happiness

It took me a moment after I woke up to remember that there was a guest under my roof. Even though I was lying on a tightly strung cot in the front room of our house, inches from the Christmas tree, I still didn't recall the matter right away. When I did, oh boy, I couldn't get up and get ready fast enough. I sprang up, put on the clothes I'd set out earlier, threw my pillow aside, rolled up my sleeping bag, folded up the cot...and then wandered into the kitchen and just sort of milled around, waiting for Allison to awake. I wanted to be ready to make her whatever she wanted the moment she asked for it. I pride myself on being a good host, y'know. Honest, that's all it was. Yep. Allison obviously prides herself on being a good guest, because she didn't keep me waiting long. She came into the kitchen, fully dressed, refreshed and looking like a million bucks. (How do girls DO that???) After I'd run through the menu, she requested toasted bagels with cream cheese and strawberry jam. So I whipped us up a batch. I'd never tried strawberry jam and cream cheese on a bagel simultaneously. Wow, that was a learning experience. It was far from unpleasant—I found the combination intriguing, in fact—but nonetheless indescribably weird. Normally I'm all for maximizing one's pleasure. Cream cheese stands well enough on its own, and so does strawberry jam. It seems only natural to mix the two in order to make a bagel taste twice as good. But it had never occurred to me that way before. It almost seemed like a little too much of a good thing, like strapping a shotgun onto an M-16, or getting a complimentary swimsuit model with every Lamborghini you buy. It's almost too much. Seems as though you would want to focus on one or the other. I never thought jam and cream cheese would mix so harmoniously. We tarried only long enough to pack a picnic lunch (Allison helped me make some PBJs) and pack up the car before we headed off into the bright, cool morning for Joshua Tree National Park. What is Joshua Tree National Park, you ask? This: Beautiful, ain't it? All the more beautiful in the cool of desert winter. It's just as beautiful in triple-digit heat, but not as fun to go see, if you know what I mean. So, after an hour and a half's drive through the scenic Mojave Desert, past Lucerne Valley, Yucca Valley, and into Joshua Tree (almost to 29 Palms), we entered the park. Allison stumped up for the $15 entrance fee, bless her heart. We spent a delightful morning just touring the place. Under the slantwise glow of the winter sun, in the near-chill of the Southern California winter air, it was a sublime sight. We drove to Keys Vista and took a good look out over the Coachella Valley, Palm Springs, Mount San Jacinto, and the Salton Sea. 'Fraid I don't have any images of that epic vista to share with you, though. Allison got better photos than I did. Her Kodak is actually set up to take panoramic pictures, which came out wickedly, awesomely, monstrously cool and downright breathtaking. (Besides, if I put a picture of the view up here on Blogger, you wouldn't have to go and see actually visit the park and see it for yourselves, now would you?) Then we began a slow dogleg back through the park to find somewhere to have lunch. We passed by Saddle Rock... ...and the Hall of Horrors, which was so distinctly named that I couldn't resist having a look-see. The look-see inevitably turned into a look-climb. I'm particularly glad Allison took that last photograph. I look just like Indiana Jones, don't I? I strained my left gluteus maximus rather badly climbing down, but apart from that, there were no mishaps. We elected to stop by the Jumbo Rocks for lunch on our way out of the park. Both of us noticed that our time together was rapidly developing a theme: "big." On the way home from Vegas, we'd stopped by Whiskey Pete's Resort & Casino in Primm, Nevada. The only eatery that had been open was the Mega Café. Now we would be eating at the Jumbo Rocks. Two big things in as many days. So we both agreed to try and keep the big theme going if we had a chance. We found a nice spot amid the rocks, out of the wind, and relatively free of dive-bombing crows, and ate our sandwiches, talking of this and that. Things couldn't have been going better, in my opinion. The weather was beautiful, I hadn't committed any massive mistakes (navigation-related or otherwise), and I had a lovely woman and an old friend sitting next to me, in the midst of one of the most gorgeous bits of Mother Earth to be found. Life was pure-D wonderful. And so we finished lunch, got back inside Roger, and headed out. Oh yes, Roger! How could I forget? Allison helped me name my Jeep. Now, normally I don't name cars. Most guys don't. Statistically speaking, women are more likely to name cars than men. Just another notch in my metrosexual belt, I guess. I don't mind. My '96 Ford Taurus was named "Chester" and I never saw any reason to change that. Now that I had acquired a '95 Jeep Cherokee, my naming skills had vanished in a puff of exhaust. Not that I was consciously trying to name the Jeep, mind you. But whenever the idea of naming it popped into my head, my subconscious couldn't help but start simmering away, mulling over possible monikers. I was stuck in that respect. All of the names that had popped into my head were nouns. Moreover, they were the names of other SUVs, already taken: Ranger, Rover, Explorer, and so on. That simply wouldn't do. So, imagine my surprise when, lo and behold, Allison turns to me moments after we pull onto the I-15 going away from Las Vegas and says: "So, have you thought up a name for your car yet?" I allowed I hadn't. She said, "That's okay. Leave it to me. I'm pretty good at naming things." She wasn't kidding, either. Her previous car was named "Sophie." So, as we pulled away from the Jumbo Rocks that bright fall morning in Joshua Tree, and the Jeep was grumbling and growling up a hill, it seemed as though a word of encouragement was in order. But I couldn't just say, "Come on, Jeep!" I needed a name. So I turned to Allison and said, "Any luck coming up with a name for this thing?" "Oh yeah!" she cried, remembering. "Hmmm..." She thought for just a second or two. "Roger," she pronounced. I liked it. Never met a Roger I hadn't liked. "Jolly Roger" was the collective name bloodthirsty pirates once bestowed on their sinister black flags. "Gold Roger" was the name of an infamous buccaneer in my favorite Japanese comic book, One Piece. "Roger" is the name of Pongo's owner in Disney's 101 Dalmatians. I also mistakenly believed that Roger was the first name (?) of John C. Frémont, the famed U.S. explorer and politician. Circumstances seemed to favor that name. So I said heck yes, and the rest came easily. "Come on, Roger!" I encouraged. Roger grumbled and growled a little more, then hoisted us to the top of the hill. Christen accomplished. We drove down, down, down, and came out through the northeast park exit, in 29 Palms. We drove back through Joshua Tree on the CA-62, got back on the 247 and headed home. The original plan had been to go out on the town with the family that night. But Allison and I were both so tired from getting up early and driving all day that we just decided to stay in. Once again, Alli proved what a good guest and honorable friend she was. She offered to cook dinner, and suggested I invite some of my friends over for her to meet. So I called up John and Chris. Mom and Dad excused themselves for the evening, heading down to Las Brisas (a groovy Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of town). Harlan, Chris, John, Alli and I had a pretty darn good dinner party. Alli made enchilasagna, enchiladas made lasagna-style (without rolling the tortillas). It was A-B-S-O-L-U-T-E-L-Y G-O-R-G-E-O-U-S. With a capital "A" and "G." And a capital "B," "S," "O," "L"...well, you get the picture. Man, Alli's a good cook. The enchilasagna was a layer cake of flour tortillas, ground beef, onions, four different kinds of cheese, and both green AND red sauce. It was so delicious that it disappeared. Between the five of us, we killed it. Couldn't resist. Everybody had thirds. We were hooked on the stuff. There followed about an hour's worth of some of the raunchiest conversation I have ever been involved in, courtesy of John and Chris. Both of 'em are dirty-minded enough on their own, but when they get together, oh mother do they get blue. They'd have made Tiger Woods's porn star mistress blush, I reckon. (Even so, not even the two of them together could equal Wade, the head teacher at my bartender's school in Riverside...funny how we always start out talking about alcoholic beverages and wind up talking about perverted homosexual practices.) Alli was a champ. Despite being a good Lutheran girl from straight-laced North Dakota, she never once got offended. On the contrary, she was laughing and giggling and giving it back. I was impressed. Not that I expected any less of her, but damn, that girl just keeps impressing me right and left. She sure is something. Finally the party broke up. John and Chris went home, I cleaned up the kitchen, and then Harlan and Alli and I had a few rousing games of Bananagrams. For those unlucky people in the audience who don't know what this game is, boy have you been missing out. Imagine a crossword puzzle without the board. You get a bunch of lettered tiles, like you would in Scrabble, only you have to race to put together words with them (without having any left over) before your opponents do. You have a big pile in the middle and as soon as you get finished making all of your words, you yell "PEEL" and everybody has to take another tile and then keep making words. It's a challenge, but a zealously fun challenge for would-be wordsmiths like yours truly. We played for a good long while, and then went to bed: Alli in her room and I on my cot. My head whirred with what I'd seen and done that day. And I knew it was just going to get better. For tomorrow, we would brave smog and crowds and highways and danger in our determined quest for... ...UNIVERSAL STUDIOS, HOLLYWOOD! Stay tuned.

anticipation

I have a friend, Allison—who coincidentally happens to be a lovely, charming, genuine, classy and forthright lady—living in North Dakota. One day in mid-November she sent me a message out of left field: "So...if I were to come visit where should I fly into?" You may imagine that I was somewhat...enthused to receive this message. I hadn't seen Alli in two years. She was a very dear friend...and, as I've mentioned, a lovely, charming, genuine, classy and forthright lady. Man, I was pumped. In a few days, Allison had secured permission from her employers (she works at a camp, hiring new counselors, writing up new literature, creating presentational materials, and, most importantly, doing fun stuff with kids; she also subs in school classes). She bought a ticket for McCarran International on the 13th of December, and the countdown began. I was on tenterhooks. You'd best believe it. It's disgraceful—I'm a 23-year-old man, for Pete's sake—but one thing the history of the world has amply demonstrated is that grown men do not necessarily act as such. As Douglas Adams wrote, "Grown men, he told himself, in contradiction of centuries of accumulated evidence about the way grown men behave, did not behave like this." I couldn't wait. I was finally receiving an extended visit after months of relative isolation. And, furthermore, my visitor was lovely, charming, genuine...well, you know the rest. The days dragged by. Thanksgiving came and went, and finally December rolled around. I busied myself with bartender's school and flying (knocking off cream drinks and instrument flight, respectively), all the while trying not to explode with impatience. And then...the big day arrived. December 13, 2009. I rose semi-early, made sure I had a jacket and my accoutrements about me, got in the Jeep and headed off. I stopped to get some gas in Lucerne Valley first. Big mistake. Being such a tiny town, gas is insanely expensive. Then I went up the 247, finished gassing up in Barstow where it's a lot friggin' cheaper, got on the 15, and had an uneventful trip to Las Vegas and McCarran International Airport. My heart didn't really start to pound until I got out of the car. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I didn't have change for the parking meter, and couldn't find the change machines. So I exchanged three bucks with a couple of old guys who were on their way out, pumped in two hours' worth of quarters, then moseyed toward the terminal entrance. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I'd taken the time to familiarize myself with the layout of the terminal beforehand. I knew the orientation of each baggage carousel. At a glance, I was able to determine the one Allison's flight would be employing: Carousel 10, on the west side. There was nothing left but to wait. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I was early. That's how I am. I equate being "on time" with being "late." If you have an appointment at 11:00, and you show up at 11:01, you're late. If you show up at 11:00, you're late. If you show up at 10:59, you're late. It's unacceptable to be anything less than 5-10 minutes early. Preferably more. Allison's flight didn't get in until 12:30 p.m.; I had arrived at 11:45 a.m. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I went upstairs, in the direction of the security checkpoint, to ascertain which direction Allison would approach from when she debarked. I then went back down to baggage claim, placed myself squarely between Carousel 10 and the escalators descending from Level 2, and settled in. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] It was loud. It was Sunday, sure, and the crowd could not rightly be labeled massive. But in addition to the never-ending murmur of voices, there was the incessant blare of advertising. The Venetian, already playing host to Blue Man Group (for which Allison and I had reserved tickets on the 17th), was advertising its smash-hit show Phantom, based on the well-known Phantom of the Opera. And they were advertising it stridently. Same thing with Planet Hollywood's Peepshow, Cirque du Soleil's Mystère (at the Bellagio), and so forth. These ads were playing on giant screens hung over the baggage claim area, and echoing up and down the lengthy chamber in chorus. Then...it was time. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I wasn't merely nervous about meeting a girl in an airport. That was a whole 'nuther kettle of fish. I was just nervous about meeting somebody, period. I always am, for reasons similar to the ones surrounding my über-punctuality: the what-ifs. What-ifs come swarming over the walls and attack, and I inexorably panic. What if we don't meet up? What if we can't find each other? What if we miss each other in the crowd? What if every cell phone tower within a hundred miles goes out simultaneously? What'll we DO??? [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] As people began to drift into the area, I stood up and faced east, from whence they came. I searched every face, my hands fiddling about behind my back. I attempted to maintain a confident, masculine sort of posture, with all these worries wandering through my head and my heart pounding away ever faster in my chest. [THUD-THUD, THUD-THUD.] After a time, I figured she must've been near the back of the plane. People from Flight 415 had been streaming by for twenty minutes already. That unreasoning, irrational panic began to well up. The what-ifs raised their banners and charged. What if I screwed up her flight information? What if this really isn't her flight at all? What if I'm at the wrong carousel? What if I'm at the WRONG AIRPORT?! And suddenly, there she was. [Ka-POW!!!] And suddenly everything was all golden sunshine. Whew, I wasn't at the wrong airport. Our faces lit up as our eyes met. I opened my mouth and said, "You know, up until this point, I wasn't even aware that Bismarck had an airport." Alli and I exchanged greetings, hugged, retrieved her luggage, and walked out to the car. My heart had slowed down a little, going from a high boil to a slow simmer. I had a visitor. The meter still said 56:00 as we clambered into my Cherokee and pulled out of the parking lot. I managed to avoid doing anything too undignified. I messed up a little getting back to I-15 from McCarran, but that could've happened to anybody. (Later, you'll read about a real automotive mishap, a red-face special.) And then we were on the road, whirring down the wide highway in the warm sunshine, Allison's flowery scent filling the car, meeting accomplished and visitation commenced. We caught up during the three-hour drive back, getting reacquainted and reminding each other what we were like. It had been two years, and the two of us had been around a bit since then. Alli was even nicer and prettier than I'd remembered. The rest of this trip was shaping up fine. As we drove, I pointed out the sights and scenery that I knew anything about, all the while asking Allison how her job was going and her life in general. She filled me in on how things were going, made small talk, laughed, and was generally scintillating. It was delightful. Just hearing her voice, being in the same car with her, talking to her face-to-face was magical. I began to realize just how long it had been since we'd seen each other. Too long. We got home safely, without delay. After the introductions were made, I helped Allison get settled in my room. Pop cooked some Brunswick stew for dinner and we had a lovely meal for five in the dining room. I was amazed and pleased by how free and easy Allison behaved: here she was, in a strange house with a strange family in a state she'd only visited once, and she was fitting right in. Such a situation would and routinely does terrify me. Alli, however, wasn't shy or withdrawn at all. Au contraire, she was witty, conversational, and outgoing. Things couldn't have gone better. I went to bed that night (on a cot in the living room) with the keenest sense of anticipation. For on the morrow, the grand vacation would begin. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.]