Archive | November, 2011

Stream of Consciousness: Dude, Where’s My Bag?

16 Nov

Ah yes, Le Carousel. With bags on it.

I never travel with more than a carry-on. Never. Not even when I have a trip that covers three dramatically different climates and two continents. I consider myself a Master Packer and am confident that it – along with parallel parking – is a category in which I could easily medal at the Olympic level.

Waiting at the luggage carousel completely short-circuits my internal Efficiency Sensor, which is why I limit myself to a carry-on.  So imagine my consternation when I checked in on Sunday and was told that since it was a full flight, rollerboards were going to have to be checked.

Does. Not. Compute.

So, here is what went through my head while waiting to claim my bag:

Is this the right carousel? Or is that the right carousel?

Let’s see… do I recognize anyone from my flight?

Did I pay attention well enough to know who was on my flight?

Where is white-haired guy who sat in front of me and told jokes so loudly it was obvious he thought he was a comedian?

Oh – there he is! Along with the woman who fake laughs at everything!

Nice! They finally are serving a purpose other than annoying the shit out of me.

I must be at the right carousel.

Carousel? Who decided to call this a luggage CAROUSEL, anyway?

That makes it sound like it should have ponies on it carrying my bag. That would actually be cool. But messy.

I guess Lazy-Luggage-Susan didn’t inspire confidence.

Speaking of: Why Susan? What is it called a Lazy Susan?

This would've been me, if my bag hadn't appeared.

And knowing that word exists, why would anyone name their child Susan?

Way to handicap your child. Nice work, parents.

I wonder if they name Susan’s brother “Good-for-Nothing?” 

OK. So let’s get this lazy-luggage-susan moving. Why isn’t it moving?

We’ve been on the ground for over 20 minutes.

I’ve managed to deplane from the last row, pee and walk the entire length of the terminal and I still beat the first bag? What?

I should really be an efficiency consultant. I could help them get this party started.

[Luggage carousel screeches into motion and bags begin tumbling off conveyor belt.]

Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No.

Why is there a pair of boxer shorts riding around on the carousel? Gross.

Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No.

OK. Who packed THAT bag? It’s HUGE. I hope they are moving here and not just visiting.

I could be a packing consultant and help them travel lighter.

Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No.

Uh oh. I wonder if my bag made it? 

I am going to be pissed if my bag is missing. My new boots are in there! 

Did I throw away the claim ticket they gave me? Uh oh.

I hope they didn’t lose my bag. How will I get it back without the claim ticket?

Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No.

Why is there a five year old child clogging up valuable real estate right next to the carousel?

He’s going to be in my way when my bag shows up. IF my bag shows up.

Where are his parents? 

Someone needs to tell them to get their kid out of the way.

Somehow, I don’t think “parenting consultant” is something I’m qualified to do. 

Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag???

YES! That’s my bag. FINALLY.

As I wheeled it away, I could feel someone’s eyes boring into me. It was a petite blonde woman who had claimed a gigantic suitcase that she could easily have fit in. I saw her eyeing my bag and my outfit with the same look of disdain I had probably been wearing when sizing up her bag.

And if I had to guess, I bet SHE was thinking, “Wow. I could totally be a fashion consultant and help that poor girl out. She hardly packed anything.”

Turns out, everyone’s a consultant.

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Photo Postcard: Los Angeles

14 Nov

As previously mentioned, I’m trying to play a hopeless game of catch-up on the NaNoWriMo front, so I’m cutting back on pithy posts and conserving my words for my would-be novel this month. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still have some pith in my life. I bring to you a few photos I’ve snapped with my phone since arriving in LA yesterday.

First: I’ve never noticed this before, but the elevators out here have EARTHQUAKE buttons. I’m not sure what the purpose is, but I’d like to imagine that if I press it, I will cause an earthquake. When I board the elevator, I think, “Hmmm. Where will my evening take me? Lobby? Roof deck? Earthquake?” Willy Wonka had a hand in this option.

Fancy vending machine! Only dispenses hats and earthquakes!

Second: I’m not sure how my hotel knew that I’d hit the Mexican buffet at WholeFoods, but I applaud their signage:

My kind of place...

Third: Margaret and I walked the Manhattan Beach pier, and she was attacked by a shark. A landshark.

Fourth: inside the aquarium exhibit, they had some tanks where you could actually handle starfish. But only with one finger. Here Margaret demonstrates proper technique for touching the “animals.” I hate to tell them, but I think “touching with one finger” is called “poking,” and no one likes that.

Who create THIS rule? One finger, sure. But two? We're going to have to ask you to leave.

Fifth: Also in the exhibit were two angry looking eels. They were NOT in the “gently touch” bucket. They were in their own area, with no other living creature near them. Probably because they ate them. BTW? You might not want to include these specimens in a “What Lives Under This Pier?” exhibit if you actually are trying to boost tourism. Because you’ve forever cured my urge to set foot in the Pacific Ocean now. Thanks.

This is what I will picture the next time someone feels "bitey."

Finally: After work tonight, I took a little walk to stretch my legs and work off one of the forty avocados I’ve inhaled since landing yesterday. Our office is right on Wilshire Boulevard at the start of the Miracle Mile, so my walk took me right by the La Brea Tar Pits. If you don’t know what those are, then go watch the Flintstones. I’m pretty sure this is where Fred worked:

"Oh sure, Earl. See where your thirst has landed you?"

And that’s how I spent my first 24 hours in LA. My schedule the rest of the week will be pretty intense on the work front, but I’m open to suggestions if anyone has recommendations of kitschy/random things I must see or do before returning. Anyone?

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From the Archives: Swimming Stream of Consciousness

11 Nov

Today, as the final day of my stay-cation, I was thinking about swimming for a little exercise, but I didn’t really feel like exercising. And since I’m participating in NaNoWriMo, I have a whole new appreciation for effective procrastination. So I combined the two (wanting to swim but not actually exercise + procrastination) and found myseld perusing the PP archives, having decided that READING about swimming would effectively take care of all desires at once.

Which is how I stumbled upon an old post that both provides frightening insight into how my brain works, and also cured me of any urge to walk to the pool today. Since it’s Friday, I figure you’re all looking to piss away a bit more time than usual during your lunch break, so here’s a repost from September 2010.

This locker room is what I would expect to find in a prison.

Except with more people in it.

And probably lice.

Soap on a rope!

Wow. That is one naked woman.

Why is she sitting on a chair in the shower?

Note to self: don’t ever sit naked on a chair in a public shower. Gross.

I’m glad the lifeguard didn’t ask for my ID today.

I must look urban.

I wonder if they would’ve stopped Alan.

Wow. The water is WARM.

I bet I’ll overheat.

Sweating in the water is weird.

But it happens.

Why does that sign say “Water Running?”

I don’t SEE any water running.

<Four laps later>

Ah ha! They mean “water running” as in “people running” in the water.

Not the water running.

That’s embarrassing. I’ve been here a half dozen times looking for running water.

That explains why the fat woman always hangs out in this lane and doesn’t swim.

Although actually, she’s not running. She’s water-standing.

I wonder if I’ll get kicked out of this lane?

I am hot.

I wonder if the water tastes saltier because I am sweating?

Is my key still stuck to my head?

<Patting back of head while breast-stroking>

It is! Good!

What would I do if it wasn’t there?

How ironic would that be?

If by trying to protect my stuff, I end up losing the  key.

Which would be worse: having someone steal my stuff because I left the key to my lock on the deck, or not being able to get to my stuff because I tied the key to my goggles and it fell off and disappeared into the pool drain?

Not sure.

Those girls have on the exact same suit.

I wonder if they’re on a team together?

If they are, then it’s not a good team because I’m faster than them.

I wonder if the lifeguard would actually notice if someone drowned?

Are they allowed to talk on their cell phones on duty?

I bet they are breaking the rules.

<Scanning bottom of pool to make sure no swimmers need to be rescued.>

How weird that I can’t wait to get out of the water to cool down.

I bet that’s why that woman was sitting on a chair in the shower: heat stroke.

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Don’t get it right – just get it written.

11 Nov

Quiz: I say, “NaNoWriMo,” and you say: 

  1. Nice to meet you, Mork from Ork!
  2. Lay off the wine!
  3. How many words do you have?

The correct answer is #3 (although #2 may have validity, depending on the day).

If you haven’t heard of it, NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. Every November (since 1999, officially), writers around the world sit down and commit themselves to cranking out a novel (well, technically it’s kind of a novella because the word count is 50,000) during the 30 days of November. Last year over 200,000 writers participated.

It’s pretty great because it forces you to live by the adage, “Don’t get it write, get it written.” When you’re trying to crank out roughly 2,000 words each day on a cohesive theme, there’s no room for editing, ego or over-thinking. You just show up, put the words on the page and keep moving. It’s a pretty great exercise to force people into a writing habit.

The year I lived in France, I wrote two drafts of a manuscript. I believe the final word count was somewhere around 130,000, which is still fairly short. I was able to do it by imposing discipline on myself: every day I didn’t let myself leave the apartment until I’d put at least 1,000 words down, and I had to find another 1,000 before the day was up. Some days I wrote as if in a creative fugue, but most days I just muscled through it. But you know what? At the end of a a few months, I had a complete manuscript.

Since returning (eight – gasp!) years ago, that manuscript has sat in a little electronic folder on laptop after laptop. I haven’t touched it since I wrote it, mainly because I got sick of it. However, it’s also paralyzed me and prevented me from moving on and writing something else… I keep kind of feeling like I shouldn’t move on until I finish the second draft and put it to bed.

Well, I’m tired of waiting. Tired of having it sit there like a pile of cold peas, telling me I can’t move on to dessert until I eat them. And they aren’t even warm any more. (If they ever were is debatable.)

So here goes… if you don’t see as many pithy posts over the next few weeks, assume I’m off shooting for a word count in the NaNoWriMo world. And for my fellow writers out there – good luck!

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Clearly, I’ve seen too many movies.

10 Nov

Sunday, in the wake of the Oyster Festival, Urbanna was a different town. With only an occasional person on the street in comparison to the thousands from the previous day, it felt almost ghostly. Both Alan and I were mildly creeped out by it, which might explain why my brain gravitated toward paranoia.

The owners of the B&B were incredibly nice people, with an expansive sense of hospitality. They took a shine to Alan and me, so they offered to take us out on their boat Sunday afternoon.

The day was gorgeous – 70 degrees and sunny with a bright blue sky. The trees lining the river were vivid shades of red, orange and yellow. It was like being in a commercial for the Rappahannock River or – in keeping with my general paranoia – a horror movie.

So instead of simply relaxing and absorbing the scenery as we shuttled up the river, I started looking around nervously, imaging that they were taking us somewhere to kill us. Spotting a shovel on the deck, I envisioned our captain whacking Alan in the head with it, then pushing him overboard. The phrase “watery grave” danced in my head.

After we returned to the B&B (safely, I might add), I told Alan what I’d been thinking.

He laughed. “And what would their plan be with you after they killed me?”

“Human trafficking? Indentured servitude? Take your pick!” I was a bit indignant that he didn’t give me credit for having value to them. Alan just rolled his eyes.

So, before our next vacation, I have it all figured out. Depending on where we’re going, I’ll rent a few movies for him:

  • If we’re staying at a B&B again: Psycho 
  • Water-based vacation: Cape Fear
  • Writing/skiing retreat: The Shining
  • Iowa: Children of the Corn
  • Pennsylvania: Dracula (C’mon! It sounds kind of like Transylvania)
  • Camping: Blair Witch Project

Then we’ll see who’s laughing. And who’s holding a shovel.

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