Since my last post about White Castle hamburgers and tornado warnings (no, I have not yet been arrested, but in case "they're" watching, WHITE CASTLE IS TRADE MARKED, SERVICE MARKED AND ALL OTHER MARKS), I've been tweedling what a weighty role (pun intended) food plays--on a number of levels--toward how I feel about travel. Let me begin to count the ways. Perhaps you should print this list of tried-and-true culinary traveling truisms and keep it in your carry-on, just in case you are . . . um . . . insane.
*Don't eat well, don't feel well.
*Don't eat, don't function.
*Eat too much, want to pummel person instructing you to wear your seatbelt "low and snug" across your stomach.
*Eat too high on the hog, hate the next month's credit card bill. Unless it's BBQ hog in Memphis. Then, EAT ON!
*Eat deep fried pickles when visiting the south, blow up like the MetLife blimp I saw sailing over our house just this morning.
*Dining while talking business? Order foods that don't dribble. Things you can cut into bite-sized pieces and carefully fork into your mouth. No sauces, especially if you've packed light. And especially do not put the whole cherry tomato in your mouth and chomp down. Or try to stab it. Or twirl the inch-thick cheese on that baked onion soup, unless you have a couple hours to spare.
*Using a straw? Don't forget about it or else you might bring the glass to your mouth while maintaining that all important eye contact, only to have the straw careen up your nostril. Right or left nostril, doesn't matter. They're both sensitive enough to draw tears. Don't ask me how I know this. And don't ask the acquisition editor stuck dining with me when this transpired--the first time we met.
*Need comfort food? Fried chicken with mashed potatoes and white gravy aren't on many room service menus. If you know of such a place, please post it and I'll wrangle a stop-over my next trip.
*Like to finger the crusty bits from the crusty bread that fall onto your plate? Be careful one of them isn't your wayward acrylic nail. The surprising tell-tale crunch is detectable throughout an entire restaurant.
*Like hot wings? Either don't eat them three days in a row, or be prepared to pay the "digestional" price. Especially don't engage in this wing-ding of a marathon wing-ding if you have connecting flights with no "down" time, as in "sit yourself down, and NOW!" time.
*Like short-cut, light-weight gadgets? Travel tooth "brushing" thingies (not a bristle in sight) complete with tooth paste (not) that slip onto your finger (designed to do this) do not remove celery seeds from between your teeth, or pepper, or steak shreds.
*No matter how many times you eat banquet chicken, it does not taste much like chicken. BUT, if you crave a SpongeBob SquarePants flavor, your wish will come true.
*Tired of formal dining on fancy food? If there's a local diner nearby where you can sit on a stool at the counter, sit there and eat there. Give yourself a spin! Conversation between the fry cooks, regulars and waiters is always entertaining, and usually interesting. It will help you fight off Conference Table Stupor. Plus, the "full" breakfast will cost ya no more than six bucks, a mere twenty bucks cheaper than the hotel restaurant--and their $26 does not include good ol' fried potatoes . Or coffee. Or anything other than "continental" fare. (Whose continent?!)
*Buffets can be scary, but not always.
*Want to inquire about tapioca pudding? You're old. But I don't care; I do it anyway!
*Need protein for breakfast but no time to round some up before heading out? PLAN AHEAD! Pick up a large Wendy's chili the night before and place it on the desk next to your laptop. Even if you don't have a fridge, twelve hours later, it will not kill you. I'm living proof, dozens of times over.
*Want to locate French cuisine? Don't ask me. (Bet you're not surprised.)
*Always wondered about Waffle House? Mm, mm, mm.
Wonder why I'm currently "cutting back?" Seriously? If so, it's official; you ARE insane. So print this list out and read it again. As soon as you no longer wonder why I'm blackmailing myself with a picture of the aforementioned MetLife blimp, consider yourself healed.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
A Surprise Around Every Corner
Legal Notice: White Castle, Slyders, Cravetime, Sackful (?) (and any other Official Fingerpoint "their" way) are registered trademarks, service marks and every other kind of mark you can think of.
-----------------------------------
In 1996, I had the pleasure of serving as a celebrity judge for White Castle Hamburger's Fifth Annual Cravetime Recipe Contest held at White Castle headquarters in Columbus Ohio. Although I've accomplished many things, this Really Impressed my sons, one who even received--and LIKED--a pair of glow-in-the-dark White Castle boxer shorts for Christmas. (I discovered they still sell them, but only in a size small.) In fact, my sons were so impressed that they joined me in Columbus for the extravaganza, traveling all the way from Minnesota and New Mexico. (Likely because they thought they might get free stuff, which they did not.) Among my lifetime traveling memories, this mom-and-sons journey is near the top. We laughed, we explored. They shot a few pics of Mom The WC Judge. A good time was had by all.
If you haven't guessed by now, I love White Castles (current personal fav the jalepeno burger), and so do they. Since my permanent residence is in the western suburbs of Chicago (and since I no longer have my gallbladder), I can grab a Sackful any time I want (which is perhaps why I have no gallbladder). When my sons come to visit, guaranteed we HAVE to make a Slyder run. But when I'm in Winona Minnesota, where I go hide to work on book projects, well, Dream on, Charlene.
But WAIT! As surprising as the devastating floods that ripped through the Winona area a few weeks ago, so, too, is what my grown son discovered today in a vending machine at his place of business in Winona. You guessed it: SLYDERS! "Which didn't taste too bad! Of course they were $1.75 for the two, but worth it!" he reported in a news bulletin e-mail. After rigorous investigation (okay, an after-work phone call), I learned the cheeseburgers came in a two-pack, sans pickles. A shot in the microwave, and OH, BABY!
This, of course, got me to cravin' them burgers, but since I'm currently "cutting back," I decided to toodle around the White Castle website and salivate while pretending to eat a couple bites, which, if you've ever consumed one, you already know is a whole burger. I was going to herewith insert a few of my fav hyperlinks to the totally fun stuff I discovered there, but the fine print FORBIDS HYPERLINKS without prior written conscent. However, I trust you can figure out how to find a few tidbits for yourself. (It also forbids me MENTIONING them without permission, but some things don't make any sense to me, and this is one of them.)
Moving along (and hopefully not to jail), as surprising as discovering Slyders in a vending machine in Winona MN, so, too, was the tornado warning that rang throughout the hospital two days after my husband's second knee replacement, which took place on the 21st of this month. If you're ever on the fifth floor of a hospital when a "code black" is announced over the PA system, seek shelter. Never mind the open gown, just do what they say, which in his case was to stay in bed while they rolled him around. Talk about a traveling laugh!
Those same storms wiped out our electricity the day before he was released, so we ended up having his CPM machine delivered to our temporary residence at the local Hampton Inn.
Gads. Even when I'm not on the road, I end up in a hotel, which was only two blocks from the place I've decided I better not mention again (I feel the WC Man sneaking up on me as I type), but it smells like steamed onions and their website currently states that their full nutritional information is "under construction."
Make of that what you will. Personally, I'm spending my days trying to deconstruct my thighs, made all the thigh-ier from those five-holed wonders. At least I thought when I went to Winona I could escape the lure of the little square burgers, but now . . . now I'm already saving my quarters. I mean, if I only have two teensy cheesburgers without those undoubtedly high caloried and sodium-laden pickles, what harm can come of that?
Okay, my hunger pangs have just declared a "code black." Time to go grab the bag of carrots.
-----------------------------------
In 1996, I had the pleasure of serving as a celebrity judge for White Castle Hamburger's Fifth Annual Cravetime Recipe Contest held at White Castle headquarters in Columbus Ohio. Although I've accomplished many things, this Really Impressed my sons, one who even received--and LIKED--a pair of glow-in-the-dark White Castle boxer shorts for Christmas. (I discovered they still sell them, but only in a size small.) In fact, my sons were so impressed that they joined me in Columbus for the extravaganza, traveling all the way from Minnesota and New Mexico. (Likely because they thought they might get free stuff, which they did not.) Among my lifetime traveling memories, this mom-and-sons journey is near the top. We laughed, we explored. They shot a few pics of Mom The WC Judge. A good time was had by all.
If you haven't guessed by now, I love White Castles (current personal fav the jalepeno burger), and so do they. Since my permanent residence is in the western suburbs of Chicago (and since I no longer have my gallbladder), I can grab a Sackful any time I want (which is perhaps why I have no gallbladder). When my sons come to visit, guaranteed we HAVE to make a Slyder run. But when I'm in Winona Minnesota, where I go hide to work on book projects, well, Dream on, Charlene.
But WAIT! As surprising as the devastating floods that ripped through the Winona area a few weeks ago, so, too, is what my grown son discovered today in a vending machine at his place of business in Winona. You guessed it: SLYDERS! "Which didn't taste too bad! Of course they were $1.75 for the two, but worth it!" he reported in a news bulletin e-mail. After rigorous investigation (okay, an after-work phone call), I learned the cheeseburgers came in a two-pack, sans pickles. A shot in the microwave, and OH, BABY!
This, of course, got me to cravin' them burgers, but since I'm currently "cutting back," I decided to toodle around the White Castle website and salivate while pretending to eat a couple bites, which, if you've ever consumed one, you already know is a whole burger. I was going to herewith insert a few of my fav hyperlinks to the totally fun stuff I discovered there, but the fine print FORBIDS HYPERLINKS without prior written conscent. However, I trust you can figure out how to find a few tidbits for yourself. (It also forbids me MENTIONING them without permission, but some things don't make any sense to me, and this is one of them.)
Moving along (and hopefully not to jail), as surprising as discovering Slyders in a vending machine in Winona MN, so, too, was the tornado warning that rang throughout the hospital two days after my husband's second knee replacement, which took place on the 21st of this month. If you're ever on the fifth floor of a hospital when a "code black" is announced over the PA system, seek shelter. Never mind the open gown, just do what they say, which in his case was to stay in bed while they rolled him around. Talk about a traveling laugh!
Those same storms wiped out our electricity the day before he was released, so we ended up having his CPM machine delivered to our temporary residence at the local Hampton Inn.
Gads. Even when I'm not on the road, I end up in a hotel, which was only two blocks from the place I've decided I better not mention again (I feel the WC Man sneaking up on me as I type), but it smells like steamed onions and their website currently states that their full nutritional information is "under construction."
Make of that what you will. Personally, I'm spending my days trying to deconstruct my thighs, made all the thigh-ier from those five-holed wonders. At least I thought when I went to Winona I could escape the lure of the little square burgers, but now . . . now I'm already saving my quarters. I mean, if I only have two teensy cheesburgers without those undoubtedly high caloried and sodium-laden pickles, what harm can come of that?
Okay, my hunger pangs have just declared a "code black." Time to go grab the bag of carrots.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Signs Along The Way
Whether I’m traveling between our permanent residence in Illinois and my book-writing hideaway in Minnesota, or business-tripping my way across the country (or out of it), it’s come to my attention that signs are often obvious, but sometimes not.
For instance, once right after checking into a hotel, I located the elevator and scurried to my room to use the “facilities.” (Okay, I often engage in this procedure, but this time I’m talking about this once.) As I flipped the seat cover up, I noticed a sign on the toilet lid. “No lifeguard on duty.”
What?! This WARNING caused me to shoot a double-take at the size of the toilet! GADS! Surely it’s not that big! And if it is, I’m just gonna have to dive in to do my business since I’m desperate!
After eyeballing the toilet and determining it was safe to plop down, I ultimately decided the toilet was also standard issue. So what was up with the location of that sign? While utilizing my standard procedure to unpack my bag (1. toss nightgown on bed 2. lay out cosmetics; 3. iron tomorrow’s outfit), my mind twiddled the possibilities. Although I figured I knew, one can't be too careful when on the road. Eventually I headed out to my business meeting and forgot all about the oddity. However, that evening, after I grabbed a bath towel off the rack , I was able to decode the encrypted-by-misplacement warning when I discovered another sign screwed to the wall - previously hidden by the towel - which politely instructed me not to take my room towels to the swimming pool.
Placement is everything, ey?
On several occasions I’ve noticed a scary sign or two at the check-in desk, the type that instruct, or “highly recommend ,” guests not leave the hotel lobby after dark without an escort, and/or announce that security cameras are in place 24/7. Believe you me, I don’t have to read those signs twice. When the check-in folks notice my bulging eyes and raised eyebrows, depending upon the number of stars in the hotel’s listing, I’m either instructed to “Walk in a group” or offered the company of a security guard. Obey, I do.
I remember well the first time in 1995 that I drove in England and hit the outskirts of a little town outside Manchester. Just about the time the two-way road shrunk from narrow to impossibly narrow, there posted along the roadside was a sign displaying our familiar circle with a line through it, the one that overlays, oh, say, a left-hand arrow so you know it means "NO LEFT TURN." However, this sign simply had the circle with the line through it. I yelled to the heavens, “Don’t what?! DON’T WHAT?!” Did it mean don’t enter? I hit the brakes and the car behind me nearly rammed me before zipping around me, horn blaring. Not until later that evening was I told that the sign meant "END OF SPEED ZONE," which gives motorists permission to - and oh, baby, do they! - hammer down. And remember, that’s just when the road narrows to what looks to be a half-car short of two cars wide. Oy. But if you check this link now, it says that sign means NO PARKING. I'm wondering if England's since changed the meaning of that sign (due to folks like me), or if the sign I saw (no color in the background, just white) has been discontinued (due to folks like ME), or if a local was just pulling my leg. Anybody out there know what the circle with the line through it (white background) meant back in 1995?
My favorite “two-fer” signs in a category I’ll call “Things Tourists Need to Know” was also located in England. Each sign was posted on the same wall inside a highly trafficked historic site. One arrow pointed left, the other right. To the left, "CASTLE." To the right, "TOILETS." Well now, that pretty much covered the bases. I found this worth a picture, which was the only shot I took during that tour. Go figure.
But here's what caused my most recent guffawing over signage, which I shall categorize as a cluster of signs. The first in the "grouping" was a six-inch, hand-made plaster sign purchased by me at a craft fair. I long ago hung it in my MN writing hideout on the wall behind the toilet. (I placed it where I’m guaranteed to see it - often.) “Lord, Help me through the changes in my life.” (That’s not the funny part.) Shortly thereafter, a hand-printed message on a Post-It note appeared on the wall right next to it. George, my retired engineer of a husband, had, in his unmistakably tidy all bold caps, printed, "MAKE SURE TOILET ISN’T RUNNING." (Signage note not funny, but the placement sure tickled my laugh-o-meter since it occurred to me that should God’s printing look like George’s, perhaps God cares about - and answers - more pleas concerning everyday and practical “changing” things than we might imagine! Talk about your "signs!")
My most recent visit, however, was the first time I noticed an addendum to the bottom of the Post-It note, which is what really set me to laughing. Since both of our grown sons and our landlord write in an untidy combo of print and cursive, it’s hard to tell whose stealth mind induced the smart-aleck question. “Why? Is that too fast for it?”
Now, I realize this is a great joke for five-year-olds, but still, the entire string of messages cracked me up. But I also just (as in just) noticed that the majority of my stories in this post are about bathroom humor. Hey, if only I’d included poop, this entire message would be guaranteed to hurl the youngsters into fits of howling. (I laughed just typing poop! HAHAHAHAHA - laughing AGAIN!)
Then again, if YOU laughed when you read the four-letter P word, let me know and I will heretofore make adjustments in my future posts, figuring that I’ve also heretopreviously misjudged my target market.
For instance, once right after checking into a hotel, I located the elevator and scurried to my room to use the “facilities.” (Okay, I often engage in this procedure, but this time I’m talking about this once.) As I flipped the seat cover up, I noticed a sign on the toilet lid. “No lifeguard on duty.”
What?! This WARNING caused me to shoot a double-take at the size of the toilet! GADS! Surely it’s not that big! And if it is, I’m just gonna have to dive in to do my business since I’m desperate!
After eyeballing the toilet and determining it was safe to plop down, I ultimately decided the toilet was also standard issue. So what was up with the location of that sign? While utilizing my standard procedure to unpack my bag (1. toss nightgown on bed 2. lay out cosmetics; 3. iron tomorrow’s outfit), my mind twiddled the possibilities. Although I figured I knew, one can't be too careful when on the road. Eventually I headed out to my business meeting and forgot all about the oddity. However, that evening, after I grabbed a bath towel off the rack , I was able to decode the encrypted-by-misplacement warning when I discovered another sign screwed to the wall - previously hidden by the towel - which politely instructed me not to take my room towels to the swimming pool.
Placement is everything, ey?
On several occasions I’ve noticed a scary sign or two at the check-in desk, the type that instruct, or “highly recommend ,” guests not leave the hotel lobby after dark without an escort, and/or announce that security cameras are in place 24/7. Believe you me, I don’t have to read those signs twice. When the check-in folks notice my bulging eyes and raised eyebrows, depending upon the number of stars in the hotel’s listing, I’m either instructed to “Walk in a group” or offered the company of a security guard. Obey, I do.
I remember well the first time in 1995 that I drove in England and hit the outskirts of a little town outside Manchester. Just about the time the two-way road shrunk from narrow to impossibly narrow, there posted along the roadside was a sign displaying our familiar circle with a line through it, the one that overlays, oh, say, a left-hand arrow so you know it means "NO LEFT TURN." However, this sign simply had the circle with the line through it. I yelled to the heavens, “Don’t what?! DON’T WHAT?!” Did it mean don’t enter? I hit the brakes and the car behind me nearly rammed me before zipping around me, horn blaring. Not until later that evening was I told that the sign meant "END OF SPEED ZONE," which gives motorists permission to - and oh, baby, do they! - hammer down. And remember, that’s just when the road narrows to what looks to be a half-car short of two cars wide. Oy. But if you check this link now, it says that sign means NO PARKING. I'm wondering if England's since changed the meaning of that sign (due to folks like me), or if the sign I saw (no color in the background, just white) has been discontinued (due to folks like ME), or if a local was just pulling my leg. Anybody out there know what the circle with the line through it (white background) meant back in 1995?
My favorite “two-fer” signs in a category I’ll call “Things Tourists Need to Know” was also located in England. Each sign was posted on the same wall inside a highly trafficked historic site. One arrow pointed left, the other right. To the left, "CASTLE." To the right, "TOILETS." Well now, that pretty much covered the bases. I found this worth a picture, which was the only shot I took during that tour. Go figure.
But here's what caused my most recent guffawing over signage, which I shall categorize as a cluster of signs. The first in the "grouping" was a six-inch, hand-made plaster sign purchased by me at a craft fair. I long ago hung it in my MN writing hideout on the wall behind the toilet. (I placed it where I’m guaranteed to see it - often.) “Lord, Help me through the changes in my life.” (That’s not the funny part.) Shortly thereafter, a hand-printed message on a Post-It note appeared on the wall right next to it. George, my retired engineer of a husband, had, in his unmistakably tidy all bold caps, printed, "MAKE SURE TOILET ISN’T RUNNING." (Signage note not funny, but the placement sure tickled my laugh-o-meter since it occurred to me that should God’s printing look like George’s, perhaps God cares about - and answers - more pleas concerning everyday and practical “changing” things than we might imagine! Talk about your "signs!")
My most recent visit, however, was the first time I noticed an addendum to the bottom of the Post-It note, which is what really set me to laughing. Since both of our grown sons and our landlord write in an untidy combo of print and cursive, it’s hard to tell whose stealth mind induced the smart-aleck question. “Why? Is that too fast for it?”
Now, I realize this is a great joke for five-year-olds, but still, the entire string of messages cracked me up. But I also just (as in just) noticed that the majority of my stories in this post are about bathroom humor. Hey, if only I’d included poop, this entire message would be guaranteed to hurl the youngsters into fits of howling. (I laughed just typing poop! HAHAHAHAHA - laughing AGAIN!)
Then again, if YOU laughed when you read the four-letter P word, let me know and I will heretofore make adjustments in my future posts, figuring that I’ve also heretopreviously misjudged my target market.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Planning a back-up plan
Thinking back, deciding to travel with only one credit card was a dumb plan. Okay, not a dumb plan, per se, but it was a plan without a backup plan--which is The Dumbest plan of all, especially for a business traveler whose ability to move about often depends on that card.
The dumb plan (since replaced) evolved after my fanny pack, containing my wallet with a fistful of credit cards inside, was lifted during a vacation. Thank goodness we were on our way home when this happened. We were, in fact, waiting in a long, jostling taxi line (BEWARE!) outside a Vegas hotel to catch a ride to the airport when the theft occurred. However, it sure slam-banged our reentry home since we spent days canceling cards from this store and that, hoping we hadn't forgotten any of them. But that first call from the airport to cancel The Main credit card was the worst since it took place under a time-traveling gun, and involved the police.
After much discussion, a new plan evolved: don't replace all the store cards; just use one card for everything and accrue air miles, or gasoline rebates, or whatever.
Fast forward a couple years and join me on the day this new plan failed.
**
I am in Atlanta attending a several-day conference, but today I have to fly a round-trip from here to Orlando. I'm presenting on a fiction panel at the American Library Association's annual convention. Also today, George is leaving from our home in Illinois to visit our son in Minnesota.
I take a cab from my Atlanta hotel to the airport. I pay with my credit card, exit the cab and walk about twenty paces toward the door when I get this niggling feeling. I stop, check my wallet and . . . no credit card! The driver didn't hand it back to me. Moreover, I left the cab before I made sure he did. Head-whap! I am responsible.
I run back to the curb, but alas, he is gone. I call the cab company (number still keyed into my cell phone) and report the incident, hoping they can send the driver back around the loop with my card. Call transfers. Gotta wait for lost and found. Disconnect. Call back. Yadda-yadda. Blah, blah, blah. Pleads. Clock ticking. My plane now departs in less than forty minutes; I cannot wait to see if it "shows up." I am struck with a hard reality: I have to cancel the card and head toward the plane.
While I'm talking to the credit card person, I try using a self check-in kiosk to obtain my boarding pass. No go. I have to chug to the counter line. Without my credit card, which, no matter what else I try (airline numbers etc.), the machine simply won't recognize me.
Tick-tock.
The check-in line is . . . not moving. Seems everyone has a problem today. By the time I get to the security line, I'm still talking to the credit card company while stripping myself of the necessities. I say into the receiver, "Hold on!" I sure don't want to lose her now. "I'm not hanging up! I'm setting my open phone down in a plastic bin. I'll catch you in a moment, I hope." God bless the small miracles, since she's still there, both of us having passed through the dreaded scan without incident.
I pull on my shoes while finishing the cancelation conversation, then we discuss how I can get a replacement card over-nighted to me. I don't have much cash with me; I still have several big-ticket dinners to attend; I'll need a working card to check out of my hotel day after tomorrow. I've run up quite a bill. These plans are put in place while I'm breathlessly scurrying to my gate. Thank goodness I'm only lugging my purse!
While I'm in the boarding line, I call my husband. He's on his way to Minnesota when he receives the news that he's now temporarily without a valid credit card. "Stop at the cash station," I tell him, followed by several rounds of "I am so sorry! I HATE when I do stuff like this!" He's heard it all before. I always mean it; he always forgives.
New Plan. We need to have two credit cards, one to keep for a backup so we don't ever get stranded like this again. But the logistics are problematic. If I carry them both in my wallet and my wallet disappears . . . . If I leave one at home, what good will that do? And what type of a backup card makes the most sense?
After much haranguing around, we decide to get a gasoline rebate card. We'll make it a Visa rather than another MasterCard. I'll carry one in my wallet and one in my carry-on. When I'm not traveling, I'll keep one in my wallet and one in my handbag. But what if my handbag gets ripped off or I leave it somewhere? The whole purse isn't as likely to disappear as a wallet (right?), but still, when I'm home, the possibility causes me to leave the backup gas card in my glove compartment so I for sure have it with me when I purchase gas. Eventually we decide this plan is perhaps the dumbest plan of all since I never remember to take it out of the glove compartment when I travel.
**
NEXT BUSINESS TRIP: I put the backup card in the outside zipper compartment of my carryon bag, then, due to overcrowding on the plane and a high boarding group number, I am forced to gate check that bag. I don't think about the card until 25,000 feet. (Feel my obsessing, racing heart.) And how's this for Murphy's Law in action? The announcement is made that gate checked bags will not be waiting for us as we deplane; they'll be at carousel number whatever. I can barely breathe until I get to my hotel and discover the card is still there. Another miracle.
**
I'm sure our backup plan is lacking something obvious here, but what is it? Can someone please help us out? If we keep thinking we need yet another backup card for our backup card, there will be no end to the torment. What do the rest of you do? It's unlikely I'll remember to strap on an undergarment holder every day of my life. Besides, they're hot.
A NOTE TO THOSE WHO HAVE ALSO LOST CREDIT CARDS (and cell phones, your driver's license …) ON THE ROAD: Perhaps we should travel in a pack, since in case of emergency, between us, we'll likely have everything we need.
PS Although I don't make any of this stuff up, I sure wish I did.
The dumb plan (since replaced) evolved after my fanny pack, containing my wallet with a fistful of credit cards inside, was lifted during a vacation. Thank goodness we were on our way home when this happened. We were, in fact, waiting in a long, jostling taxi line (BEWARE!) outside a Vegas hotel to catch a ride to the airport when the theft occurred. However, it sure slam-banged our reentry home since we spent days canceling cards from this store and that, hoping we hadn't forgotten any of them. But that first call from the airport to cancel The Main credit card was the worst since it took place under a time-traveling gun, and involved the police.
After much discussion, a new plan evolved: don't replace all the store cards; just use one card for everything and accrue air miles, or gasoline rebates, or whatever.
Fast forward a couple years and join me on the day this new plan failed.
**
I am in Atlanta attending a several-day conference, but today I have to fly a round-trip from here to Orlando. I'm presenting on a fiction panel at the American Library Association's annual convention. Also today, George is leaving from our home in Illinois to visit our son in Minnesota.
I take a cab from my Atlanta hotel to the airport. I pay with my credit card, exit the cab and walk about twenty paces toward the door when I get this niggling feeling. I stop, check my wallet and . . . no credit card! The driver didn't hand it back to me. Moreover, I left the cab before I made sure he did. Head-whap! I am responsible.
I run back to the curb, but alas, he is gone. I call the cab company (number still keyed into my cell phone) and report the incident, hoping they can send the driver back around the loop with my card. Call transfers. Gotta wait for lost and found. Disconnect. Call back. Yadda-yadda. Blah, blah, blah. Pleads. Clock ticking. My plane now departs in less than forty minutes; I cannot wait to see if it "shows up." I am struck with a hard reality: I have to cancel the card and head toward the plane.
While I'm talking to the credit card person, I try using a self check-in kiosk to obtain my boarding pass. No go. I have to chug to the counter line. Without my credit card, which, no matter what else I try (airline numbers etc.), the machine simply won't recognize me.
Tick-tock.
The check-in line is . . . not moving. Seems everyone has a problem today. By the time I get to the security line, I'm still talking to the credit card company while stripping myself of the necessities. I say into the receiver, "Hold on!" I sure don't want to lose her now. "I'm not hanging up! I'm setting my open phone down in a plastic bin. I'll catch you in a moment, I hope." God bless the small miracles, since she's still there, both of us having passed through the dreaded scan without incident.
I pull on my shoes while finishing the cancelation conversation, then we discuss how I can get a replacement card over-nighted to me. I don't have much cash with me; I still have several big-ticket dinners to attend; I'll need a working card to check out of my hotel day after tomorrow. I've run up quite a bill. These plans are put in place while I'm breathlessly scurrying to my gate. Thank goodness I'm only lugging my purse!
While I'm in the boarding line, I call my husband. He's on his way to Minnesota when he receives the news that he's now temporarily without a valid credit card. "Stop at the cash station," I tell him, followed by several rounds of "I am so sorry! I HATE when I do stuff like this!" He's heard it all before. I always mean it; he always forgives.
New Plan. We need to have two credit cards, one to keep for a backup so we don't ever get stranded like this again. But the logistics are problematic. If I carry them both in my wallet and my wallet disappears . . . . If I leave one at home, what good will that do? And what type of a backup card makes the most sense?
After much haranguing around, we decide to get a gasoline rebate card. We'll make it a Visa rather than another MasterCard. I'll carry one in my wallet and one in my carry-on. When I'm not traveling, I'll keep one in my wallet and one in my handbag. But what if my handbag gets ripped off or I leave it somewhere? The whole purse isn't as likely to disappear as a wallet (right?), but still, when I'm home, the possibility causes me to leave the backup gas card in my glove compartment so I for sure have it with me when I purchase gas. Eventually we decide this plan is perhaps the dumbest plan of all since I never remember to take it out of the glove compartment when I travel.
**
NEXT BUSINESS TRIP: I put the backup card in the outside zipper compartment of my carryon bag, then, due to overcrowding on the plane and a high boarding group number, I am forced to gate check that bag. I don't think about the card until 25,000 feet. (Feel my obsessing, racing heart.) And how's this for Murphy's Law in action? The announcement is made that gate checked bags will not be waiting for us as we deplane; they'll be at carousel number whatever. I can barely breathe until I get to my hotel and discover the card is still there. Another miracle.
**
I'm sure our backup plan is lacking something obvious here, but what is it? Can someone please help us out? If we keep thinking we need yet another backup card for our backup card, there will be no end to the torment. What do the rest of you do? It's unlikely I'll remember to strap on an undergarment holder every day of my life. Besides, they're hot.
A NOTE TO THOSE WHO HAVE ALSO LOST CREDIT CARDS (and cell phones, your driver's license …) ON THE ROAD: Perhaps we should travel in a pack, since in case of emergency, between us, we'll likely have everything we need.
PS Although I don't make any of this stuff up, I sure wish I did.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Nighti- (AWAKIE) Night
Interesting, trying to get a good night's sleep on the road when you're a Very Light Sleeper—and, I imagine, even if you're not. Travel schedules that don't work out the way you plan; insane agendas that do. The lure of the grab-and-go candy bar and a cola (CAFFEINE) when there's no other choice. The mental aftermath of meetings that leave your mind whirring like a meat grinder trying to create premium sausages out of carpet remnants. Alarms, which you didn't set, ringing at 4:30 a.m. next to your ear. Pillows and bedspreads that smell one day short of a nursing home. (I actually experienced this in a famous hotel. Double blaaaaach.)For me, one of the worst violators of my snooze time is an air conditioner or heating system that clunks, or even just clicks, as it turns on and off, jarring me awake with each switch. Or how about doors that schloop-BANG? Or people who meet in the hall and TALK FULL BLAST RIGHT OUTSIDE YOUR DOOR?
Then of course we have the ongoing BING when your room is too near the elevator (can a hotelier out there please explain to me why this binging is necessary) and the heart jolting CL-CR-CL-CR-BLADL CRUNCH-BLADL CRUNCH, CLATTER-CLATTER-CLATTER of the 2 a.m. ice machine that's been jump started by a drunken sports fan or wedding reception attendee ready to continue partying with the rest of the folks who just rolled off the elevator to their block of rooms on your floor.
Another Real Baddy for me is when I'm tired, it's bed time and yet I can't go to my room because the business part isn't over yet . . . and then I catch a second wind. Why, you might wonder (or not) is this bad? Because my second wind is not a functional wind; it's about as productive at keeping me awake or helping me get to sleep as a gale blowing open the eyes on a corpse. When my head finally does hit the pillow, that's just how I look: eyes OPEN, yet dead.
As I ponder the plethora of sleep-producing travel accessories I've purchased in order to help me achieve a worthy eight--or at least five, or even three--hours of ongoing sleep, it's kinda mind boggling. And scary. Of course I've traveled with various types of eye covers (from silk, scented ones to used wet tea bags), ear plugs (I find swimmer's wax works best), lavender pillow sprays, sound machines (several brands and styles) and a humidifier. Yes, I honest-to-gosh bought a travel humidifier for one of my earlier book tours. It was heavy, cumbersome, hard to dry out before repacking and large enough that I had to check my bag if I also wanted to travel with essentials. (A quick Google search for "travel humidifiers" reveals they make them much smaller, lighter and smarter now, at least so they say. If you've found one you like, let me know.)
Shortly after arriving home from that tour, I came down with a horrendous case of bronchitis. I've always wondered if it had something to do with that spendy humidifier spewing wads of manufactured mist right at my face every night. But hey, if you wake yourself up enough times making that half strangling/half choking sound because your throat is as dry as a gravel pit, you're willing to try anything at least once, which relates to another reason I don't sleep: my own sounds wake me up. Any of them. Now that's bad.
Over time, I've resorted to:
*Flannel pajamas any time of year so I can turn the air conditioner as cold as it will go so it won't turn on and off;
*Locking my pillow around my noggin' with my arms as if I'm a professional wrestler who's turned on myself. Of course this was before pillows got too fluffy to fold in half. With the masses of monster shee-shee 600 thread count versions on today's hotel beds, I no longer try this for fear of suffocating myself;
*Sleeping with my head at the foot end of the bed (euuuwwww) so it's not so near the shared wall when the NOISY passionate express plays out next door, and
*Dialing the radio to "all static all the time," creating my own sound machine, or . . . .
I've tried them all. I've tried everything but sleep medications because I'm a speaker who often needs to wax PERKY very early in the morning, especially when I travel East and the breakfast meeting begins at 6 a.m. my time.
But lately I'm partaking in/using none of the above because I travel as light as possible (I never check a bag, no matter how wrinkled or dribbled I might end up looking), which means I need to keep things light and simple. My all-in-one secret nighttime weapon? A jar of Vicks® VapoRub® in my zip-top plastic bag. ("Cough Suppressant/Topical Analgesic." ) Just before turning out the light, I smear a dab of it under my nose (and sometimes on my sore, luggage toting back) and recall how comforting and soothing was my mother's tender, loving act of kindness when, as a child with a cold, she put me to bed by gently rubbing a good dose of the thick ointment into my chest. (Scientists say a sense of smell is a powerful memory invoker--but that it can also help us track like dogs. Well, not quite as well.) Then I thwack the pillows a few times, say my prayers and end them with AMEN AND GOOD NIGHT. It works about as well as anything, which is to say I've discovered that a comforting, sensory-laden routine is my best friend. It doesn't always produce the results I'd like, but it gets me as close, if not closer, than all other gizmos and theatrics I've tried throughout the years.
And yet . . . I still fan the pages of trendy travel catalogs in hopes of finding the One Small Thing that guarantees a good night's rest on the road. But even when I do spot those tempting dozing enhancers, I no longer fall for them. At least not yet.
So tell me, what are your best tricks for restful, peaceful, guaranteed shut-eye on the road? Or is this where together we simply say, "HA!"?
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Catch a BREEZY ride!
As you well know, life on the road offers an interesting array of opportunities and dilemmas, sometimes in the most unsuspecting places and ways. For instance, sometimes when we're thinking "And away we go!" we instead find a gate change downshifting us to "And away we go . . . to over there." Or worse yet, "Away we don't go--again," when we see the dreaded CANCELED gut punch flash before our eyes.
Other times, however, we enter an Unknown Transportation Zone and find we need to double-clutch just to keep up with the surprising swiftness and ease of the ride since due to our well seasoned seat-sitting traveling buns, we are prepared for the worst. Such was the case when, for the first time, I recently dared to approach the Metropolitan Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority (MARTA) in Hotlanta Georgia.
Although I booked my airline reservations plenty early, I waited until the day before to figure my ride from the airport to the Hampton Inn near one of the dozens of Peach or Peachtree somethingorothers downtown. When I am travel weary--especially when I'm bone tired and bordering on YELLING--I book a private car since limo drivers often deliver a less herky-jerky ride than other alternatives, and my sanity and safety mean everything. But $77 one way when I'm on my own dollar? I'm feeling just a little cranky, not yet that desperate.
Next I move on to the share rides that make oh-so-many stops between the airport and wherever. While in the midst of that search I stumble upon a link for Ms. Marta. Hm. What's this?
A BUCK SEVENTY-FIVE? How good can THAT be? But it says it runs right out of the airport terminal, and the hotel tells me the peach-a-ma-hoosy station near them is just a block or two away. Well, I will have time to correct a mistake, so I think I'll give it a try. One thing I know for sure: it can't be less reliable than the airlines and it says it runs every 10-20 minutes, depending upon the time of day.
We'll see.
* * *
ALERT! ALERT! I am a woman traveling alone! Is it safe? What do I know about rails? And I've heard more than a few warnings about downtown Atlanta. Another call to the Hampton Inn helps assure me I'll have no problems. Plus, I'll be arriving with plenty of daylight to spare. Get over yourself, Charlene! Buck up and give it a whirl.
I have to admit that the MARTA website is slick, slick, slick. Maps, locators, instructions . . . . And who wouldn't want a "Breeze Card." Sounds almost as good as a beachy vacation, ey? "Over 590,000 MARTA Customers Have Caught the Breeze," it says on their opening page. "Fast & Easy." "Interactive." "Includes Bus and Rail." They even have a "New Rider Guide" and on the route map you can click on any station and it gives you all the information surrounding it, including PARKING availability or not!
I'm thinking they could have saved a lot of verbiage by saying, WE'VE GOT EVERYTHING! They even have a "See How to Use the Breeze Card" video, which I watch. Wowie. Just tap and go. By the time I leave for the airport, I feel fully armed to tackle Something New. And away I go!
Of course my plane is late departing O'Hare. Of course.
When I finally arrive at ATL, I follow the signs (with only one brief question to a passer-by) to MARTA and buy my round-tripper Breeze Card. Yup, just like that, I catch the breeze! Although I have a tad of trouble with the "just tap it" part, that's only because I'm trying to tap the green light rather than the tap pad. My dumb bad. But someone is there to help me out by pointing to the obvious. ("Poor thing," I hear her say in her head.)
I board the last car (the woman at the Hampton told me to) which is as clean as a whistle. Easy map on the wall so I can follow the stops. Nice. It's a smooth 19-minute ride, which beats all other modes of transportation by less than HALF!
[INTERJECTION: Do not file your Breeze Card too far away after you enter the gates; you'll need to tap it again to GET OUT of the gates at your arrival. Ask me how I learned this. No, don't.]
I ride the longest, steepest escalator (two of them, I think--or was it three?) I've ever been on, but I pop right out where I was told I'd be. A short walk, and Hampton Inn, here I am!
$1.75 and 19 minutes. Easy. Breezy. CLEAN. Smooth. Everything they said it would be, and more. I saved $75.25 by not taking that limo ride. Fabulous dinner or two, here I come!
Airlines, if I can catch that breeze all the way from ORD to ATL--or anywhere else I travel--I'll do it.
Readers, if you'd like to make any other comments about Atlanta's MARTA, jump right in. I admit I'm only a one-time rider thus far, but that ride was awfully dern good.
Other times, however, we enter an Unknown Transportation Zone and find we need to double-clutch just to keep up with the surprising swiftness and ease of the ride since due to our well seasoned seat-sitting traveling buns, we are prepared for the worst. Such was the case when, for the first time, I recently dared to approach the Metropolitan Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority (MARTA) in Hotlanta Georgia.
Although I booked my airline reservations plenty early, I waited until the day before to figure my ride from the airport to the Hampton Inn near one of the dozens of Peach or Peachtree somethingorothers downtown. When I am travel weary--especially when I'm bone tired and bordering on YELLING--I book a private car since limo drivers often deliver a less herky-jerky ride than other alternatives, and my sanity and safety mean everything. But $77 one way when I'm on my own dollar? I'm feeling just a little cranky, not yet that desperate.
Next I move on to the share rides that make oh-so-many stops between the airport and wherever. While in the midst of that search I stumble upon a link for Ms. Marta. Hm. What's this?
A BUCK SEVENTY-FIVE? How good can THAT be? But it says it runs right out of the airport terminal, and the hotel tells me the peach-a-ma-hoosy station near them is just a block or two away. Well, I will have time to correct a mistake, so I think I'll give it a try. One thing I know for sure: it can't be less reliable than the airlines and it says it runs every 10-20 minutes, depending upon the time of day.
We'll see.
* * *
ALERT! ALERT! I am a woman traveling alone! Is it safe? What do I know about rails? And I've heard more than a few warnings about downtown Atlanta. Another call to the Hampton Inn helps assure me I'll have no problems. Plus, I'll be arriving with plenty of daylight to spare. Get over yourself, Charlene! Buck up and give it a whirl.
I have to admit that the MARTA website is slick, slick, slick. Maps, locators, instructions . . . . And who wouldn't want a "Breeze Card." Sounds almost as good as a beachy vacation, ey? "Over 590,000 MARTA Customers Have Caught the Breeze," it says on their opening page. "Fast & Easy." "Interactive." "Includes Bus and Rail." They even have a "New Rider Guide" and on the route map you can click on any station and it gives you all the information surrounding it, including PARKING availability or not!
I'm thinking they could have saved a lot of verbiage by saying, WE'VE GOT EVERYTHING! They even have a "See How to Use the Breeze Card" video, which I watch. Wowie. Just tap and go. By the time I leave for the airport, I feel fully armed to tackle Something New. And away I go!
Of course my plane is late departing O'Hare. Of course.
When I finally arrive at ATL, I follow the signs (with only one brief question to a passer-by) to MARTA and buy my round-tripper Breeze Card. Yup, just like that, I catch the breeze! Although I have a tad of trouble with the "just tap it" part, that's only because I'm trying to tap the green light rather than the tap pad. My dumb bad. But someone is there to help me out by pointing to the obvious. ("Poor thing," I hear her say in her head.)
I board the last car (the woman at the Hampton told me to) which is as clean as a whistle. Easy map on the wall so I can follow the stops. Nice. It's a smooth 19-minute ride, which beats all other modes of transportation by less than HALF!
[INTERJECTION: Do not file your Breeze Card too far away after you enter the gates; you'll need to tap it again to GET OUT of the gates at your arrival. Ask me how I learned this. No, don't.]
I ride the longest, steepest escalator (two of them, I think--or was it three?) I've ever been on, but I pop right out where I was told I'd be. A short walk, and Hampton Inn, here I am!
$1.75 and 19 minutes. Easy. Breezy. CLEAN. Smooth. Everything they said it would be, and more. I saved $75.25 by not taking that limo ride. Fabulous dinner or two, here I come!
Airlines, if I can catch that breeze all the way from ORD to ATL--or anywhere else I travel--I'll do it.
Readers, if you'd like to make any other comments about Atlanta's MARTA, jump right in. I admit I'm only a one-time rider thus far, but that ride was awfully dern good.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Pausing for the Cause
Back in January my husband and I were to leave on our first Real Vacation in many years. By Real Vacation I mean yours truly didn't plunk a book signing or speaking engagement into the middle of our schedule, nor was I going to spend my evenings clacking away on my laptop. (Okay, I had one teensy east coast book signing tacked onto the end of our trip, but that's when our Official Vacation would end and my work would reconvene.) We were going to fly and cruise and make merry. WAHOO!Instead, within three weeks of our scheduled departure my husband blew out his knee (which his able orthopedic doc sawed away and replaced, and don't I make that sound easy?!) and I broke my leg. Bye-bye body parts and vacation. Life marched on (okay, came to a screeching halt then crutched and gimped) while we endured, convalesced, grumbled and healed. My addled brain left me running behind with a major book deadline, leaving Poor George a worse fate than that: he had to live with someone running behind with a major book deadline. Just call me Ms. Distracted and Crabby.
As a result, since the beginning of May I have been holed up writing like a bandit which is good for me but which makes me absent to George—which, come to think about it, might also be good for George. (Ms. Distracted and Crabby, remember?) I have an upcoming book convention to attend (fly, baby, fly—and back on the road we go), an out-of-state extended family gathering (drive, baby, drive) and more writing to do before George gets his other knee replaced on 8/21, which was the "bad knee" until the other one went suddenly badder. All this to ask, what vacation, and when?
But last week a fresh wind of insight blew through my working brain: the luxurious capturing of mini-vacation moments.
No matter where you roam or how jam-packed your schedule, you too can root them out with just a few minutes of dedication. Granted, I am temporarily residing in a dear old farm house up on the ridge of the beautiful bluffs in a Minnesota river town along the Mississippi. (Oh, poor baby!) From the living room I can witness, unobstructed, the sun both rise and set. Not much more than ten yards from my keyboard, a few times a day the neighboring farmer's cows saunter, march or high-kick their way up or down the hill, 
and the horses, tails flying and nostrils flared, race through the field just behind me. 
Hummingbirds, bluebirds, finches of all sizes and miscellaneous others (feathered others, that is) bathe in an old fry pan I set on the porch rail (also visible from my keyboard) lined with a bright blue Frisbee and a couple marbles to attract them. 
In the evening I can hear the frogs and coyotes, and on a clear night, the stars are close (Venus is captivating) and the big dipper empties its heavenly contents right onto the roof. Each moment I decide to lift my eyes and drink of these wonders is a mini vacation from my daily working grind.
and the horses, tails flying and nostrils flared, race through the field just behind me. Hummingbirds, bluebirds, finches of all sizes and miscellaneous others (feathered others, that is) bathe in an old fry pan I set on the porch rail (also visible from my keyboard) lined with a bright blue Frisbee and a couple marbles to attract them. In the evening I can hear the frogs and coyotes, and on a clear night, the stars are close (Venus is captivating) and the big dipper empties its heavenly contents right onto the roof. Each moment I decide to lift my eyes and drink of these wonders is a mini vacation from my daily working grind.You say that's nice for me but that your hotel room only offers a view of the hotel next door? As you can see (and if you can't because you receive this by some tricky means that doesn't enable photos click here) I'm gifting you with a few visual slices from my neck of the planet. Dive into them, allow yourself to "hear" the sounds, imagine your toes waggling through the grass, feel the restfulness. May these small country reminders whet your appetite enough to cause you to stand on the sidewalk and seek out wedges of blue sky (yes, the sky still exists beyond the top of those sky crappers, as my grandma used to misspell them), 
notice a bird's nest near an overhang or a determined flower growing through a crack in the cement. Or perhaps S-T-O-P for a moment and actually tune into the soothing sound of that architectural waterfall in the lobby rather than whisking by it. Let your eyes blur over as you imagine yourself in an exotic lush green place of respite.
notice a bird's nest near an overhang or a determined flower growing through a crack in the cement. Or perhaps S-T-O-P for a moment and actually tune into the soothing sound of that architectural waterfall in the lobby rather than whisking by it. Let your eyes blur over as you imagine yourself in an exotic lush green place of respite.If you cannot succeed at discovering even these simple natural nature-istic pleasures, be on the lookout for a breeze to soothe your fretting brow, the scent of real flowers in a window box to flare your nostrils—allow the bright welcoming smile of the doorman to imply "Welcome home for the night. I hope you sleep well." Or try luxuriating in these momentary sensory-loaded mini-vacation moments: the healthy sound of your gym shoes slapping against the treadmill in the exercise room; the smooth cool feel of the high-count cotton in your pillowcase; the bevy of mouth-watering culinary choices on the menu as opposed to the gob-wads of leftovers in your fridge at home.
Give thanks for the simple pleasures and see how they multiple when you look for them. Even on the road.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Recanting a recant
When I posted my last entry, never did I imagine that a few days later my neighbor, who lives three doors down and whom I've known for 38 years, would be one of "those" people, the "happy vacation travelers" holding up the security line.
Nothing personal, Dear Neighbor, but do you NEVER listen to the news? Or to me when I ramble on about my latest adventures in the airports?! (Obviously you don't read my Traveling Laughs. And here I fancy myself so fascinating!)
During a recent phone chat with my husband (I've been hiding in MN for six weeks writing under deadline), our entire conversation crackled with disbelief over the news that our neighbor--the one who hasn't flown since 9-1-1, the one with a carryon bag filled with giant-sized hair products--had called her husband absolutely incensed that the TSA dared take her expensive hair products away from her. She was furious and dumbfounded she had to remove her worn comfy shoes. "All those bare feet on the floor! GROSS!" Incredulous she had to endure wanding plus have the bottom of her feet inspected because she had a hole in the foot pad of said comfy shoes. She couldn't believe they thought she might harbor drugs or explosives in said heel-worn hole. "Come ON!" she barked at me in a follow-up phone conversation. And the air machine that blows our sensible thoughts away, well it FREAKED-HER-OUT!
When they took her stuff away she wondered—and then asked—if they were going to keep it for her so she could pick it up when she returned. Seriously. I'm still shaking my head. Can you even imagine how long that name-it-and-claim it security line would be?
Last week I wrote that I kind of envied the thus-far TSA-untainted and therefore unjaded. I said I wished I could once again become a virgin-to-the-rules traveler myself so I could head to the airport with that Happy Vacation Glow. But after hearing George's rendition of our neighbor's debacle as relayed through the translation of her husband (who didn't know the rules either, but who listened to the fury of his newbie traveling mate), then receiving the full flaming details in my follow-up phone conversation with said offended neighbor, I heretofore recant my wish. Her outrage, disillusionment and complete inability to understand WHY someone would want to take her toothpaste—her TOOTHPASTE, for goodness sake--almost reignited mine. She expressed VENGEANCE toward those who were responsible for 9-1-1. LOOK what they've done to us! she spat. It seemed as though the fallout was just now hitting her.
I waited until she stopped to draw a breath and said, "But it's our TSA that's made the decision to take away our regular size toothpaste."
Silence.
**
Now that I've been reminded of that initial response to THE OUTLANDISHNESS of it all, yes, I rescind my wish to once again be ignorant of the reality of today's travel circumstances. That initial fall from traveling WAHOO is just too heartbreaking; I do not ever wish to experience it again. I proudly claim myself a member of The Well Informed & Seasoned Veteran's Traveling Club, a club that is compliant, unchallenging and appropriately numb. Like a wild mustang now broken to accept its rider, I stand in the stable (well, okay I currently hide in Minnesota) waiting for my next trip to the airport when my boss—Da TSA Man—will tell me whether to turn to the right or the left, what he or she can and will take away from me, like the right to say "I object to this treatment!"
**
Okay, THAT was all so depressing I now recant my recant while I consider this philosophical question: Is it better to have flown often and therefore learned to surrender your power, or to ne'er yet have flown and still ignorantly think you have some? Or is it better to simply work your Sudoku and fo-getaboutit?
Hey youse guys and gals out there, whatdayathink?
**
In closing, let me just say that I am glad my husband is driving up here today since he shall have total control over an on-time departure and what he arrives here with, which will include all kinds of sharp implements in his fishing tackle box, bottles of nail polish left behind by his beloved, a case of liquid refreshment and anything else he can cram into his big ol' LeSabre.
Unless . . . OH NO! Unless while I've been hiding this past six weeks here in MN and barely hearing any news (like my neighbor apparently hadn't done for the last many years) the TSA has slapped down some new regulations at the Illinois toll booths! And if learn they have, do I call my husband and alert him, thereby causing him to leave all our favorite things behind, therefore enabling Wally Walleye to escape the lure of our fabulous split Rapalas? Or do I just let my beloved be one of "those" people merrily setting out to reunite for a spell with his honey?
**
CHARLENE! SNAP OUT OF IT! Like THAT toll-screening, tackle-box nabbing scenario would ever happen!
**
Oh boy. Just like nobody will ever give a ding-dong about our toothpaste either, right?
Oh boy.
Nothing personal, Dear Neighbor, but do you NEVER listen to the news? Or to me when I ramble on about my latest adventures in the airports?! (Obviously you don't read my Traveling Laughs. And here I fancy myself so fascinating!)
During a recent phone chat with my husband (I've been hiding in MN for six weeks writing under deadline), our entire conversation crackled with disbelief over the news that our neighbor--the one who hasn't flown since 9-1-1, the one with a carryon bag filled with giant-sized hair products--had called her husband absolutely incensed that the TSA dared take her expensive hair products away from her. She was furious and dumbfounded she had to remove her worn comfy shoes. "All those bare feet on the floor! GROSS!" Incredulous she had to endure wanding plus have the bottom of her feet inspected because she had a hole in the foot pad of said comfy shoes. She couldn't believe they thought she might harbor drugs or explosives in said heel-worn hole. "Come ON!" she barked at me in a follow-up phone conversation. And the air machine that blows our sensible thoughts away, well it FREAKED-HER-OUT!
When they took her stuff away she wondered—and then asked—if they were going to keep it for her so she could pick it up when she returned. Seriously. I'm still shaking my head. Can you even imagine how long that name-it-and-claim it security line would be?
Last week I wrote that I kind of envied the thus-far TSA-untainted and therefore unjaded. I said I wished I could once again become a virgin-to-the-rules traveler myself so I could head to the airport with that Happy Vacation Glow. But after hearing George's rendition of our neighbor's debacle as relayed through the translation of her husband (who didn't know the rules either, but who listened to the fury of his newbie traveling mate), then receiving the full flaming details in my follow-up phone conversation with said offended neighbor, I heretofore recant my wish. Her outrage, disillusionment and complete inability to understand WHY someone would want to take her toothpaste—her TOOTHPASTE, for goodness sake--almost reignited mine. She expressed VENGEANCE toward those who were responsible for 9-1-1. LOOK what they've done to us! she spat. It seemed as though the fallout was just now hitting her.
I waited until she stopped to draw a breath and said, "But it's our TSA that's made the decision to take away our regular size toothpaste."
Silence.
**
Now that I've been reminded of that initial response to THE OUTLANDISHNESS of it all, yes, I rescind my wish to once again be ignorant of the reality of today's travel circumstances. That initial fall from traveling WAHOO is just too heartbreaking; I do not ever wish to experience it again. I proudly claim myself a member of The Well Informed & Seasoned Veteran's Traveling Club, a club that is compliant, unchallenging and appropriately numb. Like a wild mustang now broken to accept its rider, I stand in the stable (well, okay I currently hide in Minnesota) waiting for my next trip to the airport when my boss—Da TSA Man—will tell me whether to turn to the right or the left, what he or she can and will take away from me, like the right to say "I object to this treatment!"
**
Okay, THAT was all so depressing I now recant my recant while I consider this philosophical question: Is it better to have flown often and therefore learned to surrender your power, or to ne'er yet have flown and still ignorantly think you have some? Or is it better to simply work your Sudoku and fo-getaboutit?
Hey youse guys and gals out there, whatdayathink?
**
In closing, let me just say that I am glad my husband is driving up here today since he shall have total control over an on-time departure and what he arrives here with, which will include all kinds of sharp implements in his fishing tackle box, bottles of nail polish left behind by his beloved, a case of liquid refreshment and anything else he can cram into his big ol' LeSabre.
Unless . . . OH NO! Unless while I've been hiding this past six weeks here in MN and barely hearing any news (like my neighbor apparently hadn't done for the last many years) the TSA has slapped down some new regulations at the Illinois toll booths! And if learn they have, do I call my husband and alert him, thereby causing him to leave all our favorite things behind, therefore enabling Wally Walleye to escape the lure of our fabulous split Rapalas? Or do I just let my beloved be one of "those" people merrily setting out to reunite for a spell with his honey?
**
CHARLENE! SNAP OUT OF IT! Like THAT toll-screening, tackle-box nabbing scenario would ever happen!
**
Oh boy. Just like nobody will ever give a ding-dong about our toothpaste either, right?
Oh boy.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
How Quickly We Forget
Sometimes experience breeds impatience, especially when it comes to dealing with summer "fun" vacationers.
Yes, we road warriors know the ropes, even when said ropes occasionally slip off our Big Experienced Heads and settle around our vulnerable necks, such as when we forget our hotel room numbers (Where am I? Which time zone? What floor?), mindlessly leave our laptops at a checkpoint (THANK YOU, those of you who have done this too, since you make me feel not so alone) or settle our weary backsides in the wrong seat, even though we know better. But aside from those incidental and understandable slip-ups, we have our drills down pat and we stick to them.
Oh, we might grumble about the three ounce liquid limits, mandatory shoe removal and an occasional random wanding (peace be with you, oh ye always-wanded knee and hip replacement folks), but we "get" those rules and prepare ahead for them. True, perhaps we've lost (okay, handed over) a nail clipper attached to a pocket knife we forgot we used at home and stuck in our pockets, misplaced a boarding pass or donned earrings big enough to catch a lunker muskie which triggered the HIGH-ALERT BUZZER, but we usually make it to our seat-belt clicks without causing much disturbance.
After all, we are Professional Travelers. We aren't "those" people who arrive dragging kids and fifty-five pound suitcases, tuck cans of pop in our carry-on bags and don't understand that even gym shoes now need to be plopped in a plastic bin. We're not "those" people who only fly once every year or two and apparently haven't heard an ounce of news since 9-11. "Those" people who cause security back-ups and confusion, boarding processes slower than sludge spreads on a flat surface, and then twirl down the aisles thwacking people in the heads with their mongo backpacks.
No, we're not "those" people who are loud, on their way to Vegas, can't imagine why they're not seated together and therefore must YELL "FUNNY" (right) exchanges over the heads of the eleven rows between them while waiting for us all to laugh. Who don't take our evil-eye glares seriously. Who we'd like to. . . .
Okay, so these ongoing behaviors might get me a teensy testy this summer. But maybe that's because if I looked hard enough at myself I might discover a smidgen of jealousy that all this business travel has knocked the thrill of "fun vacation travel" out of me. I'd love to once again feel the excitement and happy anticipation of heading to the airport with sheer WAHOO! in my heart.
Maybe, if I examined myself closely, I'd be a little envious of the people who don't know all the rules because they didn't give so much of their lives away keeping up with them. Even though having their items confiscated and going through the screening process three times isn't fun to either experience or stand in line behind, there is something rather grand about realizing how jazzed they likely were when they stuffed their lucky charms in their pockets and their beverages in their backpacks. That when they donned their most comfy shoes, they didn't think about how funky they smell because it never occurred to them anyone else would have such a lengthy bin-shoving opportunity to find out.
Since I'm fessing up here, I shall also admit that I witnessed one of life's most beautiful moments between vacation travelers and the family member waiting to meet them. The greeter knelt down, swooped the little boy into her arms and exclaimed, "I'm so excited to see you that my heart is beating sooooo fast!" She took hold of the small child's pudgy hand and pressed it to her heart. "Feel that?"
Perhaps with a little patience and a lot of tolerance we can all--flight newbies and two-billion mile pros--learn from each other. Yes, if the security line is long enough, maybe the occasional traveler will watch enough of we seasoned vets to get the procedure down pat by the time they step up to the checkpoint. But what's in it for us? you ask. Hm.
Perhaps if we leave the heavy baggage of jadedness on the curb, take note of cheerful vacation energies, closely study joyful reunions and allow an old happy traveling memory or two of our own to resurface, we'll regain a bit o' the traveling magic ourselves. In fact, I hope we DO!
I also hope a thwacking backpack to the eye socket doesn't swiftly knock it right out of us.
Yes, we road warriors know the ropes, even when said ropes occasionally slip off our Big Experienced Heads and settle around our vulnerable necks, such as when we forget our hotel room numbers (Where am I? Which time zone? What floor?), mindlessly leave our laptops at a checkpoint (THANK YOU, those of you who have done this too, since you make me feel not so alone) or settle our weary backsides in the wrong seat, even though we know better. But aside from those incidental and understandable slip-ups, we have our drills down pat and we stick to them.
Oh, we might grumble about the three ounce liquid limits, mandatory shoe removal and an occasional random wanding (peace be with you, oh ye always-wanded knee and hip replacement folks), but we "get" those rules and prepare ahead for them. True, perhaps we've lost (okay, handed over) a nail clipper attached to a pocket knife we forgot we used at home and stuck in our pockets, misplaced a boarding pass or donned earrings big enough to catch a lunker muskie which triggered the HIGH-ALERT BUZZER, but we usually make it to our seat-belt clicks without causing much disturbance.
After all, we are Professional Travelers. We aren't "those" people who arrive dragging kids and fifty-five pound suitcases, tuck cans of pop in our carry-on bags and don't understand that even gym shoes now need to be plopped in a plastic bin. We're not "those" people who only fly once every year or two and apparently haven't heard an ounce of news since 9-11. "Those" people who cause security back-ups and confusion, boarding processes slower than sludge spreads on a flat surface, and then twirl down the aisles thwacking people in the heads with their mongo backpacks.
No, we're not "those" people who are loud, on their way to Vegas, can't imagine why they're not seated together and therefore must YELL "FUNNY" (right) exchanges over the heads of the eleven rows between them while waiting for us all to laugh. Who don't take our evil-eye glares seriously. Who we'd like to. . . .
Okay, so these ongoing behaviors might get me a teensy testy this summer. But maybe that's because if I looked hard enough at myself I might discover a smidgen of jealousy that all this business travel has knocked the thrill of "fun vacation travel" out of me. I'd love to once again feel the excitement and happy anticipation of heading to the airport with sheer WAHOO! in my heart.
Maybe, if I examined myself closely, I'd be a little envious of the people who don't know all the rules because they didn't give so much of their lives away keeping up with them. Even though having their items confiscated and going through the screening process three times isn't fun to either experience or stand in line behind, there is something rather grand about realizing how jazzed they likely were when they stuffed their lucky charms in their pockets and their beverages in their backpacks. That when they donned their most comfy shoes, they didn't think about how funky they smell because it never occurred to them anyone else would have such a lengthy bin-shoving opportunity to find out.
Since I'm fessing up here, I shall also admit that I witnessed one of life's most beautiful moments between vacation travelers and the family member waiting to meet them. The greeter knelt down, swooped the little boy into her arms and exclaimed, "I'm so excited to see you that my heart is beating sooooo fast!" She took hold of the small child's pudgy hand and pressed it to her heart. "Feel that?"
Perhaps with a little patience and a lot of tolerance we can all--flight newbies and two-billion mile pros--learn from each other. Yes, if the security line is long enough, maybe the occasional traveler will watch enough of we seasoned vets to get the procedure down pat by the time they step up to the checkpoint. But what's in it for us? you ask. Hm.
Perhaps if we leave the heavy baggage of jadedness on the curb, take note of cheerful vacation energies, closely study joyful reunions and allow an old happy traveling memory or two of our own to resurface, we'll regain a bit o' the traveling magic ourselves. In fact, I hope we DO!
I also hope a thwacking backpack to the eye socket doesn't swiftly knock it right out of us.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Lessons From A Rental Car
Reading the ever-smart Joe Brancatelli's thoughts about the Hertz Prestige Collection reminded me of the time when one too many rental car bells and whistles just about tanked my psyche. If memory serves me correctly (and sometimes it does), Enterprise (with only good intentions and excellent service this go-around) delivered the blow.
To set the story perspective, let me first give you a little history. My husband, Big George, is in love with his Buick LeSabre. (I've written about this "affair" before.) It’s a good car, a reliable car with great gas mileage and pickup. It’s also, in my mind, a Geezermobile and I, of course, am not yet a Geezerette, even though I am a very perky grandmother. When, exactly, I will fall into the Big G category, perhaps only the waiting rental car knows -- or at least thinks it does.
At the check-in counter I am informed they are out of the category (full-size) I requested, but they’re just sure I’ll be delighted with my FREE DOUBLE UPGRADE. “It’s loaded,” the guy says. I grab my bags and head toward the pickup facility in the parking garage while uttering prayers of thanksgiving that I don’t have to haul all my stuff on and off an outback rental car transport bus.
The smarty pants car is pulled up and waiting for me, driver’s side door open. “You sure got a nice upgrade,” the young man says. “It’s your lucky day!” He puts my bags in the gigantic trunk, points out a couple features, to which I half listen since I’m running late, then closes my door. What a gentlemen. Truly. He was pleasant, courteous and enthusiastic about his job.
As I pull out of the parking garage, MapQuest instructions in hand, I discover it’s started to rain. After a couple errant attempts, I finally get the windshield wipers and headlights turned on. By the time I reach the expressway, it’s pouring -- I mean it's a deluge -- and the wipers are flying, but nonetheless I settle into a medium-fast clip, crank up the radio and relax a little since I have quite a few miles to go before locating my exit.
This calm pocket of time gives me a chance to notice the beginning of my slippery slide into old age: a Cadillac logo. Don’t get me wrong: this is a nice, big, kick-butt fully loaded sedan, but in my mind, there is only one car that shouts OLD faster than a LeSabre and that is a gigantic Cadillac.
One way or the other, life’s ever-rushing days will mark you. I sigh. My husband will love this story when I call him tonight.
It’s at this point I notice some kind of flashing light out my side window. It’s pouring so hard I can’t tell what it is, but it’s steady and it appears to be attached to the car. What in the world? When the rain lets up a little, I finally locate the correct button to open my window. What to my horrified eyes should appear but (hear psycho music) . . . a flashing red arrow of lights built into my side view mirror alerting me that my blinker is on.
I AM DRIVING A GIGANTIC CADILLAC, WITH MY BLINKER ON! Need I say more about these implications?!
(Yes, George loved the story, way more than I did.)
On the flip side of the trip, George, unbidden, picks me up at the airport in my sexy little SUV rather than his LeSabre. This is one of the benefits of nearly four decades of marriage: the Geezer knows when his Geezerette (although he’d never dare call her that) has reached her threshold of tolerance.
So, Dear Mr. Brancatelli, although you might enjoy, and rightfully so, those ultra-kitschy accessory-laden Jazzmobiles, some of us prefer vehicles just a little less . . . um . . . knowledgeable than ourselves.
To set the story perspective, let me first give you a little history. My husband, Big George, is in love with his Buick LeSabre. (I've written about this "affair" before.) It’s a good car, a reliable car with great gas mileage and pickup. It’s also, in my mind, a Geezermobile and I, of course, am not yet a Geezerette, even though I am a very perky grandmother. When, exactly, I will fall into the Big G category, perhaps only the waiting rental car knows -- or at least thinks it does.
At the check-in counter I am informed they are out of the category (full-size) I requested, but they’re just sure I’ll be delighted with my FREE DOUBLE UPGRADE. “It’s loaded,” the guy says. I grab my bags and head toward the pickup facility in the parking garage while uttering prayers of thanksgiving that I don’t have to haul all my stuff on and off an outback rental car transport bus.
The smarty pants car is pulled up and waiting for me, driver’s side door open. “You sure got a nice upgrade,” the young man says. “It’s your lucky day!” He puts my bags in the gigantic trunk, points out a couple features, to which I half listen since I’m running late, then closes my door. What a gentlemen. Truly. He was pleasant, courteous and enthusiastic about his job.
As I pull out of the parking garage, MapQuest instructions in hand, I discover it’s started to rain. After a couple errant attempts, I finally get the windshield wipers and headlights turned on. By the time I reach the expressway, it’s pouring -- I mean it's a deluge -- and the wipers are flying, but nonetheless I settle into a medium-fast clip, crank up the radio and relax a little since I have quite a few miles to go before locating my exit.
This calm pocket of time gives me a chance to notice the beginning of my slippery slide into old age: a Cadillac logo. Don’t get me wrong: this is a nice, big, kick-butt fully loaded sedan, but in my mind, there is only one car that shouts OLD faster than a LeSabre and that is a gigantic Cadillac.
One way or the other, life’s ever-rushing days will mark you. I sigh. My husband will love this story when I call him tonight.
It’s at this point I notice some kind of flashing light out my side window. It’s pouring so hard I can’t tell what it is, but it’s steady and it appears to be attached to the car. What in the world? When the rain lets up a little, I finally locate the correct button to open my window. What to my horrified eyes should appear but (hear psycho music) . . . a flashing red arrow of lights built into my side view mirror alerting me that my blinker is on.
I AM DRIVING A GIGANTIC CADILLAC, WITH MY BLINKER ON! Need I say more about these implications?!
(Yes, George loved the story, way more than I did.)
On the flip side of the trip, George, unbidden, picks me up at the airport in my sexy little SUV rather than his LeSabre. This is one of the benefits of nearly four decades of marriage: the Geezer knows when his Geezerette (although he’d never dare call her that) has reached her threshold of tolerance.
So, Dear Mr. Brancatelli, although you might enjoy, and rightfully so, those ultra-kitschy accessory-laden Jazzmobiles, some of us prefer vehicles just a little less . . . um . . . knowledgeable than ourselves.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Imagine these frequent flyer miles!
I couldn't help but post this tidbit of beauty, wonder and perspective. The whole story is fascinating! Here's the gem that ignited my traveling imagination.
"For all its similarities, Eta Carinae is markedly different from SN 2006gy in that it's much closer. Eta Carinae is only 7,500 light-years from Earth, or about 45 quadrillion miles away — which may sound like a long way in earthly terms, but isn't all that distant for a cosmic supernova."
When you are "only 45 quadrillion miles away," can you even IMAGINE the connecting delays?! Let us take a moment to give thanks for our "global" traveling days.
"For all its similarities, Eta Carinae is markedly different from SN 2006gy in that it's much closer. Eta Carinae is only 7,500 light-years from Earth, or about 45 quadrillion miles away — which may sound like a long way in earthly terms, but isn't all that distant for a cosmic supernova."
When you are "only 45 quadrillion miles away," can you even IMAGINE the connecting delays?! Let us take a moment to give thanks for our "global" traveling days.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
The Bumpy Road Often Traveled
We live in the western suburbs of Illinois, but I often come here to this beautiful place at the top of a hill in Minnesota to write. It’s pretty much a 4.5- to 5 hour journey, no matter how you cut it, including one pit stop, which I blame on Kornflake, my big red dog, but it’s really me who has to go. We pop onto the expressway two miles from our house and don’t get off until we’re two miles from this one. Easy. Perfect.
Here we rent a small, Sear’s kit (read really old with green shag carpet—NO LIE!), two-story place because we love it, we can afford it (well, mostly), it’s near our granddaughters and the atmosphere oozes peace and inspiration. (I’m here by myself this trip, so not even Big George can interrupt me.) Time spent here is therefore valuable on a number of levels, not the least of which is that I currently have a book deadline (which is why George isn’t here) blowing its dragon breath down my throat and this hiding place keeps the rest of the world at bay while I keep my head down, fingers to the keyboard.
Until this morning.
Last night I went online to check my email, which I only do a couple times a day here in MN because the only access available to me in this unincorporated area is dialup. Seriously. (Did you even know it still existed?) Hear fingers clacking on keyboard, hear annoying, squealing phone sounds (please!), hear fingers stop typing, see eyes rolling, hear sighing . . . hear ME YELLING!
My ultra-reliable (going on three years), sexy little three-pound Sony VAIO laptop seized up, not a first when forced to use dialup these days, and not just with this computer. The culprit often has to do with Windows trying to download one of it’s planet-sized “updates” through a connection as big as a pea shooter. Make that a grain of rice shooter.
“Calm down, Charlene,” I actually say out loud. “It’s happened before and it will be fine tomorrow.” (Famous first words.) I powered off (unnaturally) and went to bed, which it was time to do anyway.
But this morning when I turned it on, all wasn’t well. My Little Sony that could, couldn’t. It pitched an unending hissy fit (I realize this isn't official I.T. language, but in my office, I am i.t. it) as complicated as a major-league chess move, which is why I don’t play chess. So I turned it off and booted back up and this time it pitched a whole different set of hissy fits, and so on and so on and Scooby dooby $^&#@ . HEAR ME WAIL!
Where do you turn when you’re on the road and your electronics -- your very lifeline to your business world -- wig out? (Seriously, please COMMENT to this post!) How do you know who to trust? “I’M UNDER DEADLINE,” I yell to the task bar that won’t load.
Nothing.
My last experience with this type of “adventure” was not a happy one. I was driving on a long road-trip between speaking engagements, my old giant (eight pounds) laptop in tow. I had exactly one evening to spend in town and a major need to communicate something to my publisher. Since the problem surfaced at my back-roads motel for the night -- DIALUP! -- I knew nobody in the area to give me a referral.
No help at the front desk. Yellow pages. Prayer. The $150 “fix” lasted two days; it cost me more money when I got home to fix the bad fix—which was never really fixed, which became my last-straw determiner to stop lugging an eight-pound laptop around. (Perhaps I should have THANKED the mess up!) No, I sure don’t want to go through that again this time, but due to deadline, I can’t afford to take my wordsmithing baby on a ten-hour, round-trip drive plus who knows how long in the shop.
Yellow Pages. Prayer. A phone call to a couple people I know who live in this area. $63.75. Fixed. Of course I haven’t even passed the six-hour "fixed" timeline yet, let alone the two-day one, but my new good friend Brent at Kennedy Business Systems gave me more confidence from the beginning than the last guy. And Brent told me to come back if I had any more troubles. The other guy just said, bye-bye when he handed me my power cord.
So, rather than working on my book, here I am writing about my nonlaughing traveling adventures when this is supposed to be a humor blog. Plus, I pray my book editor isn’t reading this. I recently read an article that said things posted on the internet last a lifetime and. . . .
[intermission while I write a quick email]
“Dear Mary,
Things at The Farm are going SWELL! I’m fast at work on the manuscript, which is practically writing itself. People here in Winona are kind and smart and stories are bountiful.
So, no worries. I look to be right on target to meet my deadline, which I of course take very seriously.
I hope things are going well with you, too. And FYI, it’s possible I might not read your reply for a few days. DEADLINE, ya know. Gotta keep my head down.”
Your dedicated author, Charlene
**
Prayer: free. Typing with crossed fingers: quite a trick. Having published six novels and honed the fine art of storytelling: PRICELESS!
Here we rent a small, Sear’s kit (read really old with green shag carpet—NO LIE!), two-story place because we love it, we can afford it (well, mostly), it’s near our granddaughters and the atmosphere oozes peace and inspiration. (I’m here by myself this trip, so not even Big George can interrupt me.) Time spent here is therefore valuable on a number of levels, not the least of which is that I currently have a book deadline (which is why George isn’t here) blowing its dragon breath down my throat and this hiding place keeps the rest of the world at bay while I keep my head down, fingers to the keyboard.
Until this morning.
Last night I went online to check my email, which I only do a couple times a day here in MN because the only access available to me in this unincorporated area is dialup. Seriously. (Did you even know it still existed?) Hear fingers clacking on keyboard, hear annoying, squealing phone sounds (please!), hear fingers stop typing, see eyes rolling, hear sighing . . . hear ME YELLING!
My ultra-reliable (going on three years), sexy little three-pound Sony VAIO laptop seized up, not a first when forced to use dialup these days, and not just with this computer. The culprit often has to do with Windows trying to download one of it’s planet-sized “updates” through a connection as big as a pea shooter. Make that a grain of rice shooter.
“Calm down, Charlene,” I actually say out loud. “It’s happened before and it will be fine tomorrow.” (Famous first words.) I powered off (unnaturally) and went to bed, which it was time to do anyway.
But this morning when I turned it on, all wasn’t well. My Little Sony that could, couldn’t. It pitched an unending hissy fit (I realize this isn't official I.T. language, but in my office, I am i.t. it) as complicated as a major-league chess move, which is why I don’t play chess. So I turned it off and booted back up and this time it pitched a whole different set of hissy fits, and so on and so on and Scooby dooby $^&#@ . HEAR ME WAIL!
Where do you turn when you’re on the road and your electronics -- your very lifeline to your business world -- wig out? (Seriously, please COMMENT to this post!) How do you know who to trust? “I’M UNDER DEADLINE,” I yell to the task bar that won’t load.
Nothing.
My last experience with this type of “adventure” was not a happy one. I was driving on a long road-trip between speaking engagements, my old giant (eight pounds) laptop in tow. I had exactly one evening to spend in town and a major need to communicate something to my publisher. Since the problem surfaced at my back-roads motel for the night -- DIALUP! -- I knew nobody in the area to give me a referral.
No help at the front desk. Yellow pages. Prayer. The $150 “fix” lasted two days; it cost me more money when I got home to fix the bad fix—which was never really fixed, which became my last-straw determiner to stop lugging an eight-pound laptop around. (Perhaps I should have THANKED the mess up!) No, I sure don’t want to go through that again this time, but due to deadline, I can’t afford to take my wordsmithing baby on a ten-hour, round-trip drive plus who knows how long in the shop.
Yellow Pages. Prayer. A phone call to a couple people I know who live in this area. $63.75. Fixed. Of course I haven’t even passed the six-hour "fixed" timeline yet, let alone the two-day one, but my new good friend Brent at Kennedy Business Systems gave me more confidence from the beginning than the last guy. And Brent told me to come back if I had any more troubles. The other guy just said, bye-bye when he handed me my power cord.
So, rather than working on my book, here I am writing about my nonlaughing traveling adventures when this is supposed to be a humor blog. Plus, I pray my book editor isn’t reading this. I recently read an article that said things posted on the internet last a lifetime and. . . .
[intermission while I write a quick email]
“Dear Mary,
Things at The Farm are going SWELL! I’m fast at work on the manuscript, which is practically writing itself. People here in Winona are kind and smart and stories are bountiful.
So, no worries. I look to be right on target to meet my deadline, which I of course take very seriously.
I hope things are going well with you, too. And FYI, it’s possible I might not read your reply for a few days. DEADLINE, ya know. Gotta keep my head down.”
Your dedicated author, Charlene
**
Prayer: free. Typing with crossed fingers: quite a trick. Having published six novels and honed the fine art of storytelling: PRICELESS!
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
When Nature Calls (or SCREAMS!)
When one attends a conference held in the hotel in which one is staying, one rides the elevator often. It’s a wonderful thing to be able to use one's own bathroom rather than standing in line during crunch times, or wishing you had more “personal” space rather than watching the feet in the stalls next to you (wishing you weren’t), or finding out (too late) that the person who “went” before you used the last square of toilet paper, or . . . . You know what I mean.
One of the reasons I often request no housekeeping is because sweet nature often calls (sometimes using her EMERGENCY! voice) when housekeeping is cleaning my room. It’s just the way the universe seems to work. So throughout my conference, I applied my NO HOUSEKEEPING rule. (Ah, so CLEVER! But can't you just feel the windup?)
Following one of nature's yellow-alert calls, I waited for the session break (remember, this was yellow in terms of urgency, not orange or RED) before making my way to the elevator. I caught a break since the door opened immediately after I pushed the button. I entered the elevator alone, pushed "32" and enjoyed a private, meditative nonstop ride to my floor. The doors opened, I exited, zigged and zagged my way back to my requested "quiet room, away from the elevator and ice machine," (nature's voice getting louder), pulled the DO NOT DISTURB sign out of the door (to remind housekeeping I want no housekeeping) and clamped it between my teeth, inserted my plastic key in the slot, gave it the professional seasoned traveler's swipe and ... red light. Figuring I had my key facing the wrong direction (I left my glasses on my chair in the meeting room) I turned the key the other direction, gave it a re-swipe and ... red light. With Zoro's lightening speed, I continued swiping that key every which way and ... red light, red light, red light.
DANG the hotel! What an inopportune time to have to reactivate my key! WHY can't hotels get their records straight?! HOW many times do I go through stuff like this!
I took the DO NOT DISTURB sign out of my mouth, stuck it back in the door lock and . . . noticed that although I'd arrived at the quiet room in the corner with the DO NOT DISTURB sign, I was on the wrong floor. This was room 2631, not 3231. Seems my elevator had stopped on 26 for no reason (nobody got on) other than to humiliate me. And you know how it is in those big hotels: all hallways look exactly the same. In this case, it was the Grand Hyatt in NYC and each elevator waiting area had the exact same table, phone and what looked to be a teensy piece of suburban lawn growing in a little square pot. How's a person (okay, obviously an inattentive, distracted, STUPID person) supposed to realize the error of her ways?
With nature's call now escalated to an orange alert -- not to mention a possible impending face punch looming on the other side of the door at which I'd been pawing for a couple minutes -- I quickly scurried around the corner, back to the elevator (to which I paid CLOSE attention) and made my way to my room, which, thankfully, was my room.
Although the session had already reconvened by the time I finally made it back to the conference level, at least everything turned out okay, if you know what I mean. (Thank goodness I heeded the yellow alert before it turned to RED alert before heading to my room!)
To the people at the Grand Hyatt NYC, even though you didn't know I was thinking poorly of you, I apologize anyway. To myself I say, PAY ATTENTION! To you, my fellow travelers, I beg you to herewith share your own embarrassing stories since you'd make me feel ever so much better--and braver—about continuing to share mine.
PS If that was YOU in 2631, SORRY!
One of the reasons I often request no housekeeping is because sweet nature often calls (sometimes using her EMERGENCY! voice) when housekeeping is cleaning my room. It’s just the way the universe seems to work. So throughout my conference, I applied my NO HOUSEKEEPING rule. (Ah, so CLEVER! But can't you just feel the windup?)
Following one of nature's yellow-alert calls, I waited for the session break (remember, this was yellow in terms of urgency, not orange or RED) before making my way to the elevator. I caught a break since the door opened immediately after I pushed the button. I entered the elevator alone, pushed "32" and enjoyed a private, meditative nonstop ride to my floor. The doors opened, I exited, zigged and zagged my way back to my requested "quiet room, away from the elevator and ice machine," (nature's voice getting louder), pulled the DO NOT DISTURB sign out of the door (to remind housekeeping I want no housekeeping) and clamped it between my teeth, inserted my plastic key in the slot, gave it the professional seasoned traveler's swipe and ... red light. Figuring I had my key facing the wrong direction (I left my glasses on my chair in the meeting room) I turned the key the other direction, gave it a re-swipe and ... red light. With Zoro's lightening speed, I continued swiping that key every which way and ... red light, red light, red light.
DANG the hotel! What an inopportune time to have to reactivate my key! WHY can't hotels get their records straight?! HOW many times do I go through stuff like this!
I took the DO NOT DISTURB sign out of my mouth, stuck it back in the door lock and . . . noticed that although I'd arrived at the quiet room in the corner with the DO NOT DISTURB sign, I was on the wrong floor. This was room 2631, not 3231. Seems my elevator had stopped on 26 for no reason (nobody got on) other than to humiliate me. And you know how it is in those big hotels: all hallways look exactly the same. In this case, it was the Grand Hyatt in NYC and each elevator waiting area had the exact same table, phone and what looked to be a teensy piece of suburban lawn growing in a little square pot. How's a person (okay, obviously an inattentive, distracted, STUPID person) supposed to realize the error of her ways?
With nature's call now escalated to an orange alert -- not to mention a possible impending face punch looming on the other side of the door at which I'd been pawing for a couple minutes -- I quickly scurried around the corner, back to the elevator (to which I paid CLOSE attention) and made my way to my room, which, thankfully, was my room.
Although the session had already reconvened by the time I finally made it back to the conference level, at least everything turned out okay, if you know what I mean. (Thank goodness I heeded the yellow alert before it turned to RED alert before heading to my room!)
To the people at the Grand Hyatt NYC, even though you didn't know I was thinking poorly of you, I apologize anyway. To myself I say, PAY ATTENTION! To you, my fellow travelers, I beg you to herewith share your own embarrassing stories since you'd make me feel ever so much better--and braver—about continuing to share mine.
PS If that was YOU in 2631, SORRY!
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Air Fairs
The weather in Chicagoland is often inclement this time of year, so when I take Kornflake for a walk, I still occasionally bundle up, scarf around my neck, hat tugged over my ears. (Kornflake: my big red dog, breed unknown but suspected mix of greyhound and lab, or redbone coonhound and something.) Head down, I plod toward the end of our driveway then peek to check for traffic before we venture onto the street. (No sidewalks in our neighborhood.) But Kornflake, well he’s got his nose up in the air sniffing for possibilities, his expectant tail wagging so hard his whole body agitates as if competing against my grandmother’s old ringer washer for the best swishing action.
I miss Kornflake when I’m on the road. I miss his enthusiasm, his head in my lap, his protective nature, his presence near my feet as I write, like I’m doing now, in a hotel room that suddenly seems extraordinarily bland sans his drool and toys. Of course I miss my husband, too. But those of you with pets understand what I’m talking about, which is their endless stream of love, no words necessary. Since words are my commodity, doggie cuddle time is a slice of pure heavenly relief.
But what I find myself missing the most about Kornflake today is his personal approach to travel. Even though we take the same route every day, every step of the way his attitude is perched on the verge of a new discovery. Whether or not he’s been “there” before, he’s equally eager to explore both the overt and covert corners of his world. And leave his mark. Even when he’s out of ammunition to do so.
Yes, in the fine tradition of those who play air guitar, Kornflake sometimes air pees. When, by the end of the walk - - and due to an empty reservoir - - he’s forced into this behavior, I always laugh and think, “Whew! Got THAT covered. NOT!” And yet today, even though I’m tired after business meetings and find my emotional reservoir waning, I want to muster Kornflake’s remarkable enthusiasm to press on with the heart of a true explorer, to continue giving it everything I’ve got, even though I don’t have it anymore. I find the concept inspiring.
No, I do not, by way of genetics, feel compelled to “let loose” on lamp posts. (And aren’t we all thankful for THAT?!) But I wish I possessed Kornflake’s indomitable spirit for all my travels, whether to the same old or the very new. I wish I always exhibited his rich expectancy and unending desire to explore. Thanks to Kornflake’s wonderful witness, I wish to leave my mark - - an enthusiastic statement that “Charlene was here, and she ENJOYED it!”- - wherever I may roam.
Thanks, Kornflake, for modeling the behavior of a happy-happy sojourner.
But the reality is this: in spite of all of Kornflake’s marvelous modeling and my meditations on such a deep traveling concept, even though I’m currently staying in an all new location for me (NYC’s China Town), tonight the only mark I’ll be leaving on this little corner of the world is my fingerprints on the remote control.
[NOTE TO KORNFLAKE: Never again will I laugh at your air pees. I totally get it.]
I miss Kornflake when I’m on the road. I miss his enthusiasm, his head in my lap, his protective nature, his presence near my feet as I write, like I’m doing now, in a hotel room that suddenly seems extraordinarily bland sans his drool and toys. Of course I miss my husband, too. But those of you with pets understand what I’m talking about, which is their endless stream of love, no words necessary. Since words are my commodity, doggie cuddle time is a slice of pure heavenly relief.
But what I find myself missing the most about Kornflake today is his personal approach to travel. Even though we take the same route every day, every step of the way his attitude is perched on the verge of a new discovery. Whether or not he’s been “there” before, he’s equally eager to explore both the overt and covert corners of his world. And leave his mark. Even when he’s out of ammunition to do so.
Yes, in the fine tradition of those who play air guitar, Kornflake sometimes air pees. When, by the end of the walk - - and due to an empty reservoir - - he’s forced into this behavior, I always laugh and think, “Whew! Got THAT covered. NOT!” And yet today, even though I’m tired after business meetings and find my emotional reservoir waning, I want to muster Kornflake’s remarkable enthusiasm to press on with the heart of a true explorer, to continue giving it everything I’ve got, even though I don’t have it anymore. I find the concept inspiring.
No, I do not, by way of genetics, feel compelled to “let loose” on lamp posts. (And aren’t we all thankful for THAT?!) But I wish I possessed Kornflake’s indomitable spirit for all my travels, whether to the same old or the very new. I wish I always exhibited his rich expectancy and unending desire to explore. Thanks to Kornflake’s wonderful witness, I wish to leave my mark - - an enthusiastic statement that “Charlene was here, and she ENJOYED it!”- - wherever I may roam.
Thanks, Kornflake, for modeling the behavior of a happy-happy sojourner.
But the reality is this: in spite of all of Kornflake’s marvelous modeling and my meditations on such a deep traveling concept, even though I’m currently staying in an all new location for me (NYC’s China Town), tonight the only mark I’ll be leaving on this little corner of the world is my fingerprints on the remote control.
[NOTE TO KORNFLAKE: Never again will I laugh at your air pees. I totally get it.]
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
You're Freakin' me OUT, man!
Ever since my second-grade trip to the moon (dressed as Flash Gordon, riding an abandoned hot water heater with half-melted camera flash cubes - remember those? - taped to it that served as spaceship control panel buttons) occasional “things” about traveling have freaked me out. Things like watching an automobile accident unfold in front of me, cars whirling and twirling this way and that. Things like getting rear-ended by someone traveling 40 MPH while I’m stopped behind a commuter bus or at a traffic light (yes, BOTH of them happened to me).
Things like missed airplanes due to late airplanes. Things like burning towers, crawfish runway landings in high winds, hacking seatmates, unidentified gooey substances down in the slot that the bulkhead tray table folds into, blue water in airline toilets, the sudden squealing of train brakes, scary editors at writers’ conferences, mascara (not mine) on hotel pillow cases, elevators that won’t go up … or down, or a wad of chewed gum (not mine) in my nachos (yes, that really happened) .
Yes, there are plenty of things to freak me out on the road.
But last week I encountered The Worst Freak-Out, which was that I freaked MYSELF out! Let me tell you a story.
Back on January 4, I decided to book my first ever Jet Blue flights for an April event, this after deciding that using my AA frequent flyer miles when I could buy $39 one-way tickets wasn’t a prudent use of hard-earned miles. I’m moderating a “Selling Fiction” panel at the American Society of Journalists and Authors annual conference in NYC, and I’m flying in a couple days early to get in some face time with my publishers, take in something on Broadway… enjoy the razzamatazz of the Big Apple before the ASJA conference begins. Since all traveling expenses are on my dime, I’m trying to cut corners where I can, and hotel rooms alone just about broke my bank. So, I set up my online Jet Blue account, booked my reservations and Voila! Such a deal!
In a follow-up flurry of plan-ahead details, last week I forwarded my Jet Blue confirmation e-mail to my husband. Right after I pushed the “send” button, a FREAK-OUT sensation zinged up my mouse arm and exploded my brain. TELL ME I DIDN’T SEE WHAT I THINK I SAW! With racing heart, I dared to face the ominous details head on. Details of the reservation I MADE ONLINE with MY OWN BLAZING POINT-AND-CLICK FINGERS, in case you missed it.
“NOooooo!” My wail careened out of my gut, flew through my lips, bounced around my office walls, out the door and into my startled husband’s ears.
“WHAT? What’s wrong?”
“I canNOT believe what I’m seeing!”
“What?”
“I made my airline reservations backwards! I have me flying out of JFK the day I’m supposed to be leaving Chicago, and visa versa! HOW DID I DO THIS? I’ve NEVER done this before. Hundreds, dare I say THOUSANDS of reservations! This is a first! I cannot imagine. . . . .”
I immediately clicked to the Jet Blue site to see what kind of tricky, backwards, ill conceived setup they offered that caused me to do such a stupid thing.
“Round Trip” - “One Way” [click your choice]
“Where from?” [pick your city from a drop-down menu]
“Where to?” [pick your city from a drop-down menu]
“Date to leave?” [pick your date from a calendar]
“Date to return?” [pick your date from a calendar]
“Number of adults?” [I’m thinking at the moment that this is DEBATABLE!]
Oy.
“HOW COULD I HAVE DONE THIS?” (That’s about half of what I screeched.)
“Just phone the airlines and explain what happened,” my husband calmly said. My husband who barely ever travels on airplanes and never makes the arrangements. My dear one who therefore hasn’t dealt much with airlines and customer service.
“This is gonna cost me HUGE!” I bellowed, then moaned, then dialed the number with one hand while cradling my forehead in the other.
Let me cut to the finish line here. After much gnashing of teeth, explaining, pleading and especially admitting how DUMB I am and how this is my first Jet Blue “experience,” and how I FREAKED MYSELF OUT with this discovery (and how much MORE I’d have FREAKED MYSELF OUT if I didn’t discover this until I went to check in online the night before my flight!), I ended up paying $40, the difference in available flight fares. Even though the Jet Blue agent didn’t think they’d do it, after putting me on hold and, on my behalf, fighting the good fight with whomever she had to fight it (I can just hear her now, “I have this insanely incompetent, verge-of-tears, self-deprecating, slightly hysterical, pleading woman on the line”), Jet Blue kindly waved my $30 change fee.
The moral of this story? Always check the details in your e-mail confirmations. Watch your fickle online booking fingers, no matter how seasoned they may be. If your assistant makes this type of doofus mistake when making your flight arrangements, know that he or she is already FREAKED OUT about it and yelling won’t help.
Admit your fault to customer service. (Your stupidity, your disbelief that YOU could have DONE such a thing, your utter despair that you are losing your mind since, after all, your grandmother had Alzheimer’s and . . . ) Maybe they will give a rip and extend grace to your poor demented soul (and pocketbook).
Or maybe you’ll have booked on an airline that recently made it’s own massive mistakes and is still working to make amends, which, in my personal humiliation book, they certainly did—even though their debacle hadn't even personally debased me. As it turns out, I’m good enough at doing that myself.
Things like missed airplanes due to late airplanes. Things like burning towers, crawfish runway landings in high winds, hacking seatmates, unidentified gooey substances down in the slot that the bulkhead tray table folds into, blue water in airline toilets, the sudden squealing of train brakes, scary editors at writers’ conferences, mascara (not mine) on hotel pillow cases, elevators that won’t go up … or down, or a wad of chewed gum (not mine) in my nachos (yes, that really happened) .
Yes, there are plenty of things to freak me out on the road.
But last week I encountered The Worst Freak-Out, which was that I freaked MYSELF out! Let me tell you a story.
Back on January 4, I decided to book my first ever Jet Blue flights for an April event, this after deciding that using my AA frequent flyer miles when I could buy $39 one-way tickets wasn’t a prudent use of hard-earned miles. I’m moderating a “Selling Fiction” panel at the American Society of Journalists and Authors annual conference in NYC, and I’m flying in a couple days early to get in some face time with my publishers, take in something on Broadway… enjoy the razzamatazz of the Big Apple before the ASJA conference begins. Since all traveling expenses are on my dime, I’m trying to cut corners where I can, and hotel rooms alone just about broke my bank. So, I set up my online Jet Blue account, booked my reservations and Voila! Such a deal!
In a follow-up flurry of plan-ahead details, last week I forwarded my Jet Blue confirmation e-mail to my husband. Right after I pushed the “send” button, a FREAK-OUT sensation zinged up my mouse arm and exploded my brain. TELL ME I DIDN’T SEE WHAT I THINK I SAW! With racing heart, I dared to face the ominous details head on. Details of the reservation I MADE ONLINE with MY OWN BLAZING POINT-AND-CLICK FINGERS, in case you missed it.
“NOooooo!” My wail careened out of my gut, flew through my lips, bounced around my office walls, out the door and into my startled husband’s ears.
“WHAT? What’s wrong?”
“I canNOT believe what I’m seeing!”
“What?”
“I made my airline reservations backwards! I have me flying out of JFK the day I’m supposed to be leaving Chicago, and visa versa! HOW DID I DO THIS? I’ve NEVER done this before. Hundreds, dare I say THOUSANDS of reservations! This is a first! I cannot imagine. . . . .”
I immediately clicked to the Jet Blue site to see what kind of tricky, backwards, ill conceived setup they offered that caused me to do such a stupid thing.
“Round Trip” - “One Way” [click your choice]
“Where from?” [pick your city from a drop-down menu]
“Where to?” [pick your city from a drop-down menu]
“Date to leave?” [pick your date from a calendar]
“Date to return?” [pick your date from a calendar]
“Number of adults?” [I’m thinking at the moment that this is DEBATABLE!]
Oy.
“HOW COULD I HAVE DONE THIS?” (That’s about half of what I screeched.)
“Just phone the airlines and explain what happened,” my husband calmly said. My husband who barely ever travels on airplanes and never makes the arrangements. My dear one who therefore hasn’t dealt much with airlines and customer service.
“This is gonna cost me HUGE!” I bellowed, then moaned, then dialed the number with one hand while cradling my forehead in the other.
Let me cut to the finish line here. After much gnashing of teeth, explaining, pleading and especially admitting how DUMB I am and how this is my first Jet Blue “experience,” and how I FREAKED MYSELF OUT with this discovery (and how much MORE I’d have FREAKED MYSELF OUT if I didn’t discover this until I went to check in online the night before my flight!), I ended up paying $40, the difference in available flight fares. Even though the Jet Blue agent didn’t think they’d do it, after putting me on hold and, on my behalf, fighting the good fight with whomever she had to fight it (I can just hear her now, “I have this insanely incompetent, verge-of-tears, self-deprecating, slightly hysterical, pleading woman on the line”), Jet Blue kindly waved my $30 change fee.
The moral of this story? Always check the details in your e-mail confirmations. Watch your fickle online booking fingers, no matter how seasoned they may be. If your assistant makes this type of doofus mistake when making your flight arrangements, know that he or she is already FREAKED OUT about it and yelling won’t help.
Admit your fault to customer service. (Your stupidity, your disbelief that YOU could have DONE such a thing, your utter despair that you are losing your mind since, after all, your grandmother had Alzheimer’s and . . . ) Maybe they will give a rip and extend grace to your poor demented soul (and pocketbook).
Or maybe you’ll have booked on an airline that recently made it’s own massive mistakes and is still working to make amends, which, in my personal humiliation book, they certainly did—even though their debacle hadn't even personally debased me. As it turns out, I’m good enough at doing that myself.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Traveling Calories
Casts, crutches, canes, leg braces. Swinging through, hopping, gimping, hobbling. The past two months of traveling bouts moved us no farther than from this chair to that, and to the doctor and back—again. All the while, get-well "things” (delicious, fattening, tempting things) continued to arrive on our doorstep, ultimately adding to the amount of "baggage" we had to hop, gimp and hobble around. Yes, through the wonders of kind-hearted friends, the Internet and speedy delivery, traveling calories swiftly surrounded our Control Central Lounge-cum-Convalescent Chairs and away we . . . sat. Today I shall share (although not literally, since they’re gone—every last crumb of them) a few of my faves. To share them all would be a daunting task. I receive no kick-back or free product for doing this; I just want to offer up a few tried-and-true solutions for those of you out there on the go-go-go. Should you be on the road when a friend becomes ill, or an anniversary or birthday arrives, or you need to apologize for your snarky behavior, or you just want to have something waiting for yourself when you get home, here ya go. Bookmark the links in your laptop, just in case.
Fairytale Brownies. These things are so rich and sweet, gooey and ooooo-laden that your tongue will curl in a fit of rapture. I received a dozen Fairytale Sprites® from my agent. Each sprite is a different flavor, one as fabulicious as the next. (Interjection: my Spellchecker wants to correct fabulicious to ferulaceous, but I fought it off since let me assure you, these chocolately brownies have nothing to do with the parsley family or “strong-smelling resinous gums,” as the Encarta Dictionary would have you believe.)
The great thing about the spite size is that they’re Just Enough. It’s fun to pick through the variety, each time deciding which creation you’ll savor during your next bout of intake, which sometimes immediately follows your immediate bout of intake. But let me give you my best hint: if you’re saving that which you’re sure will be your FAVORITE for last, do not offer visitors their pick. Remove it immediately and imbibe in a remorseless bout of intaking. Why do I recommend this? Because I watched my good friend swipe it right out of my box-offering hand. I didn’t have the heart to tell her to PUT IT BACK! After all, she’d brought us dinner.
Fairytale Brownies are made with and around nuts, so if you’re allergic, steer clear. But they’re Kosher. I just noticed they also sell sugar free brownies. I have no idea how they compare in flavor and texture. If anyone out there has tried them, please let me know so I can keep them in mind for my diabetic and/or dieting friends. Or me when I find I can no longer remove myself from my Control Central chair.
Ethel’s Chocolate Lounge chocolates. I can’t personally vouch for the rest of the selections, but Ethel’s collection delivered on all levels! The pictures on the website do not do them justice. They are MAGNIFICENT to behold and wondrous to taste. Truly, just staring inside the box was like studying an object of art. But I dare you to stare for longer than two minutes. You simply HAVE to find out if something that beautiful can really be tasty.
Edible Arrangements. If you’re in the market for something healthier than chocolate (although you can get them chocolate dipped, if you so choose), these fruit arrangements are another treat for the eye and the palette. The surprising thing was how good the fruit tasted. Our arrangement was so artistic I was sure the fruit would be bland, or soft or. . . . But it was delicious.
In order to prolong the beauty of it, we stored the whole arrangement in our fridge (tucked in its original plastic bag) completely assembled, withdrawing only the picks of our choice during any given fruit attack.
Best hint: If you’re coveting the stars, EAT THEM. Otherwise your friend’s kids will. Guess how I know? (I cannot believe how immature I can be. Thank goodness I didn't yell out loud. Just in my head. Promise.)
In conclusion, now that I’m nearly done traveling via cast, crutch and leg-brace, I shall begin rolling my way to the airport. But I bet that’s obvious by now.
In conclusion, now that I’m nearly done traveling via cast, crutch and leg-brace, I shall begin rolling my way to the airport. But I bet that’s obvious by now.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
To and Fro We Go
My youngest son received his private pilot’s license at age 16. “Aren’t you afraid to let him fly an airplane?” a few of my friends asked when he started taking lessons. My response was always the same. “But flying is his heart’s desire, and statistics prove that the drive to and from the airport is far more dangerous than the flying.” Yes, that was and remains true. But still, my mother-heart was relieved and grateful when, after each flight, I heard his vehicle pull into the driveway, knowing that whether by air or via hard road, as my grandma used to call it, my “baby” had made it safely home.
Fast forward: that “boy” is now 36. He’s a husband, a father and a very hard worker. Although he hasn’t piloted a plane for years now (but maybe again, one day), he owns a motorcycle, a truck and a minivan. Yes, he is a go-er, a do-er . . . a man. And yet, when he makes the five-hour drive to visit us, it’s as though time has stood still. I still breathe the same sigh of relief when I hear the horn toot, the signal in our family that We Long Distance Travelers have arrived. (We also toot the horn when we depart, waving like goofballs when we drive away, which is when I once again begin waiting for the “we made it home” phone report.) Yes, I have been and will continue to be a dedicated Waiting One.
NEW POINT OF VIEW: By plane, train, limo, taxi, automobile bus and ship, from here to there and back again we business travelers go. We sit, we jog, we rent, we buy and fly, we Mapquest. We stare at departure boards until we’re numb, or struggle to read them on the run. We sleep in comfy beds and lumpy ones (or maybe it’s just my hips), eat healthy food and handfuls of junk. (Okay, I’m speaking for myself there.) We talk on the phone while writing notes, resort to concourse conference calls when flights are canceled and often overcome amazing odds to give “face time” to people we’ve never met before.
All the while, those dear to us anxiously await word that we have arrived, or departed on time, or have finally returned to our hotel room after a long day. Even though our Significant Others are busy laboring at their own jobs, taking care of the kids, holding down the fort or licking their hind quarters (bless you, Kornflake the Wonderdog), they undoubtedly utter a sigh of relief or happy tail-wagging yap when the call comes, the door opens or, yes, our car horn toots.
Today’s blog post is dedicated to those who wait with expectant dog breath (hopefully limited to the canine variety), who greet us with a familiar back-pat or embracing arms, a phone message or a check-in door knock. This is dedicated to those who faithfully long to hear from us.
If you’re a road warrior (even if you’re home now), I herewith encourage you to STOP and take a moment to give a personal and hearty THANKS the Waiting Ones in your life.
If you’re a Waiting One and your traveling man or woman sent you this link without much else in the way of explanation (or none) as to WHY they sent it, please know that the flight attendant might have just requested they turn off their electronics, their battery was nearly dead, the meeting is just beginning or they're fading to black at the end of an impossibly long day.
And yet, what they wanted to let you know right this minute but couldn’t is THANK YOU. Thank you for waiting. “Thank you for the sigh of relief you utter when I depart," (well, you know what your loved one means ;>)), "or arrive. Thank you for caring.
Thank you."
Fast forward: that “boy” is now 36. He’s a husband, a father and a very hard worker. Although he hasn’t piloted a plane for years now (but maybe again, one day), he owns a motorcycle, a truck and a minivan. Yes, he is a go-er, a do-er . . . a man. And yet, when he makes the five-hour drive to visit us, it’s as though time has stood still. I still breathe the same sigh of relief when I hear the horn toot, the signal in our family that We Long Distance Travelers have arrived. (We also toot the horn when we depart, waving like goofballs when we drive away, which is when I once again begin waiting for the “we made it home” phone report.) Yes, I have been and will continue to be a dedicated Waiting One.
NEW POINT OF VIEW: By plane, train, limo, taxi, automobile bus and ship, from here to there and back again we business travelers go. We sit, we jog, we rent, we buy and fly, we Mapquest. We stare at departure boards until we’re numb, or struggle to read them on the run. We sleep in comfy beds and lumpy ones (or maybe it’s just my hips), eat healthy food and handfuls of junk. (Okay, I’m speaking for myself there.) We talk on the phone while writing notes, resort to concourse conference calls when flights are canceled and often overcome amazing odds to give “face time” to people we’ve never met before.
All the while, those dear to us anxiously await word that we have arrived, or departed on time, or have finally returned to our hotel room after a long day. Even though our Significant Others are busy laboring at their own jobs, taking care of the kids, holding down the fort or licking their hind quarters (bless you, Kornflake the Wonderdog), they undoubtedly utter a sigh of relief or happy tail-wagging yap when the call comes, the door opens or, yes, our car horn toots.
Today’s blog post is dedicated to those who wait with expectant dog breath (hopefully limited to the canine variety), who greet us with a familiar back-pat or embracing arms, a phone message or a check-in door knock. This is dedicated to those who faithfully long to hear from us.
If you’re a road warrior (even if you’re home now), I herewith encourage you to STOP and take a moment to give a personal and hearty THANKS the Waiting Ones in your life.
If you’re a Waiting One and your traveling man or woman sent you this link without much else in the way of explanation (or none) as to WHY they sent it, please know that the flight attendant might have just requested they turn off their electronics, their battery was nearly dead, the meeting is just beginning or they're fading to black at the end of an impossibly long day.
And yet, what they wanted to let you know right this minute but couldn’t is THANK YOU. Thank you for waiting. “Thank you for the sigh of relief you utter when I depart," (well, you know what your loved one means ;>)), "or arrive. Thank you for caring.
Thank you."
Thursday, February 08, 2007
The Little Call That Wouldn't . . .
Due to circumstances beyond my doofus self's control, I recently had to cancel a flight. No problem-o. (Okay, BIG problem-o, which is why I had to cancel, but I mean the canceling itself was a piece of cake.) I went on line, received my electronic cancellation confirmation and away I didn't go.
The exquisitely bad news about this scenario (apart from all the physical reasons why I had to cancel): my AA frequent flyer miles (which cost me $7.50 to use when I booked this now canceled flight) either had to be applied to this same destination within a year (which doesn't at this point in time seem likely), or I could pay a nifty $75 to add them back into my account. So, $82.50 not to use my miles. Sweet, huh?
The day I was originally scheduled to depart on the defunct vacation was a sad day, but it became sadder when my cell phone rang. The "caller" turned out to be an automated voice, the voice of the nifty automated flight status alert I always set up when I book a flight on line. The recording wanted to let me know my flight was on time, but that there'd been a gate change.
"Just rub salt in my wound, why dontcha," I said to Computer Woman before I hung up. Then I logged into my frequent flyer account to see why on earth I received an alert for my canceled flight. Yes, my account showed I wasn't going anywhere, but apparently canceling your flight doesn't automatically cancel notifications (?). Who would have guessed? While searching for the trail to discontinue the alerts, I toodled around the website until my clicking finger nearly went numb. WHERE WAS IT? The trail was easy enough to follow when I scheduled the alerts, but now that the flight was canceled, all trails were gone.
Finally I gave up and phoned my airline. The kind and professional agent who took my call was as stunned as me to learn the auto-alert didn't automatically cancel. "We need to look into this!" she said, with bold authority. "Hold on while I call tech support." (Hear the thunder of stamping hooves racing off to save the day.)
La-la-la. La-la-la--la-la. "Okay," she said when she returned, a note of triumph in her voice. "The tech needs the confirmation number given to you when you set up your auto status. Do you know what he's taking about?" It was obvious she didn't.
"Yes, I know what he's talking about." Dregs. "But it never occured to me to keep it. I know that sounds dumb," I said, feeling my shoulders slump in my own defeat, "but they have like a billion numbers or letters in them and . . . I don't ever recall seeing a place where you can handily just e-mail yourself the numbers, and. . . ." Okay, I think, I'm currently lame in body AND mind. I don't even like listening to me right now. Rather than sounding like the savvy business traveler I am, I sound like a whiney punker.
Pause. "Let me talk to him again," she said. "Hold on." Looooong pause. Finally, however, I heard those fatal words. "I'm sorry." And she truly sounded like it--bless her valiant heart. "He said he can't do anything without that number. I told him," she said, now sounding as whiney as myself, "that your outbound has connections and that your return flight is very early morning with that 2-hour pre-flight notification scheduled you mentioned. But he said without that number, he can do nothing."
Nothing. Nothing can be done. I simply had to live with The Little Call That Wouldn't ... STOP! Of course I'll be smart enough to leave my cell phone turned OFF on my defunct return flight day, but still, there will be those messages automatically reminding me, NEENER-NEENER! You didn't get your vacation!
So, traveler beware. Be smarter than this Foolish One. (Although you undoubtedly aleady are.) If you set up those nifty alerts, also set yourself up for the possibility to be able to cancel them. Or, join the ranks of those of us (me) who will be reminded of all the places we're not going--every delay, gate change and status alert of the way.
The exquisitely bad news about this scenario (apart from all the physical reasons why I had to cancel): my AA frequent flyer miles (which cost me $7.50 to use when I booked this now canceled flight) either had to be applied to this same destination within a year (which doesn't at this point in time seem likely), or I could pay a nifty $75 to add them back into my account. So, $82.50 not to use my miles. Sweet, huh?
The day I was originally scheduled to depart on the defunct vacation was a sad day, but it became sadder when my cell phone rang. The "caller" turned out to be an automated voice, the voice of the nifty automated flight status alert I always set up when I book a flight on line. The recording wanted to let me know my flight was on time, but that there'd been a gate change.
"Just rub salt in my wound, why dontcha," I said to Computer Woman before I hung up. Then I logged into my frequent flyer account to see why on earth I received an alert for my canceled flight. Yes, my account showed I wasn't going anywhere, but apparently canceling your flight doesn't automatically cancel notifications (?). Who would have guessed? While searching for the trail to discontinue the alerts, I toodled around the website until my clicking finger nearly went numb. WHERE WAS IT? The trail was easy enough to follow when I scheduled the alerts, but now that the flight was canceled, all trails were gone.
Finally I gave up and phoned my airline. The kind and professional agent who took my call was as stunned as me to learn the auto-alert didn't automatically cancel. "We need to look into this!" she said, with bold authority. "Hold on while I call tech support." (Hear the thunder of stamping hooves racing off to save the day.)
La-la-la. La-la-la--la-la. "Okay," she said when she returned, a note of triumph in her voice. "The tech needs the confirmation number given to you when you set up your auto status. Do you know what he's taking about?" It was obvious she didn't.
"Yes, I know what he's talking about." Dregs. "But it never occured to me to keep it. I know that sounds dumb," I said, feeling my shoulders slump in my own defeat, "but they have like a billion numbers or letters in them and . . . I don't ever recall seeing a place where you can handily just e-mail yourself the numbers, and. . . ." Okay, I think, I'm currently lame in body AND mind. I don't even like listening to me right now. Rather than sounding like the savvy business traveler I am, I sound like a whiney punker.
Pause. "Let me talk to him again," she said. "Hold on." Looooong pause. Finally, however, I heard those fatal words. "I'm sorry." And she truly sounded like it--bless her valiant heart. "He said he can't do anything without that number. I told him," she said, now sounding as whiney as myself, "that your outbound has connections and that your return flight is very early morning with that 2-hour pre-flight notification scheduled you mentioned. But he said without that number, he can do nothing."
Nothing. Nothing can be done. I simply had to live with The Little Call That Wouldn't ... STOP! Of course I'll be smart enough to leave my cell phone turned OFF on my defunct return flight day, but still, there will be those messages automatically reminding me, NEENER-NEENER! You didn't get your vacation!
So, traveler beware. Be smarter than this Foolish One. (Although you undoubtedly aleady are.) If you set up those nifty alerts, also set yourself up for the possibility to be able to cancel them. Or, join the ranks of those of us (me) who will be reminded of all the places we're not going--every delay, gate change and status alert of the way.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
The Loooooong Layover
It was the best of times that -- bada-bing, bada-BANG! -- became the worst of times. Yes, it was the whirling dervish of a traveling schedule that instantly slam-dunked me into a two-month, unconquerable layover.
***
On January 3rd, my husband and I made the 300 mile Geezermobile "holiday trip" home from Minnesota. In a few days I would return to MN alone to "hide" and work on the copyedited version of my upcoming novel. Two weeks after that I would return to IL for a local speaking engagement. Not quite two weeks after that, we would both fly to Miami, cruise-ship our way to exotic places in the Eastern Caribbean (first REAL vacation in years), then drive five hours to The Villages to visit friends. I would appear at the local Barnes and Noble for a presentation and book signing. (Okay, mostly vacation.) Then we would drive the five hours back to Miami and fly home, where I would gear up to fly to MI for another speaking engagement, then. . . .
Oh, the places we didn't and won't go. Oh, the long-distance friends we won't see. Oh, the genuine GROUNDING and grumbling of it all!
You see, within five hours of that holiday trip home, everything changed. After unpacking the car, his brother invited us over for a post-holiday visit. While sitting on his brother's couch (SITTING ON HIS COUCH!), something inexplicable and diabolical happened (bada-bing) to my husband's knee. When he went to get up, he couldn't walk. He had to borrow an old set of crutches to help get him to the car.
But, no problem: he'd rest the knee, ice it, heating-pad it and fa-la-la-la-la, he'd be well. The only thing wrong with that plan was that it didn't work and so he continued to gimp.
January 7th, I took The Traveling Trip I Won't Soon Forget, which I initiated when I stepped onto our basement floor--not. As it turns out (bada-...), I stepped into thin air due to the fact there was one more stair, and I broke my leg (...BANG!). (And I thought my last airplane landing was jarring!)
Fast forward two days from my splat: I'm wearing a cast (crutches, "no weight on that complex fracture" AND I've fallen again!) and my husband phones Orthopedic Man since he's still gimping. His news: knee replacement, which is now scheduled for 2/13.
No return to MN. No cruise. (We had balcony cabins!) No book signing. No business trips more than 10 miles away. Lots of anti-inflammatories, doctor appointments (preparing for surgery and broken-leg follow-up) and Tiger Balm. Hey, when you're 61, fluffy and suddenly traveling on crutches, LOTS of things ache!
By hook, crook, hobble, cane or walker, I'm planning on making my 3/15 and 3/17 speaking engagements. But aside from my one local wheelchair podium experience and George's upcoming brief hospital/rehab stays, from 1/3 until 3/15 we were, are and will be grounded. With each other. Mostly on the same floor of our small home. (Could I hear a group groan, please, especially from those of you who are in relationships accustomed to ongoing bouts of apartness?)
I've had plenty of chair time to fantasize about how wonderful my writing time alone (always heaven) would have been, how romantic our vacation flights and cruise (thank goodness I bought travel insurance) would be, how many throngs of people would show up for my book signing--how it would feel to once again go to the bathroom without having to start heading that way 15 minutes before I know I need to go.
I've had plenty of time to forget what it's really like out there on the road much of the time: flight delays, rough seas, sparse appearance turnout. Yes, plenty of time to sit with my leg elevated above my heart (for the first THREE DAYS after the break--and at 61, that is no small acrobatic trick), watch mindless television, absorb the pain on my husband's face when he walks--eat the brownies and fruit and chocolate and fabulous casseroles and food dishes friends have brought to our home, thereby expanding my ever-expanding expanse--plenty of time to long for those traveling inconveniences that feel like the world's biggest drag when I'm road weary and caught up in them.
And so on this dreary day from my recliner in the western suburbs of Chicago, as I longingly stare out the window at the jet streams--leg up, surrounded by every convenience we've been able (okay, not actually WE but everyone else) to drag within my arm's reach--I say to those of you who might be grumbling your way through the airport, or collapsing in your hotel room at the end of a day full of early-morning wake-up calls and exhausting meetings, or gallavanting from one interstate highway to the next: the grass is always greener on the other side of the lounge chair. As exhausted as you might be, I'm stunned to find myself ENVIOUS!
Somewhere between the polarized conditions of running the concourse and being grounded, feeling frazzled and living glazed over, being ambulatory or broken, able to run the Road Warrior Race or only able to daydream about it, is The Truth, which, I've concluded, is that ALL of life is better with a little bit of chocolate and sympathy.
I feel your pain (yes, I can still remember the exhausting frustration of it; I reread all my Traveling Laughs just to refresh myself) and I hope you feel mine.
***
On January 3rd, my husband and I made the 300 mile Geezermobile "holiday trip" home from Minnesota. In a few days I would return to MN alone to "hide" and work on the copyedited version of my upcoming novel. Two weeks after that I would return to IL for a local speaking engagement. Not quite two weeks after that, we would both fly to Miami, cruise-ship our way to exotic places in the Eastern Caribbean (first REAL vacation in years), then drive five hours to The Villages to visit friends. I would appear at the local Barnes and Noble for a presentation and book signing. (Okay, mostly vacation.) Then we would drive the five hours back to Miami and fly home, where I would gear up to fly to MI for another speaking engagement, then. . . .
Oh, the places we didn't and won't go. Oh, the long-distance friends we won't see. Oh, the genuine GROUNDING and grumbling of it all!
You see, within five hours of that holiday trip home, everything changed. After unpacking the car, his brother invited us over for a post-holiday visit. While sitting on his brother's couch (SITTING ON HIS COUCH!), something inexplicable and diabolical happened (bada-bing) to my husband's knee. When he went to get up, he couldn't walk. He had to borrow an old set of crutches to help get him to the car.
But, no problem: he'd rest the knee, ice it, heating-pad it and fa-la-la-la-la, he'd be well. The only thing wrong with that plan was that it didn't work and so he continued to gimp.
January 7th, I took The Traveling Trip I Won't Soon Forget, which I initiated when I stepped onto our basement floor--not. As it turns out (bada-...), I stepped into thin air due to the fact there was one more stair, and I broke my leg (...BANG!). (And I thought my last airplane landing was jarring!)
Fast forward two days from my splat: I'm wearing a cast (crutches, "no weight on that complex fracture" AND I've fallen again!) and my husband phones Orthopedic Man since he's still gimping. His news: knee replacement, which is now scheduled for 2/13.
No return to MN. No cruise. (We had balcony cabins!) No book signing. No business trips more than 10 miles away. Lots of anti-inflammatories, doctor appointments (preparing for surgery and broken-leg follow-up) and Tiger Balm. Hey, when you're 61, fluffy and suddenly traveling on crutches, LOTS of things ache!
By hook, crook, hobble, cane or walker, I'm planning on making my 3/15 and 3/17 speaking engagements. But aside from my one local wheelchair podium experience and George's upcoming brief hospital/rehab stays, from 1/3 until 3/15 we were, are and will be grounded. With each other. Mostly on the same floor of our small home. (Could I hear a group groan, please, especially from those of you who are in relationships accustomed to ongoing bouts of apartness?)
I've had plenty of chair time to fantasize about how wonderful my writing time alone (always heaven) would have been, how romantic our vacation flights and cruise (thank goodness I bought travel insurance) would be, how many throngs of people would show up for my book signing--how it would feel to once again go to the bathroom without having to start heading that way 15 minutes before I know I need to go.
I've had plenty of time to forget what it's really like out there on the road much of the time: flight delays, rough seas, sparse appearance turnout. Yes, plenty of time to sit with my leg elevated above my heart (for the first THREE DAYS after the break--and at 61, that is no small acrobatic trick), watch mindless television, absorb the pain on my husband's face when he walks--eat the brownies and fruit and chocolate and fabulous casseroles and food dishes friends have brought to our home, thereby expanding my ever-expanding expanse--plenty of time to long for those traveling inconveniences that feel like the world's biggest drag when I'm road weary and caught up in them.
And so on this dreary day from my recliner in the western suburbs of Chicago, as I longingly stare out the window at the jet streams--leg up, surrounded by every convenience we've been able (okay, not actually WE but everyone else) to drag within my arm's reach--I say to those of you who might be grumbling your way through the airport, or collapsing in your hotel room at the end of a day full of early-morning wake-up calls and exhausting meetings, or gallavanting from one interstate highway to the next: the grass is always greener on the other side of the lounge chair. As exhausted as you might be, I'm stunned to find myself ENVIOUS!
Somewhere between the polarized conditions of running the concourse and being grounded, feeling frazzled and living glazed over, being ambulatory or broken, able to run the Road Warrior Race or only able to daydream about it, is The Truth, which, I've concluded, is that ALL of life is better with a little bit of chocolate and sympathy.
I feel your pain (yes, I can still remember the exhausting frustration of it; I reread all my Traveling Laughs just to refresh myself) and I hope you feel mine.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Traveling Along with Forrest Gump
Third day of 2007. Near the Wisconsin Dells. On the road for 2.5 hours. Half-way home. I am the sole passenger in my husband’s '01 Buick LeSabre which is traveling along at a steady 72 mph.
“Old is as old does,” I suddenly hear Forrest Gump say, referring to senior citizens and leisure travel. On a good day, I would refute his statement. “Speak for yourself, Forrest.” But on this medium day, with the sun warming the right side of my face as it streams through the tinted windows, I’ll simply take half an issue with Forrest’s travel interruptus since I am, after all, really assessing myself right now, and I’m kinda tired. (Still recuperating from staying awake on the couch till 11:25 PM New Year’s Eve, plus I got that whole warm sun thing going.) I’ll therefore only briefly tackle my debate with Forrest before I nod off or my laptop runs out of battery. And like I said, it is only the third day of a New Year. We all have things to do, people to meet, places to travel—which brings me back to the Geezermobile.
You’re reading the words of someone who, as a senior in high school, owned a 1957 powder blue and white, two-door, Chevy hard-top. Even the kids in my 1963 graduating class at Wheaton High School (“Orange-and-black, fight, fight! Gooooooo, TIGERS!”) recognized the supreme worthiness of that way cool piece of machinery. After all these years, my heart still skips a beat at the mere memory of it. (Or did I forget to take my blood pressure medicine—again?) So as I sit here this first week of the new year in a geezer beige LeSabre (okay, "dark Bronzemist, metallic" beige—big whoop—but the man used to own a Buick WILDCAT!) while reflecting on years past and contemplating the ever decreasing years left before me, I know for a fact that I did not “travel along” in that ’57 Chevy. I cruised, preened and bombed around in it. Head thrown back and windows wide open, I put my foot in it, vroom-vroomed, hammered down, did a quarter-mile with style. I barreled along, squealed to a stop, and like a cougar on the low prowl, I sleekly slid into a stall at the A&W, goosed it a couple times then just sat there to be one with (and to be seen in) that beauty. But nay, nary once did I ever simply “travel along.”
You’re reading the words of someone who recognizes the sound of a Harley, who sports a tattoo (although I think it used to be a half-inch higher on my ankle before my skin got all loose), who used to be able to eat spicy food without taking reflux medication and who loved diving down that first hill on wooden roller coasters—back before my neck started going out. And why does my neck go out? Because years ago the vehicle I was in (somewhere on the cool-o-meter between a '57 Chevy and the Geezermobile), which was sitting at a complete stop, was rear ended by a speeding car—twice, six years apart. (Thank goodness that didn’t happen while I was in my ’57 Chevy. At least it had the decency to simply blow its own engine!)
But you’re also reading the words of someone whose need for speed has morphed into a fine appreciation for the glide ride and decent miles per gallon. Someone whose back says thank you to the lower lumbar adjustment and whose mode of transportation gets more use out of cruise control than the tachometer (which I forget I have) in my mid-size SUV, which is at least painted a mysterious black rather than geezer beige, and which sports a sun roof and six-changer CD.
Shut up, Forrest.
But Forrest, before I nod off I will give you this much about “Old is as old does.” Traveling along in a Geezermobile—especially with a lovable geezer who is only slightly older than my Geezerette self—isn’t all that bad. Why, we wild things might even stop at a Cracker Barrel before today’s journey is over just to prove we still can.
Seriously, Forrest, shut up. I’m taking a nap now before my bladder reminds me that it’s time for a pit stop involving no V-8 engines, no checker flags and no victory laps. You’ve made your point. Now run, Forrest, run. Far away from my leisurely, senior citizen’s traveling-along brain.
DISCLAIMER: To all who own a Buick LeSabre, nothing personal. It is a good car. It gets good gas mileage. It has swell pickup. It offers a nice ride. It's been Very Dependable. You've made a good choice. It is not a '57 Chevy and I am not a young babe. Amen.
“Old is as old does,” I suddenly hear Forrest Gump say, referring to senior citizens and leisure travel. On a good day, I would refute his statement. “Speak for yourself, Forrest.” But on this medium day, with the sun warming the right side of my face as it streams through the tinted windows, I’ll simply take half an issue with Forrest’s travel interruptus since I am, after all, really assessing myself right now, and I’m kinda tired. (Still recuperating from staying awake on the couch till 11:25 PM New Year’s Eve, plus I got that whole warm sun thing going.) I’ll therefore only briefly tackle my debate with Forrest before I nod off or my laptop runs out of battery. And like I said, it is only the third day of a New Year. We all have things to do, people to meet, places to travel—which brings me back to the Geezermobile.
You’re reading the words of someone who, as a senior in high school, owned a 1957 powder blue and white, two-door, Chevy hard-top. Even the kids in my 1963 graduating class at Wheaton High School (“Orange-and-black, fight, fight! Gooooooo, TIGERS!”) recognized the supreme worthiness of that way cool piece of machinery. After all these years, my heart still skips a beat at the mere memory of it. (Or did I forget to take my blood pressure medicine—again?) So as I sit here this first week of the new year in a geezer beige LeSabre (okay, "dark Bronzemist, metallic" beige—big whoop—but the man used to own a Buick WILDCAT!) while reflecting on years past and contemplating the ever decreasing years left before me, I know for a fact that I did not “travel along” in that ’57 Chevy. I cruised, preened and bombed around in it. Head thrown back and windows wide open, I put my foot in it, vroom-vroomed, hammered down, did a quarter-mile with style. I barreled along, squealed to a stop, and like a cougar on the low prowl, I sleekly slid into a stall at the A&W, goosed it a couple times then just sat there to be one with (and to be seen in) that beauty. But nay, nary once did I ever simply “travel along.”
You’re reading the words of someone who recognizes the sound of a Harley, who sports a tattoo (although I think it used to be a half-inch higher on my ankle before my skin got all loose), who used to be able to eat spicy food without taking reflux medication and who loved diving down that first hill on wooden roller coasters—back before my neck started going out. And why does my neck go out? Because years ago the vehicle I was in (somewhere on the cool-o-meter between a '57 Chevy and the Geezermobile), which was sitting at a complete stop, was rear ended by a speeding car—twice, six years apart. (Thank goodness that didn’t happen while I was in my ’57 Chevy. At least it had the decency to simply blow its own engine!)
But you’re also reading the words of someone whose need for speed has morphed into a fine appreciation for the glide ride and decent miles per gallon. Someone whose back says thank you to the lower lumbar adjustment and whose mode of transportation gets more use out of cruise control than the tachometer (which I forget I have) in my mid-size SUV, which is at least painted a mysterious black rather than geezer beige, and which sports a sun roof and six-changer CD.
Shut up, Forrest.
But Forrest, before I nod off I will give you this much about “Old is as old does.” Traveling along in a Geezermobile—especially with a lovable geezer who is only slightly older than my Geezerette self—isn’t all that bad. Why, we wild things might even stop at a Cracker Barrel before today’s journey is over just to prove we still can.
Seriously, Forrest, shut up. I’m taking a nap now before my bladder reminds me that it’s time for a pit stop involving no V-8 engines, no checker flags and no victory laps. You’ve made your point. Now run, Forrest, run. Far away from my leisurely, senior citizen’s traveling-along brain.
DISCLAIMER: To all who own a Buick LeSabre, nothing personal. It is a good car. It gets good gas mileage. It has swell pickup. It offers a nice ride. It's been Very Dependable. You've made a good choice. It is not a '57 Chevy and I am not a young babe. Amen.
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