The sweetest little Christmas gift

Christmas is over. Bells have been rung. Carols sung. Gift wrap flung.

December 29. We arrived home last night from visiting extended family. I was just sorting through some of the gifts left strewn around our house, and thinking about the items that were given and received this year. It was a pretty sweet Christmas, with simple and thoughtful gifts. The best kind. 

A few quirky ones too. I totally love this giraffe TP holder:

There was another gift. A little background: Since we moved here and realized that our trash regularly gets rummaged by vagabonds, I started putting our redeemable cans/bottles in a separate bag on top of our trash each week on trash night. Without fail, this bag vanishes. It's a win-win, really. It saves me a trip taking the nickel cans back to the store, and the money certainly means more to the person willing to dig through garbage for it. There's no need to dig. I've seen my trash, and it's disgusting. 

Our trash night last week was on Christmas. I put our trash outside of our garage door, cans and bottles separated on top. and then remembered I had extra Christmas cookies. I'm going to put cookies out for our foraging friend.

 

Dennis wasn't so sure. "Is this what we really want to start, leaving food for the homeless? ... Wait. That sounded bad." Har.

Jesus's words about "whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me," crossed my mind, and I thought, would I hesitate to leave cookies for Jesus? I put a plate of treats in a large ziplock, and set it out on top of the trash can lid. I'm classy like that. Only the best for Jesus. On his birthday. The three wise men got nothin' on me.

That was around 10pm, Christmas night. At 8am or so the next morning, we were packing up to head out of town, and I popped open the garage door to see if the cookies were still there. (Or if there was one bite taken and the rest thrown in the trash. Whatever.) The lid was open and the trash was empty. The trash truck had already been by. Shoot. I'll never know.

As I turned and pulled the can back into the garage, I saw a blue envelope propped against the side of our garage door frame. I picked it up and opened it to find a Hallmark thank-you card inside. Not the kind that might come a dozen to a box, but an individually purchased card. Unsigned. Nothing written in it at all. Just Hallmark's printed sentiment. 

I have some questions about this. Did this person just happen to have a thank-you card on them? Or did they go somewhere to get it -- in the overnight hours of Christmas night -- and come back? Who knows. 

I'll just consider it a sweet Christmas card from the Bethlehem Babe.

2014 in moments

Life is made up of moments--often very ordinary moments--strung together to form days, months, years. I'm thinking about my moments of 2014, and in particular, those that interrupted my breathing in one way or another. Here they are, without the context, without the full story. Sometimes moments are enough in themselves.

February, Baylor Medical Center, Dallas. Dennis had been hooked up already for several hours, donating the stem cells we hoped would save his brother's life. I stepped out for something, and came back to see Tom standing at the foot of Dennis's bed. Big brother had gotten up the strength to come down several floors from his own hospital room and check in on his little brother.

April track meet, watching Nate hand off to Trevor in the 4x800 relay, the only time they've ever run on the same relay team. It was a Schmitty handoff.

May, Paris. On a work trip, I learned that Tom's health had taken a serious turn for the worse, and I was in our hotel workroom packing my things to return back to the other side of the world as quickly as possible. I was crying. My friend Wendy sat there and cried with me. 

May, Trevor's graduation party. "Oh noooo! We're out of cake! WE NEED MORE CAKE!! STAT!!"

July, our house was newly listed on the market when a nest of yellow jackets erupted into our basement. Dennis and I ran upstairs, slammed the basement door, stuffed towels in the gap under the door. And then looked at each other. oh shit.

August, University of Northern Iowa. Leaving Trevor in the rearview mirror and finally allowing the tears to spill. I've relied a lot on waterproof mascara this year.

September, Red Rocks Amphitheater, Colorado. I kept turning to take in the concert lights bouncing off the massive rocks, not even able to grasp the transcendence of the experience. I guess that's the thing about transcendence. 

October, moving into our new place downtown and opening my eyes in the morning to see this out the bedroom window:

October, praying for God to guide me in getting involved downtown, and literally getting a phone call the next morning at 5am. Salvation Army mobile breakfast canteen. Is there any way I could possibly be there within a half hour to cover for a no-show volunteer?? Okay. Got it.

November, Royal Mile pub, the place we started going every Thursday night in hopes of making it our Cheers spot. On week six, the waitress welcomed us, looked at me and said, "Guinness, right??" I am home.

Thanksgiving weekend, Becherer Farm. We pitched in to help my sweet grandparents get the outside of their country home decorated for Christmas. The cold wasn't the only thing stinging my eyes.

December, Von Maur jewelry department, helping Nate shop for a Christmas gift for his sweet girlfriend. My little one, now standing taller than me, asking my opinion on what he should get for the girl who has stolen his heart.

"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away." -Bob Moorehead

Tattoo Eulogy

Today I pay tribute to a tattoo that apparently wasn't meant to be. I've been pondering a wrist tat for maybe 5 years, and the actual concept started coming to life about a year ago. 

First I forced my offspring to ink their fingers and give me their fingerprints. (Having brought these two into the world to start with, I figure I'm part-owner of their prints anyway.) I scanned the fingerprints, studied the curves and shapes, then played patiently with different combinations, waiting for something to click. Eventually the right prints morphed into the right shape. (I was originally aiming for a tree design, but never got it to look like anything other than the Keebler Elf tree.)

Nate’s print on the left, Trevor’s on the right. I only wanted the tattoo to be about 1.5 or 2 inches wide, so I knew the fine details wouldn’t translate. No problem.

Deep breath. Go time. I submitted the artwork to Skin Kitchen, a local studio I've used before. Problem. Their response: cool design, but fingerprint tattoos don’t really work, because over time the ink spreads under the skin and would close it up. They couldn't recommend proceeding. Props to them for caring about quality over the long term.

But dang. It would have been a good one.

thankfulness. ugh.

Sunday night, post-Thanksgiving. Trevor has headed back to college. It's pretty quiet here, so I'm catching up on a few DVR'd shows, hating myself for having had no self-restraint with pumpkin pie the past four days, and thinking about thankfulness, and how sometimes it comes with a cost. There's always plenty to process after visiting family over holidays.

I am in my mid-40s and still have a set of grandparents alive. My mom's parents, Ernie and Agnes <smile>, are in their upper 80s, still living on their own, and in another month, will have been married for 67 years. Think about how long 67 years is. I love Grandma and Grandpa more than life itself. I grew up living near them, actually with them during my earliest years, along with my then single-parent mom.

Grandma is sassy and feisty with a touch of ornery. She likes music that reminds her of her dancing years. She now has some trouble connecting thoughts and recalling names, but she can still remember details from the years when she was a teenager in love, waiting for her man to return from the War. She makes the best sugar cookies on the planet.

Grandpa is the sweetest person I've ever known, and the first man I ever loved. I didn't get a dad until I was six, so Grandpa's strong hands were the ones that held me while I was learning trust. His blue eyes still sparkle, and he's quick to smile and laugh. I remember a few years ago when I greeted him on a visit with "how are you??" and his reply was, "better since you got here." That's Grandpa.

I am so thankful to still have my grandparents. The flip side of that is how painful it is to watch them get old. Grandma now deals with dementia and mobility issues. Grandpa is in pretty good physical health... except for the bladder cancer which he and his doctors continue to do their best to hold off.

A couple days ago we helped put Christmas decorations out in their front yard. They LOVE having a holiday display, and their huge collection includes lighted reindeer, snowmen, angels, a big plastic nativity scene. It's difficult for Grandpa to get these decorations set up, you know, because he's pushing 90 and all, so it was a no-brainer when the suggestion got floated for us to join in this project.

You never know what's around the corner, and this could very well be the last Christmas the two of them get to spend living independently in their country home. This possibility wasn't lost on me as we strung extension cords, checked lights, and made sure the inflatable Santa Claus was secured properly. I think it's the happiest and saddest I've ever been putting out decorations.

Last night before we hit the road to return home, we stopped at their house to say goodbye, and our car met theirs as they were pulling out of the driveway. We got out of our car. "Where are you headed?" I asked. Grandpa was just taking Grandma to drive the road in front of their house and see how their decorations looked from the street.

I am so thankful. In a punch-to-the-gut sorta way.

My mom and Nate, with Grandpa behind

"no room at the inn"

I come from a family of exuberant gift-givers. This isn't necessarily a bad thing. But from an early age, Christmas meant gift boxes stacked high and wide around the tree. Before ransacking the whole scene, we would stare in awe, and take pictures of the mound of presents, shiny paper reflecting twinkle lights from the tree.

The season was about the Christ Child and God's redeeming love for the world, but on Christmas morning, you couldn't see the nativity for all the stuff it was buried under, giving a whole new meaning to "no room at the inn."

'murica.

I've spent my life a full and willing participant in our consumer culture, but still a little voice inside, underneath, has cried out for simplicity. Our past two moving decisions have been made under the advice of that small voice, going against the grain and moving to smaller homes rather than larger, forcing us to get rid of things we don't need. 

Before this past move, I thought we had done a good job of cleaning things out. Two garage sales, many drop-offs at Goodwill, one Salvation Army truck pickup, many Craigslist sales, countless overstuffed trash bags... and yet when we moved into our no-basement, no-attic downtown home, our garage was still filled with boxes. I wanted to cry. I did cry. 

And so I went through it all one more time, even more ruthlessly than before. Do I use it? Do I love it? If not, "I fare thee well."

And now, two cars fit in our two-car garage. We're getting there. Don't get me wrong; we're not "there," and there's still more we could live without. But here's the beauty of living smaller: I love the things that surround me. The pictures and artwork hanging on my walls? They stir something in my heart. The books on my bookshelves? They hold significance. The knick knacks that survived extreme culling? Souvenirs from our most cherished moments, relationships, places.

Clearing out the stuff has created space for wonder. Living in simplicity and wonder is the prayer of my heart (and hopefully reflected on my shopping list!) this Christmas season.

Sorry, I can't talk, the AMAs are on.

Tonight, the AMAs! Oh my goodness I do love the American Music Awards. Always have. When I was in college, they were held on a Monday night in January, and kicked off the winter awards season. I always seemed to have a night class on Mondays, which I would skip without hesitation. We didn't have DVR then, and no way could you trust the VCR recording. If you missed one detail of manually setting the VCR date, time, length, channel, and ALSO making sure you had a tape inserted that was rewound with ample recording space left... "NOOOOOOOOO!" You could easily miss your one chance. For the AMAs, it simply wasn't worth the risk.

I loved this year's performances from Magic! (Canadian reggae?? a big YES to that), Imagine Dragons, Lorde, and 5 Seconds of Summer (I always want to say "30 Seconds to Mars," who I wish would have also been on tonight). I'm learning to tolerate Taylor Swift, since there seems to be no getting rid of her anyway.

I thought it was sweet when Iggy Azalea won her first AMA and said it was the first award she's ever received in her life. This got me thinking about awards and recognition. Good timing, because Trevor was just going through some boxes in his room earlier tonight and was deciding not to keep some of the trophies he's had since grade school. They just didn't mean that much to him. Most of these were of the "participation" kind, the same as everyone else got. He did show me one award he's definitely keeping, made for him a long time ago by a swim teacher. The teacher repurposed another trophy, writing Trevor's name in marker on the front of it. Pretty funny. But it was repurposed for him, and it only took a small amount of effort on the part of the giver. And it meant something.

Isn't it powerful when you are recognized specifically, by name, for something you've put effort into, whether it's doing your best in a swim class, or making it to the top of the music scene?

Even with all the inflated egos at Hollywood awards shows, I think it probably still means something significant to the artist to hear his or her name read from the stage. This is part of the magic that keeps me hopelessly addicted.

And also the glitz.

My improvement suggestion for social media

When you post something for sale online... eBay, Craigslist, whatever... you have to pick a category for your item. Maybe your item doesn't fit perfectly into a category, but you still need to choose. Put a label on it.

I'd like to assert that social media would be better if posters would have to select a category for the nuggets we share with the world.

I love Facebook for so many reasons. SO many reasons. But it's also exhausting. Yes, I know I can unfriend or (more tactfully) unfollow people. But here's the thing. I don't want to miss the photos of your kids. I want to laugh with you at the silly moments captured and shared. I don't want to be unaware when life drops tragedy on your doorstep. It's just that I'm just not always in the mood for all of the posturing, proselytizing, pontificating.

Have I been guilty myself? Absolutely. This is why I think categories would be good. Then we all can simply filter our news feeds to fit our moods, our thresholds for the day.

Some suggested categories:

Where I am / What I'm doing
These posts are the reason I can't ever break up with Facebook.
Bragging in these categories? BRING IT. If I can't be happy for your kid's Ivy League college admission or your spectacular marathon finish time, maybe I should rethink whether I'm really your friend.

Humor
With sub-categories for your own humor vs. the outsourced/shared variety.
(There's enough humor in each of our daily lives... more of that, please!)

Political/Religious
On second thought, let's go ahead and include anything where you tell the rest of us why your viewpoint is the right one. This can just be our generic "Opinions" section.

Inspirational
Mostly good and uplifting and all that, but let's be honest, on my grumpier days these are so "oh, barf."
Let's also include cute animal pics in this category.

There. I think that's a good start.

Well that was weird.

Today was the day when I tried to use brownies to get in with the door factory people next door, hoping for a tour of their four-story warehouse building.

Next to their loading dock, I found the door marked "office." There was nothing inside the entrance except a stairway going up, with bright-yellow handrails and a few nautical-themed pictures on the walls. Interesting. Upstairs... through a door... down a hallway... through another door, and there I was, inside the operation. Meaning, in front of the receptionist's desk. I put on a smile and introduced myself to her, presented my goodwill offering, and said I was really interested in their business and building... thought I'd come over and see for myself... <still smiling>

She was friendly enough, told me their business is mostly commercial, and many of their contracts are for schools and government buildings... jails, courthouses, etc. They've been in that building for a long time, about 50 years, and yes, they use the entire space. She then segued to asking which brownstone we live in, and noted that their employees used to be able to park where I now live, "which was good parking," but now they have been relegated to the north gravel lot, which the city just required them to pave, so they have been once again pushed like refugees [my words] to park elsewhere while the paving project is underway, "even though it's winter now, so this could take a while."

While she was talking to me, she was still working on her task-at-hand, and looking up at me just intermittently.

It was at this point I realized the vibe wasn't right to ask for a tour. What we've got here is more of a long-game scenario.

She thanked me for bringing the brownies, and said she'd put them in their break room. This became a slightly awkward moment, as she didn't reach to take them from me, but there was no clear space on her desk for me to set the pan. I sized up my options, and then placed the pan gently sideways on top of her in-tray, thankful that I opted for an aluminum pan rather than one I'd have to go back for.

"Okay, have a good day!" and I turned to head out. We were probably both thinking the same thing.

Well that was weird.

I wonder if she took the brownies to the break room, or just threw them right in the trash.

I'll be back in a few weeks with Christmas cookies.

Buttering up the door people

We live in a section of town among warehouses -- many of them have converted to lofts, but the one right next door is a working door factory. Doors Inc. No, really. That's what it's called.

For some reason, I'm dying to see the inside of their warehouse. Here's my plan: I'll make a pan of brownies, take it over to their office entrance, and try to bribe my way into a little impromptu tour. This is a little out of my comfort zone, but I think tomorrow's the day. Friday, they should be in a good mood. Cold outside, so I'll make sure the brownies are warm.

I'm kinda hoping it looks like Monsters, Inc., on the inside, so clearly my expectations are too high.  If any doors at all are on an overhead-track system, that'll be good.

Sometimes I can smell lacquer fumes on the outside of the building, so maybe everybody's high in there, who knows? Oh. Maybe I should consider making a different kind of brownie.

I'm doing it. Tomorrow. I'll take photos if that seems appropriate. And, of course, if they don't kick me out immediately.

If it goes well, maybe I'll find courage to ask about using part of their parking lot for my bunco group coming over next Monday.

on parenting... and getting out of the way

So. One kid is now off to college. I dreaded it for a long time, and then it happened.

And it's okay.

He's been at University of Northern Iowa for 2-1/2 months now, and he's connected with a church (playing drums there), and a running club, and the "UNI Outdoors" program, which is a group he went spelunking with in South Dakota this past weekend.

On Sunday, I texted him to ask if he knew UNI beat North Dakota State in football the day before, ending ND State's 33-game winning streak (!!).  No, he told me, I've been in a cave. Literally. 

And having the time of his life.

If it had been up to me, he wouldn't even be at UNI, majoring in leisure (which I try to say without rolling my eyes), and taking weekend trips to caves.

It's a good thing it wasn't up to me.

When your kid goes off to college, it makes you reflective as to whether you've done enough to prepare him for what's next. Dennis and I have done some things right, and some things very wrong. But one of the best things we've done is to mostly allow Trevor to choose his own paths along the way.

When I think back to the things that have been huge in his life, and have made him the person he is today, Dennis and I chose exactly ZERO of them. How's that for humbling?

Cross country -- I never would have guessed. When he was little, we signed him up for baseball and soccer. and bowling. :) In 7th grade, he decided he wanted to run. Okay, mister 9-minute mile. And then he worked his ass off until he was a team captain in high school and running varsity.

Drums -- We put him in grade-school band playing trumpet, and also got him hooked up with piano lessons. And then he asked where he could take drum lessons. School band? Yawn. We got him a drum set and an instructor... actually several instructors along the way. He has loved being in different garage bands, and has played some fun shows in Des Moines. He's made his way onto church praise teams, where he has found mentors in the realm of music, faith, life.

Y Camp -- Again, he's the one who brought up going to summer camp when he was nine. It hadn't even crossed my mind. Now he's on staff at the same camp he started at, and again, he's found friends and mentors and fun and adventure there. His camp experiences have largely paved the way for wanting to major in leisure (no eye roll).

College -- We visited a handful of schools, and thought the choices were fairly whittled down by the fall of his senior year, and then Trevor said, "Oh. And I want to visit UNI."

So there ya go. I still tried pulling for my alma mater, Truman State University, but I knew.

I hesitate to give much parenting advice. It's a tough job with constant second-guessing. But here's what I've learned from raising this one: he needed us to give him options and opportunities and encouragement along the way, and then he needed us to get out the way and let him be him.

I wouldn't have guessed. But that's kinda the point.

New View

After 22 years in the 'burbs, it was time for something new. Last month we sold our house in West Des Moines, along with a whole bevy of yard-care equipment (yay!), and moved into Des Moines.

I can't even believe how much I've fallen in love with Des Moines since we moved to Iowa 15 years ago. When we moved here, Des Moines was the boring, nice guy you knew in high school. Friendly but forgettable. And then, at the 10-year reunion, HELL-O, now he's good-looking, funky, witty. 

So I'm in love. 

And so we moved here. 

We're in a brownstone on the south skirt of the city, with a rooftop patio.

Some refections after living here for a month...

I CAN'T WAIT for spring and summer, when we can enjoy walking to farmers market, outdoor concerts, music and art festivals. And enjoy that patio more.

It's difficult to not eat out every night, with so many great places a short walk away. We've decided Royal Mile should be our Cheers, so you'll find us there every Thursday night. 

It was a little unsettling to discover that vagabonds go through our trash regularly. I've started putting our redeemable cans out there in separate bags, for easier rummaging. I'm nice like that.

I miss having a basement for stashing all the extra stuff. And yet I'm glad we no longer have a place to stash extra stuff. 

I don't miss: 

yard work. 

the huge cottonwood tree, with its incessant dropping of leaves, branches, seeds. 

the mean squirrel who lives in the cottonwood tree.

One more thing. Once you see the vodka bottle in the EMC building, you can't not see it.

To the back yards we've called our own, a toast.

I've spent my entire adult life in the suburbs, living the "American dream" and all that, and I'm tired. Maintaining the dream takes a lot of upkeep, it turns out, so we've decided to cash out and try something new. In a couple weeks, we move to downtown Des Moines—to a row house with no yard, no snow shoveling, no mowing, no raking leaves, no flower beds to maintain. Maybe just some potted plants on the rooftop patio. I can handle that.

A few days ago I was in our garage, assessing all of the tools and gadgets that are about to be kicked to the curb. Or kicked to Craigslist. Whatever. As excited as I am about this move, an unexpected wave of nostalgia caught up with me as I considered life without a back yard. And so, a short homage to the four back yards we've called our own over the past 20 years:

The tiny back yard of our townhouse on Country Club Lane in Denton, Texas. So excited to have this space, we dug up a small section and planted a garden! The biggest achievement of this agricultural endeavor was a 2-inch-long carrot.

The back yard of our house on Daffodil Lane in Lewisville, Texas. (It's like we were choosing homes based on charming street names.) What WASN'T charming about this back yard was the TRAIN that rumbled by, just on the other side of our back fence... many times a day. Horn a-blowing. We should have asked for more clarification about the train's "occasional" schedule before we moved in. Miserable, yes, but we still laugh about it, so there's that.

And then the move to West Des Moines, Iowa, and the back yard of our house on Aspen Drive, where neighborhood kids gathered, and where my dad built a treehouse for our two little boys. Where the owners after us tore down that tree and treehouse, and broke my heart.

Our current back yard on Jordan Drive, which has hosted many happy Midsummer Margaritavilles, and where our upper-elementary kids somehow played baseball with their friends, even though they had to adapt the shape of the diamond to fit the shape of the yard. They didn't seem to be bothered by this. Kids are so adaptable.

Happy memories? You bet. But gone are the days of kids playing in our yard, and it's time for a new chapter. Time to turn over a new leaf! No leaf blowers or bagging required.

A picture is worth a thousand words...

...or, sometimes, doesn't tell the story at all.

One much-mentioned caveat of social media is that it can be a place of illusion. It can be easy and tempting to present a false image of oneself, to only show the good and positive, and suppress the boring, the embarrassing, the ugly.

I like to think that I'm fairly "what you see is what you get" with my Facebook page. Sharing the oddities of life, and laughing about them when I can, is a pretty decent coping mechanism.

And so I'm bothered by some photos I posted last weekend. Prom night. I posted the obligatory photos of my kid, and his date, and their group of friends for the night. They looked smashing. So, you know, I was proud, they were happy, memories were made, end of story?

What the photos don't show is that Trevor DIDN'T GO TO PROM that night.

Here's the story.
He ran in a track meet at Drake University that afternoon. With enigmatic 93-degree April heat. His event was the 3200m (2 mile) run, which didn't go off until after 5pm. (Oh yes -- there are FB photos of that, too.) He had big plans to finally break under 10 minutes that day, which he wasn't able to do. And so, after the race, he was disappointed as well as under the gun to get home, showered, changed, and to prom photos. He was already missing dinner with the group at that very moment. He barely cooled down before grabbing his things (not to mention forgetting some of his clothes at the track), and bolted out of there.

After he showered and changed, he started feeling dizzy and sick. His date, Lilian, was texting him, asking if he'd be there soon, and he felt like throwing up. We put a bag of frozen peas on the back of his neck and asked if he could gut it out. He took a few minutes to try and pull himself together. And then we went to pictures.

We showed up roughly 25 minutes late to see that Lilian's entire family was there. Like, a dozen of them. Multi-generations of the Sanchez family armed with cameras. Camcorders rolling. I wanted to die.

After the photo session was over, Trevor said he just couldn't go to prom. He felt terrible. Literally. Lilian was super understanding and said she could get a ride with some of the other friends. And then Trevor came back home with us. And went to bed. During his senior prom.

He did wake up around midnight, feeling better, and I encouraged him to catch up with the group at the high school's after-prom party, which he did.

So, let's recap. He went to prom photos. He went to after-prom. But he didn't go to prom.

Did I mention I had turned down a work trip to Grand Cayman to make sure I was home for his senior prom night? Which turned out to be a very excellent decision. Because you don't want to miss the big moments. And it's even more important to be there when the big moments go awry.

So, a bit long for a photo caption, right?

Spring Break MMXIV

Trevor's senior year, his choice of vacation. So it's a 5-night cruise out of Tampa to Grand Cayman and Cozumel, and we're joined by Dale (Dennis's brother), Michelle, Anika & Eric for this trip. 

Some recollections and random thoughts.

Day 1

Des Moines is still pricey to fly from, so this trip had us driving to Minneapolis for a direct flight to Tampa. Somewhere mid-route between Des Moines and Minneapolis, there were some excess "emissions" in the car, and Dennis powered down a back-seat window for some fresh air. Trevor then decided to stick his whole arm out the window, for whatever reason, but Dennis didn't realize this when he pressed the button to roll the window back up. Trevor started yelling, but we don't react all that quickly to his outbursts, so Dennis was persistent with the "window up" button, in an apparent attempt to amputate Trevor's arm. I saw the flailing arm in my side-view mirror. Hilarious. No arms were lost, and it was our biggest laugh of the day. 

"Simple-pleasure" thrill of the day: We stopped at a gas station in Albert Lea, MN, and I found cinnamon Mentos! Dennis and I used to get these back in college, but I haven't seen them in probably 20 years. For that many years, literally every time I'm in a convenience store and see Mentos, I look for cinnamon, but they never have it. JACKPOT in Albert Lea! I bought three rolls, which, yes, was clearly ridiculous. I should have bought the whole damn box and asked if they had more in the back.

 

Once we reached MSP, we parked and trekked into the terminal with all our stuff, and as we were getting ready to check bags, I noticed Trevor still had his full pillow with him. 

"Why do you still have your pillow? Wasn't that just for the drive?"

"Oh. Yeah."

It was an old pillow. He decided to throw it away rather than walk it back to the car. It's probably not the weirdest thing the airport janitorial team has ever encountered in the garbage, but we did enjoy watching him stuff it into the opening of the nearest trash can. 

We also enjoyed watching him get pulled for a random hand swab while going through security, and THEN test positive for chemical residue on his hands. (Yeah. Who knows.) This earned him a private-room pat-down. I rushed over in time to warn him about not making jokes, which he later admitted was probably a good reminder.

iPads at every seat in our waiting lounge at MSP? Minneapolis, you are so cool I don't even know what to do with you. 

Got to Tampa. Made it to hotel. Saw a family we knew from West Des Moines. Some years ago, the dad coached Trevor's soccer team for many seasons. Trevor barely remembered him, which I'm sure made him feel good about all those dedicated hours. Met up with Dale, Michelle, Anika & Eric, our cruise comrades. All is good. Next morning, embarkation.

Day 2 - All Aboard

I think this is my tenth cruise, which is a fairly big number for someone who isn't a particular fan of cruises. I don't know how I've managed to get to ten. They just seem to happen. I am a big fan of The Rock Boat, an annual music-festival cruise we've done a few times. The Rock Boat bears very little resemblance to traditional cruises, and has in many ways ruined the "normal" cruise experience for me. Still, attitude is everything, so I'll focus on the positive, and try not to compare the lounge acts with my favorite bands. 

Cruise tip #1: Spring for a stateroom with a balcony. Yes, it's more expensive. Do it anyway. I know, I know -- you won't be spending much time in your cabin. I'm telling you. Get a balcony. You can see the light of the sunrise. You can open your sliding door and hear the ocean rushing by. Enjoy your very own space with a view. Order room service and enjoy a meal on your private veranda. Or just sit for a long time, looking at the water until your shoulders are a little further away from your ears. Get the balcony.

Cruise tip #2: You know those over-the-door shoe holders? Clear, plastic? Get one. Bring it. Hang it on the outside of your closet door and use it to hold all of your odds and ends -- sunblock, key cards, jewelry, sunglasses, charger cords, playing cards, whatever. Cruise ship rooms are tight, and this super helps organize the clutter. I came across this tip a few years ago, and it's the best cruise advice I've ever gotten. 

We spent much of today walking the ship, learning where everything is. Found the self-leveling pool tables, which may be one of the coolest things ever. The whole top of the pool table moves and adjusts with the movement of the ship to keep the playing surface level. Much better than standard pool tables we've experienced on other cruises. On previous trips (I'm looking at you, NCL), when the ship rolls to one side, so do all the pool balls. Sure, it's funny. At first. 

Tonight we watched the Cyclones win the Big 12 tournament from the ship's cozy English Pub. Met other Iowans, as we always seem to do, no matter where we are. We had such a good time, we promised Blair the waiter we'd be back every night. He was unaffected.

Day 3 - Day at Sea

Cruise tip #3: Enduring the feeding-frenzy of the ship's buffet is inevitable. Keep your limbs tucked close, and be ready to give a punch in the gills if necessary. After filling your plate, don't take the first table you find available indoors. Head further back, no, even further, for al fresco dining on the open back deck. On a crowded ship, fresh air is your friend. Plus, it's a peaceful back there. And the ocean blue is better without a pane of glass separating you from it. 

First day at sea. I'm not much of a joiner on the ship, but when I heard of a three-session class to learn the "Thriller" dance and then perform it on the final night, could there be any question this was worth joining? I don't know how I talked Dennis and Michelle into doing it too, but there we were at the first practice, getting our zombie on. I was laughing before the class even began. The cruise director took the rehearsals kinda seriously, only adding to the humor. ("You can't smile. Zombies don't smile. It kills the mood.") hahaha. Our first class went pretty well, although it made Dennis late for getting signed up for the ping pong tournament. oops. 

Nate and Trevor did get there in time to enter the tourney. They both won their first match easily, and advanced to the quarter finals, where Trevor lost his match by a heartbreaking one point. Nate rolled on to the championship, which tested his nerves under pressure. He walked away with the top hardware, which he has worn around the ship ever since. 

After the Thriller class, ping pong tournament, and you-can't-not-look belly-flop contest, this girl needed a quiet spot, and I have enough experience to know where the introverts hang out (I use the phrase "hang out" loosely, since there's no interaction) -- the far back of the boat, behind the Schooner Bar, in the far reaches of the upholstery-rich Colony Club, where you can read, relax, and nod off above the wake of the ship. I was sleeping, bare feet hanging over the end of my private sofa, only to be jarred awake an hour or so later. My fellow introverts had abandoned me, and the crew member who woke me up said I'd need to leave, as a private party was to begin in 15 minutes. I collected my belongings and shuffled off like a common homeless person.  

Warm, quiet, comfortable lounge where I read till I fell asleep. Just like my favorite study lounges in college. But with ocean. 

The kids have their own stateroom for the first time, across the hall from ours. Their room is a housekeeping nightmare, and I have no idea what time they get in at night. This is okay. 

Day 4 - Grand Cayman, St. Patrick's Day

We took it pretty easy, grabbed a taxi to Seven Mile Beach and had lunch by the water. Bliss. Drinking age on Grand Cayman is 18, and Trevor enjoyed his first pina colada. Cheers. 

Got back on board in time for Thriller dance rehearsal #2. It's getting harder to remember the order of the moves. But they gave us a sheet listing them out, and I have Thriller in my music library, so thankfully we can hold our own practices in the cabin.

Finished the day off with a Guinness and a green beer in the English pub. Our waiter friend Blair is starting to warm up to us. 

Day 5 - Cozumel

Dennis & Nate went golfing at the illustrious Cozumel Country Club, where they were warned against going too close to the water hazards, because of crocodiles. I didn't know Mexico had crocodiles. 

Trevor and I stayed on board to relax, work out, whatever, and play in the ship's shuffleboard tournament. He & I met in the championship round; I took the silver and he took the gold medal. So Nate's not the only Schmitt with a medal! Turns out, they're pretty easy to come by. Especially when the "championship match" is also the only match. Anyone could have just wandered by and taken the bronze without ever needing to push a shufflepuck. Or whatever they're called. I'm not the expert my silver medal might suggest.

T & I went ashore briefly at Cozumel. I was successful in scoring a Dr Pepper Light, and I also needed to buy cheap tshirts to cut into shreds as part of our Thriller costumes. (Our rigorous rehearsal schedule allowed us a day off today, although the three of us still held a late-night practice session in our cabin.)

Works for me.

Biggest letdown of the day: I was standing outside my room. Two couples walked down the hallway toward me, speaking to each other in German. After they passed, one of them sneezed. (!!) You know what Germans say to sneezes, right?? I was so excited. And then... "bless you." BLESS YOU. Seriously?!?! Totally robbed of the rare chance to hear a real, authentic "gesundheit."

Second biggest letdown of the day: looking down from our balcony at Cozumel's clear water and realizing it was a huge mistake to not do any scuba diving this trip. We'll fix that on the next vacation.

Nate entered the teen table tennis tournament and won it. He's not going to be able to get these medals off and on around his fat head.

Day 6 - Final Day at Sea

It's the big day. Final rehearsal this morning for the big Thriller performance. Dennis bailed. So it's down to me and Michelle and 30-some other members of our illustrious dance troupe. I'm super excited. Michelle, not as much. 

To take my mind off the impending performance, Dennis and I joined a beer-tasting class this afternoon led by Mickey, the Macedonian manager of the English Pub. We learned some new things, particularly about beers on nitro (gassed with nitrogen rather than CO2), which was pretty interesting to us, you know, the brewmasters we are. We also were introduced to John Smith's Engish ale, a nitro which became a fast favorite. We made friends with some other beer connoisseurs (lest you think I can't ever be an extrovert) and stuck around together after the tasting session to compete as a team in the sports trivia contest. We lost. Probably because we had been drinking beer rather than reviewing our sports trivia knowledge. And also because the questions were really hard.

Not much more to say about today -- you know... sun, pool deck, buffets, blah blah blah... OH, and only the capstone of the whole cruise, the Thriller performance in the ship's atrium. Michelle and I got decked out in our best undead makeup and costuming, and rocked that dance! The atrium was filled to the rafters and it was all super charged. I've been tongue-in-cheek about the whole thing, but it really was pretty cool. Our motley bunch of dancers included elementary-aged kids and grey-haired grannies, and every age in between. We executed. The King of Pop would have been proud. 

Atrium dance floor from Nate's vantage point, several decks up. Trevor took video from a somewhat closer spot, so we'll need to throw that on YouTube.

Day 7 - Heading home

Today, our return to reality. 

It's good to be unplugged for a time, but it's also good when the ole' smartphone connects to the world again.

In spite of spending a week together, we still have some conversation left in us. Some of today's big questions:

When and by whom were luggage carousels invented? Because they are brilliant. 

Nate wants to know if there's a banana-scented cologne. Because bananas just smell so great. 

Shamrock shakes -- disgusting? girly? both?

Hard to come home to the Midwest? Nah. It's the first day of spring. So things are looking up.

on six years as a vegetarian

The beginning of February marks six years since I became a vegetarian. When I gave up meat for Lent in 2008, I didn't realize I was making a long-term change. I never put a stake (or a steak) in the ground to declare that I was giving up meat forever. I still don't say that. Because who knows. But at the end of my seven-week trial separation from meat, I felt terrific and energetic, vegetables were tasting better than ever, and letting go of meat had been a fairly easy sacrifice. So I went another day without it. And then another month. Which turned into a year. Which has now turned into six years. 

I don't talk a lot about being a vegetarian. It's easy to be perceived as preachy or self-righteous, and I don't want to alienate anyone by having that kind of conversation. But a half dozen years makes me kinda happy, so let's talk about it. It's not always easy being a vegetarian in beef-and-pork country, but it's definitely doable. I've learned some things along the way. I still get looked at with suspicion, or amusement, from time to time, which is okay. I get asked questions, which I don't mind either.

I get asked why I became a vegetarian. Every vegetarian has their own reason, or combination of reasons. It was layered for me. I was concerned about factory farming and its environmental impact. I wanted my food choices to be more responsible, more ethical. I wanted to eat cleaner, and enjoy the health benefits of a plant-based diet. But again, it wasn't one momentous decision. It was just a trial thing that seems to have taken root, pardon the pun.

Do I have opinions? Certainly. But that's what they are. My opinions. We make the best decisions we can, based on the information we have, and filtered through our own experiences and perspectives. I've eaten too many cheeseburgers in my lifetime to sit in judgment of anyone who enjoys a Big Mac, so don't worry about that. It's enough for me to focus on what I'm eating, without also trying to tell you what should be on your plate. 

Sometimes I get asked what I'm "allowed" to eat. Maybe it's not obvious that there isn't a set code, or an oath we take to join the club. There are a lot of variations of vegetarianism, based on personal motivations. I wish I had the discipline to go vegan. I'm just not in that place right now. I do eat eggs and dairy. I don't eat meat--no beef, chicken, turkey, pork, lamb, etc.  I'll eat fish about once a year, if we're vacationing in the Caribbean, and the breezes are blowing just right through the palm trees. That might get me ostracized from the hard-core circles, but I'm okay with that. Because the swordfish at Neptune's Treasure in the BVIs is the best thing I've ever put in my mouth. (A close second is the s'mores flatbread from that restaurant in Vegas, if you're reading this, Lisa & Katie.)

Guess what, marshmallows aren't technically vegetarian either. Surprise. And I've also read that beers such as Guinness aren't vegetarian, because they use fish bladders (?) for part of the brewing process. So, if there's a veg society membership card, go ahead and just take it away from me now. It's hard to take a principled stance on anything without running into some contradictions along the way. Let's be kinder to ourselves and to others.

I do love fruits and vegetables, even more than I did at the beginning. I like assortments of veggies, grilled or steamed or raw. Unfortunately I still pick olives out of things. (I haven't given up yet on trying to like them.) I enjoy a good salad. And black bean soup. And veggie chili made with tempeh. Because I eat dairy and eggs, that opens my diet to a pretty wide variety of other dishes as well. Do I cook meat for my family? On occasion. I assure you, nobody's suffering here.  

I wish it were true that a vegetarian diet is automatically a healthy one. But I bet you can think of a lot of meatless junk-food choices. Yeah. It's still a daily effort to make good decisions, to limit processed foods, to choose healthy whole grains over the refined stuff. No automatic elixir here. It's still work.

It's also fun at times. Ordering vegetarian at restaurants can bring surprising results. Several years ago on vacation with Dennis, Reggie and Amy in Florida, I ordered a quesadilla, no meat please, but could they put some veggies in it? "Um, sure." Much to the table's amusement, I received a tortilla full of Green-Giant-style mixed veggies. Peas, carrots, and corn... well huh. I wasn't expecting that. 

Still, I try not to be one of those vegetarians who expect everyone else to accommodate them. I can almost always find something to eat, so no worries. I'd love to try your delicious green bean dish if you can hold off from throwing bacon bits into it, but I understand if that's the way you like it. It's okay. I do, however, expect to be taken seriously by food-service professionals. If I ask at your lunch cafe whether the vegetable soup is vegetarian, I can tell right away if you know what you're talking about. If the response (and accompanying facial expression) is, duh. it's VEGETABLE soup, you can bet I won't be ordering it, because chances are it's made with chicken or beef stock. Will it kill me? No. Will it upset my stomach for the rest of the afternoon? Yes, and that's a price I don't want to pay because you can't be bothered to go to the kitchen and ask the chef. 

Some nods to my favorite vegetarian-friendly restaurants in Des Moines: Gateway Market, The Continental, Ritual Cafe. The veggie burger at HoQ recently put them on my good list as well. But if you want to catch a meal out with me, you pick wherever you want. I've never been to a restaurant where I couldn't find something to eat. Ok, just once. In six years of much eating out. I'm looking at you, Ox Yoke Inn, Amana, Iowa. Seriously? Not even a side salad??

Sometimes people are concerned about whether I'm getting enough protein and nutrients. My diet actually contains quite a bit of protein from non-meat sources, so no worries there. I've become more aware of making sure I eat foods rich in iron and vitamin B12, which isn't too hard to do. I include flaxseed oil in smoothies to get omega-3s into the mix as well. So, I'm not too concerned. You can make yourself crazy with overthinking these things anyway. Did you know that too much protein inhibits calcium absorption? But too much calcium inhibits iron absorption. So does tea. Well crap, what about all the tea I've been drinking for its cancer-fighting antioxidants?! See what I mean?

I've appreciated finding some vegetarian friends along the way, to share ideas and restaurant suggestions and camaraderie. Unfortunately I have yet to find a veg friend at church, and this puzzles me. Have all the vegetarians been drawn to more progressive denominations by their tofu-friendly church potlucks? That's what I thought. Our church's annual chili cook-off is this weekend, and I'll have an entry. Sans meat. I'm not trying to win (which I most assuredly won't); I'd just like to stay and eat. I'm still trying to find the connection between church folk and meat-centered meals. Let me know if you have any thoughts on that. Anyway.  

I tend to think that the best health choices are the ones we make deliberately, whether we choose meat-free, or gluten-free, or raw, or low carb, or organic, or none of the above. I try not to forget that even having dietary preferences is a luxury not everyone enjoys. Should I ever find myself surviving minimalistically in a remote corner of the world, or in a soup line in Des Moines, I'll certainly be less picky.

But for now, I'll probably keep doing what I'm doing. I'm thinking about responsible ways of bringing fish into the rotation more than once a year. It's hard to ignore its benefits and its prominence in uber-healthy Mediterranean and Asian diets. It's also hard to ignore that Iowa is quite a distance from palm trees and fresh, local fish. Maybe I'll just take more vacations.