All Or Nothing

Either That Montage Just Takes Forever Or I'm An Internet Idiot

So I feel like I have a good friend who I haven't talked to in a while, and all these things have happened since the last time we talked, and every time something new and/or crazy happens I think "oh my goodness, I NEED to tell Friend this!" but then I think that I cant tell Friend right now, because I don't have time for a conversation of that length.  I'll call tomorrow.

And then tomorrow comes, and more crazy events transpire, and somewhere around two weeks later I resurface from the insanity and think "AHHH, I still haven't talked to Friend!"  Now the conversation is going to take hours.

Well, you are that friend, Internet.  I have so many things to tell you that I honestly don't even know where to begin.  First of all let me say that this summer has, bar none, been the weirdest time of my entire life.  Secondly, I have absolutely no idea how to fit this into one post so I was thinking maybe I would do bullet points (the lazy person's listmaker) and you can weigh in on subjects you want to hear more about/seem the most interesting.  How 'bout it?  Because otherwise I can guarantee you that this will degenerate into a ridiculously long, rambling, disjointed mess of a post, and I honestly can't even say that I would read that.  

So let's all play along and here are the bullet points of things that have gone on since May that I need to tell you about and haven't (ETA: Now a numbered list with pictures!  Everyone has been doing that Flickr montage and while I wanted to do it too [and still may] at least you now get a numbered list with visual interest!):

1. Lost my appetite completely and with no warning; lost about 14 pounds in two months*
2. Spent a week and a half on vacation in Los Angeles - the first half by myself completely, and the second half surrounded by a whole host of interesting characters doing interesting things at interesting places
3. Quit eating fast food completely
4. Got the Death Flu but it only lasted two days, one of which was handily the date of the biggest event of the summer for my boutique, so that was fun
5. Went back to Los Angeles for work and ended up doing about two weeks worth of social stuff in three days time
6. Quit eating sugar almost completely
7. Met a girl while in LA who is from a tiny East Texas town about 35 miles from where I live - we knew many of the same people and remarked on how strangely small the world can be
8. Cody's dad started having major neck/spine issues, which quickly deteriorated to the point where he was partially paralyzed on the right side, leading everyone to completely freak out and him to get scheduled for emergency spinal surgery, which he had yesterday (7/1/08)
9. Cody's grandpa (his dad's dad) went into the SAME hospital on the SAME night as Cody's dad, because Grandpa BROKE HIS NECK - the neurologist got confused and saw the wrong patient because there were two Mr. Carters in the same hospital on the same night in for largely the same reason - felt like I was living in the Twilight Zone
10. Have become somewhat the main go-to person for Cody's grandpa because obviously Cody's mom and dad have been SOMEWHAT DISTRACTED, what with the partial paralysis and emergency spinal surgery and all
11. Quit eating most processed foods completely
12. Saw Alison Sweeney (Sami from Days of Our Lives, for the non-soap opera crowd) walking to her car and made fun of her because she was all dressed up and from a distance she looked like a teenager going to prom. At 4 in the afternoon on a Friday.  Then I saw who it actually was and thought "oh good, she isn't a skinny little stick!" She looks normal
13. Went to a Death Cab for Cutie concert randomly; it was weird
14. Went on several hikes
15. Missed my friends at home while I was gone; wished that I could intermingle my worlds - move my house and friends out to a big city or move the city here
16. Became hopelessly and totally re-addicted to chips and salsa.  Weight loss of past two months is being reversed almost solely by the power of corn and tomatoes
17. Went out to a whole host of places in and around Los Angeles; some uber trendy, some kind of underground, some in between
18. Have learned an awful lot about neck braces, how they work, and how they DON'T work
19. Have consumed my weight x3 in green tea
20. Celebrated Cody's birthday with a really fun night of live music outside IN MY HOMETOWN, can you believe it?  Because I can't
21. Hosted three (THREE) baby showers
22. Have done yoga almost every day
23. Went to a "recycled" clothing store in Studio City with my sister-in-law and came away with three pairs of high-end shoes, two shirts, a pair of linen trousers, and a pair of straight-leg designer jeans and spent less than $150.  Wow
24. Figured out that my dog ate half a square of Baker's Chocolate, had a mild freak out and then realized it would be yet another item to add to my Vet Bills Spreadsheet - watch out, OPH! (And RA - are you proud of me for having a spreadsheet?)
25. Watched helplessly as my house (both outside and now in) has become inundated with tiny ants - have been plotting and will wage Ant War Strike I this evening
26. Have been doing about 18 loads of laundry and (#27) cleaning house to get ready for our annual 4th of July lake extravaganza where any and everyone we know comes to town to hang out, float in the lake, (#28) drink adult beverages, play volleyball, mess around on boats and jetskis, and have an all around awesome (#29) Texas lake celebration. Come!
27. (Actually #30 - THANKS FOR NOTHING, AUTOFORMAT) Got to see my best friend and her brand new baby girl on the day she gave birth.  So sweet

Want to know details about any of the above?  Let me know in the comments!  I'll be happy to spin a long, rambling tale about any of those events.  Had your fill?  That's fine too - just enjoy the pictures because that montage took FOREVER.  What is with people "not subscribing" to the Flickr mosaic maker?  DON'T THEY KNOW HOW LONG I SEARCHED FOR THAT PICTURE?

*I wish I could take credit for some incredible measure of self-control I used to quit the sugar, fast food, etc.  Unfortunately for me, I have no such self-control and the only reason I was able to get out of those bad eating habits was because I had already lost my appetite and therefore felt no desire to eat ANYTHING, including my beloved fast food.  Once you get out of the habit it's not so hard, and so thanks to extreme amounts of stress, I have become a healthier eater.  I should write a dieting book.  It could be alternately titled "How To Develop An Eating Disorder".

Car Lots, Books, And Music (The Trifecta)

So, the other day while I was in LA, I lost my car downtown and got stranded on a rooftop parking lot for the entire night.  Well, almost.

I have parked in this particular lot many times before, and have never had any problems with it.  It's close to where I work, easy to see from street level (helps with my abysmal sense of direction), and stays open late.  On this particular Monday, the parking attendant took my five bucks when I pulled up, gave me a parking stub, and told me they would be open until 6pm.  Standard procedure.  I grabbed my stuff and said adios, heading out into the wilds of the Los Angeles Fashion District.

A little before 5:30pm, after I had finished working and also managed to convince myself into buying a big, white watch (my friend said, after I finally made the purchase, that he had never seen anyone get buyer's remorse WHILST buying the item), I started heading back to my car.  I easily located my particular rooftop parking structure and took the (unbelievably slow) elevator (that always smells EXACTLY like pee) up to the fourth floor and got out to find the parking attendant.  No dice.

I figured he might be down taking a smoke break or something (although I'm not sure why you would have to get off the roof to do such a thing), and that he'd probably be back fairly quickly.  Plus, anyone who's ever driven much in LA knows that leaving downtown to go anywhere around 6pm is going to be a long, slow process.  So I wasn't in a huge hurry.  However, as I waited, I kept seeing other patrons of this car lot walk out of the elevator with car keys in hand, open their cars, and drive off.  How were they getting the keys?  Where was the magic key guy, handing out keys?  I certainly never saw him.  Was he in the Pee Elevator?  I finally flagged down one of the happily be-keyed drivers to ask him what was up. 

Here's a rundown of that conversation:

Me:  "Excuse me, sir?  Umm, sir?  Sorry...I just...umm, I can't find the parking attendant, and I saw you had your keys...where did you get them?  Is the guy downstairs?"

Him:  "....."

Me:  "I mean, you know.  Your KEYS?  Did someone down there give you your keys?  THE KEYS, WHERE DID YOU GET THEM?"

Him (shrugging):  "ehhhh....I not know?"

Me:  "of COURSE you don't speak English, okay, whatever, whatever."

I am, at this point, getting more than a little concerned about my car.  I decide that probably the best plan of action is walking frantically around the top of the building, looking everywhere for signs of parking attendant life, and appearing (I'm sure) insane.  Finally someone who looks like he MIGHT work for somebody around there walks up, and I nearly jump on him.

Me:  "THEKEYS,OMG,WHEREISTHEGUYWITHTHEKEYS, (breath) ICAN'TFINDHIMANDWHEREISHE?"

Him:  "....keys?"

Me:  "YES.  The keys to my car?  It's right there?  And I have to leave?  And I have no keys?  And the parking lot guy, he isn't up here?"  For some reason when I get upset, I end everything with an upward inflection.  It's totally involuntary, and I hate it because I KNOW it does nothing but immediately label me as Crazed Emotional Woman.  Frustrating.

Him:  "Ahhh....yeeees....I think he is left.  I think he is left, ehhh...around 5 or 5:30?"

Me:  "No.  No, that can't be true, because he TOLD me 6pm; it's always 6pm, and it's NOT 6PM."

Him (shrugging):  "Huh.  I don't know.  Maybe you check on third floor?"

Me:  "Why?  What is on the third floor?  What am I looking for?  Wait!"

Him (walking away):  "Good luck!"

These two conversations very neatly sum up my view on Los Angeles, which is something I get asked about a lot since I'm out there at least half of my life these days.  Do I like it?  Do I hate it?  Is it all superficial and golden bronzed and beautiful on the surface?  Underneath is it crime-ridden and totally scary?  Sure, I guess it's all of those things, in some measure.  But what it really is is apathetic.  That's the one and only word I've ever come up with that succinctly and accurately describes Los Angeles, in its entirety.  Apathetic.  No one cares about you, and they don't even have the heart to make that a mean thing.  They just really don't care.  If you're doing great, well, that's great for you.  Whatever.  If you're doing badly, say you're stuck on a rooftop, alone, in downtown LA, with no appreciable escape plan, well, too bad.  Best of luck.  Whatever.  Now of course both of my brothers and several of my good friends live in and around LA, and so OBVIOUSLY the apathy thing is a generalization of the greater population, and not a personal indictment on each and every Los Angelean.  So don't get all up in arms about how you live there and you are the OPPOSITE of apathetic and how dare I.  I'm sure you're a lovely person, and I do wish you would have been on the roof with me this past Monday.  But you weren't!  On with the story.

So after the exceptionally helpful advice from the even more helpful man, I ran down to the third floor, and started looking around.  Of course there was nothing but closed office doors and...well, that was all. Lots of closed and locked office doors.  I ran back up to the fourth floor, thinking how frustrating it would be to miss the freaking parking attendant while I was running a wild goose chase across the third floor (again, SUCH helpful advice!) and to my disappointment, no one was there. 

At this point, I seriously started considering my options.  Would I call someone?  It would take any person I knew out there at least an hour or two to get to me, and what would I do in the meantime?  I could call a taxi, but at rush hour, that would possibly cost me more than chartering a helicopter to do a rooftop pickup.  Either way, leaving my car up there meant that I would have to A) return downtown the next morning during normal business hours to pick my car up, B) force the unhappy friend/family member to give me a ride back downtown the next morning OR pay the taxi/helicopter the rest of my life savings to do so and C) absolutely miss both my car rental drop-off time (thus ensuring another full day's cost) AND my flight.  So.  I was unhappy.  And really, I kind of started Freaking Out.  And when I say Freaking Out, I mean my version of such, which involves a lot less crying and lot more...furiousness?   I mean, how DARE the parking attendant just leave?  What in the world?  Who DOES that?  What am I supposed to do?  And it STILL wasn't after 6pm!

I stalked around angrily until I had the bright idea to walk down the parking ramp and see if I ran into anyone on my way.  Around level two, I saw an empty parking attendant cage, but upon closer inspection saw that a man, wearing an employee shirt, was sitting in a parked van nearby.  I walked (with purpose!) up to the van and demanded to know where my keys were.  Sure, I realized that he had no idea who I was or what I was talking about, but I am pleased to report that I apparently had SO much purpose in my voice, that the poor man jumped out of his van, walked over to the lockbox, opened it, and handed me a set of keys.  The only problem was, they weren't keys to my car.  In fact, they were keys to a much, MUCH nicer car, a car parked on level two, which I guess is corporate parking or something.  Anyway, after a second of moral relativism (hmm, what could I do with this car?) I informed Parking Lot Man that those were NOT my keys, and that I needed MY keys, immediately.  He didn't seem to understand me (again, with the no English), and kept pushing the other keys at me, as if to say "here, crazy!  Keys!  Take the keys!  Leave me be!"  But I wasn't having any of it.  I dragged Parking Lot Man all the way up to level four, pointed at my car, and said "KEYS.  I NEED KEYS TO THAT CAR".  And after a series of phone calls, all in rapid Spanish, another parking attendant came back to the lot and gave me my keys.  Not to worry though, he hadn't "left" as in "left downtown".  He had only "left the premises, to go to the other lot".  OH GOOD, BECAUSE THAT MAKES A BIG DIFFERENCE TO ME, THE ONE WITH NO KEYS.  Leaving is leaving.  And had he not been summoned by Scared Parking Lot Man, he wouldn't have come back until the next morning.  Again, with the apathy.  Too bad for me!  He had to go to the other lot.

Ugh.

So, let's segue.  I need book suggestions, stat.  I am out of good books and I am in a definite reading mood and yet I have nothing that I know of that I must read.  Note:  I don't think I am up for something REALLY deep and soul-searching.  I mean, kind of deep is okay.  Like I could handle some death and depression, but nothing where I feel like I must immediately go to Darfur and what about my carbon footprint and how dare I be such a horrible human.  I'm not really ready for that at the moment. 

And, if you don't have a great book suggestion (or even if you do), then how about a song suggestion?  I have been totally loving all the mixes that have been passed around the ol' Interwebs these days, and stemming from a fun email conversation I had yesterday with Tiff, thought it would be awesome if everyone could just give me one song that they feel I must listen to immediately, right now.  Your mantra song of the moment, if you will.  I'd absolutely love to listen to the suggestions.  And bonus points if you want to tell me WHY it's your mantra right now. 

So, there you go.  You guys get a long, rambling story about how I almost lost my car in downtown LA, and in return I get awesome book and music suggestions.  Sounds about right, doesn't it?

I Type In Box; We Finish Quickly!

Okay, so the U-Haul guy.  First of all, let me just tell you that I dislike...err...hauling U-Hauls in the first place because they inevitably make the vehicle you're driving feel all shaky and weavy, and if there are two things I don't want to feel while hurtling down an interstate at 70+ miles per hour, those would be them.  Well, to be fair, I suppose there are a LOT of things I wouldn't want to feel while hurtling down the interstate, like "extremely nauseated", or "drunk as a skunk" or "attacked by crazed cat" (which, by the by, the last of those has happened, and have I already told you about it?  Let me look...no, I have not!)

***Tangent Begins***

I'm in college.  Some break has occurred, maybe Christmas or Thanksgiving, because it was cold and I remember that because I remember the sweater I was wearing - pink, fuzzy, boatneck.   Anyway, I was going to be away from college and my apartment for at least a week, so I loaded up my suitcase, an assortment of CD's (enough to last through a seven hour drive), and my cat, Jack.  Jack was riding along with me in the front passenger seat and seemed very content to just curl up in a kitty ball and sleep.  I was happy to be on the road, too.  I am that kind of person who always looks forward to a long, solitary drive because you get to listen to whatever you want, sing as loud as you want, and get all that pesky thinking out of the way so that you don't have to do much of it again for a while.  So all is well in the car, right? 

Cue NOTHING, and all of a sudden Jack The Cat has leapt out of the seat next to mine and has somehow wound all four of his (clawed) legs around my right arm and is simultaneously shredding my arm and biting my hand.  So, OUCH.  And, PANIC.  And, as you might have ascertained, I was indeed driving down an interstate at at least 70 miles per hour.  I honestly had no idea what to do, so I just kind of kept driving and started shrieking and trying to extract my arm from Jack's claws and/or teeth.  After a while, I began to suspect that weaving all over the highway whilst wrestling with a cat might not be looked favorably upon by the highway patrol, so I decided to pull over.  On the side of the road, I managed to detach Jack, who was seriously pissed, and I just kind of sat there, shaking, trying to figure out what had just happened.  After a bit Jack settled down and curled up again, this time in the backseat, and I decided to go on my way.  I probably made it about 5 miles down the road before a black, furry object from the back of the car missile-shot himself forward and into the back of my right shoulder.  He quickly wound his evil claws around my right arm again, and set to work shredding what was left of the skin there. 

I'm a little ashamed to admit it, but my only response to this second unmitigated attack was to start crying.  I don't know.  I was just so frustrated and kind of scared and SUPER MAD about being attacked repeatedly WHILE DRIVING, I mean, geez.  It was like Jack had no respect for the car or the highway, or anyone else on the road.  And I had always thought he was more of a sensitive cat than that.  So there I am, driving east at 70 miles an hour, crying, with a biting, clawing cat attached to my arm.  I pulled over again, with the serious intent of throwing Jack The Cat, beloved pet, into the ditch on the shoulder of the road and driving off without him.  After a while I decided against this plan (mainly because I shared Jack The Cat with my roommate/best friend  and explaining, after the fact, why throwing your pet out into the wilderness of West Texas and then leaving him there seemed like a good idea at the time was going to be difficult, even for me).  So I emptied out one of my suitcases, put Jack inside of it, and zipped it about 9/10 of the way up.  Then, I put the whole thing into the trunk of my car and resumed my traveling, feeling pretty secure that Jack could not escape.

Of course about an hour later I felt bad for stupid Jack and so I got him out of the bag and put him back in the car, baiting him with small bites of a TCBY frozen yogurt I had just purchased for myself.  After eating the yogurt Jack seemed to calm right back down and turn back into a somewhat pleasant animal and traveling companion.  That is, until he started dry-heaving and puked up the yogurt into the cupholder.  He puked up that yogurt for the rest of the ride home, about once an hour, every hour.  Every time I would see a "nice" gas station I would stop to get more napkins to try and contain the situation, and so that I could go into the bathroom and try to extract pink fuzzy fibers (see? this is why I remember the sweater!) out of my shredded and bleeding arm.  Pleasant trip.

***Tangent Ends***

Okay!  So I don't like pulling U-Haul trailers, and this is mainly because (besides the shaking and the weaving) the last time I had to pull a U-Haul it was a less than stellar experience.  I had just graduated from college and was bringing all of my belongings back east and I had rented a trailer because I had a couch, amongst other large items, and there was really no other option, especially since NO ONE FROM MY FAMILY CAME TO HELP; THANKS GUYS.  Anyway.  I was all packed up and planning on leaving the next morning, but, you see, I had just met Cody, and we were kind of IN LOVE, and I was sitting in my empty room of the apartment I shared with three girls, thinking about how stupid it was that I was THERE, and Cody was SOMEWHERE ELSE, where I was not.  And how I could remedy that, if I would only get into the truck and start driving.  You know how this goes.  It's that silly stage where everything makes sense.  $500 last minute plane ticket?  Sure!  I mean, what's money and credit card debt in the FACE OF LOVE?  I just won't eat next month!

So I left town, with my borrowed pickup truck and rented U-Haul, at about 8 or 9pm.  And four hours later,  somewhere in the vast nothingness of West Texas, I found myself sandwiched between two relatively scary men in the cab of a truck, pulling into what could easily have been named the Rape and Murder Warehouse Complex - Guaranteed to be So Far Off The Beaten Path No One Will Ever Find Your Victim! but what I had been assured was, instead, the U-Haul regional office for that area.  You see, my stupid trailer had FALLEN OFF OF MY TRUCK.  On the highway.  Thus forcing me to call the 24-hour U-Haul help number and wait, alone, in my broken-down state, in the dark, on the side of the highway.  I waited there for AT LEAST an hour and then finally, the aforementioned scary men showed up, glanced offhandedly at the mangled trailer hitch, and told me to "hop in" with them; we were going to get a new hitch, but the office was at least 25 miles from there, and so it was going to take a while.

And look, I'm still alive today!

The result of such an incident, however, is that I have no love lost for the U-Haul people and/or the renting and pulling of U-Hauls.  But last month, with the out-of-town holiday show, I HAD to rent one.  Cody, being well appraised of the last U-Haul pulling scenario (he being the recipient of my frantic phone calls that evening and admonishments of "if I die, here is the general area you will find me: somewhere between Sweetwater and Abilene in the back of this scary warehouse place!  Make sure they play the right songs at my funeral!") kindly went to pick up the U-Haul for me, and also made sure that he was the one to attach the trailer to the vehicle in such a way so as to ensure it would remain attached for the duration of the trip.  Cody even took a day off of work just to drive with me all the way to the show, and to pull the shaky, weavy trailer so that I wouldn't have to.  So see, it WAS a good idea, in retrospect, to leave so late that night from college just to see my future husband 12 hours earlier.  I mean, look how nicely he turned out!

Anyway, once we got to our destination and unloaded the trailer, we needed to return it to U-Haul.  It was getting late in the day, however, and so when we called the "return your U-Haul" number, they told us there was only one location open at that hour.  They gave us the address, we drove around for a while looking for it, and finally I called the location number and a very nice, European-sounding man answered.  He not only gave us the address, but the exact location, landmarks, and a promise that he would be waiting on us and that he was very excited to see us!  Which, wow, right?  I mean, that's something.  I can't say that I have ever given someone directions to my store with quite so much enthusiasm.  I was enjoying recounting the conversation to Cody, complete with my best Eastern European accent impression, when we pulled up to the U-Haul drop-off location.

Or, should I say, the tall, falling-down-ish shack of a building on a plot of land next to two vacant lots and several cotton fields.  But whatever!  There were trailers there.  And a large, European man waving wildly at us and grinning happily.  We pulled in and this man literally RAN up to shake our hands and welcome us to his establishment.  I mean, it was like we were U-Haul royalty.  I can honestly say that I have never been greeted better, anywhere.  He then invited us inside so that he could "do the papers" and as we walked to the door, we were followed by no less than five dogs.  The man brushed the dogs aside as he pulled open the screen door and gestured for us to come in.  While he was holding the screen door open for us, a couple of cats ran out and at least one or two of the dogs came in, but he seemed completely impervious to it all.

"I have many pet," he said cheerfully, as I was trying to fend off the full-frontal sensory assault that had been unleashed as I walked through the door.  It seriously smelled like...well...dirt, grease, motor oil, human smell, dog smell, cat smell, human waste, dog waste, cat waste....for at least 20 years, all built up.

"Ahh, I see...errgghh" I choked.

"Here, sit!  Sit.  Right here, next to me!" he grinned widely, as he pulled a rusty metal folding chair next to his desk.  "I need do papers now.  You give me information, I type in box, we finish quickly!  I learn about you some as well!"

I was still holding my breath and trying to sort of talk through my nose. "Okay!  Bhat d'ya deed be to get?"

He looked at me strangely "Just yourself, lady!  Come sit down, and you too, sir.  You such a nice looking couple.  You cannot be married yet, are you?"

We assured him that we were, and I tried desperately to think of an excuse so that I could go back outside.  However, at the rate my brain cells were dying in there, I was having a really tough time.  I finally thought of my cell phone, and gave some horribly convoluted reason for why I had to go get it right then, and dashed out of the room, sacrificing Cody to the stench.

About 15 minutes later, after I had texted everyone I could think of and wasted as much time as possible, I began to get a little curious about what could possibly be taking so much time inside.  I crept back in, with no short of three dogs and a cat following, and they all slunk through the door with me as I rejoined the conversation.

"So, young man, this is why American government CANNOT BE TRUST.  They will tax and tax until you have nothing!  I have a man, and I not racist, you understand, he work for me three months and he cost me at least 35 thousand dollar.  And he STILL not as big of thief as government!"

U-Haul man turned to look at me.  "Hello!  You come back.  I not racist, okay?  I just have this man, he work for me, and he take everything not nailed down!  He even take my clipboards!  Just like this one!"  He looked around for his clipboard to accentuate his point and could not find it.  "You see?  They never where I put them!"

And he laughed uproariously.

I glanced at the computer screen to see how much of the form they had completed, and didn't even see the form at all.  I saw some weird email.  U-Haul man saw me looking at the email and decided to read it to me.  It was some joke about a man wanting the pharmacist to give him poison so that he could kill his wife, and the pharmacist not wanting to until the man explained something and then haha!  He did want to give him the poison after all!  Laughs all around!

Next we were treated to some very sound marriage advice because U-Haul guy and his wife have been married for over 40 years and "we never say one bad thing to one another.  Not one bad word at any time; never!  She is angel, and we decide long ago that we not ever say one bad word, no matter what."  Which is admirable, and very good advice, I'll give him that.  But if that's the criteria for staying married, then Cody and I are, shall I say...screwed?

After that U-Haul man regaled us with a hilarious (to him) story about a woman who rented a U-Haul from him, declined to purchase the insurance, and ended up rolling the U-Haul into a ditch and dying.  And still having all the bills from the U-Haul!  And to think, all she needed to do was just buy the insurance!  Wowee!  That is funny!  Thanks for the lesson on what great peace of mind a $25 temporary insurance policy can buy me and my family.

All this, and we were no closer than when we had first arrived at doing any of "the papers".  You know when you travel to some areas in Europe, or Latin America, or the Caribbean, and you try to accomplish some sort of transaction with the locals, and it takes forever and a day?  And then you get laughed at for being such a stupid American tourist, because don't you know?  You're on Island Time.  What's the hurry?  Well, that's what this U-Haul office was operating under.  Island Time.

Eventually we managed to detach the U-Haul, sign all the necessary papers, and promise U-Haul man that we would be back on Sunday to rent a trailer for the trip back home.  Have you ever gotten to the point with someone, a really talky person, where you are honestly scared to ask even one question about anything because you know that if you do, you are sentencing yourself to at least ten more minutes of conversation?  Well, I had a somewhat important question to ask him about pickup times on Sunday, and what time he was available, and I truly could not decide which was more important: knowing for sure that I could obtain a trailer for my trip back home, or getting out of there, right then.  I opted for the safe play, and after hearing another story of how hard U-Haul man works and how the government bleeds him dry for every penny, he assured me that he would be there for me anytime, morning, noon or night.  He lives on-site, you see.

The obvious thing to do, you know, would be to rent a U-Haul from ANY OF THE OTHER LOCATIONS for my trip back home.  But I had promised Eastern European man I would be back, and honestly, how could you pass that up?

The One About The Plane

So I was standing at my gate in the airport, being held against my will by the ticket-scanner lady because every time she scanned my boarding pass, her little screen lit up saying "Already on board".  And no matter how many times I reasoned with her that the very conversation we were having negated her argument, she disagreed.

"See, right here - it says you're already on the plane, ma'am."

"Huh.  That is so weird, because to me, it seems like I'M STANDING HERE, TALKING TO YOU."

"Well, I can't let you get on the plane.  You've already boarded."

After about five minutes of this type of thing, the harried flight-attendant-ticket-scanner lady took off down the jetway to try and find Real Me on the plane, leaving Pseudo Me to wait alone at the ticket counter.   Just as I started scanning my gate for hidden cameras, thinking that perhaps I had been picked as that week's victim on Existential Hijinks! I observed a lady walk up to the unmanned ticket booth, look around a bit, consider her options, and PROCEED DOWN THE JETWAY.  Sans ticket-scanning.  What?  How is that in keeping with homeland security?  I mean, there I was (disputably) waiting to board my plane because of a possible security breach, and this chick comes strolling over and just decides, "ehh, no one's here, and I think I'll just go ahead and get on board".  Wow.

Finally, the highly annoyed flight attendant lady came marching back up the jetway.  "I checked everyone's ticket against their ID, and didn't find anything.  So I guess you can go ahead and board.  But you'd better hurry, because the plane is about to leave," she said, very huffily and with much sighing and eye-rolling.  Yes, Ms. Flight Attendant.  This was all my fault.  I am sorry to have inconvenienced you this afternoon with a debate on metaphysical principles.  Thank you for allowing me to board my plane.

I got on, sat down in my assigned seat (which, magically, didn't already contain me! how about that!) and prepared to fight the good fight: The Fight Against Puking.  I normally don't get severe motion sickness, and when I was a kid, I don't remember getting it at all.  But lately I have been experiencing this horrible phenomenon more and more, starting with a cruise I took with my family a couple of years ago, and increasing in strength and frequency ever since.  Airplanes don't bother me a bit, unless they are little, bumpy, and hot, and the puddle-jumpers that fly into my hometown are all of the above.  I really have to focus on breathing evenly and keeping the air on my face and thinking happy thoughts or else I will find myself scrambling for the nearest air-sickness bag.  Which is SO ewww.  Thankfully (knock on wood) I have not yet had to use The Bag.  All my fingers and toes are crossed that I NEVER have to use The Bag.  Ugh.  I actually think having to use The Bag might be the most demoralizing thing possible.  It's as if all the airline committee members were sitting around a big table one day, eating nachos, making up policies, feeling decidedly UN-nauseated, and thought you know, if these passengers are so feeble-minded as to get sick on a plane (ha!) then they should HAVE to use a tiny, white paper bag to puke in.  I mean, COWBOY UP, right?  We will not pander to their weaknesses!

Well, it works.  Because I can't think of anything worse than feeling horribly nauseated, fighting against the puke valiantly, and then, due to forces out of my control (see: suffocating, hot, bumpy) succumb to the TINY WHITE AIRSICK BAG.  I'd rather jump out of the emergency exit.

Anyway.

I was seated in the second-to-last row of the plane.  The very last row, I found out, is a long bench seat, designed to hold four people all side to side.  That is how little these planes are.  On my flight, the bench was holding three people, one of whom was directly behind me, and two of whom were seated behind and to the left of me.  The man behind me was your prototypical airplane passenger, carrying a briefcase, a laptop, and a smart phone, all of which he had out and ready to go as soon as the captain made his little "you can now use electronic devices" announcement.  His fellow bench-mates, however, were about as far from prototypical as you could possibly imagine.  Unless your version of prototypical includes most of the guests on Jerry Springer.

They were a couple, as we (and by we, I mean the ENTIRE PLANE) soon found out when the female-half of the couple started SCREAMING at the male-half of the couple for touching her leg.  We were subsequently treated to more SCREAMING about how she was not about to let her son and his girlfriend move out, because if they did, then who would pay the (expletive) rent, and then they'd be (expletive) out of luck.  She also wanted to know how her companion (boyfriend? husband?) could possibly blame her son for drinking all the Jack, because didn't he know how obvious it was that his (promiscuous) daughter was the one drinking all the Jack?    Also, she wanted a cigarette.  RIGHT NOW.  And she would really appreciate if he would STOP TOUCHING HER RIGHT NOW, because if he didn't, she would stand up and scream for everyone to hear (at this point I had to assume that she somehow had even higher decibels in her repertoire, which was impressive) AND IF HE DIDN'T BELIEVE HER?  Well, she'd do it.  She (expletive) promised him she'd do it.  All of this pleasantry was interspersed with heavy petting and promises to "make it all better, baby" and "see, isn't that better now" until, presumably, the petting got too heavy and we'd all be treated to another round of DON'T YOU TOUCH ME, I'LL SCREAM.

There was an elderly lady in the seat in front of me who kept turning around during these tirades and giving Old Woman Disapproving Looks.  Finally, after about three prolonged OWDLs, the Jerry Springer protégé locked eyes with the elderly lady and said "Whut?  Whutta you lookin' at?"  I felt sorry for the old lady, but only kind of.  I mean, those OWDLs are really overrated, if you ask me.  They rarely work on anyone, but grandma should have known they never work on people like that.

Finally and blessedly, the plane landed, and we prepared to deplane.  For those of you who are frequenters of the air-travel industry, you probably have noticed that there is a little unspoken rule of etiquette when leaving the plane.  You generally wait for the people in the seats directly in front of you to gather their stuff, retrieve items from the overhead bins, and start down the aisle before you do the same.  Now this isn't a hard and fast rule, as many times the people in front of you will motion you past if you look like you're in a hurry, or maybe you know that you have tons of stuff in the overhead bin and would rather just wait for the plane to mostly empty before you start your haul.  However, for the most part, you POLITELY WAIT on the people in front of you.  Not so with the Jerry Springerites.  The VERY SECOND the captain turned off the fasten-seatbelt sign, the woman from the back row was up, clutching two cigarettes and a lighter in her little fist, and pushing ahead of everyone else on the plane.  She was the first one off, and although her departure from any sort of manners whatsoever came as enough of a surprise to everyone that they kind of just let her through, we had all recovered enough to stand up and block her partner-in-crime when he tried the same thing.  So he got stuck waiting right in front of me, and as he waited he draped his hand over the back of the seat in front of mine.  I wanted to check for a wedding ring, but he was missing all but two of his fingers.  So I guess that will have to remain a mystery.

As I waited for my baggage, I looked around for the couple.  I didn't hear any yelling, so I got curious.  Were they actually engaging in a knock-down, drag-out fight?  Were they making out while simultaneously taking long drags of their cigarettes for their nicotine-starved lungs?  I thought I might never see them again, but as I loaded my bags into the trunk of Cody's car, I caught a glimpse of the lady.  Alas, she wasn't doing anything more interesting than standing against the side of the building, smoking and talking on her cell phone.  As we drove away, though, I could have sworn I heard her yell something about her brother, and whether or not he knew who stoled her Crocs.

From Sea to Shining Sea

Well, hello!  I'm back from Mexico.  And I'm not too sorry about it, either.

I mean, it was great, don't get me wrong.  I could have spent a week in Branson, Missouri, or Sweetwater, Texas and I would have thought it was great.  A week off, anywhere; that is pretty much the crux of the situation for me.  If I don't have to work or talk to anyone unless I feel like it for a week?  GOOD VACATION. 

And the resort we stayed at, wow.  It was like, the nicest place I've ever seen, much less stayed.  There was a giant spa that took up the entire first floor of the building we were in, with massage rooms and saunas and steam showers and Swedish showers and cardio rooms and weight rooms and incense rooms and stretching rooms and meditation rooms.  It was freakishly nice.  I spent quite a lot of time inside the spa.  Even though most of the women got naked way too often for my comfort level, and were, well, way too comfortable with their naked level, in general.  I don't know what my problem is, but I just can't get naked in front of a bunch of strangers.  I try, I really do.  I berate myself internally, offering words of wisdom to myself such as What, are you scared?  Everyone ELSE is doing it! and Get over yourself already, and just get naked, you chicken.  No one is looking at you!  I spent the last 15 minutes of every workout telling myself that this time, THIS TIME I would do it.  I mean, it probably feels great, right?  Just walking around all naked, not caring about, you know, cellulite, or weird tan lines or what your boobs look like.  Jumping into the jacuzzi, feeling the water swirling around, free of those cumbersome five square inches of fabric involved in most bikinis.  It would be enlightening!  I'd feel better about myself!  And on the flip side, if I DIDN'T do it, I'd look like a total freakshow because I would literally be the only one wearing a swimsuit.  I'd be the Mexican spa version of an Amish nun.  If the Amish had, you know.  Nunneries.  Do they?

Alas, I never actually went through with it.  Thursday, I was so confident in my Getting Naked decision that I actually smiled smugly to myself while I finished up on the stair-climber.  Hah, I thought.  Glad I'm over that.  I pity the old me, caring about such trivial matters.  In fact, I don't even have to think about this anymore, the decision is so made.  I'm like, whatever, naked!  I don't care about you.  And then I got to the jacuzzi, prepared to unwrap my towel and ran back to the lockers for my swimsuit.

Despite my internal anguish, the spa was great.  The pool was huge.  The ocean was beautiful.  The weather was perfect.  I read six books, slept at least 12 hours every night, and drank copious amounts of coconut rum.  And had a few margaritas for good measure.  So you might be wondering why I was ready to come back.  It wasn't because of my drive for success (which exists in my imagination, much like the tooth fairy), or my workaholic tendencies (which are largely nonexistent altogether).  It was, dear readers, because I was starving.  Literally, my stomach eating itself in desperation starving.  I actually think I am now nutritionally deficient, because of my week-long sojourn to Mexico.

I'm terrified of eating in Mexico.  Too many stories of disgusting and horrific gastrointestinal ailments combined with a mild but still kicking case of OCD and an already weak stomach equal a week of Elise eating pretty much nothing.  And then of course, I'd get so hungry that I'd have to eat SOMETHING, and then that something (which would usually be chips and salsa or a hamburger or some other completely unoriginal and boring food item) would inevitably make me feel sick.  And then I'd not eat anything again until I was similarly starved.  And the cycle would repeat itself.  By the end of the last day of vacation I was dragging my half-starved, sunburned body up the stairs to our building, feeling dizzy, nauseated and hot.  And full of a burning hatred for Mexico.

I just don't understand why they can't get it together on the food and water circuit.  I mean, their resorts are beautiful.  They have huge, multi-million person cities, with viable businesses and commerce and everything else.  They're connected to the United States, and certainly have plenty of resources with which to work.  So it makes no sense to me that they would just kinda give up on the whole "safe water" deal.  I was talking to Cody about it during the week and decided that it would be much like if I continued to own my store, but when I noticed that the ceiling tiles were falling down and injuring customers, just decided, ehh, I can't be bothered with that.  Shop at your own risk, customers!  I mean, the tiles usually don't kill anyone, you know.  Just kind of minor head injuries and some bleeding.  No biggie!  As a country, this is apparently what Mexico has decided.  Sure you can visit, and sure our resorts and coastline and architecture and natural foliage is beautiful.  Enjoy!  Just don't, you know.  Drink any water.  Or eat anything raw that might have been in contact with the water.  Oh, you had to eat something?  And now you're horribly, violently ill?  Hmm, well, at least you're not dead!  Come back again soon!  Viva la Mexico!

Ugh.

All during the plane ride on the way back home, I talked to Cody about what the most Americanized meal possible would look like.  Steak and potatoes?  Some kind of casserole?  Obviously it would have to involve both Fried and Fattening.  We touched down in Dallas, got in the car, started driving past all the chain restaurants that flank the sides of pretty much any major American highway, and tears nearly came to my eyes. 

"It's so beautiful," I said.

"What, the acres of concrete?"  Cody asked.

"No, all these restaurants.  They're all here, for us, and I can eat at ANY ONE OF THEM," I replied.

The safe eating and drinking choices, they are endless.  And that, for me, might just be the American Dream.

Tales From the Cody Vault

It's time for a story about everyone's favorite guy!  He's lovable, he's absentminded, he's an all-around good-hearted doofus....he's the Code!

This week we'll revisit an episode from the past.  Imagine that it's Christmas time, will you?  There are presents under the tree, it's cold outside, the evenings are dark and lend themselves to staying indoors and cuddling near crackling fires.  You're probably getting sick of all the radio stations being co-opted by Christmas music.  Some of you might be about to go on a holiday vacation.  Cody is actually preparing for a holiday trip himself.  You see, Cody's lovely wife and in-laws have an uncle who lives (!) in the Cayman Islands.  This uncle has very graciously extended an open invite to the family, and so for the past 6 months, Cody has been excitedly awaiting the Christmas trip to Grand Cayman.  He's talked about what he'll do, read up on what ocean life can be found in the Cayman coral reefs, and determined at least five different species of fish he will consume.  The day approaches, slowly but surely.  Finally, after 24 weeks, the vacation day is here!  Cody will leave the very next day, early in the morning, to drive to the airport and begin the vacation he's been waiting on for over 168 days. 

So, it's 12:30am.  We will leave for Dallas (and its requisite international airport) in precisely three hours.  Cody decides that right now is probably a good time to start locating his birth certificate. 
You see, a birth certificate used to be acceptable documentation for international travel if you were only going so far as Mexico, the Caribbean, or Canada.  Not so anymore.  Now everyone must have a passport.  And they take like, forever to get.  So, if you want to travel anywhere internationally in the next year or  so, GET ONE NOW.  Trust me on this. 
Anyway, at the time of our story, a birth certificate would still suffice.  And Cody, at 12:30am, the night (or early-morning, depending on how you see it....kinda like glass half-full, half-empty, right?) before we are set to leave for Grand Cayman, is sauntering over to our file cabinet to retrieve his birth certificate.  I am all packed up and dozing on the couch, not subscribing to the travel theory that goes something like "If You're Going To Be Leaving Really Early Anyway, Then Just Don't Go To Bed At All The Night Before Because Then It Won't Be So Hard To Wake Up. Besides, You Can Just Sleep On The Plane".  I hate that theory.  It only makes you more tired.  And who can sleep on planes?  I never can, unless I decide that I don't care if the stranger next to me sees me drooling down the side window.  And I never decide that.

Anyway.

I am sleeping.  Cody is locating his birth certificate in the file cabinet.  Only he isn't, because the birth certificate is not IN the file cabinet.  He looks in the planning desk.  Not there.  He looks in my underwear drawer, because that is where I tend to hide things that I know I'll need and don't want Cody to lose.  Not there, either.  At this point, Cody decides to wake me up.  "I can't find my birth certificate," he says.  "I've looked everywhere."  I groan to an awake stance, and look at him incredulously.  "You WHAT?"  I say.  "You've got to be kidding me.  You didn't already have it, ready to go?"  At this point, Cody is more than likely regretting waking me up at all.  As I'm being so, you know.  Helpful.

"No.  I didn't have it ready to go.  Now help me find it.  It's 1:30."  Now I'm really awake.  1:30?!?  We have to leave in like, an hour and a half.  Holy crap.  A major search ensues.  I might mention here, as an aside, that during the Christmas season we were housing our good friends and their two year-old daughter.  Who is an incredibly light sleeper.  Or, her parents THINK she is.  One of those.  Anyway, we were having to frantically tear the house apart AND fight all in super-silent whispers. 

"How could you dooooo thisssssss?"  I hiss, in a whisper.

"I don't knoooow!  It was supposssssed to be in the file cabinet - where did YOU put it?"  Cody whisper-yells back.

"Where did I put it????  Are you kiddinggggg?  Who, between usssss, loossssesssss EVERYTHINGGGG?  Where did YOU put it?  Think!"  I respond, whisperishly.

This line of questioning, by the way, never works.  I always try to make Cody think back on where he was, what he was doing the last time he had the Lost Item.   I do this because this is how I find things when I have lost them.  I can't find my chapstick?  Well, let's see, the last time I used it was when I was in the kitchen on the phone with Amy, and we were talking about how ceiling fans dry our throats out and I thought, wow, my throat and lips are dry NOW, and then I grabbed the chapstick out of my purse, used it and set it down....in the candy tray!  It's in the candy tray!  It's like a fun game.  But not to Cody.

"I don't KNOW where I had it lasssst!  Who uses a birth certificate?  It sssssshould be right here.  But it's not.  Where did you put it?" 

This goes on for the next hour.  The house is now a disaster, Cody is still only half-packed, and what does it matter, really, because he isn't going to be able to go anywhere without his birth certificate anyway.  We have two more chances at success.  The BC could be at his office, or at my store.  Why it would be at either of those places I have no idea, but at 2:30am, anything sounds reasonable.  We load up our luggage, pray to the travel gods, and set out.  BC is MIA in both places of business.  Obviously.

It's now 3:15am.  We have already called my parents and told them to go ahead without us; we will follow in our own car.  We sit in the parking lot of the shopping center that houses my store, and stare straight ahead, blankly. 

"Do you think the marriage certificate will work?"

"No."

"Me either."

"If we don't leave now, we'll miss the flight completely."

"Yeah."

We sit like this for maybe 5 minutes.  And then start driving to Dallas.  The drive is....unpleasant, to say the least.  I'll let you imagine what it might be like.  And it probably was just like that.  Maybe worse.

Arriving at the airport, we are frantic to get to the ticket counter.  We've wasted so much time looking for the elusive BC that we are about to miss the checked-luggage cutoff.  We explain the situation to the bored-looking ticket agent.  We beg for mercy.  We show the marriage license.  We show Cody's expired passport.  I swear that Cody is, in fact, a US citizen.  I'll even write a statement, attesting to that, I offer.  We ask that she take pity on our souls and please, please allow Cody to board the flight.  She responds with this gem:

"You know, after January 6, you won't even be able to travel with a birth certificate.  You'll have to have a passport."

Ummm, ok.  That was, possibly, the very least helpful thing in to say.  We don't HAVE a birth certificate, much less a passport, and informing us to the ins and outs of future travel laws is, at best, irrelevant.  At worst, it's just plain robotic and hateful.  We say something in this vein, and she responds:

"Sir, I've already told you, you're going to need a new passport or a birth certificate to travel.  Ma'am, if you want to get on the plane, you're going to have to go now.  The plane is boarding and if I don't check you in now, you won't be able to go either."

This leaves me with the decision I just knew I was going to have.  Stay in Dallas with my sadly misinformed and unprepared husband and miss the trip, or leave my husband behind and go.  Given the state of mind I was in at the time, you might think the decision would be easy, but still.  It's Christmas, and that's my husband.  I do love the guy, after all.  Fortunately, the decision was made for me, as Cody all but pushed me into the electronic screening line and ran away, yelling over his shoulder that he'd figure something out and catch the next flight, not to worry, and to go.  Also, he threatened to kill me if I stayed.  So, I went.   And, unbeknownst to me, I took the only set of keys to the car with me, effectively leaving Cody stranded in the Dallas airport.

The best part of boarding the plane without Cody was looking at my Dad's face, because if you don't know my Dad, I'll tell you - he doesn't make mistakes.  Therefore, he doesn't understand it when other people do.  It's kind of like how normal people might look at a hopeless crack-addict.  "Where did that poor person go wrong?" we wonder.  "How could they let something like that happen to them?"  That's how my Dad is when ANYTHING goes wrong.

Cody missed the first two days of the four day vacation.  He arrived at the Grand Cayman airport at 11:30pm on a Tuesday night, bedraggled and telling tales of taxi rides to small-town courthouses, struggles with government employees who wanted to be home celebrating the holidays, birth certificates obtained, taxi rides back to the airport, unhelpful ticketing agents, and lines the length of football fields.  He actually got ticketed on a flight the morning after we all arrived, but MISSED that flight when he showed up at the airport well before the two-hours-prior suggested time, and found the longest lines he had ever seen before, due to the fact that American had canceled over 600 flights coming and going from the East Coast.  He could have done self check-in if he would have had a passport, but since he had a birth certificate only, he had to wait in the ticketing line and have it looked at personally by an agent.  You see, passports come with a handy barcode for electronic scanning.  Birth certificates, apparently, do not.

I'll bet the best part of missing the SECOND flight was when Cody had to call me and hear my voice when he told me what happened.  I don't know if you know my Dad, but I take after him.

You'd think that after something like that, your first priority once you arrived home would be to, I don't know.  Obtain a passport?  Sadly, Cody did not, and we nearly were not able to go on our upcoming trip (knock on wood, I know...we haven't gotten there yet) because Cody still had not done anything towards getting his passport.  He actually had to drive to Houston and jump through about a thousand hoops in order to get the passport office to guarantee his passport would arrive in time for us to leave on our non-refundable plane ride to our non-refundable resort.  This Saturday.  Yesterday the passport arrived in our mailbox.  Wednesday. 

So, three days.  That's not cutting it too close at all.  Not in Cody-world.

Also, All I Had For A Blanket Was My Discarded Bridesmaid Dress

No more giant fuzzy bangs picture.  Enough of you!

Ahh.  That's better.  Now I've just got to think of something to say.  Actually, I've got plenty to say.  My little brother-in-law, who might as well be my real brother given the sheer amount of time I've spent with him over the past 10 years, got married a little over a month ago.  And then my actual brother got married the following weekend.  And then there was Mardi Gras in Lafayette, and then we went to Galveston and came back home where I painted the chairs a horrible army green and then a darker brown and then a creamy eggnog.  And then I went to Los Angeles for market.  And now I'm back home and I haven't really written about any of that, except for Galveston which, although it was certainly the most relaxing event out of the list, wasn't really the most blogworthy.

Or was it?  (Apparently, yes.  Yes, it was.)

I have been waiting to do my wedding recap posts until I've seen all the pictures from both weddings.  I think we can all agree that weddings aren't nearly as interesting sans-illustration, unless they were disasters and someone left someone at the altar, or someone passed out in the middle of the ceremony,  or a drunk uncle went around groping all the bridesmaids - all things, I would imagine, that you wouldn't really want recorded for all of posterity.  But since nothing like that happened and both weddings were gorgeous and fun, I figured pictures would be the way to go.  Besides, all of the sister-in-laws I've been busily collecting over the past few years are so dadgum cute, it would be a shame not to plaster their cuteness all over the Internet.  Also, I haven't asked permission.  So that's out.

Mardi Gras, well, that was just a big whirlwind of tiredness, since we had just spent the last 4 days in Los Angeles getting ready for, participating in, and somewhat directing the reception of my brother's wedding, and the weekend prior we had spent in Arkansas (yes, Arkansas) participating in my brother-in-law's wedding.  We left the Los Angeles wedding at about 10:30pm on a Saturday night, drove straight to LAX, hopped on a red-eye flight to Lafayette via Houston, and proceeded to Mardi Gras like rockstars.  Except that I am SO not a rockstar, because really, the cross-country party circuit is, well, tiring, and I think it sounds better on paper. 

"Yeah, we partied in Arkansas (replace with cooler state for more impact), and then went straight to Los Angeles for like a week-long party and then took an overnight flight to Lafayette for Mardi Gras and partied there all weekend.  It was wicked, dude."

Instead of:

"Ugh.  This carpet is freaking uncomfortable and it's FREEZING in here.  Do they not know it is 35 degrees out?  Oh, is that the heater going on?  I smell that heater smell.....ahhhh....oh.
(Heat from heater sets off some sort of airport emergency alarm)
Oh no. 
(Ear-splitting noise) 
Make it stop.  I have had no sleep for approximately two weeks, it is 6am, I am lying on the FLOOR of the airport in Houston, and there is an ALARM going off that is rattling the inside of my already hung-over skull.  Do we really have to do Mardi Gras?  Look, if you pull the backpack over your head like this, you can hardly hear the alarm anymore. I think we should just stay here and sleep."

Yeah.  You never hear Paris Hilton saying that.

Ol' Blue Eyes Himself!

Galveston Island, once known for its Southern charm and as a location of choice for artists such as Tom Wolfe, Mark Twain, and Frank Sinatra, has all but fallen off of the map in recent years.  Deteriorating boutique hotels, the addition of too many inexpensive chain lodging options, and a few ill-timed oil spills combined to make Galveston a destination to avoid, at least for the travel-savvy.  However, several Galveston purists and a major cash infusion have, in the past few years, joined forces to renovate this sleepy beach town and bring back the "Queen of the Gulf" status Galveston once proudly held.

Ha, how much would it suck if I always wrote like that?  Like some kind of wannabe travel writer?  Oh, it's better than my normal drivel, you say?  Huh.

Anyway, Cody and I are in Galveston this weekend.  It's really lovely, even though all I've done so far is arrive really late last night and sleep for about 10 hours.  Sleeping for 10 hours, anywhere, at any time, is always a positive experience for me.  So, yay Galveston!  Thanks for letting me sleep here. 

Today I think we're going to walk around, all tourist-like, and peruse shops on the Strand, sit on the piers and watch the boats come in and out from sea, and eat seafood.  Seafood that must, by proximity, be fresh.  That's always my issue with ordering up a nice plate of seared Ahi Tuna in, say, Dallas.  I mean, how fresh can that fish be, really?  Because last time I checked, the nearest beach was several hundred miles away. 

Anyhow, enough of my brilliant logic, and onto a chair update.  I know, you've all either been dying to know what happened with the chairs or else you've completely forgotten and don't care at all.  So!  You all need to know, clearly.  I painted the first chair creamy, eggnoggy, white.  It looked good.  I chickened out.  I called my best friend, who had recently painted a cabinet set a color that was brown, but looked black.  Perfect, I thought, not as much contrast, and still a high-end and formal look.  I bought the paint.  I took it home, opened it, and noted that it looked much lighter than I would have expected.  Kind of like baby-poop brown, rather than a super dark chocolate brown.  But!  I know paint, I told myself.  I have painted LOTS OF THINGS.  The paint doesn't always look the same wet as dry.  Carry on, I told myself!  Carry on.

The chair is now baby-poop GREEN*.  How, I do not know.  But what I do know is that I will be paying a visit to the paint lady at Home Depot.  I thought she gave me a snide look when I suggested that the base paint needed to be level 3.  Base 3!  My friend told me!  Do what I say, woman!

I think she screwed me.

 

*Did you get that?  Did the enormity of that statement sink in?  GREEN.   Like olive, army, green.  It's every bit as terrible as you think.  Except worse.

God Bless Texas

After navigating around Hollyweird for the last three days I finally made it back to LAX for my return flight, this time prepared for the worst. 

My flight was at 7:15 am; I left my hotel (a mere 12 miles from the airport) at 4:30.  All I needed to do for my rental car return was fill 'er up, but I went ahead and washed the car (at least partially.  More on that later).  I knew that I shouldn't need to wait in all the flight check-in lines because I had self-checked in, but I stood in (count 'em) THREE supremely long, only-at-LAX lines just to make sure that my bags AND I were on the same flight. 

The really amazing thing about the whole experience is that as soon as my plane took off, as soon as we leveled out and the fasten seat-belt sign blinked off, (as soon as California was RID of me), everything improved dramatically.  The lady sitting next to me moved to sit by her husband in the row behind, leaving me with an entire three seats to myself.  I asked the stewardess for a blanket and after she brought it I stretched out vertically across the row, thought that perhaps I would request a pillow when the drink cart came by, and promptly fell asleep.  I didn't wake up until I heard the pilot announcing that we would be landing in the next 15 minutes.  It was like time-travel, with nap included.

After landing in Dallas, I easily found the baggage claim, retrieved my two suitcases, walked about 15 feet to the escalator that led directly to the correct shuttle stop, and waited a mere 5 minutes to be picked up by a polite, English-speaking driver who not only informed me of the service number I could call should I have any trouble with my car, but also loaded my suitcases into the back of my vehicle for me. 

It's nice to be home.

Oh, about the car.  Because California hadn't hated on me quite enough, I got in a wreck last night.  Yes, I was rear-ended by an illegal immigrant, one who had NO driver's license, NO insurance, and NO English-speaking skills.  He hit my rental car.  The one for which I begged, pleaded, and traded my soul to the devil.  The one which I (for the first time ever) chose NOT to insure.  Fabu!

Anyway, the reason I was washing said car was because in a quirky twist of fate, I was able to swerve out of the UNINSURED DRIVER'S way quickly enough to incur only a long, sweeping black mark on the car, rather than a full-on dent.  I was hoping (not really daring to believe) that perhaps if I scrubbed hard enough, chanted "I believe, I believe, I believe", and clapped my hands three times, the Car Fairy would appear and poof!  Fix the car! 

And you know what?  It totally worked.

Alone! Or, Don't Rent Cars From Midway Rental Agency

California doesn't like me this month. 

You see, I come out here fairly often.  In fact, upon closer examination of my frequent flier account, I come out here nearly every 6-8 weeks.  Just like a root-touch up!  I get a little card from the state of California, reminding me that hey, we haven't seen you in a while, isn't it time for your next appointment?

Usually, I would venture to guess, you don't even notice that I've gone.  I fly out here, do my business, and fly back home, normally in a couple of days, and normally without incident.  Certainly nothing postworthy.

Well, my friends, I have been here for a staggering 14 hours, and already it ranks as possibly the worst traveling experience I have had, to date.

Realize that when I say "worst traveling experience" I include the time I flew to El Salvador, had my plane delayed 8 hours in the Miami airport, and arrived at the San Salvador airport in the middle of the night, alone, armed only with the warnings I had received to "never be alone after sunset" and the knowledge that the bus I was supposed to take to the little port town of La Union had come and gone. 
And, did I mention, the bus only comes to San Salvador once a week?  Yeah, once a week, every Saturday, from 12-6, the bus sits at the airport and loads up passengers to take them out to La Union.  If you miss the bus, there's really no problem, unless you mind waiting AN ENTIRE WEEK to get to where you're meant to be.  What, you had something to do?  Oh well, we're Latin Americans, and you should probably reeeelaxx, anyway.  Which is true, we should, but a week?  With no hotel, and no money for one?  And a limited Spanish vocabulary?  Alone?  As an 18 year old gringa?

Anyway, all that was nothing compared to yesterday.
 
First - well, FIRST, I can't even think of what was first.  Basically, no one could take me to the airport, I missed my plane, my bags missed the other plane, I couldn't stay with either of my brothers or my brother's girlfriend (because apparently her roommate is so completely psychotic that she has drawn up a "house charter" which entails that no one, at any time, can spend the night at the house. Not even Mary's poor brother, who was recently traveling cross-country and had nowhere else to stay), so I had to book a hotel alone (which I hate and always makes me feel lonely and depressive). 

I reserved a rental car which was guaranteed to have a shuttle from the airport to the rental agency but actually did not, and after standing (alone!) outside LAX for around 45 minutes waiting for the Shuttle That Is Not, I finally discovered that hey, I have to take the Radisson Hotel shuttle, who would have guessed that a HOTEL SHUTTLE TAKES YOU TO A RENTAL CAR AGENCY??  And then I (alone again, are we seeing a theme) drag my two huge rolling bags and my laptop and my purse and myself down about 3 city blocks worth of sidewalk to the Hotel Shuttle Line, and wait another 20 minutes for the shuttle to arrive.  It finally does, and sensing my impending relief, the lovely state of California delivered me another swift kick in the gut as I found myself standing outside the Radisson Hotel, alone again, the shuttle having departed to the NEXT Radisson Hotel on the schedule, because hey!  We go to several Radisson Hotels, and it's up to you to determine which one houses the rental car agency!  That's the Radisson way. 

I wait another 15 minutes for the next shuttle to arrive, drag all my crap up the shuttle stairs again, and interrogate the driver as to where, exactly, this ubiquitous rental car agency is, exactly.  He assures me that it is the next stop, and I sigh, wait for my sign, and lug my bags etc. into another hotel (which, coincidentally, looks EXACTLY like the last hotel).  I find an employee who wonders if I would like to check in and when I inform him that no, all I want is my car, he gives me an exceedingly puzzled look. 
"Car?  Hmmm....where did you say you were getting a car from?"   
I am horrified as I explain that the rental car agency is supposed to be HERE, I was told it was INSIDE THE RADISSON, and he does that supremely annoying hotel employee thing of sighing, rolling his eyes, and saying "Oh, Midway, you were supposed to have a car reserved from Midway.  Yes, they have an office inside the hotel, but they close every evening at 7pm".  And then he shot me a look that clearly said I should have known all of that already, and that I had put him out by having him waste his time explaining. 

I remark that closing at 7pm doesn't seem quite reasonable, does it, given the fact that LOTS OF FLIGHTS ARRIVE AFTER 7PM, INCLUDING MINE.  A fact which I was required to enter into the Midway Rental Car system when I RESERVED MY CAR.  The hotel employee looks even more annoyed, and suggests that I might find it more convenient, next time, to reserve from a 24-hour agency?  And, after punching him 100 times in the face, I reply that yes, that would be more convenient, and you know what else would be convenient?  MIDWAY NOT ADVERTISING THAT THEY ARE A 24-HOUR AGENCY. 

I then proceed to get drawn into one of those horrible circular conversations where I ask him what he thinks I ought to do, and he gives me completely obvious suggestions that only rival their obviousness with their unhelpfulness.  After he tells me that really the only thing to do is to wait for yet another shuttle to take me BACK TO THE AIRPORT, I feel as if maybe, just maybe, this trip is not going to be a good one. 

I finally get back to the airport, albeit not anywhere near where the Rental Car Shuttles go, and have to drag my stuff, which is now feeling like 678 pounds or so, another several blocks or so, just so that I can end up EXACTLY WHERE I WAS WAITING OVER AN HOUR BEFORE. 

As you can imagine, I could go on.  And on.  But in the interest of, well, preventing me from committing a mortal sin, I will just sum the rest up.  I tried not one, not two, but THREE rental car agencies, all with the requisite shuttle ride to and from the airport included, until I found an agency with A) a car to rent and B) last-minute prices that only financially molested me, rather than going all the way with a full-blown monetary rape. 

After hearing my sad tale, the rental agency employee wondered if next time I might avoid all this trouble by just reserving a car at a 24-hour agency?  I left him crying on the floor, got my car, and arrived at my hotel a short while later, where I was promptly informed that it would cost me $19 dollars PER NIGHT to park, a fact that was conveniently left out in advertisement.  But why shouldn't it cost me over $60 bucks to leave my car on a tiny spot of asphalt while I sleep in a ROOM THAT I ALREADY PAID FOR?   Obviously! 

The poor hotel check-in man was terrified of me, I think, as I'm sure I was sporting the most pissed off, livid look possible on my tired and miserable face and probably looked like death warmed over.   He tried to check me in so quickly that he ended up having to call up to my room just as I was about to crawl into bed.  "I'm so sorry, ma'am," he said.  "I forgot to imprint your credit card.  I was trying to get you up to your room quickly so you could sleep...you just looked so....ummm..."
I cut him off there, saying that I would be down in a minute to give him the card, and not to worry about it.

And then?  I got stuck in the elevator.