Unlike my dog, I'm not a bitch. (Lindsay)

We had a number of goals when we created this road trip.  The obvious ones were to see new places, spend quality time together (preferably without murdering each other) and to give ourselves the space and freedom to create a new lifestyle.  But deep down, what we really wanted was solitude.  Hours, days, even weeks of peace and quiet.  But why is so much down time so important to us? 

One word: Introvert.

Introverts get a bad rap.  We are considered stuck up, shy, antisocial and almost never pick up the phone.  Well, as a medically diagnosed introvert (because I took a survey this one time), I'm here to tell you a bit more about how introverts really function so you extroverts out there can better embrace those who probably drive you crazy.

Here are some alternative definitions to ponder:

• Extroverts seek "breadth" of knowledge and influence, while introverts seek "depth" of knowledge and influence.
• Extroverts often prefer more "frequent" interaction, while introverts prefer more "substantial" interaction.
• Extroverts recharge and get their energy from spending time with people, while introverts recharge and get their energy from spending time alone.

As a proud introvert, I agree with all of these definitions.  Going to the mall is my version of hell - fluorescent lighting, random people, crowds - I need a nap just looking at the outside of one.  (an unintended positive consequence of this attitude is I rarely shop and therefore, can afford this road trip :).  I yawn in bars and in meetings and contrary to the fact that I can easily sleep 12 hours a night, it's not because I'm tired.  It's because I'm losing my ability to function.  Sitting alone on my porch with a book and animals who don't speak = bliss.  And when I finally cultivate that moment and my phone unexpectedly rings, I fill with rage even if it's a call from someone I love. 

A friend of mine once complained that I never picked up the phone when she called. I finally told her it wasn't personal - she just always called when I had gotten home from work and that was my time to "sit and stare".    I even quit my role as a volunteer for a domestic violence hot line not because I didn't care fully for the cause but because I would get angry when the phone rang - a reaction you probably shouldn't have when helping others in a crisis.  Instead, I took on another role at the organization where I could give of myself when I was prepared to instead of randomly in the middle of the night.

The biggest misconception is that introverts are socially awkward and shy.  As my friends can attest to and as shown by multiple pictures on my FB page, this doesn't appear to always be the case.  In fact, I wouldn't be successful in my field if this were true.  But let me tell you, it can be draining to develop those skills - to force yourself into conversations with random people for a cause.   The difference between extroverts and introverts is usually quality over quantity.  I don't want or need many friends - what I want are quality relationships where the focus is no longer on small talk.  Don't get me wrong.  I appreciate meeting new people and seeing what they have to offer but I invest in the awkward "dating" phase only in the hopes that the relationship will move to the next level.  (aka hours of discussion around human overpopulation and prisoner recidivism)

I had found that after seven years in the animal welfare field, I had "burned out".  What a cliche.  Except in my case, I wasn't bitter about euthanasia and didn't feel hatred toward pet owners (in fact, I continue to advocate for pet owners who must turn to shelters).  I simply fizzled out after talking to so many people day in and day out and two week vacations were no longer enough to let me recover from my very extroverted job.  I still wasn't returning to work feeling "normal" and energized.  So we built a trip to help us reset.  I picked another equally introverted partner and our introverted dog and we spend most of our hours in silence (with the occasional heated debate around the use of medications for acute pain).

And speaking of my beloved Keira, I have a theory that shelters would create better matches with to-be-pet-parents if we took the introversion/extroversion scale more seriously for both our shelter animals and the humans.  I lost count of the number of times I heard from an extrovert, "he's just not affectionate enough for me" or from an introvert, "he follows me around constantly and it's driving me crazy".  I might even go out on a limb and make an assumption that introverted owners likely prefer aloof and independent pets and extroverted owners prefer needier and affectionate animals.  And I'd even go a step farther and say that extroverted owners are more sensitive to a pet who doesn't seem to "like them".  Oh, the number of times I tried to convince an extroverted owner that the cat was just taking a nap and would warm up in a home or the aloof dog would be an excellent pet for their kids but in the end, I was just projecting my introverted preferences onto them and I would have saved us all a bit of time if I had just put them in the room with the needy Bassett Hound.

Keira never got the memo that Golden Retrievers are expected to be the extroverted breed and she tends to stare off into space whenever someone asks to pet her.  Just the other day a nice man asked if he could pet her and I agreed.  She was fairly disinterested so he took her head in his hands and forced eye contact.  I should have known the overly extroverted man wouldn't get enough from her simple cues of affection - lucky for him she's quite social and chose not to correct him for his completely rude gesture but I told everyone else on that walk that she was tired when they asked to pet her.

Keira after a blissfully introverted afternoon.

So why is this such an important issue for me?  Because society finds introverts odd and sometimes hard to be around and I'm here to tell the extroverts that we're a damn good time, especially after many days of trail running and reading (and a few glasses of wine).  And to tell the introverts to create some boundaries, unapologetically shut off your phone for three days and bask in the contentedness that surrounds you.

(This blog has been written from a secure location in Maine and will remain so until we are well on our way to another secure location in Canada.)

"They do not consider that the wood-path and the boat are my studio, where I

maintain a sacred solitude and cannot admit promiscuous company -

Ask me for a certain number of dollars if you will, but do not ask me for my afternoons"

Thoreau

 

Foiled again! (Lindsay)

Okay, okay.  So we didn't technically start roughing it in the camper.  We tried.  I swear.  I did laundry and took a long shower.  I shaved for no reason.  But Tuesday morning rolled around and the truck people called and said they still had no idea what was causing the issue that we'd given them six days to fix.  We sat down and fumed.  Went through all the "what if we do this" and "what if the truck dies and we have to end the roadtrip" crap and then we stood up, put our big boy pants on and hiked Mount Monadnock. 

It was a rage hike.  Forget peaceful serenity and meditation.  We were pissed.  Luckily we were able to give birth to our rage baby after about 2.5 miles when we realized that trying to summit in the pouring rain probably wouldn't help our mood.  (That's the beauty of getting outside.  You sweat out all the rage and there isn't enough energy left to be annoyed.)

Back at the house, (owned by the ever patient and long suffering of our presence faux in-laws) we brainstormed all kinds of options and finally landed on "screw them, we'll just go on our trip without the truck".  So I reserved a cabin in the Adirondacks for three nights, we picked up the loaner and headed north.

It started off well.  If nothing else, it felt good to just be on the road.  Our first stop was a farm near Manchester, VT.  Jim had read a book called "The Good Life" a few months back and after some research and begging, we were given an invitation to tour the property with the new owners.  (I use the term "new" loosely as they've lived there 40+ years but they aren't the owners from the book.)  The full center is in Maine - www.goodlife.org - so it took some finagling to see the original property in VT.  The new owners are in their 70's and about to sell the property.  They had wonderful stories and a really cute foxhound who I doted on.

 Their home, built by hand in the 40's.

 

The view from their master bedroom.

All in all a wonderful afternoon.

But then this happened:

Let me explain.  So we pulled into the campground and the friendly camp associate led us to our abode.  Apparently her definition of "cabin" and mine are very different.  This cabin was sans windows and had glorious portions of mouse poop throughout.  Now, I'm no girly girl - I can handle feces with the best of them but when you're already irritated because you didn't get what you wanted and you're paying a decent price to live in filth, the likelihood of mental breakdown starts to rise.  As an upgrade there was a broken toilet in the "loft".  But Jim, always the engineer, pulled out the tarps from under the bed and proceeded to staple them to all the windows.  (he's so romantic)

So we resigned ourselves to a very cold night and started planning our escape.  But then Thursday morning rolled around and the truck guys called with an update.  They had miraculously fixed the truck.  That's great guys.  Exactly 24 hours after we left, you have solved the problem.  Woohoo!  So we explain that we are in NY and won't be back until the following week to pick it up.  But noooo, they need their loaner back.  Cue rage baby #2.  We went back and forth for about 30 minutes about whether to just drive back to NH or not and finally decided to enjoy the two days of beautiful weather, make the truck people come get the loaner and spend another two nights in the Deliverance Cabin, Jr.

But then something funny happened.  We were rewarded for giving in:

Pharaoh Mountain

Pharaoh Lake

Absolutely gorgeous hike to the top of a mountain which brought us to a lake in the middle of the Adirondacks.  We promptly dove in and I screeched like a girl when the fish started eating my toes.  (so much for not being a girly girl) 

And this:

Me and my Mom

Met up with my mom in Lake Placid for some real restaurant food (hello 4,000 calories in one sitting...followed by fudge...)  We haven't seen each other in many months so it was great to catch up.  Being the best mom in the world, she put us up in a real hotel room - mouse feces optional. 

Keira says, "thanks Grandma!"

And the point of this blog, my dear friends, is this:  Expectations.  They rip the lifeblood out of any experience.  You set goals, you daydream, you plan and then the universe steps in with its own ideas.  If you shut up long enough and surrender (my yoga teacher's word, not mine), you just might meet some amazing people, find a beautiful vista and cultivate your own spontaneous reunion.

I would normally end this blog with something like, "and we're headed back to NH to move into the camper and head south for a wedding" but instead I'm going to say, "I have no f'ing clue what we'll be doing next week and I can't wait to find out."

"A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.”

Lao Tzu

Well, I GUESS we'll start roughin' it (Lindsay)

It's been three and a half weeks since my last confession.  (wait a minute...)  Oh right, three and a half weeks since we began this crazy idea.  But it's time for me to come clean.  The "we're so cool, we won't shower ever and we're living in a tiny camper" facade has been a bit untrue.  Okay, it's a complete web of lies.  Because we've showered every day in real showers and been living in large houses with access to cookies and cheese since we began.

It's not all our fault.  I mean, who turns down a beautiful condo in the White Mountains, a guest room at the faux in-laws or a random couch in upstate New York just to live in our own space that we paid considerable money to own? 

We feel a bit guilty leaving camper-y in a field alone this entire time but there were mountains to hike and hot showers to take and fetuses (feti?) to celebrate.  And speaking of, when did THIS happen?

  (I'm eating mac and cheese out of a cup. I told you I was roughing it.)

This is my very best friend, Lindsey, and she's well, carrying something inside of her.  Time will only tell what it is.  It was only yesterday when I was pulling her hair while the 4th grade class watched some sad movie about a dog or a deer or something.  She started crying because said movie was, well, sad but the teacher thought she was crying because I was bullying her so I got in trouble.  I loathed Lindsey back then.  But in 5th grade, we suddenly realized we had the same name and everything was butterflies and rainbows.  (apparently I required much less in my early friendships than I do now)

We've been together through all the boyfriends, bad decisions and horrible apartments. I've held her hair back so many times, I don't even have to look at her anymore to find it.  We used to pee our pants from laughing almost every week and now she pees her pants because the feti is pushing against her bladder.  (I must admit, this is a fun new game)  We used to talk for three hours every evening after school and once we solved world peace and then promptly forgot the answer.  We still think it has something to do with green beans.

And this man had something to do with the new growth.

 I love that Lindsey has a cracker in her hand and Kim looks bewildered.

This is Kim.  Kim and I met as freshman in college.  He was drunk and I was crying (unrelated causes) and we were both working at a food co-op in the basement of a sketchy dorm.  (while drunk and crying).  I won't share many stories about Kim because he will find me and threaten my life.  Or he'll send one of his 98 brothers to do the dirty work for him.  In fact, I'm keeping most of the stories secret so I can tell his daughter them instead.  Auntie Hammy has soooooo many good stories to share with this new creature.  "Sure I'll babysit guys.  Let me tell you about the time Kim and I hitchhiked back from Northampton with your Uncle Tristan."  Mwa ha ha. 

But apparently the proof is in the pudding or, in this case, the uterus, and we are, in fact, old.  So Lindsey and Kim will give birth to their little girl while I give birth to my rage baby on the road.

Which brings me back to my original point.  The boy, Keira and I are finally setting out with camper-y tomorrow.  We don't have a reservation and we won't have electricity.  (I still don't understand how the toilet works.)  We're going to hike up one side of Vermont and down the other side of the Adirondacks over the next ten days.  And I promise.

This time - we will smell. 

"An old friend will help you move. A good friend will help you move a dead body. "
Jim Hayes

I'm really not a bitch. Well, technically I am. (Keira)

I'm still not quite sure what's going on lately but whatever it is, it's pretty cool.  We've moved into this awesome house near the mountains and suddenly mom and dad don't care if I'm on the furniture.  Although I'm hesitant to think it will last since they still seem to be pulling stuff out of bags. My mom is super anal so I would think we would have unpacked everything if we were staying.  But for now, things are great so I'm going with the flow.

Except one thing.  There are dogs - like, everywhere we go.  Mom says I can be a bit of a sorority girl when it comes to other dogs.  I don't know what she's talking about.  I mean, sure it's all fun and games until one of those bitches gives me a dirty look.  Who do they think they are anyway?  I'm blond and beautiful and I won't put up with their crap.  Don't get your pants in a bunch - I've never actually hurt one.  But boy oh boy, can I make a show of it.  My mom tells me I've helped her get over her fear of dog fights because the ones I've had are impressively loud but when I'm done, there's only drool on the other dog,  (Not that I've been in that many fights.  Sheesh, if those girls would just stay away from the things I like, there wouldn't be any trouble.)

Now those big boys we've met.  I could get used to them.  They swarm around me like moths to a flame; who can blame them really, with these eyes?  I pretend I don't care but some of them are just soooo cute.  In fact, the bigger the head, the better, I always say.

The lucky few allowed to be in my presence.

 

 

Me giving Charles Dickens a hard time.  I really made him work for it.

But even with the snotty girls, I'm trying to be nicer.  I even met another bitchy girl off leash on the trail the other day and didn't take her head off.  Must be all those silly classes we took where I was supposed to leave the other dogs alone - no fun!  My mom got all squeaky telling me what a good girl I was - gosh, she can be soooo mortifying.  But the bitchy, small ones - seriously, you're going to start crap with me when I could squash you?  The meanest one we ever met, mom just scooped me up and held me in her arms until the twit's owner came to get her.  Kind of embarassing when she does that (like when your mom keeps pulling on your jeans to see if they fit).  But sometimes I get to win - like on the beach last week when the off-leash dachshund took one look at me and literally turned the other way and left.  Her owner had to walk back and get her.  I hadn't even seen her yet and couldn't get to her anyway (stupid leash) but she knew I was bad ass. 

 

Mom calls this "management". Happens when there are too many other girls around.

I don't see what the big deal is.  I mean, just because I want girl friends who actually understand I'm the prom queen and bow to my every demand doesn't mean I'm unrealistic.  But the boys...oh, the boys can do just about anything and I'll keep teasing them.  Well, within reason that is.  I am still a lady afterall.

 

Rainy day rant (Jim)

This weekend Mother Nature has chosen to crap on our hearts and send rain all up in our business.  While in the past I would not let this deter me from mountain hiking, in my new 'mild' incarnation I seem to have less interest, especially since I have had such easy access to great hikes the last couple of weeks.  It is all good, because my legs appreciate the day off and now Lindsay has the chance to catch up on her hobby: unnecessarily covering pets with blankets and sleeping on them:

Lindsay catching up on her obsessive pet covering / napping

I have prematurely obliterated my reading list and the only thing I have left is Stephen Hawking's The Grand Design and I am not that desperate yet.  I'm not sure my brain could actually handle him right now.

I cannot handle you right now, sir.

And so I find myself motivated to post my first condescending douchebag blog of the trip.  It is somewhat topical but I have been mentally putting this rant together for a couple years now.  Whose ready to get pissed off???

Here it is.  This will feel good to get off my chest.

FUCK motorcycle culture.  More specifically, fuck Harley Davidson.

Seriously.  Fuck you.

It is Laconia Bike week, and in our brief trip in the rain to run errands today we saw multiple 'hardcore' bikers, wrapped up in rain gear up for a mountain road tour.  I'm sure they are big brave men, from the stereotypical facial hair visible on their too-tough-to-wear-a-helmet faces.  Having lived and worked in Laconia, I had every reason to succumb to the siren call of this macho sub-culture, but fortunately I was able to keep an objective view.

What do I have against Harleys?  Well, first of all they are unnecessarily loud.  Like, ear splittingly loud, and as someone who enjoys running and cycling on roads I do not appreciate having my ears rung by douchebags who think exhaust decibels gives them more testosterone.  And no, it does not make you safer, it just makes you an asshole.  Wear a helmet if you want to be safe, dipshit, or drive a car.

Second, they are only popular because of snob appeal.  Yes, I know, they appeal and market primarily to a blue collar base, but at the end of the day it is a luxury brand peddling a mediocre product but demanding a premium price.  Harley is the Apple of the motorcycle industry.

Third, the brand community they foster.  Me big Harley man.  Me have goatee.  Me smoke and chew.  Me have generic barbed wire and Celtic cross tattoo.  Me woman have tramp stamp and fake tan.  Me have beer belly but its only because I don't care what you think.  Shut up.  You look like a walrus wearing Cat Woman's costume and there is nothing tough or manly about it.

Fourth, the biker community does not even know it is being exploited.  Living in NH, I kind of dig the libertarian vibe and I was almost once such a douchebag that I contemplated getting a Live Free or Die tattoo....in Latin.  Just blew your mind, huh?  I only didn't do it because I didn't fully trust Google Translate.  Liberos vivere, aut mori.  Does it mean "Live Free or Die?"  Or "I have a cat in my pants?"  I don't know, I'm not a linguist.  Anyways.  The point is, biker culture is supposed to be all about being free and don't tread on me and all that bullshit, but really it is about being manipulated into going into debt to drive a big fat motorcycle.  It's not freedom, unless you define freedom as giving massive amounts of money to a corporation whose customers are the shareholder, not the biker.  Harley is not owned by Biker Bob, but a CEO with an eight figure annual compensation just like any other corporation.

I'm HOG CEO Keith Wandell, thanks for your money, you ignorant manipulated fuck!

Fifth, their image is just wrong.  Why is it tough or manly to ride a motorcycle?  The only thing tough about riding a motorcycle is wearing leather in the summer.  If you want to be tough, ride an actual bike and train to ride it 100 miles.   If you had to guess the tougher man between one who drove a Harley on the Kancamagus versus one who cycled it, would that be a hard decision?

Sixth, your engine sounds like it is about to blow up.  What is that, you like it that your engine fires out of time?  All that vibrating, that is good too?  In an engine?  What, you are so proud that you tried to trademark the sound of a shitty fucking engine??  Oh, OK.  There is no talking to this kind of stupid.

Seventh, they have ruined the motorcycle for the rest of us.  As someone who once openly debated getting a small motorcycle for transporation with my Laconia co-workers, I become the object of derision because, I guess, getting a bike with 75 mpg means you are stupid.  Somehow. 

Now, this list is hardly exhaustive and it is mostly in fun.  Many of my friends have Harleys, and I welcome your criticism and blustering 'hey shut ups!'.  I get it, society has emasculated you and this is the most socially acceptable way to express your manliness that you have found.  Well, you just go out for a ride, you big brave boy.  When you come back in, we can talk about other ways to express yourself which you just might find to be more rewarding in the end. 

*sniff*  Mom?  MOM!  He's making fun of bikers!  Mmmp!

It's More Than Dinner (Lindsay)

Fair warning: This post will be a bit nostalgic so if you're in a sarcastic mood tonight, drink some wine and resume reading when you're a bit tipsy.  It's been a little over two weeks since my last day of work - a period of time that would have been a long vacation in any of the previous years but what is, this time around, just the beginning. 

It's been an interesting conversion moving from "oh, I have a few days off from work" where I continuously checked my phone for an emergency work call to "hmm, what a nice vacation we're on" to where I've fallen today; "wow, I have many more months to keep doing this". 

But one of the nicest side effects to this new lifestyle (aside from the time spent outside, the many hours of sleep and the new sunburn) is a feeling of community.  We deliberately started in the Northeast in order to try out our new lifestyle in a familiar landscape and to schedule our trips around a few celebrations of weddings and new babies.  What I was not prepared for is the amount of energy I would get from seeing such a range of people.  As a fierce introvert (more on that in a future blog), I receive the majority of my energy when I spend time alone so after a week of work (where I'm forced to flex those extrovert muscles over and over again for the good of the cause), I would spend most of my down time alone in the woods or with Mr. Introvert leaving little motivation to reach out to friends and family who I deeply missed. 

But now that my introverted cup is spilling over, it seems I'm actually looking forward to all these random visits and play dates because I finally have the energy to meet them with the respect they deserve.  In the past week, I've reconnected with friends I haven't seen in months or even years in that magical "it just happened, we didn't need to really make plans" kind of way.  Dinners, hiking, camping, beach burning with people who fill my time with laughter and thoughtful conversation. 

While I am also looking forward to the day where we venture out of the safe womb of the Northeast and are suddenly at the mercy of strangers (a phenomenon I love about traveling), I will revel in the familiar and ability to reconnect with long-time friends and in communities I already know my way around.  A farmer's field in the Monadnock area, a favorite mountain in the Whites, a beloved beach in Maine and a Northern NH community whose newspaper still makes me cringe but whose people I adore - and I'll take pieces of each to keep me calm when we're completely lost in North Dakota and the truck camper is stuck under a short bridge.

"Something had happened which was not noticed by anyone,

but which was more important than all that had been exposed to view"

Leo Tolstoy