I read the Chicago Tribune cover-to-cover just about every day. There are plenty of days when I am rolling my eyes at the anti-union, anti-educator slants of their articles, or muttering that we don’t need another front-page article on the “tiny houses movement” when we should be talking about Palestine and Syria.
(Tangent: Do any of these “tiny house” people have kids? Specifically, do they have three boys who are lax with the deodorant and view their clothing hampers as optional? Now that would merit front-page news.)
As part of this daily reading of the Trib, there is the GeoQuiz trivia question in the Sunday Travel section. It sits in the top right corner of the front page of Travel and even tells you where to find the response. If you look very, very closely, it actually says, “Lori, we know that you’re probably not going to know this, so feel free to look at page 3 and then say to yourself, “Dang it, I really thought it was Japan.”
Of course, the beloved, aforementioned husband is ridiculously good at geography.
Here’s how things go on a Sunday morning:
“Missy. It’s time. Are you ready?”
“Mmmmmm….I think I need to go brush my teeth. And I just heard the dryer buzz.”
“Which continent has the…?”
“Which state is known as the…?”
“Which two countries share the same latitude of …?”
“Where would you go if you wanted to see the ….river?”
Most of these questions are met with blank stares or deliberately incorrect responses from me.
“Iceland and New Zealand.”
“I don’t even know how to spell the name of that river. Let’s go with the USSR.”
The beloved, aforementioned husband has the correct response 90% of the time.
There is a part of me that wonders if this Sunday ritual is part of a master plan to improve my knowledge of geography and, even more importantly, turn on the piss-poor sense of direction in my head.
I’m the girl who has to think really, really, REALLY hard when she’s driving somewhere unfamiliar to make sure that she doesn’t get lost. When hiking off trail, I’m the girl who has to constantly look for the sun to make sure that I’m staying the course; and is slightly, silently freaked out on cloudy days. I’m the girl who got her family terribly lost for three hours in the Canadian wilderness AND had two compasses with her at the time. (However, I will say that the compasses were not agreeing with each other, which undoubtedly contributed to a hard march through the worst inland swamp I have ever crossed. Holy crap. That was a bad day.)
For the Sunday morning ritual and the accompanying dose of humility: I am grateful. And probably hopeless.