And I forgot one of my all-time faves: stanky people who don't know they be stanky. Yes, I know the word is "stinky", but sometimes that's just not descriptive enough. I had a friend who used to refer to really rank individuals as "spicy", which entertained me to no end. A ripe person would enter the room and as we were both blasted in the face with a wall o' stench, she'd just raise her eyebrows and look demurely off to the side and say, "my, oh my, but isn't *somebody* very SPICY today?!" I love that phrase. Still use it sometimes. Unfortunately, there were a few 'spicy' people on my first flight of the day. Hopefully the next one will be better.

Just to be really clear on this...

Just in case I was unclear in the past, let me reiterate a few of the things I loathe about traveling.

1. People who listen to music/watch videos on the plane with NO HEADPHONES, and the milquetoasty flight attendant who won't say anything to them to make it stop. (ok, I didn't say anything either, but it's not my JOB.) I was just treated to two hours of secondhand screechy middle-eastern music coming out of an iPhone in the row in front of me. Which was being wielded by pet peeve #2:

Couples who kiss slurpily in public. Seriously? Gross. I'm thrilled that you're in love and on a big, exciting air plane trip together, but I can live without hearing what your saliva sounds like when it meets. Everyone who knows me is aware that I hate pretty much any mouth noise that isn't speech (and depending on the source, even that sometimes), so just imagine how thrilled I am to hear multiple, repetitive *smak * *slurp* *smak* *slurp* *mmmmloveyousmak*s. Aaaggghhh.


Thirdly, and again, the oxen who insist upon clogging the moving walkways and now the exit area of the escalators. It's like a new gathering place for the spacially/socially unaware. "Hmmm, let's see, lots of people need to step off of the escalator right here or get run over...I think I'll stay!". Oxen, I say.

Lastly, USAir Club, which I recently joined, does not serve free hooch! Wth!?! Air Canada's Maple Leaf Lounge pimps it out like they're trying to create a new wave of alcoholism. So what gives?? Eight bucks for a glass of (crappy) wine? Is this place sponsored by AA or what!? So I guess I paid a couple of hundred bucks for, well, peanuts. And a quiet place to do yet MORE work from. Greeeeaaaat.


*sigh*. I'll be home in about 3 hours, from my 3rd week-long excursion in as many weeks. Guess it's starting to take it's toll on me. Oh, that and the 10 lbs or so I've managed to somehow pack on while being flung between US and Canada. Aargh.

just my luck

Time for another travel anecdote. This is just too precious not to blog about.

This week I was in Toronto (again), and had to get to upstate NY by Thursday night for a Friday morning demo. Thursday was an enjoyable day (started that way, anyway) until I got to the Toronto airport. I find out upon arrival that my flight to Philadelphia was cancelled due to crappy weather. I spend the next 40 minutes alternately in line, talking to the USAir rep at the counter (who was harried and dramatic but nice and ultimately very helpful), and my travel department via phone. We all decide that my best way to get to where I'm going (Newburgh, NY), I should re-route through Detroit, which means a Canada Air flight to Detroit and a Delta/NorthWest into Stewart Field.

The plane from Toronto was SO SMALL (all together now: "how small was it?"), I'm fairly certain that I've driven land vehicles larger than it. The old deuce and a halfs in the army, our ladder truck in the fire department...seriously, they were larger. But the flight was ok, and all was good until I got off of the plane and into the terminal. My first clue that something was amiss was that my flight to Newburgh wasn't showing on any of the display screens. I deduced that I was in the "D" terminal, and looked for a map. All of the maps I found only showed the D terminal. So after walking what seemed like a half mile or so, I finally found a TSA agent and asked her where the NW flights were. "Oh, chile', you in the WRONG TERMINAL for NorthWest!", she practically laughed at me. There was no depiction of other terminals in the map! Then she started to give me directions: "take that exit over there, up the escalator, across the bridge, down the escalator, onto the shuttle bus for 3 miles -" at which point I interrupted and said, "Whoooaaaahhhhh, wait a minute: there's a shuttle involved?"

"Yes, chile', a SHUTTLE.", laughing again. "You in the NORTH Terminal right now." Her reaction to my reaction was so funny, I had to laugh despite the whole thing.

So I thank her and set out on the first part of the journey. Mind you, I'm carrying my laptop, and a carry-on bag that contains miscellaneous crap and my purse, which is heavy. Usually I have my rollaboard, which I balance all this weight on. Because of all the recent travel I've been doing, my back has been hurting, and I find that pulling a heavy rollaboard and bench-pressing it over my head 2x a day doesn't seem to help that pain, so I checked it. Yes, I checked my bag. (For the non-road warriors reading this, this practice is unheard of amongst my people. It is widely assumed that any checked bag will get lost in transit. This is common knowledge among seasoned travelers, yet, the pain -and tiny airplane size- compelled me to do it anyway.)

NOTE TO DETROIT: When you have a terminal that is 3 miles away from the other terminals, it is not the 'North' terminal. It is a different airport.

So the shuttle drops me off about another half-mile past the counter (at the other airport) I need to check in at, where they once again confirm that my bag has been checked all the way through to NY. I make it through security AGAIN (shoes off, laptop out, liquids out, show ID and boarding pass, repack it all again), and look at another map. I am in terminal A, but need to be in terminal C. The map tells me I have to go through an underground tunnel that looks very loooooong to get to where I need to be. No shuttle for this one, just some moving sidewalks. *Sigh*.

But the thoughtful architects and designers of Detroit's airport made it so delightfully trippy-looking, I almost forgot about my throbbing vertebrae. Almost. The pic above was a rushed iPhone pic that I snapped, but basically it's a long-ass tunnel that has morphing colors and lights and some weird music/sound effect things going on. I kept looking for a man behind a curtain, it was very Wizard of Oz. But eventually I got to the other side, and had to take various other escalators to finally get to my gate, and the plane boarded not 5 minutes later.

I was thinking, 'hmmm...I barely made it...I sure hope my bag is hauling ass over here too.'. That was more of a premonition than a thought, I think. I started doing a mental inventory of just how bad it would be if my bag didn't make it to NY at the same time as me. The worst part is that some of my telephony equipment for my demos was in there. Usually I keep all my demo tools with me, but the tel product is secondary to my demo usually, and takes up a lot of space and weight, so it didn't make the short-list for my carry-on bags.

Eventually my flight makes it to NY, and predictably, my bag doesn't. I have to wait for 15 minutes at the Delta counter for the lone Delta employee to get there, run the trace, and tell me what I already knew: it didn't make the connection in Detroit. Mr. Delta informs me that my bag should be landing tomorrow around 11:15, which is 15 minutes after the time I need to be in front of the customer. I tell him to just keep the bag at the airport, I'll pick it up on my way home. He gives me a Delta dopp kit as a consolation prize - toothbrush, soap, detergent, and a t-shirt. I actually hoped that the t-shirt would say something funny like, "Delta lost my bag and all I got was this lousy t-shirt", but no such luck. It has a modest logo that says, "Skyteam". Yeah, 'cause I'm really rooting for them at this point. Yay, Skyteam. Go, Skyteam, Go.

I have to wait another 15 minutes for the shuttle to my hotel, which is luckily (?) near a 24 hr Wal-Mart. So I'm going to sleep now, so I can get up at the crack of dawn to go SUIT SHOPPING at WALMART. Yes, I'm cringing too. Couldn't it have at least been a Target? Ugh. I need a decent outfit and shoes. Keep your fingers crossed for that one.

I picked up some Tylenol (I) for a friend while I was in Canada - it's a low dose of codeine that's available without a prescription - if I wasn't so worried about oversleeping, I'd be busting into that bottle right about now to quiet down this throbbing achy back of mine. I'll stick to good ol' Advil and hope it works.

And earlier, at the viewing of a family member, some random person (I didn't recognize her as family) whipped out her ringing cell phone RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE CASKET and talked to someone. I mean, really!!?? The very definition of gauche. Despite receiving several doses of stinkeye from me, she seemed not to get the message. I'm not surprised.

Why are so many people oblivious to their surroundings? Or do they just not care? Being in airports today I have experienced several versions of oxen-like travelers just blocking the moving walkways with their parked arses. What part of "walk on the left/stand on the right" is so difficult?

My other favorite is the dazed traveler- standing precisely in the middle of the busiest walkways, brows furrowed in confusion, bags splayed about so as to divert the natural flow of traffic as much as possible. First time in the airport, sweetie? Probably not.

I'm starting to envision oblivious travelers as somewhat akin to the big red tractors in the animated movie "Cars". Dumb, large, mooing, slow-moving at best, tipping over occasionally to block other travelers from making their connections...

Ok, first SMS post. I'm desperate here. I've seen so much crap all in the space of one day. Highlights include the Neanderthal sitting next to me in the boarding area, whipping out a spittoon 2 minutes after I start eating my dinner, and spitting noisily into it every 45 seconds or so. How lovely.

Money Pit

So let me set the scene for you here: Local weather predicts Jax will hit 104 degrees today (Sunday). I've been out at a water park all morning, which was fun, but despite my inch-thick coating of 70 SPF suncreen (and repeated application), I have still ended up with a mild sunburn, mainly on my legs. The house can only be classified at this time as a HOT MESS, thanks to my recent work travel and the Other Half's squirrel-like ways.

Thinking I have all afternoon Sunday to at least start putting things to order, I take a nice fat nap, tired from all that fun and sun. When I wake up, I must have slipped into low-biorhythm mode because everything started to get bad.

First, I realize that the wheezing rattle that one of our two 3-ton A/C units usually makes is gone. No, it didn't just 'fix' itself, it died. It chose to take it's dying breath on the hottest day of the year, thankyouverymuch. Luckily, the one on the master suite side of the house is still cranking. But the rest of the house is hot and stuffy.

I decide to take a shower to cool off, only to find what looks like 100 bugs - ants with wings, to be precise- in their final death throes on the floor of my shower. And in the light above. EEEEEEWWWWWW. WTH?! The exterminator was here literally TWO days ago, and asked if everything was ok inside the house. I hadn't seen ANY bugs in the house, much less this dying swarm, and told her to "just spray outside for now".

Since clearly the universe wasn't done with me yet, I spent a few minutes killing the ants that had escaped the shower, and threw them and their death shroud (some toilet paper) into the toilet and flushed. (I didn't want their little carcasses in my garbage can, ok?) My plumbing thoroughly rejected this action, and promptly spat it back out at me. Not only did the water jet out of the toilet, but to add insult to injury, the whole shebang backed up and flooded the floor with gallons of toilet water. Which I then had to mop.

Completely overwhelmed with the amount of things breaking in my house, and knowing I couldn't address most of them until Monday, I distracted myself by working on someone else's project for the rest of the evening, then fell into bed exhausted at 2 am. After re-mopping the bathroom floor, because I had to try "just one little flush" to see if the toilet would behave. It didn't.

So Monday morning came, and with it the looming cloud of doom that formed over the house yesterday. It was a Herculean effort just to get myself out of bed and functional, overwhelmed as I was. [For those of you who have never seen my house, or don't know me personally: it's not only these things that are overwhelming me. I have a HUGE list of unfinished projects in the house like organizing the office, the garage, the guest rooms, staining and re-installing baseboard, scraping popcorn off of the guest bathroom ceiling then painting it, painting the walls in the same guest bath, mounting the mirrors...the list NEVER ends. I'm always under a pile of stuff to do. Always. And living in chaos because of it.]

First things first, I needed a shower, and wasn't about to share that moment with 100 dead bugs (every few hours or so we'd open the door and hose down the shower stall and wash away 50 more bugs). So I took the light down, cleaned everything, sprayed some really nasty ant/termite killer into the surround around the fixture, and reassembled it. Ok, haven't seen another bug since then, so we'll see if that solved one of the problems.

After the obligatory 2-hour concall for work, I found the number of the people who originally installed the A/C system, and bless their hearts, they sent a guy right over. (When it's over 100 degrees in Northern Florida, these people know they'd better act fast.) He confirmed my suspicion that it was the air handler (which he referred to as "old as the hills", a fact that tickled me a bit considering I'm pretty sure this guy pre-dates electricity itself), and that it wasn't worth fixing. The problem is (because of course there has to be an ADDITIONAL problem today), there's a law in Florida, or maybe it's Duval County, that says that if you replace one part of the system, you have to replace the other so they're all equal and energy-efficient blah blah blah. Basically, the law is stating that because my 23-year-old air handler died, I have to also replace my 6-year old Trane heat pump, (which should run for another 12 years or so) because they are slightly different models. So that means double the already-steep bill I was expecting. (Think $5k instead of $2k. Yeah, not happy.)

Well, bless his aged southern heart, Father Time there was hell-bent on finding a way around this law so that he wouldn't get a $5k fine, and his customer wouldn't have to shell out double. He called the permitting office, and asked them how strict they were about really enforcing that law (semi-strict, as it turns out. They randomly pull permits and check to make sure the numbers on the units are matching.), and if there were any way to make an exception for as case such as mine, since he'd run into about 3 of them just this past week. Mr. Permit said that if he could obtain an email from the manufacturer stating that the two components could work together in the manner required by law, they'd look the other way. And as luck would have it, Papa Time happened to have one of the last units Trane manufactured that would work with my heat pump, sitting brand new in his warehouse thanks to somebody else's cancelled order! Literally, they don't make it anymore, as of a few months ago.

Like I said, bless his heart, he made it work. And isn't charging me extra for the coincidence of having one of very few parts that would work for me in this situation. So it's the bill I expected originally. Still not a small one, but man am I ever grateful it's not $5k! They'll be here Wednesday morning to install it.

So that leaves us with one remaining problem (for now)...the temperamental toilet. The one in the guest bath seems to be working fine, so that leads me to believe it's NOT a septic tank problem. (Please, oh please, let it not be a septic tank problem!) We're on our way to Home Depot tonite to buy a really good plunger and some septic-friendly drain uncloggers. And a lifetime supply of Rid-X, just in case.

Stay tuned, and keep your fingers crossed that things get better here and not worse.

PS - as I'm reviewing this post, I hear a huge noise come from the loft area of the living room - sounding suspiciously like one of the seeming thousands of cicadas that inhabit our neighborhood. Sure enough, our little darling Tortie cat Frijol the Huntress had brought one in, crippled it, and took it up to her lair to torture it until it died. If you've never heard a cicada, it is probably the loudest insect on earth. There's times that the racket they make in my backyard is so bad, I can't stand outside and talk on a phone. So even just one of them in my acoustically-challenged living room was quite startling. The other half was on the phone, so I had to run upstairs with sheaths of newspaper to pick it up with. I managed to toss it outside, but don't have much hope for it's future. Sorry, dude.

nyah nyah, I win...

CODA: The other half has capitulated. Or, as my father more poetically said, the immovable object (him) met with (fell victim to) the irresistable force (me). Or something like that.

In a fit of spousal love (I can only assume), the OH found a helmet that he liked or at least can tolerate, and ordered it. He said it was because I agreed to join his motorcycle club as a spousal member to support him, but refused to ride the bike if he wasn't protected. I hadn't even been nagging him about it! So the lesson here is, it might take 4 years of campaigning, but if I want something badly enough, eventually, I'll get it. :)

Hey, whatever his motivation, I'll take it. I'm happy he's better protected. Hopefully he'll wear it even when I'm not on the bike.

In another coda to the previous post, our group took a trip down to Port St. Lucie and I rode (in a car) with the guy who had the accident on the blue bike, and his wife. Really nice people. Strangely, I didn't recognize him when we were first introduced, mainly because I hadn't met him before the accident. When someone told me that he was the guy, I apologized for not recognizing him without all the blood! Sad but true.

Happily, he is doing well and still riding. His wife is also a full-patch member of the group and still supports him, which is sweet. I was just relieved to find a ride with someone who didn't have rugrats in the car. Three hours each way with strangers and their kids? No thanks. I would've driven my own car had it come to that.

wow

I witnessed something scary today and thought I'd share. Actually, we witnessed something scary, but this is more about my reaction (hey, it is my blog), so I'll use the singular.

The other half and I learned of a new Latin-American biker group here in Jax, and were happily socializing with them over a late breakfast at a Cuban restaurant. They cordially invited us to join in a poker run that would go on all day long. We declined the invitation, but said that in the spirit of socializing, we'd follow the group to their first stop, meet a few more group members, then depart for the day, back to our original plan of finishing work on the second guest room ceiling.

The motorcade departed, I'm guessing there were upwards of 25 bikes there, most with passengers on the back. We rode in formation, us bringing up the rear, being the newest and still non-members. Whilst I do not like riding on the back of a motorcycle, I dislike it less when we're in a large formation. It's slower, and although cars are still not respectful, they're less likely to not see you than when you're alone. Plus, this group is comprised largely of off-duty police officers, so it felt safe. We had made it almost 15 miles back, close to our house, and were on the lower south end of the Dame's Point bridge when it happened.

I heard a loud metal "CA-CHINK" sound, and thought maybe one of the bikes had dropped a part (non-Harley owners are always ribbing Harley owners that due to all the vibration, they're always dropping parts on the road), and looking at our group, I saw someone making the "I need attention" hand signal - tapping their hand repeatedly on top of their helmet. Luckily, prior to departure, our road chief had given us all a quick rundown of the hand signals they use to travel in formation safely - and this was one we all memorized. It's what you do to call attention to yourself, if your bike sounds or is acting funny, or if you need help. So those of us in the back saw this, and let him pass over to the right berm on the bridge. Several bikers continued on, thinking it was not serious. We pulled over behind the guy in trouble.

That's when I saw the blood. Lots and lots of blood. Apparently the metallic sound I'd heard had been the result of a car kicking up what may have been part of a broken hubcap, and sending it into our formation. The unfortunate biker (I'll call him "Ed") had been hit on the left side of his face, somewhere near his ear, by the object. We were driving about 60 mph at the time of the accident, and it was very windy on the bridge. Ed was wearing a half-helmet, the type my other half (stupidly) favors, which leaves your face exposed to all kinds of dangers.

We had to wait a few seconds for traffic to allow us to dismount, as the berm was not very wide compared to our monster bike, and in this time we just watched Ed hold his face, still sitting on his bike, keeping it standing under his own power, just bleeding like crazy. You can see what the bike looked like (above) afterwards.

Others had pulled over as well, and we all reached Ed at about the same time. Someone wadded up a shirt and pressed it to his wound, others secured his bike, and others slowly helped him off of the bike and seated him with his back against the outer bridge wall.

Before they even had him off of the bike, I was calling 911. It took a few iterations (I'm sure the wind was not helping the operator to hear me), but eventually they dispatched police and ambulance. Luckily, I actually knew where I was, for ONCE, so I could tell them specifically where we were. It took the cops at least 5 minutes to get there, and the ambulance another 5. I directed traffic away from the scene while we were waiting - it's a 3-lane highway right where this occurred, and I didn't want traffic piling up on the bridge and possibly causing another accident. Plus, it gave me something productive (and hopefully helpful) to do rather than gawk helplessly at the poor guy.

We left the scene when the ambulance showed up, to give them access (since we were parked right behind his bike), and met up with the rest of the group who were pulled over a little ways ahead. They told us we would all rendezvous at a gas station close by, and the whole group was waiting there.

Eventually the club president arrived and announced that Ed was going to be ok, he had refused the ambulance ride and was able to walk to his wife's car to go to the hospital.

Although it was encouraging to see how this group handled an emergency, we were both so freaked out from our proximity to the whole thing that we decided just to go home from that point.

As per my usual: I was calm and like Jenny-on-the-Spot during the crisis, but I reacted badly to it later. I got very snappish with the other half when we got back, perhaps somewhat unfairly, but my tolerance for his stubborn, selfish preference in helmets had been pushed beyond its limit today.

He rants and rails about how he hates full-face helmets, they're wrong for his type of bike (this is pure vanity), heavy (but expensive ones are light, I remind him), hot (good ones like mine have vents), and limit his vision (again, a good one shoudn't...much). This has been the one fight that he and I have never resolved in our marriage. We pretty much end up disagreeing on this one every single time.

Those of you who know me know it's very unlike me to back down from my position in an argument, especially when I'm right (and to me, I'm always right), but we've gone around and around about this one issue, and it's never resolved to my satisfaction. Meaning, I don't get my way.

Here's the thing: I'm not telling him what kind of helmet to use to control him, which I think is what he believes. If I wanted to control him, I'd tell him NO BIKE. Which I'd love to do, but it would kill a part of him, and I do want the man to be happy. Or I'd tell him which friends to have, what clothes to wear, which food to eat. None of which I even remotely attempt to do. I tell him what kind of helmet to wear because I love him, and I'm concerned for his safety. And mine! If he gets hurt like Ed did, while I'm on the back, what happens to moi? I'm not totally altruistic. Or stupid.

That's why this argument galls me to no end. It's not for my benefit, it's for his. Yet he still refuses. I broached the subject (once I apologized for snapping at him) and told him he's a bigger idiot than I suspected if after witnessing this, he still wore that stupid excuse for a half-helmet - not even D.O.T. approved. And that the universe, or his God, or whatever his 'higher power' is, wanted him to witness that today to teach him something, and it was his responsibility to learn from it.

So we'll see. I'm not really sure what's going to happen, but I really feel the need to put my foot down this time. After witnessing the accident today, anytime he rides without me (or with me), I'm sure I'm going to be more anxious than I was before, and I need that reassurance that he's at least as protected as possible from his own recklessness, and the recklessness of others, and from freak road hazards, by his equipment.

Wish me luck.

Burn the ships! ...?

Okay, so we all know that I am NOT by any means a history major. But even I managed to pick up a few things while sleeping/doodling/passing notes in history class. Mainly, that conquistadors were BAD. Right? These are people that came from another country (usually Spain, duh), and they murdered, raped, and pillaged their way through whatever unfortunate shore they happened to land on and take a liking to.

So my Dilbert-like management, in all their infinite wisdom, decided to use the example of Hernando Cortez as a model for successful sales. For reals, y'all. They forwarded an email that talked about how when Cortez landed in Mexico, he commanded his men to burn their own ships, thereby eliminating any chance of their retreat. It was succeed or die, and if they were to sail back to Spain it would have to be in the enemy's ships. Ok, if you're a conquistador, and your job is to, uh, kill people, take their stuff, and succeed at all costs, that's an ok model. However, if you're a middle-aged, technologically disinclined software salesman, is that really an ok example? Is it appropriate to use that as a motivator, ever? Regardless of the down economy and lack of pipeline, is that acceptable?

Cortez' history is debatable. Some people extoll his virtues as a leader and conquerer, other say he committed many atrocities against the indigenous people of Mexico, and was one of the first to import thousands of African slaves onto this continent.

I, personally, think it's ridiculous and as my dear friend J said to me, a very "WASP-centric view of the world" to use that as any kind of positive example.

Another dear friend/coworker J said, rather hilariously, that next week when he arrives at the customer site with our sales management and CEO, he's going to burn the rental car they drove in just to be a team player. At least I got a good laugh out of that one.

bike week

Yes, believe it or not, the software nerd went to Daytona Bike Week. The Other Half has a good friend from Miami who came up to stay with us for the weekend specifically for the purpose of attending Bike Week together, and I was pressured into it. (Of course, it was a sunny, 80-degree day, and I was disinclined to lay around the house anyway.) This is one of the reasons why I love my husband. Where surely thousands of other husbands were trying to convince their wives to stay home so they could get into mischief in Daytona, mine was almost begging me to go. Love that.

It was really quite interesting, if you're into motorcycles or sociology. Just people-watching there was amazing. Such a cross-section. Rich, poor, young, old, whatever. Bikers don't seem to care as much about the rider as the ride.

My favorite part was driving down Main street right at sunset, and realizing suddenly that we are part of the spectacle. It's like a 5mph parade right down insanity central, with people and bikes piled up on the sidewalk in a major traffic jam. Everyone is gawking at everyone else and taking pictures of cool rides (and cool riders). That was pretty neat. I'm really only ever relaxed on the back of a bike when we're going 5mph and any type of crash (short of a gravity attack) is virtually impossible.

The ride down there was, in my eyes, harrowing. My dear husband thinks that 85 mph is a perfectly reasonable speed to assume on a bike, to keep up with car traffic. In reality, we were passing everything on the road. So somebody got a stern talking-to when we landed -- I mean, arrived -- about what is and is not reasonable when one has a large chicken as a passenger on one's bike. I reminded someone why he frequently has to attend these events alone, and informed that same someone that I would happily take the bus back to Jax if he didn't keep the speed under 70 mph on the way back. Or better yet, take the A1A, enjoy the ocean view and breezes, and go 45 mph. Which we did part-way, and I was really enjoying it. Then we picked up 95 again, and ... oh, well. We made it back. And he did keep it at 75, which was a compromise for both of us.

I'm glad I went, it certainly made the most of a beautiful day and was the most interesting people-watching (and unfortunately, smelling), but now that I've seen that I can probably cross it off of my bucket list. Depsite our proximity (90 miles really isn't that close, when you hate every second of the commute), I may not be attending again next year now that I know what I won't be missing.

husband detritus, cat effluvia, and cosmic tests

So I went to Las Vegas last week. Whoo-hoo. Pardon my overexcitement. Not that it was a bad experience, just that I've already 'done' Vegas a few times, and although I actually don't hate the place, when one is on tradeshow booth duty in un-sexy khakis and polyester and forced to abide by a cruel and unusual schedule (every day 7 a.m. start. As IF anybody in Vegas is gonna show up for that.), Sin City loses it's luster just a wee bit.

I was able to spend some quality time with a girlfriend I don't see often, so that definitely was a positive to balance out the negatives. But while I was gone (about 6 days total), an amazing thing happened back in our house. While the Other Half was busy working in the daytime, painting living room walls on the weekend, every single cat we have (4 at last count) was horking hairballs on every available flat surface, and somebody must have been sanding the world's largest drywall patch or something, because I arrived home (late, tired, and cranky) to a wonderland of more dust than I remember leaving, and a veritable gauntlet of petrified cat barf to run through and dodge on my way to the bedroom.

What happened? Did the cats get sick from the paint fumes? Did my husband forget that they have no opposable thumbs and therefore aren't so great with paper towels? Or did that mysterious layer of dust show up and coat everything just enough that he didn't notice it? Granted, this house is dusty on a good day, thanks to the never-ending various construction projects. But still. I wonder if it's some kind of married-man detritus; everything he can't (and by "can't", I mean "chooses not to") deal with on his own just turns to dust and smothers everything in my absence.

*Sigh*.

Anyway, so that was strange and disheartening to come home to. I left this place in pretty good shape, considering. And the cats really weren't barfing all that much when I was here. Maybe it's his cooking?

If that wasn't weird enough, the next evening, I was sitting in bed, plugging away on a custom demo for the following day, and somebody knocked on my door at 2 a.m. Two a.m.!!! My heart rate immediately shot up and adrenaline started coursing through my body. No knock at the door at 2 a.m. has ever signified anything good. (I guess I'm overlooking the obvious 'booty call' here, but that's not really ever been a part of my reality and therefore I can omit it. My midnite knocks and phone calls are always bad, bad bad. Death or break-up bad.) We also have some neighbors that we're fond of, and I thought maybe they were having an emergency of some sort.

So, heart racing, I pad softly to the door and flick on the outside light to see an ordinary-looking woman standing there in a coat, sniffling into a tissue with a phone in her hand. Thinking, "ok, she needs to call a tow or the cops, etc.", I opened the door.

I was wrong. What she needed was GAS MONEY from ME at 2 a.m. to go see her dying "Nanny" in Lake City, about an hour away from here. Are you kidding me?!! I was so shaken from the knock at the door at such an unexpected hour, that even after hearing her tale of woe, I was equal parts angry, pitying, and bewildered. And my hands were shaking from the adrenaline hangover.

Why me? Well, apparently I live in the house next to the house where someone she once knew used to live. Did you follow that? And although she was getting paid the very next day, she didn't have enough money for gas to get her to see her dying nanny, and they were about to pull out the tubes and shut off life support for whatever reason. She thrust her cell phone (pink, old, display not working quite properly) at me to show me pictures of nanny with tubes in her nose, ear, throat, etc.

What's a person to do? Let me rephrase that: what was *I* to do? Because the answer all depends on the person, I guess. My husband would have slammed the door right in her face. Period. And gone back to sleep to dream the dreams of the innocent. I, however, am not that person. I told her several times (as I was trying to corral my ever-escaping felines) that this was extremely inappropriate and that she really gave me a good scare. She wept that people keep slamming doors in her face (go figure) and she just needed that money to go see nanny.

Wanting to be rid of her, but not wanting to encourage this type of behavior, I compromised and gave her 6 bucks. I had more, but didn't want her to think she could knock on my door at 2 am and get whatever the hell she felt like demanding that day. Who knows if Nanny is real? Maybe this woman was a crackhead! Or a nutjob! But trying to be a decent human being, I couldn't take that chance that she wasn't for real, and I had an opportunity to help someone that wouldn't take much effort. I actually felt guilty for a while that I hadn't given her $10. Of course, only because when I handed her the $6, she disappointedly told me that she needed $10 to get there. Had I relented and given her more, I fear my other half might have locked me out of the house for the night just for being a gullible twit.

That whole experience left me feeling very odd. Pitying, to be sure. Only a little bit angry. But I couldn't help feeling like maybe that was some kind of cosmic kindness test. And the amount of money she ended up with wasn't the point, it was my reaction to her that was the point. (My brain is pointing out to me, "see how easy that was to turn around and make it all about YOU?" Thanks, brain. Point taken.) Regardless, I think I did the only thing I could do, and still live with a clear conscience.

She said she'd pay me back. I hope she doesn't. I fear another encounter will just leave me feeling oogy (my word for that combination of discomfort, paranoia, pity, anxiety, anger, and any other general ickyness you want to throw in there) again.

Immobilus!

Like the cat says, I've got the "blahs". I feel weird. Disoriented, even. I've had good news, but all of it has been accompanied by bad news.

Good: I lost ten pounds!

Bad: I did it in one month, on The Flu Diet. Blech.

Good: I am gainfully employed!

Bad: my company had a rif (Reduction In Force, for the uninitiated) on Friday, and several good friends who do the same thing as me got unfairly whacked, and now my very foundation feels unsettled.

Good: my company has determined that we'll all be taking one week a month vacation until further notice!

Bad: This is the mandatory kind of 'vacation'. A.k.a., 25% pay cut.

Those of you who know me personally know I am super-grateful to have the job that I do, and I start each day with waking thoughts of how fortunate I am to have it. Now, those thoughts are small and timid and questioning, insecure. They even echo a little in there. Why did I make the cut, and others didn't? And no, I'm not that damn good. No better than they are, certainly. Geography? Luck? Good Ju-Ju?

Just two months ago we received an email from the Head Honcho stating we'd had our best year ever, blah blah blah. I saw him a month ago, he talked about how strong we are as a company financially. And now this? It was a very deep cut, if done proactively as they claimed (i.e., we're not in a tailspin or struggling, we just want to stay ahead of the curve). And this mandatory vacation thing has everybody freaked out, as they announced it sans specifcs and we are all waiting on tenterhooks to find out exactly what it entails. Can I take my paid vacation? Will that still help the company? Will I really be 'off', or if someone asks me to do a demo, will I (predictably) jump at the chance because now like thousands of Americans I fear for my job and will do almost anything to keep it? Egads, I hate the sound of desperation in my internal monologue.

Over the past months I've tried to make a practice of only focusing on the positive, so as not to feed energy to the negative. But now fear has an icy grip on my ankles, and I'm having a lot of trouble shaking it off. I find myself with too much free time - although I have a ton of work to do on the house, I no longer want to spend anything I don't have to on an investment I'm not likely to reap anything from in the near future. I'm immobilized, sitting in my bed, waiting for demo requests to come along or a trip to be scheduled that will at least give me the appearance of earning my keep with this company. Ok, this is a weird analogy (what else would you expect from me?), but for those of you who have seen the Harry Potter movies, in one of them, these little mischeivous critters are all put under the Immobilus spell that freezes them right where they are in space and time,but they're still conscious. All they can do is float around in mid-air and wait for the spell to wear off. That's me, right now. I feel incapable of making up my mind to do anything. I guess I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I'm booked to do a tradeshow in Vegas in a few weeks. It was booked about 6 months ago, back when things still felt normal. Now, what would normally be a raucous celebration with reckless spending is going to feel excessive, obvious, and uncomfortable. Like wearing a too-low-cut shirt to a funeral and figuring it out too late. I'm going to be very self-conscious, like a still-overweight dieter caught in the doughnut shop.

Any ideas to help break me out of this?

At long LAST!

The stone guy has more or less finished the slate work fireplace, foyer, and front porch/stoop. There's just a few details to finish: he's going to paint the edges of the backerboard (which are now white) with black high-heat paint, fill the crack in the actual firebox, and try to eliminate that white spot in the middle (a.k.a. the "all-seeing eye"). But it's 99% there, and I'm ever so relieved not to have to look at studs, backerboard, or a big gaping hole in my wall anymore!

This is a detail where you can see the inside of the recessed area. We used honed black slate on the recessed area, and he trimmed it out with the regular peacock slate for the details.

And this is the entry stoop/foyer. Gorgeous! I'm very happy with the material choices we made, and the quality of workmanship was about 3x what I paid for it. Thanks, recession!