Thanksgiving!

Since it's Thanksgiving night, I should take a minute to remember the things I appreciate.

So here it is....The Top 10 Things I'm Thankful For:

10.  A holiday where I’m not taking advantage of the free in-flight cocktail on Southwest.

9.  That Rita thinks of the Bloody Mary bar as “cooking” and takes it just as seriously.

8.  Speaking of Bloody Mary’s – I am thankful to spend T-giving with friends that prefer a Turkey shot to a Turkey trot

7.  I'm thankful that even people that don’t like football want to watch games on Thanksgiving

6.  That calories don’t count on Thanksgiving

5.  Fat jeans

4.  I’m thankful that there are enough doors in this house to close off the pets during dinner

3.  That somewhere still stays open on T-giving to sell propane to those of us who may have forgotten to get it yesterday (no matter how many times we were reminded)

2.  That we still have 52 Republican debates remaining this year and Rick Perry’s going to be in all of them

1.  I’m thankful that the turkey that’s been chilling in the driveway for two days in a cooler that didn't quite close didn’t draw the attention of Molly or our resident skunk

Kitten Chow How

We’ve recently added a few new members to the family.  New kitten Winston McPirkl and his sister McKinley (my vote for Clementine for the 2^nd kitten was overruled by the non-WWII buffs in the house) joined the family six weeks ago.  I told Rita I felt like Brangelina adopting more kids for the nanny to take care of, but what the hell….there’s worse things than being raised by our petsitter(s). 

As a direct result of our recent additions, Molly the wonderdog has blown up like a balloon.  You see, when Molly Magoo is not busy eating the high-calorie kitten food, she is enjoying the all-you-can-eat-buffet of kittie roca from the litter box.  [ewwwwww]  For the first week the kittens were here, we kept thinking “wow, they are HUNGRY.  Look how much food they are going through.”  [mother of the year!]  Then on Day 5 we caught Molly licking her lips with a pellet of the good stuff dangling from her whisker.  Keep in mind, that this is the dog who has been on an all-veggie diet for the better part of a decade.  She hasn’t had a “full-flavor” anything in about 7 years, (but we keep telling her that carrots are just as good). 

To rein things in, we put the cat's food on the second floor of the kittie condo, where we thought it would be out of reach – only to find the little sausage ball could SOMEHOW get up there (every day for a week) and steal the kitten’s food.  The old girl can't even walk around the block without heavy breathing and yet she’s a doggie Olympian in the high jump.  Turns out Molly has a vertical leap that is exactly as high as the kitten food is from the ground. 

So now the kitten food is on top of Rita's desk (did I mention she is out of town this week?).  I am guessing that won’t be a permanent arrangement – and I’m not even sure if it’s enough.  Pretty soon, those cats are going to have to ascend Mount Refrigeranjaro just to eat breakfast. 

I don’t know why Magoo chases those little guys…they’re her meal ticket...literally. 

United

I feel sorry for anyone who has to provide customer service to me:

1. After I’ve had 4 or 5 cups of coffee
2. When I’d rather be home
3. And especially when I happen to be in an airplane boarding line, where I seem to lose my pleasant disposition mind.  Honest to god, if I acted all the time like I do in airplane boarding lines…..well…..I’d be the Big Tall Bitch my employees refer to me as [ummmm…..uh-oh].  As an A-list/premier/silver member of every airline in the country I think I must live in a perpetual state of platinum envy [always the bridesmaid and never the first class bride] and it brings out the WORST in me.

Which brings us to Friday’s little travelogue.  I mean…here I was, all excited to be taking my first United flight since achieving grand poo-bah [i.e., silver] status on United, only to draw the gate agent who:

• has yet to complete her how-not-to-be-a-bitch-to-your-customers training 
• is in the midst of an IRS audit [oh wait, that’s me.  And yet I wasn’t the one who started this bitch-down]
• couldn’t get her (grand)kids to listen to her this morning and is going to take it out on everybody who doesn’t appear to be aging as badly – and by that I mean the passenger with the oxygen tank.  [Whatever.  She was mean.]

Let’s just say that she and the Soup Nazi and can vie for keynote speaker at the next Occupational Nazi conference. 

Besides, who knew they could actually enforce that sign that says “your bag must fit in here”??  I routinely walk past hundreds of those models guarded by TSA agents with GUNS and I never give my bigger-than-most-Samsonite-luggage-from-the-70s rollerbag a second thought. Besides, I thought those models were a suggestion….especially for us silver-type elites.  Seriously, I can almost always cram that bastard into the carryon compartment, usually without even cracking the plastic housing of the overhead.

I probably should have known I was in trouble when she made the early-boarding gentlemen count his oxygen tank and pillbox as all of his allotted carryons – say goodbye to your fanny-pack, poor guy.  When she made the Marine check his completely collapsible duffel bag, I should have just called it a day for my own person-sized luggage.

But nooooo….I thought I could just roller on by.  “Ma’am, does your bag fit in that guide over there?”  Now….you know which guide I’m talking about…..the metal skeleton thing that is a fraction of the size of the actual overhead.  Like some smart-ass was in charge of building enforcement models that day.  I don’t even think it’s built to SCALE nevermind actual size.  Seriously…..my rollerbag didn’t’ fit in, on or near that damn model.  “Give me a break lady, my backpack wouldn’t fit in that stupid thing.”  Ummmmmm, WRONG $^!%@&!’in ANSWER!  I damn near lost everything I own to that Gate Gaddafi.  After a hasty, profanity-laden repacking of my backpack to remove some of the more “bulgey” items, I negotiated the release carryon of at least my (now anorexic) backpack.  But not before I sat off to the side for 15 minutes reorganizing every single compartment in reach while snarkily saying – “What about HIS bag, I bet it doesn’t fit either.  Or is he Platinum??” about 15 times.  [As I said, boarding gates & my better judgment don’t seem to be well acquainted with one another.]  I’m probably lucky I didn’t get jumped in the exit row by my fellow passengers. 

And I may have escaped with my power-cordless laptop [power cords are very bulgey], but boy was I steamed.  I considered several insurgent tactics to get back at United, such as “forgetting” that my medication was in my recently confiscated checked bag.  Then after they frantically scrambled to get my unjustly checked bag from the bowels of the plane, I could jauntily retrieve the Emergen-C from my suitcase. Ha, ha, ha.  But all of my ridiculous plots ended with me spending the day with TSA while my bag returned to San Diego, so I just shut up.    

All I can say is United must be bonusing their employees on checked baggage quotas [and Jessica Tandy is gunning for the President’s Circle], because I was just one of many disgruntled poo-bah types shuffling baggage-less down the aisles [even after I quit ratting out other passengers].  And while the overhead compartments in First Class looked crammed with bulbous, contraband luggage, Economy was a ghost town of half-empty storage.  The flight attendants actually requested we put our coats up there “so it doesn’t look like so much wasted space. Ha, ha.”

By the end of the flight….I had finally calmed down [or maybe the caffeine just wore off]…UNTIL they opened the Completely.  Empty.  Overhead.  Compartment.  Above.  Me. 

New Fireplace

When Rita stays home for a week instead of traveling for work…she sure makes it count, by god.  Which more often than not….involves a minor renovation of some sort.  Behold our soon-to-be-new-fireplace. 

I guess suffering through these 70 degree days has finally gotten to us and we are ready to do something about the previous “Trading Spaces” fireplace.  I mean, we have no heat for chrissakes, when it dips into the 50s….I need some relief. 

Here’s the thing though – I’m on the road for work….what…48 weeks out of the year?  Wouldn’t scheduling all this demolition and commotion while we’re GONE be the smarter way to go???  [Obviously, someone doesn’t trust random workmen with their own key and full run of the house like I do.]

Monday morning brought all kinds of excitement.  First of all, we moved every single thing out of the living room so as to make the rest of the house largely uninhabitable too.  [Imagine Rita’s surprise when the remote control we lost in 2009 showed up behind my VHS movie collection – I could have SWORN the cleaning lady lost that.]   And who knew that when you take out the rug in the living room, it has the acoustics of the Metropolitan Opera.  Now when Molly barks at the mailman you can hear it from six blocks away instead of just two.    

Speaking of acoustics….I wasn’t expecting the guys to have to use that jack hammer all day Monday.  In the room next to my office.  During my conference calls. 

But the workguys were really good.  They sealed off the room with a sheet of plastic and barely ever tried to sing along to southern rock station playing from their radio.  In fact, it took our vicious guard dog a day and a half to realize someone else was in the house [those clear plastic sheets can be DECEPTIVE, I tell you].  But when she did figure out we had intruders….she really showed them who was boss [please see earlier comment re:  acoustics-amplified barking].

But I think little Molly Magoo likes the new fireplace.  Last night when the workguys left, she went right over to it and stood on the base. 

I thought the paw prints in the new hearth were cute. 

This Sort of Thing Never Happens on Southwest

Rough finish to my United flight from San Diego to Philly today.  After we land, I go to get my big wooly winter coat out of the overhead compartment and I initially think…”wow, someone neatly folded my coat for me after I just shoved it in here” [with my apologies to Rita’s winter coat that I’ve borrowed for the season].  But then I realize…nooooooo, someone didn’t neatly FOLD my coat, they TOOK my coat, leaving theirs instead.  Nice, but since I am not a size medium and this is a man’s scarf…I don’t agree to the trade.

A stolen coat!  And it even had my brand new-Christmas-present scarf tucked into the sleeve.  [I’ve lost my Christmas present by January 3^rd, a new record.]  The guy in front of me could tell what was going on and helpfully offered (with a smile)…”at least they didn’t take your bag”.  Yeah, buddy, that’s right….it’s only 17 degrees here in Philly, but at least they only took the garment I need to prevent frostbite. 

What is the proper protocol in an airplane burglary?  Run to the flight attendant, of course.  I think she actually tried to talk me into taking the other coat and just calling it even…”But this one is a Calvin Klein?”.  This isn’t a swap meet, lady! [but ummm…how much money is in the pocket?]  So I stand there in the first row of business class, right next to all the elderly people waiting for their wheelchairs and basically practice my flight attendant skills for the next 20 minutes… “Welcome to Philadelphia” “Thanks for flying” “Happy new year to you too” on a focused coat vigil as Every.  Single.  Passenger.  Deplanes.   I mean seriously!  20 minutes?  How far can you go down the freezing gangplank before you realize you have the wrong coat and you [sheepishly, I would hope] return to the plane??? 

And as I looked at the older gentleman parked next to me, patiently waiting for his wheelchair….I realized that you get…not very far at all, as it turns out.  “Sir, that is a lovely woman’s scarf tucked into that coat….I think it belongs to me.” 

“No, ma’am I don’t think so.”  Did Ebenezer just call ME “ma’am”??  After stealing my coat???  Alright Old Man…we are going to do this thing, aren’t we?  Suddenly the flight attendant became the least enthusiastic judge & jury of all time.  “He took my coat!”  The old man wasn’t buying it.  That’s when I had to drop the hammer…”I think if you check that coat, it’s missing two buttons and there are half a dozen starbuckies receipts in the pocket.”  (With more apologies to Rita, but I’ve clearly made the coat my own.)

Let’s just say that I was warm and toasty leaving the airport in Philly.  Not sure about Ebenezer, though.  But goodness, with all the commotion there on the plane, I was practically in my rental car before I noticed I had the wrong suitcase.