Write Again Soon

« January 2008 | Main | March 2008 »

February 25, 2008

Call Me Dante

I started the day in Washington and ended it in Vancouver. Along the way, I visited the seven circles of travel hell.

One
I had to leave the house at 5 a.m. to make my flight, and on the way there I forgot for a second that I was flying out of DCA (I normally go from IAD) and managed to miss the exit from the beltway. I ended up having to exit several miles down the road and then turn around and high-tail it back to the proper exit, praying that I would make my flight.

Two
Arriving just a bit late (but not THAT late, considering), the auto-check-in machine told me it was too late to check in for an international flight (what?!) but that I could try for "standby for $50”. I used my most charming smile and convinced the guy at the counter to manually check me in (thank goodness for carry-on only). I made the flight with time to spare, proving that a 90-minute international check-in rule is stupid.

Three
I had even MORE time to spare during my layover in Chicago, when my second flight was delayed for an hour because of some sort of anti-freeze mechanical issue.

Four
And THEN I got to sit next to a guy who had absolutely no respect for the seat boundaries and kept jabbing his elbow into my side--which, I feel goes without saying, was CLEARLY within my own seating area. He was a substantial (but not humongous) guy, and I think he was overcompensating for the substantial (and very humongous) guy on the aisle, but my sympathy was limited. VERY limited.

Five
Once I arrived the fun wasn't over, because I got to spend an hour in the customs line--yay! And then when I finally got to the front of the line, I was politely, but firmly, directed over to the immigration counter. This happens about every other time I go to Canada--I don't have a work permit and technically I don't need one (it's a gray area), but sometimes they want the immigration people to give it the official okay.

Six
So off to the immigration counter I went. Well, apparently it was "immigrate to Canada day" because the line stretched out the door. With only four immigration officials working the desks, and each person taking approximately 25 minutes (I had ample time to take an informal survey), it was like watching grass grow. In fact, it took me an additional 1 hour and 55 minutes to make it though the line, only to have the immigration guy take one look at my declaration form, ask me three pro forma questions, give me the stamp of approval, and send me on my way.

Seven
I made my way out into the beautiful spring-like Vancouver afternoon (having missed my meeting by a full 2 hours), and hopped right into a waiting cab. A-ha, I thought--things are starting to look up. And they were, right up until the point where the taxi driver HIT A PEDESTRIAN. That's right--high drama in the city.

---

So that's my sad story for the day...after that things got decidedly better. I somehow got booked in the "gold" level of my very fancy hotel, which means that I have access to a swanky guest lounge with a fully stocked bar, happy hour appetizers, a stunning balcony overlooking the harbor, and a concierge team whose sole purpose is to see to my every whim. Oh, and dozens of businessmen who had the good graces to leave their wives at home. So far this evening I have enjoyed a steam bath and am now happily sitting in my plush robe in bed (which got a turn-down service while I was marinating) waiting for my room service dinner (carrot soup and cobb salad) to arrive. I have a list of spa treatments for tomorrow sitting on the desk, thanks to the concierge staff, and plan to be tucked in my 750-thread count sheets by 9 p.m. Let's just hope I don't have “hitting the pedestrian” dreams all night.

February 21, 2008

Flower Power

You can take an indirect measure of my "personal happiness meter" by counting the number of flowers in my home. Whenever I feel sad and in need of a pick-me-up, I get up a bunch (or several bunches) of flowers and place them in prominent spots around my living space. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

At this moment, there are two dozen white tulips to the left of my computer screen, sitting neatly adjacent to a small pot of gerbera daisies. In the bathroom is another dozen tulips—these are bright pink. In my bedroom are two dozen red-and-yellow tulips perched on my dresser. In the living room—in two separate vases—are three bunches of delicate pink lilies—my favorites.

Guess I was feeling the need for a BIG pick-me-up this week. No word yet on whether it worked, although the cats are thoroughly enjoying chewing on the stems.

Random memory alert: the last time I received flowers from someone was in 2003, on a first date. The guy (whose name was Thomas, I think) brought a bunch of purple tulips along with a picnic basket filled with fruit and cheese and a bottle of wine. He owned his own software company, was adorable, and arrived in a new Mercedes convertible. Looking back, I should have tried harder with that one.

February 19, 2008

An Open Letter To Everyone Associated with the Movie "Shoot 'Em Up"

Dear "Everyone Associated with the Movie Shoot 'Em Up",

Good god. I mean REALLY: good god. You should be ashamed of yourself. From the director Michael Davis all the way down to the craft services person (silently thanking her anonymity), each and every one of you should immediately renounce your careers in Hollywood and move to Malta. If they will have you.

Mr Paul Giamatti, times must be hard since you finished Sideways. To be frank, I hated that much-acclaimed movie, but I would rather watch it every day than be forced to sit through another screening of Shoot 'Em Up. It was painful, PAINFUL to watch you pretend to talk to your wife on the cell phone--especially that part where you fondle the dead hooker at the same time. AGONIZINGLY PAINFUL. So you can see how I'm not particularly surprised to see that your next Hollywood role will be for Bubba Nosferatu and the Curse of the She-Vampires. Classy as always.

And you, Mr. Clive Owen. I once lusted after your dreamy eyes, your charming accent, your ability to save humanity by shepherding the only pregnant woman in the world safely to the boat people...but no more. From now on, when I close my eyes and think of you it will be skydiving out of a plane while using an Uzi to separate your fellow parachutists' limbs from their body. It will be you taking up with a lactating hooker. It will be you laying a crying newborn on the ground of a filthy men's bathroom so that you more easily slide under five stalls in one svelte movement. And in all of these scenes, you will--for no reason that is ever explained--be chomping on a gigantic carrot.

Ms. Monica Bellucci, what do you have to say for yourself? A lactating hooker who falls in love with a carrot-chomping man? What terrible monstrosity has befallen Italian films that you felt compelled to cozy up to this piece of forù? Did you feel all traces of cultural dignity leaching away during the scenes where you do little but shrill in Italian for comical effect? Your hotness in The Matrix has just greatly decreased.

But most of all, I blame myself. When I upgraded to first class on my flight back from Los Angeles, and I had the choice of such movies as The Brave One with the lovely Jodie Foster, I balked--looking for something over the top and amusing. May I never shun vigilante violence by a stunning 40-something woman again. Hell, even seeing Superbad would have been a better option than Shoot 'Em Up.

I've learned my lesson...and learned it well. So I ask you, "Everyone Associated with the Movie Shoot 'Em Up", have you learned yours?

February 13, 2008

Status Update

Two weeks ago I attended the wedding of Ms. Secret Blog and Her Boy. It was a destination wedding in Charleston, where the weather is perfect, the B&Bs are gracious, and the bars are full of drunk co-eds (and wedding party-goers). I lost an earring and added a notch to my bedpost (kidding! I assure you it was very deep and meaningful) and overall had a very lovely time.

Last week I spent five days in Key West, where the weather is even more perfect, the beach is full of gay men and Alabama newlyweds, and there are a shocking number of middle-aged Republican men who will try to pick up a pretty young thing by debating the “truthiness” of climate change. My Big Idea project went without a hitch, everyone loved me, and I even managed to read an entire book in one sitting.

This week I got kissed by a nice man we'll call Mr. MBA, took a third trip to the airport in as many weeks, and--perhaps most excitingly--bought two new suitcases to replace the one that fell apart mid-trip last week. Also of note: my car broke (dead battery, broken alternator, simply too old?—you decide!), causing me to miss tap class and resulting in my sister spending her entire birthday carting me around to the mechanic, the polls, and back home again. Quality time with me = happy birthday!

Today I flew to Los Angeles, enjoyed a Doubletree Hotel cookie, and DID MY TAXES. That's right bitches. And I'm even getting back enough money for approximately 26 soy lattes (my preferred currency). If you're extra nice to me I might share one with you. Maybe.

February 06, 2008

Home Away from Home

I've been having terrible nightmares lately, and then last night I somehow managed to stay up until the sun came up, and so you might understand, dear reader, why I was not at my best when traveling down to Key West today. When I arrived at the airport at 7 a.m., the wheel fell of my suitcase and when I stopped to retrieve it from the floor I got grease all over my hands. Then my flight was delayed, and there was a crying baby next to me, and when we finally boarded I found myself on a three hour flight in the middle seat between two grumpy people.

Arriving in Miami for my two hour layover still fuzzy headed from lack of sleep, I met a potential colleague who somehow managed to slip past airport security for a quick meet-and-greet before I hopped my next flight. Of course, being in a daze and generally unfamiliar with anything she was talking about (every other word was an acronym, squeezed between name-dropped local politicians and policy makers), the meeting was not so productive and I was happy to escape with my life and a Starbucks coffee.

The flight down to Key West was mercifully brief and I was relieved to step off the plane into sunny weather and the waiting car of my Big Idea escort for the week. I was whisked off to a late lunch, where I met other Big Idea people (again, tiredness and hunger didn't make me particularly well suited for this encounter), and then later dropped off at my home away from home.

Here is where the story turns not-so-angst-y, since I'm being put up in the “corporate apartment” of a local non-profit, and it turns out to be more like a private cottage. It's a studio apartment with wireless internet but no kitchen (note to self, buy an apple for breakfast), and a fenced-in hot tub* for my own private use. Once the sun goes down, I plan to enjoy it sans bathing suit. Just because I can.

I'm only a block away from the main drag of Duval Street, and I'm sure that later in the week I will want to take advantage of the local festivities. For now though, I'm just hoping to make it through the next couple of days alive and with a modicum of sanity.

Just like at home, each time I think there is room for a quick 20 minute nap, I recall that rescheduled Big Idea teleconference, or that email I promised to send, or that online meeting we need to prepare for the big proposal pitch tomorrow morning. This lovely cottage does, indeed, feel like a home away from home. Except I just got bit by a mosquito.

* Update:It's actually more of a small swimming pool: deep enough to need to tread water *for real* and with jets on one side that propel you towards the stairs unless you are willing to swim against the tide. Which I was (during the 15 minute period I created by ducking out of one meeting early and rescheduling another one for tomorrow).

February 05, 2008

Books I Read While Avoiding You

New Total: 139

The Keep
by Jennifer Egan
My Thoughts: Amazon.com calls this book "deliciously creepy" and I can't think of a better term. I was hooked from the beginning, wondering "who is this narrator?" and "am I going to be able to sleep tonight?". While it turned out not to be a nail biter in the classic Stephen King sense, it was strewn with atmosphere in a way that made my room positively quiver when I put the book down. Lovely, lovely.

Rebecca's Tale
by Sally Beauman
My Thoughts: Here's the gist: "April 1951. It has been twenty years since the death of Rebecca, the hauntingly beautiful first wife of Maxim de Winter, and twenty years since Manderley, the de Winter family's estate, was destroyed by fire. But Rebecca's tale is just beginning." I loved Rebecca (by Daphne du Maurier) and wasn't sure if I would enjoy a retelling of the cult classic--but I did! Reading this not-quite-detective-story was like a hot bath, a guilty pleasure that's nothing to be ashamed of. It made me want to go back and revisit the original to compare notes. I wish we had done both books in tandem for book club--there was much to discuss.

Saving the World
by Julia Alvarez
My Thoughts: I've read several of Julia Alvarez's books before and thought they were "eh". More like something we would be assigned to read in high school, rather than something I would pick up on my own. This was no exception. I liked the *idea* of a twin story about women seeking to link their personal identities with something larger than themselves, but in too many places it felt strained and contrived.

Jesusland: A Memoir
by Julia Scheeres
My Thoughts: For a memoir about being a sexually abused teenager in a strict evangelical family in Indiana (plus the added drama of having a black adopted brother), I thought Jesusland was incredibly funny, albeit in a dark and depressing way. I wish there had been more at the end about how her parents dealt with the book (her siblings are apparently supportive)--I was left with an unfinished feeling.