A Dream Deferred Part I

(Disclaimer: This blog is in two parts. And while the content might sound inflammatory to the lay reader who does not know my sons, please be aware that the following material was cleared and approved for publishing by my boys, as they are good sports).

One phone call.

That’s all that separated me from spending the summer of 2022 in Alaska and working at one of the most elite resorts on the Kenai Peninsula. One phone call that would tick off another item on my bucket list: to spend a summer in Alaska.

Choosing to tackle anything great requires forethought, preparation and diligence. Just like scoring tickets for the Masters’ requires a lottery, Groundhog Day advance reservations, and New York Fashion Week calling in every favor you have in your social arsenal and then some, the process for spending the summer in Alaska is arduous.

Planning to work in Alaska for the summer of 2022 has been simmering on my back burner for almost a year. I visited the lodge in 2021, and fell in love with it. I got to know the proprietor and some staff, and the idea began to form in my head: “Why not me?”

Why not me?

When I asked her, the proprietor told me to start early. Send a letter of interest in the fall. Applications open in December. Interviews are in January. You’ll know by February.

I followed all the rules. I wrote a great letter of interest, had a successful Zoom interview with Lantz, bugged all of my friends whose names I had used for references, finally had a great phone interview with Laura.

“Great Mary, we’ll let you know Friday.”

 It was in the bag, so it was time to speak to the most important people in my life to whom I go for all important decisions.

My sons.

A few weeks ago, through some strange twist of fate, all three boys were home at the same time and preparing food in the kitchen. I made them stop, look at me, and focus. You must say this to boys.

“Stop. Look at me. Focus.”

Then I posed the question:

“I’m going to be offered this job. It would be a big commitment for all three of you, taking care of the house for twelve weeks. What do you think? Am I crazy or can we pull it off?”

They all stared at me, and each boy proceeded to give me a different answer. If you know my sons, you might think you know who said what, but you’d be wrong.

Boy 1: (Appraising me, and nodding): “Wow, what a great opportunity. That’s hard to pass up. Not sure about the viability of it, though. Let me think about it and get back to you.”

Boy 2: (Nodding through mouthful of food): “So go. Sounds great.”

Boy 3: (Staring at me): “What’re we gonna do about food?”

One leading with his mind.

One leading with his heart.

One leading with his love for Belgian waffles and sausage links.

By Thursday of that week I had decided to take it, despite the obvious logistical nightmares:

Getting there: If I flew, I would either have no personal transportation or I’d have to do what the young kids do when they get there, which is to buy a clunker for the summer. If I rented or bought a car from here and drove, I’d have to drive through Canada, and Laura told me some horror stories about that situation.

Communal living: What if my roommate talked all the time? Had mental problems? Was a young kid and was shagging all the time? Am I too old for that?

The complete isolation of the lodge: The isolation of the resort is what I loved about it, but without a car, I couldn’t even go out to dinner, or do touristy stuff on my days off unless I caught a van ride.

But I didn’t care about any of that. I decided to say yes and figure logistics out later.

(Part II Monday)

Ode to Joy(sey)

My goodness, New Jersey, what the dickens has gotten into you?

I have spent the better part of my adult life blaspheming the crappy cold wet spring Jersey weather, and here you go, handing me the most beautiful spring I can remember since, like, my childhood. It’s been a long time, Spring. Nice to see you again.

Right? Am I right? When I am an old lady, rocking in my rocking chair, I’ll be telling my grandchildren about the spring of 2021, and how every spring day I woke up to cool crisp breezes and brilliant sunshine. No humidity, no fog, no bone-penetrating cold. Just..spring.

So that’s one thing I’m super grateful for right now. Another is that I leave Friday for Alaska. Today is my Ode to Joysey, and tomorrow is my Ode to Alaska. If you’re a surfer, or a surfing parent, or if you like sports metaphors in general, be sure to read tomorrow, because you’ll especially connect with tomorrow’s post.

For now let’s do some more Lovins’ and Hatins’.

Lovin’: Jersey openings. I’m so happy for the restaurants, the gyms, the businesses, the camps and the schools for being able to once again do their 100% capacity awesome thang. Don’t get impatient that we’re still being asked to wear masks, they have a shelf life of a few more weeks, at most. Murphy’s bluster is losing steam, especially since we’re the laughing stock of the country. So let’s all get out and celebrate our emancipation, WE DID IT!

Hatin’: Having to change my duvet cover. Those smiley psychotic women on Youtube who act like it’s super easy to change a duvet cover can kiss my ass. I have to mentally and physically prepare myself like I’m an Olympic athlete preparing for a decathlon in order to change my duvet cover. Oh, you think it’s easy and fun? Then come do mine and prove it. I’ll wait.

Lovin’: Memorial Day Weekend. Normally I wouldn’t be lovin’ Memorial Day weekend because of the tourists, but this year I get to be off the grid in Denali instead of being stuck in traffic in this crazy, hectic beach resort. Not my cup o’ tea, but everyone else, have fun!

Hatin’: Memorial Day Weekend: Because my sons are in charge of the house while I’m away. Actually, they’re fired. I put their girlfriends in charge. The boys just terrify me. If you’ve never read my blog “Goats in Charge,” not to toot my own horn, but it was just accepted into the Erma Bombeck Humorist Writers Workshop, so here’s the link:

https://udayton.edu/blogs/erma/2021/05/goats_in_charge.php

The Erma Bombeck workshop is an invitation-only workshop, and I’ll be attending the 2022 conference. Just have to figure out what to talk about. Goats, I guess.

Lovin’: My menagerie. My son walked up the sidewalk yesterday when I was on the patio, looked around and said, “What’re you running here, a zoo?” My ducks were relaxing under the bushes, my rabbits were chewing their carrots contentedly, my squirrels were burying nuts, and my birds were flitting in and out of the bird feeders. I have new baby bunnies under my surf shack, and they are now cavorting around our yard like little furry baseballs. So dang cute. I know, I know, they eat all of the flowers in the garden. But I like rabbits more than flowers and their cuteness stops my heart. If you don’t like yours, send them over here.

Hatin’: Airport Valet Services being closed down. What the actual F? The planet opens up, travel is more accessible, and the first thing Pennsylvania can think to do is shut down airport valet services? I inevitably found transportation, but the first five I tried were “Temporarily Closed.” Sheesh.

Lovin’: My Athleta Farallon Joggers. Now, I’m not going to provide you with a link, ladies, because I’m no longer in the position to recommend products unless the company pays me for it, and I don’t see Athleta being a sponsor of my blog, like EVER, unless my book goes New York Times bestseller. But let me just say something about these stretchy pants: YUM. I have them in white, black, camo and khaki, and I’m bringing them all to Alaska. I’m not a pants girl at all- I’m short and curvy and muscular, and finding comfortable joggers that don’t make me look like a Snausage is tough. But these Farallon joggers are to DIE-FOR. Drawstring waist, soft stretchy durable material, and like all great joggers, gently gathered at the ankle. There’s nothing you can’t do with them. Wear them with a muscle tee and flips. Wear them with a blazer and heels for work. Wear them with a structured sweater, or a t-shirt. Wear them to hang out or hike or on a boat ride. I can’t recommend them enough.

Hatin’: I need one more Hatin’ to make this post balanced. Ummmm….Oh, I thought of one. Why do writers and CEO’s and motivational speakers have to work so hard at thinking up titles for projects, articles and books, when the average Joe Schmo can open up a bagel shop and just call it “Hot Bagels”? It seems unjust and unfair. They should have to make more of an effort to be unique, like the rest of us. That would be like me calling this post “This Post.” Forget “Hot Bagels,” how ‘bout “Goldy Lox?” Or “I Bagel to Differ?” or “Leggo My Bagel?” But I must admit: Hot Bagels leaves no room for interpretation. Well done.

People seem to like when I embed videos, so here’s a nice flashmob of “Ode to Joy,” or “Ode an Die Freude,” Beethoven’s 9th. If you want the goosebumps, ya gotta wait until the end. It’ll open up into your heart right around 4:09.

Every day should be an ode to joy. Just saying.