Wash Day

I washed my running shoes today.

How is that blog worthy?  Here in the southeastern part of the country, we have had 14 straight days of rain.  Flash flooding is all around us, yards and fields are saturated, the crops are suffering and it is SO humid and cool.  You know how uncomfortable it is to be cold and clammy?  That has been our air for 2 weeks.

It has primarily been rain, thankfully.  We have no storms or tornadoes, no high winds, just monsoons.  During the 2 weeks, I had the pleasure of jetting off to Boston on a business trip.  The weather those few days was just perfect!  No clouds, sunshine, in the 70’s and no humidity.  Oh how I didn’t want to come back!  The plane landed in Memphis, the door opened and a cool damp blanket was thrown over the passengers as we exited.

For the past two weeks I have felt the lack of adequate sunshine in my mood.  I am akin to snakes, I need to lay on hot rocks in the sun from time to time to stay alive.  Just before the rain set in, my new replacement hammock came. I was so excited to finally get it!  I envisioned myself basking and napping in the sun in the back yard.  Sigh.  It is still in the box as no one can use the hammock in the rain.

Rain stops me from doing many things like laying on my ass in a hammock in the yard and hanging my clothes out on the clothesline to dry.  The off-site airport parking lot where my car lives gives me coupons for free car washes after so many paid parking days.   I have two in my possession right now that I will not use while we are under the monsoon season. The weeds in my flower beds just love all this rain and there is nothing I can do about them right now.

But there are things the rain will not stop me from doing.  It does not stop me from running.

For the past 2 weeks, I have been out on my routes in the mornings every chance I had.  That meant having my neighbors and passersby question and discuss my sanity amongst themselves.  All of my routes had standing water at times and puddles everywhere.  The route to town and back had flooded sidewalks with underlayers of mud.  I ran through it all anyway.

My shoes got nasty.  But why wash them if I was just going to get out and do it again tomorrow?  Even if I did wash them, the humid air would prevent them from drying overnight, so I’d have wet shoes the next morning.

I knocked the mud off when I needed to and just wore them dirty and wet.  But today – TODAY is supposed to be the last day of rain for at least a week!  Yes!

For once I am completely believing in the lying-ass weatherpeople.  I am believing them because I want to.  I want it to stop raining.  I want some sun.

Yesterday I had the radio on in my office.  The radio stations were giving the lying-ass weathermen all the air time they wanted to yell and scream about how the rain is leaving!  Sunshine is on its way!  We promise this time!  I thought it was ironic that every so often during one of their proclamations, they would be cut off by the severe weather warning and the national weather service giving the flash flood warnings for counties getting 3 inches of rain in an hour.

My husband and I run together on Saturday mornings.  We got out today and we could look really hard and see maybe a square foot of blue sky here and there.  We were hopeful.  However, the national weather service had flash flood warnings out for adjacent counties, so we were trying not to get our hopes up too much.  Sure enough, during our 5 miles, the pregnant gray clouds rolled in and the rain started.  We kept running anyway.

Tomorrow is the official day of sunshine according to the lying-ass weathermen that I really have faith and hope in this week.  When I cleaned up from my run, I looked at my now gray, nasty wet running shoes and thought tomorrow would be the new beginning….sunshine….no more standing water to get through.  I have hope!

So I washed my running shoes.

A Day in the Life

Today is not my day.  I know that.  I’ve been reminded of it all day long.

It started last night, Sunday.  My husband and I had plans for an early movie with friends.  I thought we would be home in time for me to pack for my trip today.  We were not. 

I set the alarm for 5:30 this morning so I could go for a run before kicking it into high gear to get everything done before I rushed to the airport.

I walked my warm up laps and my hypochondria began yelling at me.  I knew a run was out of the question if I planned to stand upright the rest of the day.  Instead of running, I did my resistance training.  I watered all my flowers and plants and called it a morning.

Quickly showered and attempted to put my contacts in.  I am still not good at this.  It takes a lot of time and tears for me to get them in properly.  On a trip to the kitchen, I realized I couldn’t see and noticed one I worked so hard to get in my eye was missing.  I started over.

I hurriedly packed up my stuff.  I pack for business trips so frequently that I rarely forget anything.  I know what has to be packed and where it fits in the suitcase.  I got out of sync on one tiny thing this morning:  I was out of toothpaste in my travel bag.  This meat I had to leave the toothpaste out until after breakfast.

I got my work done and due to required errands, left my house at 11 am.  My first stop was to drop off suits at the cleaners.  The next stop was the post office to get a box out to my nephew in Iraq.  Did you know you don’t just pop into the post office with a box going to Iraq?  Oh no you don’t!  I did not know that.  After filling out forms and waiting in a line a second time, I had the ZIP code wrong.  I had to get out of line again and call my brother, who had to then call his wife who had to tell him where the correct address was so he could find it and bark it out to me over the phone and THEN get back in line.  What I thought was a 5 minute stop turned into 20.

On my one hour drive to the airport, I knew I left something undone.  I thought and thought….Dang it!  Our car tags expired yesterday!  I forgot to get the new sticker for the tags!  Oh well, my husband drives that car so I kept driving.  I went back over my rush out of the house and realized I did not make that last trip into the bathroom to make sure I had everything – the toothpaste!  Oh, no!  Not only did I leave the toothpaste, I forgot to brush my teeth…ewwewewewewe…..

I stopped at the bank and checked my suitcase to make sure I put my Rx’s in my travel bag.  I just wasn’t sure of myself any more.

I arrived at the airport with no boarding pass thanks to the Delta/Northwest fiasco.  The lines were long to check in.  I looked longingly over at the Elite/First Class check in line.  No one was there.  That used to be my line.  I used to be Elite until Northwest broke up with me.  I wondered….

I walked over to the Elite check in line and checked myself in.  The desk agent was not a nice a woman, she had just sent Mr. Infrequent Flyer over to the cattle drive line of regular check in.  I acted like I was supposed to be there and she just checked me right on through.

I made a pit stop by the ATM only to discover it didn’t work.  “Unable to dispense cash at this time.”  Shit!  I went through security and broke a nail.

I arrived at the gate where very annoying Infrequent Flyers were holding an Amway rally.  Aisles were blocked with bags of airport shopping crap and numerous carry ons.  I made sure I ran over a few items with my rolling briefcase as I said “excuse me” really loud.

The air conditioning system on the plane was not working.  It was damn hot.  We got a “technical” explanation by the pilot.  It was still damn hot.

Our flying time was 1 hour 7 minutes.  However, the wind was strong and our actual flying time was less than 45 minutes.  That is good, however, that was not good for landing.  In all my years of flying, I can only think of one other time I have been that damned scared landing.  It was bad.  People were screaming and crying.  I was hyperventilating. 

The plane was wobbling from side to side in the strong wind.  I could feel the plane’s automatic whatever-they-are stablizers jerking the plane as we came closer to the runway.  I could sense we were coming in way too fast, but I think we had to because of the 30 mph wind gusts.  We were still wobbling side to side when we hit the runway, first with the left wheels, then we seemed to bounce up and both wheels hit hard.  I was doing the yoga breathing thinking of clover and cottonwood trees because if I was going to die, I wanted to be doing something I enjoyed. 

Once we felt the front wheels hit, the pilot immediate reversed the engines and I was sure the plane would break apart before we got to the end of the runway.

But we did not.  We pulled into the gate in silence other than a few whimpers here and there.

I took my time getting to the car rental counter as I needed to de-stress from that landing.  My rental car was a nice SUV.  I had easy directions, straight up I-71 about 20 miles.  I was cruising along, enjoying the satellite radio and thinking bad thoughts about Budget Car Rental because this SUV had leather seats.  They know better than that.  But I was in too big of a hurry to make them change the vehicle for me so I took it.

I was in the left lane, singing along to Reba on a classic country station when I heard a pop and OH MY GOD, the damn hood popped open on the damn vehicle! 

My autopilot kicked in.  I did not panic.  I looked out my driver’s window and fixed my eyes on the edge of the shoulder.  I didn’t slam on my brakes.  I stopped as quickly as I could, pulling over until I could barely see the edge of the shoulder, hoping I was out of traffic.  When the vehicle came to a stop, I quickly looked in the rear view mirror and judged that I was out of the traffic lane.  I couldn’t find the emergency flashers.  I got out of the vehicle and just stood there.  Then I panicked.

The world still has Good Samaritans and at times like these I believe the King James Version is the literal truth, even the “wives submit” part.  Not one, but two cars pulled over to help me. A woman stood with me asking me if I was Ok and if I needed to call someone while two men shut the hood.  There is a nice dent in it, but it is shut, beat down and will not pop open again. 

I didn’t want to hold these nice people from saving the rest of the world so I said I was OK and we all left.  My heart was racing.  My legs were shaking. 

I thought about how the day had unfolded so far and deduced that maybe I am supposed to meet my untimely demise on this trip and I keep cheating death.  I thought about this for a few minutes and I became very afraid to eat dinner.  Surely I would choke to death. 

I found my exit, number 131. I believe it is the largest truck stop exit in the entire state of Ohio.  And there, just across from the Pilot Travel Center -  is my Hampton Inn.  It is a good thing I developed a fear of dinner because my choices were Arby’s, White Castle and/or McDonald’s.  Determined to make this day get better, I headed toward the nearest “city” 10 miles away.  Surely a city that size would have a Chili’s, Applebees, maybe even a Subway.

I drove and drove.  I found a Taco Bell,  Wendy’s, two Kingdom Hall of Jehovah Witnesses, a Goodwill donation center, a run down Walmart and a Sears hardware.  Turned around and drove 10 miles back and ate at Cracker Barrel.

As I sat at my table, awaiting my Chicken -n- Dumplins platter, I knew that my heart could not take another hit today.  I had used up all my adrenaline and I was still shaking from the events of the day.   I ate slowly and tried to enjoy my meal after all, it could be my last.  I still had to cross the highway in truck traffic to get back to the hotel.

Back at my hotel, there is no room service, no bar for a glass of wine, however, the frumpy desk clerk offered me a chocolate chip cookie.  I now sit in my room, yoga breathing and trying to relax as a violet thunderstorm rages outsideThe lightening is hitting all around and the thunder shakes the walls.  When will this day be over?

It’s Over

Dear Northwest Airlines,
After years of a tumultuous relationship, we have learned that even though we sometimes hurt each other for no reason, we do need each other.  It is that need, you for my money and me for your transportation, that we have stuck together through thick and thin. 

You’ve always had the upper hand, you know that, Northwest.  I have been at your mercy.  You have a permanent authorization on my Amercian Express Gold Card.  You have me by the purse.  You have run off many suitors I might pursue by hogging all the gates in Terminal B at the Memphis airport.  With you taking up all the space, no one else could easily get in.  You had me captive and you know it.

I’ve overlooked so many of your mistreatments.  When I have the really bad experiences in our interactions, I look for others to blame, like Infrequent Flyers or Barney Fife TSA agents.  Even though I know deep down that YOU are responsible for so many of my air travel misfortunes, my loyalty to you forced me to look for others to blame.

I realized last month that it was over between us.  I am disappointed that after all the years you called me your Platinum Elite Best Flyer, that you couldn’t even call me to tell me in person that we were done.  No, you took the passive agressive hurtful coward’s way out of breaking up with me.  You know how I found out don’t you, you spineless ass?  I tried to check a bag and was told I had to pay. 

What?  We had a deal, Northwest!  I was your Platinum Elite Best Flyer!  I do not pay for checked bags!  I was shocked when  the gate agent told me to pony up $15!  Surely this was a mistake!  She pulled up my records and broke the news to me, my heart sank.  I am off your elite list, Northwest.  You ditched me, you threw away the past 14 years of our relationship.  You said, through the gate agent, that I was no longer good enough for you.

How devastating for me to find out this way!  I looked painfully into the gate agent’s eyes, she could see my distress and she had pity on me.  She waived the fee that day to make me feel better but told me we were done.

I spent that flight to Omaha contemplating all we’ve been through, Northwest.  I can’t believe you dumped me like that.  I told you I was willing to stick with you through your merger with Delta.  I did not approve of this merger and I tried to talk you out of it, but you would not listen.  I was still by your side, using only nwa.com for my reservations and giving you that freedom to charge my AmEx card at your whim. 

And this is how you thank me.

I got past it, Northwest.  I reconciled in my mind that we were over, but we should remain cordial to each other.  After all, we still had confirmed plans together and we need to get along so that we both remain professional and unemotional about this break up. 

So, why Northwest, do you continue to treat me like shit? 

I can no longer check in on line.  You tell me in your nasty internet messages “itinerary not found.”  Why, Northwest? 

I tried to check in at your counter and you rebuff me, sending me along to Delta as you no longer wish to deal with me.  What have I done to deserve this, Northwest?

Apparently you have trashed talked me to Delta.  Why?  You send me to Delta for check in at the airport and then you purposefully don’t tell them I’m coming.  They can’t find my reservations.  You have punished me enough!

What used to take 5 minutes is now a battle of 30 minutes in getting checked in.  And you know this, and you know this is just pouring salt into the wound:  my seat assignments are in the back of plane, next to the lavratory where I get to look at and sniff every ass that passes me going to the toilet.  Why, Northwest? 

You could made this easier.  You could have told Delta of my million miles with you, of my Platinum Elite Best Flyer status, of my preference for aisle seats in the front of the plane, but no.  You have chosen not just to break up with me, but make my life hard.

Northwest, I hate you.  You are shitty.  I am glad you are going away and will be eaten by Delta.  Go ahead, trash talk me!  Destroy my confirmed tickets!  I don’t care!  I will rise above your pettiness.  I will build a new relationship, find a new partner and move on.  My life will be better without you in it.

I am moving on.  Although my reputation is shot with Delta, thanks to that creep, Northwest, Southwest wants me.  They have asked me to join them.  I will come out on top.

Work Hurts

“You are married to this job, Donlyn, you need to step back and get some perspective.”  I barely heard the board member’s compassion as she tried to help me understand why I was being let go.   That was 1993 and I was completely blindsided by my dismissal as the executive director of a non-profit agency.  In my four years at the agency, I took the budget from  $100,000 year to $400,000.  Under my tenacity and leadership, we expanded from a 3 county service area with one facility to a 9 county service area with 3 fully funded facilities.

My position and my work in the cities and towns the agency served was high profile.  I was well known, my speaking calendar was full, I was called for commentary any time a story pertaining to my field was in the news.  How could I be dimissed, *poof* with no warning? I was devastated.

The board sent 3 members, the “personnel posse” to break the news.  I was in my office on a sunny February day.  When I saw the board members come in the front office, I was pleasantly surprised.  Board members seldom took an interest in the day to day operations of our agency.  But I soon picked up  that this was not to be a pleasant visit.

No reason was given. I was told I was no longer needed.  I knew that was not true at that particular moment as our state and federal audit was scheduled in the next 2 weeks and our United Way grant application was due in a month.  With that information, I pointed out that they did, in fact, need me at least another 6 weeks.  Of course I asked why.  I got no answer other than I was no longer needed.

I sensed that the 3 women sent to do this deed were not comfortable or happy about what they were doing.  They were just messengers.  It took a while – maybe 30 minutes – for me to shut up and let it sink in.  Yes, I was crying. One of the personnel posse  stayed in the outer office as I packed up my personal belongings.  It took several trips from the office to my car to get everything loaded.  Since we were a non profit, I brought many personal items to use in my office to save precious dollars of the agency’s money.  My typewriter, the coffee pot and small microwave, a side table, and other items had to go with me.

Being devastated is not a good emotion to carry with you into a new job hunt.  The financial position of my family  was in the desperate, barely making it paycheck to paycheck realm.  I could not afford to go without a paycheck for long.  Unemployment benefits were a very small help,  not enough to replace my paycheck.  In my confusion and distressed emotional condition, I had to put on the big girl panties and a smile and go find a job.  Fast.

When someone close to you dies, you are encouraged to give yourself time to grieve.  Most widows aren’t dating the day after their husband’s funeral.  Well, OK, some are, but they were probably dating before his funeral as well.  When someone gets divorced, they are encouraged to wait a respectable period of time before they date again.

I’m not a psychologist, although I love to hand out assvice, but I’m thinking primary relationships we all have are families, jobs and social groups we belong to.  My job loss felt like a divorce.  I was trying to figure out what happened but yet I had to move on quickly.  There was no time for reflection or wondering what I would do next.  I had to get going.  To me it was like trying to find a new husband in 2 weeks.  Although I have friends who have actually accomplished that feat, I wasn’t up to it.

It took 5 weeks  to find my next job.  I took a 20% pay cut, but I was offered medical insurance. I went from a high profile executive director, well known in 9 counties, to an administrative assistant for a VP.  I was not  embarrassed with my backwards move on the career path.  Reality was reality.  I HAD to have a job and I took the best thing offered to me.

My self esteem took a savage beating in my firing.  I painted a smile on my face every day I walked into that office but on the inside I was holding back tears.  I was trying to make new friends but it was hard. I had no confidence, I was emotionally distressed and most of the women in my office were single and sophisticated.  I had two kids at home and my husband at the time was a farmer.  They got off work and went to sunset  parties, I went home and busted clods with a breaking plow.

I spent a lot of time observing my new coworkers.  I realized I did not have the right clothes.  I did not have $10 a day to go out to lunch.  I didn’t get to socialize with them during the week or weekends for that matter.  They seemed to be a close bunch, but welcoming at the same time.

Just 3 weeks after I started working there, it was my 33rd birthday.  No one knew and I didn’t tell anyone.  I was still struggling inside and out with all I had experienced in the past couple of months.  Birthdays are reflective times and I was reflecting hard.  My marriage was shit, my husband was shit, I had worked my way up and I was knocked down so fast and without warning.  I was in a job I had to have but couldn’t bond with.  It was my birthday, I was 33 and life was too short to be this miserable.  I was sad about where I was and I didn’t see how I would ever get beyond the gloom and doom that had become my life.

Then the worst thing that could possibly happen happened.  The receptionist was coming toward my desk with roses and a big smile.  At first the site of the roses perked me up.  I thought nice things of my shit husband and considered if he sent those, he would move up a few notches on my list.  He had not acknowledged my birthday that morning,  there had been no happy birthday call from him and it was 2 pm.

I looked at the card and felt disappointment again.  The roses were from my mother.  OK, let’s give my mom points for trying to cheer me up, but I didn’t feel appreciative on that day.  All of the sudden everyone in the office knew it was my birthday and I did not want that attention.  I wanted to blend into the cube walls, I didn’t fit in, I didn’t want any attention.  I had to go to the bathroom and fight to stop the tears.  I could have made it OK if those stupid roses had not arrived!

I tried to stay busy and acknowledge the random birthday wishes with a smile.  I was fighting harder to hold back the tears of sadness and frustration.

Just before 3 pm,I was asked me to come to the conference room.  I walked in with my notebook and there they all were…my new coworkers.  They had a birthday cake and balloons for me.  Yes, I cried.  That day started a change in me.

It took a lot of encouragement from my new coworkers.  It took my manager telling me to be the confident, poised woman he interviewed again, It took being handed responsibility and told “I know you can do this” and it took months, but I finally got my confidence back.  I found out that summer why I was fired from the non profit agency.  It was a politically motivated move on the part of an attorney on the board who had aspirations to be elected judge.  She needed the right people on her side and part of that was helping the right people get the right jobs.  I was not the only victim of her politically motivated shake ups in the community.  I laughed when she was defeated in that election in the fall.

I got to know my new coworkers and I am still friends with many of them, although it has been years since we all worked together.  As I became myself at work, I accomplished many things.  I was employee of the year for our division in my second year.  I was promoted to VP right after my four year anniversary with the company.  I continued to move up in my career.  When I left after 12 years with the company, I was an SVP.  Mycompensation the last year I worked there was 10 times my starting salary.  And along the way, I divorced the shit husband and sent my mom flowers on her birthday.

When I think back on being fired that first time, it was devastating.  It beat my self esteem to a pulp.  I felt hopeless for a while, driven forward only by my need to survive.  Going back to work in a job that was so far beneath what I had done and excelled in was hard.  I didn’t fit in, I was scared, I needed to work and although I wanted better for myself, I was damned grateful for what I had.  It was one of the top 10 most stressful times of my life.

But getting fired was the single best thing that ever happened to me in my career.  And I am not afraid for it to happen again.

Safety Advice

It is Monday morning!

I have many many things to write about today.  Good things, worrisome things and scary things, however, there is one particular thing that I am worried about more than anything else going on right now.  In my tiny mind, it is a really big thing.  It is bigger than my hypochondria:  I had an MRI last week and will get the results today.  It is bigger than that.  It is bigger than someone breaking in my house last week and me surprising them when I came downstairs.  It is bigger than having the police and Mr. and Mrs. Cravitz come to my rescue in said bad circumstance.  It is bigger than the wonderful spring weather we had this weekend and my first 5 mile run in WEEKS. It is even bigger than the new car I finally FINALLY bought on Saturday.  What, you ask, could be bigger than ALL of that this fine Monday morning?

Here it is:

Dear Northwest Airlines,

I know we haven’t seen each other in a long time.  I have enjoyed keeping up with you on the internet, I see you are doing well as am I.  We have never gone 3 months without being together and in a perversive sort of way, I have missed you.  I have to admit the first few weeks were an adjustment.  You are such a constant in my life it was really weird not being with you.  I handled it the best I could by making myself busy at home.  I kept the laundry done, I cleaned out the junk drawer and I made homemade bread.

I see you carried on as well, working through your merger with Delta, delaying and canceling flights, losing people’s suitcases and playing that game where you make up different rules every week to keep us from getting bored.

But tomorrow we get back together, Northwest, and we will resume our weekly sessions.  Are you looking forward to our reunification?  I am, but I’m also nervous.

You remember, Northwest, that years ago I had serious issues with airsickness.  You remember those days, don’t you?  Ah, yes, the good ole days!  I puked on every flight for 2 years.  I couldn’t sit with a coworker or customer on a flight for fear of barfing on them.  But you were patient, Northwest, and you made sure I had plenty of vomit bags in my seat back pocket.  Thank you for that.  You were much kinder to me than Delta was.  Delta got really mad at me on that horrible propellar plane flight in a thunderstorm from Johnson City to Atlanta.  How did I know there was 2 vomit bag limit per passengar?  And I apologized for making the other passengars around me hurl too.  My assvice to Delta is if you are going to fly propellar planes you might want to adjust your vomit bag to passengar ratio accordingly.

But you Northwest, understood and we worked it out.  You saw me coming and gave me cool wet cloths and gingaerale.  You never complained if I needed more than one puke bag. You never made me feel embarassed or chastised for my problem.  You are truly a friend, Northwest.

But let’s talk about tomorrow, Northwest.  We’ve been together a long time.  We’ve spent a lot of time together, time that I could have spent with my husband and grandchildren.  You’ve rewarded me with frequent flyer miles that got my husband to Hawaii with me and allowed me and my BFF’s to jet about the country for much needed BFF time.   You know I love you with a reluctant, no-choice-really kind of love.  So I am not asking you this to be demanding or mean, I’m asking this because you and I must learn to coexist together.  Our jobs depend on each other.

I love Captain Sulley.  He landed the US Air flight in the Hudson River and as far as I am concerned, he is hero just above the anonymos white water rescuer that pulled me out of the class 4 rapids last year one minute before I was surely going to die.  You’ve heard of Captain Sulley, haven’t you?  You know what happened to that plane, don’t you?  Birds flew into the engines.

Just a few days later, a flight that took off from Denver had to turn around and make an emergency landing when a bird was sucked into its engine.

This concerns me, Northwest.

I am sitting here thinking about jet airplanes and those big engines mounted on the wings.  I know all too well what they look like.

I am thinking of the technology throughout the years that made it possible for people like me to strap themselves into missiles and fly across the country at speeds exceeding rednecks on four wheelers chasing deer through the woods.  The technology and engineering is amazing and hard for a small mind like mine to grasp.

And birds are taking it down.

I haven’t heard of anything the airlines, plane manufacturers, FAA, Homeland Security or our newly elected president are doing together or independently to address this national security issue.  I’m not glued to CNN or anything, but I’m thinking that birds have taken down more planes this year that Al Qaeda.  Am I right?

What are you, doing, Northwest, to address this threat to our safety?  Nothing that I’ve heard so far.

Look, I’m not a rocket scientist or anything, but I have been around birds all my life.  There are ways to keep birds out of places they shouldn’t be.  It doesn’t cost that much either.   While you are paying your engineers bazillions of dollars to study and talk about the problem of birds taking down planes and how to fight this threat to airline passengar safety, may I suggest a simple, cheap, quick temporary solution to keep people like me from puking on your flights out of fear?

The Co-op on the bypass sells chicken  wire by the miles.  It’s cheap, its flexible and a staple gun is the only installation tool needed.  Look, Northwest, all you have to do it put some chicken wire on the front of those engines and the birds will stay out of them.  You can use the chicken wire until you, the airplane manufacturers, FAA, Homeland Security and the newly elected president come up with a million dollar per plane fix for this annoying problem.  You know once the government gets involved, it will take years to get a solution, use the chicken wire until then.

I have to fly tomorrow Northwest.  To Denver.  We already know the birds have attached a plane there, the threat is real.  Make me feel better, put some chicken wire on the engines.

Love,

Frequent Flyer.

I will do this

This should not be something I have to blog about.  I should be able to do this without all the fretting and worrying.

I do realize this is not normal.  Perhaps it is just an irrational fear I have and should seek counseling to resolve.

It is car buying.

I have purchased 2 vehicles on my own in the past 16 years.  There is a disclaimer:  we did purchase (together) a vehicle after my husband had a horrible wreck and totaled his truck.  We went to the local dealership together just to get something he would fit into with his prosthetic device. His accident was so horrible and his prosthesis so painful looking and large, everyone in town knew about us.  The car buying experience at that time was painless.  The guys at the dealership did things for us that they probably don’t do for others, just because no one wanted to be my husband.

The first car buying experience was when gas went up to $1.50 per gallon in 1993.  I had a mini van and was driving 150 miles round trip every day to work.  My exhusband and I were separated.  The mini van was necessary to transport a family of 6, but my family was now down to 3 so I didn’t need the van or the expense of putting gas in it every other day.

I worked in the division of a large regional bank that handled indirect auto loans.  Do you remember when you went into a dealer and applied for a loan and the loan was made by an actual bank?  I was in the division where that loan department was located.  My manager, the SVP of that division, talked with the manager of the indirect lending department and instructed him to get me a deal.  I was rather sheepish and scared about this process.

The manager sent me out to test drive cars and pick out what I wanted.  I picked a 1993 Toyota Corolla.  Stick shift, no bells and whistles, just the basic car.  He approved my loan and I had a good deal.  He sent me to the dealership to sign the papers and pick up my new car.  There was a problem.  The salesman’s boss would not allow the agreed upon amount for my minivan in trade in.  This was a problem as the loan papers had to be redone and the payments recalculated.  The salesman tried to explain to his manager that this had already been worked out with their primary lender – the bank where I worked – to no avail.  I sat in the lobby of the dealership as the new papers were being drawn up with my higher payment with tears streaming down my face.  I felt taken advantage of and cheated.  I was mad and upset.

The higher payment was going to mess up my already tight budget.  I had this worked out – then it got screwed up at the very end.  I was not happy.  I did not have new car excitement when I drove the car off the lot.  I was embarrassed and mad because I was screwed.

Back at work I complained to my manager, who called the dealership and spoke to the general manager, who apologized for me being upset but stated that the person who originally gave me the trade in value on my van was not authorized to make that deal.  Whatever.  They screwed me and we all knew it and no one was going to do anything about it.

I felt a bit of snarky vindication when that dealership went out of business years later.  They were all asshats and didn’t deserve to stay in business.

My next experience was n 1999.  The Corolla was 6 years old and had 226,000 miles on it.  It still ran like a top, but it was time for another car.  I had moved up in my career and needed to show up at client’s locations in something a bit nicer than an old Corolla.  With that many miles on it. I was starting to worry about long trips to see my daughter in college.  It was just time.

I picked out the car that would be my next car 2 years before I decided it was time to buy.  I knew what I wanted, I just had to go find it.  I did it on my own.  I did my research and was ready to do battle.  I did not expect the experience to be good, I expected to get screwed and I was ready to fight.

I knew there would be no trade in on the Corolla.  I might as well give the car away and pay them extra to take it.  I had a down payment instead. I found the exact car I wanted and went to the dealership to fight.  The experience was not as bad nor did I feel as screwed as I did before, but I can’t say I felt hunky dorey about the whole thing.

As the finance guy was punching the numbers in, trying to get me to add this and that so they could make more money, the payment amount kept changing even though I said no to most of his offers.    He looked shocked by the ever changing numbers that were popping up on his screen.  I looked at him with my meanest look and said “what the hell is going here?  Are you trying to rip me off because I am a single woman?”

Oh no, oh no, he was not, his system must be messed up.  I asked him if I needed to leave and come back when his system worked.

He pushed a few more buttons and the payment amount stopped changing.  He printed out the documents for me to review.  I had two items added to the car – a rear spoiler and remote lock/unlock.  The asshat did not tell me that when the remote lock/unlock is not factory installed, it doesn’t work like you think it does. If you lock the door with the remote clicker and try to unlock with a key, it sets the alarm off.  I used the remote locking system for a few years and then had it disabled.  I was tired of hearing the alarm go off.

I felt I escaped that buying experience with most of my ass.  I have enjoyed and loved that car for 10 years now.

It is still running, although it shakes a lot.  It has over 200,000 miles on it.  We plan to keep it as a commuter car for my husband.  When it dies, my husband will resume driving our SUV.

I picked out my next car 3 years ago.  Two years ago, when my car was 8 years old, I said I would buy a car.  That’s as far as I got.  Last January I said I would buy a car.  We went to England instead and I did not buy a car.

This year, no – this SPRING – I am going to buy a car.  I am serious.  I am going to do it.

We have our choices narrowed down to 2.  Last weekend we actually did drive by’s at lots to check out the cars.  We got out and quickly fondled the exteriors of the cars and peeked in the windows.  When we saw salespeople approaching, we jumped in our car and sped off. I have to do this one baby step at a time.

Monday I stopped by a dealership to see if they had a car that met my wish list.  This time I was brave.  I spoke to a salesman.He offered to let me test drive.  I turned red.  I was not ready to take that step.   He did not have my dream car but said if I gave him the list of what I wanted, he find it and get it to his lot for test driving. He was friendly, not pushy, and talked more about football than cars.  I gave him the list.

He called later that day and said he found several cars that met my wish list and to give him 3 days notice when we were ready to test drive.  That gives me another week to get used to the idea of an actual test drive.

Why do I have this fear?  There are people that trade and get new cars every two years.  When I think about people who do that, I think they are stupid with their money.  That is just my opinion and since I am not in Henry Paulsen’s position nor am I a famous and rich financial advisor, don’t be insulted if you are on of those people.

I know cars are not assets, they are liabilities.  To me a car is not a status symbol or an object of love, it is a way to go.  And I have to credit the Sweet Potato Queen author for that bit of wisdom.  I don’t want to drive an 1986 Yugo around but I do not have to purchase a luxury car to feel important or successful.  I will likely end up with a Nissan.  A love object?  Well…I need to LOVE the car to buy it.   I want to LOVE it for a while because, damn, that’s a lot of money.

I’m going to buy a car this year.  Actually, I swear, I am going to buy one in February.  I am, really.

Friends

There are many hokie platitudes around about friendship.

Just take a look at the greeting cards in your local Walmart.  Listen to high school graduation speeches.  Everywhere you’ll find things like “friends are forever” “friends are family you get to pick” and so forth.

I assume the bonds of friendship have been around since man ventured out of the cave and needed a buddy to fight off the meat eating terrorasouras while he killed a buffalo for next week’s meals.  We all need someone sometime somewhere along the road in the journey of life.

OK, enough hokie.

I had the wonderful and indescribable-without-platitude-phrases experience with friends this past weekend.  I am privileged to be a member of a group of strong, talented and amazing women that inhibit a minute piece of space on the internet.  Our group formed 4 years ago from an online women’s site that featured message boards and chat.  This site was public and probably thousands of people read and contributed to it.  However, there was a core group that participated more than others and had many things in common, including family situations, careers, causes we support, and a sense of humor.  We took ourselves off the public forum into a secure space all our own and we have been there going on 4 years now.

Over the past years, we have grown close and shared many aspects of our lives with each other.  We have shared the joys of new babies and the hard road of divorce.  We’ve been there to support each other through break ups and job loss, the loss of parents and children.  In 4 years time, we have become what the internet terms “BFF’s”.

We live all over the US, in Canada, England and Australia.  Because many of us travel in our jobs, there have been many in person meetings over the years.  There are small groups that get together on occasion.  But this past weekend, we attempted to get as many BFF’s together as possible in one place for a long weekend of BFF fun.  We began planning in June of last year.

Out of almost 30 BFF’s, twelve of us were able to make it to the designated destination.  We spent Thursday through Monday together.

When I told family and a few friends that I was having a girl’s weekend, I got a few sour looks and snarks.  I thought most people understand friendships and the fun in getting together, but apparently that is not so.  I was surprised that some people think it is not OK to leave your husband and house to spend time with girlfriends.

I wonder why there are people who think that once you become a wife or a mother that your entire life as a person is gone and you must focus all your time and attention to the people in your home, all the time, no exceptions.  I realize I am a progressive female defined by many as a bitch, but it is foreign to me to think that my friends are limited to my husband and who we as a couple hang out with.  I need girlfriends, I think all females need girlfriends.

I’m not talking about the female half of a married couple that couples socialize with.  I’m talking another woman who will tell you your butt looks big in those pants.  One who will hold your hand while you cry or roll in the floor laughing with you.  One who will listen to you complain about whatever person has pissed you off that day and get just as mad as you are because that other person is an ass.

I am so fortunate to have several friends like that.  Friends I can email or text from the pits of hell or from looking down on fluffy clouds.  Friends who are not afraid to give me reality slap and tell me I am wrong and need to do something different.

Spending time with friends like that is rejuvenating.  It is uplifting.  It is just good in so many ways.

We laughed.  We ate.  We cooked and cleaned up together.  We laughed.  We stayed up late.  We got up early.  We laughed.  We talked about everything under the sun.  We sang.  We laughed.  We were just girlfriends.

I think my 4 days with my BFF’s has beaten back the SAD at least a couple of miles.  The fun, laughter and bonding of our time together have given me a lift that will last for many weeks.

Everybody needs friends.  Not acquaintances, but true friends.

My friends are a blessing.

My friends are my lifeline.

If you don’t have any friends like that, please go find one.

Precision

Precision.  I’m not a mechanical engineer nor do I mix complicated chemicals to make life saving medicine.  I am betting that precision in those vocations is really important.

I am not precise in my life and I seem to get along just fine.  OK, there are times I am subjected to precision and I am not so precise that I get all bothered by it.  For example, when I run in a 5K race, the route is precisely 5K and my time is officially recorded in minutes, seconds and tenths of seconds.  That’s pretty darned precise.

Then there was the prep for the colonoscopy, taking precisely 5 pills at a precise time followed by precisely 8 ounces of water.  Ugh.  In most life tasks, I’m not so *ahem* anal.  Bake at 350 for 35 minutes?  The dial on the oven is going to be somewhere between 300 and 400, hopefully close to the middle.  Not precise.  I’ll set the timer for 35, but then I’ll turn it off and leave the goodies in the oven for a few more minutes.

I don’t punch a time clock.  I do, however, like structure so I am in my office between 8:30 and 8:45 each morning.  But don’t pin me down.

Why am I thinking about this today?  It is the first Monday of the year and the news, daytime TV and radio people are all handing out assvice on everything from weight loss to organizing your closet one shoe at a time.  On the way to a meeting this morning, a prominent life coach (wait!  remember that – a LIFE COACH – because we are coming back to that) talked about small changes that can make a big difference.  I was interested.  I like small changes like parking a few spots over at Walmart to get more exercise rather than big changes like my house burning down with all my money under the mattress in the guest room.

In her small changes recommendations, the LIFE COACH said that one could lose 10 pounds per month by eating 100 few calories per day and taking 2000 more steps.

OK, forget the 2000 extra steps.  Let’s talk about consuming 100 fewer calories a day.

Who actually measures PRECISELY how many calories they consume in a day?  I know several diabetics on strict diets and yet none of them count every single calorie to get to a magic number by the end of the day.  I want to know how hard it is to measure and count EVERY. SINGLE. CALORIE.  And why don’t these people have a hobby?

Oh, I understand being on a 2000 calorie a day and preparing foods accordingly, but do you really honestly COUNT them all?  OK, wait a minute, I know some of you are on programs like Jenny Craig and NutriSystem where your meals come in nice little boxes with the calorie count on the front.  But do you know, for absolute certainly that the number of calories listed on the box are PRECISELY the number of calories in the food?  You know there have been segments on 20/20 and Good Morning America about nutrition information being really incorrect.   I think if you are going for the precision it takes to cut out 100 calories, then you cannot possibly trust those unregulated nutritional claims.

Most people I know live normal lives.  They get up, go to work, come home, do stuff they like and then go to bed.  In that mundaneness, they eat meals and snacks.  They do not measure these precisely for caloric value.  Let’s say one of these normal people, like me, says, “OK, I’m going to cut out 100 calories a day. I’ll eat a few less chips with my salsa at lunch and use 4 less crackers in my soup.  I’m done.  Watch the weight melt off me.”

In the course of that decreased chips and cracker day, I may have cereal for breakfast.  Does anyone really measure their cereal serving?  Not the people I know.  We just pour it in the bowl and put milk on it.  Then I’ll have lunch.  I might be typing a blog post and forget how many chips I ate with my salsa.  And hey!  There is a little bit of queso left, I’ll just clean that up.  Mmm..  And because there are few crackers, I eat more of the soup.

My afternoon snack will be fruit and one day it might be a large apple and the next day it might be half pound of grapes.  I might drink milk, I might now.  And supper?  Whatever I feel like cooking.  How do I know I really cut out 100 calories?  Why would I want to stop and measure and count every calorie in every bite of food I took?

Why can’t we just say “get your ass out every night and take a walk.”  It is much easier to estimate how many calories you are burning with exercise.  Maybe we should also point out that a 2 mile run burns about 200 calories, which is a Hershey bar.  Is that Hershey bar worth a 2 mile run?  Not to me.  My assvice is to be sensible.

Is a LIFE COACH sensible?  If a life coach can follow me around and encourage me to do what I’m supposed to do, then I want one.  But my life coach needs to be aggressive, otherwise I might tell her to bug off.  Maybe I need a life drill sergeant.  Someone to follow me around and bark out orders to get me to do what I need to do.  Like eat 100 less calories a day.

Old Christmas Stuff

I must start out by saying I set a record (sort of) this morning. I went for a run. I didn’t set a record time or distance. I set a temperature record. The coldest temperature I’ve ever run in was 29 degrees last year. Today is was 28 with a wind chill of 23 degrees when I stepped out the door. I wore insulated underwear under my normal cold weather layers. I got hot before I finished. Yes, you can sweat in sub freezing temps if you try hard enough.

I’ve been busy decorating for Christmas. Every year I pull out my stuff and as I put the decorations on the tree and the stuff out that sits around the house, it seems each item holds a memory for me. Decorating is a trip into Christmas past.

I have been poor in my life and the decorations acquired during the poor years have the most special memories and mean the most to me. Although some of my items are chipped or the paint is fading, they still have a special place among the new shiny stuff I put out every year. I have been asked by people I’d have to classify as assholes why I don’t replace particular items. Let’s start with someone asking me why I still used a vinyl table cloth.

When you are poor, you don’t have the luxury of spending big bucks on items that you only use a month out of the year. You also need what little you can afford to last for a long time. The vinyl red and green plaid table cloth was purchased in the mid 90’s. The cloth table cloths were twice the price of the vinyl. I had kids, which meant the table cloth was likely to be stained. Vinyl took care of that also.

I have served many holiday meals on that table cloth. For over 10 years, that vinyl plaid has been on the table for Christmas morning breakfast, where my kids and parents enjoyed a feast that I had great pleasure in preparing. Apparently vinyl was a good choice as the table cloth looks the same on my dining room table today as it did when I bought it over a decade ago.

Yes, I can afford a nice table cloth now. But I don’t want one.

My tree is full of such relics of days gone by. The small plastic apple ornaments purchased in 1985 when my 5 year daughter had a breakdown over our first real tree that year. We had always used a small artificial tree, but this year we had a real one. She had a hard time dealing with that change, so my mom bought a 4 foot tall artificial tree and the apple ornaments so she could have her own tree in the bedroom she shared with her 2 year old brother.

There are the pictures of my kids, made in 1985 and 1988 when they were in kindergarten. The teachers did polaroid pictures and glued them into mason jar rings. There are glass balls with designs on them that I have had since the early 80’s. There are some really pretty and more expensive gold musical instrument ornaments given to me by my husband the first year we were dating. There are ornaments I remember buying from the Christmas store in Pigeon Forge Tennessee while on vacation right after 9/11. I have the first Santa figure given to me by my boss in 1994. The gift was a shock as my boss hated my guts and made my work life a living hell. But then she gave me that Santa. I have the stockings that hung on my wall in the 80’s and 90’s with my kids’ names in glitter paint on them.

So much in life is disposable now days. I refuse to dispose of my memories.

I don’t care how rich I get (if I get rich at all) my old worn out Christmas stuff is staying with me and will be used every year. It is just one way to remember where I have been and how far I have come.

I really don’t care who likes or doesn’t like my Christmas decor. I like it.

Memories….like a coat so warm the cold wind can’t get through…

Moments by Emerson Drive

Size Matters

This post does not need a warning.  Yes, it is about size and it is specifically about my dear husband.  Get your mind out of the gutter!  Other than an occasional cuss word every now and then, this is G rated post and has nothing to do with your inappropriate assumptions.

When I met my husband 8 years ago, he lived in 2 bedroom cedar sided farm house that looked just like a log cabin.  It was on a slight hill, just 1/10 mile off the gravel road.  The house had a porch across the entire front.  The house was small and modest and I thought it was charming.  The inside had 4 main rooms, a bathroom and a utility room with the washer and dryer and a desk.  The front room was open with the kitchen on the left side, a counter/breakfast bar separating it from the living room area.  There were 2 bedrooms and another room he used as a dining room just off the kitchen.   He lived alone and had his young son every other weekend and I thought the house was the perfect size for the inhabitants.

The longer we dated, the more comfortable and familiar we became and soon the day came that I crossed that line in sand from just someone he was dating to full fledged girlfriend.  Yes, I cooked dinner for him IN HIS KITCHEN.  With his stuff.  Before this monumental leap into his kitchen, I had never so much as opened his refrigerator. He had grilled steaks for us at his house, but he did all the work, I was the guest.  My first venture into his kitchen was a surprise.

Considering he lived alone most of the time, what I found did not reconcile in my mind.  He had a hodge podge of dishes and cooking necessities, which is what I expected for a bachelor, but what didn’t compute was the size of everything in his cabinets.  His smallest pan was a 6 quart stew pot.  His spatula was so big I couldn’t get it under the meat in the skillet, which was about 16 inches wide and so heavy I couldn’t safely lift it with one arm.

In the fridge, I found bulk sized condiments.  There was a 64 ounce bottle of ketchup that had expired 2 years previously.  I did not realize you could buy mustard in gallon jugs either nor did I realize any one person would really need that much mustard at one time.

As time went on and our relationship progressed to the point that I entered the utility room, I discovered something else odd.  He had a 128 ounce bottle of Tide.  On the shelves where he kept his extra stuff, he had 10 large bottles of prell, a case of toilet paper and approximately 24 bars of dial soap.  I considered these items for moment and decided that since he worked so much and he lived so far out in the country, he doesn’t go to Walmart that often so when he goes, he stocks up.  Maybe he just goes once a year or something?

We continued dating and we crossed another relationship milestone.  I was preparing dinner for us and I asked him to stop and pick up salad dressing that he likes on his way to my house.  He walked in with a one gallon bottle of thousand island dressing.  One gallon.  I am not sure exactly how long it would take an avid salad eater with a uncontrolled thousand island habit to consume that much dressing, but I’m guessing months, if not years.

I let that one slide, perhaps I was blind in love and didn’t want to think about this particular oddity in my boyfriend.  We dated 3 years and during those years, any time I sent him to the store to pick up something, I got the industrial size.  So I just stopped sending him to the store.

Then we married.  We packed up all the stuff in my house and his house and moved it to our house.  Digging through a bachelor’s 7 years of “stuff” was quite the adventure.  I soon realized that my new husband had the biggest of everything he owned.  Bigger is best.

I believe the man was born in the wrong state.  He must be a Texan on the inside.

I have grown accustomed to this quirk of his.  I asked for a wok one year for my birthday, just a normal wok to prepare meals for the two of us.  I got a wok the size of a large laundry basket made of some kind of heavy metal.  I can’t lift it unless I use both hands and get some leverage with my elbows.  He bought a supersized laptop for himself that is so large there is not a computer bag made that will hold it.  It, too, is so heavy no one wants to carry it around so we don’t care that it doesn’t have a bag.

I’ve sent him to the store for a small jar of pickles….got a gallon in the fridge now.  Maybe he thinks it is economical to buy in bulk, you say.  It is not economical when you don’t consume it and throw it out after the expiration date.

Last Friday it turned bitterly cold here.  We had a family crisis that necessitated spending time at the children’s hospital with our 2 year old grandson after an accident which left him with a broken elbow.  We both got home that evening around 5.  I had not been home to prepare dinner and still needed to make the weekly trip to the grocery store.  He went with me.

I mentioned that it would be a good night for a pot of chili.  That got him started.  He wanted to cook chili for us.  I admit, I don’t allow him to cook.  Oh, he can cook the meat on the grill, and honestly he is damned good at it.  But he is not allowed to use the kitchen to cook meals for us.  He offers, or he used to, but he got tired of me saying no.  I am the chili cooker in our family.  I won the church chili cook off last year.  I cook the chili Big Boy – not you.  But I decided to stop being a control freak about the kitchen and said fine.  Make us a pot of chili.

He was like a kid in the candy store!  He detoured our buggy in the food section and began throwing in everything he wanted for his special chili.  Five pounds of ground beef.  Fifteen cans of various beans – no two alike.  Tomato sauce.  Chili powder.  He was excited!

We got home and unloaded our loot.  I sat at the kitchen table reading the paper while he prepared the chili.  His plan was to put it in the crock pot for the night so it would be ready on Saturday.

He pulled out the 18 inch wide and 3 inch deep skillet that weighs 10 pounds.  He put his extra large industrial pack of hamburger meat in it.  The meat was in a big mound, spilling over the sides of the massive skillet.  I said nothing.  He pulled out another of his skillets, one with 4 inch deep sides, and put some of the meat in it.  He opened his 15 cans of various beans and put them in our largest (3 gallon) crock pot.  When all the beans were in the crock pot and he added the tomato sauce, the crock pot was full.  There was no room for the seasonings or meat.

No problem for this Texan-wannabe!  He pulled out our 2nd largest crockpot (2.0 gallon) and divided the chili into 2 crockpots.

We were not and are not expecting company until next week.  Just the 2 of us and 5 gallons of chili.  The man clearly thinks size matters and big is best.  What started out as a wish for a pot of chili turned into this:

We had chili for lunch and dinner Saturday.  We had chili for dinner Sunday night.  I had chili, either in a bowl or on a taco salad 3 days this week.  I took 1.5 quarts of chili to his son and his family.  There is probably another 1.5 quarts in our freezer.  Unless we have a big crowd coming over, he is not allowed to make another pot of chili.