From 8/15/2008: Fools On A Plane

Air travel is a lot like checking into a hospital. It reduces one to a state of helplessness and our basest needs and emotions.

Like the hospital, the airline has us under its control as soon as we check in. We hand over our rights and dignity and accept conditions we would normally rail about. They can limit our personal baggage, how many outfits we will be wearing over the next few hours or days, promote the invasion of our physical space by assigning us to a narrow space with strangers on either elbow and pressing their knees into our backs. We are subjected to incarceration in a large but cramped capsule for as long as the airline and crew deem necessary. The top guy can order us to be strapped down.
If the temperature is uncomfortable we have little options or control. We can sweat and moan quietly if it's too hot, or we can whine for a scrap of a blanket if it's too cold. They control when and what we eat, and they even interrupt our sleep-if we can manage any- to see if we want anything.
On a recent four hour flight we were served sips of liquid sustenance in tiny cups filled with ice and tossed small bags of pretzels. It reminded me of the little cups of juice that accompany bland, starchy hospital meals.
However, DH and I did find a source of comfort on this flight, but we may have detracted from the experience for those immediately around us. We listened to comedy on the "complimentary satellite radio".
I don't know if it was because we were hopped up on ginger ale, pretzels, and high altitude, but we both got really hysterical while listening to Seinfeld, followed by Jeff Foxworthy - an interesting lineup. DH got carried away first and started that crying kind of laughter. He was trying to muffle it and just teared up all the more. This got me going, but thankfully I was in the window seat and could giggle and choke into the corner. Finally, I tossed my jacket over DH's head to shield his contorted hysterical face from other passengers who were starting to turn and look.
Whew! I miss the old days when we all had to watch the same mediocre movies together. At least we could commiserate as a plane-trapped community.
DH and I finally got some self-control back. And while the plane slowly taxied up to the airport after the flight, and the temperature rose to an uncomfortable level, a flight attendant announced for all passengers to "please lower your window shade to keep the cabin cool and comfortable for the next flight".
Ha! Maybe some A/C or a new compressor would be more effective?
And next time, I'll remember that Dramamine, airplane snacks, and Seinfeld are a dangerous cocktail.

Disclaimer: The above is my not so humble opinion and personal experience and is not intended to reflect the subjective experience of other airline passengers. It is also meant to be mildly entertaining and not necessarily wholly factual. I understand that the airline industry provides us with a very valuable service and has a tremendous responsibility to the public. I realize that the cost cutting efforts that airlines employ are in order to keep air travel affordable.

7/31/2008: Encounters with Bloated Egos

You know, some people value humility as a virtue. Some of us even get through life fairly well while stunted by a modest self-esteem. At the very least, most of us begin to realize as we become more mature (somewhere between 5 and 19), that the world does not revolve around us - even if we sometimes forget this wisdom while we are behind the wheel of a car.
Then there are others. Those whose sense of self-importance has somehow become bloated out of proportion. Either that or they just cannot reconcile themselves to the fact that they are not the center of the universe.

I encountered a few of those people this week. My spouse and I attended a conference at a nice beach resort. We flew out of a nearby small, regional airport and then changed planes in Atlanta and flew on to our south Florida destination.

While waiting for our puddle-jumper at the regional airport, we were forced to listen to a know-it-all doom and gloomer. He was on the far side of middle age and stood with his back against the wall near the gate. He was spouting his years of collected expertise to a man next to him and to anyone else within earshot - which was almost everyone in that small airport.
He was apparently an ex-flyer or mechanic. He talked on and on about all the terrible things that are going on the airline industry today. He advised his quiet new friend that the safest place to sit on an airplane was above the wings. He gave a quick lesson in aerodynamics and flight emergencies. He told a charming anecdote about flying next to a woman who was ridiculous and naive enough to think there were holes in the wings when she saw the flaps down. He boasted that he could close his eyes on a flight and tell EVERY MOVE the pilot and co-pilot were making.
And, of course, he knew when they were making wrong moves.
I have to tell you, thinking he was flying with us made me feel so much more comfortable once I discovered he was actually on another flight.

Then I ran into, almost literally, another person of the-world-better-pay-me-homage persuasion at the resort. We had a free afternoon and were heading to the beach, coming down the elevator in a 6 floor hotel. As the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, a woman in beach attire rushed the doors. She almost ran straight into me. Now, I could be mistaken, but I thought elevator etiquette required that you let passengers off before you step onto the elevator. So why did she roll her eyes and let out a short, exasperated snort when she had to pause for me and other passengers to get out of her way? I mean, she's at a resort, in a bathing suit, coming from the beach or pool, and she only had to wait for the elevator to come down 5 floors - at the most. Are you late for your afternoon dose, lady?

Then, on our flight back, there was "The World's Most Important Mom" (WMIM). As the plane touched down and we were given permission to use our cell phones, she immediately made 4 or 5 phone calls in about 3 minutes. The first was to the individual who was supposed to meet her at the airport. She apparently believed she was important enough that she shouldn't be made to wait at all, because this individual was informed that if he "left the house now" he would be there by the time she got her bags. I want to assume this was her husband, but there was no "Hi Honey" or "thank you" or "love you". Just the terse info that "We just landed" and that he should leave the house now.
She then made her second call, but did not get an answer. So she immediately called a third number and said, "Are you talking to my daughter?" World's-Most-Important-Mom then relayed to her seatmate that the reply had been, "I was."
She then calls her daughter back and says, without any preliminary greeting, "YOU need to get your priorities straight! Your mother is more important than your boyfriend."
Sitting in the seat in front of her and overhearing this (I couldn't help it - she was talking so importantly.) I almost laughed aloud. What alternate universe does she live in? Seriously, does she really think her daughter should dutifully cut off any and all calls from her boyfriend so as not to miss the announcement call from her beloved mother that she had just touched down at the airport?!? This daughter wasn't even the one ordered to meet her at baggage claim after all! She was just being notified that her all important and beloved mother had arrived on the tarmac! "WMIM" didn't even give her daughter two seconds to call Mommy-dearest back before she got the boyfriend on the line to make sure he was not interfering in her attempt to contact her daughter the instant the plane touched the ground.
Wow! She's really bloated! I think if this girl were a teen, any normal mom would have been thrilled if she just got an acknowledgement when she walked in the door at home.
And if you are thinking maybe she had something important going on; just remember, she was on a flight from south Florida and obviously heading home. She was tan and traveling with her quiet female seatmate. It seems like the separate vacation did nobody any good.

From 7/22/2008: Put Your Dealer On Speed Dial

We no longer have a land line or a "home phone". We use our cellphones. A lot of people do this- it makes sense. It especially makes sense at night. I can turn my cell off or stuff it in the bottom of my bag so that it doesn't wake me should it ring in the middle of the night. Of course, if you are the paranoid type who is convinced that someone will be in a life-or-death situation in the middle of the night and only YOU will be able to save them, if only someone can reach you by phone, then just leave the cell on your nightstand with the ring volume on high. (Also, if you are an ER doctor on call - by all means.)
But if you have a phone on in your room at night, you risk being awakened by a miss-dialing drug addict at 3 AM.
This used to happen to us pretty regularly in our last home when we had a land line. Apparently, we had a number that was very similar to a someone named Seymour and his partner, Rod, whom I had to assume were providing late night pharmaceutical services.
At least twice a month, and sometimes even several times in one night, the phone would ring between midnight and 4 AM. I would usually be the one to answer it, on account of the fact that my husband CANNOT sleep if I am quietly watching TV in the next room, but once asleep, would not wake up if a car drove through the bedroom.
Ring!
Me, groggily: "Hel-loww?"
Customer, rapidly: "Leh-me-spee-to-See-moh"
Me, groggy and confused: "Wah-uht?"
Customer: "See-moh! See-moh dere?
Me: Click

Sometimes they would call for Seymour's partner:

Ring!
Me: "Yeh-uh?"
Cus: "Hey Rah! Rah dere?!"
Me: "Rah? Rock? Who?"
Cus: "Rah- d!"
Me: "Wrong number - there's no Rod or Seymour here!" Slam

So my recommendation is that you turn the phone off at night and have a good sleep. And if you are looking for your pharmaceutical rep in the middle of the night, have him on speed dial so you don't miss-dial and wake up a doctor on-call unnecessarily!

From 7/12/2008: It Clowns Can Get Work, It Can't Be That Bad

We have a local clown. Her name is Doodle. She is the daughter of someone that everyone-who-is-anyone is supposed to know. I don't think I'd know this daughter if I had a conversation with her. I don't think I'd recognize Doodle without her clown makeup. I've seen Doodle at several events and I've seen her around town many times in her Doodle-mobile. Her car is painted in bright swirling colors; a convertible that sometimes blows bubbles. Doodle has a bright orange mop of hair, white face that usually looks more droll than silly, and is typically clad in baggy overalls. She has a little rabbit with black-rimmed eyes that she claims sells Mary Kay.

This week I saw Doodle three times. I have to assume that Doodle uses her not-too-secret secret identity to shop for groceries, meet friends for lunch (maybe), or go to the dentist and whatnot. Surely she isn't ALWAYS Doodle? So if she's going around town in her clown car and her Doodle face, then she must be working. So when I saw her yet again this week, I had to think, "Hey if a clown can still get work, the economy can't be THAT bad."

From 6/24/08: Who Says Crabs Aren't Adventurous?

Do your dogs ever keep you awake at night? Don't you hate it when you lose a good night's sleep because the dogs won't shut up? And don't you hate when your pet hermit crab keeps you up?
Huh?
Aren't hermit crabs supposed to sit around in an attractive terrarium quietly expiring in their little turban shells? That is what most of mine did.
When deciding to get into the hobby of hermit crab keeping, I did research and reading on the care and characteristics of hermit crabs. I wasted hours shopping for a 15 gallon tank, the right sand, the fake corral climbing toys, lots of alternate shells, clam shells to use as water and food bowls, a ceramic kidney shaped hermit crab "pool", and the perfect hermit crab diet. Then my children and I went to a pet store and carefully selected an assortment of little crabby friends.
Over the course of the next year, despite the lovely habitat and careful temperature and humidity monitoring, they died off one by one - like I said, quietly expiring in their little turban shells. With one small exception. The smallest crab, about the size of a large ant at time of purchase, survived. It survived several moltings - the shedding of its exoskeleton that is required for growth - and moved into a series of larger shells over the course of about four years.
When he became the last of the mo-hermits, I ditched the big tank and stuck him in a little plastic-lidded pet container and parked it in my daughter's room, where he languished as we often forgot to give him water or food for days or a week at a time. He seemed to thrive on the neglect.
At some point I decided, well, if he's going to insist on survival I guess he deserves better digs. I purchased a large, glass chimney bowl, decorated it with some nice crabby furnishings, and placed the crab in his new apartment beside my tub in our master bathroom.
A few weeks later Crabby disappeared!
At first I decided he must have buried himself deep in the sand for a thorough molting of his now almost infant-fist sized body. But a couple of weeks later, I gingerly lifted out all his cool furniture and took a careful look-and-poke through the sand. Crabby just wasn't in there!
Where oh where could Crabby be? With his pointy little legs and clunky shell? He couldn't have gone too far!
Then last night as I was deep in light mom-sleep (you may know what that is), I was disturbed by a strange tapping and scraping sound. It was coming from the bathroom. I crept out of bed to cautiously investigate. And what do I discover, but a miniature crustacean Tarzan climbing down a plant tendril out of a large planter beside the tub!
It seems that somehow our intrepid survivalist had vaulted out of his glass cathedral and found his way into a potted plant. He was now shimmying down the side of his tropical paradise to seek further provisions, I suppose.
I rescued him and placed him back where he belonged - or so I thought. He apparently preferred his jungle home, because for the rest of the night, he clanked and scraped and knocked about trying to leave the glass house and return to "the wild".
In the morning, groggy and grumpy, I staggered into the bathroom and plunked him back into the pot. Hopefully I'll remember to keep that plant watered regularly.