I'm on vacation in California. For a week. By the time I go home, I will have been on 8 airplanes. Eight. I have never done such a thing in all of my life. Thing is, my cousin and his wife, who I'm staying with, live near Santa Barbara. So I'm here. But then my friend Rekha got married in San Francisco. So I flew there. I changed planes a lot. My vacation looks like this:
Dec. 23: Boston to LA, change planes. LA to Santa Barbara. (2 planes)
Dec. 26: Santa Barbara to LA, change planes. LA to SF. (2 planes)
Dec. 28: SF to LA, change planes. LA to SB. (2 planes)
Dec. 30: SB to LA, change planes. LA to Boston (2 planes)
The great thing is that I seem to have gotten over my anxiety around flying. I didn't have to go to my "special place" in my head once. I did still locate the exit nearest me, though, in the event of an emergency. Gotta have something.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Annoying Airlines
Hello from Sunny California! Usually I have a lot of tales from my travels, but I had a pretty uneventful flight to CA, so for now there's just one tale to tell: that of the annoying voice of a flight attendant.
She was wearing the standard navy blue uniform, with bright red lipstick and curly black hair done up in a poodle-like poof on top of her head. She went up and down the aisle with one line, "Would you like to buy a snack?" Apparently, gone are the days of meals and bags of Chex Mix; you now have to spend $5 on a stale bagel. I refused.
Thing was, she didn't just ask if anyone wanted to buy a snack. She sort of shrieked it. It sounded like one word, getting louder and more high pitched at the end: "Wouldyouliketobuyasnack???" She sounded like Minnie Mouse on helium, or like a gun was being put to her head and she was told to utter the phrase into the phone so the ransom money would be sent.
By the time she got to the back of the plane, all you could hear was the cry at the end: "Buh bah duh bah eeeee?" I was this close to saying, "Would you like to lower your voice an octave???" I held my tongue, for once. By the time we landed, I was starving. That's a story for the next entry.
She was wearing the standard navy blue uniform, with bright red lipstick and curly black hair done up in a poodle-like poof on top of her head. She went up and down the aisle with one line, "Would you like to buy a snack?" Apparently, gone are the days of meals and bags of Chex Mix; you now have to spend $5 on a stale bagel. I refused.
Thing was, she didn't just ask if anyone wanted to buy a snack. She sort of shrieked it. It sounded like one word, getting louder and more high pitched at the end: "Wouldyouliketobuyasnack???" She sounded like Minnie Mouse on helium, or like a gun was being put to her head and she was told to utter the phrase into the phone so the ransom money would be sent.
By the time she got to the back of the plane, all you could hear was the cry at the end: "Buh bah duh bah eeeee?" I was this close to saying, "Would you like to lower your voice an octave???" I held my tongue, for once. By the time we landed, I was starving. That's a story for the next entry.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Celebrity Sighting sounds inappropriate
I saw kidnapped journalist Jill Carroll in the Sharper Image store tonight in the Copley Square Mall. I'm sure it was her; she had that bright red hair she got right after she returned home. I thought about going up to her, but what would I say? "Glad you're home safely"? By the time I had mustered up the courage, she was gone. It was pretty surreal.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Miscommunication
So at school on Friday it was Owen's first day to stay for Lunch Program, the extended part of our day. His mom (and my good friend) Liz told me in the morning that she would call around 1:00 to check in on him. I told her, "Just call my cell phone; I'll have it right with me wherever I am, so we won't miss the call."
'Round about 11:30, a bunch of us are at the playground, and Yumi's little brother, 18 month old Koh, falls off a climbing structure and cuts his head. His mother Miho was right there, but of course she was worried; the cut was deep, bleeding, and Koh was screaming. We happened to have a mom who is a doctor working that day, and she looked at it and told us to go to the ER.
So Miho, Koh, and I hop into a cab and zip off to Children's Hospital. The family is from Japan; they had never been to an American ER. I was there for moral support and to help with translating (or talking slowly) if needed. Poor Miho; her husband was in Japan.
So by the time we were all checked out and waiting for the three stitches that would need to be put in, Koh had been crying hysterically for an hour nonstop. He could be the next Pavarotti. He cried so hard he was exhausted and fell asleep. And at this point my phone rang.
It was Liz. She said, "How is he?" And I looked at Koh and said, "Well, he's fine now, but man, he was screaming for an hour, poor thing. He needs three stitches." And Liz said in a very high tone, "What??" And I suddenly realized what I had done, and backtracked, yelling, "Not Owen, not Owen! Oh my god, here was Liz, just calling to check on Owen like I told her to, but all I could think about at that point was Koh...I filled Liz in, and she just said, weakly, and still in a high-pitched tone, "Well, okay, I'll just call the Co-op now and check on Owen..." I felt like such a jerk.
So then I was all hyped up on my big goof up and we had to put Koh in a papoose to swaddle him so the doctor could put the stitches in. Not a fun thing to participate in. I felt like an alligator wrestler; that kid is strong! I started to cry but had to stop and hold it together for Miho. When it was all over and Koh was laughing with a popsicle and 3 stitches, Miho and I both cried. Whew.
Come to find out today that Liz had been so sleep deprived from just having her third child 8 weeks ago that when I started talking about "him", she thought I meant her baby, who was with a friend at the time, and I was talking about Koh, and man, when that adrenaline gets pumping in your body, all kinds of miscommunication can happen! What's the moral of this story? Get more sleep? Don't answer your cell phone when you're in the ER? Not possible on either count, so let's just say we can laugh about it now, but we sure weren't laughing then.
'Round about 11:30, a bunch of us are at the playground, and Yumi's little brother, 18 month old Koh, falls off a climbing structure and cuts his head. His mother Miho was right there, but of course she was worried; the cut was deep, bleeding, and Koh was screaming. We happened to have a mom who is a doctor working that day, and she looked at it and told us to go to the ER.
So Miho, Koh, and I hop into a cab and zip off to Children's Hospital. The family is from Japan; they had never been to an American ER. I was there for moral support and to help with translating (or talking slowly) if needed. Poor Miho; her husband was in Japan.
So by the time we were all checked out and waiting for the three stitches that would need to be put in, Koh had been crying hysterically for an hour nonstop. He could be the next Pavarotti. He cried so hard he was exhausted and fell asleep. And at this point my phone rang.
It was Liz. She said, "How is he?" And I looked at Koh and said, "Well, he's fine now, but man, he was screaming for an hour, poor thing. He needs three stitches." And Liz said in a very high tone, "What??" And I suddenly realized what I had done, and backtracked, yelling, "Not Owen, not Owen! Oh my god, here was Liz, just calling to check on Owen like I told her to, but all I could think about at that point was Koh...I filled Liz in, and she just said, weakly, and still in a high-pitched tone, "Well, okay, I'll just call the Co-op now and check on Owen..." I felt like such a jerk.
So then I was all hyped up on my big goof up and we had to put Koh in a papoose to swaddle him so the doctor could put the stitches in. Not a fun thing to participate in. I felt like an alligator wrestler; that kid is strong! I started to cry but had to stop and hold it together for Miho. When it was all over and Koh was laughing with a popsicle and 3 stitches, Miho and I both cried. Whew.
Come to find out today that Liz had been so sleep deprived from just having her third child 8 weeks ago that when I started talking about "him", she thought I meant her baby, who was with a friend at the time, and I was talking about Koh, and man, when that adrenaline gets pumping in your body, all kinds of miscommunication can happen! What's the moral of this story? Get more sleep? Don't answer your cell phone when you're in the ER? Not possible on either count, so let's just say we can laugh about it now, but we sure weren't laughing then.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Soft as a Baby's Bottom
I have a cashmere sweater. That's right, I'm high society, I'm rich, I live a glamorous life.
Not really. My cashmere is not from a high end catalog or store. It didn't cost $300. Mine is the store brand of Macy's, Charter Club. It probably cost about $30. Still, I feel a sense of luxury just knowing that I actually own a cashmere sweater. That is, I did until the other day.
All of my hand washables had been sitting in my closet for the past year because I hate to hand wash. I finally cleaned out my closet and was reunited with my beautiful red cashmere sweater. I carefully hand washed it in cold water with Woolite, and laid it out to dry. When it was dry, I caressed it, folded it carefully, and noticed the label.
It said, "100% cashmere, 2 ply." Leave it to me to find cashmere that sounds like toilet paper.
Not really. My cashmere is not from a high end catalog or store. It didn't cost $300. Mine is the store brand of Macy's, Charter Club. It probably cost about $30. Still, I feel a sense of luxury just knowing that I actually own a cashmere sweater. That is, I did until the other day.
All of my hand washables had been sitting in my closet for the past year because I hate to hand wash. I finally cleaned out my closet and was reunited with my beautiful red cashmere sweater. I carefully hand washed it in cold water with Woolite, and laid it out to dry. When it was dry, I caressed it, folded it carefully, and noticed the label.
It said, "100% cashmere, 2 ply." Leave it to me to find cashmere that sounds like toilet paper.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Seriusly
Dear Readers:
The following is a description of an actual event. The thoughts inside my head (some would say overactive imagination) are italicized.
I have had so many run-ins with serial killers, it's a wonder I'm still alive. My quick wits and agile mind have saved me from being bound and gagged, stabbed and stuffed in the trunk of a car.
It happened today. I was in an apartment building, waiting to be buzzed in. An older man had just gone in, and he held the door for me, smiling in an older gentlemanly way. Only I knew he was no grandpa; he lured young ladies into his building on many occasions. I told him I wanted the people I was visiting to know I was arriving, so I buzzed anyway but held the door open with my foot.
He waited for me at the elevator, feigning politeness by allowing me to enter the elevator first. I went in, prepared. I cased the elevator for the emergency button, and had my hand on my cell phone in case I needed it to poke him in the eye. I pressed the floor I needed, and he laughed; he was going to the same floor. Coincidence, or trap?
I tensed my muscles and waited to defend myself against this sleazy wrinkled killer. I would elbow him in the stomach and simultanously step on his foot when he grabbed me around the neck. There wasn't enough room to flip him, but amazing things happen when one is under diress.
Luckily for him, when the elevator stopped at "our" floor, he let me go first, and then turned and went in the other direction. Turns out I had saved him from certain death, or at least a nasty and deserved ass-whupping.
The following is a description of an actual event. The thoughts inside my head (some would say overactive imagination) are italicized.
I have had so many run-ins with serial killers, it's a wonder I'm still alive. My quick wits and agile mind have saved me from being bound and gagged, stabbed and stuffed in the trunk of a car.
It happened today. I was in an apartment building, waiting to be buzzed in. An older man had just gone in, and he held the door for me, smiling in an older gentlemanly way. Only I knew he was no grandpa; he lured young ladies into his building on many occasions. I told him I wanted the people I was visiting to know I was arriving, so I buzzed anyway but held the door open with my foot.
He waited for me at the elevator, feigning politeness by allowing me to enter the elevator first. I went in, prepared. I cased the elevator for the emergency button, and had my hand on my cell phone in case I needed it to poke him in the eye. I pressed the floor I needed, and he laughed; he was going to the same floor. Coincidence, or trap?
I tensed my muscles and waited to defend myself against this sleazy wrinkled killer. I would elbow him in the stomach and simultanously step on his foot when he grabbed me around the neck. There wasn't enough room to flip him, but amazing things happen when one is under diress.
Luckily for him, when the elevator stopped at "our" floor, he let me go first, and then turned and went in the other direction. Turns out I had saved him from certain death, or at least a nasty and deserved ass-whupping.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Smells like Perfumed Spirit
Today I was sitting at the art table with my co-worker Amy and a few kids, and suddenly I smelled perfume. It smelled just like Poison, that perfume in the purple bottle that was so popular years ago. As I was making a face and inhaling, Amy looked at me, and I said, "Do you smell that?" She did.
This was unusual, because people at my school just don't wear perfume. I looked around; no woman to be seen. We kept smelling it, over here, not over there. I came to the conclusion that there must be a ghost among us. A very nice smelling ghost. I knew it was a ghost, because this same thing had happened to me before. Soon after my mother died (may she rest in peace), I smelled her perfume in my apartment hallway. I knew it was her.
But there at the art table, that was not my mother. It was some other spirit. I spoke to her, and asked her to give us a sign. I put some paper and a marker on the table and asked her to let us know who she was. The kids were blissfully unaware of all of this, except to answer in the affirmative when I asked them if they smelled perfume. It was driving me crazy. Finally, I went upstairs to the church office to see if Mary, the office manager, was wearing perfume and had come downstairs without being seen.
I went into the office and didn't smell anything. I asked Mary if she was wearing perfume, and she said no. Then I saw a can of aerosol spray on her desk. She told me that a homeless woman had come in to get some food, and she smelled pretty bad, so the guy who cleans the church sprayed air freshener around. I sprayed the air with a shot of it, and there she was, the perfumed spirit who had made her way all the way downstairs to the nursery school. Boy, was I disappointed.
I went down and told Amy that we didn't have a ghost, only the lingering scent from a can of aerosol, used to cover up the scent of someone real. She was disappointed too. She suggested that we pretend that it was a ghost anyway, and that's what we played for the rest of the afternoon. With the kids.
This was unusual, because people at my school just don't wear perfume. I looked around; no woman to be seen. We kept smelling it, over here, not over there. I came to the conclusion that there must be a ghost among us. A very nice smelling ghost. I knew it was a ghost, because this same thing had happened to me before. Soon after my mother died (may she rest in peace), I smelled her perfume in my apartment hallway. I knew it was her.
But there at the art table, that was not my mother. It was some other spirit. I spoke to her, and asked her to give us a sign. I put some paper and a marker on the table and asked her to let us know who she was. The kids were blissfully unaware of all of this, except to answer in the affirmative when I asked them if they smelled perfume. It was driving me crazy. Finally, I went upstairs to the church office to see if Mary, the office manager, was wearing perfume and had come downstairs without being seen.
I went into the office and didn't smell anything. I asked Mary if she was wearing perfume, and she said no. Then I saw a can of aerosol spray on her desk. She told me that a homeless woman had come in to get some food, and she smelled pretty bad, so the guy who cleans the church sprayed air freshener around. I sprayed the air with a shot of it, and there she was, the perfumed spirit who had made her way all the way downstairs to the nursery school. Boy, was I disappointed.
I went down and told Amy that we didn't have a ghost, only the lingering scent from a can of aerosol, used to cover up the scent of someone real. She was disappointed too. She suggested that we pretend that it was a ghost anyway, and that's what we played for the rest of the afternoon. With the kids.
I Never Thought About It...
Just now I saw a blind man with his seeing eye dog. The dog was pooping. Now there's something I had never thought about...how does a blind person pick up after his dog? I didn't stick around to find out.
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