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.

Up In the Air

Greetings from O’Hare airport, where I have some advice for my fellow airfare travelers who seem to have ZERO prior flying experience (and also where I may have had a few too many Starbuck’s latte’s):

• You probably failed to notice this in your catatonic travel-trance, but there’s only ONE exit outta this bird for you and the 123 passengers behind you. Therefore, the proper way to exit a plane does not involve you drawing up sharp (!) as soon as you cross the threshold at the end of the gangplank. Yes – you need to find your connection…No, they do not generally post that information within the first 5 feet of the gate exit. Seriously, I know this feels like a strange-new-airport-world to you, but let’s go boldly in the direction of….traffic, shall we?
• Ummmm….the preceding advice goes for the ladies’ room exit as well
• Airline connection times do not adequately factor in a handicap for tall girls in pumps. I know I should be able to get from gate E37 to gate B24 in 39 minutes [and on casual Friday’s, I can]. However, when wearing anything higher than ballet slippers, I need at least an extra 20 minutes to accommodate the blister-nursing that must occur. Honestly, instead of asking me whether I need a vegetarian meal option, United should ask me to estimate my transition times and schedule connections accordingly.
• Just because they’re not marked does not mean airports don’t have traffic lanes - please respect them.  I don’t care how inviting Auntie Anne’s pretzel stand looks, do not make a left turn from the recycle bin across the way…especially when the tall girl in pumps is in the passing lane beside you.

 I think I will dial down my caffeine on the next trip.

Garage Sale Post-Mortem

Well, it’s done. The garage sale at my mother’s house that my sister and I were assigned to help with [ http://savemethecall.blogspot.com/2010/04/garage-sale.html]  is in the books. And here are a few words of advice for others considering such an event:

• When looking for garage sale assistance, consider someone more capable than me. A five-year-old, for example. Within the first 30 minutes of garage sale prep, I smashed a coffee pot canister, lost the key hanging out of a [locked] filing cabinet and threw away what looked NOT like the critical bracket to the giant awning, but just a piece of plastic. My garage sale contributions were upside down for the remainder of the event.
• The last week of July, also known as heat stroke apogee, is the BEST time to have a garage sale. Deadens the haggling senses.
• As my sister told us, “When you put the ad in the paper, make sure and reference ‘tools’”. McC: But we don’t have any tools. Sis: So what. Including “tools” really packs them in and we’ll just tell them all the tools were sold to the early birds.
• Also in the ad, make sure you put “absolutely no early birds”
• Keep in mind there’s a fine line [a 50¢ sticker, to be exact] between junk and merchandise.
• Do not let the owner of the junk merchandise supervise what gets added to the “sell” (vs. “keep”) stack. Exceptions were granted for too valuable, too new and too old. Why don’t we just call this a used book sale?
• Make sure the proceeds from the garage sale will cover the workers’ wine bill for the week day.

Finally….seriously consider outsourcing.  In my most significant contribution, I convinced my mother that the Goodwill is a “garage sale aggregator”. We may not have earned the $75 we had planned on, but we saved ourselves the knee-slapping good time that accompanies heat stroke. And no early birds.

The Night the Lights Went Out in Socal

Just when I thought I had completely settled into my San Diego digs [it has been 2 years since I moved, afterall] – I have experienced yet another episode of domestic absurdity. A couple of weeks ago, I came home from the gym needing to quickly get ready to go out. It happened to be one of those days here in SoCal where it is 74 degrees outside the house, but 84 degrees inside the house. [as you will recall from my earlier post, we do not have central heat/air. http://savemethecall.blogspot.com/2009/09/heat-wave.html]

So I cleverly thought I would create a freon oasis by ratcheting up both of the mobile air conditioners in the bedrooms [did I mention Rita was out of town?] and closing the hallway doors – my own walk-in cooler.

When I stepped outta the shower, I was alarmed not to hear the reverberation of jet engines taking off, which happens to be the oh-so-easy-to-sleep-to sound that the air conditioners make when running. The first thing I thought is “oh great, I blew a fuse.” Or fuse(s). Or the mother-of-all fuses that controls every stinkin room in the house except the kitchen. [sigh] The second thing I thought is “hmmm, I wonder where the hell the fuse box is” [what am I – A Real Housewife of Florida Canyon??? How do I not know where the fuse box is??]. The third thing I thought of was [of course] “call Nic”. [I resisted that last one.] After walking around the house for 30 minutes, however, checking. Every. Single. Vertical. Surface, I still had not found the $%#$@* fuse box. So my next thought was…. “Better hammer-call Rita”. [Because if someone is too busy to answer their phone the first time, they probably just need you to call them 7 more times.]

Unfortunately, my adorable neediness was NOT immediately rewarded with a call back from Rita, so I had to finish getting ready in the sauna-like kitchen...although…to my credit, I did resist the urge to get ready amidst the escaping coolness of the opened refrigerator.

Later that night, when Rita called me back, her first comment was “Honey, you can’t run both of those at the same time”. Hot, frustrated and now…volatile…”ummm thanks for that enlightenment?!? [sarcastic pun intended]…Were you afraid I wouldn’t connect the 200 lb air conditioning dots?” [Just a word of advice…when your lifeline calls you back, you should probably ratchet down the unwarranted surliness.]

The good news? I learned where the fuse box was (on the backside of the garage…how intuitive). The bad news – I couldn’t get the industrial-grade bastard open. [Real housewife indeed.] The even worse news? I had to go to the airport the next morning at 5 am [i.e., before the light-giving sun was up]. I’m a lousy packer anyway, but force me to pack by the light of my blackberry and it just isn’t pretty. [You know what you forget when you pack in the pitch black? Sunglasses, that’s what. I’m sure I won’t need those in Nashville anyway.]

I did feel better the next morning when John the Taxi Driver couldn’t open the fuse box either. But that’s the dog-sitter’s problem, now isn’t it??

Irish Twins

Some of you have heard this story already…

For my sister’s 40th birthday, I decided to put together a scrap book of old photos from when she was a kid. Since my sis is only 11 months older than I am [awk, my wee Irish Twin], most of her kiddie pics inevitably include me somewhere in the shot. Which is only fitting since most of the time we were dressed. Exactly. The. Same. You see, my mother made all of our clothes. As in....measure the kids, cut the fabric, sit in front of the sewing machine…make the clothes. [Are you kidding me? I can barely get my blouse buttoned straight and mom made every single outfit my sister and I wore during the 1970s?? Who’s child am I, anyway?]

Mom would buy one sewing pattern and make two outfits from it [unfortunately, even though I was younger…I always had to have the pattern adjusted out] So starting when I was about 3 years old, all the photos of me and sis include the two of us dressed alike. Except in every picture, Nic always looks cute as a button…blonde little ponytails, ribbons to match her outfit, white bobby socks…adorable. I, on the other hand, would have on the same little gaucho outfit as Nic [remember gauchos??], except my collar would be inside my shirt, my hair would be sticking up over some cut in my forehead and Pony’s had replaced my patent leather shoes. We consistently looked like “before” and “after” models. In one picture I was even wearing shorts under the skirt mom had obviously forced me to wear [I was a skort prodigy].

Then in about 1980, it all comes to a grinding halt. Either I just got too big [not tall] to make outfits for or mom finally figured out she could save herself 14 hours of sewing by spending $1.99 on kids’ clothes at Wal-Mart. Either way, individuality reigned..…unfortunately. So there I am, in the picture from the 1980 neighborhood Christmas party wearing a tan leisure suit and brown paisley shirt collar. The shoes didn’t make the shot, but if I had to guess….Hush Puppies. Are you kidding me??? And some people think gayness is a choice. If so, I was a pretty decisive 9 year-old.

Thank god I didn’t go any further with the pics. I have a terrible memory of a 1981 Halloween costume that involved an FBI outfit that I don’t care to revisit.