Dirty Catholic

On Vacation With The Wound

Mr. Man and I have opposing views of what exactly is meant by the word, "vacation." For me, a reduced level of activity from the normal business- say, lounging by the pool all day- is what comes to mind. For him, vacation simply indicates more free time to cram full of activities. A sunrise to sunset packed schedule of sight-seeing, hiking, and biking, while eating in the car between stops to save time, is his ideal vacation.

So clearly we have some issues when trying to plan our vacations. We've both made compromises. I am willing to "do stuff" and not sit around all day, but he has to scale back his plans by about half. Usually this happens organically. When he wakes me up in the morning with the 15-item list of things to do that day, instead of yelling, "Are you freaking nuts?!" I merely hope we won't get to more than three and make myself say, "It sounds like we have a lot of fun options." 

On our recent trip to Hawaii, the usual breakneck pace was somewhat stymied by an unexpected traveling companion. On the evening of our first full day there, we had just rented snorkel gear and headed back to the hotel to clean up. Of course, Mr. Man can't have snorkel gear in his possession and not use it every single chance he gets, so despite the fact that the sun was setting, he headed out to the beach. I stayed by the pool to enjoy what might have been the only quiet moment of the trip.

A very short while later, Mr. Man came back and told me he was headed up to the room and would be right back. Something seemed off. He was a bit too serious, I thought, but I was enjoying the down-time and so I just watched him walk off. A half hour later when he still wasn't back I grabbed two Mai Tais at the bar and headed back to our room.

And that's when I found them. Mr.  Man was in the bathtub running water all over his new friend, The Wound. He was on the phone practically bragging to a nurse about the wound's massive physical characteristics, using words like, "gaping" and "girth." I drank my Mai Tai, perhaps too quickly. Trying to be hospitable, I called the hotel first aid to see if there were some local options for The Wound. Despite my efforts, The Wound insisted that we cancel our dinner reservations and go to the emergency room in the next town. While absorbing the possibilities for the week, I drank my husband's Mai Tai, too.

Four stitches and two hours later, The Wound was still with us. The doctor told us to keep The Wound away from the pool, "a toilet for children" and the ocean, "the bathroom to many animals."  Goodbye pool, goodbye snorkeling. The doctor also told us to avoid prolonged strenuous muscle activity. Goodbye 10 mile all-day hikes. (This was perhaps The Wound's only redeeming quality.)

Practically tied to my husband's knee, The Wound was very presumptious. Crawling right into bed with us that first night, The Wound yelped anytime I got anywhere near it, making snuggling (and everything else) much less enjoyable.

By day, The Wound made my husband limp like an old man whenever he walked around town or climbed the stairs. The doctor was right about the hikes, though. Every time we went on any short hike, The Wound seemed to disappear. Climb two miles uphill and The Wound vanished. Yet the minute we walked back to the car, and The Wound was there to greet us, limp, limp, limp.

Despite all this, I think my husband was actually fond of The Wound. He talked about The Wound constantly, and if I didn't inquire about The Wound's health each day, he seemed a little offended. I on the other hand, was growing more resentful but the day. I had hoped that having The Wound might encourage Mr. Man to enjoy a more slow-paced vacation. Instead it was like hauling an intemperate two-year-old around on errands. I could never tell if The Wound would be helpful or annoying.

Since we returned home, The Wound has been a much less obtrusive guest. Mr. Man is slowly letting go and has even begun to go bike riding without his dear friend. In a few short days, the ghastly visitor should be gone for good. 

I loved Hawaii, but man, do I dislike The Wound.

Recipe for a Perfect Day

I think the last vacation post might have suggested that the vacation was an endless hell. It was not. In fact it was very nice. To redeem myself, Mr. Man suggested that I write up one of our perfect days. Here it is:

Wake up closer to noon than morning
Get amazing breakfast at the friendliest coffee joint in town
Kayak to Mirror Pond
Lunch, at the coffee joint
Hike up to a view of the valley and to watch the sunset
Bathe and get pretty
Perfect tasty dinner at someplace worth visiting twice
Relax in the hot tub
Sleep

Were I perfectly honest, I'd add 2 instances of hot sex, but I'm hoping to make a sitcom of Dirty Catholic, and the networks wouldn't like that.

A trip longer than my run-on sentences

Whenever I sit down to write after a hiatus from the blog, I hear the same line from Gloria Gaynor's famous song..."And so you're back, from outer space..."

Of course, I am sure y'all had no problem surviving without me, but the funny thing is that I had a hard time without you. Dude. The brain. It would not stop with the "You should write about that." I missed having a regular time to gather my thoughts and share them. I missed y'all. (Gaaa.)

Okay, that was nice. Let's move on now, shall we?� How about a 60-second recap and then we can forget this whole thing ever happened.

We went to Seattle for a wedding which did not disappoint. I would post the amazing pictures and gush, but outing your church-working friends isn't a very nice wedding gift. So you'll just have to imagine what the best Catholic-esque gay wedding would look like and wish you were lucky enough to have been invited.

Then we did lots of other stuff, the details of which I will not bore you with here except for this:

I dragged Mr. Man, his brother and sister-in-law, and my friend Dale, to St. James Cathedral because it is a gorgeous place. (Go ahead and take the virtual tour. I'll wait until you get back.) See? It's an amazing blend of old and new church architecture. We just happened to bumble in on St. James' Feast day so it was a doozy of a Mass. At the end they played a medieval chant and hauled out a giant St. James statue for the closing procession. I am not one to take pictures during Mass BECAUSE IT IS A MORTAL SIN but I have to say, this was a near occasion of sin if there ever was one. I managed to wait until afterward to take this:

Let me tell you, nothing lends a sense of occasion like a 35-foot puppet of your patron saint. Wow.

I'll let the rest of the stories and anecdotes unfold over the next few weeks (and eventually decide on the new chicken's name) but for now, I'll leave you with a parting image from one of the many long legs of the Oakland-Corvallis-Seattle-
Olympic-Seattle-Spokane-Bend-Ashland-Oakland Odyssey, (OCSOSSBAOO, for short) which, like this sentence, seemed endless.

We saw a large cargo truck whose hold read like a billboard in bold million-point-font, "Jesus Christ is Lord, Not a Swear Word." This led us to wonder both, "What is he transporting?" and "Is he following his own advice?" as the driver was, at that very moment, being pulled over by a police officer.

More Adventures

We spent the 4th of July weekend singing at a Kareoke Bar in Catalina and Kayak-Camping around the island. Here we are in action:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pLrmYIhHPuY

Mr. Man's facial hair is getting a little scraggly and I think he resembles Lee Greenwood just a bit more than I'm comfortable with:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RssIN3ustUw

Of course, in my opinion, 4th of July is not 4th of July without a little Neil Diamond, but nobody would sing it for me. So here it is for you:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtMmSU88PdA

When we got back at Midnight on Sunday, I remembered that my sister, Katie, was stopping by on a road trip to join the rest of the family in Idaho. So I decided I'd go along. You know, like you do.

Yesterday was Katie's birthday and we spent it in downtown Boise, eating Basque food, floating the river and drinking. It's a tough life, I know. I might just need some anti-depressants to help me cope.

Three Things I Did This Weekend

1. Purchased a coffee table

2. Shaved Mr. Man's back hair

3. Picked up some pet chickens

No Bears

Well, as you can infer from the fact that I posted this week, I didn't get eaten by bears on the cross-country ski trip in Yosemite. Nor did I get the opportunity to offer my sister-in-law as an amuse bouche. Though upon reflection I might have offered her fiance instead. He was sick with a fever (what a trooper!) and had to lay down on the track every mile or so to recuperate. So, in the interest of science I should have given him to the bears, you know, survival of the fittest and everything.

Anyhoo, the trip was fun, even if we were exercising.
Here's a group photo:

And here's where we stayed at night:

(Luckily we are all very short.)

And here's the view that made the 20 miles totally worth it:

 

No Bull

In our many hypothetical discussions of pregnancy and childbirth, two things have become very clear:

1. Mr. Man thinks that I should follow every single restriction, rule, and bit of advice offered to pregnant women.

2. I do not.

If I ever get pregnant, I fear nine straight months of conversations like these:

DC: <breathing>
Mr. Man: "Should you really be doing that in your condition?"

DC: <blinking>
Mr. Man: "Are you sure that won't hurt the baby?"

DC: <bathing>
Mr. Man: "That won't make you go into early labor, will it?"

That being said, on the way home from Yosemite, we discovered the one thing that I will never do while pregnant.

We stopped in a small town off Highway 99 named Merced. Asking around for a dinner spot, we were directed to a place called "Big Bubba's BBQ." Perhaps we should have taken more note of the fact that our dinner adviser was wearing Hooters t-shirt, but we were hungry.

The food was fine but more astounding was the parade of characters riding the MECHANICAL BULL in the dining room.

I believe my reaction to the first rider was, "Whaaaa?" The second rider elicited a "Remind me to NEVER let my 13-year-old daughter do that."
Riders #3-10 continued with the theme of barely-teen girls whose parents didn't seem to notice the shady men checking them out them from the bar.
Rider #11 was a shady man from the bar.

At some point, we became increasingly bored and annoyed with the whole thing. We didn't really notice the blond woman, probably in her early 30's, get on the the mechanized beast until right before she was whip-lashed back and knocked off. We gasped as she jumped up and climbed back on the still-writhing bull.

As this took place, we looked around, squinted our eyes, and asked each other, "Is she....PREGNANT?"

After she was thrown off a final time, she emerged from the bullpen, cradling her head, and commented to a friend, "I don't think I should do that anymore tonight."

You think?

I still cling to the hope that the woman just had an unfortunate figure flaw that made her look pregnant, and that the thing that appeared to be her jutting belly button was actually the button of her jeans, but I am an optimistic fool.

While I will probably bitch and complain about (and break) some the "rules" for pregnant women, I can promise my husband this one thing: No Bull.

Goodbye, Sweet World (or, I'm Gonna Die)

We're leaving for Yosemite this evening, where we will ski ten miles IN THE SNOW (uphill both ways) and get eaten by bears.

Though Mr. Man has proven bear offending skills, I am afraid that a pack of people covered in peanut butter and honey sandwiches might be too much to resist.

If they come after us, I'm going to offer my sister-in-law as an appetizer.

I'll Tell You Where to Go...

For Native Peoples Day (I think non-Bay Area residents call it "Columbus Day?") Weekend, Mr. Man & I took a lovely trip to Ashland, Oregon.

Obviously, it's a bit of a niche destination, appealing only to people who like theater, food, wine, outdoor activities, and day spas. You know, just a small segment of the population.

So, may I make a few suggestions for your trip there? May I be so bold as to plan your entire itinerary?

Here goes:

 

Thursday: Fly or Drive to Ashland, getting into town around 10pm. Have dinner at one of the few places open past 10, such as Standing Stone Brewery (if you feel like drinking a life changing IPA) or try Liquid Assets if you would prefer a nice glass of wine with your tapas. Check into your hotel. We stayed in Medford because it was free, but there are some lovely B&B's in the area that run about $100 a night.

Friday: Sleep in. Have a late breakfast at Morning Glory because it is less busy on weekdays. (If you can agree on a dish, split it. You will save money and your waistline, since they give you way too much food. Just remember to tip as though you ordered for two, as you will want to come back and you'll need to buy the waitress' attention.) Hop in the car and drive out to Crater Lake. Drive around it, hike down to the water, take a ride out to Wizard Island. Grab some punch and pie at Annie's on your way out of the park. Take the long way home and go on some hikes. Go back to the hotel, catch a quick dinner at Dragonfly (and notice the breakfast menu and consider it briefly before deciding to go back to Morning Glory.) If it's the first Friday of the month, head down to the railroad district for the Artwalk. Otherwise, go see a show. All the seats are great, as long as you are not in the balcony. Get the cheap ones so you can see more shows.

Saturday: Wake up in time for breakfast at the B&B or go out. (Dragonfly if you must, but have you tried the Smoked Tomato Chutney at Morning Glory yet?) If you're feeling healthy, rent a bike and ride the Bear Creek Greenway.  Otherwise, jump in the car and head out Hwy 238 to Jacksonville. Window shop in the cute downtown. If you've got time and money, have lunch on the patio of the Jacksonville Inn, otherwise, top for a Reuben and Latkes (or a great salad) MacLevin's on California Street. Continue on Hwy 238 to the Applegate Valley Wineries. At John Michael Champagne Cellars the friendly vinter and his wife pour the wines and chat you up. Troon can be counted on for regular weekend activities, potable wine, and a Bocce Ball court. Head back to your hotel, catch dinner at any of these fine establishments and the head off for another show! Or, if you'd like to combine dinner and theater, try the Oregon Cabaret.

Sunday: Wake up in time for the 10am backstage tour of all three theaters. Then head down to the Railroad district for the walking tour or skip the tour and go straight to Chozu for tea, a massage, and the heated pools. If you have time, catch a matinee, or just stay longer at the spa. The only respectable Catholic Church around is Our Lady of the Mountain, with their cute, young, energetic pastor. Mass is at 5pm. If you are one of those people who like waking up early on vacation, there is also a 9am Mass. Arrive early to the morning Mass. It is generally packed. For your last meal, if you still have the cash, try the prix fixe at New Sammy's Cowboy Bistro. This is the place the locals covet. You'll still need to call for a reservation, but they've added on recently so it's easier to get in. Or see one last show. It's up to you!

Monday: If you are married to an insane person, drive from Oregon to California by way of the Oregon Caves and impossibly tiny back roads. Then go home and get back to work! You'll need to replenish your bank account for the next vacation.

Musical Intervention

So we were riding along the single track on our bikes. Mr. Man was up ahead, determining if the path was stable enough that his wife wouldn't throw a water bottle at his head, and I drifted behind to allow enough space that I wouldn't be tempted. I needed room to sulk. I hated mountain biking.

As I turned the corner, I heard him say, sort of quietly, "Holy Shit." He was off his bike and standing, looking eye to eye with a black bear. Clearly, Mr. Man had disturbed the bear's morning snack of wild berry melange, and the bear was staring at him as if to say, "What?"

I came skidding to a halt and they both looked at me, then back at each other, as I thought, "This could be very cool, or very, very bad." My heart began to race, and that's when it happened.

Mr. Man threw his arms out wide to his sides and launched into a rousing chorus of Guys and Dolls...."When you see a guy reach for stars in the sky, you can bet that he's doing it for some doll..."

I thought Mr. Man's addition of a side shuffle step was a bit much, and apparently the bear didn't care for amateur theatrical productions. He stood up on his hind legs, turned around, and ran off.