My knee-jerk reaction when Kamala Harris first announced Tim Walz as her VP running mate was, Oh great. Another old white guy.

My second eye-roll reaction: He reminds me of 90 percent of the guys who show up in my Bumble feed. If I’m being honest, he reminded me of the ones I tend to swipe left.

But over the past few weeks, Tim’s really won me over. He’s a role model for what it means to be a good American. Nothing against the tall, dark and handsome MTB/ski dudes I’m usually attracted to. Tim Walz is a role model for what it means to be a legitimately good guy. The kind I should swipe right, minus the married part.

For the single men out there wondering what women really want, you can learn a lot from a guy like Tim. Heck, we can all be inspired. With that in mind, here’s some Timspiration for your dating-app profile.

Let’s start with the profile pics. In one of the first pictures we saw of Tim Walz, he’s wearing a T-shirt and flashing a doublewide, double-chin grin. Cradled in his farmer-tan arms is not a fish, but a baby pig. With all due respect to the 100-pound tarpon that you’re displaying more proudly than a trophy wife, I’d much rather be nestled against Tim Walz’s beer belly like that blissed-out pig.

Next, ditch the dreaded car selfie. Imagine a pic like the one of Tim Walz after he signed a bill that gave all Minnesota kids free breakfast and lunch. Instead of a seatbelt, he’s being hugged by a bunch of third graders. Who could avoid and dismiss that kind of attachment?

You might want to rethink the humble-brag shot of you in a tux, posing like James Bond in front of a “Save the children” logo wall. Get real — like the shot of Tim Walz addressing the DNC on national TV while his own kids are behind his back making bunny ears on his head. Sometimes you wanna kill ’em, but as Tim says, “My kids keep me humble.”

OK, since you insist, I’ll give you the hunting pic, as long as you’re not scowling while you point the gun menacingly at the camera, aka, the woman looking at your dating-app profile in horror. If you must hold a firearm, as Tim demonstrates, you could balance the butt of the rifle on your thigh while you kneel in some sweeping, tall grasses decked out in camo and safety orange alongside your loyal and adorable hunting dog (still alive, BTW). 

Now onto your bio. A guy like Tim would never use cringeworthy dating-app cliches: “Dating me is like being on a rollercoaster,” “Looking for my partner in crime,” “Went to the school of hard knocks,” “Work at Tell Ya Later“ or “No drama.” 

Forget being fluent in sarcasm. Dating-app Tim would be fluent in optimism. Dating him would be like having your biggest fan cheer you on from the sidelines. A fan who’s willing to give you the spotlight — even if it’s the biggest spotlight of all as commander in chief of the greatest nation on Earth. 

With dating-app Tim, we can disregard the nerdy granpa glasses, obsession with GIS mapping software and his challenge coin collection. We can overlook the 60-is-the-new-80 hairstyle. We can literally embrace the chubby cheeks and love handles. And yes, we can even forgive the nonstop texts, emails and posts — “Hi, it’s Tim again …”

Because nothing is hotter than a man who is a champion of women’s rights — like the right to make our own damn health-care decisions — and also a champion of humans in general. A man who leads with empathy as well big dad energy. A man who beams love so strongly onto his loved ones that it reflects back onto his own face in unabashed tears of joy.

Sigh. Swipe right. That’s my man. 

The post Betty Diaries: Tim Walz’s imaginary dating-app profile  appeared first on Park Record.

My brother Mike recently flew out to Park City from his home in Maine for a weeklong visit. He was waiting for his buddy Andy, also from Maine, who was driving out here to drop off his son, a freshman at the University of Utah. Andy and his son were driving their Jeep and towing a U-Haul that held two motorcycles. The plan was for Mike and Andy to embark on an epic crosscountry moto trip back to Maine.

Then the wheels came off.

Figuratively and literally. Well, I should say, wheel. About 24 hours into the drive out west, the Jeep’s rear tire and rim completely blew out. The fact that Andy and his son were towing the U-Haul likely saved them from a serious accident. It also marked the first leg of Mike and Andy’s most excellent adventure.

As Yvon Chouinard — rock climber, environmentalist and founder of the outdoor retail giant Patagonia (and, coincidentally, native of Maine) — said, “Adventure is when everything goes wrong. That’s when the adventure starts.”

So what’s the big deal about adventure? I asked my friend Ben White, who is one of the most adventurous people I know. Ben had the grand idea to ski all 48 of New Hampshire’s 4,000-footers in a single ski season when he was just 17. Since then, he’s been a paragliding instructor, gotten first tracks on a few of the biggest lines in North America and started his own business, White Cloud Concierge.

Ben recalls one of his earliest adventures, when he was about 7. His dad had taken him up to ski Tuckerman’s Ravine. The two of them spent the night in one of the lean-tos near the bottom of the ravine, feasting on freeze-dried beef stroganoff before crawling into their down sleeping bags for the night. That was when Ben learned that he was deathly allergic to goosefeathers. But, he said, “It’s also when I got my first taste of being really small in big alpine terrain,” a feeling so powerful he continues to chase it to this day.

Of course, adventure is relative. Even for a professional big mountain skier like Madison Rose Ostegren, who spent a decade in the Wasatch before relocating to Jackson, Wyoming. Judging from her Instagram @madisonnnrose, she has adventures on daily.

You can spot Madison and her wild mane of flaming red hair and snowflake eyelashes in Warren Miller’s “Daymaker” and “Winter Starts Now.” She’s kind of a bad-assier version of Pippi Longstocking — fearless, resilient, witty and strong. A four-season athlete, she finds as much adventure skiing, trail running and climbing as she does ukulele playing, dancing and baking muffins.

An adventurous life is “something you get to create,” Madison said. It’s “being spontaneous and present where you are, embracing the culture when you travel, being excited for new experiences and people, being comfortable being uncomfortable.”

Her Instagram stories prove the point. There’s Madison and some old guy rocking out on the dance floor while a crowd of people looks on. Hey, even for a super athlete like Madison Ostergren, adventure is what you make of it.

Just ask Jeremy Roberts, who’s experienced the ultimate adventure — climbing Mount Everest. He didn’t just do it because it was there.

Before his Everest expedition, Jeremy raised funds for Radiating Hope, a cancer foundation located in Kathmandu. “It’s one thing to have a crack at Everest,” he said. But it’s everything else if by doing so, he could help raise money for an adventure we can all live without — cancer.

Jeremy has passed his notion of altruistic adventure on to his kids. His son has co-piloted with him at least 30 missions for Angel Flight West, which provides free, non-emergency medical transport for people who live in the world’s most remote places. One of his daughters traveled to Thailand as a high school junior to build a road to a village.

“The quote that really sums up the adventure mindset for me is from the movie ‘Braveheart,’” Jeremy said. “Every man dies. Not every man really lives.”

As it turns out, adventure can actually make you feel like you’re living longer. Research shows when you do the same things over and over, you perceive time moving faster. But trying something totally new — hello, adventure! — can make the passage of time feel slower in a good way. You’re living in the moment. Totally aware and alive. Like when you were a kid and it felt like summer lasted forever; every day a new adventure.

I stand in the middle of the road behind my condo and watch my brother rolling out of the garage on his Suzuki V-Strom 650. He’s meeting up with his buddy Andy just off the 80 for their initial run up to Jackson Hole. It’s day one of a 10-day motorcycle odyssey. The sky is azure blue and the sun is blazing overhead as he disappears around the corner. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m a little worried about the journey. But heck, the wheels already came off. What else could possibly go wrong?

Minutes later, the sky turns black and it’s a full-on Noah’s Ark deluge, complete with heart-stopping thunder boomers and lightning bolts. I nervously text my brother, trying to sound calm. “Nothing like a big storm to start your ride! Hope you guys are OK!”

“We’re stuck for the moment,” he texts back. “Gonna hole up here and head to Jackson tomorrow.”

Let the adventure begin. 

After sustaining a bunch of injuries from various skiing and biking adventures, Kate Sonnick occasionally considers her sister’s advice: “I just lay on the couch and nothing ever happens to me.”

The post Betty Diaries: What’s so great about adventure? appeared first on Park Record.

I sat on the side of a hill in City Park with a bunch of friends and watched a posse of little kids playing with a single red balloon. They danced barefoot on the grass with the balloon, skipping around it and batting it into the air to keep it afloat.  

Dozens of people milled around. Some jamming with the DJ spinning tunes in the gazebo. Some holding plastic cups of dark beer with a foamy head. People kicked off their shoes and sat on blankets. There were girls in sundresses and guys with flannel shirts tied around their waists. There were babies in strollers clapping their hands and dogs on leashes hoping for happy accidents.

People chatted with friends and strangers while standing on line for cold adult beverages and empanadas. No one seemed to mind the wait. The only people I saw with iPhones were probably texting their friends to get their butts over there.

In other words, it was another idyllic Park City summer evening hosted by Offset Bier. The craft brewery has so far this summer put on three parties. Charging a nominal entry fee, the event keeps it real with beers for only five bucks, entertainment and affordable options from local food vendors — The Pretzel Connection, Tina’s Bakery, Red Bicycle, to name just a few. It feels about as local as it gets.

And for Offset Bier founder, owner and “doer of all the things” Conor Brown, that’s a gold-medal win. When he opened Offset in 2020, his idea was to create a counterbalance to Main Street — a place that would offset the tourist scene.

“I looked around and thought, nobody is opening a business for locals,” he said.

Conor, who moved to Park City from Vermont in 2006, purposely located his business in the Prospector neighborhood to keep it affordable for him as well as his patrons.

“I wanted Offset to be a place for people to get together after mountain biking, skiing, all the things we do here,” he said. “I’d love to have a place where cell phones don’t work. Where like-minded people can be together in an open-minded, free-thinking way.”

At the same time, he wanted to offset people’s expectations for what a craft brewery could be. Beyond serving great beer, Conor aims to serve opportunities for people to gather in ways that are healthy physically and mentally. That includes supporting the activities they love — skiing, biking, running, and yes, even finding love.

In fact, I suggested it as a meeting spot for a first date one night in early summer. I told the guy it would be super chill and we’d be able to hear each other talk. When we arrived at the bar, there were about three other people in the taproom. The taproom pooch Lucy, a 14-year-old rescue with grey eyebrows, lazed on the floor while the guy and I chatted.

All of a sudden, dozens of people in running clothes started pouring in. They set up party decorations, lit candles on a cake and, SURPRISE! we were smack-dab in the middle of some girl’s 30^th birthday party.

But that’s the whole point of Offset — to be a kind of living room for locals. In that way, it’s become a so-called third place, that coveted space in people’s lives that exists somewhere between the first place, home and the second place, work.

Third places include cafes, coffee shops, clubs, gyms, parks, libraries, barber shops and the like. They’re the places that make us feel connected, that we’re part of something bigger than ourselves. Like an Irish pub, third places are a microcosm of daily life, reflecting how we are alike — and different. Just like that old advertising poster that touts “Guinness is good for you,” places like Offset are as good for the individual as they are for the community.

So what does it look like when a business becomes an organic part of a place like Park City? At Offset, it means offsetting waste by donating spent grains to a local farmer who in turn uses them as feed for his pigs and cows. It means offering ways to socialize in real life — the brewery sponsors a run club and mountain bike nights in the summer and uphill travel nights at Park City Mountain in the winter. And as Conor instructs his servers to “kill people with kindness,” it means no buttheads.

But mostly, it means giving locals a chance to mix and mingle with other locals in a low-key, unpretentious environment that’s way more reflective of our daily life than a bunch of drunk bachelorettes in white plastic cowboy boots and sequin hats tripping up Main Street in some sort of caricature of life in a mountain town.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just not how we really are. Which is something simple and true — a mutual love of people and place. The collective knowledge of how beautiful this place is. And how lucky we are to call it home.

It’s a little later in the evening in the Party in the Park, and the kids with the red balloon have disappeared. Now there’s one little boy standing all by himself with the balloon. He swats at it a couple of times and then just stands there, unsure of what to do next.

Another kid with ginger hair wanders over, pulling up his shirt and patting his Buddha belly, in some kind of unspoken toddler greeting. He picks up the red balloon and together, the two of them bat it up to the sky.

Kate Sonnick is a freelance writer, creative director and fan of Glossier IPA. You can buy her a beer at the final Offset Party in the Park of the season on Sept. 13.

The post Betty Diaries: This third place takes the gold appeared first on Park Record.

Dang if I’ve not been in a funk. Call it lassitude. Listlessness. Lethargy. Work is slow. Friends are out of town. It’s hot AF, but I’m too lazy to install my AC unit. The less I do, the less I want to do. Cue the theme to Debbie Downer. Can anyone else relate?

Maybe it’s the big letdown after all the hoopla of my bike ride across Iowa a couple of weeks ago. I trained and prepared for weeks before that ride. And then there was the ride itself, the mental and physical exhaustion of riding up and down 450+ miles of hilly heartland. After weeklong dopamine cocktails of endorphins and serotonin shared with all the other cyclists — 20,000 of my newest friends — maybe I’m just totally hungover.

Since I’ve been back in Park City, I’ve noticed this commercial that’s been airing during the Olympics. It opens with a woman lying on her bed texting, “Think I’m gonna bail,” as a moody song plays in the background. The action switches to a different person, curled up in his living room texting, “Sorry, can’t make it tonight.” Cut to a young woman, Facetiming on her iPhone while she stands by herself on an empty street, “First date in Chicago … aaand, I got stood up.” Cut to a sad-looking guy sitting all alone in his kitchen, a piece of cake with a single candle on the table in front of him.

Text fades up onscreen: “Sometimes showing up makes all the difference.” The commercial quickly cuts to a bizarre assortment of old TV clips of super-random actors (Michael J. Fox, Raymond Burr, David Hasselhoff?!) saying, “I’m on my way,” as the Beatles’ “I Want to Hold Your Hand” plays up and under.

Well, spoiler alert. It’s a goddam commercial for Uber. Never mind that. The idea of showing up is just so powerful. At the first “On my way,” I’m bawling. Every time I watch it. Anyone else feel this?

Or maybe it’s Mercury retrograde, as one of my friends suggested, which kicked in on Aug. 4. Astrologically speaking, that’s the time when the pesky planet seems to be moving backward. See, when Mercury — also the Roman messenger god of commerce and travel — goes retrograde, we Earthlings can feel out of whack, too. As one astrologist points out, “It’s akin to a cosmic timeout. It’s the universe’s way of saying, slow down, reflect, reassess.” Apparently, all I need is some astrological me-time.

I could also chalk it up to the dog days of summer, another mystical phenom for which we can thank the ancient gods. The term harkens from Sirius, the dog star, not the satellite radio station. Myth has it that the constellation, which rises in the beginning of August, is the harbinger of heat, drought, bad luck, mad dogs, and, yes, even lethargy.

I opened my Instagram the other day to a reel made by one of my friends who lives in Paris. The city is quiet, as Parisians traditionally peace out for the entire month of August. Cafes are slow. Streets are empty. It’s even more pronounced this summer, even with the onslaught of Olympics visitors.

In the Instagram reel, my friend appears to be the sole participant in a spin class, pedaling in slo-mo in a dimly lit room as she stares glumly into the camera. “All alone at the gym,” the caption reads. “That’s August in Paris — everyone is smoking and drinking rosé on the beach and I am here watering everyone’s plants.”

A mutual friend posted this conciliatory comment, “Plants are thirsty, too. Think of yourself as the horticultural bartender of summer!” Which is to say, even when you’re alone, you’re not really alone. You have your plant friends to keep you company, if not your smart-ass human ones.

My buddy Matt calls. When he asks how I’m doing, I don’t give him the predictable “Fine!” Instead, I tell him I’m in a funk. “Aww, feelin’ down in Funky Town?” he dad-jokes, genuine concern in his tone. It’s kind of stupid, but we both laugh. He says he feels it, too.

Another friend texts me and a couple other girls to see if we want to meet for a drink at Offset Bier. I arrive around 5:45, excited to catch up. No one is there. I double check my texts and realize we’d agreed to meet at 6:30, not 5:30.

“Can anyone come earlier?” I text the group. My friend Katie immediately shoots back, “On my way!”

I feel myself brightening and it’s not just the glow of my ice-cold Glossier Double IPA. Sometimes, someone showing up for you is exactly what you need to unfunk yourself. And if worse comes to worse, I can always call Uber.

The post Betty Diaries: Feeling down in Funky Town appeared first on Park Record.

The heat radiated off the road as I slowly pedaled up a steep hill under the blazing Iowa sun. My whole body felt like scrambled eggs stuck to a cast-iron skillet. I was dizzy. I had all I could do to keep enough momentum so I wouldn’t tip over before I reached the top. I was about 60 miles into a 75-mile day — the fourth day of heat, headwinds and hills, sooo many hills — in the 51^st edition of  RAGBRAI, an annual bike ride that crosses the entire state of Iowa.

RAGBRAI stands for the Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa. The largest bike touring event in the world, it was started by two journalists from The Des Moines Register back in 1973. They had a plan to ride across the state and cheekily invited readers to join them. Three hundred cyclists showed up.

Since then, the tour has transformed into a veritable city on wheels as it moves from overnight town to overnight town, connecting the dots of charming rural hamlets, scenic farmland and more cornfields than a warehouse full of Corn Flakes. The route changes every year, but RAGBRAI always rolls eastward from the Missouri to the Mississippi River, with a ceremonial tire dip in each to start and end the ride.

There are two common misperceptions about Iowa. One, that it’s flat. And two, that the prevailing winds blow west to east. I am here to tell you that both are fake news. This year’s RAGBRAI route took nearly 20,000 riders across about 450 miles with stiff headwinds most of the way. The southern route featured close to 20,000 feet of climb over the weeklong tour. It wound its way through some of Iowa’s smallest towns—some with populations of fewer than 1,000.

I’d done RAGBRAI twice before — once in 2000 and again in 2009. Both times I felt an enormous sense of pride in my country and in my ability to ride a great distance while consuming virtually unlimited amounts of beer, pie and pork chops.

Then, this past February, a college pal called to say she was doing it. Would I come with? I agreed, but I was immediately anxious, and not just because it was to be the hilliest route in the history of the ride. I was nervous because the United States right now feels anything but united. This was to be my summer vacation. I knew it wouldn’t exactly be relaxing, but the last thing I wanted to feel was contentious.

I wondered, what would Iowa be like in 2024? While some call it a purple state, small towns in rural Iowa tend to lean heavily red these days. Instead of ice-cold IPAs and cherry popsicles being shoved in my face, would there be Trump flags and MAGA hats? Would the heartland be as I remembered it, full of heart? Or would it feel more like the surreal Divided States of America that we live in now?

But I wasn’t thinking about all that when I was pedaling up that steep hill on Day 4 of the ride. All I was thinking about was getting to that cool grove of trees at the top that appeared like a mirage in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. All I had to do was get to the shade and maybe eat a bar and drink some electrolytes and lie down for a few minutes and I’d be fine. I finally reached the top, dropped my bike and collapsed onto the grass. I closed my eyes and lay there under the trees for a minute or so catching my breath.

“You OK?” I heard a man ask. “You want a hot dog or a hamburger? I just put some on the grill.”

I opened my eyes to see an older guy with a gray beard and kind smile standing over me. Next to him was a little girl, maybe 6 or 7, also smiling at me.

“Do you want to camp at our house?” she asked. “My mom said I could invite as many people as I want. Just not 100.”

The man went to get me a hot dog, and the girl stayed behind to keep me company. For the first time, I noticed the large, modest farmhouse and the lush green meadow beyond it where some cows were grazing. I thought this must be an idyllic place to be a kid.

The little girl said her name was Audrey and the hot-dog man was her grandfather. She gave me some jelly beans and about five hugs. The man brought me the hot dog. It was all exactly what I needed in that moment. Like Popeye with a can of spinach, I was ready to tear up some asphalt, at least for a few more miles. My belly and my heart were full.

There on the road, it was just me and 20,000 of my newest friends, all sharing a route toward a common destination. It can be easy to spew hate when you feel anonymous. But in that moment, it didn’t matter if we were red or blue or purple or beige. Just that we were together. Our points of connection were as simple and clear as sliding into the slipstream of a perfect stranger. A chance encounter punctuated by a sideways glance and a simple, “Hey,” amidst a few gasps for air.

I was surrounded by every kind of bike. Road bikes, race bikes, recumbent bikes, bikes that looked like luges, elliptical bikes, hand bikes, tandem bikes, e-bikes, mountain bikes, beater bikes. It was a goddam democracy of bikes. With power of the people, by the people and for the people.

There were serious cyclists and weekend warriors, middle-aged men in Lycra and bachelorette pelotons in tutus. The very old and the very young, the very large and the very small. Teams dressed like cows and lizards and bees and angels. There was even a guy dressed in a cosplay anatomical muscle suit rolling up the hill on endurance rollerblades. Another guy rode the whole route backwards.

All of us suffering together in the 90-degree humidity, a literal melting pot. All of us sharing the ups and downs of the same challenge, and maybe the last lukewarm Mich Ultra in a cooler someone left too long in the hot sun.

At least for one week in July, we were one nation on our bikes, with liberty and endorphins for all. It’s a long shot, but I’m hoping we can all move forward with that feeling into the coming months. Because that is one hill that will definitely be worth the climb.

The post Betty Diaries: The United Bikes of America appeared first on Park Record.

Kurt Vonnegut and Joseph Heller are on Shelter Island at a bougie party thrown by a hedge-fund billionaire. Vonnegut remarks to Heller that their host made more in a single day than Heller himself had ever earned from his bestselling “Catch-22,” known as one of the greatest novels of all time.

Heller replies, “Yeah, but I have something that he will never have. Enough.”

Of course, the notion of “enough” is completely relative. How much is enough when you’ve lost everything? That’s what happened to my friend Nikki’s sister Jessie and her family a couple of years ago when a fire burned their house to the ground. Thankfully, none of them was home at the time except for their two dogs who were tragically trapped inside.

After the fire, friends and family helped them rebuild their home.

“They were able to re-establish their life relatively quickly in a material sense,” Nikki said. The breeder of one of the dogs they lost even gifted them a new puppy.

But for Jessie and her family, the meaning of “enough” has changed forever.

“It’s how you represent yourself and how you heal and how your children will remember you,” she said. “Enough is when you’re truly happy and possessions mean nothing.”

As someone who spent a good chunk of my 20s and 30s striving for more, more, more, I often felt like it was never enough. I was never enough. There had to be more. I had to be more.

Finally, after 20 years of marriage and career-striving, I had the life I thought I always wanted. I had the perfect job, the dream house, the cool car, the country club, the Chanel shoes. All the things I thought I wanted. The things that were supposed to fill me up. And yet I felt empty.

When my marriage ended a couple of years later, I left the house and the car and the country club behind and moved on my own to Paris for three months. That’s when I realized how little I really needed to be happy. A tiny rental in the 6^th arrondisement. A successful freelance writing gig. My first Parisian friend. And all the croissants I could eat.

I wanted for nothing, except an occasional bottle of cheap and delicious grocery store wine. And if I’m being honest, a couple more pairs of Chanel shoes. Maybe some Louboutins.

Eventually, I got rid of almost all of the belongings my husband and I had accumulated over 20 years of marriage — even some heirlooms from my grandma. I figured my memories of her were even more valuable than an old mahogany dresser. Smack dab in the middle of the pandemic, I packed what I could fit into my VW Sportwagen — basically my bikes and skis and shoes — and drove cross country with my cairn terrier Riley to start a new chapter in the Wild West. I had all I needed. I didn’t even have a place to live yet, but still, I had enough. I was enough.

I’m trying to keep all of that in mind right now. I’m about to leave for RAGBRAI, an epic seven-day bike ride across the state of Iowa with me and 30,000 new friends. When you’re only allowed 30 pounds of stuff, how much is enough? How many chamois and bike jerseys, how many T-shirts, how many socks will I need? How many tubes of butt paste? Can I survive without a blow dryer and a flush toilet? Am I really only going to bring flip flops and a pair of ugly bike sandals?

And aside from having enough of the essentials of daily life on the road, will I be enough? Strong enough to ride 60-70 miles per day for a week? Fit enough to climb nearly 20,000 feet in the hilliest route in the history of the ride? Confident enough in my training, my nutrition, my creaky joints?

To all of that, my friend Michele, who’s ridden RAGBRAI five times, said, “Kate, all you need is to slow down and enjoy the ride.”

I have a momentary flash of  Steve Martin’s “All I need” scene from the comedy classic “The Jerk.”

“I don’t need anything,” he says as he walks out on his wife, played by Bernadette Peters. “Except this ashtray,” he says, walking by a desk. “And this paddle game. The ashtray and the paddle game and that’s all I need … and this remote control … and that’s all I need.”

I toss all of my stuff into an old duffel bag and cross my fingers that I didn’t forget something. Without another thought, I take a deep breath and pull the zipper closed. In this moment, I know that I have everything I need. Enough is enough.

Just as I’m about to walk out the door, a pair of cute red clogs catches my eye, and at the last minute, I stuff them in the duffel. Hey, baby needs her shoes.

Kate Sonnick is off riding her bike across Iowa next week. Sadly, her dog and her shoe collection will not be joining her. Send a postcard to kate@katesonnick.com.

The post Betty Diaries: Enough is enough appeared first on Park Record.

A guy and a girl meet online and after a great first date, decide to get together again the following week for dinner. He cooks. She brings wine. There’s flirty banter. After that, there are lots of witty text exchanges and talk of summer plans. Everything is going great. And then … poof! He vanishes without a trace. 

Ghosting, or the practice of ending a personal relationship suddenly and without explanation, is nothing new, really. It’s happened to the best of us. A 2023 Forbes study reported that 75% of those polled had ghosted or been ghosted themselves.

Prophesied by the oracle otherwise known as “Sex and the City,” the spectre appeared long before online dating apps, smart phones and getting left on “read.”

Please turn your dating bible to the Book of Miranda 4:18: It’s like those guys you have the great second date with, and then never hear from them again. I pretend they died. She who speaketh from experience hath the last laugh — or cry, as the case may be.

Awhile back, a friend of mine texted me and another friend to weigh in on this guy she’d had a few dates with. “He’s acting weird,” she said.

“Describe ‘weird,'” I replied.

“Well, he had redneckish vibes, ownership vibes and not-good-kiss vibes followed by kinky questions. And I’m like, I’m not even gonna get to that if I don’t want to kiss you.”

The other friend advised, “Block. Ghost. Sometimes people deserve to be ghosted.”

I honestly can’t remember what she ended up doing. But rereading this exchange about ghosting got me thinking about my own stance on the practice. I’m not a fan. My golden rule: Date unto others as you would have them date unto you.

Some of my friends beg to differ. As one of them said, “An annoying dude I met sent me voice memos that were more like essays analyzing my attachment style. It was like homework just to text him back. When we met in person he was short-short and douchey and way too intense about planning our future. I try not to ghost, but in this case I never responded to his last text — not even to say, ‘Hey, I’m not into this.'”

Another friend tells this story: “I dated a guy who spent winters in Park City. We hung out a lot and skied. I knew it wasn’t a long-term thing, but I had fun with him. We talked about hanging out over the summer, but then … nothing. A year or so later, I ran into him outside of the Vintage Room … AWKWARD. He sent me a text apologizing, but I never responded.” Ghost not lest you be ghosted.

Some of us hate being ghosted for its not knowing, its infuriating lack of closure. But as one of my friends said, “I don’t mind it because to me ghosting is an answer in itself. It tells you all you really need to know about that person.” Repeat after me: I am worthy, I am worthy, I am worthy.

But hey, the truth shall set you free. And while it might feel a little uncomfortable, it only takes a few keystrokes to be honest with someone. For the doubters, here’s some inspiration from ChatGPT that took about 15 seconds to compose. If a robot can do it, so can you.

Hey there, I wanted to take a moment to express my thoughts. I had a really great time with you, and I genuinely think you’re a wonderful person. However, after reflecting on our interactions, I realized that I don’t feel a romantic connection between us. I believe it’s important to be honest about these feelings. I want you to know that this doesn’t take away from the positive experiences we’ve shared. I truly wish you all the best in your search.

Go in peace. And feel free to copy and paste.

Our closing reading is also from the Book of Miranda, 3:16.

Miranda gets stood up on the first date by a guy named Will. Infuriated, she immediately calls his home number and begins railing on the woman who answers the phone. It’s Will’s mother. “I don’t know how you raised your son,” Miranda says angrily. “But he just stood me up for a date.”

“Will died today,” the mother replies.

The holy ghost giveth. And the holy ghost taketh away. In other words, maybe you shouldn’t take it so personally. Ghosts can only haunt you if you let them.

The post Betty Diaries: The holy ghost of dating appeared first on Park Record.

Heading west on I-80, a flank of orange cones transforms into mesmerizing concrete barriers as the four-lane highway reduces down to just two. I stare at the rectangular back of an 18-wheeler looming over me as I repeat my mountain-bike mantra, Look where you want to go.

It’s just my Cairn terrier Riley and me. The two of us have been on the road for about two days of a four-day journey back to Park City from upstate New York.

My usual road trip euphoria has long since faded into anxiety and boredom. The former, thanks to two mysterious bug bites on my left arm and some weird eye floaters that dance across my vision like blurry spiders. The latter is thanks to an early overdose of podcasts, audiobooks and Spotify playlists. I think about phoning a friend, but I’m in that unsettling limbo where I’m not sure what state or time zone I’m in. I decide to stay focused on the road. Ten and two.

The bug bites, which started out a week earlier as two tiny bumps have since morphed into puffy red mounds that seemed to expand every time I glance down at my arm. I keep thinking I should pull over and grab some Benadryl out of my suitcase or at least find a long-sleeved shirt to obscure the view. As a woman on a long, solo road trip, given the option of stopping at sketchy truck stops or even-sketchier motels, a body in motion is almost always better than a body at rest. Just keep moving, I think. Look where you want to go.

And then there’s an explosion. It sounds like someone’s just launched a rocket inside my car. In the nanosecond that follows, pieces of rubber shrapnel bounce off my windshield and a huge section of tire flies out from under the semi I’ve been following. In the next nanosecond, with nowhere to go, I hear another mountain-bike cue in my head: Just roll right over it. Hope for the best. The semi plows ahead, oblivious to the destruction left in its wake. My car is still plowing ahead, too, despite my hands shakily death-gripping the steering wheel.

Desperate for a witness, I summon Siri to dictate a text to one of my friends. Holy shit, a Mack truck tire just blew up in front of me,” I cry, knowing full well Siri will have no way of conveying the white-knuckled panic in my tone.

I glance down at the bug bites, which seemed to have grown bigger still. Just then, I see a truck swerve into the left lane. I swerve too, and narrowly avoid hitting a large, aluminum ladder that’s fallen into the right lane of the highway. I’m going to need a Dramamine for all of the drama on this road trip.

And that’s when I see the familiar red-and-white logo beaming like a smile from a long-lost friend. There’s a Kum & Go convenience store just ahead. I exhale a sigh of relief as I pull off the Interstate.

I pump some gas and take Riley out for a quick pee before I go inside. A large, older woman with curly grey hair is ringing up a couple of dudes in fluorescent vests and cut-off flannel buying beer and cigarettes. I swear I feel her glaring at me as I pass by the American flags and camouflage and dried-out roller dogs that form an impossible chasm between her world and mine. I pull down the brim of my Park City hat and cross my arms over my bougie Hollywood T-shirt. Just tryna blend in.

Scanning the refrigerated case full of Mountain Dew, Gatorade and Bud Light, I pull out a litre of something called LIFE WTR. I walk back to the cash register and smugly pass over the Peanut M&Ms and Doritos for a “3 egg whites, 6 almonds, 2 dates and no B.S.” Rx Protein Bar.

I set the water and protein bar on the counter, praying the checkout lady doesn’t notice the pretentious copy on the LIFE WTR bottle that says: “It isn’t just about a 9-to-5 existence. To live a meaningful life requires more.” I imagine I’ve never come off as a more annoying snowflake.

Glancing at me over the top of her clear, plastic reading glasses, the lady asks, “Is that it?”

 “Actually, do you have any ice packs? I’ve got this bug bite …” I mutter, pathetically nodding toward my arm.

“Nope,” she replies in a way that immediately feels more like “Suck it up, buttercup.”

I pick up my water and protein bar and turn to leave.

“Hang on a sec, sweetie” she calls after me. “I can give you a little baggie,” she offers, holding one up. “For your arm,” she says gesturing with her own arm. “You can fill it up with some ice over there,” she says pointing toward the Coke machine.

And in that tiniest of moments, I’m more blown away than that freaking Mack truck tire. It’s just a small gesture, a plastic Kum & Go baggie filled with ice. But after miles of broken white lines, random ladders, tire shrapnel, bug bites, floaters and the utter boredom and alienation of the road; the unexpected kindness of this complete stranger envelops me like a hug.

And I realize that her world and mine aren’t as strange and separate as I think. They are, in fact, the same.

The post Betty Diaries: Postcard from the road appeared first on Park Record.

There was a snake in the sunroom. “I was just wandering through on my way to clip some mint in the backyard, and there it was,” said my cousin Melissa. She lives in Olympus Cove, home to many more wild creatures than Greek deities.

In a frozen panic, she called her husband, Adam. He was stuck at work. She called all of her neighbors. No one was home. She was on her own. Melissa vs. the snake. And so she did what any reasonable snake-o-phobe would do when faced with a cold-blooded reptile run amok in their sunroom. She grabbed her smartphone.

In the ensuing Instagram reel, Melissa’s camera shakily pans the room. And then we see it. It looks as long as a yardstick. A puke-green, slithering yardstick. Melissa shrieks. Drops multiple F-bombs. Comes close to peeing her pants.

Undeterred, the silent assassin does what silent assassins do. It sneaks along the edges of the room. It settles into the groove of a sliding-glass door, where it comes to a halt, either stuck or lounging. It’s hard to tell which.

Now it’s a stand-off between human and serpent. My money’s on the serpent. And then, just as suddenly as it appears, the snake deftly maneuvers out the door and disappears under the deck of the house’s retaining wall. “I haven’t gone outside since yesterday,” Melissa said. “And now, obviously, we have to move.”

In hindsight, Melissa said it was likely a non-venomous garter snake or rubber boa. “If it had been a rattlesnake,” she said, “I’d have to burn the house down.”

Melissa, who worked in animal rescue for 16 years, is a self-proclaimed nature nerd. “I am inherently fascinated by and curious about wildlife of all kinds—and almost went into rescue mode with that snake,” she said. “But when wildlife crosses into your home, I just can’t.”

So imagine what it’s like for the wild things themselves when we invade their home.

Riding my bike on the Rail Trail the other morning, I saw two women standing raptly on one of the wooden bridges next to the trail. After our epic snows of the past winter, the little streams along the trail are filled to the brim. And the marshes are jammed with tall grasses, cattails and other wetland plants.

Feeling nosy, I stopped to ask what they were looking at so intently. They pointed toward the pond and I saw three large, white birds floating peacefully together. Their silvery-white bodies glinted in the sunlight, while bright, orange bills explored the surface of the water. The women told me they were pelicans. Pelicans in Park City? Who knew?

I got home and googled it. Sure enough, they were pelicans. Likely part of the squadron that returned to the Great Salt Lake’s Gunnison Island — after an 80-year absence. According to  Swaner Preserve Director of Conservation Rhea Cone, the birds returned to the Great Salt Lake to nest and raise their young. Considering that less than 1% of the state of Utah is wetlands, it’s a kind of nature’s miracle that they’re here at all.

But what I was wondering was what would bring them all the way up to Park City — especially considering how the rail trail’s wetlands seem to be more encroached upon every season. By drought. Development. Construction. Loud-talking humans.

Nevertheless, Cone said the pelicans come up here for food. And the ones spotted in Park City likely flew over 50 miles to find it. “It’s a long commute,” she said. But a necessary one. The Great Salt Lake is devoid of fish, so they have fly to places like East Canyon Creek in the Swaner Preserve and the streams along the rail trail to fuel up for the trip back to the rookery on Gunnison Island. Cone said to feed their young, they literally regurgitate the food they’ve consumed. Ew, but you do you, mama pelican.

Cone said the Great Salt Lake is an inhospitable place for pelicans. It’s brutally hot with little shade and no fish. But in this case, the habitat’s inhospitality may actually be a good thing, deterring predators like coyotes. And annoyances like humans.

The other day, I was back on the rail trail, riding my bike to the gym. I spotted two figures in the distance. Standing about 4 feet tall with round bodies, serpentine necks and long, spindly legs, they looked like aliens.

As I got closer, I guessed they were some sort of crane. Or great blue herons maybe? They stood patiently, majestically, giving me as wide a berth as I gave them. They held their ground as I passed, and seemed to regard me with as much wonder as I regarded them. I thought about how extraordinary a single instant can be when you actually slow down and pay attention to it.

For the moment at least, I felt welcome in their home.

The post Betty Diaries: Where the wild things are — and aren’t appeared first on Park Record.

Today is June 6, 2024, the 80^th anniversary of the allied invasion of Normandy. The day that turned the tide of World War II. D-Day.

On April 30, 2011, I visited the D-Day beaches. My then-husband, Jim, and I were living in Paris at the time. He was a real World War II history buff, and we decided to drive up to Normandy for the weekend. I suppose he wanted to see it, to feel it, in that unspoken way that sons of soldiers want to see and feel their fathers.

I remember not being that much into it. If it were up to me, I probably would have spent that weekend wandering around Boulevard Saint Germain or sitting in a neighborhood café on Rue de Buci, lazily drinking iced Americanos. But Jim really wanted to go, so we did.

With belated apologies to my eighth-grade history teacher, I had this naïve idea of Normandy as one beach. Like you could just drive up from Paris, park your car and be there. What I’d forgotten was that the D-Day invasion actually took place over a 50-mile stretch of coastline in northwest France. And what I’d considered to be the beach, was actually just one of five. Utah. Omaha. Gold. Juno. Sword.

The seemingly poetic etymology of those names is actually less romantic than I’d imagined. Omaha and Utah were chosen at random when some American general asked two NCOs where they were from. Gold, Juno and Sword were named after three kinds of fish.

The total number of allied troops that landed on those beaches either by air or by sea was 156,111.  They included soldiers from the United States, Britain, Canada, Belgium, Norway, Poland, Luxembourg, Greece, Czechoslovakia, New Zealand and Australia, plus French commandos. It was the largest amphibious assault in human history. The odds of survival: 1 in 4.

It was 11 o’clock in the morning when we parked the car and I remember thinking, OK, where’s this beach. We walked along a gravel path from the parking lot. The sun was shining. I had to admit, the setting was idyllic. I remember there were other visitors, too, and everyone laughed and chatted in that loud American way we have. Finally, all fell silent but the wind and waves.

There was a tall, stone monument punctuating the azure sky. It was etched with some of the names of the fallen. I snapped a closeup of Hahn, Hales, Halpe, Hardy, Hasty, Henley, Herbert, Hecht, Helms. We continued along the path until we were standing on a cliff overlooking the sea. And that’s when I caught my first glimpse. Nothing like the black-and-white war movies my father used to binge.

There was Omaha Beach, viewed through a violet haze of sea roses. At low tide on that day in June, troops had to cross maybe 500 yards. But from where I stood, it seemed that it might has well have been 500 miles. I remember crying.

And that’s when I saw it. Just to my left across a manicured lawn. I have no idea how I missed it before. Because it was vast as Omaha Beach itself. Only instead of sand and waves and sea roses, this land was marked by white crosses. There were white stars of David, too. About 10,000 monuments all together, lined up in perfect rows, pointing toward America.

Since I document everything, I’m surprised that I didn’t take a photo of those crosses. But the image was exposed to blinding sunlight, developed with sea water, wind and tears and is forever imprinted in my mind. A kind of silver halide alchemy performed only in the most indelible of human moments.

After that, we visited Pointe du Hoc. Another history lesson I’d long forgotten. Jim wanted to see the 100-foot cliffs that a daring battalion of Army Rangers scaled on ropes, ladders and grapples under direct enemy fire.

It was essentially a suicide mission. As one commander of the time put it, “Three old women with brooms could keep the Rangers from climbing that cliff.” They didn’t stand a chance against German artillery. Just one of the companies began the mission with 70 men. By the time they reached the base of the cliffs, there were 35. By nightfall, there were just about a dozen men left to knock out enemy strongholds at the top.

Jim and I stood together on the white gravel path that led to the cliffs. Enormous bombed-out craters long overgrown with sea grass scarred the landscape that surrounded us. I watched Jim follow the path to the edge.

There, just steps away from the sunlit gravel, were the cool, dark bunkers from which hundreds of Rangers were shot down like fish in a barrel.

Jim crouched low into the shadows of one of the bunkers, just beyond a tangle of dead bushes that looked like barbed wire, and disappeared inside.

I closed my eyes, lost in the speculative alchemy of another moment I would try hard not to forget.

The post Betty Diaries: Turning the tide of memory appeared first on Park Record.