Without music, life would be a mistake”

Friedrich Nietzche

Riding the light rail for the past three years has been an awe-inspiring experience at times. The most recent incident involved a man in his mid-twenties dressed in a sparkling grey beanie, sweatpants appropriately adjusted on his hips, a fire engine red t-shirt, and Adidas slip on sandals with socks nodding and saying, “Hello,” to everyone as he worked his way to a seat on the light rail. Outside of looking to be more dressed for winter than Arizona’s 109 degree weather, he, also, drew attention by carrying 2 bright orange Home Depot plastic buckets with him. This bucket carrying man caused quite a stir with the two children sitting with their mother in the seat in front of him.

The children, were I a State Fair age guru guesser, were 3 and 8 years old. Leaning over the back of their seats, they asked the man what the buckets were for. He told them they were his drums. The children’s faces light up. The little girls told him that she wanted to be a singer when she grew up and the younger boy said he didn’t care what he did as long as he learned to play music. The young man continued his inquiry for several minutes about their dreams and their love of music. Eventually they told him that his buckets didn’t look like drums.

He took the drum sticks out of the bucket and began playing various beats and rhythms. The children, all smiles, bobbed their heads in unison. After a few minutes he stopped and the youngsters, clapping and laughing, pleaded with him to play some more. He would drum a different beat for a few seconds and stop. The kids on cue would ask him to play some more and he would. This enjoyable exchange went on for several stops. At one point he asked if one of them wanted to play his drums, but thankfully they decided they enjoyed listening to him more.

When their mother stood and indicated that it was time to exit the train, the children asked if they could go to just one more stop. The young drummer told them that he uses the train to travel and he would probably see them again soon. The children relented and gave our friend a high-five. He said he hoped to hear a song from the little girl the next time. She blushed and gave him a thumbs up. The man nodded to their mother and said, “Your kids weren’t kidding, they really do love music.”

As a former member of Humboldt State University’s marching band, who advanced from an egg shaker to a bass drummer, I had smile of contentment on my face while I watched this interaction. I appreciated the ease at which the young man was able to bond with the children over their shared love for music.

Moral: 1) Music is important in uniting people. 2) Anything can be a drum. 

“Being happy doesn’t mean that everything is perfect, it means that you’ve decided to look beyond the imperfections.”

Gerard Way

Thank you Da7387 for the following submission. If anyone else has any adventures they would like to share feel free to do so in the comment section below or by emailing zsmisadventures@gmail.com. Enjoy.

What could be better than playing 9 holes of golf every morning before the daily meeting at work? What could be better than playing golf every morning on a Caribbean island with ocean views of paradise at every turn? What could be better than playing with a great group of friends where laughs and good nature kidding followed every shot? And to top it off, you get to play for free.

Well, almost free. After 5 years, I developed a double callus on my right big toe
from the twisting and turning. It wasn’t until five years later that that callus split and became infected.

I was sitting with my leg out stretched on a hospital bed. The doctor’s back blocked my view of his poking and prodding.  It wasn’t until he turned and said,  “I’ll be right back. I need a drain tube,” that I could see the results of his fiddling.

So I sat for half an hour with this pair of scissors jabbed through my great toe. I had enough time to call my wife and daughter.

“The podiatrist sent me over to the ER,” I began. “The doctor here said he was going to insert a drain tube. I’m going to need a ride home.  Bring the camera,” I said hanging up.

Emergency rooms are pretty wide open. Doctors, nurses, interns and an assortment of the sick and wounded mill about. My great toe was a magnet for rubber necks. Most were curious as to how I managed to plunge a pair of scissors into it. Some, I could tell, wanted a closer look. “Yeah,” I would say to them, “it goes all the way through.”

The most memorable line was from the doctor, himself. When he finally returned, he moved around the tools in the tray next to the bed and, finally, said, “Has anybody seen my scissors?”

Moral 1) Don’t be afraid to laugh in the face of despair. 2) Doctors are our friends. 3) Seek medical attention at first signs of abnormalities.

“I am so hot, even my sweat is sweating.”

unknown

Born in Arizona and growing up in Aruba, I am no stranger to living in desert like conditions. While you may fry an egg on the sidewalk in Arizona, Aruba’s average temperature is 88 degrees and, also, quite dry. In other words, I have survived to this day in air conditioned environments.  From house to car and train to office the past few years, is the limit of my expose to death by solar ultraviolet radiation.An exception to my survival routine occurred recently,  when I had a training for work that was an hour drive from home. Leaving my home at 7 AM to attend the training at 8 was an enjoyable temperate time of day. I appreciated the breeze from the AC blowing in my face, as it reminded me of the refreshing Aruban trade winds. I forgot for a second that it was already 100 degrees as I entered the parking lot at 8 that day.

As I walked toward the training office exit doors, I could see a sign out by the street advertising the time at 4 pm and the temperature at 115. The first bead of sweat stained my blouse as I opened my car door. When the door slams shut, your first impression is being enclosed in a preheated oven. The routine is to set the AC fan on high and crack the windows. It’s actually 10 degrees cooler outside so that first blast of 125 degree air is like standing in front of blow torch. If your body can just endure the burning blast of hot air for three minutes, it will slowly become bearable. Within five minutes, you will be back to the comfort of the Aruban trade winds.

I waited for 10 miserable minutes before I called my dad. “My car needs coolant,” I stated forcefully and as a matter of fact. “I’m cooking. My sunglasses are covered in sweat. I cannot see through the rivers running across the lenses,” I cried.

My dad, sitting in the air conditioned comfort of his office and probably enjoying a sip of iced tea said, “Your car is only a year old. I doubt that it needs coolant but I will take a look tonight.”

I began to tell him about the sweat dripping into my eyes and feeling like I had done 2 hours of cardio and then sat in a sauna for a half hour. I could hear the ice cubes clanking in his glass as he said, “Okay. Okay. I’ll check.”

“I’m driving through the winds of hell and you are going to get in and join me for a test ride if I make it,” I cried as I ended the call.

I continued to drive and fiddle with the AC and fan buttons and intermittently rolling up and down the windows. While sitting in my mobile oven at a stop light, I pulled on my wet blouse stuck to my skin and began rolling up my slacks to the knees. It took an instant for me to realize that the air blasting my bare legs was hot and not an indirectly circulated breeze. I was getting killed by a tornado of vent air not coolant lacking AC. In my flurry of button pushing moments upon entering my mobile oven, I accidently turned the AC off and vent air on. I called my mom and we shared a laugh about melting me. I have yet to tell my smarty-pants dad.

Moral:1) Always check the AC. 2) Don’t be afraid to laugh at yourself. 3) You don’t have to share with ‘everyone’.

Feel free to share you stories in the comments below or email to zsmisadventures@gmail.com to possibly be used in later blogs. Happy Labor Day. Stay Whimsical.

“A simple smile. That is the start of opening you heart and being compassionate to others.”

Dalai Lama

In 2004, when I was thinking about which college would fit both my personality and professional goals, I decided to visit my brother, Todd, in Oregon for a break from the real world. I had a few colleges in Oregon that I wanted to check out and he was the perfect person to show me the reasons why Oregon was a great place to live. 

 One of his first ‘must haves’ was great snow during the winter. Just a few hours from Corvallis there is always enough snow for awesome snowboarding days on Mt Hood and around Bend. So he set us up to enjoy the splendors of Mt. Hood. When we arrived the slopes were covered with 10 ft. of packed snow, 18 inches of powder and the sun warmed the pine scented air. I was a little intimidated when he told me we were standing on an active composite volcano, but Todd assured me it would not erupt. He is an active snowboarder and a has a season pass for Timberline, therefore, I thought his judgment must be sound.

Needing to rent equipment, I decided it was a great time to hit the slopes on a board instead of skis. I signed up for an introductory snowboarding class while Todd, the expert, confronted the Black Diamond heavily wooded slopes and jumps. After class, I was trying to decide whether I should call Todd and head up the lift into the great unknown or spend some time on the bunny slope. I finally chose the bunny hill and the challenge of going down facing forward rather than backwards. It is a phenomenon that skiers rarely confront. I found that stopping was easy. Rather than whipping the board around sideways and putting pressure on the uphill edge and, possibly, planting my face in the powder, I could just sit down and eventually stop. After a few error free runs, I was feeling as though I could take on Shawn White, so I went for it. The Terminator, an intermediate hill, was relatively flat except for the last 100 yards that came out of the trees and crossed a steep incline into the lift area. I was surprised how quickly I picked up speed as I came out into the opening in the trees. I was leaving a plume of powder like a jet contrail as I flew toward the lift area. I started to panic as I closed in on the line of people waiting to move up hill. I was going to have to whip the board around and plant the up-hill edge like I refused to practice. If practice makes perfect, then not practicing makes for a disaster. I yelled as I put my hands out to cushion the dreaded face plant but instead, slammed into the arms of a handsome young man totally unprepared for the speed at which we would meet. I landed on top and we slid cuddled together another 10 to 20 yards down the hill. I was so embarrassed, but didn’t want to seem as though I was a beginner unable to stop, so I did what any real professional  would do, I smiled as I lifted my head off his chest and said, “Hi, my name is Linzie. What’s yours?”

We laughed and eventually shared hot coco at the lodge. I insisted I did it to get his attention, not admitting that that’s how I roll.

 Moral: 1) Being a beginner can be a great asset to meeting people.

Please share your stories of trying out new activities either in the comment section below or by emailing zsmisadventures@gmail.com. Have a whimsical day.

“We didn’t even realize we were making memories, we just knew we were having fun.”

Winnie The Pooh

Over the years I have heard a lot of stories about how friends and family met their significant other. What moment they remember thinking….”This is the one I want to share the rest of my life with.” My sister, Serena, was going to a party at a friend’s home wearing jeans and a gothic t-shirt when she spotted Travis across the crowded room. Seeing him dressed in sharply creased Wranglers and a fancy buttoned down western shirt, she turned and headed back home. You don’t live in the western most western town and not have a Sunday-go-to-meeting cowgirl outfit.  Appropriately dressed for the occasion, she joined her future-to-be’s crowd. Six months later they rode off into the sunset together. My friend Kevin, on the other hand, spent days, weeks and months exchanging thoughts, opinions and the minutiae of daily life on line. He knew this was the one before they actually shared the same space.

My parents first date was a ‘this is my last date moment.’ They were set up by mutual friends who were already dating. My mom’s roommate, Katie, told her boyfriend, Don, to bring a decent friend to share dinner. Mom said the word ‘decent’ was specifically used because they both knew Don had a lot of questionable friends. Mom was charged with cooking and from her limited menu of delicacies she decided to fix tacos. Not tacos with rice or tacos with refried beans, but just simply tacos. Mom dressed in her finest apron opened the door welcoming Don and dad. When my parents first locked eyes on their introduction, my mom knew he was the one for her. She can’t describe it, she just knew. My dad on the other hand was a bit slower on the uptake. He remembers approaching the table and seeing 50 tacos standing at attention on a strip of paper towels that stretched the length of the table. In front of each chair was a paper plate, a napkin and a bottle of Dos Equis plugged with a lime. Dad was studying minimalism in architectural school and thought mom had hit the nail on the head. Nearing his twelfth taco, mom, with sheer delight, remembers him saying, “These are the best tacos I have ever had, I love this woman.”

Taco power lives on. To this day my parents laugh whenever mom makes tacos. She has upped her game and now includes a side of refried beans. I have yet to cook tacos for any man I have dated, because once I do, our fates will be sealed.

Moral: 1) Sometimes you just know you are meant to be with someone. 2) Only fix Tacos for someone that you are willing to share your life with because there is no going back.

Feel free to share your memories of meeting your love either in the comments below or emailing zsmisadventures@gmail.com.

“Hard times don’t create heroes. It is during the hard times when the “hero” within us is revealed.”

Bob Riley

On Saturday morning, as I was laying in my lair surrounded by ASU plush paraphernalia, contemplating whether to start one of the many Herculean tasks of adulthood, such as laundry, I decided to go on a mini adventure to escape the monotony of those earthly duties. I overheard that there was a cause that might need my attention and that timing was of the essence. I got up, chugged my hazelnut coffee and made sure to eat every last lucky charm for the added power. I was dressed in my yellow Good Vibes T-Shirt and black shorts. I slipped on my pink flower-power flip flops and was off to conquer the world.

I entered the secret code to briefly expose my lair to the outside world, then stepped out into the unknown. As I strode out, I heard the continuous churning and clacking noises of a heavily armored machine slowly making its way towards me looking for it’s next meal. I knew I had mere minutes to accomplish this mission. Fail and my lair might become overrun with rodents. This was not a fate I was willing to settle for.

I turned to free Mr. Blue from his entrapment. He would be safe and feel relieved once the machine was able to devour his insides. Mr. Blue did not agree. We had a tug-of-war battle as I attempted to free him. I remember thinking that I only had seconds to complete my mission. So I gave Mr. Blue one last power jerk, with all the super power strength a bowl of Lucky Charms could muster. My maneuver was so physically precise that Mr. Blue actually became airborne for a split second and landed with the perfect motion of a sledgehammer on my toe.

I screamed and cursed the villains of the universe. Mr. Blue feeling sorry for his actions, apologized in his own way. He let me swiftly limp with him to the curb. I let go just as the angry machine stopped, its arm shot out grabbing Mr. Blue, and with one ferocious motion lifted, dumped and slammed him back to earth.

While retelling the saga to my father, he just smiled and shook his head, ” You and your flip flops. This is why we always wear real shoes, even when taking out the trash.”

Moral: 1) A toe can break if run over by a Recycling Trash container. 2) Flip flops are not a substitution for safety shoes.

Please feel free to follow and share your own courageous tales in the comment section below or email to zsmisadventures@gmail.com to possibly be used in a future blog post. If you have any ideas of what adventure my mother and I can do together that I can document in this blog, please let me know in the comment section below. Thank you. Stay Whimiscal.

If you accept your misfortune and handle it right, your perceived failure can become a catalyst to profound reinvention.”

Conan O’Brien

Recently, I attended a training seminar on improving cross departmental communication skills. About half way through the morning session we had to change classrooms because the AC was not working. In an Arizona summer, it would be like continuing the class in an oven. You wouldn’t sweat, you would cook. After hours of purposeful discussion about what makes an effective communicator, we broke for lunch. A few of my co-workers opted to explore the local eateries, while others like myself had brought our lunch and would remain within the air conditioned building compound.

After the group with red cheeks and damp skin walked in and took their seats and sighed, the instructor asked: “How was lunch?”

Usually this question is met with responses of, “Good”,  “I am now ready for a nap,” or “Eh, I’ve had better.” This particular afternoon prompted a head turning response, “Someone fell on my car and, no, I did not hit him. You want to see the dash camera video for proof?”

“Yeah,” was the group response.

While our classmate reached for her purse and rummaged for her phone, she described her eventful lunch. She stated that she had parked in front of Church’s Chicken and decided to put her windshield sun shade up on the car. It’s something Arizonans do to keep their steering wheel from melting. She was just about to open the door when she heard a loud thud. She immediately peeled back the sun shade to see a man slide off the hood of her car. She said she was startled by what happened and was happy to see that several patrons were already surrounding him and one motioned for her to back up. As she backed up to give them more room and saw them sit him up and give him a glass of water to drink.

She parked, observed her hood and was pleased to see that no dent resulted. After, she returned to the growing crowd to see if any further help was needed. She heard people surmise that he had passed out due to dehydration. He was drinking water while waiting for the paramedics to check him over. Another patron told her that he had a backpack on and was able to land on it and not his head when he slid off the hood and onto the concrete curb. So the backpack may have saved him for severe head trauma. The class was spellbound by the video footage.

After she was done telling us about her lunch, everyone remained on the edge of their seats as laughter erupted, when another coworker asked, “That was your car?” She had seen the whole incident and confirmed that person did indeed keel over and slammed his head on the hood of her car. “Thought he was dead the way he slithered to the ground,” she added. She reported that the man appeared a bit shaken up and was taken by the paramedics to the hospital for further testing.

My response to the “How was lunch?” question might have been, “Messy.”

The plastic veil covering My Teriyaki Bowl tore off while in transit and dumped the contents all over the interior of my colorful new Galactic lunch satchel. Bottles of water and a container of apple sauce were covered in rice and teriyaki sauce. Parts of chicken were stuck in the zipper and the chocolate chip cookie did not look inviting. So I spent my lunchtime laughing as I tried not to scream about my unfortunate situation while cleaning up the gooey mess. After watching the Church’s Chicken Fiasco, my ‘Oh, Woe is me’ lunch time was a waste of woefulness.

Moral: 1) Stay hydrated. 2) As long as no one passes out on your vehicle during lunch, it’s a good lunch. 3) Being present for a stranger in a time of need, can make a difference.

Please share your lunch time stories in the comments or email zsmisadventures@gmail.com and those stories may be shared in future blogs.

“Choose to be optimistic, it feels better.”

Unknown

I have had the pleasure of riding the light rail to and from work for almost 3 years. I was originally drawn to riding the light rail because it meant I did not have to deal with five lanes of traffic moving at 35 miles per hour and the one driver darting from lane to lane hoping to get to work 2 minutes earlier than the other 2,000 people headed the same way. I was looking forward to having more time to relax and silently mediate while I prepared myself for the work day ahead. I was thrilled at the possibility of meeting people and making friends, maybe even meeting my ‘Prince Charming’. I later found out that the light rail, while a wonderful form of transportation, is not a place to meet a Prince. It is a place where stories begin.

An unintended consequence of riding the light rail is that I have formed stronger bonds with coworkers. Our first conversation over morning coffee are my “Tales of the Rail.” I have enjoyed getting to know a few of the daily commuters who fit the personality and uniqueness range of the characters on Seinfeld. The light rail is a mini daily adventure that I would not trade for anything.

While most days the trips consist of sitting on a train in silence as everyone is looking at their phones, listening to music, or napping, some trips, however, are a kaleidoscope of scenes from movies that leave me pondering relationships, values, and the imperfections of the human mind.

One such eyeopener happened the first week on the rail. I walked into the front of the train wearing my green power suit, 5 inch heels, and a smile from ear to ear as I had just locked sights on the last seats in the back of the train facing the direction of travel. No riding backwards I remember thinking as I slid into the seat. My second thought concerned why does my butt feel wet. As I lowered my head, I began to theorize, “I bet I just sat in water, what else could it be.” As I scooted towards the aisle, a familiar odor started to rise in the air. With my senses on high alert, the whiff my brain interpreted was not of water but of urine. I immediately launched upward. A few people asked why I had jumped out of my seat. They were not surprised when I told them I sat in a puddle of pee. While they were aware of the odor coming from my direction, they just weren’t sure which of the two seats it was on.

My unspoken reply, “Thanks for the warning.”  

I found a spot to stand against the wall furthest from the passengers. I texted a friend of mine, Roy, who told me that I should feel relieved that I was on my way home from work and not going there. Good friends always put a positive spin on the most repulsive situations. I laughed at his efforts. I put lotion on all exposed skin and sprayed cologne over the rest in an effort to ward off the loathsome thoughts of any new boarding travelers.

As soon as I got home I put on disposable latex gloves and peeled off my clothes. Holding my green power suit between thumb and forefinger for the last time, I walked straight to our portable dumpster. The sickening thoughts were a part of the clothing and I am more comfortable with ‘out of sight, out of mind.’

The first week on the light rail taught me to ‘Look before you Plop.’ It strengthened a bond with a coworker when I asked her to smell me one morning when I came into work. A gentleman sitting behind me on the light rail appeared to have poop on his head and, it was possible, that I too might smell like feces. She assured me that I did not. While relieved, I still put on little spritz of Eau de Parfum.

Moral: 1) Humor lessens the power of revulsion. 2) Cherish those who are willing to smell you. 3) Look before you plop.

I would love to hear your transportation adventures. Please share in the comments below or email them to zsmisadventures@gmail.com. They might be used in future blogs.

“It is funny how sometimes you don’t see the obvious things coming. You think you know what life has in store for you. You think you are prepared. You think you can handle it. And then boom, like a thunder clap, something comes at you out of nowhere and catches you off guard.”

Cynthia Hand

One of my favorite memories of growing up on a Caribbean island, besides spending most of my days soaking up sun on the beach, was having family come to visit. I enjoyed escorting them on a boat ride to our resort’s private island, lounging on the white sandy beach and jetting them across the deep blue teal waters on a jet ski. I enjoyed seeing their faces when they realized that Aruba was not a tropical island, but instead more like the desert areas of North Scottsdale, Arizona.

My Grandma Claire and Aunt Roni came to experience our island tour of 1996. The first day of our family tour starts on the western end of the island at the always windy California Lighthouse, where we had our annual kite flying contest. We travel from there across the desert where I point out the uniqueness of the only bush or live vegetation within sight. While guests are awe struck at the barrenness, my dad will note that this is where he taught me to drive. He always adds, “And she ran over this bush. The only darn thing sticking up out of the dirt for a square mile.” We then go to enjoy the beauty and wonder of The Natural Bridge. The Natural Bridge was naturally formed by limestone. It was about 25 feet high and 100 feet long. (1.) It unfortunately collapsed in 2005.

From the bridge we head to the Casibari Rock Formations. After climbing around on the rock clusters which are high enough to get a 360 degree view of the island, we were intent on driving through Frenchman’s Pass on our way to Baby Beach.  Frenchman’s Pass was the source of a unique childhood memory.  A year earlier at this little clearing in the trees we come across two stray kittens. One ran away when we stopped, the other came to check me out. We instantly bonded and I cuddled with her all the way home. Frenchy was my first pet and an international traveler.

This trip with my grandmother through Frenchman’s pass felt more like an action thriller than a stroll through memory lane. As we came to the small clearing in the tunnel of trees spanning the road, it started to appear to us that we were not the only ones occupying this very isolated and confining dell. One by one men with machine guns started to come out from behind the trees and bushes that were surrounding us. One of the men started to walk up to the car.  This was when I started to hatch a plan to escape capture, my Aunt clinched her purse to her chest, and my brother shouted, “Take my grandmother, I’m too young to die.”

My grandmother in a solemn and calm voice announced, “There are men all around us.” And after a pause to catch her breath, she continued, “and they have guns.”

My mother did a car chase maneuver only completed on TV by professional stunt drivers. The engine roared in reaction to her flooring the gas pedal, the tires spun in anger throwing rocks and dirt in all directions as the car whipped around in a half circle and launched us out of the clearing while covering the armed stranger in a blanket of dust. I remember my mom yelling as we cleared the tunnel of trees, “That is where we got Frenchie.”

After returning home we explained to my dad the near death experience we just had. He just looked at us and laughed. He was kind enough to inform us that the Dutch Marines were conducting maneuvers around Frenchmen’s Pass that day. It appears that the information was spread through word of mouth, but missed us.  

The next day the three ladies were walking along the beach while I was at school. In the distance they spotted what looked like a battalion of men coming towards them. The earth seemed to vibrate beneath their feet as the long file of Marines ran by them. Only an older man with sandy brown hair glance in their direction. Mom said that my grandmother put her hand over her mouth and whispered, “And they have guns.”

Moral: 1) Mom’s instinctively know how to protect their young. 2) Make sure you pass on tidbits of information when men with guns are around.

Sources:

1.  en.m.wikipedia.org

Please feel free to share your travel stories in the comment section or email me at zsmisadventures@gmail.com to have your story possibly referenced in a future blog. Don’t forget to hit the follow button if you enjoyed this blog.