Crush on the Chocolate Lab

Growing Up Motown

Dim your lights. Watch it twice.
Intricate hand gestures abound.
You may miss them the first time around.

Roadside Calisthenics

Cross-Country Road Trip Video Installment #1

tRipPing

The Sisters Gottwald traveled from New York to California in 8 days flat. In a Ford Escort. With a Bassett Hound named Sherlock. It was invigorating. I had one meltdown outside Chicago on the second day, but I dug deep and was able to push aside my Safety Scheme (go the nearest airport and get a flight back home to NY). I will post video shortly so that you can experience the trip first-hand. In the meantime, here are some highlights and photos:

Kirsten and I took Amtrak to Albany from Penn Station to meet Gretchen (and Sherlock). Although I had researched the first leg of the trip with road atlas, google directions, Lonely Planet USA guide book, and a proof from Chris Cooper, I made a serious error. While driving in the Adirondacks and seeing a sign for Montreal, I realized that we were going north. Google directions told us to go from Albany to Montreal in order to go to Buffalo. [Pause for reader to think about that one]. We were two hours north of Albany and I decided that we should revert to the original plan, which had been to drive west from Albany to Buffalo. I panicked. We probably should have stuck with the google directions, but it just didn't make sense to me. So, the 10 hour drive to Ann Arbor, Michigan took us about 13. Oops.

We drove through Canada (from Niagara Falls to Detroit). A truck driver tried to run us off the road. I am quite serious. We think it was because we had US plates. And then in the middle of nowhere, Canada, it was midnight and we had no gas. We stopped at a gas station with an attendant who said that he just closed up and couldn't start up the pumps. But if we gave him a ride 15 miles down the road, then he could show us another gas station. Right. Sherlock growled at him from the backseat and would have eaten him if we had taken him up on his sketchy offer.

Driving into Canada was a piece of cake: the border agent looked at our licenses and said "Where are you going?" and we said "To Ann Arbor." She told us to have a good trip and we were on our way. I was driving.

Driving back into the US was ridiculous. The dude sat on his stool and asked us questions for ten minutes. The first question was tough, partly because Gretchen was driving (visual: dreadlocks, 2:00am, her contacts are dried out so her eyes are bloodshot...do the math): "Why are you coming into the US?" Those of you who know Gretchen can predict the tone and response (which every US citizen should rightly have, but for the older sister who is neurotic and wants everything to go smoothly, is a train wreck): "Um, because we live here." Sweet. So, the interview went on and on. He asked her why she was moving to Berkeley and she said, "because I hear it's nice. My sister used to live there. I have a cousin who lives there." He asked, "what's her name?" Gretchen responded, "Nicole." He decided to hold us up for a few minutes longer by saying, "I have a friend who lives in Berkeley." And this time, I chime in, "What's her name?" He responds, "Paulette." It was a tug-of-war between us and him. A power play. It was a waste of time. But it led to my breakdown. I defended him saying that he behaved that way because it was his job. This was an outrage to Gretchen and Kirsten. I can't pull a quote from the discussion that ensued, but basically they said he was representing the fascist regime and I wanted to make the point that terrorists have come over that border. But I never got to that point because I am easily bullied, don't like when people get pissed off and my emotions take over. I cried in the backseat with Sherlock on my lap.

Ann Arbor was cool. Sherlock took a bath at the Red Roof Inn. His confidence soared.

We listened to radio in Indiana and heard bad weather reports. TORNADOS! Grammie had planted the seed in Gretchen’s mind and now my little sister was convinced that we were going to swept away in a tornado. Just north of Chicago, with Kirsten sleeping in the backseat, Gretchen driving, and Erin navigating (again, doing a rather poor job, as we crossed over the interstate but could not find an on-ramp), the skies opened up. Rain fell like I had never seen before. Gretchen panicked, tossed some expletives my way, and my heart rate soared. We could not see a thing. We almost ran over a median. The car pack on top of the car, with its laces tied through the windows and above our heads in the interior, got drenched and water was falling down our backs. It was intense. We decided to stop at the closest hotel. We saw a sign for Super 8, and took the exit. There was no power in the entire town. Well, the gas station’s generator kicked in, but not a light on at Super 8. We pulled up to the hotel, the receptionist checked Kirsten in via flashlight, the lobby was filled with a group of young guys who were knocking back what was probably their tenth Budweiser of the night. It was hot, wet, no power so no A/C, so I decided I would take a shower. The plan quickly fell apart as I turned on the water and the entire fixture catapulted across the length of the tub and crumbled to the floor. No power. No shower. $100. What a deal. [Gretchen will comment, if I do not include this: tornadoes touched down within 15 miles of the Super 8. Yes, where we were driving. Grammie, you were wise to warn us.]

We visited Jiffy Lube in Madison, Wisconsin and the guys were really nice. They told us where to find the Willy Street Food Co-Op and I had one of the best sandwiches there.

Minnesota was really pretty. Actually, that was the most surprising to me. In previous trips, my surprises were Tennessee and Georgia. Minnesota joins them. The dam at the top of the Mississippi River has a convenient Rest Area and it was gorgeous. It also had ample recycling…the first obvious signs that we were in a more environmentally-oriented state. Kirsten enjoyed her time at the Rest Area…video to follow.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota offered us our very first Sobriety Test. In between two exits on the interstate, traffic came to a standstill, with signs in the breakdown lanes, “SLOW: Sobriety Tests ahead.” Again, Gretchen is driving. Again, it is late…around midnight. Again, she has dreadlocks. Again, her contacts have dried up and her eczema on her eyes is bothering her. And new this time, she had just changed into her pajamas for more comfortable driving. There are industrial sized tow trucks (tow trucks that can hold 15 cars a piece) piling on cars as scores of police officers are motioning for random cars to pull over. Somehow, we made it to the end where a normal (read: like Freddy) police officer bent down to Gretchen’s window and shined a flashlight in the car: “How are you tonight? Anybody been smoking?” A bit of profiling, but he was nice. “Anybody been drinking?” And after our collective “No” to each question, he said, “We’re just trying to keep everybody safe. Have a good night.” Sherlock did NOT like him or the police officer circling the car with a larger flashlight.

The Badlands were jaw-dropping. I tried to explain to my sisters that this was the reason that we were driving 8-hour days, so that we could get out of the flat grass of the east and get to the GOOD stuff. We picnicked: Gretchen-style. No utensils and vegetables custom-cut by her teeth. It was grand. We saw a beautiful sunset and went to a 9:00 information session under the stars in the ampitheater with the park ranger. The ranger was a woman from Houston. She was very nice, but it was only her 4th day doing the talk. We had to give her the benefit of the doubt and imagined that she would improve. Sherlock enjoyed being under the stars and as we listened to the info about prairie dogs, he crawled over to where the grass met the concrete and pooped.

Grand Stay Suites: Rapid City, SD. After not being able to find a hotel anywhere in Rapid City, the sweet woman at the Hampton Inn said that her boyfriend had just laid the carpet at “this new hotel” a couple exits down. She called over, asked for a pet room, and we arrived at the Grand Stay. It had a total of three cars in the parking lot. It was brand new. It was awesome. We didn’t want to leave. This was not your typical cross-country experience. We had a workout facility, free Wi-Fi, an apartment (a bedroom, full kitchen, pull out couch), a REAL continental breakfast. We need to write up some reviews of that place. It was located on Disk Drive in Rapid City. I kid you not.

Mount Rushmore and the Black Hills were cool.

Wyoming was amazing. It’s the 5^th biggest state in land area and the 50^th in population. Pretty incredible. Animals all over the place. Beautiful. We stayed in a sketchy AmericInn in Sheridan. In a “non-smoking room.” This was beginning of the “non-smoking rooms” that would last until Nevada. We visited our first Drive-Up Liquor Store where we were served a 6-pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale straight to the driver-side window.

The Grand Tetons and Yellowstone blew our minds. Within ten minutes of entering Yellowstone, we found ourselves in a blitz of hail. It lasted about three minutes and left an inch of ice on the car. Immediately after that, we pulled over the watch a Black Bear meander through the field about 30 feet from where we were standing. He proceeded to cross the street with his three foot stride. Then we saw a Bison about ten minutes after that, sitting in the field. His head was massive. Bison weigh two tons. We saw elk everywhere. Old Faithful was steaming but didn’t blow. Yellowstone was amazing. I do have to say for the record that we were disappointed that Sherlock was not allowed anywhere and for him it must have been like four hours of foreplay. All those smells and he had to stay back with one of us on the leash everywhere we went.

We stayed at Carrie’s place in Jackson Hole. She is a friend of mine from Bates, who was in San Francisco when I was in Berkeley. She is finishing up her Film Thesis (just got her MFA in Cinema from SFSU): it’s fantastic, we got a private screening in her log cabin situated right next door to the National Elk Refuge. She has a dog named Nellie. Sherlock and Nellie had a blast…and a little power play, too.

It’s too bad that Idaho is the Potato State. It’s beautiful. The license plates say “Scenic Idaho” and that’s even worse, when it’s stating the obvious. Idaho needs some creative folks to give it some TLC with the state mottos and license plates. It really was spectacular. Idaho Falls, not so much.

Sage Café: Salt Lake City, Utah. Vegan restaurant with a wonderful waiter. I forget his name, but am sure that Gretchen or Kirsten remembers it. When he found out we were sisters, he said “Blood sisters?” Remember, we were in Mormon land, where you refer to your husband’s other wife as your sister [wife]. It blew his mind that we were sisters and said we all looked the same age. I thanked him. He gave us free brownies for the road.

Super 8: Wells, Nevada. Another “Non-Smoking Room.” The woman at the desk pulled up my reservation and said, “Oh, yeah, you’re the one from Brooklyn.” Not a great start. Although Super 8 said the hotel had High-Speed Internet, it did not. It didn’t even have Ethernet Outlets. Kirsten asked the woman if there was internet in Wells, Nevada and she suggested that we “could go to the Brothel next door. But I don’t recommend it.” We spent a night without internet. The next morning, out our bathroom window, a car was parked in the tall brown desert grass. The driver’s door was ajar, the trunk open, and we think someone was slumped in the front seat. There was a rattlesnake next to the hotel when we took Sherlock for a walk. The snake’s head was chopped off. In some way that made us feel better. We saw that Bella’s Espresso offered free Wi-Fi, so we pulled into the parking lot and gave it a test-run. Indeed, it did work. Thinking that we should make an espresso purchase so that we were not stealing wireless, Kirsten did a quick internet search for Wells, Nevada and the first thing that popped up was “Bella’s Espresso. A Legal Brothel in Wells, Nevada.” An espresso shop AKA a brothel. Fascinating.

“One Love” by Bob Marley was playing when we drove over the mountains and got the first glimpse of Lake Tahoe shimmering in the late afternoon sun. Gretchen exuded happiness. This was home now. Sherlock loved Tahoe, especially because there were dog beaches. He rolled in the sand, played with some dogs and began to smell really bad.

Driving through Sacramento sucked. The traffic was terrible. But from Tahoe to Sacramento, I reminisced about November 2, 2004 (Election Day) when Chris and I were going the opposite direction to Reno in his 1990 pick-up. We had no heat, it was freezing. Actually, we missed a snowstorm by hours. By the time we were in Reno, it was snowing.

In Alameda, California we stayed with our cousin, Nicole. Actually, Kirsten and Gretchen are still staying with her while Gretchen looks for a place to live. It was nice to see Nicole. I haven’t seen her in about seven years. In Berkeley, we had lunch with my bosses at the new vegan restaurant. Gretchen tells me that she has eaten at Herbivore everyday since she has arrived. We showed Sherlock the dog park and he didn’t know what hit him. It is a fenced-in park filled with dogs. His initiation was a bunch of bigger dogs smelling his butt at the entrance. He passed the test and I hear he has met a 4-pound Chihuahua who he has fallen in love with. To each his own.

The Bathroom War

I grew up in a house that had one bathroom for seven people. There were actually two bathrooms, but one went into retirement when I was about seven years old and from 1983-2003 it served solely as the laundry room. Informally, it was more like one big hamper. The shower rod was an extension of my parents’ insufficient closet and the tub was the landing strip for clean yet rogue items like socks who lost their partners and belts that were hastily ripped off a pair of pants en route to the washer. I think something went awry with the plumbing. Actually, I don’t really have a solid comprehension of why my family didn’t use this bathroom. This room, the Hamper Room, was conveniently located right off the kitchen. Inconveniently, it remained out of commission for guests who had to climb a flight of stairs to use the real bathroom.

The real bathroom upstairs was a busy room. Accoutrements adorned the wide windowsill as well as the sink and the bathtub. The Wella Balsam shampoo bottles were close to 64 oz (keep in mind this was long before Costco) and lasted about a week, the tubes of AIM toothpaste seemed alive as they oozed a neon blue gel that slithered down the white sink. The half-opened 12-packs of Cottonelle toilet paper were a permanent fixture. Rarely was a roll placed on the actual toilet paper holder, and if it was it lasted about two hours before it needed a replacement. So, without a family meeting, we seemed to agree by physical demonstration that the toilet paper holder was on sabbatical. Bars of Ivory Soap in the shower were rebellious, either slipping off the soap holder onto vulnerable toes or stubbornly sticking to the soap holder as prying fingers tried to wrestle them free. Ivory and I had some words back then (even if they were only in my imagination). To this day, I don’t buy Ivory Soap.

The Bathroom War happened sometime circa 1990.

Or maybe it was the Door War.

In either case, it happened.

We lost the bathroom door during an all-out fight. It was ready to go after years of being slammed and pushed and pulled. It had stood in the way as defender when victims fled sibling attackers from the hallway and pushed it shut with all their might. The door would teeter and inch to the left and then an inch to the right as one child’s face grimaced on the inside while the other child grunted and grimaced. Fights terminated at the door. It’s exhausting to push against someone with the same strength. Winners are not determined easily that way. [There is a warm-up we do in dance rehearsal. The first part is placing your hands palm-to-palm against someone else’s and bending your knees and pushing each other. When doing the exercise properly, you break a sweat without moving. There is perfect equilibrium. The second part of the exercise is placing your palms against the wall and doing the same thing. Literally, you try to push the wall backwards. It’s exhilarating. Truly. It’s also exhausting and reminds me of the Bathroom War every time I do the exercise.] The bathroom door had its last word during a battle between siblings. I think the match was uneven – 2 against 1 – and the door’s ancient hinges crumpled, with wood panels falling backwards over the little person behind it. It was a dramatic ending to a standard sister- sister- brother- sister- brother fight. And it was a dramatic beginning to the phase in our lives which is now known as the “No Bathroom Door” phase.

A cotton sheet replaced the bathroom door. It was tacked up above the door frame and when not in use, pulled over to one side and gracefully draped behind the towel rack conveniently located behind the door (or what was once the door). It was a clever idea, I thought. My dad was working 11pm-7am shifts in Mattapan and my mom was refereeing five children under the age of 13. The idea that we should get a new door just never floated into our family orbit. There is serious family debate over the length “No Bathroom Door” phase. I have polled six out of seven family members and I received the following answers:

1. “At least, at least, 3 years.”
2. “2 years”
3. “Oh my God, it was only a couple months.”
4. “Years. Obviously. Years. 6 years.”
5. “Well, I feel like it was 4 years. But, that’s just my memory and it was probably only 6 months.”
6. “Ten years. Don’t write about this in your blog.”

For those of you who know my family, you can have fun matching up the answers to the people. I will put an answer key at the bottom of this blog.

I mean, not often does a family of seven share one bathroom (granted my dad grew up sharing one bathroom with 12 people) but to also not have a door on that one bathroom is impressive. There was no need for knocking, you could just walk right up to the curtain and ask (or scream, or whatever other means you chose) “are you done yet?” A sheet does not block out smells. Or sounds. The bathroom was the opposite of private. It was public.

So, as I sat in my parents new house in New Hampshire (equipped with bathroom doors), on the toilet, in the downstairs bathroom this past Memorial Day Weekend, I was reminded of the Bathroom War. I was thinking that historically we have had a lot of communication in our bathrooms: fights (The Bathroom War), discussions (“How much longer are you going to be?”), demands (“Turn the water off!”), and requests (“can you hand me the ______?” as a hand reaches through the opening between the sheet and the doorframe and hovers above the sink waiting for the object to be placed in it). Going into a bathroom never exempted you from participating. And as I was reminiscing, I grabbed the little quotation book that my parents keep in the bathroom.

Each time I go to this bathroom, the bookmark (a square of toilet paper) has been moved and strategically placed between the pages of quotes that some family member thought was appropriate. It’s almost as if the wooden structure in the doorframe (now equipped with a lock!) really isolates us, so we’ve decided to try another means of communication. I cracked up when I read the quote that was bookmarked. I don’t remember what it was, but we are not that mysterious to each other and our choices of quotations are quite revealing. Quotes my mom chooses address “taking your mother for granted”, quotes Gretchen chooses resemble something like “you are what you eat”, quotes from Danny “reserve judgment”, Erin “art is expression of self”, Tommy “roll with the punches”, Kirsten “embrace the power of the mind”, and Freddy “appreciate the simple things.” That little square of toilet paper is being pushed and pulled, moved from one set of hands to the other, much like that infamous Bathroom Door that we collectively miss.

Answer Key:
1. Danny 2. Erin 3. Priscilla 4. Gretchen 5. Thomas 6. Freddy
Kirsten will be polled upon her return stateside.

Moose & Stephen King

I am laying on my stomach reading Stephen King’s latest book on the overgrown grass at Prospect Park. I am thinking how long grass is so much nicer than short grass with its sharp stubbly short blades. The sun feels good on my calves. It’s a Monday. Not a lot of people are at the park. I feel good. I feel lucky. I am at the place in Lisey’s Story where a novel’s plot begins to thicken. I am enmeshed in the sparks of suspense and in the outer aura of my present moment I am slightly distracted.

“Moose! Moose! MOOOOOSSSSE!” I hear a far away voice yelling but I am not registering partly because I know there are no moose in Brooklyn.

“MOOSE. COME. MOOSE.”

I am reading about the protagonist reaching into her mailbox to find a bloodied, dead cat. I am spooked. It is the middle of the day. Broad daylight. I look up from the book to comfort myself with the reality which is mine.

Comfort is far from mine.

There is a pit bull charging at me. He has struck what appears to look like a hunting-like gallop and he is coming right to me. I am partially submerged in long grass. I look like prey. His brown, muscular shoulders are supporting a broad head with a tongue splayed out of the side of his mouth. He is galloping and his owner, blurry in the background, is beginning to sprint in my direction.

I think: “Oh. This must be Moose.”

For some reason, I don’t freak. Usually when danger presents itself to me, I flee. But I think I know how dogs (in particular, how pit bulls) operate and decide that I should be submissive. No sudden movements. Things could be worse, I could be a character in Stephen King’s imagination.

Moose is right in my face now. I say gently, “Hello, Moose.”

That’s all.

I’m not risking my hand to pet him.

“MOOOOOOSSSSSE! He’s a puppy. He doesn’t bite.” His owner is attempting to reassure me of my survival as he gets closer to us. But I think of the dead animal in the mail box and visualize the pit bull’s jaw locking on my jugular as the owner stands there helplessly saying, “he’s never done this before!”

There is no leash. On the dog. Or in the owner’s hand.

The owner gets his hands on him and pulls him away, whacking him a few times and then finally tugging him back to the family’s blanket by his choke collar.

I sit there frozen. And as I watch them walk back towards their stomping ground, my heart races. Pounds. Climbs into my throat and I think: “I should go. If Chris, the voice of reason, were here, he would make us get up and move to a new place in the park.” I begin to put my sneakers on. I am tying my laces when my heart rate slows down and I think: “Nothing is going to happen. They will put a leash on him.”

I revert to bare feet and lay back down on my stomach.

I resume Lisey’s Story and the dead animal clean up.

“MOOOOOOSSSSSE! MOOSE. Come, Moose.” I look up and see Moose charging, this time with physical contact, a man who is sleeping with a straw hat laying over his face. I search the vicinity, looking for the ever-important eye contact that signifies comraderie: “can you believe this?” But the few people around me are reading, sleeping, sun-bathing.

For about twenty minutes, Moose charges at and hunts down a few more people. He genuinely pursues the man in the straw hat and I think about a picture I saw on a stranger’s blog recently of a pit bull mired with porcupine needles. The pit bull and porcupine got in a fight in someone’s backyard. The porcupine won. See exhibit A. But there is no porcupine here in Prospect Park and Moose is looking for a serious throw-down. I decide that I don’t want to be Moose’s choice for a throw-down, especially since I do not have the necessary needles.

I decide its time to retire from Prospect Park and read Stephen King at home, alone, under the covers. The way his books were intended to be read.

No more Moose for me.

Prep Time

In the midst of one of my insomniac moments last night, I found my restless mind wandering to Sarah Jessica Parker. I don’t know why. That’s what so magical about insomnia: the things that keep you up in the middle of the night. Three hours of a little tossing and turning, some sudoku on the toilet, a swig of water, some staring at the ceiling and some random thoughts. The first big event I remember attending when I was young was Annie at the Wang Center in Boston. Sarah Jessica Parker did play the role of Annie in the musical, but after some brief research today I now know that she was on Broadway at the time and she would have been too old in 1982 to play the Annie that I saw. I went to see Annie with my grandmother and I don’t remember anything about the actual show. All I recall is the prep: my mom buying me a frilly pastel dress at Filene’s, singing “Tomorrow” in the car, and being nervous about not having my parents with me at the impending performance. Prep Time is a big factor in my childhood memories. It’s one of my adult “issues.”

Prep Time takes on various forms. Christmas was the worst with its mayhem and adrenalin rushes combined with bottomless piles of crinkled wrapping paper and strands of glitter that stuck to everything. After morning gift opening, it was Prep Time. This meant clean-up, dress-up, and fix-up. While in the shower I would hear my mom calling, “Erin, I need you to help me with the potato salad.” Standing with water pouring down on my head, I would wonder why we had to make potato salad. The extended Gottwald family ended up ordering Chinese food on Christmas and I didn’t understand my mom’s compulsion with bringing unwanted potato salad to my grandmother’s house in Roslindale. Once I was downstairs standing next to her at the kitchen counter I would argue my point and she would tell me to “just do it” as she finished up cutting vegetables and ran into the shower. I remember the packets of dry Lipton onion soup mix and the containers of sour cream that made obscene sucking noises as the cream was released from the plastic. I would get goose bumps as I heard the onion mix crackle under the folds of sour cream. Prep Time during childhood also included some appearances by my mom in her bra and underwear, ironing blouses and pants on the ironing board (at lightning speed) in the middle of the kitchen. Passing dress inspection with my mom, to this day, is like passing the bar. At 30 years old, I still get the “is that what you’re wearing?” question posed to me as we are about to depart for family weddings.

Yesterday I was walking down Sixth Avenue in Park Slope and I watched as a group of children waited at the bus stop. Some of them were without parents and some of them had siblings and mom in tow. I watched them as the doors of the bus opened and they climbed aboard. Once they were safely aboard the bus, several moms turned to go on with their day, walking down the street at break neck speed. However, a select few remained on the sidewalk waving to their children on the bus with one hand and covering their mouth with the other. I had a flashback. My first day of kindergarten, I came home and fell down the stairs of the bus, right in front of my house. The fall was bloody. My red tights tore at the knees and my knees were scraped up. I don’t remember being a wimp as a kid, but watching my mom’s face react as her precious, dressed-up little girl tumbled into dirt and grime and ruined her outfit was enough to make me break down. All the prep time that morning, all the build-up to my first day of school, the pressure!

Watching those kids at the bus stop also reminded me of how saying bye was always such a big deal in my family. It’s directly related to Prep Time. Going back to school and going to camp were momentous occasions. My mom shopped for all the right things according to the official lists that families were given: the right supplies and attire. All the research, collecting, shopping, and spending built up my expectations for each event. By the first day or school and camp, I was a nervous wreck: Did we get the correct ballet shoes? Did I have the right Trapper Keeper? Were my shoes ok? My self-confidence level would plummet and I would doubt my ability survive without my mom’s assistance. Leaving her side left me with a sense of abandonment and nervousness. Leaving for Bates was similar. Actually, I left the details up to my mom since she enjoyed taking charge of them anyhow. Because I never took the time to look at the printed materials, we ended up going to Bates one day too early. I was left at a deserted campus and slept in a lonely dorm room my first night at college. I was about 20 years old when I finally came to grips with separation anxiety.

And coming to grips with that anxiety had a lot to do with abandoning Prep Time. I’m a relatively organized and responsible person and this manifests itself in a tendency to plan things, but not like my mom. I under dress for almost everything. I figure that informality feels more natural to me and when I feel natural I am more pleasant person and being pleasant makes me feel nice. I also don’t prepare much for things. The dance classes that I teach are almost always more enjoyable (for the kids and myself) if I do not have a plan: it allows freedom and flexibility and surprises. I under-pack for trips, always packing less than Chris. Sometimes I regret this once I am at my destination, but it is important for my self-esteem to be low maintenance. I have also trained myself to have low expectations so that disappointment is not as crippling as it was when I was a kid.

With all of this said, I am doing a lot of Prep Time these days. I have decided to take a cross-country road trip with my two sisters. Prep Time is necessary. Prep Time to align realistic expectations: there will be arguments, there will be drama. I have decided that I will bring a video camera so that when my flight instinct kicks in (see “50% and Then Some” blog entry) and there is no place to flee to, I will turn on the video camera and have a reality show. Last night I had a dream that we got trapped in Cleveland on our way to California. At a crack house on the railroad tracks in Cleveland. I think I may be anxious about the trip.