As Seen in the Palisadian Post Travel Tales

The Treesort

“Someday we’re going to stay in a tree house,” I told my kids. Wide eyed, they said, “Really?”

I said “yes. High, high off the ground.” For years we had this conversation. Soon the response took on a new tone. Instead of a question, “Really” became a sarcastic exclamation. I’d been talking about it so long they no longer believed me.

Finally, in 2007, I had the reservations in hand, airplane tickets booked and we were on our way.

How does one find a “Treesort”? Well, that all began when my brother in law (who was spending a sabbatical year in Germany) asked me to put his name down on a waiting list for a Mini Cooper when they first came out in the US in 2002. As I investigated where to find a local dealer, I noticed a link on the Mini Cooper website, “interesting places to stay in the United States”. Intrigued, I clicked on it. One of the sites mentioned was the Treesort in Southern Oregon. I had to check it out. The website was amazing. This is a place designed by people who LOVE trees, run by people who want to share their love of trees, and visited by people who are curious about trees. And Southern Oregon is so beautiful, I knew we just had to go and stay.

My two daughters (ages 13 & 7), and I were really excited about going. We started off our Oregon adventure by rafting down a gentle section of the Rogue River, and a cursory visit to Crater Lake (the deepest lake in the United States, and in my humble and limited opinion, the most beautiful). Everywhere we went there was lush greenery and rushing water. For my Southern California kids, a river that rushed rather than trickled was an exquisite novelty.

The road to the Treesort was long. Longer than I thought. And pretty remote. We seemed to be leaving civilization behind Further and further behind. At last we arrived. It was truly an arborist’s paradise. And very laid back. The dog on the porch beckoned us into the “office”. Outside were sign up boards for horseback riding and a zip line. Wheee.

Our treehouse (which I’d picked out from a very descriptive website) was accessed by walking across two suspension bridges (think Tom Sawyer’s island at Disneyland) and was 43 feet up in the air. It was one room -if you don’t count the curtained off ensuite bathroom, toilet & shower. We had a front porch, loft beds, small refrigerator and a wonderful 12 foot wide tree as a centerpiece. I have a real fear of heights, but I never felt afraid. After all, there were barriers between falling and me. We could see the other treehouses, the stables, the main gathering house, (which was on the ground), and a forest beyond. Getting our bags up was an adventure in ingenuity. They had a rope with pulleys installed on the side of the balcony, so we loaded them up from the ground. A luggage elevator if you will.

Days at the Treesort were a laid back, communal living kind of camp experience. We picnicked the first day, splashed in the natural (and cold) spring rock pond, picked wild blackberries, laid on wooden swings, and at night roasted marshmallows under the stars. I was unprepared for that last activity, but everyone was extraordinarily generous –more and more S’mores.

We had thought we’d want to make a bee line for the zip line, but after living life in the soaring treetops, we concluded we’d had just enough vertical exhilaration for now. Instead, the nearby Oregon Caves were calling. We answered that call. From up high, we explored deep down under. I like a well rounded experience.

Back at the Treesort, a few of us Moms (who had become fast friends) conspired to not cookout that night, but rather call a local caterer and pitched in together for some sumptuous baked ziti and fresh local greens and caramel bread pudding. A few shared bottles of wine, more stars a twinkling, kids running free in the darkness, and it seemed our wish on a star was there before our eyes.

Upon our return to LA, we looked at trees a little differently, but have managed to keep our feet on the ground. Most of the time. Now I’ve heard there’s a place where you can stay in an igloo,,,,,,

Dietribe 2, The Sequel

Ok, I'm not done with the Dietribe.

Now, we all know that the food and restaurant industries are dead set against anyone on a diet. And when you dissect their methods, they're just plain insidious. I don't know how anyone who likes to eat isn't immense. (the term "obese" is used and overused and connotes slothfulness, and really, we're not all that way, just a little weak willed sometimes) If I think about it, the people I know who maintain a decent weight must either exercise their buns off (yes, literally) or not like to eat. You can't have it any other way it turns out.

So, I'm meeting my friend Jill for lunch at a Mexican food restaurant in Century City. It's so festive, with pretty pink lights all over, comfy booths, kitchy decor. While I'm waiting, my perky, pretty, sweet waitress asks in her bubbly and extremely friendly voice if I want a Pretty Pink Margarita while I wait. No, thanks I'll have just water. Oh, maybe just a Corona? No, I'll have just water. Now at this point, I already feel bad. Not only am I apparently dull as dishwater, but I'm almost being mean to her. I keep saying no, and she's just trying to make me feel good, and to bring me nice, festive things.

Then, a bucket of crispy tortilla chips comes out, all warm and fresh, with a beckoning bowl of fresh salsa. I eat one chip. Delicious. My mind nearly tricks me into thinking that the chips are just a vessel for the virtuous salsa with it's tomatoes, cilantro, so light, so healthy. Yeah, uh huh. The smart thing to do would be to send the entire bucket back, but I think I have faith in my willpower. After all, I'm conscious of all of this trickery, it should be easy to resist. No mindless munching here. (yeah, right)

Jill arrives. I tell her these thoughts I"m having. She agrees with my assessments. The waitress arrives back to greet the fresh meat, oh, I mean the additional guest. She's still perky, still pushing the Margaritas. But Jill is wise, and not so guilt prone. She says her no thank you's with a sweet firmness. She sends the no's with a slight admonishment in that it's sort of early in the day for cocktails or beer. So little Miss Perkster, not to be outdone offers the wondrous cocktails as virgin versions - refreshing and delightful. Still no. How about some guacamole while you look over your menu. There is probably nothing I'd like more, but once again, even though our nice waitress is only there to serve and please us, once again, I am rejecting her kind offers.

Looking over the menu, I'm thinking, there has to be something fairly virtuous here. But I'm at a Mexican restaurant, and I really like Mexican food, so I don't want to have something like salmon. I've also seen the websites, (buzzkillers really), that delineate the freaking calorie count of some, or most of my favorite Mexican dishes. Enchiladas, nearly 1000. Burritos with chicken, cheese, guac and sour cream, nearly 1000. Tacos, what can I say, I like them crispy, nearly 1000. And all the plates probably come with beans & rice, another, well, you get the idea. Then I'm wondering if they have a children's menu, so I could at least count on the portions to be more moderate. But I suddenly remember, it's a federal crime to order off the children's menu if you are over 12. Or at least against the restaurant rule book. I wonder, what if I offered to pay an adult price. I hear my husband's voice saying, don't pay full price for less food, just bring half home with you. Well, that's reasonable, but we all pretty much know how that scenario goes. Get the take out container, put 1/2 to 1/3, or maybe just 1/4 in the container, and you've still overeaten.

Jill and I manage to split a Tostada. It's amazing in that it's actually two Tostadas in one order, more than enough for us. (Even I, an overeater, wonder how one person could polish off both at one sitting) And I slip a few more mouthfuls of the virtuous salsa down with the chip vehicle it came with. But I don't really make a dent in the bucket the chips came in. Thank God.

At the end of the meal, I'm content. After all, I've contained myself, been truthful and vigilant about what I'm up against, and with my new, larger waisted pants, I'm still comfortable after eating what I want to eat. Not bad. I might even go out for Thai food tomorrow. See what I'm up against there.

Dietribe

Dietribe


I’ll admit it. I think there is a cosmic injustice in this world. Good foods are bad for you. Chocolate makes you fat, big thick potato chips will give you heart disease, & Ben & Jerry will ultimately clog your arteries (and they seemed like such nice, organic guys). The list goes on. I think in primitive times, the bad foods gave some kind of a warning, like they tasted so bitter your tongue swelled and your eyes burned. What the hell happened?

I realize that modern technology, food research and the profit motive have all conspired to make foods which are simply attractive and addictive. Quite the advancement. They scientifically know how to give you a false heroin-like high of pleasure while they slowly hook and kill you. Has anyone investigated whether the food industry and the healthcare industry hold clandestine conferences where they plot their evil symbiotic ways?

I was reading in Kessler’s book, “The End of Overeating”, how food scientists engineer their food to have all kinds of perfection qualities, which will taste good, feel good and make you want more. He calls a Snickers bar the perfect food for it’s firm but biteable chocolate, soft nougat that just melts, and layer of salty peanuts coated with caramel. All these elements combine to give you just the right balance of chewy, salty and sweet to produce a satisfying "mouth feel". Maybe my subconscious thinks my mouth is actually exercising to eat it's chewy goodness. I suppose I should try and associate the evil research behind these addictive foods to something akin to cigarettes, but I can’t seem to link the two as evil equals. I know cigarettes are bad, but they have the added benefit of IMMEDIATELY making you smell bad, pant when you walk uphill and are considerably more expensive. That makes it easier for my mind to reject. Snickers, reject? Not so much.

So, obviously Mother Nature and God combined didn’t mean for us to have no alternative to Snickers, pudding and Kettle chips. We have fruits and vegetables. In fact, modern wisdom has us eating five servings a day. As though that solves everything. Really? Not for me.

I have a thing about fruit. As immoral as it sounds, I have a problem with fruit. It’s about expectations and disappointment. Fruit isn’t consistent. When I have a bite of the perfect strawberry, or the perfect orange, it crosses my mind that this is my answer to the foods mentioned above. But it only takes one rotten strawberry that I didn’t see coming, or one overly ripe orange to rip that determination away from my temporary health kick. Watermelon would be my favorite food on the planet if it promised to never be mealy or bland. After all, you never have a mealy or bland Snickers bar. Is that too much to ask? Apparently. Vegetables don’t let me down in quite the same way, but there are only so many I can truly say I like, and probably proportionally more that I absolutely, truly object to. On a daily basis, 5 is harder to achieve than it might seem.

Now let's talk about Yo Yo dieting - I can’t afford to gain any more weight. So, that’s the end of diets for me. I did Weight Watchers. Lost 17 pounds. (Parenthetically, just as I was achieving my goal weight, my husband left me.) Over the course of the next few years, I found it all. And then some. Happily remarried, and with someone for whom food is a fun activity to be enjoyed (vs., the previous dude who hated all sweets, meats and carbs), I not only found the pounds I’d lost, but found some that other people had apparently lost. But it was a happy reunion. See, there’s not really an emotional downside to gaining weight. For me, it’s usually associated with celebration, with doing what feels good. Why can’t it hurt? I then tried doing South Beach with my second husband. After all, we were both feeling the effects of our newly married celebratory food over dosing on our waistlines. We both lost weight. But with such a restrictive regimen as South Beach's Phase I, as soon as I was done with it, I couldn’t see my way to continuing on with Phases II and III. It’s always the maintenance that overwhelms me. After no carbs, I pretty much wanted all the carbs. Again, I found every single pound I’d lost. AND THEN SOME I didn’t even know I’d lost. Now I am paralyzed with fear. I can’t go on another diet. I cannot afford to weigh more than I do now.
.
Well, that’s the food conspiracy. Let’s talk about the exercise. I know that the real answer to any weight management issue is the old calories in, calories out. So, theoretically, I could eat anything if I just exercised enough. Michael Phelps with his 12 daily big Macs and In-N-Out milkshakes. Obviously I don’t swim for a living. In fact, truth be told, I have a long list of problems with exercise. I’m just telling the truth here.
1. I don’t like to sweat. (That alone could explain everything)
2. I find it hard to make the time. It isn’t that I don’t have it. I do. But on a cold or blustery morning, when I’m so cozy sitting in bed after the kids go to school and I have my computer and newspaper and coffee, I find myself resisting getting up, snapping on that restrictive jogging bra (which let’s face it, I just need because of my losing struggle with the Snickers war), pulling on my sweats which look ginourmous, throwing the inserts into my athletic shoes (which I now need because my extra weight has put stress on my plantars fasciitis), and going out to do anything.
3. And then if I go hike, or treadmill, or whatever, I’ll end up sweaty, stinky, needing a shower. That adds another half hour to my day. Not the end of the world, but it does sort of tip the scale towards inaction.
4. Exercises which would really help to burn fat and increase metabolism are even more complicated. I’d have to work my way up to jogging and that can take weeks of dedicated effort before you’re even closer to an endorphin rush. Weight lifting is fun and can aid metabolism, but you really have to push yourself. I find I can only push so hard. Swimming is something I even enjoy, but it’s has it’s own avoidance opportunities (the look of me in a swimsuit?). You can’t hide what’s inside, can you?
5. I can walk. I do walk. Just not enough or with enough consistency to make a difference.
6. Lastly, there is an exercise I love. I could do it for hours with joy and satisfaction. It works my arms, my abs, my legs. I sweat, but I don’t notice. The scenery is thrilling and I get to see one of favorite animals up close. No, not sex with my new husband, but kayaking. And in that same cosmic joke injustice, kayaking is not exactly easy to do all year. The lightest kayak I’ve found is too heavy for me to lift and maneuver by myself, so I had to rely on UCLA’s marine center. Just as I had figured out that as my venue, I find out that it is closed in the exact hours that would otherwise allow me to kayak every day. I have from 9-2 free; they have it closed from 9-3. I need a lake with a dock where the kayak is easy to just lower into the water. That isn’t possible around here. (oh, the animal I can see up close is the pelican.)

Well, when all is said and done, I would say it isn’t all said and done,,, yet. I’m ok with where I am, because in general in my life I’m happy. And I really don’t think the secret to success or joy is to be stick skinny. I will walk. I might even learn to jog. I will continue to explore the world of fruits and vegetables. I will control myself around sweets even if I grumble while I do it. And I might even let Ben & Jerry off the hook for tempting me. But I also might continue to rail against the cosmos for putting all these thoughts in my head.

And then, there’s always sex.

Guilt & Inertia

Inertia: A tendency to do nothing or remain unchanged.

Guilt: A feeling of having done wrong or failed in an obligation.

Today is one of those days. My head tells me one thing, but my supine position, wrapped in blankets on a coldish day, laptop poised comfortably on my legs tells me another. Looking over at the clock says it's 9:38. At 10, you are truly a slug. So I have 22 minutes to make a choice. Invariably I will make the correct one, but in the meantime, I'm struggling with the guilt over inertia right now.

I've been up since 7:30. Got up, woke daughter, made coffee, made other daughter breakfast (first daughter doesn't eat, gave up trying), read paper, ate. Made sure first daughter didn't go back to sleep (you have to be super vigilant on that score) Let other daughter eat half my breakfast slyly giddy that I've tempted my militant "vegetarian" to eat pigs in a blanket. Her father has brainwashed her into thinking being vegetarian is the superior moral choice, but bless her heart, she loves different foods. I keep trying to explain the hierarchy of predators and the natural food chain and such, but she insists, as she wolfs down the occasional bacon and burger that she loves animals. If she only knew that her morally superior vegetarian father also grew up loving bacon and burgers,,,,,,

So, at last get first daughter out the door and off to school. Second daughter has the day off. When did teachers start getting a whole day off to record grades? I guess it was right when they got recess off as "coffee breaks". But that's beside the point isn't it?

I let second daughter play computer and watch TV. It's her weekend with her Dad this weekend so, he can enforce the homework rule. I returned to my comfy bed, checked my Facebook page, read Google News, wasted time on other people's Facebook pages and let my mind trace through the various duties and obligations that I have before me that I realize I am avoiding. Some are small errandy type things, others are largish, life choice type of first steps.

1. See invention made.

2. Plan spring college reunion.

3. Get children's book published.

4. Go to the gym and continue my quest to become a" jalker". (not misspelled. I had a friend call it "wogging" but that puts me closely in awareness of my many wobbly bits that in fact wiggle when I attempt to walk, then jog, then walk again) In any case, I am slowly but surely making my way to becoming a Jalker if I would only make sure I get to the gym every day.

5. Make cake for Dan's boss for being so supportive through his illness.

6. Find something fun for second daughter and me to do today since she has no school.

7. Update my blog.

So, since I had my laptop on my lap, and my phone at close range, I started the process rolling for numbers 1, 2, and 3. After months and months and months of procrastination, I made an appointment with a guy who helps people realize their invention concepts. It seems that a woman I went to high school with, married a guy who has a company that does that. And I have at least one potentially marketable invention idea. I've known about this woman's husband for about 5 years now, but only have known his phone number for a few months. I have an appointment for next Tuesday. Yea! Take that inertia. Take that guilt over inertia!

I called the guy I'm planning the reunion with. Now that's only been about 3 weeks in the avoidance category. I make all kinds of apologies for not calling yet, but at last, the phone call ball is now in his court. Take that inertia. Take that guilt over inertia!

I emailed the woman who I know who is in some kind of job to do with children's literature. We planned to have lunch about 6 months ago, and then one thing and another came along and we never made the ultimate reschedule, so it went poof. I'll start that process over again and who knows, my book might be one tiny step closer to realization. Take that inertia. Take that guilt over inertia.

Looking up at the clock on my computer. YIKES. It's 10 now. Only true slugs and slaggards are still in bed after 10. And since pretty much nothing productive will come of this blogging stuff, I'd better get a move on.

Take that inertia. Take that guilt over inertia!

oh, by golly, check off number 7.

M

The C word

I hardly know where to begin. I usually like to be funny in my blogs. Or try. But this isn't really funny. Humor plays a part, but it's not the primary emotion or characteristic. I'd say the main elements are,,,,, COPE and HOPE.

So, Dan, my husband of not quite a year, went in for his colonoscopy the night before our first anniversary (what is it with cancer and newlyweds? huh Susan? huh Jan?). I sat in the waiting room, for what seemed like days. Traces of worry threaded their way through my consciousness, but I didn't really allow them in. But as more and more people came out, and they weren't Dan, I was starting to wonder. Finally they asked me to go in.

I saw Dan standing up, looking a bit clammy. I don't know how you can look clammy, but he did. We were asked to go into a little room. I think the cope mechanism started there, Aug. 14. It hasn't abated since. They showed us a picture of his colon. It didn't look pretty. And you'd be surprised, a healthy colon can look pretty decent. I was listening, trying not to look worried, or scared, just strong and ready. The C word was darting all around the outside edges of my brain, but I figured I wasn't going to be the first to say it. Dan looked pretty shocked. And no one had even said cancer yet. They were talking about a growth, a separate polyp, biopsies, surgery, results, but no one said cancer. Since I didn't want to be there all day, I finally asked the doctor the actual question. I remember he gave me the weirdest answer. He said it was most certainly cancer, but he didn't know yet if it was benign or malignant. What? I didn't think cancer could be benign, but still, I hung onto whatever glimmer of hope I thought that statement might have suggested. Dan was pretty much still in shock. We both asked some more questions, and then staggered out into the glaring light of day bewildered.

I did what I always do in situations like this. I called my own personal physician. Daddy. He confirmed my confusion. If it's cancer, that's it, it's cancer. What the doctor should have said was growth, or tumor. Those could be benign. I was hoping that the Kaiser doctor's language deficit was to blame. We would just have to wait for the biopsy results. Two weeks to wait.

Regardless of the biopsy result, he'd have to have the "growth" removed. So, we started to prepare for that. Dan and I talked, and he was beautifully forthcoming about his concerns, his reactions, his feelings, his fears. But I won't reveal those. Those are for his blog if he ever had one, which he doesn't and won't. Suffice to say, I don't think it's my right to communicate his innermost thoughts and feelings.

Vacations were cancelled, life put on hold while we waited for the results. It's so odd to reflect back, but I held out my optimism until the last possible second. I realized that if he was to get a diagnosis of cancer, it would come in it's own good time. I wasn't going to quake in my boots while waiting. And if the diagnosis ended up coming, I'd do what countless other spouses, loved ones, significant others do in the same situation; whatever was necessary to support, comfort, accommodate and cherish my loved one.

I finally got the call. Cancer. Shit. (no fucking pun intended.) I was driving when he told me. It was still a shock, even though it was one of only two possible outcomes. Had I thought I could positive think it otherwise? I was then so concerned for how he would take it. I think I only allowed myself about a minute to wallow in anything before I just decided that from here on, it was all about getting it taken care of. Being supportive and all the other stereotypic cancer patient's wife's stuff.

Now, it's 5 months in. Surgery, went well. Healing from surgery, went well. Chemo started. That's grinding, then some relief and then grinding again. We have 2.5 more months of that to go.

But the good thing is that now we can really consider him to not have cancer anymore. Just having the treatment to ensure he doesn't get it again. At least that's our position.

Do I love him more than before? No, I always loved him at the top of the scale.

Do I value life more? No, I think my life choices reveal that I appreciate what I have, the people I love and the life I lead.

Do I have more compassion for people and their struggles? Probably. You see a lot in hospitals.

Do I have a new opinion of Kaiser? Oh yeah. They have been really great caregivers.

Am I wiser for the experience? I wish, but I'm the same old whack job I've always been.

It's just another fork in our road. Just a few cells that went amuck and gave us a different experience. Profound as it was, it was just another element of life to be lived. Of course things are learned from every life threatening crisis.

Probably the biggest, deepest and most wonderful outcome has been the onslaught of support and concern and action from all of our friends and family. They have been so affirming and heartwarming. Maybe that alone was worth the price of admission. But then too, we know, both of us deep in our hearts, that all that love and support has always been there. Regardless, it felt good to be enveloped by it. (I could blog endlessly on that subject, and most likely I will)

And somewhere in my spiritual soul, (and I do have one) I thank god that we caught the cancer in time and feel confident that we'll hit our second anniversary and our third, and our fourth,,,,,, and our 50th. We were lucky. Thanks everyone!! Love you.

Techology flummox

I was going to post about exercise but when I went to start typing, I found I couldn't access my own blog space. How ironic. I choose an avenue that I can't even walk down. And yet, not even a little surprising.

I find that with most things technological and cyberific, I can barely get up the onramp. I have about 6 different passwords, three different email addresses, 5 or 6 different user id's, and god knows how many accounts on various sites that require me to come up with just the right combination of user ids and passwords. Sometimes I use my email address, but sometimes I've come up with cute and funny names instead. Given those various possible combinations, what's the ultimate number of steps I could take to find the right one at any given moment. My guess is it's in the upper hundreds of thousands. I'd reduce down to one password for everything (thank goodness most things are under it) but it's not even a really safe one, and it doesn't have the right combination of symbols, numbers and letters to qualify as acceptable for some sites. I saw a list once of how safe various passwords were, and I smugly assumed that mine was so good it wouldn't even be on their list. Alas, 76th out of 100. What's a basic one step above luddite to do?

I'd keep a list of all my sites and the passwords, but then how freakin safe would that be?

For now, I guess I'll just have to figure out a super safe word and convert everything to that one password. And if I have my identity stolen, well, I don't know. I'll sign off the world wide web forever. But for now, while memory serves, I'll blog a little longer.

I'd blog on exercise now, but that would keep me from actually going to the gym.