When I was home, in Michigan, over Thanksgiving, I was told I needed to send out Christmas cards. I pride myself in not having "Christmas Card Friends." You know who they are. The people you only talk to through Christmas cards.
Thank you Facebook.
I figured I could do my part and keep the post office in business for another week or so; and prepared 57 Christmas cards. No, I take that back. I prepared 57 Christmas envelopes and 54 Christmas cards. Yeah, three people only got an envelope. Oops! Sorry.
Well, and one family only got a piece of paper with, "Hello!" written on it.
I may rock out thank you notes, but I drive the struggle bus when it comes to Christmas cards.
I didn't realize how much extra stuff went into Christmas when I was little. It was pretty easy, open the advent calender, eat the chocolate, count down the days until Santa comes and then open presents.
Right, well, I still count down the days until Santa arrives; but now I have to go Christmas shopping, make cookies, decorate the apartment, wrap presents, ship presents, find the stockings, track down the UPS and FedEx delivery people, find someone to wrap my presents (Thank you Meghan W!) and figure out how to get snow!
It's a very stressful time. Thankfully, there is enough sugar sitting around that this isn't as stressful as one would think. I'm living on the Elf diet, observing the four main food groups: Candy, candy canes, candy corn and syrup!
The sugar crash is not pretty.
My wrapping skills are also not pretty. After the second present I wrapped I ran out of Scotch tape. No worries, like everyone we have another roll or seven lying around. We don't. So, instead of going to the store (I refuse to go unless I have to around Christmas) I found packaging tape and wrapped the presents with that.
My wrapping skills are pretty horrible. I mean they are so horrible little kids make fun of it. I don't know how people are able to put crisp edges and have the paper lay smooth on the box. My wrapping job looks like it went seven rounds with Mike Tyson.
The edges are torn, air pockets are all over the place, the paper never matches up the way it did before I cut it, and the tape sticks to the wrong part of the paper. You can definitely tell I am not employed in the wrapping section in Santa's Workshop.
I can see Martha Stewart shaking her head in disgust looking at the presents I wrapped. She's also shaking her head at my lack of baking.
Here's the deal. I don't enjoy making cookies. I find it to be out of control painful. We used to bake and decorate cookies when I was little. I liked decorating them and I liked eating them.
When my sister and I were in high school she had friends over and they baked cookies. I would join in, and was quickly yelled at for whatever cookie faux pas I committed. My sister was a tad stressed, so it was usually me mixing something on low instead of medium or putting in to many chocolate chips into the chocolate chip cookies. I ask, how can you have to many chocolate chips? That's right. You can't.
I also don't have the patience to make them and I hate the mess you have to clean up. The oven scares me and I'm not a big cookie eater. I give all my cookies to Cookie Monster. I'm sharing.
I have a friend who is really into baking, like she puts people on those cooking shows to shame. To shame.
She has everyone over to make ginger bread houses. Simple enough. I can handle building a house made out of gingerbread. Mostly, I can handle eating the candy. Again, I hear Martha screaming at me about eating the props for making a house.
In addition to making houses, my friend suggested we all bring cookies and do a cookie swap.
Oh no!
One, I can't bake. Two, I have to make cookies? Just call the Fire Department and have them sit in my living room.
I may not be Cookie Monster, but I am a Puppy-Chow hound. I can eat that stuff all day long.
For those of you unfamiliar with it, it's chocolate chips, peanut butter and powdered sugar covering Crispix. The lame people call it Muddy-Buddies.
Anyway, if I'm going to make something for a cookie exchange I can handle Puppy-Chow. Again, Martha is shaking her head trying not to smack me in the head as I use the microwave to "bake."
Yeah, well guess what Martha, everyone loves Puppy-Chow. Suck on that you pine cone decorating..... Oh, man. I might need to see someone about me having a fight with Martha in my head.
Anyway, Chris and I are doing Christmas the best we can. It might not be perfect, but we have not burned down the apartment.
Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, and a Happy New Year!
Friday, December 16, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Stupid Green Pipe Cleaner in Tree Form
If Scrooge and the Grinch had a child before they reformed and found Christmas, that child would be my apartment manager.
In a memo left on the door, in an email and personal reminders whenever I step foot into the office: NO REAL CHRISTMAS TREES.
Why don't you go stomp on Baby Jesus while you're at it?
As long as I can remember my family would go out and cut down a Christmas tree. Bring it home and wrestle it into its stand. The top of the tree needs to touch the ceiling and full enough to take up the entire corner, or room. That is a Christmas Tree.
Chris and I are looking at houses. I don't care about anything but how tall the ceilings are. I need the tallest ceiling possible so I can have a monstrous Christmas tree. I have my priorities.
A tree is not one you go to a lot and pick out, nor does it in a box and needs to be assembled. No, those are not trees. Those are pipe cleaner holders.
The last two years I did not have a tree, arguing I would rather have nothing rather than a fake tree. I still argue that.
A fake tree is horrible. It doesn't look like a tree, it doesn't smell like a tree, and it is not a tree. No matter how hard Target tries to convince me it's a 7 foot Linden Pine.
Newsflash! It's not a pine and it's not a Linden if it's plastic and comes in three parts.
I can understand people having fake trees if they are allergic to the pine needles or sap. I still think they make Haz-Mat suits for a reason.
I said I would never get fake tree. I would rather have nothing than a fake tree.
Like last year, I unpacked my Christmas ornaments and placed them around the house. I hung the lights in the hallway, and put up our stockings.
It didn't feel like Christmas. Maybe because I'm not celebrating it like I did for the first 22 years of my life. Maybe because it's 40 degrees outside and I know I will not have a white Christmas. Stupid temperate climate. Or, maybe there is something about having a tree.
I bit the bullet. I got a tree substitute. It's a teeny tiny tree-like-shaped-thing that fits in a small corner. It's a stupid tree-like-shaped-thing.
It holds ornaments and a strand of lights. That's basically it. It also drops plastic green flakes. It is not a tree. I repeat it is not a tree.
Chris grew up with an artificial tree a.k.a tree impostor, and does not understand what the big deal is about a tree out of the box.
He says I only like real trees because I enjoy the hunt for it. True. I love looking for my Christmas tree. I love cutting it down, and I love the smell of pine.
I don't care what you say, spraying pine scent is not the same.
Some people claim the the fake trees are cleaner. I don't understand that argument. I have green PLASTIC bits all over the living room. At least needles fall straight and don't multiply.
Yes, I am being totally and completely unreasonable and finding every flaw with the tree impostor I can.
Also, the trunks of REAL trees aren't shiny. Yeah, I see you metal post.
This is not a Christmas Tree. This is an ornament holder.
I can bend the branches to 90 degree angle. That's not right. I wrote my name in the branches, bending them into an M and an O. Horrible. Absolutely horrible.
I'll tolerate this year, while making obnoxious comments about the stupid tree-like-shaped-thing. But next year?
Oh, I'm going all out for the Christmas tree next year. I'm going to put Clark Griswold's tree to shame. To shame.
In a memo left on the door, in an email and personal reminders whenever I step foot into the office: NO REAL CHRISTMAS TREES.
Why don't you go stomp on Baby Jesus while you're at it?
As long as I can remember my family would go out and cut down a Christmas tree. Bring it home and wrestle it into its stand. The top of the tree needs to touch the ceiling and full enough to take up the entire corner, or room. That is a Christmas Tree.
Chris and I are looking at houses. I don't care about anything but how tall the ceilings are. I need the tallest ceiling possible so I can have a monstrous Christmas tree. I have my priorities.
A tree is not one you go to a lot and pick out, nor does it in a box and needs to be assembled. No, those are not trees. Those are pipe cleaner holders.
The last two years I did not have a tree, arguing I would rather have nothing rather than a fake tree. I still argue that.
A fake tree is horrible. It doesn't look like a tree, it doesn't smell like a tree, and it is not a tree. No matter how hard Target tries to convince me it's a 7 foot Linden Pine.
Newsflash! It's not a pine and it's not a Linden if it's plastic and comes in three parts.
I can understand people having fake trees if they are allergic to the pine needles or sap. I still think they make Haz-Mat suits for a reason.
I said I would never get fake tree. I would rather have nothing than a fake tree.
Like last year, I unpacked my Christmas ornaments and placed them around the house. I hung the lights in the hallway, and put up our stockings.
It didn't feel like Christmas. Maybe because I'm not celebrating it like I did for the first 22 years of my life. Maybe because it's 40 degrees outside and I know I will not have a white Christmas. Stupid temperate climate. Or, maybe there is something about having a tree.
I bit the bullet. I got a tree substitute. It's a teeny tiny tree-like-shaped-thing that fits in a small corner. It's a stupid tree-like-shaped-thing.
It holds ornaments and a strand of lights. That's basically it. It also drops plastic green flakes. It is not a tree. I repeat it is not a tree.
Chris grew up with an artificial tree a.k.a tree impostor, and does not understand what the big deal is about a tree out of the box.
He says I only like real trees because I enjoy the hunt for it. True. I love looking for my Christmas tree. I love cutting it down, and I love the smell of pine.
I don't care what you say, spraying pine scent is not the same.
Some people claim the the fake trees are cleaner. I don't understand that argument. I have green PLASTIC bits all over the living room. At least needles fall straight and don't multiply.
Yes, I am being totally and completely unreasonable and finding every flaw with the tree impostor I can.
Also, the trunks of REAL trees aren't shiny. Yeah, I see you metal post.
This is not a Christmas Tree. This is an ornament holder.
I can bend the branches to 90 degree angle. That's not right. I wrote my name in the branches, bending them into an M and an O. Horrible. Absolutely horrible.
I'll tolerate this year, while making obnoxious comments about the stupid tree-like-shaped-thing. But next year?
Oh, I'm going all out for the Christmas tree next year. I'm going to put Clark Griswold's tree to shame. To shame.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
I am the 67.8% Complaining About Healthcare
I should be occupying Seattle, or Wall Street, or something other than my couch. I fit the Occupier 99% demographic perfectly. I have a college degree without a job. I enjoy making signs and sleeping in tents. I find the banks and healthcare to be annoying (and I have healthcare and a banking account).
I don't know if what I lack in doing math stuff, I make up for in common sense but I'm thinking camping in cities is not accomplishing what you think it is. Hear that? Yeah, that's people laughing at you on their way to work.
I can be laughed at from the comfort of my home, thank-you-very-much.
Everyone has choices in life. I chose to marry well, instead of sleeping in a tent. The perfect princess story.
No, not really. I married well with the intention I would find a career. Not a job, anyone can find a job. People are always looking for convenience store clerks and people to fill their coffee cups.
When you're twenty something you don't really think about healthcare. You think about beer, bars, TV, and that bill you kinda-sorta-maybe forgot about. Most companies offer some type of healthcare, and if they don't, you buy it. Done. Or, you take the risk that you won't need it.
I have healthcare now. It is one of the best plans you can have in the U.S. and it still has its flaws.
I spent more than an hour on the phone with Orlando, a man who does not know his numbers, my name or how to abbreviate Washington. I'm thinking healthcare is unnecessary if I have to deal with Orlando ever again.
"What state do you live in?'
"Washington."
"Right, WH. It's not coming up."
"No, Washington. Like George Washington?"
"Oh, are you in DC?"
"No, I'm in Washington State."
"Oh, WS. It's not coming up. Where do you live again?"
"W as in Walrus. A as in apple."
"WA? What comes up after that?"
"Nothing, that is my state's abbreviation."
Insert me beating my head against a wall.
After he figured out where I lived, we now had to go over my city. The doctor's phone number. And why the doctor's phone number was not coming up. After another circle conversation, I figured out he wanted the FAX number.
Did you know those were different?
He didn't.
He then wanted me to call my doctor's office, have them fax all of my records to him, and then he would set up my prescription by mail account. Uhhhhh, no.
1) I am not making the busy office people do more work.
2) I don't want my records being sent to you, you creepy man.
3) Call me paranoid, and I know my records are viewed by insurance companies all the time, I just don't want them being faxed.
4) Why is this so difficult?
"What is your doctor's name?"
"Le (pronounced Lee) L-E."
"I'm not finding her. What is her first name?"
"True, T-R-I-E-U"
"I'm still not finding her."
"Can you spell her last name again?"
I do.
"Can you spell her first name again?"
I do.
"What city is the office located?"
"Redmond"
"What is the address again?"
I tell him.
"And what is her last name?"
By this point I am five seconds away from cancelling my health insurance then dealing with the cotton headed ninny muggins for another second.
After another 20 minutes, he was able to locate my doctor.
After all that, I find out that instead of calling in my refill into the pharmacy. I now have to call my doctor to have her rewrite the prescription to send to the insurance company to have the insurance company mail it to me.
Does that seem weird to anyone else?
I appreciate the healthcare, I really do. But this is just insane!
This is taking advantage of the system health insurance created. This is making me jump through unnecessary hoops. This is just mean. Not just to me, even if I do have to make a million more phone calls than necessary, but also to my doctor who already wrote the prescription the first time!
I don't think anything is going to fix the horrible thought process that created the horrible system. It's beyond broke.
So I am the 67.8% I have healthcare, but no job. I have a degree with student loans but am not sleeping in a tent on a sidewalk. I also enjoy showering regularly and my comfy bed.
Yes, I want changes. Am I going to boycott? Not with my injury record. Besides, a boycott of one isn't a boycott, it's called ignoring.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do, but it will probably involve a Super Soaker, orange soda, a Slip N' Slide, and cotton balls.
I don't know if what I lack in doing math stuff, I make up for in common sense but I'm thinking camping in cities is not accomplishing what you think it is. Hear that? Yeah, that's people laughing at you on their way to work.
I can be laughed at from the comfort of my home, thank-you-very-much.
Everyone has choices in life. I chose to marry well, instead of sleeping in a tent. The perfect princess story.
No, not really. I married well with the intention I would find a career. Not a job, anyone can find a job. People are always looking for convenience store clerks and people to fill their coffee cups.
When you're twenty something you don't really think about healthcare. You think about beer, bars, TV, and that bill you kinda-sorta-maybe forgot about. Most companies offer some type of healthcare, and if they don't, you buy it. Done. Or, you take the risk that you won't need it.
I have healthcare now. It is one of the best plans you can have in the U.S. and it still has its flaws.
I spent more than an hour on the phone with Orlando, a man who does not know his numbers, my name or how to abbreviate Washington. I'm thinking healthcare is unnecessary if I have to deal with Orlando ever again.
"What state do you live in?'
"Washington."
"Right, WH. It's not coming up."
"No, Washington. Like George Washington?"
"Oh, are you in DC?"
"No, I'm in Washington State."
"Oh, WS. It's not coming up. Where do you live again?"
"W as in Walrus. A as in apple."
"WA? What comes up after that?"
"Nothing, that is my state's abbreviation."
Insert me beating my head against a wall.
After he figured out where I lived, we now had to go over my city. The doctor's phone number. And why the doctor's phone number was not coming up. After another circle conversation, I figured out he wanted the FAX number.
Did you know those were different?
He didn't.
He then wanted me to call my doctor's office, have them fax all of my records to him, and then he would set up my prescription by mail account. Uhhhhh, no.
1) I am not making the busy office people do more work.
2) I don't want my records being sent to you, you creepy man.
3) Call me paranoid, and I know my records are viewed by insurance companies all the time, I just don't want them being faxed.
4) Why is this so difficult?
"What is your doctor's name?"
"Le (pronounced Lee) L-E."
"I'm not finding her. What is her first name?"
"True, T-R-I-E-U"
"I'm still not finding her."
"Can you spell her last name again?"
I do.
"Can you spell her first name again?"
I do.
"What city is the office located?"
"Redmond"
"What is the address again?"
I tell him.
"And what is her last name?"
By this point I am five seconds away from cancelling my health insurance then dealing with the cotton headed ninny muggins for another second.
After another 20 minutes, he was able to locate my doctor.
After all that, I find out that instead of calling in my refill into the pharmacy. I now have to call my doctor to have her rewrite the prescription to send to the insurance company to have the insurance company mail it to me.
Does that seem weird to anyone else?
I appreciate the healthcare, I really do. But this is just insane!
This is taking advantage of the system health insurance created. This is making me jump through unnecessary hoops. This is just mean. Not just to me, even if I do have to make a million more phone calls than necessary, but also to my doctor who already wrote the prescription the first time!
I don't think anything is going to fix the horrible thought process that created the horrible system. It's beyond broke.
So I am the 67.8% I have healthcare, but no job. I have a degree with student loans but am not sleeping in a tent on a sidewalk. I also enjoy showering regularly and my comfy bed.
Yes, I want changes. Am I going to boycott? Not with my injury record. Besides, a boycott of one isn't a boycott, it's called ignoring.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do, but it will probably involve a Super Soaker, orange soda, a Slip N' Slide, and cotton balls.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
High Heels
I don't care who invented them. I don't care if they were originally designed for horse soldiers to keep their feet in the stirrups, or for French women of Royal Court.
I don't care if Leonardo Da Vinci designed them, or some sick husband who didn't want his wife to be able to walk properly. I don't care if a cobbler for the British Royal Court designed them, or God himself.
All I know, is two days after the fact, my feet are killing me.
I love shoes. If I could, I would buy a pair of shoes a week. Of sneakers.
Soft on my feet, and cushy on my soles.
Easy on and easy off. I can wear them for hours and they go perfectly with my jeans and basketball shorts.
Heels, on the other hand have been designed by the devil himself. The pain!
If I wanted my feet to feel like they are being stoned with fire, I would have lit them on fire and chucked rocks at them.
So why did I expose myself to the pain?
Because, apparently, this is what women do. They find the hottest pair of heels and wear them. Some people can ignore the pain, I'm not sure how. They must use pain numbing lotion or have no feeling below their knees.
The morning of the party I visited DSW and with four other women, also attending the party, we tossed boxes of shoes towards each other. I'm not sure how the five inch black patent leather shoes ended up in my possession; but I placed them on my feet, rolled up my jeans, and was immediately told to buy them.
I was told my legs looked amazing.
I was told they go with every dress, so I wouldn't have to do the mad scramble for shoes ever again.
I was told they were the sexiest shoes.
I listened.
I should have gone with the two inch heel. I should never have listened to those other women.
Had I been thinking, women do this to each other all the time. We compliment them in a way to break their feet so we can steal their shoes. Women are mean, but when it comes to shoes, we're down right vicious.
Apparently, I enjoy pain and being abused.
Pain is what I received, but my legs did look good.
I lasted the walk from the car to to Chris's Christmas party. It is two blocks, a walk I make all the time in the summer. I swear, the walk became longer in heels. Two blocks? Try seven miles.
My feet were killing me before we grabbed a plate of food. Ten minutes later, the shoes were off.
My friends stood there, staring at my bare feet, making fun of how I couldn't last thirty minutes. Five minutes later another woman had her heels off.
Health code enforcers made us put our heels back on, understanding that four hour heels do not exist.
Four hour heels, no. Four hour sneakers, hell yes.
For the entire night, I was slipping my shoes on and off as needed. Grimacing every time they went on, sighing with relief when they came off.
My toes and feet were beginning to look like a mangled mess. I'm pretty sure if it was possible, my toes would have broken off my foot. No, not break, but fall off my foot.
How badly did my feet hurt at the end of the night? I walked through Seattle Center in my bare feet. Yes, the idea of walking bare foot in Seattle seemed like a better idea then putting my gorgeous shoes back on.
I did put my shoes on when we approached the street.
Yes, I know I could have stepped on something, but my feet hurt so badly I didn't care. I never have that issue with my comfy sneakers.
Oh, and the women hoping to steal my heels when my feet broke from being jammed into the shoes, did not get my shoes. I guarded those suckers with my life. One day I'll want to wear them again, like next week.
I don't care if Leonardo Da Vinci designed them, or some sick husband who didn't want his wife to be able to walk properly. I don't care if a cobbler for the British Royal Court designed them, or God himself.
All I know, is two days after the fact, my feet are killing me.
I love shoes. If I could, I would buy a pair of shoes a week. Of sneakers.
Soft on my feet, and cushy on my soles.
Easy on and easy off. I can wear them for hours and they go perfectly with my jeans and basketball shorts.
Heels, on the other hand have been designed by the devil himself. The pain!
If I wanted my feet to feel like they are being stoned with fire, I would have lit them on fire and chucked rocks at them.
So why did I expose myself to the pain?
Because, apparently, this is what women do. They find the hottest pair of heels and wear them. Some people can ignore the pain, I'm not sure how. They must use pain numbing lotion or have no feeling below their knees.
The morning of the party I visited DSW and with four other women, also attending the party, we tossed boxes of shoes towards each other. I'm not sure how the five inch black patent leather shoes ended up in my possession; but I placed them on my feet, rolled up my jeans, and was immediately told to buy them.
 |
| My shoes are on the right. So beautiful, yet so painful. |
I was told they go with every dress, so I wouldn't have to do the mad scramble for shoes ever again.
I was told they were the sexiest shoes.
I listened.
I should have gone with the two inch heel. I should never have listened to those other women.
Had I been thinking, women do this to each other all the time. We compliment them in a way to break their feet so we can steal their shoes. Women are mean, but when it comes to shoes, we're down right vicious.
Apparently, I enjoy pain and being abused.
Pain is what I received, but my legs did look good.
I lasted the walk from the car to to Chris's Christmas party. It is two blocks, a walk I make all the time in the summer. I swear, the walk became longer in heels. Two blocks? Try seven miles.
My feet were killing me before we grabbed a plate of food. Ten minutes later, the shoes were off.
My friends stood there, staring at my bare feet, making fun of how I couldn't last thirty minutes. Five minutes later another woman had her heels off.
Health code enforcers made us put our heels back on, understanding that four hour heels do not exist.
Four hour heels, no. Four hour sneakers, hell yes.
For the entire night, I was slipping my shoes on and off as needed. Grimacing every time they went on, sighing with relief when they came off.
My toes and feet were beginning to look like a mangled mess. I'm pretty sure if it was possible, my toes would have broken off my foot. No, not break, but fall off my foot.
How badly did my feet hurt at the end of the night? I walked through Seattle Center in my bare feet. Yes, the idea of walking bare foot in Seattle seemed like a better idea then putting my gorgeous shoes back on.
I did put my shoes on when we approached the street.
Yes, I know I could have stepped on something, but my feet hurt so badly I didn't care. I never have that issue with my comfy sneakers.
Oh, and the women hoping to steal my heels when my feet broke from being jammed into the shoes, did not get my shoes. I guarded those suckers with my life. One day I'll want to wear them again, like next week.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The Exciting Flight Home
After a 10 day trip home for Thanksgiving Chris and I entered Detroit Metro Airport for the journey home.
It's amazing how it only takes four hours to travel across the country. It was a trip that used to take years, several horses and oxen and a case of scurvy. At least that's how it happened in the computer game, "Oregon Trail."
Now it takes four hours in a plane that smells like dirty feet, and stale burgers, while violating personal space. That's the best part of airline travel, because now TSA plays thirty questions.
"He'll circle, and I'll ask the questions," TSA man says handing my boarding pass to the man who has Chris's.
Fine, whatever. I'm tired and crabby. A horrible combination for making it through security without being arrested.
"Where are you going?" on of the two TSA agents asks looking at me.
"Seattle."
"Are you traveling together?"
"Yes."
"How do you know each other?"
Seriously? You have our IDs. Look at the names and address. I'm pretty sure strangers do not have the same last name and address.
"We're married."
"Why were you here in Detroit?"
"Visiting family for the holidays."
"What do you do in Seattle?"
"I'm a writer and he works for Microsoft."
"Are you allowed to speak?" TSA man asks Chris.
Dude? For real? If you want him to answer, look at him. Following proper conversation/interrogation rules, if you're looking at me then I am the person you want to answer.
"What is your last name?" The second TSA man asks.
"Diehl."
TSA man 1 and 2 look at each other, using special secret TSA eyebrow movements.
"No more questions."
And through the radiation chamber we went. With all the crazy technology you would think my pony tail did not need to be patted down and stripped searched. Apparently, it does. For real? I've given up on people having common sense.
Michigan State was playing Florida State at 7:30 last night. All I wanted to do was get on the plane and hopefully watch the game on the amazing backseat TV screens.
We were late boarding, and people insisted in standing in front of me while I tried to watch basketball from 50 yards away. As we're walking down the gangway to the plane, our pilot says, "Grab my parachute, and call for help."
Things I do not want my pilot to say.
The pilot should not be needing a parachute, because that means I need a parachute, and as much as I want to go skydiving, I am not going to go skydiving with Delta. Call me crazy.
He insisted it was a Far Side Cartoon. I really hope he was.
We get on the plane, and no one can sit down in a quick manner. I think people are getting dumber.
Get on plane, sit in seat, chuck stuff under seat in front of you. And wait to take off.
Remember how I'm tired and crabby? I'm beyond tired, and am finding everyone's inability to sit down so we can take off so I can watch the Michigan State basketball game annoying.
I'm so tired I am actually able to doze on an airplane. Something that never happens. I would have slept better if the flight attendants and pilot did not think the PA was the coolest toy of the season.
Need to know every drink and every snack they have? They'll tell you.
Want to know why there's turbulence?
They'll tell you.
Want to know where the turbulence will be less?
They'll tell you.
The only thing they didn't tell us, is what lake in North Dakota we were flying over.
I finally was able to sleep, curled up in a tiny ball, my legs bent underneath me. Of course, in this position I could not have my seat belt on. Not a big deal. If the plane goes down, a seat belt is not going to help me.
Delta disagrees.
We hit a bit of turbulence and the next thing I know I am surrounded by flight attendants telling me to buckle my seat belt.
Buckled.
I should learn to fly my own plane, where I don't need a seat belt and TSA can't talk to me, or feel up my pony tail.
It's amazing how it only takes four hours to travel across the country. It was a trip that used to take years, several horses and oxen and a case of scurvy. At least that's how it happened in the computer game, "Oregon Trail."
Now it takes four hours in a plane that smells like dirty feet, and stale burgers, while violating personal space. That's the best part of airline travel, because now TSA plays thirty questions.
"He'll circle, and I'll ask the questions," TSA man says handing my boarding pass to the man who has Chris's.
Fine, whatever. I'm tired and crabby. A horrible combination for making it through security without being arrested.
"Where are you going?" on of the two TSA agents asks looking at me.
"Seattle."
"Are you traveling together?"
"Yes."
"How do you know each other?"
Seriously? You have our IDs. Look at the names and address. I'm pretty sure strangers do not have the same last name and address.
"We're married."
"Why were you here in Detroit?"
"Visiting family for the holidays."
"What do you do in Seattle?"
"I'm a writer and he works for Microsoft."
"Are you allowed to speak?" TSA man asks Chris.
Dude? For real? If you want him to answer, look at him. Following proper conversation/interrogation rules, if you're looking at me then I am the person you want to answer.
"What is your last name?" The second TSA man asks.
"Diehl."
TSA man 1 and 2 look at each other, using special secret TSA eyebrow movements.
"No more questions."
And through the radiation chamber we went. With all the crazy technology you would think my pony tail did not need to be patted down and stripped searched. Apparently, it does. For real? I've given up on people having common sense.
Michigan State was playing Florida State at 7:30 last night. All I wanted to do was get on the plane and hopefully watch the game on the amazing backseat TV screens.
We were late boarding, and people insisted in standing in front of me while I tried to watch basketball from 50 yards away. As we're walking down the gangway to the plane, our pilot says, "Grab my parachute, and call for help."
Things I do not want my pilot to say.
The pilot should not be needing a parachute, because that means I need a parachute, and as much as I want to go skydiving, I am not going to go skydiving with Delta. Call me crazy.
He insisted it was a Far Side Cartoon. I really hope he was.
We get on the plane, and no one can sit down in a quick manner. I think people are getting dumber.
Get on plane, sit in seat, chuck stuff under seat in front of you. And wait to take off.
Remember how I'm tired and crabby? I'm beyond tired, and am finding everyone's inability to sit down so we can take off so I can watch the Michigan State basketball game annoying.
I'm so tired I am actually able to doze on an airplane. Something that never happens. I would have slept better if the flight attendants and pilot did not think the PA was the coolest toy of the season.
Need to know every drink and every snack they have? They'll tell you.
Want to know why there's turbulence?
They'll tell you.
Want to know where the turbulence will be less?
They'll tell you.
The only thing they didn't tell us, is what lake in North Dakota we were flying over.
I finally was able to sleep, curled up in a tiny ball, my legs bent underneath me. Of course, in this position I could not have my seat belt on. Not a big deal. If the plane goes down, a seat belt is not going to help me.
Delta disagrees.
We hit a bit of turbulence and the next thing I know I am surrounded by flight attendants telling me to buckle my seat belt.
Buckled.
I should learn to fly my own plane, where I don't need a seat belt and TSA can't talk to me, or feel up my pony tail.
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