I’ve always been a night person. Even as a kid, I remember staving
off sleep for as long as possible — not because of monsters under the
bed or nightmares or anything, but because I just didn’t want to give in
to sleep. I’d do everything I could think of to stay awake. I’d read,
I’d play with my toys and do pretty much anything else I could do to
keep Morpheus at bay.
Late-night television was a special favorite. Back when I was in
elementary school, I’d stay up late on school nights watching “SCTV” and
“Monty Python’s Flying Circus.” Oh, and “The Saint,” too. I was too
young to really understand the humor of “Monty Python,” and “SCTV” was
just so… Canadian.
I wasn’t supposed to watch “Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman,” but I
sometimes did. As with most of the shows, I didn’t understand the humor
or themes, but that didn’t matter; it was TV that was on after the news —
therefore verboten, therefore awesome. The early years of
“Saturday Night Live” are also deeply embedded into my psyche. I didn’t
really understand why someone saying “Candygram” was funny; I just knew
that it was.
Sleepovers in junior high were rife with staying-upping, so I tried
my best to attend as many as possible. The girlish bonding, the secrets,
the revelations, the late-night bowls of Cookie Crisp cereal… None of
those could have happened had I gone to bed when I was supposed to. All
the more reason to stay up.
In high school, I discovered coffee. This allowed for even later
nights, more and better shenanigans, and yet another vehicle for
ingesting copious amounts of sugar and non-dairy creamer. At the high
school I attended, students had the choice of starting at eight or nine
a.m.; I always took the later start, even though it meant staying in
class till 4 p.m., simply because getting up at seven a.m. was just not
an option for me.
One semester, I gave it a try — all of my friends had early classes
and I desperately wanted to be able to leave school when they did.
There was teenage hooliganism to be done, you see. But I wasn’t able to
join them most days, because I was usually in detention for missing my
first period class.
In college, I experimented with early rising. I had an apartment
that overlooked Lake Superior, and I would get up in the mornings at six
to watch the sun rise over the lake. It was peaceful and calm —
beautiful, really. And I’d not trade those memories for anything, even
though I thought it was just a phase.
When I moved to Minneapolis and got married, I left the early-morning
life behind. I got a regular 11-to-7 job and did all the regular people
things –- got some cats, bought a house, cooked regular meals. Life
returned to normal, and stayed that way for a good many years.
But today, I’m an early riser once again. It took a while for me to
come to that realization, and longer still for me to get the courage to
admit to it. Sometimes, I feel a couple ounces of shame over it,
especially when I recall my earlier years of carefree late-night
abandon. Instead of staying up ’til five a.m., I wake up at 6 — on purpose
— and sometimes even before my alarm clock goes off. Instead of having
my second iced espresso at eight p.m, I’m having a nice warm mug of
herbal tea. Instead of tying on a pair of TUK creepers at 10 p.m. and
hitting the bars, I’m lounged up in a set of sock monkey pajamas and am
dozing off on the couch. I schedule dentist appointments for seven in
the morning.
Have to cop to it: I’ve become an unrepentant early riser.
Mostly.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Road Trip! (Monkey Goggles)
It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a real, live road trip. Not
being a driver (never learned how) makes it difficult, as does having a
bit less free time. But the biggest difficulty I’ve had has been
convincing people that the things I want to go and do and see are really
a lot of fun!
When I was younger, roadtrips were de rigueur. Every weekend we’d pile into someone’s Plymouth Fury or someone else’s mom’s station wagon, and we’d go just about anywhere. Sometimes we’d have a destination in mind, and sometimes we’d just drive around aimlessly for a while and then come back home. On a good trip, we’d remember to bring the directions to someone-or-other’s aunt’s lake cabin and we’d head in that general direction. The best trips would happen when we actually found it.
One especially memorable weekend started off innocently enough, with a car full of friends, a purloined motorboat battery, a couple of two-liter bottles of Coke, and no plan whatsoever. We ended up spending the weekend at a lake cabin belonging to someone’s aunt’s great sister’s ex husband, or some such, and it was an amazing couple of days of paddle-boating, building sand castles (and catching dragonflies to populate the helicopter launch pads, like all good castles have), and pooling together our collected $34 to get a hearty breakfast at Perkins. There was love and loss and embarrassing cases of poison ivy… Perhaps there was beer involved, too. I’ll never tell.
With memories like that in mind, it’s sometimes hard, watching the eyes of my sense-of-adventureless friends glaze over as I talk wistfully about my proposed Wisconsin Death Trip (two or three days of fun in The Dells capped off by a beer and sausage fueled jaunt to Milwaukee) or my Badlands Misadventure. Seriously, what could go wrong while photographing ghost towns? Absolutely nothing, that’s what! Nothing at all could go wrong in those completely deserted mining towns… with no cell phone reception… nothing, nothing at all…
Things pop up, I know. Everyone seems to have kids and cats with hyperactive thyroids, overburdening jobs and Saturday brunch plans, and “You know, we just have to get that flat of zinnias in, you never know when it’ll be sunny again…” Gas is expensive, snacks are unhealthy, and sitting still for hours on end isn’t as easy anymore. I get that. But I’m still not ready to give up my hopes and dreams of weekend adventuring.
Since moving to Seattle, I’ve left the greater metropolitan area exactly three times. Once to spend a bleak December day in a rained-out rest stop in Neah Bay, once for an overnight team-building slumber party (note to self: never, ever again), and once to jaunt up to Port Townsend for the day. Okay, and Vashon Island. Four times. Oh, and a wedding in Bellingham. Okay, five times.
I’ve not been to the Grand Coulee Dam or spent the night in a Bavarian-styled bed and breakfast in Leavenworth. I’ve not soaked in the Wind River Hot Springs or taken photos of small churchyard cemeteries. But I’d sure like to. There’s a coffee pot building in Arlington that needs to be visited, as well as the Flaming Geyser State Park. Centralia’s famed Yard Art and arty windmills in Electric City are also waiting to be visited. And Elk, Washington’s Robot Hut. Robot Hut!
I’ve never been one for road bingo or license plate games, but I think I could get behind a good game of “Count the Cows.” And to be perfectly honest, I also miss the road diet: Two days of Pringles and string cheese, washed down with 44-ounce cups of gas station coffee. That’s the life! Hash browns always taste better in a small-town diner, and as special agent Dale Cooper can attest, North Bend, WA. is “where pies go when they die.”
What else is there to do? I’m sure there are far more grand adventures out there, just waiting to be had. I’d love to hear some of your favorite road trip stories.
When I was younger, roadtrips were de rigueur. Every weekend we’d pile into someone’s Plymouth Fury or someone else’s mom’s station wagon, and we’d go just about anywhere. Sometimes we’d have a destination in mind, and sometimes we’d just drive around aimlessly for a while and then come back home. On a good trip, we’d remember to bring the directions to someone-or-other’s aunt’s lake cabin and we’d head in that general direction. The best trips would happen when we actually found it.
One especially memorable weekend started off innocently enough, with a car full of friends, a purloined motorboat battery, a couple of two-liter bottles of Coke, and no plan whatsoever. We ended up spending the weekend at a lake cabin belonging to someone’s aunt’s great sister’s ex husband, or some such, and it was an amazing couple of days of paddle-boating, building sand castles (and catching dragonflies to populate the helicopter launch pads, like all good castles have), and pooling together our collected $34 to get a hearty breakfast at Perkins. There was love and loss and embarrassing cases of poison ivy… Perhaps there was beer involved, too. I’ll never tell.
With memories like that in mind, it’s sometimes hard, watching the eyes of my sense-of-adventureless friends glaze over as I talk wistfully about my proposed Wisconsin Death Trip (two or three days of fun in The Dells capped off by a beer and sausage fueled jaunt to Milwaukee) or my Badlands Misadventure. Seriously, what could go wrong while photographing ghost towns? Absolutely nothing, that’s what! Nothing at all could go wrong in those completely deserted mining towns… with no cell phone reception… nothing, nothing at all…
Things pop up, I know. Everyone seems to have kids and cats with hyperactive thyroids, overburdening jobs and Saturday brunch plans, and “You know, we just have to get that flat of zinnias in, you never know when it’ll be sunny again…” Gas is expensive, snacks are unhealthy, and sitting still for hours on end isn’t as easy anymore. I get that. But I’m still not ready to give up my hopes and dreams of weekend adventuring.
Since moving to Seattle, I’ve left the greater metropolitan area exactly three times. Once to spend a bleak December day in a rained-out rest stop in Neah Bay, once for an overnight team-building slumber party (note to self: never, ever again), and once to jaunt up to Port Townsend for the day. Okay, and Vashon Island. Four times. Oh, and a wedding in Bellingham. Okay, five times.
I’ve not been to the Grand Coulee Dam or spent the night in a Bavarian-styled bed and breakfast in Leavenworth. I’ve not soaked in the Wind River Hot Springs or taken photos of small churchyard cemeteries. But I’d sure like to. There’s a coffee pot building in Arlington that needs to be visited, as well as the Flaming Geyser State Park. Centralia’s famed Yard Art and arty windmills in Electric City are also waiting to be visited. And Elk, Washington’s Robot Hut. Robot Hut!
I’ve never been one for road bingo or license plate games, but I think I could get behind a good game of “Count the Cows.” And to be perfectly honest, I also miss the road diet: Two days of Pringles and string cheese, washed down with 44-ounce cups of gas station coffee. That’s the life! Hash browns always taste better in a small-town diner, and as special agent Dale Cooper can attest, North Bend, WA. is “where pies go when they die.”
What else is there to do? I’m sure there are far more grand adventures out there, just waiting to be had. I’d love to hear some of your favorite road trip stories.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Commuting with Superheroes (Monkey Goggles)
Every weekday, I walk into a den of superheroes and a lair of
supervillains.The regulars on the bus I take to my downtown Seattle
office have become more than just a sea of semi-familiar faces; they are
the costumed crusaders that keep the city safe. Not in a grandiose,
Batmannish sort of way, but in their own, quiet ways. I’m sure that
everybody has a few of these -– people who seem to be just that little
bit more … interesting, somehow. More distinguished. People who seem to have just a little bit more going on than the average citizen.
It’s pretty easy to pick out the daily villains. There seem to be some pretty standard archetypes — The Bottlenecker, The Loud Gum Chewer, Too Much Cologne Man, and everybody’s favorite, Lil’ Miss Nickelback, the 16-year old terror with her Hot Topic body armor and her iPod set to stun. But the heroes are just as vital to recognize, for they keep these dark forces in check. Here are a few of the crusaders I ride with daily:
Alpha Nerd. Dresses all in black, and slings a laptop bag in one arm while nestling a netbook in the other. He generally sits cross-legged. At first blush, it seems as though this is a ploy to keep the seat all to himself, but it’s really for maximum commuter computing ease. Sometimes, when I steal a peek over his shoulder, I can see that he has a veritable Tetris stack of spreadsheets open and running, but peeking out from behind them is a D&D Online web page. Alpha Nerd fights the orcs so we don’t have to.
Karen By Night. Four days out of the week, Karen seems to be a pretty typical office gal, all business casual and sensible shoes. But come casual Friday, all the cubicle frumpery is ditched in favor of tight black Levis, Converse Hi-Tops and vintage cotton pajama tops — the timeless uniform of the Classic Vintage Thrift-Store Maven. She can wield ’60s faux pearls and ‘70s Vivaldi pumps with neither fear nor remorse.
Walks-in-the-Clouds. This gentleman is impeccably dressed, always polite, and has perfect poise and posture. He is also always reading books about angels and how they walk among us. I not-so-secretly believe that he is indeed one of said angels (or is at least in their employ), and is here doing fact-checking and making sure he (or they) is portrayed well in popular fiction.
Pretty in Pink. She dresses in monochrome: Like a grey fog bank in winter and in glorious pastel pinks in the spring and summer. Like Karen By Night, Pretty’s superpower comes from her flawless fashion sense; just being in close proximity with her makes you feel a little bit more put-together. Sometimes it’s all you need.
Rockabilly Rebel. His name is probably Karl, and he probably works at Tully’s, but for a few brief and shining moments every morning, he’s the heppest cat in the whole bus shelter. When the morning sun hits him just right, you can see the glint of his pomade and you can almost hear the invisible bassline that follows him around. Ka-dunga-dunga-dunga-dunga.
Small Craft Advisory. I swear this gal has been knitting the same sweater or scarf or whatever it is for at least seven years. And we’ve only been riding the bus together for four. Nonetheless… Small Craft’s super power is kinetic energy. If you are having a sleepy sort of morning, just sitting near her will be enough to give you the fits and spurts of energy you need to get you through your commute. Conversely, if you need just a few more minutes of sleep, the rhythmic clickety-clack of her needles will soothe you right into slumber.
I have no idea what their real stories are, but I hope they are at least as interesting as the ones I have made up. Perhaps one day I’ll get up the gumption to strike up a conversation and find out. But until then, I’m quite happy to believe that these people will be there, quietly saving the day and keeping my commute safe from drudgery.
And I have to wonder: am I a character in anyone’s work-a-day narrative? Am I maybe Cranky Hoodie Girl or She Who Wears Blue Shoes? And am I a hero or villain? I’ll probably never know.
It’s pretty easy to pick out the daily villains. There seem to be some pretty standard archetypes — The Bottlenecker, The Loud Gum Chewer, Too Much Cologne Man, and everybody’s favorite, Lil’ Miss Nickelback, the 16-year old terror with her Hot Topic body armor and her iPod set to stun. But the heroes are just as vital to recognize, for they keep these dark forces in check. Here are a few of the crusaders I ride with daily:
Alpha Nerd. Dresses all in black, and slings a laptop bag in one arm while nestling a netbook in the other. He generally sits cross-legged. At first blush, it seems as though this is a ploy to keep the seat all to himself, but it’s really for maximum commuter computing ease. Sometimes, when I steal a peek over his shoulder, I can see that he has a veritable Tetris stack of spreadsheets open and running, but peeking out from behind them is a D&D Online web page. Alpha Nerd fights the orcs so we don’t have to.
Karen By Night. Four days out of the week, Karen seems to be a pretty typical office gal, all business casual and sensible shoes. But come casual Friday, all the cubicle frumpery is ditched in favor of tight black Levis, Converse Hi-Tops and vintage cotton pajama tops — the timeless uniform of the Classic Vintage Thrift-Store Maven. She can wield ’60s faux pearls and ‘70s Vivaldi pumps with neither fear nor remorse.
Walks-in-the-Clouds. This gentleman is impeccably dressed, always polite, and has perfect poise and posture. He is also always reading books about angels and how they walk among us. I not-so-secretly believe that he is indeed one of said angels (or is at least in their employ), and is here doing fact-checking and making sure he (or they) is portrayed well in popular fiction.
Pretty in Pink. She dresses in monochrome: Like a grey fog bank in winter and in glorious pastel pinks in the spring and summer. Like Karen By Night, Pretty’s superpower comes from her flawless fashion sense; just being in close proximity with her makes you feel a little bit more put-together. Sometimes it’s all you need.
Rockabilly Rebel. His name is probably Karl, and he probably works at Tully’s, but for a few brief and shining moments every morning, he’s the heppest cat in the whole bus shelter. When the morning sun hits him just right, you can see the glint of his pomade and you can almost hear the invisible bassline that follows him around. Ka-dunga-dunga-dunga-dunga.
Small Craft Advisory. I swear this gal has been knitting the same sweater or scarf or whatever it is for at least seven years. And we’ve only been riding the bus together for four. Nonetheless… Small Craft’s super power is kinetic energy. If you are having a sleepy sort of morning, just sitting near her will be enough to give you the fits and spurts of energy you need to get you through your commute. Conversely, if you need just a few more minutes of sleep, the rhythmic clickety-clack of her needles will soothe you right into slumber.
I have no idea what their real stories are, but I hope they are at least as interesting as the ones I have made up. Perhaps one day I’ll get up the gumption to strike up a conversation and find out. But until then, I’m quite happy to believe that these people will be there, quietly saving the day and keeping my commute safe from drudgery.
And I have to wonder: am I a character in anyone’s work-a-day narrative? Am I maybe Cranky Hoodie Girl or She Who Wears Blue Shoes? And am I a hero or villain? I’ll probably never know.
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