Monthly Archives: December 2011

December 9, 2011 · 0:00

Fear of Flying

I don’t fly very much, and so I think I need some information from those of you who do.

First of all, where do you put your legs? I ask this as a short person with practically non-existent legs. My husband, who sports a nice long shapely pair himself, says that I don’t have legs, I have “stumps.” And I take that comment exactly as he meant it – as an insult. But I’m OK with being insulted, as he well knows. You can say anything insulting to me at all, as long as it’s funny. Non-funny insults hurt my feelings. Funny ones I assume are jokes. They are, aren’t they?

So I am sitting here with no place to put my stumps and wondering, hey, what do people who actually have LEGS do? It is a question that will baffle man- and womankind for generations to come until we get our own individual George Jetson cars.

More importantly, though, is what to do in case of a crash.

Now, I am not afraid of flying. Not at all. I don’t worry about crashes except for when I look at those emergency instruction cards in the seat pocket in front of me. The ones that tell me in the event of an emergency to get into the knee-chest position here in my seat, with my seatbelt ON.

Because if I were to try to do that while panicking because of an imminent disaster, well, I would hit my head on the seat in front of me and knock myself out. There simply isn’t room to fold even my 5’2” body into that position.

So why do these so-called safety instructions instruct me to give myself a concussion? I am so confused, and I don’t even remember practicing the knee-chest position or hitting my head. I would remember, wouldn’t I?

Besides, even if I could get into that position in this seat, I’m sure I’d get stuck. And even if not, I would certainly not be able to proceed to the nearest exit in that position — I would have to waddle. Therefore I would not make it to the emergency exit in a timely fashion. And after all, isn’t that really the goal here?

I actually think that these questions lead people to fear flying. Another one that just occurred to me is “Hey, am I going to get arrested for writing about all of this on an airplane?”

And another thing. E-Tickets. I checked in early today from my office computer (here let me say to my boss, should she be reading this post, that I did it before work or during lunch or at some other time when I was not required to be working. Really. And did I tell you that you are the best boss ever? I mean today. I know I told you that yesterday. And the day before.)

Where was I? Oh yeah. My e-ticket. It worked great. It gave me my boarding pass, information on the weather at my destination (Houston) and helpful hints on what to do when I get there. Here is the list of their suggestions in the order they recommended them:

Houston Metro Locksmith
Museum of Fine Arts
Wabash Antiques & Feed Store
Occasions Fine Gifts

Now, I must say, that in traveling to Texas, the suggestion to go to a Feed Store is not altogether surprising.

But Damn! I would never have thought of going to visit a locksmith. What could be more fun! More educational? More appropriate for the state with the highest number of folks in prison! Hopefully I’ll run into Rick Perry there at Houston Metro Locksmith. So I really appreciate this tip, Continental Airways. The only problem is, when I noticed where they wanted me to go, I laughed and spat red wine all over the address. I will have to suck it off to find the place now.

Damn.

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Filed under Humor

Tagged as Vacation

December 6, 2011 · 0:00

A Different Toy Story

Nobody suspects I would have done anything of the sort. I’ve fooled them all. Well, at least I’ve fooled the folks I work with. And that will do.

You see, we have a terrific Christmas tradition at my office. We have a party, yes, and it’s actually fun because we like each other. And the highlight of the party is a gift exchange. About two weeks prior to the party, we choose the name of a co-worker, and bring a gift for that person as if he or she were 7 years old. We open the gifts and have a great time guessing who gave it to us. Then the toys are collected and given to a local charity.

We have a blast, it’s for a good cause, and everybody tells their funny childhood remembrances of what we would have done with a toy like they got.

But it was awkward for me this year, because I got a doll.

She was a beautiful, blue-eyed doll with rosy cheeks and curly blond hair just like mine. Any girl would love her and gently care for her. Any girl would treasure that pretty doll. Any girl would have given that beautiful doll to her own daughter to love, too.

Any girl but me. Because for the most part, I hated dolls. And for most of my childhood did anything to avoid playing with them. Except when I was about 7.

Well, I guess I answered honestly when I said that, uhhh, yeah, I would have played with the delicate dolly. And, yeah, I would have played with it when I was about 7 years old. So yeah, the gift, umm, fit me. I didn’t elaborate, though.

I didn’t, for example, tell anyone that the dolly would not have been happy with the situation.

I blame my parents, they bought that particular house. I blame my brother. Me, I was innocent. I was led astray. I was forced to do it. The fact that it was hilarious and became one of my favorite memories is completely irrelevant.

You see, the house I grew up with was next to the railroad tracks. And naturally, because it was strictly forbidden, my brother Fred and I used to spend lots of time playing on the tracks. We’d put our ears to the rail to listen for trains, and, once we were sure none were coming, we’d run across the tracks.

That was fun for part of the first summer we lived there, but hey we were 6 and 9. We needed growth opportunities.

We flattened pennies until we had enough to lay track from New York to New Haven made entirely of smushed Lincoln faces. For a while we would wait for a train to come and then hop across the tracks, trying not to trip and die. Fortunately we both succeeded and outgrew our interest in that particular challenge. We tried to flip the track switch so that the train would jump the track and go down our driveway instead of on towards New Haven. But for some reason, someone had locked the switch, and no matter what we did, we could not get the train to go down our driveway. It was probably just as well.

One day, I got home from a friend’s house to find that my favorite stuffed animal, an orange poodle won for me by my dad, was missing. Naturally, I accused my brother of hiding it.

“I didn’t hide it, Lease,” he said. “I played with it. It was just sitting on your bed,” he said in that brotherly tone that indicates I was stupid for questioning him.

He walked into my room, grabbed another stuffed toy, my stuffed Pebbles doll with the plastic head, and said. “Come on. This is really neat.”

Out we went, down to the tracks. We waited and waited, putting an occasional ear to the rail. Finally, Fred placed Pebbles on the tracks. Like Pauline, Pebbles looked skyward. Like Pauline, as the train approached, her feet wiggled. Unlike Pauline, however, there was no rescue.

The train whizzed by sending the most delightful plume of stuffing up and out, way over the top of the train. It was a hit. We rushed back for additional victims. All my stuffed toys and each and every doll met a sorry end.

We would have let Pauline go, though. Really.

As it turned out, today at the party, my boss had picked my name, and the doll was from her. “Would you have played with a doll like her?” she asked, no doubt envisioning me dressing her up and playing with her like other girls.

“Absolutely,” I said, weighing the doll and imagining just how high up this particular doll’s stuffing would go.

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Filed under Family, Humor, Stupidity

Tagged as Family, Trains

December 2, 2011 · 0:00

Both Sides Now

“The Season” makes me crabby. Grumpy. Irritable. I’ve come to hate it. Everything about it. I hate the music, the crowded stores, the decorations. I especially hate the decorations.

Last year a friend stopped by our house in the middle of December. “God, it’s December 15^th,” I said to her, “and the only decoration I have up is the wreath on the door!”

“I don’t think that counts, Lease,” responded my husband John. “You didn’t take that down from last year.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Tonight, I’m looking around at my undecorated house thinking, “uggggh,” not “Ho ho ho!”

It wasn’t always true, though. I used to be one of them. I was a veritable Christmas Elf. I baked, I decorated. I embroidered Christmas stockings for the whole family. My son Jacob and I built gingerbread houses that did not come from a mix or a box and were actually made of gingerbread stuck together in the shape of a house! My friends got a bottle of homemade Irish Cream liqueur. Some used it to get their kids to bed on Christmas Eve.

But mostly, I sang. The records, tapes and CDs came out on Thanksgiving. From the moment I woke up the day after Thanksgiving, until New Years, I would trill away. “White Christmas,” “Do You Hear What I Hear?” “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.” I belted “Mele Kalikimaka” when I had an established escape route to avoid people trying to punch me. I know the words to all 18,423 verses of Frosty the Snowman. I would start singing in the shower and keep going until John tackled me and put duct tape across my mouth, usually at about 8:30 a.m. Regardless, I’d start up again the next morning.

If the current, Crabby Christmas Me got a hold of the old Merry Christmas Me, I would slap myself silly.

So you see, I do understand the Christmas-sy part of Christmas. The love, the joy, the traditions.

But now I see the other side. And it’s that “tradition” part that is to blame.

You see, my family’s always been fairly competitive. My mother and her sister Ruth were particularly so. They’d argue at each shared Sunday dinner over a million things: whose gravy was better (my mother’s), who cracked the best one-liner (always Aunt Ruth – she was a hoot), and most traumatically for me, whose young daughter was taller. (Duh, Maureen was almost a year older than me – of course she won every time. But you’re not taller now, are you? And you’re still older, Maur. You’re still older. How do you like it??) Darn, I wish I’d missed the competitive gene.

When I was a kid, Aunt Ruth was high on the list of my favorite relatives. Now she’s tops on an altogether different list. And it ain’t Santa’s list, neither.

Because Aunt Ruth started a family tradition. A competition. But it’s not a family tradition I recommend, especially during the Christmas season. In fact, it should have a warning, although I’m not sure where you’d put it: Don’t try this at home.

You see, Aunt Ruth started the tradition of kicking the bucket on a major holiday. What fun! Great idea! Not many families do that! Hey, we are DIFFERENT!

Knowing Aunt Ruth, I’m sure her last thought was “Doris, you’ll never top this one! I’m dying on Thanksgiving!!!!” She was no doubt a bit miffed when my mother joined her a couple of years later. Because, not to be outdone, Mom arrived in the afterlife on Easter Sunday.

Their party really got going when we reached Y2K, and my sister Judy died unexpectedly on my birthday in January. Now, you might argue that my birthday is not, technically speaking, a holiday. Not a paid day off for most folks. But hey, in my book, this qualifies. So there.

As time went on, there were fewer and fewer holidays I could celebrate. The only big one left was Christmas.

Guess what happened on Christmas, 2000! Yup, Dad reclaimed his spot at the head of the table with Mom, Judy and Aunt Ruth. Dad trumped them all. Or because it was Christmas, perhaps he trumpeted them all. Maybe both.

I must say I am rather ticked off about it all. Sort of changes the tone of the Holidays, you see. I plan to have words with all four of them, next time I see them. And I will not be nice.

In the meantime, celebrating holidays, well, it just seems so odd to me. Especially Christmas, because Christmas is so stuff-oriented, and most of my Christmas stuff is from them. It takes a bit of the fun out of decorating.

For a while, I considered joining the Eastern Orthodox Church. That way I could celebrate the same holidays, just on different days. I could keep all my Christmas crap! I could decorate! I could bake! I could sing! But then I realized that the change would just give us all additional high priority target dates, and I don’t have enough family members left to meet the challenge. So Eastern Orthodox is out.

At the same time, I also realized that, when Dad hit the Holiday Lottery, the whole tradition had to stop. Because I’m pretty sure that biting the dust on, say, Columbus Day, just wouldn’t cut it. So why bother?

Nevertheless, this whole thing has made me decidedly anti-Holiday.

There is one holiday I still look forward to, though. Groundhog Day. I just can’t figure out what sort of decorations to put up.