Musing from a road trip laundry room

While waiting for someone else's mom to get their stuff out of the cold dryer in the laundry room of the Homewood Suites in Durham, NC, I started to make notes for this blog.
I had not done any laundry for nearly a week.
My husband and I had been road tripping thru the South.  We had been taking in the change of seasons, the topography and, of course, the food. 
Truthfully, I was skeptical even at this point in the trip that I would still fit into my airplane seat home.

I arrived at Parents' Weekend with full intention of doing all of our son's laundry and that of any family-less student still in town for the festivities.  We were there to spend quality time with our youngest, to meet his friends, celebrate his 20th birthday, and to enjoy some R&R before returning north to the elliptical machine at the fitness center. 

I did in fact start writing this chapter from a pedicure chair where I had motivated Danielle, my nail tech, to resume her journal writing by picking up blogging. I was there killing time while my husband was getting an oil change on what used to be the family SUV. The SUV has been living at school with our son.
We had time to do these normal routine appointments because pre-med boy was in class and playing flag football and we had nothing to do until dinner time because he would not let us do his laundry. 

We travelled 1100 miles to see him. The trip kicked off from my husband's and my hometown -- Philadelphia in Pennsylvania. We were still married after eight states, and the District of Columbia;10 McDonald pit stops, refueling each time with $1 unsweetened iced teas (except on the border of Virginia and Tennessee where they charged $1.75 for the same guilty pleasure), that would eventually lead to more pit stops. 

We made planned stops in Richmond, VA, where we Yankees sought the perspective of the natives on "the war of aggression" at the Confederate War Museum and Jefferson Davis' White House. We kicked off the eating festivities setting the bar high at Richmond's top BBQ joint. Buz & Ned's Real Barbecue, where Bobby Flay lost a "Throwdown" in a brisket challenge. I make a mean brisket. I too would have lost the challenge. Brisket and beef ribs melted like "buttah" in our mouths. 
Later we took advantage of Richmond's  restaurant week for dinner at Tarrants that included a coconut chess pie, which I added to my Pie Hall of Fame, while scraping the plate. The restaurant is in a former main street small town pharmacy. This made it even more appealing to my pharmacist husband/traveling companion.  

The next day we were on the road to Monticello, VA to Thomas Jefferson's estate, where we enjoyed a brilliant tour from a guide who oozed Jeffersonian factoids and loved his job. 

We enjoyed being at Monticello and also loved the southern buffet at the Michie Tavern next door, where the fried chicken and mashed potatoes left no room for dessert. 

Exhausted from battling the GPS and the travel and touring we broke all rules that night and ate at our hotel in Charlottesville, VA. The chef, who is trying to build a notable place to eat in another foodie city, rose to the occasion and served us well. Generally we only eat the free breakfasts at the Hilton properties we stay at. This particular Hilton Garden Inn might be a dinner gem. 

Speaking of GPS battles. We could not really blame our satellite sister as she directed us around and up and down the Appalachian and Blue Ridge mountains on our six-day journey. As we saw signs for Tennessee, on the way to North Carolina from Virginia, I was feeling completely geographically challenged. My husband, who for kicks and giggles and lots of baseball has taken our son on road trips to every Major League ballpark (and some that no longer exist), was pretty confident that we were going the correct route as we passed thru a gorgeous part of the country I doubt I will return to in this lifetime.  The leaves were beginning to change and the distance between Cracker Barrel Restaurants became more spaced out as we headed for Asheville, NC and the Biltmore Estate, nearly six hours from the day's starting point. 

It was worth the trip to gawk at the opulence of this Gilded Age home. It is impossible to wrap your head around how much money this branch of the Vanderbilt family (not Anderson Cooper's line) had, and spent, not to mention the skill and tenacity of the people who built it. 

That drive for perfection was matched that night at a local spot called Tupelo Honey Cafe which has quite the rep for its biscuits, flaky softball-size orbs that require no condiments. This did not stop me from dressing half with Tupelo honey and the other half with a homemade blueberry compote. Because I ordered their vegetable combo plate for dinner (only in the South is Mac n Cheese considered a vegetable), I treated myself to a slice of their chocolate pecan pie. It was the best pecan pie I have ever eaten in a restaurant. Worth the drive, even if you aren't in the area. 

As we waddled out of the cafe I was so glad we had not rented a Prius for the journey. Driving in the safety and comfort of a 2014 Jeep Grand Cherokee, I could barely fathom fitting in a Prius after the pie. Also, I could not fathom what the Civil War soldiers endured traipsing from battlefield to battlefield on this terrain. At both Monticello and Biltmore, guides talked about distance in "how the crow flies" measurements.  

Today we get annoyed if a plane takes off an hour late or if there is no direct flight. It took Jefferson three days by horse to get to DC and often when visitors invited to Monticello arrived, he would host them for three months. Of course he had his own private wing at the place.  

We paced ourselves on the journey to Durham. Even stopped at an outlet mall (like we don't have those at home). Despite the pie, hush puppies and biscuits, I squeezed my way into a new pair of jeans that were a size smaller than the ones I wore into the Chicos. No salespeople were injured during that visit. 

Then we headed into Durham to enjoy Parents' Weekend and more eating. Kicked off the food fest with Dame's chicken and waffles. It was downhill for any dieting from there. The jeans will probably not fit me now for a month or two.
Other than standing for a complete basketball game amongst the Cameron Crazies in the student section, most of the activity we threw ourselves into revolved around food. I'd be lying if I didn't tell you about how we even ate BBQ twice in one day.
We had already been to a few Parents' Weekends between our two children. By now the university's planned activities were not a big part of the visit plan. The most important thing was to spend time with our son, now a sophomore. 

Observation: Friday all the parents arrive full of energy and enthusiasm. Sunday we all are carrying bags from the University Store, empty wallets and weary faces.
Diagnosis: Food comas.

After three days in Durham we were whisked to the airport this morning in the former family car by our son. Cashed in my winning North Carolina Powerball lottery ticket to buy him breakfast as his dad filled up the SUV at the airport gas station. 

We thanked him for a fantastic weekend (he pulled an all-nighter to get us tickets for that exhibition basketball game, scrounged up tickets for a very good acapella concert and hand-picked where we would dine) and mostly for spending time with us.
He thanked us for coming. Priceless. 

Hair raising issues

I had just barely recovered from thumbing through the October issue of Oprah Magazine.

You have seen the edition. The one with the bright orange cover and Oprah, who has always been obsessed with her own hair, donning a Diana Ross epic fro. 

The issue offered every conceivable angle on hair 

No follicle was left untangled 

I am relieved her staff took the time for such an indepth look at everything you could possibly want to know on the subject. 

Apparently a lot more people than I had ever thought possible are really into their hair.

"Just look," my colorist Katie said, last week, pointing her magic wand at the gooey-headed gals filling all the chairs in her Long Grove (IL) Red Cottage Salon. 

I'm happy for Katie and her business partners that all of us wearing tarps and hair dye are too cowardly to do it ourselves. Oh the commercials make it look like Sarah Jessica Parker can process herself, but I can't imagine she scrubs the grout after that final color rinse. 

I also don't think she has ever feared leaving a salon with "I Love Lucy" locks.   I hail from  a family of receding headlines and redheads. I still wince at the nicknames Ginger and Red. The upside, I never felt more at home than during a visit to Ireland. 

The downside, redheads are on the endangered species list. While growing up only one in three people had red hair. Recent report out of England warn we red-haired baby boomers are heading for extinction. Sadly, it is up to the Prince Harrys of the world to make us more desirable. 

While living in Florida I would perm my locks to keep the humidity hair in check so it would not injure people with the turn of my head. Now I keep it shorter to prevent incidents.

When we moved to Chicagoland my first hairstylist went home sick before finishing my new haircut. Not every stylist wants to mess with my kind of kinky coif. When I latch onto a brave stylist who can send me out the door with a haircut that will tame these tresses, I am loyal to a fault. I will follow that artist from shop to shop. While living in Florida I would cross the state from Cocoa Beach to Tampa Bay to stay with a certain stylist. I have even remained the client of one of my favorites after she accidentally snipped my ear while we were lost in laughs and conversation.

I have had the same loyalty with my colorists. You don't have to be a hairdresser to know for sure that this color is not my natural color. My real hair after having and nurturing two children is the color and texture of dental floss.
A day or two before going for color I sometimes don't want to leave the house. I time the appointments with calendars of engagement dates and full moons and around mostly Katie's schedule. So, when I got the call before going into Philadelphia last week for a college reunion (a much better topic for those of you who want to check back next week) and a family gathering telling me Katie's children were ill and my back-up colorist was off that day, a wave of panic washed over me. They promised all would be righted the next day. This was almost as bad as having to pay for reticketing my flight because of my own  booking mistake that cost almost as much as half a year of hair color.
When I don't stay on top of this color schedule I have been mistaken for my sister's mom, my children's grandmother. Cruella hair. Get the picture? I don't know how Bonnie Raitt has carried off her signature white-streaked look so long.
I am waiting for grandchildren, or Katie's retirement before I give in and go completely white-haired.

After recovering from reading the Oprah chronicles on hair I was mentally challenged, again, soon after on a train ride into the city. Four beautiful college-aged girls with lovely locks talked up hair the entire hour into the city while twisting, flipping and splitting their ends. Shootings on the Southside, trouble in Syria, not on their minds.

My sister used to sleep with orange juice cans on top of her head to get the look they were complaining about having, as they primped and played. 
Over the weekend, while standing in line for alum-tent-hamburgers at the Temple-Army football game, my college friend Donna, who I don't get to see all that often, found me easily in the crowd of 25,000-plus.
And it's not like she recognized me on Facebook (don't have it), or by my Linked-In profile pic (don't have one for reasons of national security), or this blog (which I try to write anonymously).
"Saw your hair she said," as we exchanged hugs and told each other how fantastic we looked.
Thanks Katie.

Flying by the seat of my pants

I have just paid to change an airline ticket because I made a mistake.
The entire time I was going through the online process (because I wanted to avoid waiting 25 minutes on hold to have a human charge me more to do this change over the phone) I was shaking and sick to my stomach.
Changing P.M. to A.M. is very costly.
But I need to get to where I am going. The same place I was going to when I booked my original fare more than two weeks in advance to save money. Problem: I need to be there 12 hours earlier.
I am the booker of flights in our house. I rarely, if ever, make a mistake.
When I have worked with travel agents for vacation "deals" in the past they asked me if I was in the industry, because  I have such a good grasp on how this ticketing thing works.
Who would have thought that booking four tickets at once would be my undoing?
I got the other three people in the house ticketed from two different starting points, two different dates and three different return points (yes three!) juggled without a problem. It think, I'm afraid to look.
I was even able to digest the outrageous fares we paid with 14-day advance ticket (because it is cheaper to book if you book earlier). It's a good thing Americans aren't flying these days, or the overstuffed planes, with no room in the overhead storage bins, would justify even more expensive airfares.
I just rebooked this multi-city airfare because I made a mistake, and it is costing me more to fly to Philadelphia than Peru. I kid you not.
I just paid my $200 change fee and $216 additional ticketing fee to get on an earlier flight to make a conference in Philadelphia. And, there is not even a seat on the seating chart that won't cost me even more money, so I am nervous that there might not be room for me on the plane.
The whole time I have been thinking about this process I have been seeing my travel life pass before my eyes.
How many times have the airlines cancelled flights on me or made me miss connections and messed up my schedule?
How many times have the airlines put me on a flight where the seat was broken, or some other malfunction --  not to mention vomiting children near me -- have messed up the experience?
How many times has my luggage (which I no longer relinquish for anything less than gate check with pick up on the jetway) gone someplace or somewhere it wasn't expected?
How many times have I been charged for premium seating because the seat map has boxed me out?
How many times has the person before me ruined the Sudoku puzzles, leaving me with nothing to do while electronic devices have to be turned off?
I hope none of you have suffered any of these pitfalls in your travels.
When a flight home from Madrid was cancelled because of mechanical issues and we were put up and pampered by the airline until another plane could take us safely across the Atlantic, I was the one who squashed the mutinies in that airline's defense. 
In my thousands of miles of travel I have always been forgiving of acts of God, weather, mechanical issues that can't be resolved and crew complications. I believe that as long as the airline is striving to get me to and from, safe and sound, all is good.
That is also why I have no problem standing in long, slow lines at security or even taking my shoes off and walking on the germy, nasty floor.
I pity the person, with the "weekender fare" sitting next to me on my flight to Philadelphia. Knowing that their free beverage costs $416 less than mine is not going to make for a cheerful seat companion. Especially, if I have to pay even more for an economy-plus seat to guarantee space on my earlier flight.

Stimulating the economy, one bauble at a time

You would have thought I would have learned something last year after my rookie trip to this jewelry sample show.
As I accepted the brown paper lunch bag from the greeters at the door, I realized I had completely forgotten to purchase and pack a flattering light-up make-up mirror so that I could see how dozens of pairs of earrings would twinkle next to my green eyes.
Just kidding.
More importantly, I had not forgotten to show up later to avoid the stampede of suburban women who were in a hurry to scour the tables of necklaces, bracelets, pins and earrings from American jewelry designer Patricia Locke's collection.
If these were just the samples, her staff was scattering on row after row of banquet tables, I can't imagine what her warehouse is like. 
So many twinkles, so many baubles, no wonder the women sitting on the floor around the room with their mirrors and over-flowing lunch bags of the loot, were having personal parties. 
I had stumbled on the jewelry designer a few years back while shopping at Macy's. I was looking for a gift to take to my daughter's host mom in Spain. I was looking for something made in the USA, even better Illinois, to take to Elena as a thank you gift. Elena loved the bejeweled bracelet (which by coincidence matched the colors of her home) and did not take it off for the remainder of our visit. I hope she is still enjoying it.
I learned about the sample show by accident at TJMAXX last year. Almost punched another customer in the nose when she insisted imported costume jewelry in the case was similar to PL's designs, but of better quality. After she left the counter, the salesperson told me she too was a Patricia Locke fan and that there was going to be a sample show later that month. 
Last year I bought myself a bracelet, similar to Elena's, that I can't wear without someone complimenting it. This year I received a card in the mail to alert me of the sample sale's date. I was so in. I invited a dozen of my friends to join me -- only two were brave enough to embark on the adventure.
I shared that it was better to drop in a little later so there would be no anxiety-filled line of women to stand in. Also, many lunch bags would be emptied back on the tables after the early-birds culled "the best stuff" and had headed out for margaritas at the neighboring Mexican restaurant to review their bounty.
Believe me, there may not have been much floor space to stake out for trying on the inventory, but there was plenty of inventory on the table to wade thru. Take that hoarders!
It always amazes me how many people are shopping at these events (cash and check only, please), even when the economy is rocky. Truth, you are probably not going to find this jewelry for less. And there were many followers in the room who would have payed RETAIL. Yes, I said RETAIL.
As I held the six pieces I was weighing on purchasing in my bag, I looked around to see what other women were holding onto. I was a minor leaguer. I decided to check out before succumbing to peer pressure and filling my paper bag.
In fact, I put back a set of earrings before stepping into the checkout line. I reminded myself I have worn the same stud earrings for 25 years. I am not really a jewelry person. Except for a few inherited sentimental treasures, I have little bling to flash.
Wednesday I added another bracelet to my collection; the rest of the twinkly baubles will be gifts. I also supported a woman-operated company that understands and helps customers match orphaned earrings (at a price). I kid you not.
The checkout clerk tallied the damage and put the jewelry back in my inconspicuous lunch bag. She accepted my check, stapled my bag shut, thanked me, and sent me on my way.
She said she hoped to see me next time. I made sure I filled out an e-mail notification card before I left.

Mahj Mitzvahs

A dear friend and her sister have made a pledge to journey from here to a neighboring state every couple of weeks to play mahjong with an aging aunt and their cousin.
They are calling it a "mahj mitzvah."
After my mother-in-law moved into assisted living here a few years ago, the same dear friend, offered to go and help teach any men or women who wanted to learn the ancient game. Anything to help a fellow mahjong maven get a few more players so there could be a game. Unfortunately it never happened because of the physical disabilities and the sad comings and goings of people in my mother-in-law's assisted living facility. 
In the entire time my mother-in-law lived in assisted living the only thing she complained about (besides the food, but we won't go there) was that lack of mahj mavens. When she moved to Chicagoland to join our family here, she joined a recreation center to take mahjong lessons and meet new friends. She made a lot of sacrifices to move closer to her family -- the biggest was to leave Philadelphia, the second was to give up her treasured mahjong and card groups at the swim club. To the very end of her life the ladies she shuffled tiles with in two cities were among her loyalist friends.

Mahjong, for those of you who have never heard the shuffling of tiles and learned the ceremonial breaking of the wall or the jingle of the winnings purse, was originated in China. World-wide the best players are still men. According to Wikipedia, it has only been played here in the USA since 1920.
I don't know when it was hijacked by Jewish women, but I think today they keep it thriving in the West. I grew up in a mahj house, in the Philadelphia area. One night a week and maybe an afternoon or two, when possible, the snack tables with bowls of nuts, pretzels, fruit and other nosh, were set up around a bridge table and mom's mahjong set.
The set was proudly purchased with S&H Green Stamps. I can still taste the glue on my tongue as I type this.
I have early memories of helping my mom turn the tiles face down for the players to swish around before drawing and stacking them neatly to build walls against their raised racks. Then there was the sound of the tiles clacking as she and her friends kibitzed and cackled before starting the next game.
When the game was in play my sister and I knew better than to interrupt. Sometimes a fifth person moved stealthily around the table like a satellite waiting for her turn to play. She would discreetly try to not show any emotion as the players built their hands.
When the National Mah Jongg League's new card came out each year, word of its availability spread like wildfire. Mom's friends were almost orgasmic about the new card. Although they all kept the tri-fold card, which shows the official hands and rules of the game, in front of them, most of the mavens didn't need to refer to them. My mom had that card memorized before almost anyone else she played with. She took great pride in frequently being asked to sub in other games looking for a fourth player.
At the beginning of each new season, there were deep discussions over the challenges of this year's card versus last year's. I'll bet there are some players out there who could compare all 76 years of the National organization's hands. As in baseball, there is also a more junior American Association.
Even when macular degeneration impeded mom's eyesight she could still play mahjong. The touch of the tiles, which have numbers, and dots, and jokers, and dragons, and flowers etched on them was second-nature to her.
My dad joked about how he didn't know how they understood the card since it was in Chinese. Chinese symbols that is.
I remember having a conversation with mom, when her eyesight began to worsen, about getting a larger print edition of the card. She said she would be embarrassed to have to use it. 
I reminded her that years ago when she needed to get the Canasta decks with bigger numbers, the rest of the women she played with happily adapted. Most were probably relieved to have the larger typeface.
Mom finally had to give up mahjong in her late 80s, not because she couldn't see so well, but because she couldn't reach from her tile rack to the table center to discard her useless tiles and pick a new one. Bad rotator cuffs and arthritis caused a premature end to a 70-plus-year-hall-of-fame-career as a mahj maven. I know with my mom's passing away in February she was reunited as that elusive fourth player with her other friends who preceded her, or even my mother-in-law, who never gave up on looking for a game.
Where ever I have lived I've been asked if I play mahjong. I understand the fundamentals and vocabulary of the game, but have had no desire to play it. Maybe there were too many "sushings" when I was watching mom and "the girls'' spend the afternoons at play. Sometimes the sound of the tiles clacking into each other makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
A lot of my friends are picking up the game or finding their foursomes, perhaps feathering their empty nests.
Maybe on the next trip to Philadelphia I will drag the mahjong set out of my sister's guest room closet and bring it back to Chicagoland.
Maybe my daughter, or son, will want to play someday.

Everyone is a little bit Italian

My offspring, mi figli, tease me about my ability to speak Italian.

"Just because you move your hands and speak a little more animated than others, or toss an O at the end of your wordsO, doesn't mean you can speakO the language,'' according to my daughter.

She, a woman of many language fluencies, a degree in International Studies and a longing to work in the foreign service, doesn't understand my passion for the Italian language.

I have always wanted to speak another language with some proficiency. Learning Latin in high school might have helped a little. Using the Spanish I learned instead more frequently might have helped a lot more.

Last year, in an attempt to stave off early onset Alzheimer's disease, I enrolled with my friend Julia at our community college for Italian I and Italian II. I dropped before Italian III because of the impending winter weather and the fear of being exposed as a language fraud. Julia went on to converse her way through Italy and speaks beautifully.
I am now content to order off the menu in an Italian restaurant clearly pronouncing each syllable as I have been taught. I've had a few bruschetta battles with "more knowledgeable wait staff" over pronunciation. But I am sure after working on my most recent linguistics degree, the tasty bread treats -- with the tomato, basil, garlic and olive oil dollop -- are pronounced bru'sket ta, not brus chet ta.
It reminds me of my first trip to Italy (BC, before children) when the New Jersey folks on the trip kept calling the country "It Lee," making me feel even more empowered.
Why am I in an Italian group at Bontà Italian Market and Cafe, a small family-run eatery, in Lincolnshire, IL, on Saturday mornings? I think in another life I might have been Italian. I will never get bored with visiting the country, the history, the art, the music, the people, the food.

Mostly I drop into Bontà because I have found a nice group of people who share the same love, and I love to hear them speak this language. Some are native born, like Nunzio who owns this delizioso deli gem, with his wife Antonella. Some of the Saturday morning classmates have lived the life in Italy. And others bring their rich heritage to the table (il tavolo) each Saturday morning.

We have shared our vacations, discussions over Italian politics, Il Papa, how to properly stack eggplant parmigiana and even the recent controversy surrounding Barilla pasta (Google it!). And we have shared sadly and happily a few life cycle events now and then.

Besides camaraderie and cappuccino, the nucleus of the group wants to make a presence on the North Shore and create an Italian-American Cultural Center full of activities and identity, similar to others in Chicagoland. Bontà opened its doors to the Contemporary Italian Cultural Society -- Chicago Chapter to be part of the new epicenter, while building its business.
Besides conversation and breakfasting we kick in contribution$ each week to build the dream or at least offset the cena e cinema (dinner and movie) nights that have become very popular at Bontà a couple of times a year.

Truthfully, I am after almost two years still intimidated when I have to read or say anything after buono giorno. But I could listen and learn from the majority of the group all day. 

This is not my first frustrating attempt to master another language. Thanks to an adult literacy course I can read Hebrew sans gusto, but understand very little of what I am saying. After my daughter's beautiful Torah reading during the Jewish High Holidays I congratulated her and told her how proud I am that she too can read Torah. She almost burst a bladder when I she reminded me that I don't speak Torah. I don't read it either. It doesn't have any vowels.

One of the obstacles I found in learning Italian was that I would stop to think of what the word was in Spanish before figuring out what was being said in English. My daughter, who is not as mean spirited as I paint her here, frequently reminds me that my Spanish is also limited.

Okay, so I once ordered a pair of shoes (dos zapatos) for breakfast instead of eggs (huevos) in Mexico City and got into a loud argument over the price of a bottle of Kahlua not being (verde) green instead of verdad (the truth) in Puerto Vallarta.

And when my Spanish exchange student daughter and I were left at home without my children, who speak and understand the language with ease, there was a lot of dictionary page flipping and arm flailing. But Noey and I got along and still love each other.
I remind my daughter/IT gal that I have travelled Italy, Spain, Chile, Argentina and Uruguay without international incident. She reminds me she has always been at my side for communication purposes.
I was aware in Italy that she was telling people "my mother is a little bit crazy"  in Italian to get us help when we got a little bit lost.
 My son, who has been known to mock me in Spanish, sounds like John Wayne when he speaks, but he does speak and understand the language without problem. He still rolls on the floor with laughter from the time I professed that I spoke Swiss.
Back to my daughter, who has an ear for many languages. She even took an Arabic class while in college and was one of a few students who realized that they should be reading Arabic from right to left. Hebrew school again paid off.
Recently I reminded her that I was left in Buenos Aires on my own for 12 hours and still managed to eat, navigate the city and get on a flight home to the US without calling John Kerry's staff. She reminded me how the Argentinians spoke English beautifully in the tourist areas and were not too proud to get help from someone when necessario.
Now I am wondering if there might have been some miscommunication when I booked my daughter, my sister and I on an adventure tour to the waterfalls in Iguazu. I refer to that part of our vacation as "Survivor Iguazu." Stay tuned for a future blog.
Where did our children, who make fun of their father's dusting off his high school French, get the knack for all these languages?
Today I was looking through a continuing education listing from our neighborhood high school. There were still openings for an 8-week American Sign Language course. My daughter signed me a few phrases she has already committed to memory and hand.
Then she said she would rather take beginning Japanese. Was I interested? You never know.