Christmas Tree Hunting

Some people go hiking through a Christmas tree farm or the forest up in the hills to find that perfect tree for their living room, cut it down themselves, and bring it home to decorate with lights and ribbon, ornamental bells and balls, figurines of Santa Claus and reindeer, angels, snowflakes, candy canes, bows, icicles, and other assortments of random items, porcelain dogs and cats, ballerinas and figure skates, football icons, famous monuments, Baby's First Christmas, trains, trolleys, pretty shoes, a giant glass fish, and pretty much anything else you could think of. Or is that just my family?

As festive as cutting your own Christmas tree down sounds, my family goes the other route: driving the 2 miles to the local tree lot (literally some trees on a section of parking lot sectioned off by a chain link fence) to look at some of the bundled trees while I play Christmas music from my iPhone. I stood next to the dirty trailer with an old and scruffy, but friendly dog, listening to music while my parents looked through the trees, making comments every now and then like, "That one's too skinny" or "That one's too bushy."

But then there it was: the tree. It towered above us with an air of dignity, its green pines shining brightly against the hazy white sky and every branch lightly hanging off its trunk, each one reaching out a little further than the last. Maybe it was Nat King Cole's velvety voice softly singing about 'chestnuts roasting on an open fire' through the tiny speakers on my phone, but at that moment I felt it: Christmas was here. And there was no stopping it.

Everyone knows that when I get the Christmas bug, it's sticking around until New Year's. Christmas music, Christmas movies, Christmas tea and hot chocolate, Christmas cookies.... but nothing tacky. I keep it classy: no Christmas sweaters or Christmas jewelry, no singing elves or shiny tinsel. I admit I do have a snowman snow globe though...

I don't know whether it's the chilly weather outside, the smell of holiday spices, the family togetherness, the Christmas cups at Starbucks, or even the idea of Santa Claus, but for some reason, the holidays are a happy time for me, so I like to keep it going for as long as I possibly can.

Happy Holidays.

An Afternoon at Vero Cafe

It's quiet except for the comforting sounds of Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald singing overhead and the occasional rumble of the espresso machine. Students sip their coffee over crowded tables filled with laptops, books, and papers. A professor works on his lecture in the corner while another man reads the newspaper at the other end of the table. Coming here is like going to your parents' house; it's warm and cozy, smartly decorated, and has the familiar smells of good food and music from a bygone era. I would live here if I could; it's my usual spot on Mondays and Wednesdays. A place that feels like home, but has few of the usual distractions: roommates, your favorite television show, the dog, a bed....

My latte is now cold. Something that should usually happen after sitting here for two hours working on a media analysis (something I am now distracted from because I'd rather be writing this) for a class about gender and diversity in the media. Somehow watching a music video some students made about our football team and discussing the presence of gender and racial issues when there really aren't any doesn't strike me as being productive.

Luckily, the atmosphere at Vero keeps me from getting too angry about it. How could someone be mad while listening to Michael Bublé? I could also be down about the stormy weather outside, but it only makes being inside a warm coffee house that much more enjoyable.

The leaves outside hang on by a thread while the blustery wind continues to use all its might to tear them off the branches. Autumn in Oregon is the most beautiful of autumns, even when it's pouring rain. You get to see every leaf turn from green to red to orange to yellow, and then fall to the ground, covering the streets and sidewalks. Students slip on wet leaves on their way to class, adding a little humor to my walk through the rain. Everyone is happy to see the humid nights of summer go to allow for the chilly days of fall to come, the smells and sounds of the holidays.

And then winter comes.

Misadventures in Las Vegas

We had only three goals: don’t get married, don’t get arrested, and don’t die.

When I booked a trip to Las Vegas for Halloween with my three friends, I had no idea what we were in for. I had no idea that coming back alive wasn’t a joke; it was serious.

Three of us left the day before Halloween so we would have more than one night to spend in Sin City. That was a Sunday. Meaning we had already been celebrating Halloween in Eugene on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. Maybe arriving at the airport early so we could start drinking should have been a clue that this trip could be deadly. Maybe buying a drink on the plane should have been a clue that this trip would be deadly.

The plane landed smoothly on the Las Vegas runway, the sparkling lights of the Strip clearly in view. I gawked at the green lights of the MGM Grand, the miniature Eiffel Tower next to the Paris, the red and blue towers of the Excalibur, and the sparkling lights running up and down the sides of the Luxor. Despite the fact that I could now see the city, I still couldn’t believe we were here.

After an overpriced taxi ride, we stepped out of the car and marveled at the giant marble fountain in front of the Monte Carlo Hotel. This was it. We were here. There was no going back, not that we wanted to.

Fast forward to 6 A.M. the next morning: one girl made it back at a decent hour and was happily sleeping in bed surrounded by potato chips; one girl lost all her possessions and was banging on the hotel room door trying to wake the other one up; and one girl was nowhere to be found.

We still had one more night left. Thank God for cell phones.

After connecting with each other, we found that the one who had gotten lost had actually stayed the night in another hotel and had all of the other girl’s possessions in her purse. All was right again, at least for now.

Our fourth friend showed up around 2 P.M. on Halloween dressed like a sailor and, like the rest of us, had already started boozing. So what did we decide to do? Start boozing, of course.

Still dressed in last night’s costumes we headed down to Diablo’s, a sinful bar on the ground floor of the Monte Carlo. And what do you think we ordered? That’s right, two shots of tequila and one two-foot-tall margherita each. The first shot felt like I had just poured acid down my throat. The second shot was even worse. By the end of the two hours we were there, we had talked much too loudly and inappropriately next to a family table and danced on the bar spinning a giant Happy Hour drink wheel.

Here’s the problem: drinking that early in the day means things might not go so well that night.

Later, dressed as a cat, a bunny, a peacock, and Harley Quinn, we left the building in search of a Halloween party. We were both admired and insulted on the street, scratched and dented a brand new limo while trying to sit on the hood for a picture, and those of us wearing extremely tall heels (namely me) almost fell in the street. But, somehow, we made it to the party unharmed.

The Marquee Club at the new Cosmopolitan Hotel is a rooftop club with a fog-filled dance floor, two bars, a pool, and an amazing view of the Strip. I’m sure we would have had a wonderful time if one girl hadn’t gotten a panic attack once inside.

Getting out of the Cosmopolitan was like trying to find your way out of a maze. Or maybe it was only that difficult because we were so drunk. Whatever the reason, we probably spent longer trying to find our way out than the amount of time we were actually inside the club. For some reason, we decided to go up the stairs rather than go down, and because we were moving so quickly, I nearly broke my neck trying to run down the stairs once we figured out we had gone the wrong way.

After finding ourselves in the “Employee Only” section, we finally made our way out to the not-so-fresh air of Las Vegas. The bright lights we once found so enticing were now painfully blinding. All we wanted was to get back to our hotel.

At 10 A.M. the next morning, I woke up to the sounds of vomiting. Costume pieces and feathers covered the floor. Empty bottles of alcohol and shot glasses turned on their sides stared at me as if to say, “You asked for it.” I still had whiskers on my face.

The excitement I once held in the Portland airport to get to Las Vegas had now turned into excitement to get back home. Little did I know, it wouldn’t be so easy.

One girl vomited the entire way home.

One girl fell asleep on the floor of the Las Vegas airport.

One girl got not one, but two nosebleeds on the flight.

And one girl missed her flight completely.