Friday, January 27, 2006
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Happy Birthday to Me
An elderly married couple is taking the very first plane trip of their lives. Unfortunately, the entire flight is troubled with severe turbulence; up, down, back, forth...the couple are terrified and ill the whole time. Finally, they land safely. The wife turns to the husband and says, "That's the last time I fly United."
My husband gave me the best present for my 40th birthday; he bought me a ticket to Ohio, to spend a long weekend with my girlfriends.
I haven't seen them since our move South in August, so this was a treat beyond imagining. We ate a LOT, and we spent long hours talking and drinking wine. When we got bored with that, we went shopping. Heaven!
However... (There's always a "however", isn't there?)
I am a poor traveler. Beyond poor, actually. I get extremely anxious. When I'm anxious, I get snippy. No, I get MEAN. This is why I carry sedatives with me at all times. And this trip was, bar none, the worst travel experience of my life.
On the way to the airport in Columbia, SC (approximately an hour plus drive from our place in Augusta) we realized that the transmission on the effing car was going. AGAIN. The entire drive was an agony of "will we make it, won't we make it", and in fact we got to the airport with only a half hour for me to check in and board.
This might be plenty of time for the average traveler, but I need at least two hours, just so I can be sure I have time to pee every time I pass a restroom (just another weird travel quirk I have), get something to eat, peruse the magazines, etc.
I was so late, I couldn't even check my bags. Since I had elected to carry my incredibly cute vintage luggage, this was a problem. They are small and absolutely adorable, but seriously must weigh about 30 pounds apiece. And now I had to haul them from the parking lot, through the terminal, to the gate, to the plane side baggage check.
Where I discovered that the plane I would be taking was one of those tiny little pseudo planes.
"Send it back," I howled, "I want its mother!"
To no avail. But I did get marked as a trouble maker, which is always comforting in this age of undercover air marshalls with concealed weapons.
Well, anyway, I made it ok. The real trouble didn't start until the flight home.
I got to the airport in plenty of time, checked my cute but heavy luggage, had my pick of the magazines, and settled in for a restful wait at the gate. The first leg of the trip, from Columbus to Cincinnati wasn't too bad. There was a some turbulence, and the guy beside me wouldn't share the armrest, but that part of the flight was only an hour, so ok, not intolerable.
Cincinnati to Columbia, though....ugh. Started out ok, my seat mate was a college aged guy, one of a group of three; his buddies were seated behind us. He made a joke during the safety demonstration, I laughed; I couldn't find the switch for my personal light when the cabin lights went off, he assisted me. We had established a rapport, which was exactly what I wanted; now that we were friends, the armrest was mine!
Then we took off. And the plane immediately started bucking like a wild bronco. Reading was out of the question. Then the plane...dropped... I actually moaned in fear, prompting the woman across the aisle to pat my arm, and the business man diagonally from me to loudly explain "to his companions" that turbulence was just like a boat crossing waves, REALLY NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT HAHA EVERYTHING IS JUST FINE.
It's a boat on the waves, it's a boat on the waves, I repeated to myself, as the plane continued its mad gyrations.
Then, the motion sickness set in.
I happen to get motion sickness from everything. (See posts regarding recent Disney vacation.) I get motion sickness from watching movies in an Imax theatre. I get motion sickness if I have to look back and forth between two software programs. I get motion sickness turning the car around in a parking lot.
Because I get motion sickness to such a, well, sickening degree, I always carry candied ginger with me. And ginger Altoids. And I drink a lot of ginger ale, which is great for washing down saltines. So it's not like I'm not prepared. But on this trip, my candied ginger and my ginger Altoids were in my bag. Under the seat in front of me. Which I couldn't reach without leaning over. Which I couldn't do without throwing up.
Curses. Many, many curses.
Ah, well, I muttered to myself, I will get some ginger ale and crackers from the flight attendant when they bring the cart around.
Bong! The Captain lit the seat belt sign. Well, you know, re-lit the sign, just to call our attention to the fact that he had something to say. And what he had to say was, basically, turbulence is bad, moving around the cabin is unsafe, so no food service for you.
No food service! That means no ginger ale! That means no saltine crackers! I checked my watch. 45 more minutes to Columbia. Argh.
So, for the next 45 minutes I fought my constant urge to be violently ill, I checked my watch compulsively, I cursed the entire air travel industry, and I literally cried with fear as the plane continued to buck and roll and threaten to fall from the sky. I couldn't help it, the tears just leaked out from beneath my lashes. I was crying very stoically, but crying nonetheless.
The guy beside me, the nice young college guy?
SNORING. SOUND ASLEEP. COULD NOT HAVE CARED LESS.
How I envied him. I tried to sleep, but had to keep opening my eyes to fix on the "X" of the Exit sign, in order to keep from throwing up.
The final horror, however, occurred after the flight was --- FINALLY --- over. As soon as we taxied to the gate, I collected my stuff and stood in the aisle, desperately waiting to deplane. Then I smelled the most foul, evil odour; one of the college boys had farted. But not just farted; it was the mother of all farts. I was certain I would not make if off the plane before being well and truly sick over every single person in my vicinity.
But I did, of course. The one good thing about those puddle jumpers is you get to deplane onto the tarmac, which means you get to be out in the fresh cold air immediately; you just have to make it to the cabin door and you're home free. So I took a minute to stand in the rain and just breathe.
And to decide then and there that the next time I got on a plane would be for my fiftieth birthday. And not a minute sooner.
My husband gave me the best present for my 40th birthday; he bought me a ticket to Ohio, to spend a long weekend with my girlfriends.
I haven't seen them since our move South in August, so this was a treat beyond imagining. We ate a LOT, and we spent long hours talking and drinking wine. When we got bored with that, we went shopping. Heaven!
However... (There's always a "however", isn't there?)
I am a poor traveler. Beyond poor, actually. I get extremely anxious. When I'm anxious, I get snippy. No, I get MEAN. This is why I carry sedatives with me at all times. And this trip was, bar none, the worst travel experience of my life.
On the way to the airport in Columbia, SC (approximately an hour plus drive from our place in Augusta) we realized that the transmission on the effing car was going. AGAIN. The entire drive was an agony of "will we make it, won't we make it", and in fact we got to the airport with only a half hour for me to check in and board.
This might be plenty of time for the average traveler, but I need at least two hours, just so I can be sure I have time to pee every time I pass a restroom (just another weird travel quirk I have), get something to eat, peruse the magazines, etc.
I was so late, I couldn't even check my bags. Since I had elected to carry my incredibly cute vintage luggage, this was a problem. They are small and absolutely adorable, but seriously must weigh about 30 pounds apiece. And now I had to haul them from the parking lot, through the terminal, to the gate, to the plane side baggage check.
Where I discovered that the plane I would be taking was one of those tiny little pseudo planes.
"Send it back," I howled, "I want its mother!"
To no avail. But I did get marked as a trouble maker, which is always comforting in this age of undercover air marshalls with concealed weapons.
Well, anyway, I made it ok. The real trouble didn't start until the flight home.
I got to the airport in plenty of time, checked my cute but heavy luggage, had my pick of the magazines, and settled in for a restful wait at the gate. The first leg of the trip, from Columbus to Cincinnati wasn't too bad. There was a some turbulence, and the guy beside me wouldn't share the armrest, but that part of the flight was only an hour, so ok, not intolerable.
Cincinnati to Columbia, though....ugh. Started out ok, my seat mate was a college aged guy, one of a group of three; his buddies were seated behind us. He made a joke during the safety demonstration, I laughed; I couldn't find the switch for my personal light when the cabin lights went off, he assisted me. We had established a rapport, which was exactly what I wanted; now that we were friends, the armrest was mine!
Then we took off. And the plane immediately started bucking like a wild bronco. Reading was out of the question. Then the plane...dropped... I actually moaned in fear, prompting the woman across the aisle to pat my arm, and the business man diagonally from me to loudly explain "to his companions" that turbulence was just like a boat crossing waves, REALLY NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT HAHA EVERYTHING IS JUST FINE.
It's a boat on the waves, it's a boat on the waves, I repeated to myself, as the plane continued its mad gyrations.
Then, the motion sickness set in.
I happen to get motion sickness from everything. (See posts regarding recent Disney vacation.) I get motion sickness from watching movies in an Imax theatre. I get motion sickness if I have to look back and forth between two software programs. I get motion sickness turning the car around in a parking lot.
Because I get motion sickness to such a, well, sickening degree, I always carry candied ginger with me. And ginger Altoids. And I drink a lot of ginger ale, which is great for washing down saltines. So it's not like I'm not prepared. But on this trip, my candied ginger and my ginger Altoids were in my bag. Under the seat in front of me. Which I couldn't reach without leaning over. Which I couldn't do without throwing up.
Curses. Many, many curses.
Ah, well, I muttered to myself, I will get some ginger ale and crackers from the flight attendant when they bring the cart around.
Bong! The Captain lit the seat belt sign. Well, you know, re-lit the sign, just to call our attention to the fact that he had something to say. And what he had to say was, basically, turbulence is bad, moving around the cabin is unsafe, so no food service for you.
No food service! That means no ginger ale! That means no saltine crackers! I checked my watch. 45 more minutes to Columbia. Argh.
So, for the next 45 minutes I fought my constant urge to be violently ill, I checked my watch compulsively, I cursed the entire air travel industry, and I literally cried with fear as the plane continued to buck and roll and threaten to fall from the sky. I couldn't help it, the tears just leaked out from beneath my lashes. I was crying very stoically, but crying nonetheless.
The guy beside me, the nice young college guy?
SNORING. SOUND ASLEEP. COULD NOT HAVE CARED LESS.
How I envied him. I tried to sleep, but had to keep opening my eyes to fix on the "X" of the Exit sign, in order to keep from throwing up.
The final horror, however, occurred after the flight was --- FINALLY --- over. As soon as we taxied to the gate, I collected my stuff and stood in the aisle, desperately waiting to deplane. Then I smelled the most foul, evil odour; one of the college boys had farted. But not just farted; it was the mother of all farts. I was certain I would not make if off the plane before being well and truly sick over every single person in my vicinity.
But I did, of course. The one good thing about those puddle jumpers is you get to deplane onto the tarmac, which means you get to be out in the fresh cold air immediately; you just have to make it to the cabin door and you're home free. So I took a minute to stand in the rain and just breathe.
And to decide then and there that the next time I got on a plane would be for my fiftieth birthday. And not a minute sooner.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Pack of angry Chihuahuas attack officer in Fremont
Friday, December 30, 2005
(12-30) 08:56 PST Fremont, Calif. (AP) --
A pack of angry Chihuahuas attacked a police officer who was escorting a teenager home following a traffic stop, authorities said.
The officer suffered minor injuries including bites to his ankle on Thursday when the five Chihuahuas escaped the 17-year-old boy's home and rushed the officer in the doorway, said Fremont detective Bill Veteran.
The teenager had been detained after the traffic incident, Veteran said.
The officer was treated at a local hospital and returned to work less than two hours later, Veteran said.
It was the third time this month a Fremont officer was bitten by a dog while on duty. Neither of the other officers were seriously injured.
URL: http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/news/archive/2005/12/30/state/n085627S38.DTL
Honestly, you really don't want to fuck with those little guys. They are FIERCE, god bless their tiny hearts.
(12-30) 08:56 PST Fremont, Calif. (AP) --
A pack of angry Chihuahuas attacked a police officer who was escorting a teenager home following a traffic stop, authorities said.
The officer suffered minor injuries including bites to his ankle on Thursday when the five Chihuahuas escaped the 17-year-old boy's home and rushed the officer in the doorway, said Fremont detective Bill Veteran.
The teenager had been detained after the traffic incident, Veteran said.
The officer was treated at a local hospital and returned to work less than two hours later, Veteran said.
It was the third time this month a Fremont officer was bitten by a dog while on duty. Neither of the other officers were seriously injured.
URL: http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/news/archive/2005/12/30/state/n085627S38.DTL
Honestly, you really don't want to fuck with those little guys. They are FIERCE, god bless their tiny hearts.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Et tu, Scott? or Why Women Shouldn't Run the Gift Exchange
Scott and I were driving to the far side of town, in a frenzy of last minute Christmas shopping. HIS last minute shopping, mind you, because I finished mine before we moved in August. (I'm annoying like that.)
We were shopping for his office gift exchange, which operates like a White Elephant or Yankee Swap. On the way, we discussed various items that might be nice and still within the budget of ten dollars. Time and again I attempted to steer him towards gender neutral gifts, such as BBQ tools and hot sauce, or at least a DVD that might appeal to a man.
Finally, Scott asked me why I was so insistent on this point, to which I replied that guys always get short-shrifted with the whole gift exchange thing, because women always buy for other women, and the guys get stuck with potpourri and body lotion or Christmas decorations.
I personally witnessed a man at my former place of employment end up with an item we "affectionately" called Strip-Search-Santa, and I will note that he never even took it home; it just drifted around the office all year long, assaulting the eyes of everyone unfortunate to run across it. Mind you, a woman would have thought it was cute; a man, not so much.
The following year another man was blessed with a pink Disney Princess Tree, a gift all the women thought was absolutely hilarious, but again, men don't share the same sense of humor. At least he had a small daughter he was able to take the tree home to.
Scott nodded knowingly as I relayed these horror stories. "Yeah, I'll never forget the year I got CANDLES in my gift exchange, I..." He stopped in horror, with the sudden realization that he had already revealed far, far too much.
"Hey....HEY! Are you telling me that those candles you gave me that year...the candles I thought were so beautiful and thoughtful...were a RE-GIFT???" I shouted in disillusionment.
He hung his head and shame, then took me shopping for new lingerie to make up for his faux pas. The truth is, I still really liked the candles. I just wanted new lingerie. Shhhhh....
; )
We were shopping for his office gift exchange, which operates like a White Elephant or Yankee Swap. On the way, we discussed various items that might be nice and still within the budget of ten dollars. Time and again I attempted to steer him towards gender neutral gifts, such as BBQ tools and hot sauce, or at least a DVD that might appeal to a man.
Finally, Scott asked me why I was so insistent on this point, to which I replied that guys always get short-shrifted with the whole gift exchange thing, because women always buy for other women, and the guys get stuck with potpourri and body lotion or Christmas decorations.
I personally witnessed a man at my former place of employment end up with an item we "affectionately" called Strip-Search-Santa, and I will note that he never even took it home; it just drifted around the office all year long, assaulting the eyes of everyone unfortunate to run across it. Mind you, a woman would have thought it was cute; a man, not so much.
The following year another man was blessed with a pink Disney Princess Tree, a gift all the women thought was absolutely hilarious, but again, men don't share the same sense of humor. At least he had a small daughter he was able to take the tree home to.
Scott nodded knowingly as I relayed these horror stories. "Yeah, I'll never forget the year I got CANDLES in my gift exchange, I..." He stopped in horror, with the sudden realization that he had already revealed far, far too much.
"Hey....HEY! Are you telling me that those candles you gave me that year...the candles I thought were so beautiful and thoughtful...were a RE-GIFT???" I shouted in disillusionment.
He hung his head and shame, then took me shopping for new lingerie to make up for his faux pas. The truth is, I still really liked the candles. I just wanted new lingerie. Shhhhh....
; )
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Saturday, November 19, 2005
My Enneagram Results....Hmmmm....
Main Type | Overall Self |
 |  |
| Enneagram Test Results
Your variant is social |
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
It's a Small World, But There's a Lot of Love
Once upon a time, there was a fetching young lady who was named, coincidentally, QuinnBee.
QuinnBee was, in the words of the brilliant Laurie Notaro, a Stoopid Girl, who had traveled many miles for a visit with her so-called boyfriend, who had moved to the Bahamas and had invited her to Florida for a long weekend.
QuinnBee thought her so-called boyfriend really sucked in the first place for moving to an island without even consulting her, but there were stars in her eyes that prevented her from seeing that he was, in fact, a first-class asshole. So, off she went.
One of the bright ideas that the so-called boyfriend had was to travel many, many miles in a convertible to see the Magic Kingdom. The stars in her eyes prevented QuinnBee from seeing that all the fancy lace undergarments she had brought for a so-called romantic weekend would be one-hundred-percent uncomfortable for walking around an amusement park for an entire day, but that's what stars are wont to do. So, off she went.
Her so-called boyfriend was very mean and jerky all day long, and QuinnBee was beginning to get the idea that something was very, very wrong. But the stars in her eyes prevented her from seeng that, when he suggested going on the It's a Small World ride, it might be solely to get her in a place where she would be completely incapable of making a scene. So, off she went.
And, of course, her so-called boyfriend broke up with QuinnBee on It's a Small World, and she had to cry very quietly to herself so as not to scare all the little children, and she kept crying through the rest of the very long day, and her nether regions were numb from the inappropriate panties that didn't do a damn bit of good keeping her so-called boyfriend from breaking up with her, and she cried the whole long drive back to West Palm Beach in the middle of the night, because she was a very Stoopid Girl.
But at least she didn't have those pesky stars in her eyes anymore.
"Aww," said my husband, "that is the saddest story I have ever heard."
"You're not kidding. Those panties were a bitch," said the formerly Stoopid Girl. "So, you wanna go on It's a Small World? You can laugh at me with the full picture, that way."
"Sure! Hang on, though, I need to go in here for a minute. I'll be right back."
Off Scott loped, while I sat and people-watched on Main Street. I saw lots of parents and kids, and more than a few Stoopid Girls who might, someday in the future, look back and think, Why did I ruin Disney by going with that moron? Worse, seeing little mouse-ear veils and top hats bobbing through the crowd, Why did I ruin Disney by marrying that jerk then having my honeymoon there?? Why, why, why?! But you never know, when you've got stars in your eyes, do you?
Now, I LOVE my husband, and from the first time I saw him I had a HUGE crush on him. But the truth is, I didn't marry him because I felt butterflies in my stomach. I married him because he is good and cheerful (most of the time) and responsible. He gets me, I get him, and while it may not be a romance novel every day of the week it is OUR love story and it seems to work just fine. I always feel a little defensive, as if --- in this day of PASSION! and ROMANCE! --- mere love and respect is not enough, but I believe that we married for all the right reasons and we'll be together long after more torrid affairs have burned themselves out.
"Ok, I'm back. It's a Small World, here we come!"
So of course the lines were long; the ride's a classic after all. Scott kept begging me to entertain him by telling the sad story of QuinnBee again.
"When did he break up with you?" he asked, "At the beginning of the ride? Or in the middle?"
"Um, pretty near the beginning, because I remember crying and crying and thinking I was going to throw up if I had to keep listening to that fucking song."
"That's rough," he commiserated, but really he seemed like he was laughing more than anything.
"You are very sadistic, did you know that?"
But why shouldn't he laugh? It was a long time ago, and I wouldn't tell it if it wasn't a funny story. I mean, c'mon, how pathetic do you have to be for your so-called boyfriend to break up with you on IT'S A SMALL WORLD??? I smiled up at Scott and thought, Just wait, I'm gonna punch you right in the hip.
Then it was our turn to enter the little boat and visit a world of happy, singing marionettes. We oooed. We ahhhed. Scott turned to me and pressed a small box into my hand.
"QuinnBee, will you marry me, again?"
I opened the box to find a small sterling ring, with a "B" and a tiny Mickey logo made of glittery little stones.
"I just thought that, since some other guy ruined this for you, I'd try to make it better again."
Ohhh, yeeeaaah, THIS is why I married him: he is the sweetest, nicest person in the whole world.
He went on, excitedly describing his plan to surprise me and how he managed to pull it off. But I kind of lost track of what he was saying, looking at the little ring nestled on my finger.
Actually, I couldn't even see that well, from all the damn stars in my eyes....
QuinnBee was, in the words of the brilliant Laurie Notaro, a Stoopid Girl, who had traveled many miles for a visit with her so-called boyfriend, who had moved to the Bahamas and had invited her to Florida for a long weekend.
QuinnBee thought her so-called boyfriend really sucked in the first place for moving to an island without even consulting her, but there were stars in her eyes that prevented her from seeing that he was, in fact, a first-class asshole. So, off she went.
One of the bright ideas that the so-called boyfriend had was to travel many, many miles in a convertible to see the Magic Kingdom. The stars in her eyes prevented QuinnBee from seeing that all the fancy lace undergarments she had brought for a so-called romantic weekend would be one-hundred-percent uncomfortable for walking around an amusement park for an entire day, but that's what stars are wont to do. So, off she went.
Her so-called boyfriend was very mean and jerky all day long, and QuinnBee was beginning to get the idea that something was very, very wrong. But the stars in her eyes prevented her from seeng that, when he suggested going on the It's a Small World ride, it might be solely to get her in a place where she would be completely incapable of making a scene. So, off she went.
And, of course, her so-called boyfriend broke up with QuinnBee on It's a Small World, and she had to cry very quietly to herself so as not to scare all the little children, and she kept crying through the rest of the very long day, and her nether regions were numb from the inappropriate panties that didn't do a damn bit of good keeping her so-called boyfriend from breaking up with her, and she cried the whole long drive back to West Palm Beach in the middle of the night, because she was a very Stoopid Girl.
But at least she didn't have those pesky stars in her eyes anymore.
"Aww," said my husband, "that is the saddest story I have ever heard."
"You're not kidding. Those panties were a bitch," said the formerly Stoopid Girl. "So, you wanna go on It's a Small World? You can laugh at me with the full picture, that way."
"Sure! Hang on, though, I need to go in here for a minute. I'll be right back."
Off Scott loped, while I sat and people-watched on Main Street. I saw lots of parents and kids, and more than a few Stoopid Girls who might, someday in the future, look back and think, Why did I ruin Disney by going with that moron? Worse, seeing little mouse-ear veils and top hats bobbing through the crowd, Why did I ruin Disney by marrying that jerk then having my honeymoon there?? Why, why, why?! But you never know, when you've got stars in your eyes, do you?
Now, I LOVE my husband, and from the first time I saw him I had a HUGE crush on him. But the truth is, I didn't marry him because I felt butterflies in my stomach. I married him because he is good and cheerful (most of the time) and responsible. He gets me, I get him, and while it may not be a romance novel every day of the week it is OUR love story and it seems to work just fine. I always feel a little defensive, as if --- in this day of PASSION! and ROMANCE! --- mere love and respect is not enough, but I believe that we married for all the right reasons and we'll be together long after more torrid affairs have burned themselves out.
"Ok, I'm back. It's a Small World, here we come!"
So of course the lines were long; the ride's a classic after all. Scott kept begging me to entertain him by telling the sad story of QuinnBee again.
"When did he break up with you?" he asked, "At the beginning of the ride? Or in the middle?"
"Um, pretty near the beginning, because I remember crying and crying and thinking I was going to throw up if I had to keep listening to that fucking song."
"That's rough," he commiserated, but really he seemed like he was laughing more than anything.
"You are very sadistic, did you know that?"
But why shouldn't he laugh? It was a long time ago, and I wouldn't tell it if it wasn't a funny story. I mean, c'mon, how pathetic do you have to be for your so-called boyfriend to break up with you on IT'S A SMALL WORLD??? I smiled up at Scott and thought, Just wait, I'm gonna punch you right in the hip.
Then it was our turn to enter the little boat and visit a world of happy, singing marionettes. We oooed. We ahhhed. Scott turned to me and pressed a small box into my hand.
"QuinnBee, will you marry me, again?"
I opened the box to find a small sterling ring, with a "B" and a tiny Mickey logo made of glittery little stones.
"I just thought that, since some other guy ruined this for you, I'd try to make it better again."
Ohhh, yeeeaaah, THIS is why I married him: he is the sweetest, nicest person in the whole world.
He went on, excitedly describing his plan to surprise me and how he managed to pull it off. But I kind of lost track of what he was saying, looking at the little ring nestled on my finger.
Actually, I couldn't even see that well, from all the damn stars in my eyes....
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Disney Death March, Part Two
The first raindrop hit me square in the head.
"Shit, that's rain."
"You shouldn't say 'shit' at the Happiest Place on Earth," my husband chastised me.
"Bugger, that's rain." Cleaner language it may have been, but it did not change the fact that we were in for a bitch of a storm.
"This is GREAT!" Scott crowed. "Now all the tourists will go home! We'll get on any ride we want! You can't ask for anything better than this!!" His pace quickened, pulling me forward to the more popular rides, the ones with the longest lines.
I mumbled more curse words as I wrapped myself in my cheap rain poncho, the one I had brought with me in case of just this situation. Having traveled with Scott for nigh on seven years, I have learned that you'd best bring any number of things, as you simply never know what might happen and --- believe me --- the day will NOT be cut short for anything as trivial as hunger, rain, or injury.
As was reiterated to me in short order when, hurrying to the Haunted Mansion, my flip flop hit a particularly slippy* type of paving, and down I went.
"Uhn!" (Me, hitting the pavement.)
"What the....are you ok? I TOLD YOU NOT TO WEAR THOSE FLIP FLOPS!! C'mon, let's go!" (Scott, dragging me along by my arm for a short distance.)
"Grumble, grumble." (Me, making a few comments on my husband's questionable parentage, sotto voce.)
On he went. I was now totally soaked excepting for the small section covered by my discount poncho, which was the approximate thickness and durability of cling film. Satisfying myself with small, expressive sighs of discontent, I followed.
The rain continued, the ride lines got shorter and shorter, and our fellow travelers looked more and more miserable, huddled together under any overhang available. The bathrooms began to resemble emergency shelters: crying children clutched to their parents' bosoms, clothing and backpacks strewn wherever unused space could be found.
Scott, by contrast, could not have been happier. This was just what he had been hoping for, and he hadn't even had to purchase an overpriced Mickey poncho! We zipped onto Pirates of the Caribbean and sallied straight through to the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad with no wait whatsoever.
The second time I fell, I thought to myself, Stay down. Just stay down, and it'll all be over. They'll come get you in a little golf cart, and they'll drive you to somewhere private and warm. They'll give you a band-aid for your toe, and maybe a Stitch doll so you won't sue. Just...stay...down....
But like the punch drunk fighter who won't throw the match, even if it means the Mob will be on him for whatever is left of his honourable life, I trembled to my feet. "Please. Don't hurt me anymore."
"Oh, sweetie, it's okay!" my dear, beloved husband cooed. "But hurry up now, we still have to see It's a Small World and The Country Bear Jamboree and Buzz Lightyear and..."
After that, it was all a rain-soaked blur. I should have stayed down....
* This is Pittsburghese for "slippery".
"Shit, that's rain."
"You shouldn't say 'shit' at the Happiest Place on Earth," my husband chastised me.
"Bugger, that's rain." Cleaner language it may have been, but it did not change the fact that we were in for a bitch of a storm.
"This is GREAT!" Scott crowed. "Now all the tourists will go home! We'll get on any ride we want! You can't ask for anything better than this!!" His pace quickened, pulling me forward to the more popular rides, the ones with the longest lines.
I mumbled more curse words as I wrapped myself in my cheap rain poncho, the one I had brought with me in case of just this situation. Having traveled with Scott for nigh on seven years, I have learned that you'd best bring any number of things, as you simply never know what might happen and --- believe me --- the day will NOT be cut short for anything as trivial as hunger, rain, or injury.
As was reiterated to me in short order when, hurrying to the Haunted Mansion, my flip flop hit a particularly slippy* type of paving, and down I went.
"Uhn!" (Me, hitting the pavement.)
"What the....are you ok? I TOLD YOU NOT TO WEAR THOSE FLIP FLOPS!! C'mon, let's go!" (Scott, dragging me along by my arm for a short distance.)
"Grumble, grumble." (Me, making a few comments on my husband's questionable parentage, sotto voce.)
On he went. I was now totally soaked excepting for the small section covered by my discount poncho, which was the approximate thickness and durability of cling film. Satisfying myself with small, expressive sighs of discontent, I followed.
The rain continued, the ride lines got shorter and shorter, and our fellow travelers looked more and more miserable, huddled together under any overhang available. The bathrooms began to resemble emergency shelters: crying children clutched to their parents' bosoms, clothing and backpacks strewn wherever unused space could be found.
Scott, by contrast, could not have been happier. This was just what he had been hoping for, and he hadn't even had to purchase an overpriced Mickey poncho! We zipped onto Pirates of the Caribbean and sallied straight through to the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad with no wait whatsoever.
The second time I fell, I thought to myself, Stay down. Just stay down, and it'll all be over. They'll come get you in a little golf cart, and they'll drive you to somewhere private and warm. They'll give you a band-aid for your toe, and maybe a Stitch doll so you won't sue. Just...stay...down....
But like the punch drunk fighter who won't throw the match, even if it means the Mob will be on him for whatever is left of his honourable life, I trembled to my feet. "Please. Don't hurt me anymore."
"Oh, sweetie, it's okay!" my dear, beloved husband cooed. "But hurry up now, we still have to see It's a Small World and The Country Bear Jamboree and Buzz Lightyear and..."
After that, it was all a rain-soaked blur. I should have stayed down....
* This is Pittsburghese for "slippery".
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
Disney Death March
After talking with K for an hour and a half, my mind was reeling. Either this man had the most interesting life of anyone in the history of the world or he was the craziest motherfucker I'd ever met. There is a fine line between genius and madness, but it's important to stay on the right side of the line. I reminded myself many times during the course of our conversation that you can't catch crazy, and found K to be a genuinely delightful person. But, still, nice can't trump being a wack-a-doo.
K remembered his golf tournament and eventually bid his farewells, promising to meet us the following day to repeat the process, and we were free to explore. All the sights and sounds of Disney beckoned but, frankly --- after our near-death experience just getting there and the psychedelic experience of K --- I was ready for a nap.
Unfortunately, my husband --- normally the sweetest and most considerate of men --- becomes a vacation despot. On our last trip, we walked until my feet bled. The time before that, we visited literally EVERY church in Quebec. And some outside the city, as well. And if you haven't been to Quebec, all I can say is it has a LOT of churches.
So, in preparation for this trip, I started priming the pump early. I reminded him every day of my weak and arthritic ankles. I reminded him of my arthritic back and my bulging discs. I made an effort to look particularly aged and feeble. I pointed out that, while he is a Greek god among men, I am a nag destined for the glue factory in very short order.
(His answer was to ban my flip flops and to buy me very lightweight, flexible running shoes. "Now," he said, smiling, "there is no reason you can't keep up with me. Isn't this great?!"
"But, they're little leather coffins for feet! I can't put my feet in those all day long! My feet can't breathe! I'll get blisters!"
"No, no," he reasoned, "you'll get used to them. It'll be better for you. You'll be able to walk for miles."
I got the message. I might wear the shoes, but he wouldn't make me like it. And I figured I was now due some Disney loot in exchange. This could be working out to my advantage, after all.)
Now we were here, with two parks to cover in one day, Hurricane Wilma threatening, and Scott with a surfeit of energy to expend. I made one final plea for mercy, then the Disney Death March began.
First, we got tickets for the Mission: Space ride. This was a mistake, but we'll come back to that later. While we waited for our ride time, we headed around the International Pavilions to sample the food at the International Food and Wine Festival. This was actually good, and less expensive than the Norwegian smoked fish fest Scott had been planning. Strangely, the Norwegian pavilion had been taken over by the Disney Princesses, who were taking all their meals there. EVERY table was booked. We were assured that a seat would not be available for breakfast, lunch, OR dinner until sometime in November.
"What," Scott wondered, "would a kid eat at a Norwegian restaurant?"
My guess, macaroni and cheese.
However, the special Festival booths had some really great food. And booze. Which I reckoned I'd be needing before too long.
Rounding the far side of the lake, I had my first inkling that we were going to stand out from the "average" guest. There, near the German pavilion (I think, they all blur together after a while), was a miniature train set-up.
"Quick, take my picture like I'm a monster menacing the village!" my husband growled, his face a rictus of evil, leaning over the railing, his hands raised in enormous claws.
Always happy to oblige, I whipped out the camera and started shouting directions. "Look more terrifying! LOOK MORE TERRIFYING!" I was Cecil B. DeMille, and I was getting the best performance of Scott's life!
Then I saw the woman over his shoulder. The one who was looking at me like we should not have been allowed in the park. Ever.
"Uh, he's menacing the village," I shrugged, blushing.
We made our retreat to the champagne kiosk, then promptly pounced on Fox, from Pinocchio. I had decided that I only wanted to associate with the bad characters, and this guy definitely fit the bill. I wanted to pose like I was dragging him away by his tail, but was too shy when I got up close to him. From a distance, you can kind of pretend that it really is Fox, but up close you can tell that it's a person looking at you from the mesh covering the eyes. A tired person. A patient, tired person.
A Disney villain I can manhandle, no problem; a real person, well, I've gotta know you for a while before I can be THAT bossy.
Suddenly, from the Colonial American pavilion, we heard the fife and drum. "Hurrah! They're conscripting colonists for their army! Let's go watch!"
We then got into an argument about whether they were conscripting or impressing civilians, but it ended up they were just doing a little schtick. It got me thinking, though, how cool it would be if, every once in a while, a few of the nations would band together and invade, say, France. They're used to it, and it would be educational and entertaining all at the same time.
Needless to say, this earned me a few more strange looks from the other tourists, but then it was time to head over to Mission: Space for our first ride of the day.
Really, the only good thing I can say about Mission: Space is that Gary Sinise is your captain. And he is very easy on the eyes. Despite what my husband says. He looks all tired and worn out and like he couldn't run very fast. I like that.
What I DON'T like is a stupid ride that straps you into a pseudo-cockpit then tilts your seat all around while flashing twirly pictures on a big video screen in front of you.
Yes. I have motion sickness. Yes, it was horrible. No, I didn't puke, but not for lack of trying, I assure you.
This was not a good start to our day. But, it would only get worse from here.....
K remembered his golf tournament and eventually bid his farewells, promising to meet us the following day to repeat the process, and we were free to explore. All the sights and sounds of Disney beckoned but, frankly --- after our near-death experience just getting there and the psychedelic experience of K --- I was ready for a nap.
Unfortunately, my husband --- normally the sweetest and most considerate of men --- becomes a vacation despot. On our last trip, we walked until my feet bled. The time before that, we visited literally EVERY church in Quebec. And some outside the city, as well. And if you haven't been to Quebec, all I can say is it has a LOT of churches.
So, in preparation for this trip, I started priming the pump early. I reminded him every day of my weak and arthritic ankles. I reminded him of my arthritic back and my bulging discs. I made an effort to look particularly aged and feeble. I pointed out that, while he is a Greek god among men, I am a nag destined for the glue factory in very short order.
(His answer was to ban my flip flops and to buy me very lightweight, flexible running shoes. "Now," he said, smiling, "there is no reason you can't keep up with me. Isn't this great?!"
"But, they're little leather coffins for feet! I can't put my feet in those all day long! My feet can't breathe! I'll get blisters!"
"No, no," he reasoned, "you'll get used to them. It'll be better for you. You'll be able to walk for miles."
I got the message. I might wear the shoes, but he wouldn't make me like it. And I figured I was now due some Disney loot in exchange. This could be working out to my advantage, after all.)
Now we were here, with two parks to cover in one day, Hurricane Wilma threatening, and Scott with a surfeit of energy to expend. I made one final plea for mercy, then the Disney Death March began.
First, we got tickets for the Mission: Space ride. This was a mistake, but we'll come back to that later. While we waited for our ride time, we headed around the International Pavilions to sample the food at the International Food and Wine Festival. This was actually good, and less expensive than the Norwegian smoked fish fest Scott had been planning. Strangely, the Norwegian pavilion had been taken over by the Disney Princesses, who were taking all their meals there. EVERY table was booked. We were assured that a seat would not be available for breakfast, lunch, OR dinner until sometime in November.
"What," Scott wondered, "would a kid eat at a Norwegian restaurant?"
My guess, macaroni and cheese.
However, the special Festival booths had some really great food. And booze. Which I reckoned I'd be needing before too long.
Rounding the far side of the lake, I had my first inkling that we were going to stand out from the "average" guest. There, near the German pavilion (I think, they all blur together after a while), was a miniature train set-up.
"Quick, take my picture like I'm a monster menacing the village!" my husband growled, his face a rictus of evil, leaning over the railing, his hands raised in enormous claws.
Always happy to oblige, I whipped out the camera and started shouting directions. "Look more terrifying! LOOK MORE TERRIFYING!" I was Cecil B. DeMille, and I was getting the best performance of Scott's life!
Then I saw the woman over his shoulder. The one who was looking at me like we should not have been allowed in the park. Ever.
"Uh, he's menacing the village," I shrugged, blushing.
We made our retreat to the champagne kiosk, then promptly pounced on Fox, from Pinocchio. I had decided that I only wanted to associate with the bad characters, and this guy definitely fit the bill. I wanted to pose like I was dragging him away by his tail, but was too shy when I got up close to him. From a distance, you can kind of pretend that it really is Fox, but up close you can tell that it's a person looking at you from the mesh covering the eyes. A tired person. A patient, tired person.
A Disney villain I can manhandle, no problem; a real person, well, I've gotta know you for a while before I can be THAT bossy.
Suddenly, from the Colonial American pavilion, we heard the fife and drum. "Hurrah! They're conscripting colonists for their army! Let's go watch!"
We then got into an argument about whether they were conscripting or impressing civilians, but it ended up they were just doing a little schtick. It got me thinking, though, how cool it would be if, every once in a while, a few of the nations would band together and invade, say, France. They're used to it, and it would be educational and entertaining all at the same time.
Needless to say, this earned me a few more strange looks from the other tourists, but then it was time to head over to Mission: Space for our first ride of the day.
Really, the only good thing I can say about Mission: Space is that Gary Sinise is your captain. And he is very easy on the eyes. Despite what my husband says. He looks all tired and worn out and like he couldn't run very fast. I like that.
What I DON'T like is a stupid ride that straps you into a pseudo-cockpit then tilts your seat all around while flashing twirly pictures on a big video screen in front of you.
Yes. I have motion sickness. Yes, it was horrible. No, I didn't puke, but not for lack of trying, I assure you.
This was not a good start to our day. But, it would only get worse from here.....
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Heart of Disney
We were waiting in a parking lot.
We were supposed to meet him here, but we had no idea what he looked like. He, on the other hand, knew that Scott would be wearing a loud plaid shirt and I would be wearing my orange Longhorns baseball cap. He could be anywhere, watching us, without our even being aware. The back of my neck prickled.
"So...uh....what time did he say he'd meet us?" I ventured.
"Shhh," my husband hissed, "I think that's him now."
Well over six feet tall, gaunt, with searing blue eyes that seemed to look within my soul and find me lacking in some indefinable way, he loomed before us. Our connection. Our link.
Our Disney hook-up.
"Let me tell you how this is going to go down," he barked, "you will follow me to the gates. You will stay directly behind me at all times. We will enter the park together. We will spend some time together at the park so that my employers will know that I have not sold you these passes. I will then leave to attend my golf tournament. Do you have any questions? No? Good, let's go."
And, suddenly, we were Seaman Marlow, following Mr. Kurtz into the Heart of Darkness.
K, as I will call him to protect his anonymity and avoid a lawsuit, is the relative of a colleague. She warned us that, while a nice guy, he is a little crazy. To put it mildly.
I had time to reflect upon this as we careened down back roads and short cuts into the Magic Kingdom. Speed limits, turn signals, and maintaining safe distance meant nothing to this man, and I began to wonder if free passes into the Happiest Place on Earth were really worth it, given the obvious price of life and limb we were being asked to pay.
Oh, how I wished I had remained a Christian. Oh, how I wished I still started each day with a beer and a bottle of cheap wine. Prayer and drunkeness were the only things I could believe would save me now.
Scott, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. Unleashed from my incessant nagging about his driving by the necessity of keeping up with K, he made token mutterings about doing 65 in a 25 zone and cutting off SUVs as K whimsically changed lanes, but I could tell his heart wasn't really in it. From the corner of my eye, I could see him smile.
At last we reached the park. K began to tell us his life story as he walked with us to the gates, mentioning that he had at one time been a race car driver. This I was fully prepared to believe. The rest, I'm not so sure....
We were supposed to meet him here, but we had no idea what he looked like. He, on the other hand, knew that Scott would be wearing a loud plaid shirt and I would be wearing my orange Longhorns baseball cap. He could be anywhere, watching us, without our even being aware. The back of my neck prickled.
"So...uh....what time did he say he'd meet us?" I ventured.
"Shhh," my husband hissed, "I think that's him now."
Well over six feet tall, gaunt, with searing blue eyes that seemed to look within my soul and find me lacking in some indefinable way, he loomed before us. Our connection. Our link.
Our Disney hook-up.
"Let me tell you how this is going to go down," he barked, "you will follow me to the gates. You will stay directly behind me at all times. We will enter the park together. We will spend some time together at the park so that my employers will know that I have not sold you these passes. I will then leave to attend my golf tournament. Do you have any questions? No? Good, let's go."
And, suddenly, we were Seaman Marlow, following Mr. Kurtz into the Heart of Darkness.
K, as I will call him to protect his anonymity and avoid a lawsuit, is the relative of a colleague. She warned us that, while a nice guy, he is a little crazy. To put it mildly.
I had time to reflect upon this as we careened down back roads and short cuts into the Magic Kingdom. Speed limits, turn signals, and maintaining safe distance meant nothing to this man, and I began to wonder if free passes into the Happiest Place on Earth were really worth it, given the obvious price of life and limb we were being asked to pay.
Oh, how I wished I had remained a Christian. Oh, how I wished I still started each day with a beer and a bottle of cheap wine. Prayer and drunkeness were the only things I could believe would save me now.
Scott, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. Unleashed from my incessant nagging about his driving by the necessity of keeping up with K, he made token mutterings about doing 65 in a 25 zone and cutting off SUVs as K whimsically changed lanes, but I could tell his heart wasn't really in it. From the corner of my eye, I could see him smile.
At last we reached the park. K began to tell us his life story as he walked with us to the gates, mentioning that he had at one time been a race car driver. This I was fully prepared to believe. The rest, I'm not so sure....
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Tears Are NOT a Substitute For Spray Starch
So, we were on our way to Brunswick! Scott would be sitting in on the interviews for his replacement and I would be taking a little look see at the place we'll be calling home in four short months.
Things were actually going very well. I had carefully orchestrated every aspect of packing, even laying out various shirts and cargo shorts that I know are Scott's favourites, to help him decide what to take with a minimum of fuss and muss. The only things I did not worry about were Scott's dopp kit (he keeps it hidden somewhere that I can never find) and his suit things for the interviews (he knows best how he wants to present himself and I'm never able to guess what suit and tie he'll want on any given occasion.) We had pretty weather for the drive --- lots of sun, not too hot --- and the traffic was light.
As we neared Statesboro, Scott suddenly announced that he needed to take a turn around the city and find a department store, having just realized that he'd forgotten to bring a tie. We laughed in relief as we found a Goody's and a JC Penney's within walking distance of one another --- we'd be sure to find something he'd like, and thank goodness he'd realized in time for us to actually stop and buy a replacement!
Oh ho, we chortled, flapping the tongue of the tie at each other, standing in the checkout line. Rascally tie, it won't get the better of us, we chuckled as we continued our drive to Brunswick. Tie! we exclaimed gleefully during dinner, knowing that for once we had our shit one-hundred-percent together, no surprises here, no sireebob!
Scott was in a fine mood the next morning, preparing to meet his boss for breakfast before leaving for the interviews. He winked at me in the bathroom mirror, waving the recalcitrant tie at me with a little kiss. This would certainly be a Good Day. I smiled sleepily then rolled over for another couple hours of blissful, luxury hotel rest.
Then I heard a gasp.
Then muttered curses.
Then a sob.
Sitting bolt upright, I thought to myself, That idiot forgot his socks, I just know it!
"Sweetheart, what is it, what's the matter?" I called to my husband, who by now was struggling for breath. "Did you forget your socks? Do I need to run out somewhere while you're at breakfast and buy you some socks??" Thinking to myself, Where the hell am I going to buy socks at seven in the morning?? And a lot of other mean things, besides.
"I...I...I don't want to talk about it. Just leave me alone!" came the strangled reply.
Now, in the history of the world, this response has never been met by any wife with less than all-consuming curiosity. Now I MUST know, at ANY cost. "Tell me right now what is going on, did you forget your damned socks again?"
"No.....MY PANTS!"
Oh, yes, we were really on top of that TIE, thank God, and the SOCKS; THOSE were covered. The easiest things in the world to physically remove from a waiter or bellboy, sure, THOSE we had. 36 inch inseam dress trousers, though....that was going to be a problem, even for someone with my ingenuity and unscrupulous cunning.
As soon as I could catch my breath, from my immediate and prolonged laughter at my husband's expense, I asked him if he'd brought any khaki trousers. We were, after all, on our way to a Disney vacation, so his outfits were heavy on the cargo short side, but hopefully at least one pair of trousers had made the cut, just in case of dinner at a nice restaurant or a sudden whim to attend church.
And thank god! He had packed ONE pair, his most favourite pair, which I had JUST rescued from an assault from movie-popcorn butter with extreme intervention via stain remover. The day was saved! He wouldn't be in a full suit, but he could --- just maybe --- pull off a casual, sport coat effect, with the new tie serving to anchor the khaki trousers to the gunmetal grey suit jacket. Hurrah!
Working quickly, he started warming the iron and setting up the ironing board. He threw the pants onto the board, then began ironing as if his life depended upon it.
"Hey," he growled, "there are bleach stains ALL OVER these pants! What have you done to my pants??"
"Nothing! I just...used some stain remover..." Could I have used that stain remover a little over-zealously?? Could it really have left those bleachy stains ALL OVER those damned pants?? I only used it on the front, where the butter......
"Hey!" Scott glared at me accusingly. "I thought you said you got the stain out of these?!"
"OF COURSE I DID!" But he was right; the heat of the iron had, somehow, brought the stain out with a vengeance. My husband collapsed, limply, over the iron. Only his muffled cries assured me that, still, he lived.
Of course, life goes on, even if you are an unfortunate law clerk with no kind of housekeeper for a wife. He put on his stained, bleached trousers and marched out the door to meet with his very particular boss --- who is a bit of a dandy and truly believes that clothes make the man --- several Ivy League candidates, and his own Fate.
"So, how did it go?" I asked when I picked him up that afternoon.
"Oh, it was fine. The Judge was wearing a sport coat and khakis. So, where do you want to have lunch?"
And that, friends, was the end of that. But only the beginning of a very strange trip, indeed...
Things were actually going very well. I had carefully orchestrated every aspect of packing, even laying out various shirts and cargo shorts that I know are Scott's favourites, to help him decide what to take with a minimum of fuss and muss. The only things I did not worry about were Scott's dopp kit (he keeps it hidden somewhere that I can never find) and his suit things for the interviews (he knows best how he wants to present himself and I'm never able to guess what suit and tie he'll want on any given occasion.) We had pretty weather for the drive --- lots of sun, not too hot --- and the traffic was light.
As we neared Statesboro, Scott suddenly announced that he needed to take a turn around the city and find a department store, having just realized that he'd forgotten to bring a tie. We laughed in relief as we found a Goody's and a JC Penney's within walking distance of one another --- we'd be sure to find something he'd like, and thank goodness he'd realized in time for us to actually stop and buy a replacement!
Oh ho, we chortled, flapping the tongue of the tie at each other, standing in the checkout line. Rascally tie, it won't get the better of us, we chuckled as we continued our drive to Brunswick. Tie! we exclaimed gleefully during dinner, knowing that for once we had our shit one-hundred-percent together, no surprises here, no sireebob!
Scott was in a fine mood the next morning, preparing to meet his boss for breakfast before leaving for the interviews. He winked at me in the bathroom mirror, waving the recalcitrant tie at me with a little kiss. This would certainly be a Good Day. I smiled sleepily then rolled over for another couple hours of blissful, luxury hotel rest.
Then I heard a gasp.
Then muttered curses.
Then a sob.
Sitting bolt upright, I thought to myself, That idiot forgot his socks, I just know it!
"Sweetheart, what is it, what's the matter?" I called to my husband, who by now was struggling for breath. "Did you forget your socks? Do I need to run out somewhere while you're at breakfast and buy you some socks??" Thinking to myself, Where the hell am I going to buy socks at seven in the morning?? And a lot of other mean things, besides.
"I...I...I don't want to talk about it. Just leave me alone!" came the strangled reply.
Now, in the history of the world, this response has never been met by any wife with less than all-consuming curiosity. Now I MUST know, at ANY cost. "Tell me right now what is going on, did you forget your damned socks again?"
"No.....MY PANTS!"
Oh, yes, we were really on top of that TIE, thank God, and the SOCKS; THOSE were covered. The easiest things in the world to physically remove from a waiter or bellboy, sure, THOSE we had. 36 inch inseam dress trousers, though....that was going to be a problem, even for someone with my ingenuity and unscrupulous cunning.
As soon as I could catch my breath, from my immediate and prolonged laughter at my husband's expense, I asked him if he'd brought any khaki trousers. We were, after all, on our way to a Disney vacation, so his outfits were heavy on the cargo short side, but hopefully at least one pair of trousers had made the cut, just in case of dinner at a nice restaurant or a sudden whim to attend church.
And thank god! He had packed ONE pair, his most favourite pair, which I had JUST rescued from an assault from movie-popcorn butter with extreme intervention via stain remover. The day was saved! He wouldn't be in a full suit, but he could --- just maybe --- pull off a casual, sport coat effect, with the new tie serving to anchor the khaki trousers to the gunmetal grey suit jacket. Hurrah!
Working quickly, he started warming the iron and setting up the ironing board. He threw the pants onto the board, then began ironing as if his life depended upon it.
"Hey," he growled, "there are bleach stains ALL OVER these pants! What have you done to my pants??"
"Nothing! I just...used some stain remover..." Could I have used that stain remover a little over-zealously?? Could it really have left those bleachy stains ALL OVER those damned pants?? I only used it on the front, where the butter......
"Hey!" Scott glared at me accusingly. "I thought you said you got the stain out of these?!"
"OF COURSE I DID!" But he was right; the heat of the iron had, somehow, brought the stain out with a vengeance. My husband collapsed, limply, over the iron. Only his muffled cries assured me that, still, he lived.
Of course, life goes on, even if you are an unfortunate law clerk with no kind of housekeeper for a wife. He put on his stained, bleached trousers and marched out the door to meet with his very particular boss --- who is a bit of a dandy and truly believes that clothes make the man --- several Ivy League candidates, and his own Fate.
"So, how did it go?" I asked when I picked him up that afternoon.
"Oh, it was fine. The Judge was wearing a sport coat and khakis. So, where do you want to have lunch?"
And that, friends, was the end of that. But only the beginning of a very strange trip, indeed...
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
My Life, This Weekend
Ok, I have to just interrupt myself for one second to say that the weather man, who looked like a very sedate older gentleman, just started his report with, "The latest pain in the rear is Hurricane Wilma...." Now, I ask you, is that any way for a weather man to talk?? First the postal employees stopped wearing proper uniforms, now local news personalities are talking like gang members.
Anyway, the reason I'm watching the news at all is that we leave tomorrow for a day in Brunswick and then on to Orlando and the House of Mouse. So I am glued to the weather because, without a doubt, we are going to have nothing but rain, rain, and more rain because of the damned hurricane. And it is only par for the course that the family vacation would be scheduled for the rainy season, 'cause that's just how we roll around here.
It all started when my husband decided out of the blue --- on the basis of one throw-away comment from yours truly --- to purchase a discount vacation package to Orlando. We haven't taken a proper vacation in four years, so it was an extremely sweet thing for him to do, except that we just had an unexpected vet bill. But then we had to get the brakes fixed, as he then decided we should just drive our own car, rather than rent.
Unfortunately, having made the mistake of taking care of our car once, it decided that it liked the attention and so the alternator promptly bit the dust. After an extremely complicated process, the repair was made, but Scott really did it, though, when he decided to throw in an oil change while he was at it. The car, demanding bitch that she is, suddenly decided that she needed a new battery and tires. Having gotten those, however, she went completely power mad, requiring a new something-or-other that --- as my husband explains it, and I have to trust him 'cause I don't know --- on any other model would be a separate $25 part, but on OUR model is an all-in-one unit, the sum total cost of which was in excess of $400.
Well, now that all THAT work had been done on the car, we just decided to go whole hog and buy new hubcaps! Sand and paint the rust spots! Replace the rear brake cylinders! Cost is not an issue at this point, it's only money! When all is said and done, we will have put a grand into this car, which is more than we've spent on it in the last three years, I grant you, but still, right before vacation??? That's just mean.
So there's the initial cost of the package, plus the grand for the car, plus the fuel for the drive, PLUS the cost of two vet visits with complete shots in order to be able to board the dogs while we're away (this does not include the cost of the first, surprise emergency vet visit mentioned earlier).
But it doesn't even stop there, because no sooner had the dogs discovered that THEIR needs were going to be met when they BOTH came down with some sort of horrible itchiness that needed to be addressed IMMEDIATELY, it was just too pitiful to watch, and I've had poison ivy so I know how it feels. And since the Horrible Itch was flea-related, it was clear that their flea collars just weren't cuttin' the mustard and I had to spring for the extremely expensive lethal chemical flea medicine. So there's another $500, and we haven't even boarded them yet!
And then I realized today that I am disgustingly fat and all of my clothes are completely unfashionable, so I had to go buy some new clothes so I won't look like a dumpy housewife while strolling through the Magic Kingdom. 'Cause, you know, then I'd really stand out. Fortunately, I hated almost everything as soon as I got it home, so at least we can deduct most of the panic-packing costs as soon as I can make my returns, but this discount vacation is costing us an arm and a leg!
All of this is running through my mind, along with the long check list of chores I need to do and errands I need to run before we leave, which I haven't been able to do yet because the car has either been not working or actively under repair for the last two weeks. Not a good traveler under the best of circumstances, this is driving me out of my mind.
And the cherry on the top of this stress sundae is that my poor Beloved, whose sole wish was to take me on a vacation he heard ME express a desire to take, keeps asking me if I'm excited about our trip and all I can think of is dollar signs. I feel like a real heel.
Anyway, the reason I'm watching the news at all is that we leave tomorrow for a day in Brunswick and then on to Orlando and the House of Mouse. So I am glued to the weather because, without a doubt, we are going to have nothing but rain, rain, and more rain because of the damned hurricane. And it is only par for the course that the family vacation would be scheduled for the rainy season, 'cause that's just how we roll around here.
It all started when my husband decided out of the blue --- on the basis of one throw-away comment from yours truly --- to purchase a discount vacation package to Orlando. We haven't taken a proper vacation in four years, so it was an extremely sweet thing for him to do, except that we just had an unexpected vet bill. But then we had to get the brakes fixed, as he then decided we should just drive our own car, rather than rent.
Unfortunately, having made the mistake of taking care of our car once, it decided that it liked the attention and so the alternator promptly bit the dust. After an extremely complicated process, the repair was made, but Scott really did it, though, when he decided to throw in an oil change while he was at it. The car, demanding bitch that she is, suddenly decided that she needed a new battery and tires. Having gotten those, however, she went completely power mad, requiring a new something-or-other that --- as my husband explains it, and I have to trust him 'cause I don't know --- on any other model would be a separate $25 part, but on OUR model is an all-in-one unit, the sum total cost of which was in excess of $400.
Well, now that all THAT work had been done on the car, we just decided to go whole hog and buy new hubcaps! Sand and paint the rust spots! Replace the rear brake cylinders! Cost is not an issue at this point, it's only money! When all is said and done, we will have put a grand into this car, which is more than we've spent on it in the last three years, I grant you, but still, right before vacation??? That's just mean.
So there's the initial cost of the package, plus the grand for the car, plus the fuel for the drive, PLUS the cost of two vet visits with complete shots in order to be able to board the dogs while we're away (this does not include the cost of the first, surprise emergency vet visit mentioned earlier).
But it doesn't even stop there, because no sooner had the dogs discovered that THEIR needs were going to be met when they BOTH came down with some sort of horrible itchiness that needed to be addressed IMMEDIATELY, it was just too pitiful to watch, and I've had poison ivy so I know how it feels. And since the Horrible Itch was flea-related, it was clear that their flea collars just weren't cuttin' the mustard and I had to spring for the extremely expensive lethal chemical flea medicine. So there's another $500, and we haven't even boarded them yet!
And then I realized today that I am disgustingly fat and all of my clothes are completely unfashionable, so I had to go buy some new clothes so I won't look like a dumpy housewife while strolling through the Magic Kingdom. 'Cause, you know, then I'd really stand out. Fortunately, I hated almost everything as soon as I got it home, so at least we can deduct most of the panic-packing costs as soon as I can make my returns, but this discount vacation is costing us an arm and a leg!
All of this is running through my mind, along with the long check list of chores I need to do and errands I need to run before we leave, which I haven't been able to do yet because the car has either been not working or actively under repair for the last two weeks. Not a good traveler under the best of circumstances, this is driving me out of my mind.
And the cherry on the top of this stress sundae is that my poor Beloved, whose sole wish was to take me on a vacation he heard ME express a desire to take, keeps asking me if I'm excited about our trip and all I can think of is dollar signs. I feel like a real heel.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Brutus Was So Excited to Go to The Morris Last Sunday!
He brought along his favourite buckeye for the day, although we warned him that food and beverages are not allowed in the Museum. He didn't think it'd be a problem, as buckeyes are poisonous and therefore inedible.
He didn't like it much when we pointed out that he, too, is a "poisonous nut".
When he was done pouting, we spent a happy afternoon wandering through the galleries. Scott and I particularly liked the Eudora Welty photography exhibit. Brutus really liked the Georgiana paintings and practically had to be dragged away!
Overall, a very good day, and NO CLOWNS!
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Outlander vs. Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince
Outlander has magical time travel; HP has magic.
Outlander has a blonde witch, Geillis Duncan; HP has a blonde witch, Fleur Delacour.
Outlander has a Loch Ness monster; HP has mermaids.
Outlander has a black mineral spring hidden under a monastery; HP has a black lake hidden in a cave.
HP has Inferi; Outlander has a lynch mob.
Outlander has divination via a bowl of water; HP has divination via a bowl of memories.
Outlander has a dangerous horse, Donas; HP has a dangerous hippogriff, Buckbea....er, Witherwings.
HP has a gentle giant, Hagrid; Outlander has a gentle-ish giant, Wee Angus.
Outlander has an impetuous red head, Jamie Fraser; HP has impetuous red heads Fred, George, and Ron Weasley.
HP has a clever herbologist, Hermione Granger; Outlander has a clever herbologist, Clair Beauchamp Randall Fraser.
HP has the complicated and evil Professor Severus Snape; Outlander has the complicated and evil Captain Jonathan "Black Jack" Randall.
HP has werewolves Greyback and Remus Lupin; Outlander has a pack of wolves.
HP has a castle, Hogwarts; Outlander has a castle, Leoch.
In HP, Harry plays a hazardous game: Quidditch; in Outlander, Jamie plays a hazardous game: political intrigue.
HP has a kindly headmaster, Albus Dumbledore; Outlander has a kindly horsemaster, Alec McMahon MacKenzie.
Outlander has lots of sex and rogering; HP has lots of snogging, and probably some students named Roger.
Outlander has a blonde witch, Geillis Duncan; HP has a blonde witch, Fleur Delacour.
Outlander has a Loch Ness monster; HP has mermaids.
Outlander has a black mineral spring hidden under a monastery; HP has a black lake hidden in a cave.
HP has Inferi; Outlander has a lynch mob.
Outlander has divination via a bowl of water; HP has divination via a bowl of memories.
Outlander has a dangerous horse, Donas; HP has a dangerous hippogriff, Buckbea....er, Witherwings.
HP has a gentle giant, Hagrid; Outlander has a gentle-ish giant, Wee Angus.
Outlander has an impetuous red head, Jamie Fraser; HP has impetuous red heads Fred, George, and Ron Weasley.
HP has a clever herbologist, Hermione Granger; Outlander has a clever herbologist, Clair Beauchamp Randall Fraser.
HP has the complicated and evil Professor Severus Snape; Outlander has the complicated and evil Captain Jonathan "Black Jack" Randall.
HP has werewolves Greyback and Remus Lupin; Outlander has a pack of wolves.
HP has a castle, Hogwarts; Outlander has a castle, Leoch.
In HP, Harry plays a hazardous game: Quidditch; in Outlander, Jamie plays a hazardous game: political intrigue.
HP has a kindly headmaster, Albus Dumbledore; Outlander has a kindly horsemaster, Alec McMahon MacKenzie.
Outlander has lots of sex and rogering; HP has lots of snogging, and probably some students named Roger.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Sometimes My Husband is Unwittingly Funny
For example:
Today, one of his female colleagues confided to him that she suffers from endometriosis. Not knowing exactly what this is, he mentioned that an old friend of his, Pat, had the same thing.
Which would have been fine, really, but Pat is a man. And Scott kept using the masculine pronoun.
And he wonders why people think he's odd.
Today, one of his female colleagues confided to him that she suffers from endometriosis. Not knowing exactly what this is, he mentioned that an old friend of his, Pat, had the same thing.
Which would have been fine, really, but Pat is a man. And Scott kept using the masculine pronoun.
And he wonders why people think he's odd.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Huh
So yesterday my dogs were going NUTS. Due to the incessant klaxons and sirens and alarums emanating from a block away.
Me, I just shrugged and went about my business. Which was, primarily, shouting at the dogs to shut the fuck up before I clubbed them like baby seals. (I use language like that to charm the neighbours. Honestly.)
Found out today that there was a million dollar jewelry heist less than a mile from my home. By a gang of South American jewel thieves.
Huh. That's a new one for me.
Me, I just shrugged and went about my business. Which was, primarily, shouting at the dogs to shut the fuck up before I clubbed them like baby seals. (I use language like that to charm the neighbours. Honestly.)
Found out today that there was a million dollar jewelry heist less than a mile from my home. By a gang of South American jewel thieves.
Huh. That's a new one for me.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
The Horror, The Horror
Saturday, Scott and I went to the Farmer's Market in downtown Augusta. It was alright; we had a great breakfast, met some cool people, loaded up on some fresh produce, and even got some free peaches. All in all, a nice morning.
Until....
I can hardly even bear to say it. But, for you my loyal readers, I will try. (Deep breath....)
On our way back to the car, we kept seeing all these clowns. Like, literally, CLOWNS. Clowns on scooters, clowns making balloon animals, clowns just generally running amok, annoying the children and frightening the horses.
Naturally, I was repulsed by the painted freaks and just kept walking, like any sane human being in her right mind would do. Scott, however.....
How can you know someone for seven years, and not realize that they are either the spawn of the Devil or profoundly retarded? You'd think something like that would show, wouldn't you? I certainly did. But, sadly, no; with no warning --- no indication whatsoever --- my husband started veering in the direction of the CLOWNS.
Of course, I immediately shouted out, "No, for the love of all that is good, I will NOT cross this street. I WILL NOT GO NEAR THOSE CLOWNS!" I clutched at his sleeve, but with an crazed chuckle and a dazed expression he escaped me and plodded, inexorably, to that unholy place.
Dear readers, I followed him.
The man I promised to love, honor, and cherish had been dazzled by enormous shoes and white face paint, and I realized that now was not the time to forsake him, NOW was the time that he needed me most, and only a coward would run away.
I caught up to him just as he reached the pavement on the other side. We stood together, dumbfounded by the chaos of CLOWNS, mutely trying to take it all in.
"Look," said my beloved, "that one is giving away shoe shines, you should go get one."
(As I was wearing flip flops at the time, I suddenly realized WHY he had been so drawn to them; obviously he shares their inexplicable sense of "humor".)
I looked up, straight into the video camera.
"Well," I heard the operator snicker, "are these the next two contestants?" just as the events coordinator rushed up to us, murmuring, "If you could just move along now, they are judging the clown contest right where you're standing."
And as the footage plays on local newscasts around Augusta, I can only say:
Well, Scotty, this is another fine mess you've gotten us into.
Until....
I can hardly even bear to say it. But, for you my loyal readers, I will try. (Deep breath....)
On our way back to the car, we kept seeing all these clowns. Like, literally, CLOWNS. Clowns on scooters, clowns making balloon animals, clowns just generally running amok, annoying the children and frightening the horses.
Naturally, I was repulsed by the painted freaks and just kept walking, like any sane human being in her right mind would do. Scott, however.....
How can you know someone for seven years, and not realize that they are either the spawn of the Devil or profoundly retarded? You'd think something like that would show, wouldn't you? I certainly did. But, sadly, no; with no warning --- no indication whatsoever --- my husband started veering in the direction of the CLOWNS.
Of course, I immediately shouted out, "No, for the love of all that is good, I will NOT cross this street. I WILL NOT GO NEAR THOSE CLOWNS!" I clutched at his sleeve, but with an crazed chuckle and a dazed expression he escaped me and plodded, inexorably, to that unholy place.
Dear readers, I followed him.
The man I promised to love, honor, and cherish had been dazzled by enormous shoes and white face paint, and I realized that now was not the time to forsake him, NOW was the time that he needed me most, and only a coward would run away.
I caught up to him just as he reached the pavement on the other side. We stood together, dumbfounded by the chaos of CLOWNS, mutely trying to take it all in.
"Look," said my beloved, "that one is giving away shoe shines, you should go get one."
(As I was wearing flip flops at the time, I suddenly realized WHY he had been so drawn to them; obviously he shares their inexplicable sense of "humor".)
I looked up, straight into the video camera.
"Well," I heard the operator snicker, "are these the next two contestants?" just as the events coordinator rushed up to us, murmuring, "If you could just move along now, they are judging the clown contest right where you're standing."
And as the footage plays on local newscasts around Augusta, I can only say:
Well, Scotty, this is another fine mess you've gotten us into.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
I Have Finally Found Something to Love About Georgia
Mind you, I haven't been outside the Augusta city limits, yet, so I'm working on pretty limited information. But so far I have not been that impressed (see previous entry re: enormous insects, ramshackle house, temperatures unfit for tropical beasts, etc.)
But then, I went to BoJangles. Then, I tasted of the Tree of the Knowledge of Cinnamon and Icing. For lo, I had eaten a BoJangles cinnamon biscuit.
And it was good.
Actually, I think BoJangles is spelled more like "B*jangles" with a star or something where the "O" should be, but that makes it like I'm trying to curse and be coy at the same time, so, you know, fuck it.
But those cinnamon biscuits are pure heroin. And let me point out that you can buy two for one dollar! Of course, I can actually HEAR my pancreas secreting insulin when I'm eating them, but damn they are good.
But then, I went to BoJangles. Then, I tasted of the Tree of the Knowledge of Cinnamon and Icing. For lo, I had eaten a BoJangles cinnamon biscuit.
And it was good.
Actually, I think BoJangles is spelled more like "B*jangles" with a star or something where the "O" should be, but that makes it like I'm trying to curse and be coy at the same time, so, you know, fuck it.
But those cinnamon biscuits are pure heroin. And let me point out that you can buy two for one dollar! Of course, I can actually HEAR my pancreas secreting insulin when I'm eating them, but damn they are good.
Friday, August 19, 2005
We Made It
Well, we're settling in nicely here in Georgia.
Mind you, I have to watch that the dogs don't get carried off by the so-called "palmetto bugs" (really REALLY big roaches, although our realtor says differently; I'll have to check her credentials because I'm pretty sure entomologist is not among them.)
And our living room flooded because apparently they've never heard of flues down here. And our refrigerator is a piece of shit.
And there are uncovered electical outlets. That don't seem to fit in the wall, so it is impossible to fit them with a cover.
And the maintenance company will not return my calls or emails.
And it's so damn hot I break a sweat looking out the window.
On the bright side, a big tree branch fell during the last thunderstorm and dented our car!
Okay, all whining aside, Scott keeps pointing out that this is my opportunity to strike out in a new direction! That I can make a little vacation out of the next couple of weeks, then find a little part-time job that I can have fun at. He's right, of course, but for right now I think I'm going to feel a little sorry for myself. Come Monday, I'm going to pick myself up by my bootstraps and get a plan of action together.
But, just for today....well, a girl can dream of Ohio and the friends she left behind....
Mind you, I have to watch that the dogs don't get carried off by the so-called "palmetto bugs" (really REALLY big roaches, although our realtor says differently; I'll have to check her credentials because I'm pretty sure entomologist is not among them.)
And our living room flooded because apparently they've never heard of flues down here. And our refrigerator is a piece of shit.
And there are uncovered electical outlets. That don't seem to fit in the wall, so it is impossible to fit them with a cover.
And the maintenance company will not return my calls or emails.
And it's so damn hot I break a sweat looking out the window.
On the bright side, a big tree branch fell during the last thunderstorm and dented our car!
Okay, all whining aside, Scott keeps pointing out that this is my opportunity to strike out in a new direction! That I can make a little vacation out of the next couple of weeks, then find a little part-time job that I can have fun at. He's right, of course, but for right now I think I'm going to feel a little sorry for myself. Come Monday, I'm going to pick myself up by my bootstraps and get a plan of action together.
But, just for today....well, a girl can dream of Ohio and the friends she left behind....
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