Solo Traveller

I'm leaving on a jetplane.

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Well, not at this moment, but that's been the theme this past month. In the last six weeks I've flown to Detroit, Phoenix, and San Fransisco.

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I love to fly. I love how you can wake up in one place, and go to sleep somewhere else on the map. I love meeting new people on my flights, and the people watching is top notch.

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I love the feeling of taking off and landing. I love looking out the window and looking into towns a million (okay, thousands) miles below me. I think up of lives of the people that live in those small towns that map makers don't know exist.

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Seeing a new city, and experiencing new things are fantastic! I love exploring and checking out what each city has to offer. Phoenix has the most amazing quesadillas I've ever eaten, and margaritas to die for. The residents are welcoming, but private. San Fransisco is a lot like Seattle, kind of funky, artsy, each neighborhood having its own pulse.

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As much as I love all that about travelling I hate the airport, especially security.

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I don't know why, but I cannot make it through security without shenanigans. I've been stopped and patted down, my hair has been searched, my bulging backpack has been unpacked and dirty clothes have fallen all over.

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I've almost lost shoes, books, my driver's license, my sanity, and most terrifying, my laptop.

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My shoe was knocked off my bag in the bin, and fell on the conveyor belt. I had everything ready to go, except my left shoe was still being scanned. Seven times.

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My license has set off the scanner (silly me keeping it in my back pocket). I put it in the small item holder, that never made it out. Someone had moved it to the side so their bags could go through.

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I was in the Phoenix airport being patted down when a woman grabbed my laptop after it was scanned. She insisted it was hers as I'm standing there yelling that she's stealing my laptop. The great people in charge of security stared at me like I was nuts.

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"That's my black laptop!" I yelled.

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"Ma'am please stop yelling," was all the TSA agent could say as she patted my legs down.

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"But that's my laptop! And she's stealing it!"

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I'm not a calm person, I'm hyper, spastic, and take to bouncing up and down and fidgeting when I can't wait any longer. These are not good signs when you're going through security.

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Finally, someone decided that this crazy person could be telling the truth. They took us to the other side of security and asked questions.

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My laptop is locked, so when you turn it on you're taken to a log in screen. There is an icon, the computer's name and a password needed.

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"What is the password?" the TSA agent asks.

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The woman guesses wrong twice. The first guess was 'password' and her second was '1234'

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They are good guesses, but wrong!

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For safety reasons I cannot tell you what it is, but it was not enough to prove it was my laptop.

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Below the icon, the name of my laptop is listed.

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"What is the name of the laptop?" the TSA agent asked.

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I started laughing. I couldn't help it.

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"My computer," the woman said.

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I laugh even harder.

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"No," the TSA agent says "sorry."

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I must look like a crazed hyena the way I'm laughing.

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The woman guesses the name again, saying she was with her grandchildren and they changed the name. She's wrong again.

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"Ma'am, what's the name?" For the record, I hate being called ma'am. I'm 24, much to young to be called ma'am. Miss is fine, thank you.

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"It's Lappylaplap2 backslash Mo" I say. You may now understand why I was a hysterical mess.

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"Yeah...." The security lady said, obviously now getting that I am the owner of the laptop.

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She handed it to me, I said thank you. And got to go through security again. YAY!

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Now, for whatever reason whenever I travel with anyone else security goes smoothly, nothing is lost, or attempted to be stolen, I remain sane and we reach our gate with ease.

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The moral of the story? I should travel with a stuffed animal to make it through security.

Speed of Mo

I'm a stuttering, stumbling, spastic mess. And that's when I'm sober! I try to move and speak faster than my mind and limbs can keep up. I'm on the go, and I have a mission in life! I'm just not sure what it is at the moment, but by golly, I'm going to figure it out, and fast!

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Need something in the grocery store? I take the phrase "run in quickly" seriously. I sprint through that grocery store. Unfortunately, no one else is sprinting, or dodging carts. Note to grocery cart manufacturers: turn signals on carts could decrease cart crashes by 90%.

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I collide with people, or am constantly tailgating people who are taking their time. Very sad, when no one is moving at my speed. It's also sad, when I find the flow of New York City is not moving or speaking fast enough for me.

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So if New York isn't moving fast enough, you can only imagine how slow I find Seattle.

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In a city with its residents unable to go a day without seven cups of coffee with eight shots of espresso per cup, everyone moves beyond slow.

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The speed limit alone is slow, 60 mph. And let me tell you, on a day you hit 60 mph you want to throw your hands up in the air and say "yay-o!"

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In a normal city, with normal rules Michigan the left lane moves about 10-15 miles an hour faster than the posted speed limit.

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Here? You're excited if the left lane is going the same speed as the right lane. Yeah, that's right, all four lanes can be going the same speed. Have you seen four cars next to each other on the freeway? Ever?! It's kind of impressive if you think about it.

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I don't understand. Maybe I'm beyond insane assuming people have a place to be, and might be in a hurry to get there. I know the trip is as important as the destination, but sometimes the destination wins out.

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The destination especially wins out, when you arrive alive! And let me tell you, there are times when I don't think that's going to happen. My business idea? A brake shop with a coffee stand attached. You would be surprised how many people feel it's needed to slam on the brakes to slow down, instead of either coasting or tapping the brakes. It's very scary on our freeways.

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Although, having to break does imply at one point you were moving. Just not fast enough for my high standards.

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I should learn how to operate a helicopter.

How to Cause Panic With No Effort

As amazing as Facebook is, you do need to take what is posted with a grain of salt. What used to be a place for nothing but facts, written and posted by drunken college students, the mainstream of it has caused Facebook to have the same credibility as a tabloid.

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What used to be the encylopedia of relationships, trips, parties, exams, and classroom changes is now a dumping ground of emotion.

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People post things to let the world know that their boy/girlfriend is a/n [censored for family reading]. Or they have a job interview, or you know, trying to become arrested. The status updates are beyond fantastic for comical relief, past that, well, proceed with caution. Not everything you see on Facebook status is real. Shocker!

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You especially need to proceed with caution if your mother is on Facebook. Like really pay attention to what you write, or be prepared for consequences-a phone call.

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Over the years I've learned something very important. It is not hard to make my mother crazy. I do not have to much more than post a Facebook status for her to call me and say "What the hell?" Hi mom, nice to talk to you.

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My status said something about me TRYING to convince police to arrest me and put me in jail on kidnapping charges.

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I think she missed the "trying" assumed I was arrested, and decided to call me. Because we all know Police allow you to answer your cell phone while sitting in a jail cell. Maybe they would. It is a cell in a cell....right, back to my point.

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While she was trying to figure out what I was talking about, I sat here on my couch writing away.

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She realized it is research for a novel I'm working on, said goodbye and hung up. Her comment on my status: "things you do for a story."

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Yup, it is the things I do for a story, and you know, for a good laugh. But Mom, I promise if I am arrested you will not find out via Facebook. Most likely Skype.

Hallmark Cards

Hi, I'm Mo and I cannot remember to send a card, if my life depended on it.

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Birthday, Christmas, anniversary, graduation, baby, mother's day, father's day, or any other day that involves a card, and according to Hallmark, everyday is card worthy. Seriously, they have a Everyday category.

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This past Saturday we celebrated two friends birthdays. Our one friend is awesome at remembering every ones birthday, and has a card for all major events in one's life. So of course, you need to get her a card, it's only polite. This means that our other friend also gets a card.

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I returned from Phoenix at 4:30 p.m. on Saturday, and we were meeting up with everyone about 9-9:30ish. I was not going to mess this up, I was going to make sure they each has their own birthday card.

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I went to the store to grab a card, lo and behold they had cards for every occasion this summer. In one swoop I had a card for father's day, which is a week later than I thought, giving me plenty of time to get the card in the mail. I grabbed wedding and wedding shower cards, who knew those were two different categories? Graduation cards for my two cousins who enter college in the fall. And then finally the reason for my mission: birthday.

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I don't understand why there can't be one birthday card, congratulation card, and whatever else. It's hard enough to choose one, let alone trying to figure out if you want to give a funny, a serious, a loving, a boring, a blank, a belated, or a million other options.

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I decided on funny.

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Leaving me with 75 different cards to read through. I have an hour until we need to leave, and I still have to shower, because I smell like airplane, and straighten my hair.

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Speed reading to the rescue! Actually, pictures won out. A cupcake and a monkey was selected. Done!

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I was proud of myself. I remembered cards. I was actually going to have a card to pass along to people. So excited.

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Except, we were in the car, on our way and I remembered that I had forgotten the cards. Even when I am on the ball, I forget the cards. Good grief!

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Luckily, we weren't that far and could rectify the situation. Chris turned around, and I ran back to grab the blank cards and their envelopes. Okay, totally under control.

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Umm, no. Not under total control. I still had to figure out what I wanted to write in the card, because as hard as Hallmark tries to make their cards personal, it's never as personal as a nice little hand written note.

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I don't mind writing these little notes, the downside of these notes is my handwriting. My handwriting, while unique, can be difficult to read. I had finished the notes, our names were signed, and I noticed it. My illegible handwriting.

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Whoops!

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Luckily, my friend was able to read it. That's all that matters.

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But, if Hallmark was smart, they would have people sending cards for you, based on your Outlook calender or whatever. And if they were really, really smart the hand written notes would already be in the card.

House Hunting

I think the older you become the more stuff you acquire. And the stuff can no longer fit in toyboxes, or under the bed. Well, I guess a couch could fit under a loft, but after sleeping in one for four years, I like how my feet can touch the ground, without the use of a ladder. But I digress.

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Chris and I moved across the country with only items that could fit in our cars. Then over the last two years, we've acquired bookshelves, skis, dressers, a coffee table, golf clubs, skis, and wedding gifts. YAY!

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The downside to acquiring stuff, is you eventually run out of space. And as well as we designate stuff to the basement aka our cars, a little more room is apreciated. Hence, us looking for houses/condos.

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I envy The Sims' families. All they have to do is stand at the curb, and wait for their perfect hosue to be built. It's the perfect size, has everything they could want in a house. Complete with vaulted ceilings, large living rooms, plenty of storage space and a kitchen that doesn't look like it could fit on a dingy.

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The Sims also don't have to worry about mold in the walls, hardwood floors that need to be redone, if the house is being coinhabitated by animals that should be outside. They don't have to worry about location, taxes, and every other thing on the planet.

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Needless to say, I kind of wish I was a computer character.

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The house hunt involves not only driving all over the Seattle area, but looking at a million living rooms, and a million kitchens, and looking at a million neighborhoods.

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It involves imagining living in this place that has other people's stuff in it, and places that should be torn down, or put on a TLC reality show. We have left places feeling like we need a shower, and wishing the floors were in better condition. We wished there was more space in the living room, and that the kitchens were existant.

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How many places have we looked at? MILLIONS!

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How many more places are we planning on looking at? MILLIONS!

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Yup, really wishing I was in The Sims.

I'm 12?

I've learned when you're in your early and God forbid mid 20s (yes, that's right, I'm nearly in my mid 20s sooooo old!) that there is an interesting balance to the world.

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You are either thought to be an adult, with large amounts of responsibility, like mortgages, car payments, student loans, insurance, and actually having to do stuff, like really clean, because the house elves, aka parents, are no longer in service.

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Then you have the world thinking you are to young to be unaccompanied for any length of time. That you are to young, or don't have enough experience, or just seen as a child, because that's the only thing some adults know you as.

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And then those two worlds collide. The world that expects you to pay your monthly rent on time, is now demanding why you're parents aren't there to watch you.

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Interesting, isn't it? How half the world expects you to be an adult, and the other part, is like: No, you're not old enough yet.

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I was working out the other day, at the apartment complex fitness center. I was walking on the treadmill backwards, trying to loosen muscles, and work on my nonexistent agility. Things were going well, I had control of the remote, and I'm closing in on the end of my workout, so I could go home and take a shower.

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"Where are your parents?" An employee of the apartment complex asked.

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There were two young children in the room playing with medicine balls and other equipment, Yeah, where are your parents? I thought to myself trying to find adults that would take responsibility of children who were messing around some heavy equipment.

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"Excuse me, I asked you where are your parents?!" The lady demanded. That's when I noticed she was looking at me.

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Umm, what? Okay, I know that I act more like a five-year-old, than a 24-year-old majority of the time, but seriously? I at least look the part of an adult! (76 percent of the time)

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This is beyond weird for many reasons. One, this lady sees me quite often in the main office picking up packages. Two, I do not look like I am 12.

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"Umm" I stammer, trying to figure out if she is for real. The lady was certainly for real. She stared at me, in a pose that can only be described as Vegas Bouncer.

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"I'm twenty-four," I told her. "I live in T207 with my husband." (Please send cookies) I wanted to tell her my parents are traveling the world on a yacht, met some fantastic pirates and left me to live in the fitness center. Or you know, that they live several thousand miles away, and would probably tell her "good luck!"

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"You know I can easily check to see if that's true or not!" She threatened.

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I kind of wonder if she could check to see if the pirate story was true.

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Obviously this woman is an idiot, and I know she can't remember what apartment I'm in for longer than five seconds, based on how many times she's asked me where I live when she's grabbing packages for us. Four times for one package. The very large box was right in front, but I digress.

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"I want you using this equipment properly!" She said, sounding a lot like my third grade teacher.

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Again, you're yelling at an adult, who knows what she's doing, and completely ignoring the small children? Who, by this point have managed to take all the dumbbells off the rack, lay them all over the floor, and are now trying to stand on them, while the other is pushing to roll his friend around the room. Things that make you say: "huh?"

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Yes, it's a complicated world out there. A world where helmets seem to be neccesary in the fitness center, and 24 is the new 12.

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I do like how she thought I looked young enough to be 12. In the words of Monty Python, "always look on the bright side of life!"