Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

I am sitting in a bar in Mammoth Lakes, California, during one of the busiest times of the year—President’s Day weekend. As I listen to the inane chatter of intoxicated birthday girls, inebriated ski bunnies, slick man whores, and a staff who can’t wait for this night to be over, I don’t feel like part of this crowd, but I am here, ordering a drink just like the person next to me. Yet, this post-skiing-drinking tradition is not my typical scene. I would much rather be back at the condo watching the Olympics with my husband. Perhaps I would enjoy this situation more if I were falling down drunk with the rest of the clientele. Instead, I sit here writing in my notebook enduring curious stares and quizzical looks. It feels like junior high all over again—eating lunch in the cafeteria, wondering how kids my age can spend so much time talking about themselves.

Don’t misunderstand; I don’t feel sorry for myself. I could try, but I don’t want to because I am bored. Later, my husband will be upset that I didn’t make more of an effort to talk to “our friends.” However, with my new “No longer faking it” creed, I refuse to pretend that I like hanging out in a bar in a strange town with people whom I deem as acquaintances. I should add that I haven’t slept well in weeks, and that all I fantasize about lately is eight hours of uninterrupted, non-medicated sleep. I send my drink back not only because it is too strong and the vodka is terrible, but also because the alcohol will make a good night’s rest more difficult because it induces vivid dreams.

Finally, we leave the bar, and I look forward to whatever Olympic coverage is still airing on NBC. Despite my rant, I have fun skiing in Mammoth, and thanks to my husband, I have been many times now. So in my humble beginner-intermediate skier* opinion, here is the best of what Mammoth has to offer:

Best Ski Lift: Chair 12

Base elev. 9,042′
Top elev. 9,707′
Rise 665′
Length 2,851′

With many simple, groomed, intermediate runs, I am a huge fan of the double Chair 12. According to my research, it is a good place to learn about powder skiing, and in my experience, you can avoid crowds, too, because fewer people ski the back side of the mountain. Chair 12 takes you to chairs 13 and 14, which also have intermediate runs. If I am tired, I stick to Lower Road Runner, which is fairly flat, but narrow in many spots so I can practice my turns. If I feel more ambitious, I will ski White Bark Ridge or Secret Spot. My goal is to eventually ski all of the blue runs at Chair 12 even the steep ones (e.g., New Critters) that scare me.

Best Ski Shop: Footloose Sports
With their famous “Try Before You Buy” policy, Footloose makes it easy to find the perfect pair of skis and boots. We had rented equipment from them in the past, but in December, my husband decided it was time that I had my own skis and boots so I demoed a new set each day. Chris, one of their boot experts, recognized that my wide feet could only fit into two kinds of boots. When I complained that the pair we were about to buy still felt too tight, his alternate suggestion turned out to be the right fit. Julia recommended different skis for me to try based on my height and my expertise. In the end, I came home with electric blue Head skis and smoky grey Tecnica boots.

Best Accommodations: Edelweiss Lodge
With its Swiss chalet exterior and personable caretakers Keith and Marta, Edelweiss feels like home. A gift basket in every room invites guests to partake in Marta’s famous chocolate chip cookies, and pets are always welcome. We have taken our English Mastiff there, and the owners didn’t even blink at Winston’s size. In fact, they gave him his own gift basket complete with homemade dog treats. The only unfortunate experience we have ever had is that during our last visit, I contracted hot tub rash; it was the first time we have ever used their hot tub facility. However, we plan to return to Edelweiss considering that Keith and Marta have offered us a two nights’ free stay for what I now call “The Incident”; we just won’t ever use their hot tub again.

Best Dinner: Mogul Restaurant
We went to this restaurant with ten other people, and everyone was happy with their meal. Whether you desire steak, chicken, pork, lamb, fish, or seafood, I guarantee The Mogul will have a dinner that will fill your stomach and ignite your taste buds as you savor their sauces. They have a “Lite Dinner” selection for those patrons who want to save room for dessert, and their wine list not only contains a decent selection, but the prices are reasonable, too—especially for a restaurant. While the salad bar is average, their entrees are not. I recommend the Mogul Chicken: a double boneless breast marinated in red wine, honey, soy sauce, red wine vinegar, brown sugar, Worcestershire, and spices. The menu states it is “grilled to perfection”—considering how moist, succulent, and delicious my chicken was, I completely agree.

Best Happy Hour: Austria Hof Lodge
According to its website, the Austria Hof restaurant is Mammoth’s only “truly authentic German” cuisine. I don’t know about the main dining room, but the bar downstairs is a divine happy hour experience. With tasteful martinis and many German beers on tap served by a friendly staff (ask for Sean the bartender), the drinking is elevated to new heights with their delicious appetizer menu. My favorite was their baked brie on crostini accompanied by grapes and apple slices; it was like tasting a piece of heaven. And unlike the bar  that I discussed in the opening of this blog, the Austria Hof Happy Hour has a touch of class. I think it’s the food. You have to be at least partially sober to appreciate it.

Best Breakfast: The Stove
“County cookin’ since 1970″ is what the sign outside The Stove says, and I believe it. The Stove is so popular that locals eat there, they don’t have to advertise much, and they don’t even need a website. As long as you can put aside any thoughts of keeping your cholesterol in check and be patient regarding the 20-minute or longer wait, you will be able to enjoy the huge helpings, pleasant service (the same Sean from Austria Hof served us here, too!), and typical eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and hashed browns breakfast. Of course, they have other items such as French toast and omelettes, but I stick to the basics at The Stove. My only complaint is that their biscuits could use more lard, but at least they are not as dry as most non-Southern biscuits. After all, we Southerners are biscuit experts!

Best Bakery: Erick Schat’s Bakkerÿ
With locations in Bishop and Mammoth, you have two opportunities to visit Schat’s Bakkery, home of the original sheepherder bread. This European-style bakery has everything from bread to pastries to cookies to candy. My husband and I often buy olive or raisin bread depending on our mood, and we always indulge in some cookies. The mail-order catalog is only a partial list of the many goodies this establishment has to offer. If you are anywhere within a 50-mile radius, Schat’s is worth the stop. I recommend the Bishop location because it is much larger, and therefore has a more diverse selection.

Best Coffee: Looney Bean
I imagine Looney Bean is what Starbucks was once upon a time: a small coffee chain with great brews and a distinct personality combined with a touch of hometown charm that makes each location unique. While their pastries lack taste altogether (much like Starbucks), Looney Bean is the place to buy and drink coffee in Mammoth. They provide free Wi-Fi and plenty of indoor and outdoor seating for their customers. I especially like their support of local artists as well as their helpful—but not hyper—staff. With two locations in California (Mammoth and Bishop), and one location in Oregon, Colorado, and Mexico, Looney Bean is easier to find than Schat’s, but still inaccessible for most people. However, you can experience their coffee by joining Club Looney Bean, but if you are in Mammoth, stop by for a cup of java. You’ll like the taste of Looney!

No “Best of” review would be complete without at least one “Worst of” segment. Perhaps I shouldn’t, but here is my most humiliating and humbling experience at Mammoth:

Worst of Mammoth: Jim of the Mammoth Ski Patrol
What are you doing here? Why didn’t you ski down? Why can’t you walk up the road? Why are you alone?
Instead of “Are you okay?” I was grilled like a second-class citizen when Ski Patrol Jim discovered an exhausted me at the side of the mountain in December. I had gone down the wrong way (i.e., too steep), and I had tried to hike back up to where I needed to be. However, my thighs were burning, my chest was aching from pneumonia, and my head was spinning between actual sweating and nervous anticipation as I watched the sun descend on the horizon. I knew I had to get down the mountain, and I knew the easiest way was to ski down, not to walk back up to a flatter run. But I was too tired to struggle with the steep slopes.
Seeing the ski patrol was like an answer to the prayer that I forgot to say, but instead of feeling relieved, I felt stupid. After an initial burst of tears, I recovered enough dignity to say to Jim, “Why are you treating me this way? I thought you were supposed to be helpful.” Instead of answering my question, he diverted it by engaging in light chitchat. Although we were on civil terms by the time the other ski patrol arrived on the snowmobile to return me to the main lodge, I’ll never forget how Jim made me feel: like a moron. If there is a next time, I will either ski down or slide down on my ass, but I will not allow myself to be “rescued” again.

AWW — XoXo

* According to a Mammoth Ski Instructor, beginner-intermediate is an actual level. I was unable to take a beginner’s class because I am too intermediate, and I didn’t qualify for the intermediate class because I am too much of a beginner. Geesh!

Posted under Sports & Travel | No Comments »

Note: This blog entry is a continuation of a previous blog titled: Flying the Unfriendly Skies: Part One—The Ignorant Mother so I suggest you read it first to fully understand my disagreement with Miss Sourpuss and Continental Airlines.

The passengers remained quiet after I had confronted the mother regarding her son’s behavior. I don’t know what I expected. I guess I was hoping at least one person (besides my husband) would applaud my courage, but instead, I had become the older, malicious bully who had verbally attacked the younger, innocent mother. I’m glad I waited until the end of the flight to say something because I swear our captain took the scenic route around the Houston/Bush International airport. Finally, our plane found its gate, and I made sure the boy and his mother exited the cabin ahead of us. I thought it was best to put as much distance between her and me as possible. As my husband and I walked off the plane, I told him to go ahead and wait for me. I wanted to speak to our friendly stewardess Miss Sourpuss.

Before I go any further, I should tell you that even though I’m not afraid of confronting people, I don’t make a habit of it. I’ll admit I am the woman who sends back her dirty martini when it isn’t quite dirty enough. I will also return food at a restaurant if my meal isn’t correct (I rarely order straight off the menu) or if the cuisine doesn’t taste good. When a hairdresser once hacked my hair to pieces a few weeks before I had to be a bridesmaid in two weddings, I got my money back. However, until this incident, I had never said anything to a parent on an airplane besides, “Could you please tell your child to stop kicking the back of my seat?” I had also never complained about a flight attendant’s bad service, but there’s a first time for everything.

After all of the passengers had collected their carry-on luggage and left the plane, I approached Miss Sourpuss who was standing next to the co-pilot. I told her that I would like to have a word with her about our flight. With the same “My-life-sucks-I-wish-I-were-dead” expression on her face, she just shrugged her shoulders and said okay. Although I had intended for our conversation to be private to avoid embarrassing her, I started talking since she made no effort to move anywhere. The co-pilot shifted his weight and leaned forward.

“My husband and I were seated in row 10, in about the middle of the airplane. In front of us, a young mother sat with her little boy who wouldn’t stop singing the entire flight. Why you didn’t say anything to her about his behavior?”

Miss Sourpuss’s expression changed. Her mouth opened, her eyes blinked, and I could see her searching for the correct answer in her brain. “I … I … could never ask a parent … I’m just not able to … confront people.”

I already knew she was passive, but the fact that she admitted it surprised me. I responded, “Well, his behavior was inappropriate, and it was your job to do something about it.” The co-pilot looked at her. She furrowed her brow.

“Uh … it’s not my job. People can use their cell phones …” I raised my eyebrow. Right then the captain walked up and joined our group, and Miss Sourpuss realized her mistake. “I meant people can talk as loud as they want on the plane.”

I laughed because the conversation was getting so ridiculous. “Really? So I can yell at the top of my lungs during a flight and you’re not going to say anything to me?” The captain grimaced and looked at Miss Sourpuss who must have been sweating through her uniform.

She replied with as firm a tone as someone like her can muster, “Well, I wouldn’t do it because I didn’t hear the boy at all. And I went up and down that aisle the entire flight.”

“First of all, that’s not true. My husband and I couldn’t find you anywhere when we wanted a refill on our sodas. Secondly, you changed your story when the captain arrived.” I looked at him, then the co-pilot, and then her. “Just so we’re all clear, you went from not being capable, to not being responsible, to sheer denial.”

Miss Sourpuss pursed her lips. “I didn’t hear him!”

“And apparently, you’re deaf as well.” I looked at the captain. “Thank you so much for getting us to Houston on time, but please tell your bosses, I will remember this incident. By the way, I’m a writer, and I will let people know that it’s okay to sing at the top of their lungs on a Continental flight.”

Okay, so I didn’t say that last part, but now I know how to solve the problem should it happen again. The next time a lazy stewardess refuses to hush a chirping child, I have a plan. I’m going to belt out (and I’m tone deaf) the most obnoxious children’s song I know. My sister Adrienne taught it to me. In fact, she and my (then) boyfriend’s four-year-old son got in trouble for singing it in the car during a road trip. I was driving, and after 15 minutes of Bananas in Pajamas, I told them to pick a different song. When they didn’t, I yelled, “Shut your mouths, or I will shut them for you.” They stopped singing immediately.

After years of teaching, I can raise my already-loud voice over a room full of 100 noisy children so out-singing one kid on an airplane will be easy. My husband is appalled by my idea. He intends to begin divorce proceedings if I should proceed to break into song. I told him that he should pretend that he doesn’t know me or tell people that my “medication” doesn’t work at high altitudes. He didn’t laugh. My theory is that even a passive stewardess like Miss Sourpuss will have to tell me to shut up, and when she does, I’ll point to the child and say, “He started it!”

Who knows? Maybe I’ll incite a sing-along:

Bananas, in pajamas, are coming down the stairs
Bananas, in pajamas, are coming down in pairs
Bananas, in pajamas, are chasing teddy bears
cause on Tuesdays day … they want to catch them unawares!

AWW — XoXo

P. S. I wish I had gotten Miss Sourpuss’s real name so I could file a formal complaint.

Posted under Adrienne & General & Travel | No Comments »

On the hot, humid afternoon of Friday, July 10, 2009, my husband and I boarded Continental Airlines Flight 2292 * with service from Birmingham, Alabama, to Houston/Bush International. Our flight was supposed to leave at 5:50 p.m. so we, along with 42 other people, were in our seats by 5:30 p.m. The reason I know the exact number of passengers is that our plane, the ERJ 145, was at its maximum capacity; it is the smallest commercial airline I’ve ever flown on. The overhead bins are so tiny that the popular wheeled travel bags that are designed to fit into them do not. Part of our delay included passengers giving up their “carry-on” luggage and receiving a ticket to retrieve their bags after the flight. Although I’m not claustrophobic, I started wondering if there was enough oxygen in the cabin for all of us.

Finally, we appeared ready for takeoff. Though we were running 15 minutes late, the pilot assured us we would land in Houston at our scheduled arrival time of 7:37 p.m. My husband watched through the window as the plane soared into the air. Sitting next to him, I had the aisle seat since there are no three-seat rows on the ERJ 145. Directly in front of me was a young mother sitting with her son, who appeared to be about four years old. I usually notice where kids are sitting on airplanes because even though I like children, I worry about their behavior. Given that the passenger section of this particular plane could fit into our house (only a slight exaggeration), I could probably have told you where everyone was sitting. Anyway, I leaned back into my seat, opened my magazine, and that is when the “noise” began.

I wish the noise had been crying because as aggravating as a sobbing child can be, I can control my urge to interfere. My opinion about children crying on airplanes is they may be sick, scared, hungry, tired, or their ears may be popping, which hurts like hell. I actually empathize with those frustrated parents who are embarrassed by their children’s tears, but who are also sad because they cannot make the pain, fear, hunger, or even exhaustion from traveling magically disappear. Whenever I see that look of utter despair in a parent’s eyes, I give my most encouraging “you-can-do-it” and “we-don’t-all-hate-you” smile. Crying may be irritating, but I can handle it. However, there are some noises no one should have to endure—especially in cramped quarters with no way out.

You see, the little boy in front of us began singing. Loudly. Not only did his mother not stop him, she encouraged him to continue. I sighed, but then I remembered I had brought my portable CD player with headphones. Problem solved! I turned up the volume all the way (something I never do because loud music makes it difficult for me to concentrate on reading), but I could still hear the boy’s high-pitched voice over the rock music blasting in my ears. I couldn’t believe it. I gave up on the music and found my ear plugs; they didn’t work either. I looked at my watch. I glanced at my husband who shook his head. I made eye contact with other passengers who appeared equally as annoyed as I was. Meanwhile, the boy’s tune—imagine a modern day version of the Smurfs theme song—echoed in my head.

The boy never stopped singing, and no one said anything to his mother—not even the stewardess whom my husband and I nicknamed Miss Sourpuss for her lovely demeanor. I bit my tongue the entire flight, but as we were approaching our gate, I felt compelled to say something to the mother if only to save fellow travelers from future torture. I tapped her on the shoulder; she turned around.

I smiled and said, “I want to tell you something that I hope you won’t take the wrong way. You have a lovely son who is clearly a very happy boy, but he has been singing loudly this entire flight.”

She nodded so I continued. “I’m a former teacher and it isn’t appropriate for him to be so loud on an airplane. He needs to learn to use his ‘indoor library’ voice.”

I could see the muscles in her face twitch. “Look, I’m only saying this to you because no one else on this plane will, but trust me, we are all irritated.” I could feel the eyes of our fellow passengers watching us.

Then the mother exploded, “Well, I paid for a ticket just like you did!” She jutted her chin forward and glared at me.

Until that point, I had remained calm but then I lashed out, “We all paid for our tickets! (You stupid bitch) It doesn’t give you the right to allow your son to sing at the top of his lungs for two hours. He doesn’t know any better, but you should. You are his mother; it’s your job to teach him manners.”

The whole situation disintegrated from there. I backed off, but I didn’t apologize. I’m glad I said something, but then I realized I should not have had to. If our stewardess, Miss Sourpuss, had done her job, I’m sure the mother would have been less defensive and more cooperative regarding her son’s actions. I’ll continue this story in my next blog titled: Flying the Unfriendly Skies: Part Two—The Lazy Stewardess.

AWW — XoXo

* Operated by Expressjet Airlines Inc doing business as Continental Express

Posted under General & Travel | No Comments »

Relishing the last night of my winter vacation, right now I am sipping a delicious Oregon Pinot that my husband and I bought a few days ago at The Pines winery. We are staying at Home by the Sea, a B&B located in Port Orford, Oregon, along the Southern Coast. I can hear the waves pounding against the giant rocks as the surf rages outside—showing its fury with yet another winter storm. In fact, the surf is the only sound I can hear (it woke me up at 5am this morning) in this otherwise quiet location. I love it here.

We may be staying in Port Orford, but the purpose of our trip was to see my dream house in Gold Beach—a slightly larger town located farther down the coast. The real estate agent and the owner gave us a lovely tour today, and even though I wanted to find something wrong with the property, the town, anything … I couldn’t. Or maybe I didn’t. My husband, who wasn’t crazy about the house from the pictures, loves it now except for some super minor things. He even came up with an idea to make the property into something more interesting than just another ranch. I almost wish he had hated it so I could give up this dream of living in this remote area because moving—transporting our lives from Los Angeles—is just not possible right now.

But when I hear those waves crashing outside our window, all I can think is I want to hear that sound every day. I can learn to live with the wet weather. I can wear layers all the time. (I have on three today!) I can wear hiking boots everywhere I go. I don’t know how much more of Los Angeles I can stand. I’ve lived there half my life, and I’m ready to move forward now. I never thought I would live in a small town, but living on the coast of Oregon seems quite different than living in some tiny, redneck town in Alabama (my home state). Okay, so the bartender today warned us that everybody knows your business in Gold Beach. But I passed our B&B’s owner’s “The Kiss of Death” test. He says any guest who asks him any of the three following questions is not likely to survive in this area:

1. What is there to do here?
2. Where is the shopping?
3. Where is the nearest hospital?

I laughed when he told me about his test because ten years ago I would have asked those first two questions, but there are numerous outdoor activities to try along the Rogue River/Oregon Coast (not to mention that little thing called working), and I shop online for nearly everything including clothes. I already knew the nearest “real” hospital (Gold Beach has a “rural” hospital for non-emergency situations) is in Crescent City, California or Coos Bay, Oregon. A part of me is more pleased than I care to admit (although I guess I am now) that I “passed” his test. I guess I’m fit to live here.

The surf continues to beat the sand … and I will continue to dream about the day when Gold Beach can be our home.

AWW — XoXo

Posted under Travel | No Comments »