s a good reason.” Our traffic systems rely on the good judgement and grace of the folks operating motor vehicles. Wrongly, as it turns out. 

Eventually our man was feeling well enough to call his wife and have her pick him up so he could go home. Glad it wasn’t worse. But I know the next time I am out, or the time after that, I will see Mr. Obnoxious Driver again. I will stay calm. I will breathe. And I will silently hope that his car horn gets stuck in perpetuity.