Magic Carpet Ride

I will admit that I was a little late coming to the party for Seattle Seahawks fandom. I jumped on the bandwagon just days before they beat the 49ers for their first trip to the Super Bowl. I still don’t want to talk about what happened on their second trip.

There’s another bandwagon in and around Woodhaven, though, that I am proud to say I was riding in long before it was cool. That doesn’t happen very often with me.

The last time I was in the front seat of a trend was my fascination with sock monkeys. Before that, it was in the ‘80s when I had to rush to my pizza job and threw on my freshly washed Keds without laces. It wasn’t too long after that that I noticed I wasn’t the only one going laceless. It’s because these “I’m hip!” moments are so rare that I remember them so well.

So what's the current fascination that I was proudly enamored with long before it was A Thing?

The carpet at the Portland airport.

It’s such a strange thing to notice, carpet. Unless it is really vivid, like the carpet at The Wynn Hotel in Las Vegas. Or iconic, like the avocado green shag carpet in the house I rented in college.

But in an airport? When there are so many other things to be concerned about, like restroom locations and baggage carrousels and 3oz bottles of liquids? Really, who notices carpet in an airport?

Well, I did. And apparently I had company.

I honestly don’t remember consciously noticing the carpet at first. My awareness of it just built over time. Sort of like aging. Or gnomes.

After we had lived at Woodhaven for a few years and traveled a bit, I started to realize that exiting the plane and casting my eyes on PDX's turquoise carpet with navy blue accents was becoming my first sign of Being Home. Whether we had made a quick trip to California to visit family or a long trip across an ocean or continent for a vacation, I always seemed to sigh contentedly when the acres of greenness greeted me amongst the people movers and gate announcements.

Eventually my joy at seeing the carpet was verbalized. I felt a bit goofy admitting my appreciation for it out loud, even to Rob. But he’s used to me finding happy in odd places.

So it was Rob, not me, who first discovered I’m not the only one with a crazy obsession with an industrial floorcovering. Mere seconds after Rob told me about a Facebook page dedicated to The Carpet at PDX, I eagerly joined the handful of fans, giddy and mystified that others understood the visceral peace evoked by a 1987 synthetic fiber graphic.

That page now has over 13,000 followers. Hello, bandwagon!!

The Carpet’s rise to stardom (seriously -- it's been in USA Today and everything) has been fascinating and weird, much like its hometown. In the beginning, there was a lot of “OMG – me, too!” about the shared devotion to the rug. Then people started taking pictures of it in various forms. I dragged Rob to the airport one night especially to snap this photo:

And then there was this favorite one with a friend who was visiting from the east coast. We share the ups and downs of living with chronic back pain. Meds and prayers and stares were involved in the taking of this photo:

Eventually the photos morphed into people taking pictures of their feet on the carpet, now deemed “Foot Selfies.” These days, you haven’t truly visited Portland unless and until you have Instagrammed or Facebooked a picture of your feet on the carpet.

But the photos are only part of the story.

True to the beauty of American consumerism and capitalism, it wasn’t too long before t-shirts and socks sporting the carpet's graphic were available. I was among the first to snag this walking favorite:

But then, just as excitement was building about the communal appreciation for the airport’s well-worn carpet, it was announced that it was going to be replaced. Yep, that’s right. Torn out, ripped apart, traded in for something new. Just as Portland had finally said, “I LOVE YOU!” the carpet was ditching us.

So Portlandia reacted as you might not expect. With this:

Yes, as quirky and old-fashioned and rustic and hipster as Portland would like you to think it is, it is actually filled with savvy entrepreneurs who can read a wave like a master surfer. And so the metro…and Woodhaven…have been flooded with Carpet-themed tchotchkes.

Earrings, phone covers, t-shirts, coasters, scarves, stickers, water bottles, baseball hats, wallets, key chains, magnets, luggage tags. And that’s just the swag I have. Seriously.

OH! Right. I also have a couple other Carpet Must-Haves: the carpet itself.

Yep. I now have in my possession actual remnants of the actual carpet that actually covered the actual floor of the actual Portland airport. You may gasp in awe.

OK, so I’m not the only one who has pieces like this. Way back in March, four local vendors were chosen to buy the ripped out carpet and do what they wanted with it. One of them was very prepared with a website and planned offerings, so I immediately placed an order for two doormats and a square suitable for framing. And have been waaaaaiiiittttiiiinnngggg ever since. First the stuff had to be carefully taken out, then transported, then repaired, then cleaned, then cut, then bound, then finally shipped to Woodhaven. I guess four months isn’t so bad to wait for a piece (or three!!) of iconic
Portland history?

Naturally, I have been trying very hard to get some paw selfies of our two cats. This has been unsuccessful because they are cats. I will persevere and will post a picture in several years when I am finally victorious.

In the meantime, if you come visit Woodhaven and all the old carpet in PDX is gone, you can still get a foot selfie in our living room. Your Facebook friends and Instagram followers will never have to know.

Slowly getting smarter

It’s been with great pride that I have toted around my mini-brick of a cell phone while the rest of the world swipes and pinches and knows traffic conditions without using a radio.

My little mobile dinosaur was one of those flippy phones with no data plan and texts that cost me 20 cents to send and 20 cents to receive. People could send me photos at $1 a pic, and odds were increasingly great that I couldn’t decipher the expensive communique through the teensy screen, even if I took my glasses off. The odds were even greater that I would grrr and grumble at having to pay to see a pic of an excited friend’s new pedicure.

Our cell phone bill was in the double digits and I would brag to confused ears about our minimalist calling plan that was grandfathered in years ago when Verizon decided to ditch it since phones are rarely used to exchange voices anymore.

My delight in being antiquated was a bit surprising since I was once pretty cutting edge with technology when we lived in California. Being an Early Adopter of Webvan and Netflix and Pets.com was part of the culture in the Bay Area in the late ‘90s. As much as knowing that real Zinfandel is red not pink.

Many of our friends back then were in the tech industry, so they were way ahead of me with things like Tivo and iPods. But outside the Tech Bubble of Silicon Valley, I was right there leading the way with the latest gadgety inventions and must-haves. Especially so when we moved to the boonies of Woodhaven which quaintly boasted both satellite TV and dial-up Internet! Oh, those pre-DSL years here were a struggle.

Now happily ensconced in life as a Late Adopter, people have tried to talk me into joining the world of having a tiny computer in my pocket. But I resisted. Largely because I knew the risk was great for me to become lost in the magic of being constantly connected to the internet and social media and emails and cat videos.

I had seen too many adult friends focusing more on their gadgets than their children. I had witnessed too many couples sitting quietly at restaurant tables staring into their phones instead of each other’s eyes. I had been astounded at the near-reflex addiction of friends not being able to resist “checking in” for more than the length of a commercial break.

But then a few things happened.

Like the night Rob and I wanted to attend a community event and were sure we knew where the elementary school was…until we circled our tiny town three times and found every school but the right one. Our car’s GPS was useless because our town is just that small, so we found our tardy and annoyed selves parked in a McDonald’s parking lot, riding on their free Wi-Fi, and discovering on my iTouch that we had been tantalizingly close to the school on our first guess. We arrived at the event a half-hour late and missed the main part we had wanted to see.

Or the night we were meeting my cousins in Portland for a very special awards ceremony at a very tricky location. Ginger was kind enough to text me the address (totally worth the 20 cents)…except that her phone was a lot smarter than mine and it tried to send it as a link to a mapping app. So all I got was a blank text and more frustrated.

And then the final moment was actually a series of them. During the bumpy ride of my recovery from my hysterectomy earlier this year, I had a very kind and compassionate and empathetic friend who checked in on me frequently. She was about a year ahead of me on the surgical fun and proved to be a critical source of comfort and information and deep breaths. Her words of wisdom and peace came via text and I was ecstatic to pay only 20 cents for the reassurance each one provided. But as I tried to respond, my frustration and anxiety escalated. Texting using a number pad and hitting each number the right number of times to produce the right letter got old realfast.

In something of a sudden but prolonged moment of clarity and released resistance, I decided It Was Time.

I did my due diligence and did quite a bit of research. Which is to say, I consulted two teenage girls and listened intently to their dissertations on Android versus iOS.

And then, on the evening of February 27, after exiting the store once to regroup from the shock of my special “You’ve Been a Verizon Customer Since Phones Had Pull-Out Antennas” upgrade fee (if that’s the discount, what do they charge new customers?!?), I finally caved.

Yep, that’s right. I’ve had a smarty pants phone since February. I was so embarrassed about it, I didn’t tell anyone. In fact, this right here is my first public admission.

Sure, a few people figured it out. One when she noticed an icon on her iPhone that indicated that my cell number was also connected to an iPhone. Another when I accidentally mentioned “FaceTime” without knowing exactly what I was talking about. Yet another when I sent a text…with a photo…to two people at once. And then a brother who noted I sent an unimportant text without commentary about paying 20 cents to do so.

It’s been an interesting four and a half months.

I have learned about apps and notifications and airplane mode and Instagram. I have had my brand new and largely unused Twitter account hacked by some manga-loving cyberbot in Japan (I am no longer a Twit). I have been able to text photos to contractors to verify the right shower head has been ordered. I have discovered the exciting world of emojis and now understand that that happy little pile of chocolate frosting is actually something quite different.

I have loved carrying around only one piece of technology that is my phone, my music, my calendar, and my address book. I have felt liberated being able to leave the house while waiting for an important email from the insurance company. I have loved standing in the dairy aisle of the grocery store with my recipe in hand and being able to verify that 1 cup of sour cream is pretty much an 8 ounce tub.

It has been wonderful to finally be in the loop with my in-laws. My lack of technology and self-imposed no texting rule long kept me outside quick notes about birthdays or sharing fun photos or knowing about elective but still significant surgeries. Joining in the conversation with them has felt a lot like finally changing my last name after 10 years of marriage.

A brother recently gave me a lesson in Siri via text. First, though, I had to Google how to find this voice-activated, freakishly helpful being lurking inside my phone. Rick taught me to ask Siri what her favorite color is, what 0 divided by 0 is, and to ask her to read me my last text (“Smiling pile of poo.”).

He also told me I could tell her what to address me as anytime we chat. Naturally, I got right on it and now my phone calls me “Hot Stuff.” Siri also insisted I tell her which of my Contacts is me. Being a bit of a privacy nut, I decided she really didn’t need to know that, so I just picked my first contact entry. So now, when I chat with Siri, she calls me Hot Stuff and she thinks I am AAA Septic. Seems fitting.

But I have also noticed a few not-so-great things.

Like, I am much more aware of my phone than I ever used to be. I always know where it is and how much battery it has left. I always seem to have it either in my hand, in my pocket, or within sight. This troubles me.

I have used it as a passenger in the car, thinking I was helping by checking traffic and nearby restaurants. But Rob told me it felt like I was disengaged from him and more engaged in my little screen. This troubles me.

I have been so focused on taking and posting a photo to Instagram that I have forgotten to be present in the moment I was so desperate to capture. This troubles me.

I have replied to a text while walking and, not paying attention to where I was placing my feet, stepped on a big stick and sprained my knee in a bad way. This troubles me. And literally pains me (seriously – it’s been 3 weeks and I am in physical therapy and am just starting to trust my knee again).

So I have turned off notifications so I don’t know when things are happening on my phone other than calls or texts. I have reduced my data plan by half so that I am forced to keep my surfing in check. I regularly put my phone in airplane mode during important events like meals and watching reruns of “The Love Boat” with Rob on the couch.

My fears about getting a smartphone in the first place were well-founded. I know myself pretty well. But I am encouraged that -- so far -- I have either recognized my fall or have been receptive to Rob’s commentary and I have made changes accordingly. I still feel like I need to be on alert, though. These smart phones are seductive. Especially when they flirt with you and call you Hot Stuff.

Misspent youth

Since I don’t have kids I don’t know for sure, but I suspect there are moments that every parent lives for. Moments that make all the tantrums and rolled eyes and self-absorption and sassy talk almost worth it. Moments that make a mom proud she didn’t take the whiny 3-year-old back to the hospital like she once threatened in a moment of utter annoyance and self-restraint.

I will someday soon ask my parents to recount a few of those Moments from my Journey into Adulthood. I know one for sure, though, because in that Moment I hokey-pokeyed outside of my all-about-me bubble just long enough to hear the satisfaction in my mom’s voice.

It was the fall of 1986 and I was in my first few weeks of college. I didn’t have a job yet so I was relying entirely on the Bank of Mom and Dad to finance my education, food, and fun. In high school, I had had jobs and a checking account and a few monthly bills, so the three of us (I think) were confident I could handle living within my monthly budget. At least I was confident, because I was 18 and knew everything. Well, everything except how to clean a toilet but that’s another tale.

I had run out of the food my parents had kindly stocked me up with before they drove the big rental van away from my dorm. The time had come for me to do my very first solo trip to the grocery store.

Of course I had been to the store by myself many times. But never had I been to buy food only for me, food that I needed to turn into meals somehow (my dorm was actually an on-campus apartment with a kitchen. Being the Master Chef that I am, I ate a lot of spaghetti and Kool-Aid.).

I went to the store armed with a list of essentials, stuff I always had a home and figured were critical for survival. You know, like paper towels and fancy-pants bottled water.

Without bothering to look at prices, I loaded up my shopping cart and felt all adulty as I prepared to write a check at the cash register. Imagine my throat-lumped shock when the total for my first week of shopping added up to nearly my entire food budget for the whole month! I had no idea what I had done wrong, and I wasn’t about to put anything back on the shelves, so I shakily wrote the check and escaped Safeway before anyone saw the tears.

Comparing notes with new friends and a later return to the store with eyes on the little price thingys, I came to some startling conclusions. For instance, no college student has any business buying paper towels when a washable rag will do just fine. Huh. Go figure!

Another discovery was so revolutionary, I just had to call home to share it.

“MOM! I went grocery shopping the other day and OH MY GOD…New York Seltzers are SO EXPENSIVE!”

“Yes. I know.”

I can still hear her knowing, self-satisfied tone with just a touch of HALLELUJAH in the background. It was the Moment when I finally had an inkling of how much some of my little indulgences cost, and that they were actually indulgences and not necessities.

My dad and I loved soft drinks and when cute little bottles of flavored seltzer water appeared in the mid-1980s, I just had to try them. I ended up loving them and always put them in the grocery cart, never paying any attention to the price but often wondering why they came in 4-packs instead of 6-packs like everything else. I am sure my mom knew that even in the smaller quantity, the fancy water from NYC was still more expensive than teaching the world to sing.

Well, finally, I knew it too so that was the last time I bought New York Seltzers in the adorable little glass bottles with spongey Styrofoam labels featuring ‘80s-style art deco graphics. I never bought the drinks again because my budget wouldn’t allow it. And then, at some point, they drifted away, much like “Square Pegs,” never to be seen again.

Until now.

I guess because all good trends repeat themselves every 30 years, Wayfarer Ray-Ban sunglasses and New York Seltzer are back!!

Thanks to a friend who works at a local beverage distributor (hi, Pam!), I got early intel that my beloved drink of the ‘80s was making a triumphant return. It’s a slow roll-out across the country and for some reason that I am not questioning, the Portland Metro is among the first areas to get the flavored bubbly goodness. Go us!

Last week I hurried to one of the Authorized Dealers and prepared to load up my fridge with all my favorite flavors. Raspberry! Vanilla Cream! Black Cherry! Fine, I’ll even try the Peach!

I got a big cart and even brought Rob along to help lift the cases I planned to buy. But then…this:

Seriously?!? 98 cents per bottle? Per 10 OUNCE bottle? Do you know how expensive that is??

And wait, look at the nutrition label (did they even have those in the ‘80s? Cuz I sure wasn’t looking.). It’s got cane sugar in it, which I prefer over the chemically stuff, but 130 calories for my Vanilla Cream? 130 calories?!? For 10 ounces?!? Do you know how fattening that is??

For some reason – perhaps because I drink a lot of zero-calorie water of the plain and slightly flavored variety – I was expecting my New York Seltzer to be pretty low calorie. Like zero. I don’t remember it being particularly sweet…but I was a teenager and Screaming Yellow Zonkers and Ding Dongs didn’t strike me as particularly sweet either.

So even though I now gratefully have a sufficient monthly food budget to allow for a nice stash of New York Seltzer, I chose to limit myself to just 2 bottles of each flavor. Mostly out of nostalgia and because I could.

Even so, I cringed at the check-out stand because $11.76 for a 12-pack of soda – even the fabulously not-terribly-sweet (news flash from a 47-year old: oh, yes it is!) bubbled beverage of my youth – is craaaaazy.

And so New York Seltzers shall remain a sweet indulgence, the lessons from That Moment in 1986 still learned and embraced.

And my parents (and more my husband) all say “HALLELUJAH!”