Okay, so here's the story: on the last day of a conference in Orlando, a group of us went to a shopping mall to get away from the hotel for a little while. (Our conference was held at the same hotel where we were staying, so we had spent A LOT of "quality family time" in that building.) My friend Michael discovered a "surf store" in the mall called "Adrenalina" in which they had a surfing pool. When we first walked in the store, there was a group of about 15 kids, assumedly at a birthday party. I was fascinated. This had to be one of the best birthday parties ever. Somehow we just didn't grow up with "surfing parties" in Jackson, Mississippi. I can't think of why...
We lost several members of our group to a sale at Ann Taylor Loft, so I ended up watching the kid surfers on and off for long while. And the more I watched, the more I thought, "I could do that... I would do that..."
Problem #1: I have never even considered surfing as an option because of my intense fear of deep water (and the sharks contained therein).
Solution #1: This water was, at most, a couple of inches deep and upon detailed inspection appeared to be shark-free.
Problem #2: I had no clothing with me that was surf-appropriate - no shirt, no shorts, no towel.
Solution #2: They were having a 50% sale on the clearance rack.
Problem #3: There are only about 10 minutes until the next (and final?) surf session at 8:00. It's now or never.
Solution #3: I choose NOW! :)
I wandered back over to where Michael was waiting on the ATL crew and said, "According to the moms, it's $20 for a half hour and $40 for an hour... who's pitching in?" He looked at me and said, "Are you serious?" to which I replied, "Yeh, I'm serious! I'll do it!" He laughed and said, "Oh, I am IN - let's go!" The others all pitched in so that I didn't even have to pay for the session, and the salesgirl helped me buy my surfing gear right then and there - I signed all the release papers (because there can be some serious falls, as you'll witness), handed over my dry clothes to one of our group, and they clipped the tags off of my new shirt and shorts as I was walking into the tank.
It was me and (approximately) a 15-year old and two 12-year olds. The 12-year old girl fell and jammed her hand and had to leave. The two boys were pretty good - they managed to surf for decent periods of time and even do some "swishing" moves. (I didn't have time to pick up the lingo.) I was not so lucky. I will claim that my somersault combination on the first bodyboard is impressive and that I do an excellent impression of a newborn giraffe standing up for the first time when I got on the mini surfboard. I had all kinds of shaky jimmy-legs going on. But by the third time I was doing pretty well... right up until he let out the line a litte bit more. And then, WHOOSH! BOOM!
As you will see from the footage, I look neither athletic nor coordinated (which is mostly true - except on the dance floor); but I never expected to be. I clearly didn't miss my calling as professional surfer, but as a comedic stuntwoman?... maybe. ;) Thanks to my friends for putting up with (and documenting) my rarely-witnessed spontaneous side and to my instructor who did his best to hide his laughter from me (although you can totally see his facial expressions on the video).
Yes, it hurt to fall; but I was having too much fun to care. Yes, I was smiling and laughing the whole time, even though I was choking on water and blinded by chlorine. And yes, I was incredibly sore the next couple of days, but it was totally worth it. That was probably the best $50 I have ever spent on clothes. If they had any sort of facility like this nearby, I'd totally be hooked. But note to self: watch out for that first step! It's a doozy!
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Sunday, February 24, 2008
On the Home Front
When we were growing up, there was an understood rule that Mom could not be gone from the house for more than two days. Dad could handle work and kids and dinner and soccer practice and piano lessons for approximately 48 hours; but much longer after that, and order would slowly start to unravel. Outside of the yard, the "Home Front" just wasn't quite Dad's "niche."
However, since his retirement and Mom's hat trick of injuries the past couple of years, Dad has slowly found himself embarking on a new career of domestic training. Dad has had learn how to navigate the inner aisles of the grocery store (as opposed to the perimeter where the steak, eggs, and milk live). He has honed his skills in bathroom cleaning, kitchen mopping, and dog walking; and my mother has even let him iron. (No burns or scorches, to his credit.)
As blase' as this all may sound, we must recall that my mom has organized the daily cooking and cleaning of our household as though she had it mentally laid out on a multi-colored spreadsheet. (Perhaps she does, for all I know.) As a result, she has a certain mindset about how things "should" be done. Sheets should be washed on a certain day; freezers should be defrosted in a certain month; and all of these things should be done with a smile and a song worthy of Mary Poppins herself.
My dad's not really a "Julie Andrews musical" kind of guy. He has done pretty well in spite of it. But there has been the occasional... miscommunication, as would be expected. For example, Mom had told Dad what settings to use for a particularly tricky load of laundry. Mom's instructions did not reconcile with what Dad saw in the laundry room; so Dad (former engineer), drew a schematic of the front of the washing machine and took it to Mom for her to clarify. In response, my mother (former schoolteacher) sent my dad to the "Household Appliances" folder in her four-drawer filing cabinet to get the manual. A consensus was reached, and the laundry was finished; but this should answer a lot of questions for people who wonder why my brother and I are as... "detail-oriented" as we both are. And Type A shall wed Type A, and they shall begat Type A and Type A...
However, since his retirement and Mom's hat trick of injuries the past couple of years, Dad has slowly found himself embarking on a new career of domestic training. Dad has had learn how to navigate the inner aisles of the grocery store (as opposed to the perimeter where the steak, eggs, and milk live). He has honed his skills in bathroom cleaning, kitchen mopping, and dog walking; and my mother has even let him iron. (No burns or scorches, to his credit.)
As blase' as this all may sound, we must recall that my mom has organized the daily cooking and cleaning of our household as though she had it mentally laid out on a multi-colored spreadsheet. (Perhaps she does, for all I know.) As a result, she has a certain mindset about how things "should" be done. Sheets should be washed on a certain day; freezers should be defrosted in a certain month; and all of these things should be done with a smile and a song worthy of Mary Poppins herself.
My dad's not really a "Julie Andrews musical" kind of guy. He has done pretty well in spite of it. But there has been the occasional... miscommunication, as would be expected. For example, Mom had told Dad what settings to use for a particularly tricky load of laundry. Mom's instructions did not reconcile with what Dad saw in the laundry room; so Dad (former engineer), drew a schematic of the front of the washing machine and took it to Mom for her to clarify. In response, my mother (former schoolteacher) sent my dad to the "Household Appliances" folder in her four-drawer filing cabinet to get the manual. A consensus was reached, and the laundry was finished; but this should answer a lot of questions for people who wonder why my brother and I are as... "detail-oriented" as we both are. And Type A shall wed Type A, and they shall begat Type A and Type A...
How to Be a Hospital Belle
Lessons Learned from Mom's Hospital Stay
(1) Keep up with your pedicures - You never know when you might end up with a giant brace on your leg that only shows your toes, and it would not do for the doctors, nurses, or neighbors to see chipped Mauve Mania. That would be tacky.
(2) Remember your "Old Wives' Tales" - Somehow there was loose gum in the back of the ambulance, and somehow on the ride to the hospital it ended up in my mom's hair. And what dissolves gum from hair? Reaching back to her memories of my childhood, my gum-chewing ways, and my then waist-long hair, Mom knew that peanut butter would save the day. It took four coats, but I finally got all of the gum out.
It took another four hours to get the peanut butter out from my nails. Mom and I both smelled Jif-tastic the rest of the day.
(3) Train your daughter well - My mother keeps an overnight bag packed with a secondary set of makeup and hair products. My father, whose "travel kit" consists of razor, a toothbrush, and his glasses, could survive for a day or two with what he packs. My mother could survive for a week, outfit the backstage of a beauty pageant, and prepare afternoon tea with what she packs. (Take that, MacGyver.)
The morning after surgery, I took the bag to the hospital; and Mom wanted to "freshen up" right away. You have to understand, when my mother went into labor with me, she waited until the contractions were the requisite time apart, got up from her bedrest, put on her makeup, fixed her hair, and then called my father to take her to the hospital. That is my mother.
About an hour later, the physical therapist appeared for Mom's first round of PT. Knowing Mom had just had her accident and surgery the afternoon before, the therapist cheerfully reassured Mom that all she was going to have to do was get up out of bed, walk to the door, and then turn around and come back.
My mother was understandably less cheerful about the idea. As she got to the door, she became very dizzy (common effect from the hospital Rx); and the therapist brought her a chair. Fanning my mother and trying to keep her from passing out, the therapist leaned down to offer some comforting words and suddenly started. Peering more closely, she asked, astonished, "Did you get up and put make-up on this morning?"
Pale and "glistening" (Southern women don't sweat), my mother whispered, "Yes... my daughter..." The therapist turned to look at me questioningly. I smiled and nodded, "Priorities. Make-up first. Walking second."
I was brought up right.
(1) Keep up with your pedicures - You never know when you might end up with a giant brace on your leg that only shows your toes, and it would not do for the doctors, nurses, or neighbors to see chipped Mauve Mania. That would be tacky.
(2) Remember your "Old Wives' Tales" - Somehow there was loose gum in the back of the ambulance, and somehow on the ride to the hospital it ended up in my mom's hair. And what dissolves gum from hair? Reaching back to her memories of my childhood, my gum-chewing ways, and my then waist-long hair, Mom knew that peanut butter would save the day. It took four coats, but I finally got all of the gum out.
It took another four hours to get the peanut butter out from my nails. Mom and I both smelled Jif-tastic the rest of the day.
(3) Train your daughter well - My mother keeps an overnight bag packed with a secondary set of makeup and hair products. My father, whose "travel kit" consists of razor, a toothbrush, and his glasses, could survive for a day or two with what he packs. My mother could survive for a week, outfit the backstage of a beauty pageant, and prepare afternoon tea with what she packs. (Take that, MacGyver.)
The morning after surgery, I took the bag to the hospital; and Mom wanted to "freshen up" right away. You have to understand, when my mother went into labor with me, she waited until the contractions were the requisite time apart, got up from her bedrest, put on her makeup, fixed her hair, and then called my father to take her to the hospital. That is my mother.
About an hour later, the physical therapist appeared for Mom's first round of PT. Knowing Mom had just had her accident and surgery the afternoon before, the therapist cheerfully reassured Mom that all she was going to have to do was get up out of bed, walk to the door, and then turn around and come back.
My mother was understandably less cheerful about the idea. As she got to the door, she became very dizzy (common effect from the hospital Rx); and the therapist brought her a chair. Fanning my mother and trying to keep her from passing out, the therapist leaned down to offer some comforting words and suddenly started. Peering more closely, she asked, astonished, "Did you get up and put make-up on this morning?"
Pale and "glistening" (Southern women don't sweat), my mother whispered, "Yes... my daughter..." The therapist turned to look at me questioningly. I smiled and nodded, "Priorities. Make-up first. Walking second."
I was brought up right.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Xena: Beyond Thunderdome
My mom broke her leg last week (more on that later), and in the meantime, I am babysitting Xena here in Oxford while Mom transitions from hospital to home. Xena isn't overly aggressive or anything, but a 75-lb dog unexpectedly standing, sitting, or deciding to sleep on you can take your breath away whether or not you recently had orthopedic surgery.
You have to understand that Xena is a high maintenance dog (and this is coming from me). She wants attention ALL THE TIME. My parents call her "the velcro dog", and it's not because she's incredibly useful. Xena does not entertain herself very well - in her mind "play" means somebody else is immediately available to (a) throw the ball (b) hold the chew toy (c) observe with rapt attention while Xena destroys said ball or chew toy. And as a 75-lb. attention-seeker, Xena is very... persistent. Point in case from this morning: there are few things as disruptive as having a Doberman repeatedly shove her nose under your left elbow while you are trying to work on the computer. She is, you might say, "difficult" to ignore.
I had a few toys at my house for her, but Xena has systematically destroyed all of them. As I figured out last night that she was not "chewing", but rather eating the last one standing, I had to confiscate it from her, distract her with a piece of "Pupperoni", and then stash the mutilated toy in the freezer where she wouldn't smell it.
Today in desperation I went find some more toy victims. Dobermans have what you might call "powerful jaws" (even cowards like Xena), so most toys don't survive "playtime" for very long. There are standards that have to be met. I found 3 or 4 that should last a day or two. I will bring them out in stages, but the first was this rubber squeaky ring that cost less than $2. She went nuts over it.
Please do not judge the cinematography (or the condition of the house, as it has been Xena-fied. These are, in fact, different clips. I wish there were audio not only of Xena's barking and yowling at the ring but also of the ring's rather distressing death knells. Shout it out: "Two men enter! One man leaves! Two men enter! One man leaves!"
The ring lasted less than an hour before she broke through the plastic (and started ripping pieces off and swallowing them, of course). I had to take it away from her, and she knew I put it in the garbage. (See her pitiful camp out in front of the cabinet.)
This is why we use the freezer.
You have to understand that Xena is a high maintenance dog (and this is coming from me). She wants attention ALL THE TIME. My parents call her "the velcro dog", and it's not because she's incredibly useful. Xena does not entertain herself very well - in her mind "play" means somebody else is immediately available to (a) throw the ball (b) hold the chew toy (c) observe with rapt attention while Xena destroys said ball or chew toy. And as a 75-lb. attention-seeker, Xena is very... persistent. Point in case from this morning: there are few things as disruptive as having a Doberman repeatedly shove her nose under your left elbow while you are trying to work on the computer. She is, you might say, "difficult" to ignore.
I had a few toys at my house for her, but Xena has systematically destroyed all of them. As I figured out last night that she was not "chewing", but rather eating the last one standing, I had to confiscate it from her, distract her with a piece of "Pupperoni", and then stash the mutilated toy in the freezer where she wouldn't smell it.
Today in desperation I went find some more toy victims. Dobermans have what you might call "powerful jaws" (even cowards like Xena), so most toys don't survive "playtime" for very long. There are standards that have to be met. I found 3 or 4 that should last a day or two. I will bring them out in stages, but the first was this rubber squeaky ring that cost less than $2. She went nuts over it.
Please do not judge the cinematography (or the condition of the house, as it has been Xena-fied. These are, in fact, different clips. I wish there were audio not only of Xena's barking and yowling at the ring but also of the ring's rather distressing death knells. Shout it out: "Two men enter! One man leaves! Two men enter! One man leaves!"
The ring lasted less than an hour before she broke through the plastic (and started ripping pieces off and swallowing them, of course). I had to take it away from her, and she knew I put it in the garbage. (See her pitiful camp out in front of the cabinet.)
This is why we use the freezer.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Not a Creature Was Stirring, Not Even a... Cricket?
Apparently my house is the place where crickets come to die. Over the past few weeks, I have found their dead bodies by the dozen, clustered around my front doorstoop, outside the back door, inside the garage, etc. I sweep them away, but new ones kept appearing every day. I tried leaving their little cricket corpses for a while, thinking, you know, that they might "serve as a warning to others." Apparently crickets don't communicate that way.
What could be the cause of this strange phenomenon? Is it the weather turning colder? Is it some strange instinct that draws them to this particular plot of land? Is it the copious amounts of spider poison that I have spread around every door and window of the house? It's hard to say, really. One of nature's little mysteries, I guess...
Within the past week or two, Oxford has gone into a full-blown Southern "fall" with leaves changing color and fluttering down (both usually within the span of a week - this is one of the few processes that moves pretty quickly in The South). The oak, gum, and magnolia trees are all shedding their respective acorns, gumballs, and empty seedpods as well, which makes walking around Ole Miss a continuous exercise in testing my reaction time and reflexes. A "beautiful scenic campus" is all well and good until it's dropping down on your head (especially the magnolia pods, which are about the size of a fist).
I will give the Mid-Atlantic/Northeast credit for this: they do "fall" much better there than we do down here. It's almost as if God gave that part of the country the deluxe Crayola "Fall Foliage" 64-pack (complete with special edition glitter crayons) and then handed the standard 8-pack to Mississippi, mumbling, "Um... you can make do with these. Just blend a lot."
But that's okay because in absence of a wide spectrum of colors, we've had a lovely range of temperatures mostly in the 60s and 70s. And given a choice between scenery and temperature, I think we all know which takes priority in my world. (If you don't know, please consult any of my coworkers who had to go to Ottawa with me in February of 2006.) You could put me in a plastic bubble with a constant temperature of about 75 degrees, and I can guarantee that I'd be much happier than if I were out in a gorgeous landscape where it was 40 and windy. I'm not saying I'd want to live in the bubble forever... just maybe 'til it warmed up a bit outside.
I head into finals over the next few weeks, so I don't think there will be anything noteworthy to share there. But then I begin my Christmas Break tour of Maryland, Virginia, Mississippi, and California; and I always have adventures when I travel. What will it be this time? Will the battery in my hotel door lock die, trapping me (and all other hotel personnel) outside of my room again? Will my airplane seatbelt strap mysteriously end up in the lap of the gentleman next to me, forcing me to wake him up and ask him to hand the strap to me rather than make a disastrous reach for it myself? Will I charm another celebrity into waiting for me after we disembark? (Hey, Bill Nye the Science Guy - remember me? ;] How you doin'?)
I just never know...
What could be the cause of this strange phenomenon? Is it the weather turning colder? Is it some strange instinct that draws them to this particular plot of land? Is it the copious amounts of spider poison that I have spread around every door and window of the house? It's hard to say, really. One of nature's little mysteries, I guess...
Within the past week or two, Oxford has gone into a full-blown Southern "fall" with leaves changing color and fluttering down (both usually within the span of a week - this is one of the few processes that moves pretty quickly in The South). The oak, gum, and magnolia trees are all shedding their respective acorns, gumballs, and empty seedpods as well, which makes walking around Ole Miss a continuous exercise in testing my reaction time and reflexes. A "beautiful scenic campus" is all well and good until it's dropping down on your head (especially the magnolia pods, which are about the size of a fist).
I will give the Mid-Atlantic/Northeast credit for this: they do "fall" much better there than we do down here. It's almost as if God gave that part of the country the deluxe Crayola "Fall Foliage" 64-pack (complete with special edition glitter crayons) and then handed the standard 8-pack to Mississippi, mumbling, "Um... you can make do with these. Just blend a lot."
But that's okay because in absence of a wide spectrum of colors, we've had a lovely range of temperatures mostly in the 60s and 70s. And given a choice between scenery and temperature, I think we all know which takes priority in my world. (If you don't know, please consult any of my coworkers who had to go to Ottawa with me in February of 2006.) You could put me in a plastic bubble with a constant temperature of about 75 degrees, and I can guarantee that I'd be much happier than if I were out in a gorgeous landscape where it was 40 and windy. I'm not saying I'd want to live in the bubble forever... just maybe 'til it warmed up a bit outside.
I head into finals over the next few weeks, so I don't think there will be anything noteworthy to share there. But then I begin my Christmas Break tour of Maryland, Virginia, Mississippi, and California; and I always have adventures when I travel. What will it be this time? Will the battery in my hotel door lock die, trapping me (and all other hotel personnel) outside of my room again? Will my airplane seatbelt strap mysteriously end up in the lap of the gentleman next to me, forcing me to wake him up and ask him to hand the strap to me rather than make a disastrous reach for it myself? Will I charm another celebrity into waiting for me after we disembark? (Hey, Bill Nye the Science Guy - remember me? ;] How you doin'?)
I just never know...
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Huntin' Gators
I KID YOU NOT. I went to an alligator hunt. Normally I would not feel compelled to drive three hours and hang out at a wildlife ranger station in the dead of night, but that's the kind of dedicated cultural liaison that I am.
Here's the scoop: it's illegal to hunt alligators in Mississippi normally; but two weekends out of the year, the Dept of Wildlife and Fisheries grants permission to a select few. They have a hunter's "raffle" of sorts: anyone with a valid sportsman's license can enter for a chance to gain possession of one of 120 alligator "tags." Each tag allows up to two boats of up to five people on each boat the opportunity to go out spotlighting on the Ross Barnett Reservoir from 6:00 PM - midnight for a Fri/Sat/Sun trio. Each tag allows for 2 gators: one 4-7 foot and one 7 foot and above. They have rangers and biologists on hand to gather the length, width, etc. data. At most, they will thus gather 240 alligators; and trust me, we've got that many to spare down here.
This year they had over 1000 entries. One family I met even entered their nine month old son's name to have another chance to win a tag, seeing as how his sportsman's license was already set up. They had this child at the ranger station that night. He may have been wearing camouflage footie pajamas...
My mom found out about this whole shin-dig from one of our lakehouse neighbors, Sherry, who was our official guide to the ranger station where the "bringin' in o' the gators" took place. We followed her there at about 9:30 on a Saturday night. (Welcome to my social life in Mississippi. Don't be bitter just because you're jealous.)
There was already a small crowd of about a dozen or so, gathered around a red pick-up truck parked in front of the weighing pulley. And there, lining almost the entire interior perimeter of the truckbed was a 12-ft alligator. It was dead (otherwise tying it to the pulley and weighing it would have been extremely difficult). It weighed in at 463 lbs. - "underweight", according to the men gathered around the truck.
Here is the tale of the catch, best as I can recount it from two of the hunters themselves: Baseball Cap Man (couldn't see his face well because of the spotlights at the station) and Paul.
BCM: "We'd been out fer a while, and then Paul saw this un's bubble trail. So, we tossed the line over and caught him right away. Took us 'bout two hours to catch 'im, but he took the bait real quick; it was the rest of it that took so long. Now, Davey'd told us that if they're underwater fer more 'n an hour, they're prob'ly day-ud ('dead'), and he was under for most of an hour an a half. So, we'd figured he was long gone. We started pullin' 'im up, and turns out we had 'im snagged through thuh tay-ul ('tail')! I dunno' how we kept 'im on the lihne, but he stayed ohn. So, we're haulin' 'im up, thinkin' he's done drowned; an' his back feet hit that boat ramp, an' his legs tensed up, an' I tell ya', HE COME TO LIHFE. I yelled, 'Paul, get the gun! Get the gun!', 'n he [the alligator] is draggin' me in the water up to my thighs..."
At this point "Paul" cuts in, laughing, "Yeah, I was takin' pictures! I finally put the camera down and grabbed the bow, but the arrow bounced right off his hay-ud ('head'). [Reporter's commentary: Paul should have watched more Discovery Channel as a kid. Alligators developed all that armor for a reason.] So I threw that down and got the 410, and that took him out."
By the way, a "410" is a shotgun. (My mom had to tell me. Don't ask.)
As proof of their story, there was a snag in the back of the gator's tail, a shotgun "scar" through his head; and a circumstantial nick across his skull that may or may not have come from Reservoir Warrior Paul's hunter's bow and arrow.
My mom asked, "What are y'all going to do with it?" "Oh, we'll eat it," they all agreed, nodding in confirmation, "Grill it, fry it..." * "But what will you do with it tonight?" (My mom has never been a fan of letting things sit out overnight.) BCM shrugged, "Oh, we'll put it in a cooler - someone's volunteered one already." My mom and I looked at each other, looked down at the 12-ft alligator, did the traditional Southern female mental calculations of "How much freezer space do we have?" and looked back at each other, eyebrows furrowed. Mom asked uncertainly, "How big of a cooler is it?" BCM sort of cocked his head and answered very matter-of-factly, "It's a walk-in, ma'am." Naturally.
We heard rumors that a 13-footer had been caught and was headed to the station; but by close to midnight, Mom and I were tired and ready to go, even though only one other small gator had arrived. We called it a night. I know, I know -- gator hunt sissies. We were newbies, though; next time we'll be ready. Heck we may be there -- Frankie wants to enter next year. Shocker.
Did I mention they caught the 12-footer not far from where our lakehouse is? Who wants to come visit?
* Yes, I've eaten alligator before. It tastes like chicken.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Sometimes it's just not Debbie Reynolds
As has been mentioned many times, my brother and I were both Discovery Channel kids. We spent our entire childhood catching frogs and toads and lizards and things. I have noticed a couple of toads that appear every now and then onto the walkway right outside my front door. I assume they live in the flowerbed (or, thanks to the drought, the flower deathbed). Sometimes if I flip on the front light and peek out the front door very quickly, I can see them before they hop away into the darkness. They make me happy -- I don't want to catch them (anymore); I just like knowing that they're there. And, no, I haven't done something ridiculous and girly like naming them...
So, anyway, tonight before going to bed, I went out to look for Fred and Ethel (I mean, the toads), and what do I see? Not Fred. Not Ethel. I see... my mortal enemy. My nemesis. My, "No, not that! Anything but that! I'll talk! I'll talk!" That darn eight-legged consigliere of the devil himself stupid sitting right outside my stupid front door.
My brother, the braver of us two, would have said "It's just a stupid little wolf spider." True that. It definitely wasn't the biggest wolf spider I've ever seen. (I still see that one in my sleep.) But it was big enough. (I have a firm belief that any spider bigger than a silver dollar should be restricted to the jungle. Or possibly Australia.) And it was looking. At. My. House.
Most people would say, "Just leave him alone; let him eat the bugs." However, most people do not have my instinctive reaction to spiders of climbing on top of the nearest piece of furniture (or nearest person) and screaming for help. Ergo, "leaving him alone" is not really an option for me if I ever want to sleep, nap, blink, or generally have a regular heartbeat within these walls in the near future. I do have a rule that as long as spiders stay in their territory (I.e., "outside"), that's fair. But when they invade my territory (I.e., "inside"), then we're gonna' have a fight. This one was close enough.
I closed the door, put on my tennis shoes, pulled my hair back, and armed myself appropriately. Weapons of choice: bug spray in one hand; Lysol in the other. [Nota Bene: The story of "How to Use Lysol As a Defense Against Spiders" may be retold in a follow-up post.] I opened the door gently. He was still there. I carefully stepped waaaaaay over him, pulled the door shut behind me, pivoted on tiptoe, and assumed a "graffiti warrior" yoga pose, facing the enemy.
I hit him with the bug spray, careful not to spray so close as to knock him towards the door. He didn't flinch. I hit him with the Lysol. Some ants scattered from underneath him. He barely twitched. I thought, "Is he dead already? Did the ants already get to him, and he just hasn't curled up or something?"
Spiders don't have normal lungs like most animals do: they have "book lungs". They work more like gills than lungs, really. I'm telling you, I watched a lot of Discovery Channel. Plus, as Sun Tsu would say, "Know your enemy..."
Sorry, Discovery nerd tangent. The point is that spiders don't breathe like we do. So I waited a few seconds, trying to calculate the potential absorption rate of chemicals into his system. He didn't do much. I sprayed again, alternating cans. He moved towards the wall, but not too quickly. I sprayed again; and at this point I had sprayed enough that as the human being with normal lungs, I had to take a step back and refresh my own oxygen supply.
Maybe it was the rush of clean oxygen, but it somewhere in this mix I realized that those ants were awfully tiny. And didn't really move like ants. And weren't really shaped like ants. Oh, no, no, no, no, NO...
For the non-Discovery kids out there, I should mention here that wolf spiders often carry their newly hatched young on their backs. He was a she. And she had babies. Many babies. Whiiiiiine...
The conclusion of this story is that "she" is officially dead. Confirmed. And my front stoop is wet with Lysol and bug spray in my attempt to drown any other living book-lunged creature in that area. I felt kind of bad, taking out a mom. I mean, I read Charlotte's Web when I was little; and I cried when Charlotte died and Wilbur the pig had to raise her babies. (Like pigs do in children's stories.) But Charlotte was sort of an idealistic, abstract animal who in her most concrete form lived in two dimensions and sang pretty songs in Debbie Reynolds's voice. That was not who was sitting on my front doorstep tonight.
As I've said before, the great thing about phobias is that they don't have to make any sense. I really can't be certain that I got rid of the all of the teeny-tiny baby spiders. Statistically speaking, I'm fairly confident that I didn't. So, I'll probably be sleeping with some lights on tonight. Maybe I should watch the Charlotte's Web cartoon movie for a little positive therapy. I'm pretty sure The Discovery Channel would not be a good idea.
So, anyway, tonight before going to bed, I went out to look for Fred and Ethel (I mean, the toads), and what do I see? Not Fred. Not Ethel. I see... my mortal enemy. My nemesis. My, "No, not that! Anything but that! I'll talk! I'll talk!" That darn eight-legged consigliere of the devil himself stupid sitting right outside my stupid front door.
My brother, the braver of us two, would have said "It's just a stupid little wolf spider." True that. It definitely wasn't the biggest wolf spider I've ever seen. (I still see that one in my sleep.) But it was big enough. (I have a firm belief that any spider bigger than a silver dollar should be restricted to the jungle. Or possibly Australia.) And it was looking. At. My. House.
Most people would say, "Just leave him alone; let him eat the bugs." However, most people do not have my instinctive reaction to spiders of climbing on top of the nearest piece of furniture (or nearest person) and screaming for help. Ergo, "leaving him alone" is not really an option for me if I ever want to sleep, nap, blink, or generally have a regular heartbeat within these walls in the near future. I do have a rule that as long as spiders stay in their territory (I.e., "outside"), that's fair. But when they invade my territory (I.e., "inside"), then we're gonna' have a fight. This one was close enough.
I closed the door, put on my tennis shoes, pulled my hair back, and armed myself appropriately. Weapons of choice: bug spray in one hand; Lysol in the other. [Nota Bene: The story of "How to Use Lysol As a Defense Against Spiders" may be retold in a follow-up post.] I opened the door gently. He was still there. I carefully stepped waaaaaay over him, pulled the door shut behind me, pivoted on tiptoe, and assumed a "graffiti warrior" yoga pose, facing the enemy.
I hit him with the bug spray, careful not to spray so close as to knock him towards the door. He didn't flinch. I hit him with the Lysol. Some ants scattered from underneath him. He barely twitched. I thought, "Is he dead already? Did the ants already get to him, and he just hasn't curled up or something?"
Spiders don't have normal lungs like most animals do: they have "book lungs". They work more like gills than lungs, really. I'm telling you, I watched a lot of Discovery Channel. Plus, as Sun Tsu would say, "Know your enemy..."
Sorry, Discovery nerd tangent. The point is that spiders don't breathe like we do. So I waited a few seconds, trying to calculate the potential absorption rate of chemicals into his system. He didn't do much. I sprayed again, alternating cans. He moved towards the wall, but not too quickly. I sprayed again; and at this point I had sprayed enough that as the human being with normal lungs, I had to take a step back and refresh my own oxygen supply.
Maybe it was the rush of clean oxygen, but it somewhere in this mix I realized that those ants were awfully tiny. And didn't really move like ants. And weren't really shaped like ants. Oh, no, no, no, no, NO...
For the non-Discovery kids out there, I should mention here that wolf spiders often carry their newly hatched young on their backs. He was a she. And she had babies. Many babies. Whiiiiiine...
The conclusion of this story is that "she" is officially dead. Confirmed. And my front stoop is wet with Lysol and bug spray in my attempt to drown any other living book-lunged creature in that area. I felt kind of bad, taking out a mom. I mean, I read Charlotte's Web when I was little; and I cried when Charlotte died and Wilbur the pig had to raise her babies. (Like pigs do in children's stories.) But Charlotte was sort of an idealistic, abstract animal who in her most concrete form lived in two dimensions and sang pretty songs in Debbie Reynolds's voice. That was not who was sitting on my front doorstep tonight.
As I've said before, the great thing about phobias is that they don't have to make any sense. I really can't be certain that I got rid of the all of the teeny-tiny baby spiders. Statistically speaking, I'm fairly confident that I didn't. So, I'll probably be sleeping with some lights on tonight. Maybe I should watch the Charlotte's Web cartoon movie for a little positive therapy. I'm pretty sure The Discovery Channel would not be a good idea.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Reunion with Sir Isaac Newton
An ironic truth to university life is that everything is just so much easier without all the students around. Undergraduates are especially a nuisance because there are just so many of them, and they are both ubiquitous and ubi-quite-annoying. They are the ants on my campus picnic blanket. Finding a parking space is easier without them around; getting lunch in under an hour is definitely easier -- heck, even Newtonian Physics is easier without their presence. Had I known, for instance, that I would be challenged to demonstrate Newton's Second Law of Motion by stopping my 1/2-ton vehicle in a 1/2 foot of space by slamming the brake 1/2 way through the floorboard to avoid running down a handful of sorority girls on Wednesday morning, clearly I would have prepared beforehand. But returning to academic life runs the risk of the occasional pop quiz, so I suppose it's only fair.
As Sir Isaac would have wanted it, the force needed to halt my car was balanced by an equal but opposite force of all the oxygen leaving my lungs within that fractioned second. One might question the ability of such a small amount of air to counter such a sizeable kinetic opposition; but if you had heard the descriptive words that accompanied the oxygen depletion, you would rest assured that their mass alone would have been powerful enough to shock any moving body into stunned silence. * It wasn't quite total protonic reversal.** But it was close.
Before anyone worries too much, everyone emerged unscathed; and the sorority girls were none the wiser. (Not too surprising.) If anything, their interpretation of crosswalks as "suggestions" was validated. After all, the one closest to them at the time was a whole twenty feet away, which was so inconvenient. Why go all the way over to the designated pedestrian walkway when you can amble across the road at any ole place? Like it matters, like, you know?...
PS - I was a sorority girl, so I'm allowed to make fun. Totally.
* Just kidding. But I did think some very colorful words in their general direction.
** Definition: "All life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light." Often referred to as "bad". See Ghostbusters.
As Sir Isaac would have wanted it, the force needed to halt my car was balanced by an equal but opposite force of all the oxygen leaving my lungs within that fractioned second. One might question the ability of such a small amount of air to counter such a sizeable kinetic opposition; but if you had heard the descriptive words that accompanied the oxygen depletion, you would rest assured that their mass alone would have been powerful enough to shock any moving body into stunned silence. * It wasn't quite total protonic reversal.** But it was close.
Before anyone worries too much, everyone emerged unscathed; and the sorority girls were none the wiser. (Not too surprising.) If anything, their interpretation of crosswalks as "suggestions" was validated. After all, the one closest to them at the time was a whole twenty feet away, which was so inconvenient. Why go all the way over to the designated pedestrian walkway when you can amble across the road at any ole place? Like it matters, like, you know?...
PS - I was a sorority girl, so I'm allowed to make fun. Totally.
* Just kidding. But I did think some very colorful words in their general direction.
** Definition: "All life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light." Often referred to as "bad". See Ghostbusters.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Quality Time with Weese
For anyone who doesn't know, Weese (pronounced "Wee-zee") is my 86-year old paternal grandmother. Weese has lived on a diet of coffee, peanut butter and crackers, and daily hot fudge sundaes for as long as I can remember; and despite all laws of physics, she has retained her petite figure throughout her entire life. (Why couldn't I inherit this trait?) Weese is from Long Beach, MS - the battered welcome mat for Hurricane Katrina back in 2005. Weese survived Katrina; 90% of her belongings did not. Since then, she has relocated to Jackson to an independent living facility about 10 minutes from my parents' house (where they ensure she gets some vegetables, in addition to her traditional ice cream and pb&c). It is a quality place, and the people who work and live there are very nice. Like anybody else, Weese would rather be "home"; but "home" isn't there anymore, so this will do as the runner-up option.
Weese has the expected mental and physical complications that accompany her 86 years like a bizarro frequent flyer miles rewards program. She has her good days and her bad days. On her bad days, she can be in a bad way; but on her good days, she can be really funny. Point in case: Weese and I were talking about her turning 86 this year, back around the time of her birthday. I was telling her that I thought she was doing really well, and she said, "Yep, 86 and still kicking..." [she paused and then added] "...not kicking very high..." I laughed and told her I thought that was all right.
On Friday, I was visiting with Weese at her place, and she kept trying to offer me some ice cream. For health reasons that have nothing to do w/ weight control, I can't eat ice cream; but Weese never remembers that. And trying to explain it to her only confuses her, and she won't remember the next time anyway, so it's usually easier to say that I'm just not hungry right then (which is mostly true). It is also a long-standing joke in our family that Weese was trained by the Chinese water-torturers in how to drive people crazy with kindness. Weese, in all her Southern hospitality earnestness, will often offer to make you a sandwich or share some candy or whatever; and she will keep on offering no matter what. This is not an elderly frequent flyer benefit; she's always been this way. You could tell Weese that you had a deathly allergy to pimento cheese sandwiches, and she would nod and look disappointed; and I can guarantee you that five minutes later she would say with a smile, "Now are you sure you don't want any pimento cheese?" It's just so much easier just to take whatever she's trying to feed you, even if it does kill you. I think she got straight A's at the Chinese Water Torture Academy for Young Ladies.
During Friday's visit, Weese had offered me ice cream for the third time, and I had politely said no (because it really would make me sick), and all of the sudden Weese harumphed, "You need to work on gettin' a husband!" "What?" I asked, surprised at the turn in conversation. "All that energy you put towards exercise..." she mumbled, shaking her head.
Clearly, Weese was implying that the energy I spend on maintaining a healthy lifestyle would be better spent on attaining a healthy husband. Some people might think there would be a correlation between these two activities. Apparently, in Weese's world, no husband is worth a lifestyle of abstinence from ice cream.
I explained to Weese that where I worked in Maryland, there were a lot of nice guys who were very good friends of mine, but nobody I wanted to marry. She nodded, thoughfully. "Teachers?" she asked. "Mmmm, no, there weren't that many male teachers where I was," I responded. She leaned back in her armchair and rocked a little. Then she shrugged, turned to look at me, and said with a smile, "Go work at the VA!" ["VA" = "Veterans Affairs Hospital"]
I about fell out of the twin armchair, laughing. At least she knows my demographic. And it really might just be easier in the long run. I can hear it now: "Now are you sure you don't want to work at the VA?"
"Yes, Weese, I'm sure." [pause] "Can I get you some ice cream?"
Weese has the expected mental and physical complications that accompany her 86 years like a bizarro frequent flyer miles rewards program. She has her good days and her bad days. On her bad days, she can be in a bad way; but on her good days, she can be really funny. Point in case: Weese and I were talking about her turning 86 this year, back around the time of her birthday. I was telling her that I thought she was doing really well, and she said, "Yep, 86 and still kicking..." [she paused and then added] "...not kicking very high..." I laughed and told her I thought that was all right.
On Friday, I was visiting with Weese at her place, and she kept trying to offer me some ice cream. For health reasons that have nothing to do w/ weight control, I can't eat ice cream; but Weese never remembers that. And trying to explain it to her only confuses her, and she won't remember the next time anyway, so it's usually easier to say that I'm just not hungry right then (which is mostly true). It is also a long-standing joke in our family that Weese was trained by the Chinese water-torturers in how to drive people crazy with kindness. Weese, in all her Southern hospitality earnestness, will often offer to make you a sandwich or share some candy or whatever; and she will keep on offering no matter what. This is not an elderly frequent flyer benefit; she's always been this way. You could tell Weese that you had a deathly allergy to pimento cheese sandwiches, and she would nod and look disappointed; and I can guarantee you that five minutes later she would say with a smile, "Now are you sure you don't want any pimento cheese?" It's just so much easier just to take whatever she's trying to feed you, even if it does kill you. I think she got straight A's at the Chinese Water Torture Academy for Young Ladies.
During Friday's visit, Weese had offered me ice cream for the third time, and I had politely said no (because it really would make me sick), and all of the sudden Weese harumphed, "You need to work on gettin' a husband!" "What?" I asked, surprised at the turn in conversation. "All that energy you put towards exercise..." she mumbled, shaking her head.
Clearly, Weese was implying that the energy I spend on maintaining a healthy lifestyle would be better spent on attaining a healthy husband. Some people might think there would be a correlation between these two activities. Apparently, in Weese's world, no husband is worth a lifestyle of abstinence from ice cream.
I explained to Weese that where I worked in Maryland, there were a lot of nice guys who were very good friends of mine, but nobody I wanted to marry. She nodded, thoughfully. "Teachers?" she asked. "Mmmm, no, there weren't that many male teachers where I was," I responded. She leaned back in her armchair and rocked a little. Then she shrugged, turned to look at me, and said with a smile, "Go work at the VA!" ["VA" = "Veterans Affairs Hospital"]
I about fell out of the twin armchair, laughing. At least she knows my demographic. And it really might just be easier in the long run. I can hear it now: "Now are you sure you don't want to work at the VA?"
"Yes, Weese, I'm sure." [pause] "Can I get you some ice cream?"
Thursday, July 26, 2007
That's the Night That the Lights Went Out in Oxford
Friday afternoon of "unpacking week" a huge thunderstorm rolled through Oxford, and we lost power for a few hours in the middle of our "hanging artwork in the den" project. Still exhausted from the week, I offered up a silent prayer of thanksgiving and sank blissfully onto the couch to read a mindless novel in the dim light.
Mom, however, was neither silent nor blissful. My mom's oncology meds give her hot flashes and have made her more hot-natured in general. (I got my cold-natured blood from my mom. She is the only person I have ever known who kept a sweater in the car. In Mississippi. In July.) The thought of a world without cool breezes is as terrifying to my Mom as the idea of a world without Diet Coke is to me. It's that level of panic.
Mom's flashing back to post-Katrina times when she, Dad, and Weese went without electricity for a week in August when she remembered that she had bought all of us (herself, Frankie, and me) battery-operated fans after Katrina *just in case* such an air-conditioning emergency should occur again. And, having done most of the unpacking, she knew where it was. Problem: the fan took 8 D batteries. After a mental scavenger hunt, I tallied up 3 flashlights scattered amongst house and car that used D batteries, and 2 extras amongst my toolkit stuff. Clearly this was a sign from the battery gods that Mom must have cool breezes.
I handed the batteries over to Mom who spent the next 20 minutes trying to figure out how to get the batteries into the fan. No success. She went to lie down with a cool rag and left it to me. Just to be clear, any situation that requires me assembling or dissembling equipment is directly analogous to the athletic activity scenario. I have two words for you: Score. Keeper. But Mom really seemed to need it, and she had spent the past 2 days orchestrating my kitchen and laundry room. So, I had to try.
I sat down at the fan and flipped it around a few times. I eventually noticed two little plastic slide tabs on the back with padlock impressions on top of them. They looked strikingly similar to the safety lock on the backup battery that attaches to my work laptop. They worked strikingly similarly, as well. I got the back off of the fan and got the batteries in the appropriate slots. (And in the appropriate directions, Erin.)
I folded the battery wall back into the fan and watched the batteries fall into the blades. I had forgotten to put the panel back on after I put the batteries in. (I told you I should have been score keeper.) Fishing the batteries out of the fan cage, I put them back in, reattached the panel, and successfully reassembled the fan. Small victory, but I was pretty proud.
I took it into Mom, blades spinning and cool breezes blowing. "You got it working?!" she asked incredulously. "Yup," I said, "but these aren't super-strong batteries. So, you can have the fan, but I don't know if we'll have any flashlights tonight." "OH...," said Mom, "Well, maybe I shouldn't use it then. I hadn't thought about that."[Insert me: head dropping, mouth agape.] I exhaled deeply, nodded my head, and went back to my book and couch.
Eventually, as I had suspected all along, the lights (and the air conditioning) came back on. Pictures were hung. Batteries were redistributed to their respective flashlights. And we went to bed: Mom in the guest room with two fans blazing and me in my room buried beneath two quilts. In Mississippi. In July.
Mom, however, was neither silent nor blissful. My mom's oncology meds give her hot flashes and have made her more hot-natured in general. (I got my cold-natured blood from my mom. She is the only person I have ever known who kept a sweater in the car. In Mississippi. In July.) The thought of a world without cool breezes is as terrifying to my Mom as the idea of a world without Diet Coke is to me. It's that level of panic.
Mom's flashing back to post-Katrina times when she, Dad, and Weese went without electricity for a week in August when she remembered that she had bought all of us (herself, Frankie, and me) battery-operated fans after Katrina *just in case* such an air-conditioning emergency should occur again. And, having done most of the unpacking, she knew where it was. Problem: the fan took 8 D batteries. After a mental scavenger hunt, I tallied up 3 flashlights scattered amongst house and car that used D batteries, and 2 extras amongst my toolkit stuff. Clearly this was a sign from the battery gods that Mom must have cool breezes.
I handed the batteries over to Mom who spent the next 20 minutes trying to figure out how to get the batteries into the fan. No success. She went to lie down with a cool rag and left it to me. Just to be clear, any situation that requires me assembling or dissembling equipment is directly analogous to the athletic activity scenario. I have two words for you: Score. Keeper. But Mom really seemed to need it, and she had spent the past 2 days orchestrating my kitchen and laundry room. So, I had to try.
I sat down at the fan and flipped it around a few times. I eventually noticed two little plastic slide tabs on the back with padlock impressions on top of them. They looked strikingly similar to the safety lock on the backup battery that attaches to my work laptop. They worked strikingly similarly, as well. I got the back off of the fan and got the batteries in the appropriate slots. (And in the appropriate directions, Erin.)
I folded the battery wall back into the fan and watched the batteries fall into the blades. I had forgotten to put the panel back on after I put the batteries in. (I told you I should have been score keeper.) Fishing the batteries out of the fan cage, I put them back in, reattached the panel, and successfully reassembled the fan. Small victory, but I was pretty proud.
I took it into Mom, blades spinning and cool breezes blowing. "You got it working?!" she asked incredulously. "Yup," I said, "but these aren't super-strong batteries. So, you can have the fan, but I don't know if we'll have any flashlights tonight." "OH...," said Mom, "Well, maybe I shouldn't use it then. I hadn't thought about that."
Eventually, as I had suspected all along, the lights (and the air conditioning) came back on. Pictures were hung. Batteries were redistributed to their respective flashlights. And we went to bed: Mom in the guest room with two fans blazing and me in my room buried beneath two quilts. In Mississippi. In July.
Like The Prodigal Son...
... my furniture has found its way home. And yes, I did run out to meet it. No fatted calves were harmed in the process of this reunion.
The moving truck did arrive last week on Tuesday. As a double bonus, they actually arrived with my furniture in the truck. (At this point in the game I fully expected them to show up with somebody else's furniture.) Out of all the antiques, artwork, and ancient furniture that could have been destroyed, one brave little generic lamp stepped up and took one for the team, sparing the more sentimental pieces from a piece-ful death and sparing The Liars from my presence in their offices in a 24-hour window.
The week of Moving Day, Mom and Xena (the 65 lb. "puppy") were on-hand to help me settle in the new abode. I was working half-days with my university gig; but even with that break, my mental and physical fatigue put most of the unpacking and organizing burden on Mom. If she hadn't been here, I would still be sleeping in a sea of boxes. I probably would have just thrown some blankets over the boxes and told visitors, "Oh, yes, I've finished unpacking... That? Um, that's an antique bench, but it's not very stable, so you can't sit there."
I do actually have such a bench, so it wouldn't be hard to convince people that I had acquired two of them. Don't worry; if you come visit, I'll make sure that you know which one it is in advance. The real bench, of course...
The moving truck did arrive last week on Tuesday. As a double bonus, they actually arrived with my furniture in the truck. (At this point in the game I fully expected them to show up with somebody else's furniture.) Out of all the antiques, artwork, and ancient furniture that could have been destroyed, one brave little generic lamp stepped up and took one for the team, sparing the more sentimental pieces from a piece-ful death and sparing The Liars from my presence in their offices in a 24-hour window.
The week of Moving Day, Mom and Xena (the 65 lb. "puppy") were on-hand to help me settle in the new abode. I was working half-days with my university gig; but even with that break, my mental and physical fatigue put most of the unpacking and organizing burden on Mom. If she hadn't been here, I would still be sleeping in a sea of boxes. I probably would have just thrown some blankets over the boxes and told visitors, "Oh, yes, I've finished unpacking... That? Um, that's an antique bench, but it's not very stable, so you can't sit there."
I do actually have such a bench, so it wouldn't be hard to convince people that I had acquired two of them. Don't worry; if you come visit, I'll make sure that you know which one it is in advance. The real bench, of course...
Monday, July 16, 2007
A lot can happen in a few hours
But not a lot that gets you any furniture.
Last Tuesday I got a voice mail from The Frontmen that the truck was there that day (as opposed to Monday when it was supposed to be there) and that it was loading my furniture. The problem was that it was going to be there through the rest of the week loading other people's furniture as well and wasn't going to leave MD 'til late in the week. Surprising? At this point, no. Frustrating? Yes. Of course.
Tuesday was a long day at Math Camp, so I didn't feel like dealing with the hotel when I got home. Wednesday evening (around 9:00 PM) I called the front desk, asking to extend my stay again for another week(ish). Caesar (guy at the front desk) says, "We can do that, but there's one problem: we're sold out tomorrow night. There's a conference in town, and we're booked solid." [Insert: me, staring blankly at the phone] "What?" "But we're available again on Friday, so you could come back then..." "You're telling me that I've got to pack up all my stuff and move out of this room for one night but that I can come back again after that?" "That's right," he says cheerfully. " [Sigh]... okay" I respond, considerably less cheerfully. "How big is this conference? What about the other hotels in town?" "Hmmm," Caesar says (I can hear him shaking his head), "The last I heard they were pretty full."
I get off the phone and decide to call around. I search every drawer in the room. There is no phone book here. I call back downstairs and ask Caesar to connect me to the H.I.Express (the only other hotel I can think of in town that doesn't have the word "motel" in its name). He does (and then charged me for that call, I might add). HIE had one available room: smoking. Not worth it.
B/c it is The South, of course we have family friends who live in town; so I call Mz. Julianna, apologize for the short notice, explain the hotel situation, and ask if I can please use their guest room the next night. She says yes (thank you!), and I start packing up some of my stuff that night. I had only really "stocked" the room as of the day before to try to settle in for the week ahead: I had actually bought groceries. I had been to the library and gotten books. Now, I have to schlep all that stuff to the house before I go to camp in the morning. I have to take it there b/c it was 95 degrees last week with 105% humidity, and very few things can survive in a car in that kind of weather all day. Diet Cokes explode, lipsticks melt, and milk... well, let's just stay that you don't want to see (or smell) that milk ever again. EH-VER.
Math Camp starts at 8:30, but summer school is in session and starts at 8:00 => if you don't get to campus by 7:45, there's no parking. So, I get up very early, pack, & make 2 trips to the car (groceries, laundry, etc.) to load up. On the 3rd trip I stop by the front desk to make sure they didn't need anything else from me and joke with the girl, "I have to move out b/c of the conference, but I'll be back tomorrow night." "Let me see if I have any cancellations," she says. Qu'est-ce que c'est? (to quote Durant). "Really?... I mean, I could change rooms or something, if that would help..." "Oh, I don't think that will be necessary" she interrupts. [Insert: me staring blankly at her] "What?" "You're fine where you are; we have room. How long did you need to extend your stay?"
First thought: "Oh my gosh! I love this girl." Second thought: "I'm going to kill Caesar." First words out of mouth: "A week would be good; thank you SO much!" Third thought kicks in: "I gotta' haul all this stuff back upstairs?" Fourth thought quickly follows: "I am going to kill Caesar!"
So, back I go to the car, and fight my way several times back up the elevators with all the conference-goers hoofing it downstairs for the breakfast buffet. I've rarely seen people so excited about free bagels and cereal. There might have been waffles out that day, though. That would have explained the crush.
Theoretically my furniture is arriving tomorrow at what I've began to call my "weekend home." We'll see. A lot can happen in a few hours. At this point I wouldn't be surprised if the truck was attacked by a flock of wild birds or something else equally likely. Does insurance cover flocks of wild birds?...
Last Tuesday I got a voice mail from The Frontmen that the truck was there that day (as opposed to Monday when it was supposed to be there) and that it was loading my furniture. The problem was that it was going to be there through the rest of the week loading other people's furniture as well and wasn't going to leave MD 'til late in the week. Surprising? At this point, no. Frustrating? Yes. Of course.
Tuesday was a long day at Math Camp, so I didn't feel like dealing with the hotel when I got home. Wednesday evening (around 9:00 PM) I called the front desk, asking to extend my stay again for another week(ish). Caesar (guy at the front desk) says, "We can do that, but there's one problem: we're sold out tomorrow night. There's a conference in town, and we're booked solid." [Insert: me, staring blankly at the phone] "What?" "But we're available again on Friday, so you could come back then..." "You're telling me that I've got to pack up all my stuff and move out of this room for one night but that I can come back again after that?" "That's right," he says cheerfully. " [Sigh]... okay" I respond, considerably less cheerfully. "How big is this conference? What about the other hotels in town?" "Hmmm," Caesar says (I can hear him shaking his head), "The last I heard they were pretty full."
I get off the phone and decide to call around. I search every drawer in the room. There is no phone book here. I call back downstairs and ask Caesar to connect me to the H.I.Express (the only other hotel I can think of in town that doesn't have the word "motel" in its name). He does (and then charged me for that call, I might add). HIE had one available room: smoking. Not worth it.
B/c it is The South, of course we have family friends who live in town; so I call Mz. Julianna, apologize for the short notice, explain the hotel situation, and ask if I can please use their guest room the next night. She says yes (thank you!), and I start packing up some of my stuff that night. I had only really "stocked" the room as of the day before to try to settle in for the week ahead: I had actually bought groceries. I had been to the library and gotten books. Now, I have to schlep all that stuff to the house before I go to camp in the morning. I have to take it there b/c it was 95 degrees last week with 105% humidity, and very few things can survive in a car in that kind of weather all day. Diet Cokes explode, lipsticks melt, and milk... well, let's just stay that you don't want to see (or smell) that milk ever again. EH-VER.
Math Camp starts at 8:30, but summer school is in session and starts at 8:00 => if you don't get to campus by 7:45, there's no parking. So, I get up very early, pack, & make 2 trips to the car (groceries, laundry, etc.) to load up. On the 3rd trip I stop by the front desk to make sure they didn't need anything else from me and joke with the girl, "I have to move out b/c of the conference, but I'll be back tomorrow night." "Let me see if I have any cancellations," she says. Qu'est-ce que c'est? (to quote Durant). "Really?... I mean, I could change rooms or something, if that would help..." "Oh, I don't think that will be necessary" she interrupts. [Insert: me staring blankly at her] "What?" "You're fine where you are; we have room. How long did you need to extend your stay?"
First thought: "Oh my gosh! I love this girl." Second thought: "I'm going to kill Caesar." First words out of mouth: "A week would be good; thank you SO much!" Third thought kicks in: "I gotta' haul all this stuff back upstairs?" Fourth thought quickly follows: "I am going to kill Caesar!"
So, back I go to the car, and fight my way several times back up the elevators with all the conference-goers hoofing it downstairs for the breakfast buffet. I've rarely seen people so excited about free bagels and cereal. There might have been waffles out that day, though. That would have explained the crush.
Theoretically my furniture is arriving tomorrow at what I've began to call my "weekend home." We'll see. A lot can happen in a few hours. At this point I wouldn't be surprised if the truck was attacked by a flock of wild birds or something else equally likely. Does insurance cover flocks of wild birds?...
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Painting Rooms (Part II)
Early the next morning, Mom and I arrived at the house and started “cutting in” on my bedroom walls. I quickly realized that the job at hand bore a striking similarity to putting on eyeliner, except I was working with a much bigger brush and a much wider surface. This, I could do. As I made progress, Mom started rolling paint on the walls that were ready. I kept working. I turned around a few minutes later and noticed a couple of small paint spots where Mom had clearly bumped the ceiling with the roller.
I am about 5'9". The ladder she brought was about 6'. I climbed up to the top step (the tip-top step is more of a platform, to hold paint trays and such) and realized that I could reach nowhere near the top of the walls from there. "Can I stand on the very top of this thing?" I asked her. "Oh sure; you'll be fine," she said. I put my paintbrush handle sideways in my mouth, held my paint cup in one hand and used the other to balance on the rail as I pulled myself to the very top of the ladder. I stood up, found my balance, and exhaled with relief. Then, the whole ladder shifted. "MMGGRRGGHHH!" I muffled through the paintbrush handle. "Bless you, " Mom said. After my heart started beating again, I moved the brush and informed her, "That wasn't a sneeze; that was me screaming with a paint brush in my mouth. The ladder moved." Seeing that I wasn't lying in a heap of broken bones on the floor, my mother looked up at me and said, "Oh. Well, you're fine now..." Moms. No blood, no sympathy.
By the end of Day One, I had so much spackling and paint smeared on and under my nails that it looked like I'd been given French tips by a manicurist with a lazy eye. I had also gotten it in my hair somehow, which looked like a kindergartener had decided to give me summer highlights with Liquid Paper. Lovely.
On Day Two, I got more paint on my clothes, more paint in my hair, and even paint in my eye. But we got the job done; and it looks a lot prettier and cleaner than it did before, so I'm glad it's done. And in true Southern female fashion, I have officially laid claim on the property. I have painted it. I have personalized it. I have made it mine, and it is good.
But if Habitat for Humanity calls any time soon, I'm still going to tell them they'd be better off just making me scorekeeper.
Just to tease her, I said, "Whoops, Mom, looks like you need to be a little more careful there! "What?" she asked innocently. "You're bumping the ceiling -- see those spots?" "I didn't do that; you did," she replied. [In the distance, a cock crowed. Et tu, Mom?] I handled the situation like the adult that I am: "Nuh-uh!"
We went back and forth for a few more minutes. I wasn't upset that she'd bumped the ceiling; my gosh, she was helping me out. But I thought it was so funny that she was truly convinced that she hadn't done it. But she had. And when I was rolling the walls later, I totally did it, too.
I was good at cutting in. (All those years of makeup training.) Rolling was a different story. Rolling required coordination and some level of comfort with the painting tools. If there is anything I learned at a multitude of childhood sportscamps it’s that if there is an activity involving any sort of eye-hand coordination or equipment, the position in which I can best serve the team is that of the scorekeeper. Or possibly the watergirl. I persevered, but the inner-Bree was troubled with my wall's final results. I called Mom in to inspect, and she said, "Oh, I think you're doing greeeaaat!..." (This was the exact phrase and tone of voice she used when I played soccer in the 3rd grade. I was so "great" that the coach asked me to stay in the back and "help the goalie".) I also looked down to discover a previously unnoticed Jackson Pollack masterpiece just outside the border of the dropcloth beneath me. Not only was I not great, I was also messy. Shoot. Clean up, aisle 1...
I had thought we were only doing the guest bedroom and the study, but Mom wanted to do all 3 bedrooms. The master bedroom has cathedral ceilings, which is why I was hesitant to tackle that room without Dad; but Mom said she brought "the big ladder", so we would be fine. After we'd already begun in my room, she looked up and exclaimed, "My word, that's tall; I'd forgotten about those ceilings!" I hadn't. But, too late now. Doh.I am about 5'9". The ladder she brought was about 6'. I climbed up to the top step (the tip-top step is more of a platform, to hold paint trays and such) and realized that I could reach nowhere near the top of the walls from there. "Can I stand on the very top of this thing?" I asked her. "Oh sure; you'll be fine," she said. I put my paintbrush handle sideways in my mouth, held my paint cup in one hand and used the other to balance on the rail as I pulled myself to the very top of the ladder. I stood up, found my balance, and exhaled with relief. Then, the whole ladder shifted. "MMGGRRGGHHH!" I muffled through the paintbrush handle. "Bless you, " Mom said. After my heart started beating again, I moved the brush and informed her, "That wasn't a sneeze; that was me screaming with a paint brush in my mouth. The ladder moved." Seeing that I wasn't lying in a heap of broken bones on the floor, my mother looked up at me and said, "Oh. Well, you're fine now..." Moms. No blood, no sympathy.
By the end of Day One, I had so much spackling and paint smeared on and under my nails that it looked like I'd been given French tips by a manicurist with a lazy eye. I had also gotten it in my hair somehow, which looked like a kindergartener had decided to give me summer highlights with Liquid Paper. Lovely.
On Day Two, I got more paint on my clothes, more paint in my hair, and even paint in my eye. But we got the job done; and it looks a lot prettier and cleaner than it did before, so I'm glad it's done. And in true Southern female fashion, I have officially laid claim on the property. I have painted it. I have personalized it. I have made it mine, and it is good.
But if Habitat for Humanity calls any time soon, I'm still going to tell them they'd be better off just making me scorekeeper.
Painting Rooms (Part I)
Since I knew that I had a considerable block of time before my furniture arrived, I decided that I should probably go ahead and repaint a few rooms in the house. And since I didn’t have any boxes to unpack, this weekend seemed like a good time to do it.
Crisis solved. Now I just had to survive the painting itself.
Friday, July 6, 2007
My furniture is being held hostage in Maryland.
After five years of working for the gov't in Maryland, I am returning to my roots (and my accent) at the University of Mississippi to pursue a PhD in Math Education. The decision to do so was difficult, the weeks of heartfelt goodbyes to friends and coworkers were even harder; but apparently none of these tasks was as arduous as the task my movers had of finding their way from Abingdon, MD (where the warehouse lives) to Oxford, MS (where I now live).
I wanted professional movers to handle my physical relocation. (As I used to tell the girls at The Junior League, "No, I don't have children; I have antique furniture.") I contacted a national moving chain (whom I soon came to know as, "The Liars"); and soon, a rep from a local contracting company (whom I have since deemed, "The Frontmen") came to my house to give me an estimate on the cost of my move. The rep gave me an estimate of 4-7 days from the time of departure to the time of delivery. Super! Wonderful! That gave me time to get to Mississippi, close on the house, start my new job, line the new closet shelves, and be ready to greet the moving crew with bottles of water and energy beverage of their choice. (After all, I'm from The South - I have to be hospitable to the poor men I'm forcing to haul my furniture around in 90 degree heat with 100 percent humidity.)
On moving day, my belongings "temporarily" went to live at The Frontmen's warehouse to wait to be loaded onto The Liars' mega-truck with other partial loads to be delivered (within the next 4-7 days, obviously). When a suitable set of caring parents (I.e., a truck and a driver) were matched with my longing-to-be-adopted household goods, I would be contacted with a more precise date and means of contacting said driver.
My furniture left Annapolis, Maryland on June 22. I left Annapolis, Maryland on June 23. I arrived in Mississippi on June 23. I did not make the trip in 16 straight hours for the sake of challenging The Liars to an "Amazing Race" type duel; but in the process, I did prove the existance of a path between Maryland and Mississippi. (QED.)
I called The Frontmen almost every day and received the same answer, "No, I'm sorry; we haven't assigned a driver to your shipment yet. But we will keep checking and let you know as soon as we know anything." As soon as it became obvious that, 16-hour marathon drive or no 16-hour marathon drive, my goods were NOT getting to Mississippi by that 7-day end range, I was given an option to talk to The Liars customer service line, which I did.
As with most customer service lines, this was a professional stall technique employed by The Liars to keep me busy thinking I was making headway, while in reality they were presumably building playforts out of all my boxes in the Frontmen's warehouse. In the meantime, The Liars offered to put me up at a local hotel and pay a certain percentage of my food costs. Good of them, yes; but (a) I'd rather have my stuff (b) there ain't no Marriott in Oxford, MS.
After 3 or 4 more days of "hospitably" calling, politely querying the status of my move, and repeatedly thanking my customer service rep (aka, my "Personal Staller") for his time and assistance, I was informed that my goods had been assigned to a truck. At last! When? Personal Staller's response: July 9th.
July 9th?... July 9th??!! My furniture that was supposed to be here at latest on June 29 isn't even leaving Maryland 'til July 9? In one giant exhale/inhale of breath, out went the last of my politeness and in rushed all the pent up frustration and rage of a Southern Belle who has been pushed past the fringes of hospitality. "Whaddya' mean July 9th? Mih stuff was s'posed to be here lahst week, and yer tellin' me it ain't leavin' Marylan' 'til JOO-LIE NIHNTH?" (My accent gets a lot thicker when I'm really upset.)
Personal Staller, clearly startled by my turn of tone, paused noticeably and stumbled, "Um, um... yes, July 9th..." to which I responded, "No, no - you listen here: this is UN-AC-CEPTABLE; and yall'd better do somethin' real quick, or else I'm about ready to tell y'all to just give me my money back; and I will come back up to Mar'lan' and rent a truck and haul it back down here myself. I made it from Mar'lan' to Miss'ssippi in ONE DAY; I KNOW it can be done!"
As a "customer service rep", it was understandable that Personal Staller himself could not do anything to expedite my situation, so I asked him (politely) to give me to somebody who "might could". He checked, and his supervisor was "not available at that time" (cowards), but he would have her call me. To my surprise, she did call me back and recited the traditional lines of "we are experiencing problems with logistics and transportation, and we apologize for the inconvenience; but there is nothing we can do." I tried everything from tears to threats of going door-to-door to warn people about The Liars and their evil ways (I grew up in The Bible Belt; I know how to hand out a tract or two), but it was to no avail. I hung up with her, ranted to a few friends, and then sat down to well-deserved rest-of-the-day sulk about it.
The Liars claim my stuff will leave Maryland next Tuesday. When will it get to Mississippi? The moving gods (whom I have clearly angered) only know. In the meantime I will wait at The Hampton Inn (which is quite nice) to be reunited with my antique furniture and European paintings... and the rest of my clothes... and shoes... and handbags... oh my gosh, I'm practically camping...
I wanted professional movers to handle my physical relocation. (As I used to tell the girls at The Junior League, "No, I don't have children; I have antique furniture.") I contacted a national moving chain (whom I soon came to know as, "The Liars"); and soon, a rep from a local contracting company (whom I have since deemed, "The Frontmen") came to my house to give me an estimate on the cost of my move. The rep gave me an estimate of 4-7 days from the time of departure to the time of delivery. Super! Wonderful! That gave me time to get to Mississippi, close on the house, start my new job, line the new closet shelves, and be ready to greet the moving crew with bottles of water and energy beverage of their choice. (After all, I'm from The South - I have to be hospitable to the poor men I'm forcing to haul my furniture around in 90 degree heat with 100 percent humidity.)
On moving day, my belongings "temporarily" went to live at The Frontmen's warehouse to wait to be loaded onto The Liars' mega-truck with other partial loads to be delivered (within the next 4-7 days, obviously). When a suitable set of caring parents (I.e., a truck and a driver) were matched with my longing-to-be-adopted household goods, I would be contacted with a more precise date and means of contacting said driver.
My furniture left Annapolis, Maryland on June 22. I left Annapolis, Maryland on June 23. I arrived in Mississippi on June 23. I did not make the trip in 16 straight hours for the sake of challenging The Liars to an "Amazing Race" type duel; but in the process, I did prove the existance of a path between Maryland and Mississippi. (QED.)
I called The Frontmen almost every day and received the same answer, "No, I'm sorry; we haven't assigned a driver to your shipment yet. But we will keep checking and let you know as soon as we know anything." As soon as it became obvious that, 16-hour marathon drive or no 16-hour marathon drive, my goods were NOT getting to Mississippi by that 7-day end range, I was given an option to talk to The Liars customer service line, which I did.
As with most customer service lines, this was a professional stall technique employed by The Liars to keep me busy thinking I was making headway, while in reality they were presumably building playforts out of all my boxes in the Frontmen's warehouse. In the meantime, The Liars offered to put me up at a local hotel and pay a certain percentage of my food costs. Good of them, yes; but (a) I'd rather have my stuff (b) there ain't no Marriott in Oxford, MS.
After 3 or 4 more days of "hospitably" calling, politely querying the status of my move, and repeatedly thanking my customer service rep (aka, my "Personal Staller") for his time and assistance, I was informed that my goods had been assigned to a truck.
July 9th?... July 9th??!! My furniture that was supposed to be here at latest on June 29 isn't even leaving Maryland 'til July 9? In one giant exhale/inhale of breath, out went the last of my politeness and in rushed all the pent up frustration and rage of a Southern Belle who has been pushed past the fringes of hospitality. "Whaddya' mean July 9th? Mih stuff was s'posed to be here lahst week, and yer tellin' me it ain't leavin' Marylan' 'til JOO-LIE NIHNTH?" (My accent gets a lot thicker when I'm really upset.)
Personal Staller, clearly startled by my turn of tone, paused noticeably and stumbled, "Um, um... yes, July 9th..." to which I responded, "No, no - you listen here: this is UN-AC-CEPTABLE; and yall'd better do somethin' real quick, or else I'm about ready to tell y'all to just give me my money back; and I will come back up to Mar'lan' and rent a truck and haul it back down here myself. I made it from Mar'lan' to Miss'ssippi in ONE DAY; I KNOW it can be done!"
As a "customer service rep", it was understandable that Personal Staller himself could not do anything to expedite my situation, so I asked him (politely) to give me to somebody who "might could". He checked, and his supervisor was "not available at that time" (cowards), but he would have her call me. To my surprise, she did call me back and recited the traditional lines of "we are experiencing problems with logistics and transportation, and we apologize for the inconvenience; but there is nothing we can do." I tried everything from tears to threats of going door-to-door to warn people about The Liars and their evil ways (I grew up in The Bible Belt; I know how to hand out a tract or two), but it was to no avail. I hung up with her, ranted to a few friends, and then sat down to well-deserved rest-of-the-day sulk about it.
The Liars claim my stuff will leave Maryland next Tuesday. When will it get to Mississippi? The moving gods (whom I have clearly angered) only know. In the meantime I will wait at The Hampton Inn (which is quite nice) to be reunited with my antique furniture and European paintings... and the rest of my clothes... and shoes... and handbags... oh my gosh, I'm practically camping...
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