After waking at what felt like the butt-crack of dawn after days of sleeping in until as late as 10:30, Mom delivered me to the TF Green Airport in Providence, Rhode Island. We weren’t sure what traffic would be like around Worcester on a workday morning, and for some reason, I thought my flight was at 10:20, but it was really at 10:50. The traffic getting there was tolerable even with road construction and the heaviest volume seemed to be headed in the opposite direction. Consequently, there were a couple hours with which to entertain myself before my flight.
Baggage check-in was quick for me, but not for the woman two kiosks away. I don't know what the specifics of the situation were, but her suitcase was partially open on the scale, exploding jackets like one of those trick cans of nuts with the snakes in it. There was a puffy black quilted down coat hanging out and she was trying to jam a black glossy fur (or maybe fake fur) into it, and clothes were hanging out the sides onto the scale. She was waving a hot/cold thermal bag and asking the attendant "Will they check EVERY SINGLE item in here?" I am not sure if she was genuinely dense, had never flown before, or if it was some kind of an act. Maybe it was an airline "secret shopper" test for customer service. She had been there at the kiosk for the entire time I was in line, with eight or nine people checking in between us.
The clerk at my check-in kiosk rolled her eyes (ever so slightly, in the most polite manner) as she handed me my gate number and luggage claim ticket. When our eyes met, I said, "And for this morning's entertainment ..." She said, "Yeah, no kidding." She smiled, looking relieved the drama was not her station, and then I was off to the nearly empty security queue. In virtually no time, I was through the procedures and on the other side. No body scan. No groping. Just the regular level of disrobing (jacket, scarf, shoes) and a quick walk through the funhouse doorway or portal to hell or whatever it is, depending upon the day.
The airport shops featured the usual array of overpriced college (Brown University) and professional sports team branded tee shirts, sweatpants, hoodies and ball caps, but as much as I liked some of them, I could not justify $24.99 for a ball cap. My analysis for expenditures is simple – "How many hours do I have to work to pay for Item X?" I didn't like the answer for the $24.99 ball cap. Ditto for the $19.99 tee shirt. I barely spend that much on groceries in any given week, or on clothing items for work, where I occupy most of my quality awake time. Blame growing up hearing "We can't afford it." Blame the Frugal Finn gene bestowed upon me at birth. Blame the wage differential that has me earning my 1999 New England income in 2010 Tennessee. Blame whatever you want. I am not paying that kind of money for a ball cap unless one of the New England Patriots or Boston Red Sox are handing it to me in person and taking me to dinner afterward. And it better not be some third string player or bench warmer, either. I want a personal encounter with the A Team for that kind of money.
I did get a couple books for 50% off at the Read and Return cart – there is no problem justifying two books for $21. There was only a slight twinge when I stopped for a bottle of (overpriced) water on the way to my gate. The twinge had less to do with the cost of the water and more with the sales transaction.
The woman at the kiosk greeted me with “Good morning princess! You are my first customer today!” Well, good morning to you, too. There was an accent, but I couldn’t tell from what region of the planet. “Is that all for you sweetheart? Thank you very much honey! Here is your change darling.” She was trotting out every candy covered term of endearment possible, and I wondered what chapter of the ESL book these were from. “Have a great day, lovely.” Wow. That was a heavy dose of sweetener for so early in the morning. I’ve had long term relationships that didn’t use that many pet names throughout their entire run, never mind in one 30-second exchange. I wondered if that was the daily ‘first customer’ treatment, and considered hanging around a bit to see if she talked to the second customer like that, or if I was really the special, lovely, honey princess she had just built me up to be in my head. But then I figured why push it. Why spoil the fantasy? Why not bask in a glow of specialness for just a few minutes? Thank you water lady!
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Home School
I am not a teacher. Some of my friends are, and others are in school to earn their certification and licensing to teach. The closest I have come to teaching was at the ballet studio I danced with in high school, where I taught three-year-olds how to skip and do plies, elementray school girls how to do more advanced movements, and suffered harrassment and heckling from my sister and her friends while leading their class. Until that time, teaching was high on the list as a possible career, but teaching dance classes effectively eradicated that notion. Forever. The idea of dealing with students gave me chills for years and resulted in the choice of business and marketing for a college degree.
While working as a writer in Worcester, my bosses instituted a new form of personal workplace torture when they assigned me the task of training new writers in our writing templates and protocol. I was convinced their confidence in me was completely misdirected, and relieved we had very low turnover and few new hires. There was never negative feedback, physical violence or psychological scarring resulting from my tutelage, (of which I am aware), so I guess it went okay.
Occasionally, my friends exhibit blatant signs of insanity and suggest I become a teacher. They'll casually say something outrageous like "You have a Master's degree, you should teach business or marketing." On the inside, my laughter is bubbling up as if some comedian is on stage, but all effort and energy is directed to maintaining composure and saying something benign and intelligent like "Oh, really? You think so? Huh. Hmmmm." This is followed by serious questions like "What are you, nuts?" "Have you suffered a recent head injury?" "When did you start doing stand-up comedy?"
My visit home continued into a school week, and my bold sister let the girls stay home from school on Monday so they could spend more time with me. While flattering, this development struck terror in the schoolgirl who still lives in me. The one who always yearned for perfect attendance, but was thwarted by recurring bouts of strep throat. The guilt over my niece's school skipping is equivalent to that one time in junior high when I skipped school with a classmate and we walked around West Fitchburg all day in the rain, dumb enough to think the swimming party at McTaggart's Pond was still happening. The rest of the party skipped school too, but they were all smart enough to stay in bed.
My aversion to teaching made my choice of activity with the nieces on the day officially marked "Hooky" on the family calendar more of a surprise. I decided we would play "Home School." There were no tears or protests over this plan, so it seemed acceptable. We started our day with Cooking /Life Skills class, where the oldest niece made pancakes with the youngest, and the middle niece and I set the table with plates garnished with Clementines, syrup and hot cocoa. The second half of Life Skills was cleaning up after breakfast, before we moved on to the next module -- writing (blogs). We spent an hour writing, the youngest (age 6) crafting her tale about her loose tooth, the middle (8) telling the story of our Thanksgiving dinner, the oldest (11) relating her version of our roller skating adventures. As for mine, well, y'all are looking at it.
There was a formal lesson plan for Home School Day, developed by the middle niece and me. After blog writing, it's Physical Education (crunches and pushups), Math (focusing on Christmas budgets!), lunch, and ice skating (more Physical Education). I have visions of being accosted by a truant officer when we arrive at the ice rink at 1:30 in the afternoon on a school day, but I am armed with a story -- this is Home Schooling! As long as they don't ask for a license or something official from the fine Commonwealth. Maybe I'll just carry the day's lesson plan (lettered in pencil on notebook paper) with me.
While working as a writer in Worcester, my bosses instituted a new form of personal workplace torture when they assigned me the task of training new writers in our writing templates and protocol. I was convinced their confidence in me was completely misdirected, and relieved we had very low turnover and few new hires. There was never negative feedback, physical violence or psychological scarring resulting from my tutelage, (of which I am aware), so I guess it went okay.
Occasionally, my friends exhibit blatant signs of insanity and suggest I become a teacher. They'll casually say something outrageous like "You have a Master's degree, you should teach business or marketing." On the inside, my laughter is bubbling up as if some comedian is on stage, but all effort and energy is directed to maintaining composure and saying something benign and intelligent like "Oh, really? You think so? Huh. Hmmmm." This is followed by serious questions like "What are you, nuts?" "Have you suffered a recent head injury?" "When did you start doing stand-up comedy?"
My visit home continued into a school week, and my bold sister let the girls stay home from school on Monday so they could spend more time with me. While flattering, this development struck terror in the schoolgirl who still lives in me. The one who always yearned for perfect attendance, but was thwarted by recurring bouts of strep throat. The guilt over my niece's school skipping is equivalent to that one time in junior high when I skipped school with a classmate and we walked around West Fitchburg all day in the rain, dumb enough to think the swimming party at McTaggart's Pond was still happening. The rest of the party skipped school too, but they were all smart enough to stay in bed.
My aversion to teaching made my choice of activity with the nieces on the day officially marked "Hooky" on the family calendar more of a surprise. I decided we would play "Home School." There were no tears or protests over this plan, so it seemed acceptable. We started our day with Cooking /Life Skills class, where the oldest niece made pancakes with the youngest, and the middle niece and I set the table with plates garnished with Clementines, syrup and hot cocoa. The second half of Life Skills was cleaning up after breakfast, before we moved on to the next module -- writing (blogs). We spent an hour writing, the youngest (age 6) crafting her tale about her loose tooth, the middle (8) telling the story of our Thanksgiving dinner, the oldest (11) relating her version of our roller skating adventures. As for mine, well, y'all are looking at it.
There was a formal lesson plan for Home School Day, developed by the middle niece and me. After blog writing, it's Physical Education (crunches and pushups), Math (focusing on Christmas budgets!), lunch, and ice skating (more Physical Education). I have visions of being accosted by a truant officer when we arrive at the ice rink at 1:30 in the afternoon on a school day, but I am armed with a story -- this is Home Schooling! As long as they don't ask for a license or something official from the fine Commonwealth. Maybe I'll just carry the day's lesson plan (lettered in pencil on notebook paper) with me.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Church Guest
Traveling home for Thanksgiving means a break from the norm and spending time with family. This is a mixed blessing. The part where work is barely a thought is a relief. Hanging with the family is fun. Monday morning when I don't have to get up for work will be amazing. The parts where I miss fun things like Sunday afternoon skate church at Magic Wheels and Monday night practice are slightly less great. But not impossible.
Luckily, my hometown has a skating rink nearby, and even luckier, my sister and nieces were willing to spend two afternoons there during my stay. They were seeing it to that packing my skates was worth the effort. My peeps have my back.
The oldest niece (11) wanted to skate when I was home in the summer, but we never scheduled time for it, and the next thing we knew I was headed back to Tennessee. That's kind of how vacation time works -- if it isn't nailed down as a plan before I board the plane north, the chance of it happening is reduced. Greatly. Much like work, fun expands to fill the time available. Just like the little sponge "magic" farm animals and dinosaurs that grow when water is added.
On Black Friday there was a five-hour open skate at Roll On America, with half-price admission for bringing in a wishbone. We hadn't even indulged in our dining table crushing family feast yet, but my sister, the clever Martha Stewart of the family, has an inventory of wish bones she saves to tie onto birthday gifts for a "birthday wish," so we were covered. All of us. The rink was also having a coat drive, so we received free passes for another visit in exchange for coats the girls had outgrown.
We skated a few hours on Friday on the smooth, shiny, yellow and blue floor where the derby track was marked out with smallpieces of black tape. Friday there was a girl there skating in knee and elbow pads who seemed to be a derby girl. I wanted to talk to her, but we seemed to be on opposite timelines for being on the floor -- when I was off the rink she was on it, and then she was gone altogether. I guess I should have chased her down on the floor, but that felt stalker-esque. The price of procrastination. I pay it often.
Sunday afternoon at the rink, there were several derby girls clustered in a corner near the entrance to the Laser Tag room. A couple of my wheels were getting a bit loose, so I headed for their ranks, figuring if anyone in the place had a tool (beside the rentals dude), one of them would, and maybe I'd make a couple new acquaintances. Liz loaned me her tool and was the only one there who even acknowledged my presence in their cluster. It was a sharp contrast to the welcoming attitude of the Red River Sirens, who always seem to be on the lookout for anyone who looks remotely like a derby sister or is a decent skater. And then we talk with them. I guess there is something real to Southern Hospitality after all.
Liz told me they had their skills test coming up this week and she was getting nervous. I meant to wish her luck on the way out, but I couldn't find her. There I go again with the infamous procrastination and lost opportunity cost.
We skated. And it was good. The floor was smooth. The music was decent. The games requiring the clearing of the floor were minimal. Kids were everywhere, but it wasn't too bad. Maybe I was just enthralled by the shiny patina of the floor. The youngest of the nieces was on skates for her second time -- the first being Friday. She was a persistent little trooper and never gave up. She'd skate a lap and come off the floor to have us guess how many times she'd fallen. The middle niece skated in the driveway over the summer, had developed her skating legs and did a great job. She skated for hours and never fell. The oldest one plays ice hockey and was a whiz on her inlines. My friend and her daughter came and were great skaters, too. The young'un knew how to handle inlines, and even tried the quads. Heck, I could send over a whole roster for a junior league if there was one.
We skated until we were done skating and then we headed out. Unlike church church where you have to fill out a guest card, skate church is a low profile, no follow-up gig.
Luckily, my hometown has a skating rink nearby, and even luckier, my sister and nieces were willing to spend two afternoons there during my stay. They were seeing it to that packing my skates was worth the effort. My peeps have my back.
The oldest niece (11) wanted to skate when I was home in the summer, but we never scheduled time for it, and the next thing we knew I was headed back to Tennessee. That's kind of how vacation time works -- if it isn't nailed down as a plan before I board the plane north, the chance of it happening is reduced. Greatly. Much like work, fun expands to fill the time available. Just like the little sponge "magic" farm animals and dinosaurs that grow when water is added.
On Black Friday there was a five-hour open skate at Roll On America, with half-price admission for bringing in a wishbone. We hadn't even indulged in our dining table crushing family feast yet, but my sister, the clever Martha Stewart of the family, has an inventory of wish bones she saves to tie onto birthday gifts for a "birthday wish," so we were covered. All of us. The rink was also having a coat drive, so we received free passes for another visit in exchange for coats the girls had outgrown.
We skated a few hours on Friday on the smooth, shiny, yellow and blue floor where the derby track was marked out with smallpieces of black tape. Friday there was a girl there skating in knee and elbow pads who seemed to be a derby girl. I wanted to talk to her, but we seemed to be on opposite timelines for being on the floor -- when I was off the rink she was on it, and then she was gone altogether. I guess I should have chased her down on the floor, but that felt stalker-esque. The price of procrastination. I pay it often.
Sunday afternoon at the rink, there were several derby girls clustered in a corner near the entrance to the Laser Tag room. A couple of my wheels were getting a bit loose, so I headed for their ranks, figuring if anyone in the place had a tool (beside the rentals dude), one of them would, and maybe I'd make a couple new acquaintances. Liz loaned me her tool and was the only one there who even acknowledged my presence in their cluster. It was a sharp contrast to the welcoming attitude of the Red River Sirens, who always seem to be on the lookout for anyone who looks remotely like a derby sister or is a decent skater. And then we talk with them. I guess there is something real to Southern Hospitality after all.
Liz told me they had their skills test coming up this week and she was getting nervous. I meant to wish her luck on the way out, but I couldn't find her. There I go again with the infamous procrastination and lost opportunity cost.
We skated. And it was good. The floor was smooth. The music was decent. The games requiring the clearing of the floor were minimal. Kids were everywhere, but it wasn't too bad. Maybe I was just enthralled by the shiny patina of the floor. The youngest of the nieces was on skates for her second time -- the first being Friday. She was a persistent little trooper and never gave up. She'd skate a lap and come off the floor to have us guess how many times she'd fallen. The middle niece skated in the driveway over the summer, had developed her skating legs and did a great job. She skated for hours and never fell. The oldest one plays ice hockey and was a whiz on her inlines. My friend and her daughter came and were great skaters, too. The young'un knew how to handle inlines, and even tried the quads. Heck, I could send over a whole roster for a junior league if there was one.
We skated until we were done skating and then we headed out. Unlike church church where you have to fill out a guest card, skate church is a low profile, no follow-up gig.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Game Night
Trips home to Massachusetts always mean family fun. There is time spent running around with the nieces -- literally -- we play chase in the house and do things they would get into trouble for if I wasn't the one 'supervising.' There is a lot of talking and laughing, pajama parties, and board games. My mom, sister, oldest niece and I (in total and in various combinations), engage in Scrabble matches. Sometimes we huddle around the dining table to make a jigsaw puzzle.
After this year's family feast for Thanksgiving, held on Saturday for scheduling ease, we convened at the dining room table for a game of Scrabble. My niece set the board up, and while waiting for Mom and Sis, we got silly with my cell phone's camera and practiced our "game faces." After one match, we decided to play a different game. The niece suggested Yahtzee, but I asked for a game that "required thinking." Monopoly was vetoed because it takes too long. The game that was finally pulled from the closet was Word Yahtzee -- a game with dice marked with letters and certain combinations that must be made -- like three letter word, six letter word, all vowels. I thought it would be fun because I love word games.
Oddly, the game chosen in place of Monopoly (which would take too long) took about as long as the most drawn out game imagineable from the folks at Parker Brothers. Our Word Yahtzee marathon took forever -- for one game. After 45 minutes, we were barely a fourth of the way into the score sheet and understood why the brand-new looking game cost a mere 50 cents in a yard sale. At the one hour mark, we were plotting its demise as a donation to the next church flea market. We are not quitters, however, so we played to the end.
As un-fun as the actual game was, we laughed the whole time we played. We made fun of the rules. We mocked my choice in game. We laughed at our leftover pizza. We forgot to take the leftover dinner salad in from the back porch and it risked freezing, so when Butch got home and wanted dinner, we laughed over having eaten his pizza and frozen his salad. That turned into one of those silly times where the three so-called adults were laughing to the point of tears, and the 11-year old was looking at us like we were totally nuts. Which, of course, made us laugh even more. The child may be scarred for life.
These are moments for which I am thankful. These are the family moments I miss by living 1,200 miles away. But it is the rarity of them that makes them even more special for me.
After this year's family feast for Thanksgiving, held on Saturday for scheduling ease, we convened at the dining room table for a game of Scrabble. My niece set the board up, and while waiting for Mom and Sis, we got silly with my cell phone's camera and practiced our "game faces." After one match, we decided to play a different game. The niece suggested Yahtzee, but I asked for a game that "required thinking." Monopoly was vetoed because it takes too long. The game that was finally pulled from the closet was Word Yahtzee -- a game with dice marked with letters and certain combinations that must be made -- like three letter word, six letter word, all vowels. I thought it would be fun because I love word games.
Oddly, the game chosen in place of Monopoly (which would take too long) took about as long as the most drawn out game imagineable from the folks at Parker Brothers. Our Word Yahtzee marathon took forever -- for one game. After 45 minutes, we were barely a fourth of the way into the score sheet and understood why the brand-new looking game cost a mere 50 cents in a yard sale. At the one hour mark, we were plotting its demise as a donation to the next church flea market. We are not quitters, however, so we played to the end.
As un-fun as the actual game was, we laughed the whole time we played. We made fun of the rules. We mocked my choice in game. We laughed at our leftover pizza. We forgot to take the leftover dinner salad in from the back porch and it risked freezing, so when Butch got home and wanted dinner, we laughed over having eaten his pizza and frozen his salad. That turned into one of those silly times where the three so-called adults were laughing to the point of tears, and the 11-year old was looking at us like we were totally nuts. Which, of course, made us laugh even more. The child may be scarred for life.
These are moments for which I am thankful. These are the family moments I miss by living 1,200 miles away. But it is the rarity of them that makes them even more special for me.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Black Friday
My family are not Black Friday shoppers, and for this, I am thankful. If they had harbored any fantasies about my getting up at 3 am to go shopping they would have been in for a very hard sales pitch, crushed by my emphatic "No!" along with some foot stomping and, if necessary, tears. My sister's lifelong hatred for shopping, an activity in which I used to engage with fervor, about a million years ago, is now lovingly shared by me. She still has it, so we were all safe.
Instead of staying up all night camping out in a line for the privilige of spending money, my neices and I went to bed at 10:30, all in one room like a big pajama party. And in a glorious stretch of the best sleep I've had in months, I slept until 9:30, well into (or past) the hours of any early bird specials. At 10 we had a hearty breakfast of sausage gravy and biscuits, followed by a card game, and by noon, still in pajamas, were turning our thoughts to what to do for the rest of the day. Options included shopping at antique stores and roller skating. And the winner is ...
Coming up after the break ... the winner of "What shall we do today?"
Instead of staying up all night camping out in a line for the privilige of spending money, my neices and I went to bed at 10:30, all in one room like a big pajama party. And in a glorious stretch of the best sleep I've had in months, I slept until 9:30, well into (or past) the hours of any early bird specials. At 10 we had a hearty breakfast of sausage gravy and biscuits, followed by a card game, and by noon, still in pajamas, were turning our thoughts to what to do for the rest of the day. Options included shopping at antique stores and roller skating. And the winner is ...
Coming up after the break ... the winner of "What shall we do today?"
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Holiday Travel
Work has been so busy the past several weeks, I never even had time to get excited about going home for Thanksgiving. The expense of airfare, plus work deadlines, directed my travel to happen on the holiday, which was almost a relief. The thought of flying on the day before Thanksgiving, the busiest travel day of the year, plus having to pay twice as much to do so, was harrowing.I wish I could afford convenience, but my wallet mandates inconvenience.
The ride down I-24 was a breeze with light traffic and a friend behind the wheel. The easy ride was preceded, however, by a spastic tear through the house in search of my cell phone a full 20 minutes after the planned departure time. In a frustrating, panic-stricken search, things were wrenched out of my purse, some of which never made it back in. Like my reading glasses. And my sunglasses. The cell was finally found after a frantic request to my friend to "call my cell!" It could be heard ringing (faintly) from the suitcase in the back of the car, accidentally packed in toiletries bag when the charging cable was added to the mix. I fighting tears and the raccoon eyes that would have accompanied them for a solid five minutes by this time.
I did a really poor job of packing for this trip. I left the "real" camera (i.e. heavy Nikon with changeable lenses) behind with the failure to invest the time exploring my several carry on bags and then packing one of them. Instead, I took my purse, which carries my netbook, and has my crappy Kodak Easy Shot camera from the pawn shop tucked into the pocket in which a calculator was nestled at purchase. And on Southwest, I would have been able to take my wheeled camera bag AND my purse, a fact I tortured myself with the whole journey. Note to self: Remove head from butt before packing.
The airport was blissfully quiet. The flightto Baltimore was less so, with an infant screaming in the row in front of me. My ears were uncomfotable in spite of chewing gum like a cow with cud, so I could sympathize with the wee baby. Spent most of the flight chatting with the lady in the seat next to mine, who halfway through the flight, apologized for sitting there, saying that if she and her husband weren't there, maybe my Mr. Right could have sat there. No big deal, my Mr. Right was probably on a flight to Los Angeles or Bangladesh anyway.
Baltimore featured nearly three hours in which to entertainmyself before the flight to Providence. Three long hours in which to curse Southwest and its recent elimination of nonstop flights to Manchester and Providence. Three hours in which to forage for some semblance of thanksgiving lunch. Three hours to pace in my new boots in search of a manicure salon, massage spa or gel insoles.
Having neglected to eat breakfast, lunch was definitely in order. The Food Court featured Arby's, a pizza place, Charlie Chiang's, Quizno's, and a couple other spots. Charlir Chiang's advertised a rice/noodle bowl for $5.50, which the serving lady informed me, in broken English, was $10. Really? Quizno's menu board offered cheesesteak, but when I ordered it, was informed there was no steak, so it was back to the chinese place for a sushi box. They had no chopsticks, but the wasabi was beautifully strong and brought tears to my eyes as it cleared my sinuses.
Post sushi sans chopsticks,it was off to the gate to wait and the Detroit / New England game. The Pats were behind, then the score was tied when I headed to the boarding line. By the time we got on the plane, they were ahead 31 to 24. I was going to be a long and agonizing wait for those who wereinstructed to powere off electronic devices. The flight was 1 hour 15 minutes and there was only 13 minutes left in the game when we took off. In NFL time, maybe we'd end up even.
There didn't seem to be anyone interesting on this flight. Some beautiful Asian women, a couple dark-skinned adults who were speaking a language other than English and seemed to be on their first airplane flight. I guess when I say there were no interesting people aboard, what I mean is there were no attractive or interesting men. And that is what matters. To qualify a bit further -- there were no attractive, interesting men who wanted to interact with me. Just another day.
The ride down I-24 was a breeze with light traffic and a friend behind the wheel. The easy ride was preceded, however, by a spastic tear through the house in search of my cell phone a full 20 minutes after the planned departure time. In a frustrating, panic-stricken search, things were wrenched out of my purse, some of which never made it back in. Like my reading glasses. And my sunglasses. The cell was finally found after a frantic request to my friend to "call my cell!" It could be heard ringing (faintly) from the suitcase in the back of the car, accidentally packed in toiletries bag when the charging cable was added to the mix. I fighting tears and the raccoon eyes that would have accompanied them for a solid five minutes by this time.
I did a really poor job of packing for this trip. I left the "real" camera (i.e. heavy Nikon with changeable lenses) behind with the failure to invest the time exploring my several carry on bags and then packing one of them. Instead, I took my purse, which carries my netbook, and has my crappy Kodak Easy Shot camera from the pawn shop tucked into the pocket in which a calculator was nestled at purchase. And on Southwest, I would have been able to take my wheeled camera bag AND my purse, a fact I tortured myself with the whole journey. Note to self: Remove head from butt before packing.
The airport was blissfully quiet. The flightto Baltimore was less so, with an infant screaming in the row in front of me. My ears were uncomfotable in spite of chewing gum like a cow with cud, so I could sympathize with the wee baby. Spent most of the flight chatting with the lady in the seat next to mine, who halfway through the flight, apologized for sitting there, saying that if she and her husband weren't there, maybe my Mr. Right could have sat there. No big deal, my Mr. Right was probably on a flight to Los Angeles or Bangladesh anyway.
Baltimore featured nearly three hours in which to entertainmyself before the flight to Providence. Three long hours in which to curse Southwest and its recent elimination of nonstop flights to Manchester and Providence. Three hours in which to forage for some semblance of thanksgiving lunch. Three hours to pace in my new boots in search of a manicure salon, massage spa or gel insoles.
Having neglected to eat breakfast, lunch was definitely in order. The Food Court featured Arby's, a pizza place, Charlie Chiang's, Quizno's, and a couple other spots. Charlir Chiang's advertised a rice/noodle bowl for $5.50, which the serving lady informed me, in broken English, was $10. Really? Quizno's menu board offered cheesesteak, but when I ordered it, was informed there was no steak, so it was back to the chinese place for a sushi box. They had no chopsticks, but the wasabi was beautifully strong and brought tears to my eyes as it cleared my sinuses.
Post sushi sans chopsticks,it was off to the gate to wait and the Detroit / New England game. The Pats were behind, then the score was tied when I headed to the boarding line. By the time we got on the plane, they were ahead 31 to 24. I was going to be a long and agonizing wait for those who wereinstructed to powere off electronic devices. The flight was 1 hour 15 minutes and there was only 13 minutes left in the game when we took off. In NFL time, maybe we'd end up even.
There didn't seem to be anyone interesting on this flight. Some beautiful Asian women, a couple dark-skinned adults who were speaking a language other than English and seemed to be on their first airplane flight. I guess when I say there were no interesting people aboard, what I mean is there were no attractive or interesting men. And that is what matters. To qualify a bit further -- there were no attractive, interesting men who wanted to interact with me. Just another day.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Expandable Packing
Working expands to fill the time alotted. This includes packing.
I had two hours to pack for a five day trip, and that's how long it took. Had there been three hours available .... well, you know where I'm going with that.
Now, I will spend the rest of my awake time mentally reviewing the contents of the suitcase. And chances are pretty good the editing will take an active form before bed and again before leaving for the airport. For instance,I have already rethought the footwear choices, which negates the need fo an entire outfit. The one at the bottom of the pile ...
Generally I travel with my too large suitcase, but this time I have a borrowed suitcase of just the right size. I might avoid the hernia tag that I am nearly always bestowed, but the addition of my roller skates to the bag might have pushed me back into the heavy zone. I'll know soon enough.
I had two hours to pack for a five day trip, and that's how long it took. Had there been three hours available .... well, you know where I'm going with that.
Now, I will spend the rest of my awake time mentally reviewing the contents of the suitcase. And chances are pretty good the editing will take an active form before bed and again before leaving for the airport. For instance,I have already rethought the footwear choices, which negates the need fo an entire outfit. The one at the bottom of the pile ...
Generally I travel with my too large suitcase, but this time I have a borrowed suitcase of just the right size. I might avoid the hernia tag that I am nearly always bestowed, but the addition of my roller skates to the bag might have pushed me back into the heavy zone. I'll know soon enough.
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