Parenting in Seattle

Parenting is tough.  There are sleepless nights, painful interactions, excessive worries—and that’s all before little Jack or Jill has even been born!  Since Seattleites already experience these things when trying to order their morning coffee, many have opted for a different parenting experience: fur kids. 

The other day I saw a man sitting in the park with a baby carrier attached to his front.  I could see a cute little sailor's hat popping over the top and I was struck by the picturesque scene of a man and his son enjoying a brief Seattle sun break.  As he walked by, though, I realized his "baby" was a rat terrier! 

I hadn’t realized just how pervasive this phenomenon had become until I adopted Barley about two months ago.  I used to be able to walk through that park with just a polite nod and smile to those I passed, but now I’m forced to engage in conversation.  “What a beautiful dog!  What breed is he?  Oh, you’re not sure?  You know there’s DNA testing for that sort of thing, you really should find out so you know what you’re dealing with.  Which trainer are you using?  Our dog walker is amazing; you should give her a call.  Have you switched to a grain-free diet?  We did, and you would not believe the difference it’s made in Princess Pooch’s stool.  So regular and firm!  Oh, there she goes now!  What a sweetie.”

We were also recently invited to "Bone-Chewer's Birthday Bash."  I haven't yet been to the canine party, but I imagine it will consist of junk food, big messes, and an overall underappreciation for the host's hard work--much like childrens' birthday parties.  But what kind of present does one give the hound of honor?

The number of products available for pets is staggering.  Who was the first person to think a dog needed a car seat, a memory foam sleeping pad, or a filtration water bowl?  When did it become normal to see a dog in a Coach collar and Jimmy Choo booties being walked on a Louis Vuitton leash?  Would Bone-Chewer like a Puppy Einstein DVD?

Don’t get me wrong.  I love my dog.  But I think that it's important to remember that dogs are dogs and humans are humans.  A puppy and a baby are not the same thing and should not be treated as if they were!

Now you must excuse me; I have to get Barley ready for his portrait session.

Snorkeling in Maui--or--How I Almost Died

Hey readers!  If you're thinking, "Didn't I already read this?" it's because you pretty much have.  But I'm taking a humor writing course right now, so this is getting tweaked as I try to hone my skill :)

I don’t know when I became an aquaphobe.  I took swimming lessons as a child, dutifully throwing myself off the diving board so I could have ice cream on the way home.  I never had a traumatic aquatic experience—at least not that my therapist has yet uncovered--but somehow I developed a fear of getting my face wet.  Even in the shower I have to give myself a little pep talk before plunging my face into the stream of almost-certain death.  And yet, somehow, I had agreed to put my face in the world’s largest bathtub.

The trouble with being married is that your spouse invariably knows what to say to get you to do just about anything.  Not wanting me to "miss out" on what is supposed to be one of Maui's key attractions, Matthew promised that he would take a surf lesson (which was sure to provide me with an hour of mirth as I watched him repeatedly fall) if I would accompany him on a snorkeling trip. 

Children make snorkeling look easy.  They throw on their mask, rush into the surf, and fling themselves into the water to look for Nemo.  This is because children are idiots.  They do not yet know, as I do, that at any moment the entire ocean could come pouring into your mouth, causing you to flail around, gasping for air, until your lungs fill with water and you pass into oblivion thinking, “hmm, salty!”  But I know this, which is why I prepared for snorkeling with the proper respect: carefully fitting my mask, practicing breathing through a tube, slipping on my flippers, offering sacrifices to every current, historical, and mythical god I could think of; and reverently approaching the incoming tide.  Since this ritual took about 40 minutes of our 1-hour gear rental, Matthew had long swum off in search of sea turtles and I was left alone for the final step.  Throwing caution to the wind I bent down and plunged my face into the water.  

Surprisingly, I could breathe!  There was no rush of water down my throat, no coral reaching up to grab me, no fish nibbling at my limbs, I was just floating along—breathing—examining all that Maui reef life has to offer.  Quickly snapping pictures with my underwater camera I floated blissfully along until I started to think about what it was I was doing.  How many feet down there was the ocean floor?  How many miles was I now from the shore?  As I gasped in shock at the imminent danger I had placed myself in, the ocean really did start rushing into my mouth (as I had predicted).  Fortunately, as I began to flail and struggle I had one  coherent thought, "You are a champion back floater!"  Flipping on to my back I kicked my way to shore where I collapsed on the beach and thanked all of those gods that I had survived.  It was the most thrilling 3.8 minutes of my life.

Now I just need to go shower off all that sand.

February 2, somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania...

There are some pretty strange traditions around the world--running with bulls, spitting on brides, having Satan jump over your baby--but if there's one tradition that defies all explanation it must be Groundhog Day.

Groundhog Day is so bizarre that it's difficult to even find a reliable history of the event.  Most sources I've looked at say the tradition originated with either a bear or a badger and is some mix of Catholic and pagan holidays celebrated around the same time.  I don't know.  What I do know is that every February 2 the town of Punxsutawney, PA loses its collective mind.

Have you seen the movie Groundhog Day?  If not, go rent it, laugh at its absurdity, and then immediately disassociate the movie with the actual event.  In the movie, the Groundhog Day celebrations take place around a quaint gazebo in the middle of the town square with a polka band playing in the background.  People mill about, greet each other, applaud the groundhog, and stroll home.

That could not be more wrong.

My aunt and I arrived in Punxsutawney about 8:00pm on February 1.   We had done our research.  We knew that the town stayed open pretty much all night, we knew we were going to have to take a shuttle up to Gobbler's Knob for the viewing, and we knew that just about every church and hall offered you a place to throw your sleeping bag and crash for a few hours.  So we parked at a church, paid the $8 to stash our stuff, and set off to see the sites.  We had planned to explore for a few hours, catch a couple hours' sleep, and head up the hill about 5 or 6am, just in time for the proclamation.

Punxsutawney is a small town that depends on tourism dollars that only come in once a year--kind of like the whole state of Alaska.  But unlike Alaska, Punxsutawney only gets one day in the sun, so they do it up right.  Everything is open, the locals are friendly, children are crying unconsolably because they're up 4 hours past their bedtime, and a town that boasts a population of about 43 the rest of the year (and that's including the groundhog), swells to 15,000.  15,000 sleep-deprived, freezing cold, mostly drunk morons who all thought a pilgrimage to a groundhog was a good use of time.  And I was one of them.  (Except for the drunk part.  Maybe that was the problem...)

Around 2am we got on a shuttle and headed up Gobbler's Knob just to scope it out before heading back to the church for some shut-eye.  Imagine yourself on a summer's evening at an outdoor concert: there's a stage, people lounging around on the grass waiting for the show to start, and a few porta-pottys tucked away in a back corner.  Now put that scene at 2am.  Stand up all the people and crowd 7,000 of them in a space that probably should only hold 100.  Put 10 rows of porta-pottys in the back, and drop the temperature to 19 degrees.  That's Gobbler's Knob at 2am on February 2nd.  As we watched more people pour up the hill after us we realized there was no way we were leaving that hill and giving up a prime spot!  So there we stood, bundled up like Seattleites, but in no way prepared for the coma-inducing cold that is a Pennsylvania winter night, patiently waiting the four hours until that groundhog would appear.

I've noticed that drunkenness and cold do not make a good combination.  Sober people realize that blue is not a normal skin color.  On Gobbler's Knob, though, blue is the new tan!  Feeling cold?  Get in line, jump up on stage, throw off a few layers of clothing, and dance for the crowd!  I only do that when people have bought tickets, thank you very much. 

By 6am, when all 15,000 of Punxsutawney Phil's friends had crowded onto the Knob, we were more than ready to see this groundhog do his thing!  Enter the Inner Circle.  These guys, adorned in tuxes and top hats, take their place on stage and begin to read the official Groundhog Day proclamation.  Phil is brought out of his cage, the Inner Circle declares whether or not he has seen his shadow, and the crowd begins to disperse.  4 hours of waiting.  10 minutes of ceremony.  2 more hours to get back down the hill, and a 90 minute drive back to my dorm where we sleep for the next two days. 

You're only crazy if you do it twice.

A Letter to the TSA

Some of you have read the first edition of this, but I'm off to Hawaii today so I thought it was apropos.  Aloha!


Dear TSA,

I want to thank you for the fine job you're doing keeping our country safe from the terrorists that are every day trying to sneak onto our airplanes and destroy our lives.  I was particularly impressed with the TSA agent in Philadelphia who threw away my $20 water bottle because of the two inches of liquid left in it.  My offer to drink the offending liquid was clearly a bluff, and he did not succumb to my feminine wiles.  I'm sure all of the passengers on that flight would join me in thanking you for your diligence in ferreting out real threats to our national security.

I'm afraid, though, that your latest attempt at security--the full body scanner--is simply not adequate.  If we have learned anything, it's that people determined to terrorize will heartlessly figure out a way around our technology.  So rather than waiting for someone to fool the full body scanner, allow me to propose what I believe will be an eventuality anyway: nude flights.  This is clearly the only way for us to really be safe.  If all passengers simply pack their clothes away upon entering the airport and remain nude until receiving a blanket on the plane (for a small fee, of course) then we can all breathe a little easier knowing that the person next to us has nothing to hide.

There may be some concern that this is a gross violation of personal privacy, but I do not believe you have much to worry about there.  Some people may protest, some people may even threaten to stop flying altogether, but the vast majority of American citizens will see the reasonableness of, and necessity for, this plan and will be more than willing to give up a little of their freedom to secure their safety. 

I am confident that you will see the wisdom of this plan and look forward to seeing its implementation (especially since I usually travel with my husband, and he's been working out!).

Sincerely,
Cyra Benedict

Fail-adelphia

For a history nerd there are few American cities more thrilling than Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.  Since that's where the United States was born, it's about as historical as this country gets.  On every corner there's another old building with another plaque explaining that Henry Whoever lived there in Whatever Year and was important to the birth of the nation for Whichever Reason.  It's amazing.

Also amazing: Philly Cheesesteaks.   Not as amazing: Philadelphians' sudden transformation into a Stalin/Mao lovechild if you dare to disrespect the cheesesteak by attempting a special order. 

On the corner of E Passyunk & S 9th are Philadelphia's two oldest cheesesteak stands: Pat's King of Steaks and Geno's Steaks.  Each uses a different cut of steak with different seasonings, each specializes in a different cheese (provolone or whiz?), each claims to be the best in the city (and claims a number of loyal customers) and each will look at you like you've suddenly donned a PETA sandwich board if you ask for your cheesesteak without bread.

I was diagnosed with a gluten intolerance in August of 2009, after seven months of flu-like symptoms.  At home I've adjusted pretty well to the new diet, but finding food on the go is definitely a challenge, and there are some regional specialties that I really miss--fish & chips (although I hear there's a place in Portland that has GF fish & chips.  Stay tuned.), and Philly cheesesteaks.  Having gone to college outside of Pittsburgh I often spent vacations on the east side of the state, and I was very much looking forward to re-experiencing a "real" cheesesteak and introducing them to Matthew.

There we are, on the corner of E Passyunk & S 9th, enjoying a fabulous day with some of my best college buddies, sure that taking the steak and the cheese and throwing it in a cup instead of a hoagie roll is not going to be a problem.  Apparently, we had underestimated how much the need to maintain the purity of the cheesesteak would trump our ready $10, because both places cold-heartedly denied my friend and I the teeny adjustment that would have allowed us to join our friends in experiencing the only interesting thing in Philadelphia that's less than 100 years old.  Not only were we denied, we were barked a crushing "NO!" while both Pat and Geno ignored our crestfallen faces and turned their attention to more worthy customers.  So while the rest of our group sat in a nearby park, blissfully chowing down on the cheesesteaks, comparing Pat's to Geno's, provolone to whiz, we mournfully stabbed at our less-than-exciting enchiladas and tamales from the taco stand next door.  Epic fail, City of Brotherly Love.  Epic fail.

Fortunately, the Philadelphia food scene was able to redeem itself when we visited Amada that evening, Iron Chef Jose Garces' tapas restaurant.  I must admit, I'm a bit of a Food Network whore.  Tell me that a restaurant was started by a chef I've seen on TV and I will eagerly empty my savings account to eat there.  And Amada did not disappoint (although if Matt hadn't had two cheesesteaks that afternoon we may have had to dip into our savings!  Never go to a tapas place on a totally empty stomach.  You will spend $200.  Guaranteed.)  They even had a gluten free menu!  With every bite of their perfectly cured meats love was restored.

It was a dark and stormy night--

--and four Americans were driving around the Isle of Anglesey with a cabbie who didn't speak any kind of English I had ever heard, looking for lodging on what turned out to be the only weekend of the year that Holyhead has any real need to even offer overnight accommodations.  But let's start from the beginning.

I credit (and you can blame) much of my current love for travel to my aunt, who dragged me to Ireland in the first place.  She taught me that travel doesn't have to be some esoteric idea that one dreams of "doing someday," but can be a part of your regular existence if you keep yourself open to new experiences and jump at opportunities as they arise (which is how we  once found ourselves crammed on a hill in sub-freezing temperatures with 15,000 other people waiting for a groundhog to appear, but that's a different story).  She also taught me, the hard way, that sometimes you need just a little bit of a plan.

Our trip to Ireland wasn't all  pub songs and museums, we were actually there to perform a new oratorio by composer Andrew T. Miller.  Through a long, and somewhat mundane, series of events, we found ourselves part of the choir, so there we were.  But with a day off from rehearsals we thought we should seize the opportunity to get another stamp in our passports, and we boarded the ferry from Dublin to Holyhead, Isle of Anglesey, Wales.

I know a few things about Wales: Wales has a prince, and Welsh is the most ridiculous looking language on the planet.  Really, that's about all there is to know about Wales, so I figured we were in good shape as we crossed the Irish Sea.  It turns out there's one more thing you should know: there are no hotel rooms available anywhere within 20 miles of Holyhead on the third weekend in August.  Trust me.  I've looked for one.

We step out of the Holyhead ferry terminal and are greeted by.............nothing.  No restaurants, no pubs, not even any streetlights.  Just dark emptiness for as far as the eye can see.  Apparently the ferry we were on was just bringing all of the Welsh tourists back home.  Dubliners know better.  What we had expected to be a quaint seaside town with B&B's and friendly pubs turned out to be, well, not that at all.  It was instead a narcoleptic town that closed down at 5:00 and just happened to be hosting the Anglesey Agricultural Fair.  But we were determined that we were going to experience Wales, so we call a cab company and proceed to attempt to explain to our cabbie that we want any room/food that is available.

After four hours, and numerous unfruitful stops, we pull up to The Bull Hotel--and there are two rooms available!  Famished, exhausted, and a bit cranky that our passports didn't actually get stamped when we crossed into Wales, we were ready to sleep just about anywhere, even if we were 15 minutes too late for dinner.  "Is there any way the kitchen can scrounge something up for us?" we beg, hoping against hope that our poor grumbling stomachs aren't going to be denied.  "Well, tonight was Chinese food night.  Come to the dining room and we'll bring you some," is the unexpected reply.  We look quizzically at each other, but since our cabbie had already pealed out of the parking lot with our 4-hour fare, chuckling to himself about the crazy tourists, we head over to the dining room to see how the Welsh do Chinese.

Now I have never been to China.  Until recently I thought Safeway made pretty good Chinese food, but even I know that you don't see a lot of potatoes in Asia.   Maybe it was fusion, or maybe it was just confusion, but there on our plates were sweet and sour chicken, over rice, all over "chips."  Yep, french fries.  If I move to Canada and open an International Poutine stand, this is going to be the first thing on the menu. 

Fortunately, after a good night's sleep (and a shower involving more pulleys and levers than an 18th century sailing ship), the world again looks promising.  And it was good we were well rested because awaiting me that day was going to be one of the biggest challenges I have yet encountered: navigating for someone who is driving on the left side of the road.

I don't understand driving on the left side of the road.  Why wouldn't you drive on the right side?  But apparently on the British Isles left is right and right is wrong.  No wonder all of their colonial holdings have been able to break free.  But I digress. 

The hardest part about navigating in Wales is that all of  the names of places are so long, and the places themselves so small, that by the time you read the whole town's name you've already driven through it.  Case in point, the town of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.  Imagine having to write that on every form you ever fill out!  In fact, the town governors figured residents were spending approximately 3 years of their life just writing their town's name, so they shortened it to Llanfair PG.  Parental guidance suggested.

When you plan your trip to Wales, learn from our mistakes, take my advice, and head straight to the town of Beaumaris.   That's the Wales you want to see.  Castle ruins, tea houses, locally made blankets, and all the charm you could ever want.  Just remember, no right turn on red.

And so it begins...

I'm sure it's blasphemous to say it.  I'm sure St. Patrick is going to march right over to his buddy Peter and demand I be denied entrance, but say it I must.  I hate Guinness.

As I much as I hate Guinness, I love to travel.  I'm eagerly awaiting teleportation technology so I can avoid the soul-sucking experience that is flying, but the thrill of exploring new places (especially really, really old places) makes me plaster a smile on my face for the lady at the check-in counter, wait patiently in line so the TSA can violate all of my rights, and murmur a polite hello to the guy sitting next to me who is, invariably, taking up more seat than he actually paid for.  Until I get these troublesome student loans paid down (who knew that a BA in History and a MA in Education pretty much pigeon-holes you as a high school history teacher??) I may not be getting to do quite as much international travel as I would like, but I'm finding that my home in the Pacific Northwest offers some eclectic experiences all on its own.  The past couple of years my work and family life have been pretty stressful, and this year I have decided that I'm not going to let things I can't control keep me from enjoying the things I can (my counselor would be so proud!).   So here I am, endeavoring to explore the world--or at the very least, my corner of it--two pints (for the hubby) and a cocktail (for me) at a time.

But back to my hatred of Guinness...

It's supposed to be better in Ireland, something about the gasses not traveling well, making it more bitter the less fresh it is, or something like that.  So in 2006 I found myself in Ireland, sitting in a pub that gets Guinness delivered fresh from the brewery every day, (by the way, the half of the city that is not taken up by the actual brewery is taken up by all the pubs that begin serving Guinness at 11am--except on Sundays), and I still think it tastes like bread-flavored motor oil.

Maybe you have to be Irish to understand the complexities and subtleties of such a drink.  Maybe you have to have the blood of those who fought oppression for thousands of years, while trying to hold an umbrella, running through your veins.  Matthew's last name is Benedict.  He gets it.  My last name is Valenzuela.  I'm more of an apple juice-colored drink with a lime wedge kind of girl.

Unfathomable beverages aside, Dublin is a pretty fantastic city (and fortunately, my now-discovered gluten intolerance will give me a great excuse for not drinking my lunch next time I'm in town).  Granted, I may be a bit biased since that's where Matthew and I met, but I did spend a few quite pleasant days there before a guy in a kilt inexplicably stole my heart.

The first thing that you notice about Dublin is that it's old.  If I could figure out how to double underline that word, I would.  Living in Seattle, where it's rare to find buildings that pre-date my grandparents, this is something I have a hard time grasping.  "This building was built when?  The 12th century?  That must be a typo, I'm pretty sure people only lived in caves in the 12th century."  But apparently Dubliners were a bit more advanced in the 12th century because the cathedrals you see certainly weren't built in the 70's.  (Actually, given the economic state of the British Isles in the 70's, Dubliners may have been living in caves then.)

So the city's old, the history nerd in me is as excited as a 13 year old girl at a Justin Bieber concert, and I find myself hand-in-hand with a guy in a skirt, walking through a jail.

When your first date's at a jail, things can only get better.

Unless, of course, that jail is Dublin's Kilmainham Gaol--now a museum--built in 1796, and the site of the executions of the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising.  Then you have a date made in Cyra-heaven.