Confessions:
-Before I had a kid, breastfeeding kind if icked me out, and I expressed disdain for the idea of nursing past a certain age.
-I once called a bride and asked if I could bring a date to her wedding, even though the invitation was addressed only to me.
-I did not make an effort to greet all the guests at my own wedding reception.
-I’ve made comments to a friend, favorably comparing the size of my home with the size of her smaller home.
-I’ve straight-out asked people about their ethnic backgrounds.

RUDE, RUDE, RUDE. I’ll admit it. I do strive toward good manners, but sometimes I fail. And all of the incidents above have context that might make them sound slightly less horrifying, but they probably really bothered someone who was around when they happened, maybe even the people involved, probably people who I love and would never want to offend. They all involve situations that make me uncomfortable. And so I avoid them (see: wedding reception) or over-compensate by trying to justify them (see: house conversation, breastfeeding conversation) or just plow ahead with the discussion, searching for a bright light and a point that everyone can agree upon. Never mind that I may have shocked everyone in the room.

I am not easily offended. I like to talk about what’s really going on, what I’m really thinking. I want to hear what you’re really thinking. Most of the time, unless it’s way over the top or a repeated problem (a family friend who never fails to make a sexist remark to me each time I see him comes to mind), I see rudeness as either a manifestation of nerves, a colorful personality, or laughable idiocy. I try not to take it personally. But I’ve finally learned that most people don’t really feel like that. (Well, except the Germans. And maybe the Dutch.) (See? Now I’ve offended some people. But probably not anyone who is really German or Dutch.)

And I find it all a bit exhausting. Hurt feelings are one thing – I do my best, and sometimes fail, not to be insensitive. But taking a circuitous route to asking a question or sharing an opinion just because culture dictates it annoys me. If a good friend who is known to be a bit spacey invites me to her wedding and doesn’t put my fiance’ on the invitation, I’m going to quietly ask if she would mind if he comes. (She said yes. She just forgot to put “and guest” on the envelope. Wouldn’t it have been a bummer if I’d gotten angry and felt slighted because of her perceived rudeness in excluding my date? Then again, maybe she still can’t believe I called and asked if he could come. I’ll never know.) If I have questions about nursing and how it feels and wonder why someone would want to extend it into toddlerhood, I’m going to ask, hopefully of someone who will answer me honestly and confidently, but I don’t know, sometimes I misjudge my audience. However, if living abroad taught me one thing, it’s that behavior is judged on a continuum. There are few objective standards of right and wrong, rude and polite, cruel and kind.

I’m sure I’ve horrified some of you with my behavior. But I’ll bet you have some confessions too. Here’s your chance. Any rudeness you’d like to share?

Three days of Disneyland took it out of us. We ate breakfast with Minnie, we rode the Dumbos, we squealed at and got splashed by the pirates. There were churros and mouse ears and light sabers and more rides on the Buzz Lightyear AstroBlasters than the recommended daily allowance. After finally extricating ourselves from the Pixar Play Parade on the last day, we were undecided about what to with the rest of our time in the sunshine. San Diego with LegoLand and spectacular zoos almost won the day. But, in the ended we decided to stick around Los Angeles and see what we could see.

I love getting to know new cities. My ideal urban vacation begins with spending the first day traveling from one end of the city to another, absorbing the neighborhoods and snacking at the cool bakeries and eating street food and riding public transportation. I follow that up with a boutique and bookstore shopping day and a museum day punctuated with stops at restaurants I’ve read about in advance. I like to stay in a downtown hotel with a groovy bar in the lobby and a doorman.

Even pre-parenthood, my southern California experiences had been the opposite of that scenario. I’d either gone straight from airport to Disney to Knotts Berry Farm to airport, or I’d ridden around wearing a suit in the back of a rental car with a bunch of coworkers with a projector on my lap, traveling from conference hotel to conference hotel. I began to wonder if that image of LA as a wasteland of air conditioned malls and backed-up freeways were true. But in the end, I refused to believe it.

So our L.A. vacation landed somewhere in between a shoe-shopping, wine-swilling poolside retreat, and a traffic-bound dash from complimentary breakfast to theme park and back. We ate some great meals, including a magical Mexican dinner at Border Grill in Santa Monica. Jeff and I traded off sprawling on the sunny lawn watching Theo run barefoot across the grass and taking in the collection at the Getty Museum (a place I’d vaguely head of before, but one that is a must-see, especially if you like spectacular views and cool architecure or gardens). There was no bar in our hotel, but we had air conditioning and Froot Loops at the complimentary breakfast. We drove around Hollywood and Bel Air and Beverly Hills while Theo slept in his car seat. We went to the beach.

We had a great vacation. But it’s good to be back.

KENDRA with 17 correct picks out of 24. As she pointed out in comments, she came in near the bottom of the pack last year, so if you feel like you suck at this, never fear, a comeback could be nigh!

The final results:
Kendra – 17
Sandi – 15
Jeff – 13
Jennifer – 13
Gerry – 13
Daniela – 12
Kerri W – 12
Jennie – 12
Tom – 12
Monique – 11
Kristen – 10
Cody – 10
Britten – 10
Amy – 10
Dan – 9
Hollie – 9
Kathryn – 8
Anna – 8
Erin – 8
Emily – 8
Kerri Anne – 8
Kerri B – 7
Francie – 7
Erica – 6

Enter the pool here!

Of course, there will be prizes.

Blog find of the year:
Penelope Trunk, to whom I’ve linked multiple times here, wrote posts that consistently stuck with me for their bravery and insight. The first few times I read her, I thought she was just blogging about networking and Gen Y and blah blah blah. But I was wrong.

Challenge:
Returning to work full-time probably should have been my biggest challenge. Instead, the challenge happened in the six months before I found work, when I struggled to define myself back in Portland, in a new home, without a job. I’m still working in settling in, to the house, to the new life, and to the confirmation of my suspicions that I’m not stay-at-home-mom material.

Album of the year:
Most of the music I downloaded this year was straight from So You Think You Can Dance. But the one artist that I love more than any other from 2009 is P!nk and her Funhouse album.

New food:
Horseradish cheddar cheese, especially grilled on sourdough bread.

Tea of the year:
Thanks to a highly-placed network of international people of mystery, I was reunited with my favorite tea: Messmer brand Apple Gingko Green tea. Sigh.

Shop:
Sephora. I bought a bunch of new makeup this year. I’m actually wearing foundation and eye shadow on a regular basis now. I know you’re riveted by this information.

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I’m posting infrequently these days, so I feel compelled to continue sharing my embarrassing old photos.  I want to give you maximum value for your reading time, and I know there’s nothing more fun than laughing at others’ terrible fashion choices. This started as a bad hair series (and, never fear, there is more bad hair to come), but I couldn’t just let these gems lie around in a cardboard box simply because their sins are not confined to hair, now could I?

This ensemble was a hand-me-down from my cousin. I’m quite sure it must have been someone’s 4-H project in the late 1970′s. The cat was attempting to claw its way off my lap, probably in a patchwork-induced seizure.

Did you have spirit week at your junior high? We did. This was punk rock day. I was wearing my mom’s earrings from the 1960s, one set of legwarmers on my legs and another set on my arms, as sleeves. Watch out, Sid Vicious.

Best Trip:

Our life was all about travel for so long, we’d become experts at hotel sleeping and bag packing and hellos and goodbyes. So when we moved back to Portland, we plunked down our suitcases, heaved a sigh of relief, and pledged to settle down for a while. We took a couple of weekend trips and a quick Vegas getaway, but there wasn’t much glamor to speak of – nothing compared with Easter in Spain, or a villa in Tuscany, or an accidental trip to Hong Kong.

Whatever my twentieth high school class reunion lacked in glamor, however, it made up for in genuine fun and good will and laughter. It reminded me who I am and how I got here and made me proud of the people I started with, and who know me in a way that no one else does. (They also lived through the bad hair years with me. Never fear, you’ll get to see more of that this month too.)

I know you’re wondering which person in this picture is me. I’m the one on the right who apparently hasn’t had a haircut in three or four months, who carefully matched her socks to her t-shirt, and who looks suspiciously like a fourth grade boy.

Oh, and I also have my name emblazoned in giant letters across my chest.

If your name happens to be Jennifer or Heather or Stephanie, you might think that shirt is excessive. But if you have a name like mine and you were a youngster before the digital age, you understand why it was HUGELY exciting when my mother came home from shopping in the big city and presented me with a personalized! shirt! It was the very first time I’d ever owned anything with my name pre-printed on it.

Unfortunately the shirt also provides undeniable evidence that that’s really me in those knee-high sweat socks. Why I didn’t take my cues from my best friend (cute, feathered hair; fashionable baseball shirt; form-fitting short shorts; footie socks), I’m not sure. I’ve always been an independent sort.

“No, Daddy!” he said, suddenly awake. “They sleeping!”

——

He was in his room the other day, playing quietly, “reading” his books. I heard a sudden sob and peeked into the room. He was sitting on the floor with a book in his hands, weeping. “What’s wrong, buddy?”
“I can’t read it!” he said, obviously frustrated.
“What do you mean?” He’d been happily thumbing through books, saying he was reading them, for weeks.
“I don’t know HOW!”
Well. Yes. That’s true.