New thing #36: Ann Arbor Art Fair

My best girlfriend asked me if I'd ever been to the Ann Arbor Art Fair. I'd never heard of it, but it sounded fun so we went along with her. It's actually made of four separate award-winning art fairs held at the same time near the downtown campus of the University of Michigan.  Besides the university and the art fairs, Ann Arbor is full of great architecture and lots of cool shops and restaurants.

The last time I went to a professional art fair was in August 1990, in Lewiston, NY. It was a more traditional, less interactive event. We bought a print titled "Guards of the Abbey" that still hangs over our fireplace. But my main memory is that it was the first time The Girl ever went into a port-a-potty. She was about two years old and past due for a nap. She leaned over the hole and, mesmerized, started to ask what the heck This Thing Was. Unfortunately this caused her favorite and much-loved 'Binky' to fall out of her mouth directly into the hole, where it floated helplessly. There was a beat of stunned silence followed by a bloodcurdling scream. It was years before she would enter another port-a-potty.

No such adventure this time.  It was a perfect summer night, the drive was easy and we found cheap parking right downtown. We walked out into the State Street Area Art Fair, one of the four festival sites. It was in full swing, with enough of a crowd to be festive and fun yet not herd-like. Every third booth seemed to be selling jewelry or tie dye, which was kind of lame. But the booths in between were fantastic! Every type of media was represented and the artist was present at every booth. They would come out and talk to you about their work, and a few of them were actually working on their next creation. Since I struggle to draw a good stick figure, I was impressed. All types of music were being played throughout the streets, including an elderly one-man-band dancing and singing on a corner. Various types of food and (non-alcoholic) drinks were for sale, and various social causes were being promoted. Some of the more memorable artwork were the huge abstract oil paintings, photography letter signs, body art, delicate pottery (except for this one teapot that looked like it had a goiter), stained glass frames, trays woven together from recycled glass, scrap metal wind chimes with a beautiful tone, and one guy who painted pictures of your dog sitting in a giant martini glass. But by far my favorite artist was the one who took apart old watches, toys, tools and various other items, and reassembled them into intricate and whimsical birds, memory boxes, bracelets and other curios. I didn't buy any of the pieces, which were well out of my price range for thingamajigs. I also didn't get their card, nor could I find their description listed in the art fair directory, so I regret that I can't give the artist proper kudos in this blog. If anyone knows who it is, please reply to this post. 

When the fair closed we stopped at a neighborhood bar to have a nice cold beverage, arriving just in time to watch the Tigers' win (and spotting our neighbors, who were at the game, on TV).  Great company, fun atmosphere, tasty food and drink - I haven't spent much time in Ann Arbor, but I already want to go there again.

New thing #35: Fremont Street Flightlinez

Harnessed up and ready to go!

Fremont Street Flightlinez is a zip line ride that runs for 800 feet right over Fremont Street, a.k.a. Glitter Gulch, the casino area in downtown Las Vegas. We wanted to ride it at night after all the neon lights were in full Vegas mode, but a thunderstorm rolled in early in the evening and lingering lightening shut it down. With our plans foiled we postponed our ride until the last day of our vacation, which also happened to be our 28th wedding anniversary.

Fremont Street is Old Las Vegas, before the current day mega-resorts took up residence on Las Vegas Boulevard just outside the city limits. Shabby casinos vie for attention with street artists, musicians and hustlers along this popular tourist destination. Vintage signs of the neon museum tour are displayed along the street. You can eat a Bypass Burger at the Heart Attack Grill, do some shopping at the Harley store, and ride the Flightlinez.

To get there, Senior and I rode the Deuce, a double decker bus full of loud, drunken tourists, tired casino employees and scary locals beating the heat with a 24-hour ticket to air-conditioned comfort. The seat in front of me was occupied by a huge Samoan man. His neck was tattooed with an eerie pair of woman’s green eyes; the collar of his shirt acting as a veil for the rest of her face. She watched us nearly all the way to our stop.

It was a short walk to the Flightlinez storefront where we weighed in and signed legal disclaimers before purchasing our tickets. Then we took an elevator to the top of a parking garage and joined a line of people waiting turns to suit up in the harnesses. They had a crude yet highly effective numbering system taped to the staging area that kept the lines moving smoothly.  It was pretty funny how many people couldn't figure out directions like "stand on number 3".  When it was our turn, staff members helped us into our harnesses while chatting politely, probably to gauge how nervous the clients are before throwing them off a 67-foot-high platform. We climbed a final flight of stairs onto the launch zone. Safety was a priority and they made sure my harness and lanyard was clipped to the framework at all times. I stuffed my shoes into a bag and promised I would not spit or throw things on the tourists below or try to turn somersaults in my harness (as if!). Then they gave my line a tug and I was off, soaring through the air at speeds we were told reached up to 30 mph.

The ride was surprisingly smooth. The initial drop was the most fun, but other than that it didn’t really get the adrenaline flowing. It felt a lot like being on one of those observation decks with glass floors, looking down at the street below. Pedestrians whooped at you as you zoomed over their heads. Along the way my harness rotated in a slow lazy spin, offering a full 360° view of the surroundings. Senior trailed along behind me on a parallel line. I ended up hitting the end of the line facing backwards, feeling a small jolt when the crew grabbed the harness. They quickly slipped a two-step ladder under my feet to stand on while they secured my gear, then helped me step down off the landing pad. We took off our gear, posed for the requisite touristy pictures, and headed back down to the street.  

The zip line was a lot of fun, and if the line was shorter I would have gone again. Instead we packed up and got ready to head back to the hotel, stopping only to look at those pictures they snapped of our ride. Luckily they came out really awful so there was no temptation to purchase them. Instead we have our memories of a fun and unique way to celebrate another great year together.

New thing #34: Sunless tanning

Stalking the Perfect Tan
a Doonesbury classic by G.B. Trudeau

Senior and I were headed to Vegas. Since temperatures over 100° were predicted, I planned on packing shorts. Then I took a look at my legs and the burgeoning roadmap of tiny blue lines slowly taking over the surface. It was time for some camouflage.

I considered my options. I briefly contemplated sunbathing, but I’ve been a sun block devotee ever since my mother (the sun worshipper) started sprouting little precancerous horns called solar keratosis. A tanning bed is definitely not the route for me. I tried them back in my younger years and hated it. Laying down in a smelly, bright coffin that was the repository of hundreds of other persons’ sweat beads always creeped me out. And I’ve never really liked tan in a can, because it’s smelly, sticky and doesn’t last. So I decided to try a spray tan.

There’s a place near me that has the VersaSpa sunless tanning system. It’s a booth with two nozzles that move up and down on a track, covering you in a fine mist. The three-step process included sprays of a pH balancing conditioner, a sunless, skin-bronzing formula, and an anti-aging, skin firming moisturizer. I spent about 15 minutes waiting for my turn alternating between chatting with the manager, who spends most of her day cleaning up other peoples sweat beads, and worrying about the expired inspection tag on the fire extinguisher next to my chair. When it was my turn, the manager demonstrated the process and explained how to use the various tools (hairnet, barrier cream, alcohol wipe). The automated system repeats the instructions as you go through each step, so it’s pretty idiot-proof.

I considered using the booth au naturel, but decided I wanted tan lines so I could see the contrast (not to mention that I’d recently seen this cartoon which hit a little too close to home). The Spa was a little slippery from the last wipedown, so extra caution was needed as I stepped inside. I rotated through the various front, back and side poses on command, looking like an extra in the Bangles’ “Walk Like An Egyptian” video. It only takes a few minutes for the whole process, and about 12 hours for the color to develop. I’d chosen a medium tint, but in hindsight I’d go darker. While I was happy with the overall color, I was still a long way from the George Hamilton Cocoa Butter Open.

The sunless tanning system was pretty cool, and it did what I wanted. I was able to sit by the pool (covered in sunblock) without resembling a fish belly. But overall I discovered is that spray tanning is smelly, sticky and doesn’t last. So it’s probably better to save twenty bucks and go back to the can.

New thing #33: Published!

There were a lot of things I wanted to emulate about the women I met twenty years ago when we all lived on Lincoln Avenue. These women were funky and fun and smart and bold, and we had endless good conversations over endless glasses of wine. To this day I can remember D, with her great sense of style and sharp wit, casually mentioning that her poetry had been published in a magazine. I thought this was one of the coolest things I had ever heard, and I hoped that one day I could say the same thing.

Flash forward to this month, when I made contact with a reporter for our local newspaper, The Oakland Press. She invited me to write an article about my blog project, and with her help, I can now say, "I am published." It's not as cool as D's poetry, and they made some minor edits to my work (there's no way I would have put my age in bold font in the title!), but it's a start.

So if you missed yesterday's newspaper, you can click this link to jump to the article about my blog. Then you can click the link in the article to jump back to this actual blog. Where you can click the link to jump back to the article... well you get the idea.

New thing #32: Glowing in the Dark

For a period of time our customers, concerned about the nuclear crisis at the Fukushima power plant, required our lab check all the components coming from the affected region. This was accomplished with Berthold LB124 Contamination monitors (CoMo). Now that the requirement was lifted, one of the monitors was being shipped to our office in Michigan. So on a recent trip to Germany, I was offered training on how to use it. In order to make the training more effective, what could be better than actually testing some radioactive material to see how the monitor would react?

Luckily the local university had a stash of cesium-137 on hand, so our colleague Effie loaded the CoMo into a blue plastic shopping basket and offered to take us there. We headed across a footbridge to a cobbled parking lot that had seen better days. Deftly skirting puddles from the recent rain, Effie apologized for her "small, old car". It turned out to be spotlessly clean and decked out with Deutsch flag mirror covers to show support for the upcoming Euro 2012 soccer quarterfinals. After a scenic drive up the winding roads through a nice residential part of the city, we arrived at the University of Coburg and met our guides, grad students Sabine and Anna. They gave us a short safety lecture ("don't touch anything") before leading us into a building decked out in the traditional academia décor of metal furniture, low ceilings and worn Formica floors. We entered a restricted access lab through a door marked with a hazard warning sign proclaiming that radioactive material was present.

I definitely experienced a flashback to elementary school at the sight of that sign. Back in the late 1960's, along with the annual fire drills and bus safety exercises, we would prepare for nuclear attacks. A relentless siren signaled our teachers to lead us to an innermost hallway, where we would crouch down low to the floor while covering our heads with our hands and arms. Even at a young age I wondered how this was supposed to keep us safe from a bomb blast. And I couldn't understand why anyone on the other side of the world would want to threaten my sleepy little town. To me, a country kid with no exposure to other cultures, it fostered a vague sense of mistrust towards foreigners that lasted until I became friends with an exchange student in high school. I feel so fortunate that I was able to broaden my horizon in the years since elementary school, since it's allowed me to meet and become friends with some really amazing people of all different backgrounds.

Back at the lab, Sabine and Anna showed us how to use the CoMo. It's an orange plastic box with a handle, roughly the size and heft of a steam iron. First you run a background sample to determine the amount of radioactive particles in the room. We are constantly surrounded by low levels of radiation from the sun, the ground, and human sources. The monitor registers these background levels so it can subtract it from the final measurement. Once you’ve got your baseline, you can test your parts. We swept some components that we brought with us from our lab. The monitor barely budged. The same was true when we measured our cellphones and wristwatches. Then Anna pulled a sample of cesium from a protective case. The actual amount of radioactive material in the sample was barely larger than the period at the end of this sentence. As soon as she placed it near me, the warning lights and bells on the CoMo began to sound. There was no doubt that it was working correctly, and even though I knew it was coming, I was so startled that I almost dropped the meter.

After the cesium was safely put away and the CoMo had been reset, I asked Sabine what I should do if I measured something back home that set off the monitor. She looked at me and blinked, and then said simply, “Leave.” Now that's good advice! Shut the door; get outta Dodge. And maybe call 911 on your way out. But don’t hunker down in the hallway with your hands over your head.

New thing #31: Intuitive counseling

I consider myself a spiritual person. I believe in a higher power and an afterlife. I think karma will kick you in the butt if you don't respect it. I also consider myself a skeptic. So even though I do believe that there are people who have a psychic gift (just as there are people who have other talents), I think that most of the professional psychics are more therapist and storyteller than anything else. But that didn't stop me from wanting to experience a reading, hoping to get that shivers-down-my-spine feeling when a total stranger seems to know me better than I know myself.

The Girl made me an appointment with an "Intuitive Counselor" at the Boston Tea Room in Ferndale, a funky little town sandwiched between the hipsters and the 'hood. We headed down to the basement of a creaky old downtown building where pipes lined the low ceilings. Once you stepped inside the shop you were transported to a soothing, colorful little haven with soft music and a harmony of scents. I was offered a cup of tea, then escorted back to meet Charise, who would be doing my reading. She sat in the back corner, sectioned off from the rest of the room by a folding screen. Alas, she didn't look like a fortune teller. Instead she was a smart young woman with an easy laugh and a bright smile.

Charise started with a palm reading, giving me a fairly generic description of my personality. Her forte is medical intuition, and she gave me a startlingly accurate rundown of my minor aches and pains, along with some recommendations for alleviating them. She matter-of-factly told me I'd been married a long time, had 3 pregnancies but only 2 children, and took a big vacation every 3 or 4 years. She was right on target until she stated that I probably have a hard time turning off my thoughts to fall asleep at night. I'm usually unconscious before I hit the pillow.

Next she handed me a deck of Tarot cards, which I shuffled and divided into 3 piles. She laid them out in intricate patterns while describing what they predicted for my husband and each child, my mom, one sister and her sons. She seemed to get more juice about all the males in my life, and less about the females. She talked about my where my job was going (nowhere), when we would sell our house (this fall) and when I would rekindle a friendship (next year). She told me that a 'little ghosty' lived in Waconda but was nothing to fear and (conveniently?) wouldn't make himself known. I worded my questions carefully. Every once in a while she would startle me with a comment that was dead-on, and I'd stop to think if I'd said something that would lead her to that conclusion. These nuggets were mixed in with some broad, all-purpose advice that I'll take to heart.

I'm still not sure I'm a believer, but all told, the reading lived up to my expectations as a combination of therapy, storytelling and a few spine-tingling moments.

New thing #30: Wild blue yonder

What's your vector, Victor? 

Yep, that's me FLYING A PLANE!!! Well, actually it's me holding the controls while the real pilot says "Steer to your right now... Your other right... Why don't you just let me straighten us out a little?"

This was in a Cessna 421B Golden Eagle, a charter plane that my company uses when their own plane is being serviced. My colleagues and I were flying round trip from Michigan to Alabama, and since there were five of us (plus the pilot) in this six-seater plane, I called shotgun.

I put on a set of headphones so I could hear the communication between the pilot and air traffic control, and we took off. It was a beautiful day to fly. In fact, it was so smooth that it seemed like we were standing still. Joel, the very patient pilot, explained what the thirty or so gauges and levers meant while we cruised along. At one point he let me take the wheel for a few minutes, which was terrifying, especially since I wasn't tall enough to see the nose of the plane over the instrument panel, and the little artificial horizon indicator was way over on the real pilot's side of the plane. But it was still super fun, and happily I did not put us into a death spiral.

The view was terrific with only a slight haze and a few interesting clouds off in the distance. I kept an eye out for other planes and wayward suicidal birds, but the coast was clear. As Joel says, it's a big sky. I saw a lot of 'flat' as we flew over the Midwest. The GPS told me which cities we were approaching so I could wave to The Boy as we flew over Nashville. I got comfortable with the lingo between the various airport towers and other pilots, since we could hear all the conversations on our frequency. And FYI, nobody says 'over' when they are done talking on the radio. Instead they all say 'good day', like they had just finished a proper English tea.

The best part was having a front row view for the landings, especially as we headed towards our home airport at the end of the day. With the sun setting in a nice red fireball on the horizon, we were instructed to keep above the airspace over DTW before making the decent into PTK. This required a rather steep drop directly towards the dozens of lakes dotting the landscape around our local airport before Joel made a perfect gentle landing. Flying commercial will never be the same.

New thing #29: Waconda

For the last couple years, there was an old summer cottage for sale on a big lake in a little town not far from our home. We've driven by it many times and talked about how pretty the location was, but how impractical it would be to buy a place that needed so much work at this stage of our lives. We already have a beautiful home, and maintaining it is a full time job. And we all know about the soft housing market. So we did the right thing.

We bought it.

A wise woman once told Senior to imagine what his headstone would look like. She said the dates don't matter... what matters is the dash between the numbers. That dash represents what you did with your life. Now we may not leave a universal legacy, but we do want to live life to the fullest and enjoy each and every day. So with that in mind, Senior and I each wrote a list of goals we wanted to achieve in the next decade or so, and then compared notes. Our lists were surprisingly similar, which might explain why we've been happily married for so many years. And one of the things on both our lists was to live on or near the water. Even if it's impractical.

The house was built in 1916 and had been owned by only one family prior to us. They named it Waconda, which means "Great Spirit of the Waters" according to a Native American story. Helen, the previous owner, spent her summers there until her death at the age of 102.  One of the last traditional summer cottages on the lake, it sits on a shallow bay that is home to ducks and swans who are pretty annoyed that we have taken over their dock. We are still in cleaning mode so we haven't moved in for the summer. We're happy to spend a couple hours there or even to just stop by long enough watch the sunset. Neighbors drop in and say hello, like Betty, the helpful lady who told my kids that Helen died Right There on the porch, and the cheerful guy who told us that her dying wish was that the property stay in the family.

We kicked off summer with a Memorial Day picnic at Waconda. The kids alternated between relaxing in the sun and raking up the seaweed encroaching on the dock, flinging it up on shore in all its smelly glory. I got out our tippy little kayak and paddled around the bay, collecting the flotsam that washes in from the boaters on the lake. I now have 63 bottles of sunblock. Senior channeled his inner engineer and figured out how to make the floating dock actually float, then we all pitched in to launch it. I was proud of the way the kids took ownership of the place. If I'm very lucky, I'll get to see them share it with their children some day.

Our plan is to enjoy the cottage "as is" this summer. Well, after we bleach it from top to bottom. We've put our house up for sale and if the stars line up correctly, we'll eventually remodel Waconda and make it our full-time, lakefront home. I hope Helen approves.

New thing #28: Pandora's bracelet

My kids surprised me on Mother's Day by getting me a Pandora bracelet. I've been admiring them for quite a while so I was thrilled to actually own one. It's beautiful, in silver, with the unique Pandora charms and beads that clip onto the bracelet. They bought me 2 charms to start me off. One is a suitcase to remind me of all the great places I've visited, and the other says "MOM"- but they put it on upside down so it would say "WOW" instead. I love those kids! This is so much better than the charm bracelets I remember, with all those little dangles that snagged your arm hairs and pulled them out by the root.

I'm looking forward to adding to the bracelet in the years to come. I really like the birthstone charms. I'll get topaz for The Girl and peridot for The Boy, so my color palette is established.  I'll collect a forever charm for Senior and a sibling charm for my sisters and the memory of my brothers.  I know I'll share some best friend beads with those special women who enrich my life. But I don't know if I'll find a bead that can help me figure out how to heal the pain of a broken friendship. Or a charm to remind me of the mom I used to have, before dementia took her away from me.

And since humor is a necessary part of life, I'll need a bright red bead to symbolize the countless times I've sunburned my nose on our motorcycle trips. And maybe a charm shaped like a flattened bird, like the one that flew into my leg on one bike trip to Nova Scotia.  A charm shaped like a sling would remind me of the hard-earned lesson that it's never a good idea to stand on the arm of your couch. Maybe I can even find a memento of my favorite cousin's teenage alter-ego, Diaperman. Although on second thought, wearing a giant diaper on my wrist would probably give people the wrong idea. Instead I'll choose something to remind me of the way my dad would come alive for two weeks every summer at The Woods, where he could throw off the stiff attorney persona he wore the rest of the year.

This bracelet is the perfect vehicle for me. I've never been a big collector, since clutter makes me crazy. But one thing I do love to gather is memories. I might even collect fifty new ones before this is full.

New thing #27: Warwick Castle

The first time I came to England for work, we drove past Warwick Castle. Since it was closed for the day, I vowed I'd see it on a later trip. It took me three more visits, but thanks to my Brit colleagues, I finally made it! My friend Ken is a local and was a brilliant tour guide who drove us around the whole region. Places come to life when you hear stories about the history and the people who live there.

The sun shined on and off through a sky threatening rain, but it never did more than sprinkle on us. Everything was green and lush on the winding roads through the beautiful English countryside. Colts and lambs were actually cavorting in the pastures, oblivious to us as we drove by. We passed through villages where time had slowed and the milkman still makes deliveries, and through cities with beautiful churches and 'posh' shops. After touring Shakespeare's home town and the birthplace of the sport of Rugby, we circled around back to Warwick and its famous medieval castle.

The castle tour was fantastic. We were able to wander all through the buildings and grounds at our own pace. The rooms were spectacular from the architecture to the decor. We climbed narrow winding stone steps high up into the towers and walked along the ramparts, where the views were gorgeous. A mix of actors and wax figures (done so well it was hard to tell which was which) brought history to life throughout the tour. I learned the best way to remove an arrow if it happens to be lodged in your torso, a handy tip that I hope never to put into use. We followed the path to the River Avon below the castle for a tour of the mill and engine house, then followed a screeching noise to the conservatory and formal garden to find a dozen fearless peacocks, beautiful birds who make an awful noise, enjoying the sunshine. The entire tour was interesting and fun, putting Ken and I in such a good mood that we didn't even stop and chastise some workers repairing a wall without wearing the proper safety equipment (a job habit, I'm afraid).  My children will surely not believe it.