The work/play tug-o-war

It seems as if I’ve had vacation on the brain these days. If I can’t take a full-on break, I can at least dream about one. And this rainy Labor Day weekend, I’ve been trying to find my spots of blue sky where I can find them.

Sometimes they only exist in my mind.

On the surface, I had a great weekend set up. My childhood friend Ann, who I reconnected with last year, scooped me up and whisked me away to see Dave Matthews Band at the Gorge, a spectacular outdoor venue in Eastern Washington. We spent the night in Moses Lake, hit the breakfast buffet in the lobby, and hightailed it back over the mountains.

DMB was fantastic; the time spent with Annie was even better.

I continued the tour through my past when I got back to Seattle. My high school pal Kevin flew in from Chicago for Bumbershoot, a three-day music and arts extravaganza. The festival would be overwhelming even if I didn’t have a lot of deadlines. But I do. So I’ve been doing my best to find balance, the middle of the road between work and play, the desire to be a good hostess with the need to be an effective small business owner.

The results are mixed. In trying to do both, I’m doing neither very well. But what I am doing is the best I can. I sent Kevin off in the rain to see the Black-Eyed Peas this afternoon; I’ll join him in a couple of hours to check out some acts this evening. The holiday is almost over and I’m going to be as present as possible in whatever activity I’m engaged in, be it writing, editing, or rocking out. At least I'm going to try.

Do you ever experience work guilt when you play on the weekend or holidays?

Vacation, all I ever wanted?

I’m on a mini-vakay at a gorgeous South Florida resort. They have 23 pools, I can hear and see the waves breaking gently on the beach, the balmy air kisses my skin.

I’m seriously freaking out.

I have a book manuscript due, not to mention all sorts of other deadlines and responsibilities that are sticking to me like sand on wet skin. This isn’t a new problem. I’ve always had a hard time relaxing and over the years, working for myself, it’s hard for me to even take weekends off. There’s always something that I think demands attention. There’s always something (or to be honest, a litany of items) that works to keep me from falling asleep.

Does this sound familiar?

While I hope not, I suspect some of it rings true for you. It’s hard to turn off the worry and the responsibility and let yourself relax. Here at this wondrous place, I don’t feel I deserve what the resort and the time off has to offer. I don’t deserve peace of mind.

I haven’t worked hard enough. I didn’t get enough things off my plate before I came. I can’t just turn off a chaotic life that I created. Or can I?

I often go around thinking that there’s a magic wand that I can just wave around and suddenly, I’ll be in a Florida state of mind. It doesn’t work that way. In fact, I have to consciously work and make choices to give myself this break.

And I also have to cut myself a break. I’m committed to social media and for me, that means tweeting around scheduled events, sharing photos of the amazing things I’m experiencing in real time, and turning my iPhone to vibrate, not off.

I’m making choices that will help me to be present in paradise while still staying linked in.

Maybe my next trip will be to a destination sans a signal (I’ve already got an invite to a remote cabin in Maine next year) but for now, vacation isn’t quite like the Go-Gos said.

Vacation, all I ever wanted. Yes.
Vacation, had to get away. Okay. I’ll buy that.
Vacation, meant to be spent alone. Nope, not without my tweeple.

(I'm staying at the Amelia Island Plantation. Book a trip now.)

Beachy keen

I spent the weekend in Oregon, celebrating my friend Gina's impending nuptials with her friends and family. We drove through McMinnville, where the wedding will be next weekend, and I was completely charmed by the farmland and vineyards in the area. Then we got to Lincoln City and I was bowled over once again. I love the craggy, windswept beaches of the Oregon Coast and had a glorious time collecting driftwood and all sorts of stones that have perfectly round holes dotting them. I don't know what's up with that, but I thought it was magical. My favorite is currently serving as a paperweight on my desk.

The driftwood, however, is bound for a project for Backcountry Betty: Crafting with Style, coming in Spring 09 from Skipstone Books.

Of course, I also loved roadtripping, eating bad fast food, and looking for ridiculous bumper stickers...

The Mystery of Massacre Bay

I just got back from Orcas Island with three of my closest friends. We had a marvelous time, tide pooling, spotting otters and blue jays, obsessing over the vivid purple and orange starfish we spied everywhere, hot-tubbing, and willingly falling into carb comas. Jared and I rowed across Massacre Bay to a deserted island we dubbed Skull Island. We roamed all over it, and I channeled my inner Nancy Drew when I found a bit of cloth rolled up in a tree with the cryptic message, "Go to the hobo shack." Let me tell you, Jared and I investigated that island and there was no hobo shack. We were duped!

I didn't mind. As soon as Jared rowed me back to our happily situated rental cottage, Sacha and I drove into town for the farmers' market, where I bought a natural headache remedy, a t-shirt, and some strange but delicious-looking vegetables (lemon cucumbers?). We snacked on fried oysters.

I was in heaven. When we got back to Blackberry Cottage, Alison and I jumped in the hot tub, which overlooked the bay. Later, after dinner and a viewing of Heathers, Jared and I stargazed from the dock, our bellies full of grilled salmon.

Bliss.

I love to be a Backcountry Betty and a Prairie Girl every chance I get and this week allowed me to be a bit of both. I eschewed the makeup, embraced fleece and a bare face, built a fire, talked with locals, looked for wildlife, and learned to love the silence. And I completely forgot about Rock of Love, Britney's meltdown, and things that don't matter.

When I got back to the mainland, I was reminded of it all. But I have the memories of peace, laughter, food, and otters to counteract the white noise. Never underestimate the power of an otter.

The birth father

Stuck at the border after a whirlwind trip to Vancouver, I read anything I could get my hands on. I had already exhausted my Us Weekly (dang, that Hilary Duff is a hottie) so I idly looked over my dad's birth certificate. A few things I knew: his name, his birthdate. I saw that he was born in "Sodus Township," so I asked if he was born at home. Yep. I asked if grandma had a midwife or any real assistance. Dad replied that it was just grandpa and a rusty knife. He was joking—I'm sure the knife was clean.

Anyway, that sort of gave me pause. The days of pushing out a baby from your home without monitors or meds seems to have gone by the wayside. (And that's a-ok with me.)

But more interesting were two other parts of the birth certificate. One was a column headed "white, black, mulatto, etc." Are you kidding me? I guess there wasn't a lot of diversity in rural Michigan in 1939. Thankfully, this sort of ethnicity classification has disappeared over time. Mulatto? I haven't heard that word since reading a Kathleen Woodiwiss bodice ripper set on a plantation in the West Indies.

And the last thing I saw that made me thankful to be living in this day and age was an area for "father's occupation." Nothing about the mother; her occupation was assumed. My dad's birth certificate is a quaint memento of another time, but as I looked it over, it seemed to me to be a benchmark of how far I—along with the world—have moved away from that place and time. At this point the line, mercifully, started to move.

Vacation, all I ever wanted

My parents are in town. My friends kept asking me if when I was picking them up at the airport. Yo, my parents do it up old school. They drove cross country, even stopping in Pepin, Wisconsin, birthplace of Laura Ingalls Wilder, without any prompting from me (who just wrote my love letter to Laura in the form of The Prairie Girl's Guide to Life).

As much I get carsick sitting in the backseat of a car for hours on end, I miss the two-week epic vacations that involve bad road food, amazing scenery, and unexpected conversations with colorful but kind strangers. Working for myself, I haven't done a good job of clearing my schedule and my mind for a proper holiday. Instead, I take weekends here and there, crashing at friends' houses and apartments.

It was refreshing to take the keys from my dad (which guaranteed that the trainspotting would be kept to a minimum) and point their car for Whidbey Island yesterday. Without a map, we drove onto a ferry, poked around in shops, hunted for interesting rocks on the rugged waterfront, stuffed down fish and chips, tasted a few bad wines, took photos of stunning scenery, and gambled at two casinos on the way home.

I've done the trip before so it wasn't completely spontaneous but it was as close to a stress-free, work-free day as I've had in a long time. And there was no threat of an early-morning departure to yet another trainyard.

This weekend: Vancouver and, I suspect, another casino or two.

Beach blanket bingo

Going to the beach has always been a treat for me. Growing up near Lake Michigan, we'd go to Lion's Beach in the evening for a cookout. My dad would disappear up near the train tracks, lying in wait to get a good photo of an engine, usually of the Chessie System variety. My brothers skipped a lot of rocks. I liked to climb onto the pelican that was on a thick coil that I could ride like a hobby horse. (The pelican and his friends are still there, by the way—check out the photo of me and my best friend, Alison, from a couple of summers ago.) We'd fill our bellies with kielbasa and potato chips, dip our feet in the water, watch the sun fall into the lake, and call it a lovely night.

I've rarely enjoyed sunbathing, on the beach or anywhere else. It might have something to do with a bad experience involving a poor body image, a red-and-white one-piece, and a trip to the beach one summer in high school. Or maybe it was the iodine-laced baby oil incident on the lounge chair in the backyard (To complete the picture, I had Sun-In in my hair and Duran Duran in the tape deck). Decades later, my skin is still recovering from that burn. Whatever the case, I prefer to hide out under a hat and an umbrella, reading a good book, chatting with friends, or looking out at the water. My favorite time of day is around 5 or 6, when most sun-worshippers have vacated the beach for a shower and cocktail. I wrap a towel around me and breathe in the tangy wind. I love it.

I try to get back to Michigan so I can enjoy the beach but I also travel to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, every chance I get. Boardwalk fries, photo booths, refreshing ocean water, a slow pace, and dear friends combine to make this one of the few places I can call home and maybe the only place I can truly relax (admittedly, it takes around 36 hours for this to happen). This August, I can only really swing one trip so it's going to be to Rehoboth. I figure I'll enjoy the winter delights of Lake Michigan when I go home for the holidays. The lighthouse looks magical when the pier is frozen over.

Did you just say Wal-Mart?

My mom just went on a roadtrip to Texas and Nebraska in the camper she and my stepdad got a year or two back. I had visions of them stopping at KOAs every night, swapping stories and a cold one with fellow campers.

The reality was a bit different.

I called mom a couple of times on the cell phone she carries but rarely uses. The first time I called her up, she could barely hear me over the beeps and whirrs of the slot machines around her. They drove 700 miles and stopped at a casino for a "relaxing" four hours. Then they slept in the camper, which they parked in the casino parking lot, and hit the buffet the next morning.

I can't make this stuff up.

But it gets better. I called her another time when she was able to hear me better and she told me that for 10 days or so, they only spent about $250 on campground fees because they stopped for the night more than once in a Wal-Mart parking lot. Apparently, this is becoming accepted practice amongst the RV crowd and it makes sense from a business standpoint. For the inconvenience of having a rush on the bathrooms in the morning, Wal-Mart has a crowd waiting when it opens its doors. Crazy. Crazy like a fox…on both sides. Wal-Mart makes money, travelers save money. Not exactly communing with nature, but a memorable experience nonetheless.

I must confess, I sort of wish I was along for the ride (at least for a day).