Lessons from the Road, Part Six

It's a Dry Heat - making the best of it

They say that about Arizona. "It's a dry heat." As if somehow sticking your head in the oven is comfortable vs. sticking your head in the sauna. Dry heat, by definition, is still hot.

When we arrived in Phoenix, it was about 300 degrees. (Or, to be more accurate, 114 ... and that's actually not an exaggeration.) It was hot. Uncomfortably hot. Can't-sit-outside-for-too-long hot.

In the chill that is Illinois in November, I miss this.

And yet I remember thinking to myself, "there's going to come a time in the not-too-distant future when I'm going to need this memory."

It's mid-November in the Midwest, and I'm pretty much there.

So yeah ... it's a dry heat. And back home, it's a wet cold. And the truth of it is, you get what you get and if you're smart, you make the best of it, no matter what.

Alex and I spent a lot of time outside while I was in the PHX. We went for ice cream (where I had a scoop of the best coffee flavor I have ever had) and sat under an awning. We had the best burgers for lunch and sat in the car, windows down, under a tree. We did a golf thing, wisely as the sun was setting. And yeah, we moved the young prince into his new on-campus apartment, right in the heat of the day.

The point is to not hide out indoors, because that's just not going to serve you in the long term. We would have missed out on some pretty stellar adventures if we hadn't been willing to be out in the world.

And now here I am, back home, on the verge of bitching about the weather. I suspect it's going to be a long winter, because it's always a long winter. But I have all the gear I need to make the best of it. Because life is short, and if I can eat ice cream in 117-degree heat, I can sure as hell drink cocoa when it's below zero.

Lessons from the Road, Part Five

The Cheapest Meal is Sometimes the Best

It was Day Three of our Epic Road Trip - the longest day on the road was behind us, we had a thirst for adventure and a can-do attitude. Waking up in Albuquerque, we first made our way to Chocolate Dude (where we met the actual Chocolate Dude and brought regards from our friend Eric) to meet my amazing, beautiful and talented friend Robin for coffee and catching up. All too soon (mostly because I was late,) it was time for Robin to head to school (she's a super-cool professor) and for us to hit the road.

We had a four-ish-hour drive planned until we made it to Winslow, AZ. We pulled into town and immediately headed for Standing on the Corner Park. (It was such a fine site to see!)

Me and Alex, and a bronze guy takin' it easy.

We had a great time hanging out in the park, taking pictures and being goofy. It was a quiet day in Winslow, being a Thursday and all, so there wasn't a heckuvalot happening. One thing is certain: it was hot.

(But it's a dry heat.)

It was cruising toward noon and our bellies were hungry (even after the delicious mochas and chocolates from Chocolate Dude), so we decided to head to lunch.

Careful research (aka, "yelp") recommended a Winslow restaurant called E&O Kitchen.We keyed the address into the GPS, and off we went.

Right up until we lost connectivity. Winslow, it seems, is not a hotbed of cellular activity.

Alex, it turns out, has a great sense of direction and a very good memory. So, just as the screen went blank, he saw the airplane symbol near the dot representing the restaurant on the map.

Great. We'll head for the Winslow Airport. #WeAreNotLost #WeKnowExactlyWhereWeAreItsTheRestaurantThatsLost

I would have given up and headed back to the highway, but the Young Prince was determined. We were practically on the runway when we saw the sign; we had arrived.

The "muy bueno" part? They're not kidding.

We were seated by a gentleman who took our drink order - all the water, please - and brought us menus. We looked out the window (hey, a plane!) and took a quick scan until we found what we wanted - E&O Tacos. They looked like this:

I, Maggie, take you, taco, to be my lawfully wedded lunch.

Yeah, they look good; that's nothing compared to how they tasted.

The chicken was cooked to perfection. The onion and cilantro on the side gave it just the right kick. The avocado was the ideal touch, especially if you're like me and you like avocado on your avocado. Quite simply an amazing meal; we were making yummy sounds the entire time as we enjoyed our meal.

And then the bill came.

We ate at a lot of great places while we made our way across the country. Some of them were good (hello, Sonic? You're everywhere.) Some were great. Some were cheap, and some were decidedly not. But none was as delicious as this one, so it was rather shocking when we came away with a bill that totaled all of about $17. Seeing as my dad provided the food budget for the trip, I can tell you this much for certain: it was the best $17 he spent the entire trip.

Sometimes it's far too easy to get caught up in the price = value dilemma. We want the purse with the logo on it, the car with the right emblem, the newest mobile phone (please, Santa, bring me a rose gold iPhone 6S!), the whole nine. We want them because we're convinced more expensive is better. But one simple, rustic, perfect meal convinced me otherwise. I'll take an airport dive over a Michelin-rated joint any day of the week, if it tastes as good as E&O kitchen. #Swoon

Lessons from the Road, part Four

Topography is always beautiful. (Also, you can get used to mountains.)

Sometime between Oklahoma and Albuquerque, the landscape began to look like someplace else. Somewhere distinctly not the Midwest. Hills rolled more, foliage became more scrubby, and we were decidedly in the West.

The further west we drove, the taller the hills became. And then the hills stopped being hills at all and presented themselves as mountains. There was one point where I pointed into the distance and said to Alex, "That shadow waaaaaaay up there? It's gonna be a mountain, eventually." And before too long (the speed limit out there is something akin to 70 mph) sure enough ... mountain.

The landscape kept changing as we progressed toward Phoenix, a little less green, a little higher elevation. The sky seemed a little bluer and the air was warm.

I love this picture; it just feels like the American West to me.

By the time we reached our destination - at the foot of Camelback Mountain in Phoenix - seeing mountains ceased to be "new." It's not like flying in, when the scenery is all of a sudden different. No, this gradual change caused it all to become expected. Mountains, and the beauty therein, had become the norm. Over the course of just a few days, my awe of the horizon had begun to diminish.

And isn't that just the way? We take for granted the things that are always there, even if they are vast and beautiful. And when they're gone, we miss them. It would be better to understand how much we'll miss them while they're here, and treasure them - be they mountains, or people, or heck, even your favorite band - while you're together.

Don't get used to the mountains, or whatever it is in nature that is beautiful about where you live. (I promise you, there's something; maybe several somethings.) Love it, as often as you can. But more importantly, hold close the people who are part of your landscape. Because that landscape can change in the blink of an eye.

Were are not mountains, waiting patiently in the distance for you to come upon us and realize our grandeur. We are perfectly flawed individuals worthy of great and glorious love.

One of the greatest parts of sharing this journey with Alex was that while we drove, we had the opportunity to really talk. Big conversations and little topics flowed between us as easy as air, and over the course of 1,700 miles or so, it became clear that he is among my mountains.

Figure out who your mountains are, and love them well. Tell them. Show them. Listen to them. There is great potential when you're able to do that.

Lessons from the Road, part three

Always know who - and where - your friends are

Backtracking in the chronology here just a little bit, that first night in St. Lou, I made a travel faux pas. I did not let everyone know where I was going. So cue the surprise when, the next morning, I discovered that my friends Biff and Amanda were there, too.

In the exact same little boutique hotel off the beaten path.

Of course, we were all on the road again before we realized we could've connected, had cocktails or breakfast or whatever. I mean, what are the chances? It's 9 a.m. or so and I get this text from Biff. Why did you just post a photo of Moonrise Hotel? Um, dumbass, because that's where I am? Sure enough, a missed opportunity.

What the heck are the chances of that?

So it got me to thinkin' ... sometimes you don't know where your friends are. Not that you should keep tabs on 'em or anything - that would be creepy - but it's interesting to think about the number of near-misses you have as you meander through life.

More importantly, though, you have to know who your friends are. You need to know who's in the tribe, who has your back, who will take to the grave your secrets, who will lock your Facebook account right the hell down in the event of your untimely death. You don't need a lot of these people - a scant handful will do - but you need them. People to whom you can bare your soul, and who will bare theirs right back for you. It matters, ya know, and you deserve them.

They deserve you.

Biff and Amanda have been in my life from way back - back to the old theater days. Biff is the brother of Polly, who is (see if you can follow this) the mother of my godson, a former sharer of the stage and a freakin' hoot in her own right. We've been in touch on and off over the years, and while Polly and family moved out east a few years back, Biff and Amanda are down in Bloomington - close enough for a weekend trip now and then. I remember thinking as we passed through the area that I should text them, just to say hi. Listen to your gut, Margaret. It rarely steers you wrong. But I digress ...

On the subject of friends, it's fair to note that while I have some who have been in my life for a very very long time, a few of my dearest are the ones I met in college. One of the greatest lessons I learned at EIU was that to make friends, you simply had to be a good friend. I discovered that the simplest of acts connected us back then, and keep us connected today. Sharing a beer, loaning a car, tossing a Frisbee, playing Marco Polo in the stacks of the library ... all those things led me to expand my tribe, and I found myself hoping that Alex would discover his own while he's in college, too.

Because college is as much about finding you and yours as it is about academics. We should all be so lucky as to get a degree in Finding Good People. I'd graduate with honors.

Lessons from the Road, Part Two

Not all whales are elusive

If you plug 2680 OK-66, Catoosa, OK in to your GPS, you will receive directions to the Blue Whale of Catoosa.

Pretty self-explanatory, right?

Built in 1970, the whale was an anniversary gift from local Hugh Davis, as a surprise for his wife, who collected whale figurines.

This one would not fit on a shelf, and I sure as hell wouldn't want to dust it, but damn, is it cool!

The whale sits on what was once a spring-fed swimming hole, and its fins provided slides into the water. You can no longer swim here (I wouldn't want to; the water is murky at best) but it is a unique spot along Old Route 66 to stop, stretch your legs, visit the loo in a weird, round restroom, and take in a bit of old Americana. You can climb up on the whale's tail and enjoy the view, or have a picnic on the tables in the park area surrounding the whale.

I'll be honest: I knew it was going to be weird, and I sensed it would be just this side of crazy, but I sure didn't think we would enjoy this stop as much as we did. As we pulled up, we couldn't stop laughing; what a site from the side of the road! The directions were easy to follow, and honestly, if you missed it, you just weren't looking very hard.

Taking a quick stop on a long driving day, to rest our legs, laugh, and eventually stop at Sonic, was the best way to christen our Epic Road Trip. It was at this first stop that I realized Alex would do just about anything, as long as the company was good. He's really grown in to quite an awesome human.

Me and

So there we were, the aunt and her favorite boy, having found our whale. At this point in life, both Alex and I are heading off on separate, yet similar, paths; he, to learn and grow and find his career. Me, to move on from a place I love but can't afford to a place I hope to love and can enjoy a more balanced life. The search is what brought us here; the search, ironically, brought us to an old swimming hole in the middle of an Oklahoma lake on a warm August afternoon. Our quest for self discovery brought us to a bit of 1970s kitsch, and brought us closer together as a result.

Life is, I suppose, a series of self-discoveries as we search for who we are meant to be. And, if you're really lucky, you get to do it alongside some pretty amazing people.

Call me Ishmael.

Next up: The importance of knowing where your friends are.

Lessons from the Road, Part One

I'm going to try something new here. I've never written a series before, but there is no way I could possibly write one post to cover the trip Alex and I took from Illinois to Arizona last week. Just no way. So I'm not gonna try. There are a dozen or so different life lessons we learned along the way, so I'm going to dole them out, one at a time, and try to be as entertaining as possible. And so, without further ado, I give you ...

Drink what the barkeep pours you.

On Night One of the Epic Road Trip, we found ourselves in St. Louis, MO. My sister Kathie, the mastermind behind the planning, had booked us a room at this darling boutique hotel, Moonrise, right in the entertainment district known as the Delmar Loop.

Alex and I intended to get checked in and immediately head out to see the sights. After a long and stormy drive, though, we arrived pretty exhausted (yet full of pasta; thank you, Noodles!) So instead of heading out, we headed up ... up to the rooftop bar, the Eclipse Lounge. From there, you could pretty much see everywhere. It was a lovely night, not too cool, and the rain had stopped.

We walked to the bar and the bartender asked what we'd like. Alex ordered a beer (Fat Tire? Memory fail.) and I was unsure. So I said, "I'm not sure, what do you feel like making?" And without missing  beat, the bartender grabbed a bottle, poured a shot, and handed it to me. I asked what it was, and he showed me the label - Four Roses Bourbon. Well, I've never met a bourbon I didn't like, so after a bit of snappy patter, I drank the shot.

Much to the surprise of our bartenders.

Apparently, the indecisive patron is more common than one would think, and they explained that roughly nine out of 10 people don't drink the shot. They wouldn't allow me to pay for it, and we had a few (okay, more than a few) laughs about it as I enjoyed my Seven-Up chaser.

The thing is, sometimes life serves us unexpected things. Sometimes they are wonderful opportunities. Sometimes they suck. But the unexpected will often take you somewhere you'd not planned for, and that, gentle reader, can deliver you straight to something truly amazing and wonderful ... and why not? many of my best memories were made not according to plan, but rather while following what life (or my bartender) served up in a particular moment. Sometimes it's a matter of going where you're led.

But back to that night in the bar ... Alex and I were full of anticipation, ready for the longest leg of our journey the next day (St. Lou to Albuquerque). We only stayed up there on the rooftop for an hour or so, but man, what a night it was. From our spot above the city, anything was possible. Plans were solidified and soon it was time to get back in the elevator and head down to our room. But while we were up on that roof, I discovered a new favorite bourbon, and felt wanderlust take hold.

Coming up next: Not all whales are the elusive Great White.

On heavy things and putting them down

Sometimes, you don't realize you've been in a downward spiral. You may seem pretty content, and feel like you're making progress. But if you're carrying anger and resentment, it's entirely possible that you aren't being honest with yourself, and that it's time to set down the baggage.

Really, guys. That stuff gets heavy.

Truth is, I've spent a lot of time over the past year-ish just feeling angry. Not for a particular reason, but mostly because of my perceived different-ness in my world. I was treated differently. Loved differently. Acknowledged differently, if at all. An octagonal peg in a round hole, I floundered.

A lot of it (surprise, surprise) boiled down to one thing. Money. Man, that shit really is the root of all evil. But it happened so gently, I didn't realize that I was becoming a bitter, angry person because I had painted myself into a corner. See, every time someone talked about doing just about anything, I knew my budget wouldn't allow it. I had not done my due diligence, and while I am living in a place I love, I can honestly say that because I wasn't more careful, I've been living beyond my means.

I'm not proud of it, but there you have it. And while I scrimped and saved and robbed Peter to pay ComEd, I got pissed off at everyone who could make ends meet. I'm super rational like that.

I wasn't outwardly rage-y, but I felt like the universe had dealt me a shitty hand.

And then, the fork in the road. With my lease running out soon, do I sign a new lease, or do I move on? Truth be told, I'd be a fool to stick with the familiar once I realized it wasn't good for me. And I'm not a fool. Most of the time.

So now, I've chosen my next home with complete faith that I'm doing the right thing. Why do I feel that way? That has something to do with a lightness I feel inside. See, shortly after the lightbulb went on and I realized I wasn't locked in to my little downtown studio, it was like someone lifted a weight from my shoulders.

Not my unit, but one of the buildings in my complex. I have a patio!

Like I said, that baggage gets pretty heavy.

Sometimes you have to push the veil away and really see things as they are. I've spent a lot of my life unhappy, but having the unhappiness sink in with such slow progress, I didn't even know how unhappy I was until some sudden change - divorce! breakup! injury! running out of nutella! - forced me to make changes. And in the changes ... oh, man, that's where you find yourself.

You might discover your resilience, or flexibility. Or you might find your own intuition. You'll probably figure out how capable you are once you set your sights on your next step, no matter how hard it is to take. And all of that is okay.

And so, here I am, arriving at the fork in the road, knowing which way I'm turning, and trying to get all my ducks in a row. There is much to be done, and like with all worthwhile endeavors, I don't head off alone. I am intensely grateful to those who have awesomely supported me through the process.

Now, who wants to help me pack?

When the past rushes up to meet you

I was talking with a friend on Saturday, and she was struggling with her daughter's plans for the day. Courtney, the daughter, is 12, and she was attending her first boy/girl party. A day of swimming and an evening of bonfire, co-ed. My friend was nervous about her little girl growing up, and how her relationships would take shape.

Naturally, it got me to thinking about my own early teenage years, and the people who were part of my life back then. I met my best friend, Patrick, when we were 13; we've drifted apart from time to time, but we always return. I've referred to him as my True North throughout my adult life, and there is no more fitting a title.

We had quite a tribe back then, made up of me and Patrick and an assortment of music and theater folk - Ivan, Darren, Kelly, Kim, Cathy ... I'll stop naming names, because I'm gonna forget someone and I'm not here to offend.

I'm here to reflect.

See, these are the people who shaped me, as much if not more than my family. It was in their company that I would be out until the sun came up, playing ghosts in the graveyard in the actual graveyard. Or hide and seek across several backyards. Or freeze tag on the Naperville riverwalk. Or walking through the hooty-tootie West Side neighborhoods, shining flashlights in windows to see how the "other half" lived.

This was my first tribe, and our memories are rich feasts for the senses. They taught me how I deserved to be treated, loved me exactly as I was (and am), called me out on my shit, and opened my mind to truth and possibility. Remembering all that, I told my friend that as long as her 12-year-old understands herself, and knows her mother's expectations, let her go to this party and don't worry. Because the friends she's making at this point in life may well be the ones who guide her through the best parts of life, and who support her through the worst. It is entirely possible that these are friends for life.

Which brings me to last weekend. Kelly and her husband (who is also sort of my brother-in-law but I guess technically not really) and daughter were up for a wedding, and I was beyond fortunate to get to spend some time with them.

In the space of 36 hours, we squeezed about five days of activity, laughter and love. There is just no better way to be reassured of your importance on the planet than to spend time in the presence of someone who has loved you throughout your entire adult life, as Kelly has. And so that's what I had - a day and a half of love overflowing, laughter that made my abs ache, music that made my soul happy and conversation that made me wax nostalgic.

Old friends. They make the best mirrors; they've been looking at you for a long time, and they love you anyway.

Ivan Torres, me, Kelly (McDaniel) Rathunde, Kim (Hatman) Thuente, Darren Hutchinson, Cathy (Roberts) Lavigne and Patrick Farbo. Because of course we made an appointment with an area photo studio to have a professional portrait taken.

The truth about love

They say that to be loved, you must first love yourself. I've long felt that was unrealistic, and really pretty mean, but I've done my best.

And I've failed, for years.

See, loving other people comes easily. It's almost a natural progression. But self-love? That takes work, and it's so much easier to not.

We feel like we have evidence that we're not deserving of love. People leave, or don't love us the way we'd like. The unconditional thing we crave is long in coming, so we believe the shitty bill of goods the universe seems to have served up, and we withhold love from ourselves.

But I'd like to suggest a different tack, and it's one I've discovered quite by accident. It was a few years ago when, in a fit of self loathing, I realized the way I was talking to myself. It was pretty heinous; I would never treat a friend the way I was treating myself. So I tried to be a little nicer to me. Just a little. I became more conscious of my self-talk. And yeah, I started looking in the mirror and pointing out something nice.

It's getting easier. It's becoming natural. Maybe it's age that's allowing me to become more comfortable in my skin, but I am becoming my biggest fan.

It was just an hour or so ago that I was talking to a friend of mine about my marriage, and she said she'd like to meet my ex. "I'd like to meet the man," she said, "who took a pass on you." Truth is, he and I travel on completely different paths, and I could never have become this version of me had I remained with him.

I've learned through practice to really, truly love myself where I am. It's not a perfect love - there is no such thing - but it's as close as I've ever known.

So to me, there are two secrets: 1. Start loving yourself, as best as you can, as often as you can. 2. Stay close to a tribe who loves you big, exactly as you are.

Lather, rinse, repeat.