Notes from the Red Bird House

I met my sister for the first time when I was somewhere north of forty and she was a couple days shy of fourteen years older. We knew each other as children - there are plenty of Easter pictures to prove it - but back then I was just a tyke hugging a pink bunny and she was an awkward teen in gratuitously colored plaid bell-bottoms. Those weekends had to be trying for her. Time with her dad and his new much younger family couldn't have been much fun. Add in the drive to LA from Vegas and I know I'd have pitched a fit at sixteen. Life went on. I grew up; my sister started a family and eventually got a PhD from UNLV. Our fourteen year age difference was a big deal through most of those years. After a Southwest road trip the Spring Break I turned eight, we saw each other just one time. I happened to be in Las Vegas for a tennis tournament my sophomore year of college and Pam, my then-brother-in-law, and toddler nephew (he recently turned thirty) came to watch. After that, nothing...

In the past week, I've noticed something. Twice. Ok, it's not like it was some kind of revelation. No, on the contrary, I've seen it before, bemoaned it before. Maybe it's because the women in question are virtually my age. Maybe it's because I've found them both insanely attractive in the past. Maybe it's because I watched the movie and TV show they were featured in specifically because they were in the cast only to be disappointed. Not by anything even remotely related to their performances; they've always been good at what they do and still are. Sadly, I heard myself sigh as I shook my head ruefully. Man, that was totally unexpected. Though, in reality, that part is my fault. I probably should have seen it coming. What? Age? Come on, Stacee, you can't be that shallow. Hold on. I may be shallow but I'm not that shallow. There is nothing wrong with aging. Hell, I see it every time I look in the mirror. And, if I do say so myself, I'm bett...

I thought of a zillion cool things to write about on my run this morning. Now, sitting here waiting for new brakes to be installed on my Ford Fiesta, I'm at a near loss. Near loss because words are actually getting written. Small victory. Bigger victory? That morning run. It's November in Austin, Texas. When I planned the run - my weekly long run - earlier in the week (It is half marathon season and long runs, at least for me, don't just happen .), the advanced forecast said it would be in the upper sixties around sunrise. I can deal with upper sixties. Sort of. Far from my favorite (Trivia - below 50F is my fave), but it wasn't a deal breaker. Mid eighties later in the day? Yeah, screw that. So, anywho, I scheduled the run (with myself) and went on with my week. I woke up early this morning, ate breakfast, watched last night's "Grey's Anatomy", and then checked my weather app. It was 74F with 92% humidity. Did I fail to mention my absolute abhorren...

I wrote this a couple weeks back, on a Friday evening, as I prepared for the second of three legs on my journey to Stockholm, Sweden. I love to travel and I love going new places. Sort of. There is always a moment of uncertainty, just a moment, before I realize that it's going to be ok, That I'm going to be ok. What lies below IS that moment...in writing. ~ The chaos is coming. It always does. I’ll get used to it. Sort of. As best I can. I simultaneously like it and hate it. It unsettles me, makes my stomach churn, my head throb, my heart beat quicken. But it’s only a test. A test that I can pass. A test that inevitably brings out the best in me and makes me stronger. Perhaps one day it will make me more confident. Better able to deal, less likely to worry. I have to acknowledge it, though. Where I am with it. I can feel it creeping in. Houston is still the US, yet its newness to me is off-putting. I try to call it just another airport – I’ve been to quite a few over th...

I'm not your typical travel blogger. Travel bloggers, in my experience, fall into two distinct categories - Luxuristas and Hostel Surfers. Luxuristas seek out high-end places, eat extravagantly, order bottles of wine that exceed the cost of my car payment. Think Michelin Stars, Conde Nast Traveler, spa treatments and you've got 'em pegged. They take a lot of pictures of food and write about the difficulty of obtaining a good Prosecco in while sailing around Corsica. Hostel Surfers are young, wealthy enough to not need jobs to pay back student loans but not pretentious enough (yet) to be a Luxurista (yet). Imagine a Patagonia or North Face backpack, ripped jeans (or cargo shorts depending upon location and season), a scraggly beard (on the dudes), and braided hair (on the gals). Got the picture? They take selfies with locals and write about the social implications of discarded plastic water bottles in developing countries. I am (C) none of the above. I'm middle aged an...

"Lagom är bäst." ~ "Just enough is best" or "Enough is as good as a feast" Lagom is a Swedish term that means "just enough" or "just the right amount". If you've been to IKEA, you might doubt lagom  exists in Sweden, but it's actually an important part of the country's socio-cultural philosophy. Lagom is about eschewing flashiness and extravagance in favor of moderation. It's about stopping short, maintaining harmony, and staying away from extremes. Let's be honest. We can't say that ALL Swedes practice lagom. That would be like saying ALL Americans are assholes. It's a cultural stereotype to some extent, but from my experience in Sweden there's a helluva lot of lagom going on. People are reserved, not keen on idle chit-chat, and drive the speed limit. Alcohol is only sold at government run liquor stores (Systembolaget) that are only open prescribed hours (The rum section at the Systembolaget is an...

My girlfriend went to New Orleans for her birthday [It's probably best if you get over the fact that we travel separately and alone. I've said it many times before - It works for us. It doesn't have to work for you]. By all measures, she had a great time - did the aquarium, listened to music in Jackson Square, got a free drink or two on her birthday, watched NCIS New Orleans being filmed. She came home with an assortment of stories.  And a set of voodoo dolls for me. It wasn't a random gift. I'd hinted that it would be "cool" to have a voodoo doll, especially if it looked like my boss. Who I love. Seriously. My apologies to all the other bosses I've had over the years, but this one's the bomb. Then I added that maybe it would be "fun" to have a set of four - one for each of the big bosses at my big box retail employer. The bosses are all great. I truly enjoy working with them and for them. Still, I thought of voodoo dolls. I've li...