They're charming, really.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Adventues in Anxiety: Part 2
I can't imagine any words I wanted to hear less coming from the cockpit this morning than these: "Well, folks, we've got a bit of bad news for you. We've got an indicator that our left engine is going bad... now, we think it's just a faulty indicator, and that the engine is fine, but in the interest of safety, we're going to land in Knoxville to check it out!" This was of course followed by an assurance that everything was FINE and there was no reason to worry. Clearly.
These are the scenarios I make up in my head that cause the weeping and the drinking and the praying and the more drinking- and there it was, unfolding in front of me in real-life. All I could think of was officials reviewing the black box tapes later and the subsequent newspaper articles- "The first indication that something was wrong came around 11:42 am when Captian Mike Jones alerted passengers that there was some possible engine trouble, though there was no need for worry... he was so, so wrong."
But there were no tragedies for me today save the two teenagers making out in the seat next to me. They parked us at Knoxville for a couple of nail-biting hours, and the kind people at Northwest gave us all food vouchers to tide us over the lunch hour, apologizing profusely while handing them out- which, I get it, they're concerned about customer service, but in this kind of situation, it's not some scheduling error causing a delay, it's an effort to keep us from dying. And while I appreciate a free Quizno's sub, I am really really okay with the sitatuion at hand.
Note to any and all professionals who may ever provide me any type of service during my future here on earth: Don't ever, ever, EVER apologize for doing things that end in me being more or less alive as opposed to dead. I actually appreciate these efforts a great deal. I would rather spend 2 hours reading in the airport than bursting into flames somewhere over the Smoky Mountains.
So I made it to balmy 70 degrees Grenville (so THIS is why I moved to South Carolina), but not without a few gray hairs. The best part about flying out of Greenville is that the airport is lovely and small and approximately three planes a day fly out of there, meaning there is virtually no wait time for anything. But the worst part is that I always end up on these tiny planes that are barely bigger than my parents' old Grand Marquis, and you can feel every tiny bump riding in one of those flying Mini Coopers. There's none of the smooth, graceful takeoffs and landings like you get with the behemoth planes; instead it feels like you're bouncing down a gravel road on the side of a mountain with brakes that have just gone out. It is an experience that does not exactly instill one with confidence. Or happiness. Or the desire to ever patronize an airline company again.
On a much, much, MUCH happier note, here's my whole, wonderful family at our fake Christmas this past weekend:
And here is a pictorial testament to my brothers' nerdiness- their idea of a family portrait:
A little piece of my shoe-shopping self dies every time something like this happens. (And yes, there are five of us under there, and yes that is a John Deere book on the far left. Hey, like your family is normal??)
Near-death (in my mind, anyway) experiences and extreme nerdiness aside, it was one of the best Christmases in my memory, even if it was on the short side. The newfallen snow I spied on the front lawn upon waking "Christmas" morning was literally icing on the cake... if our earth was filled with German Chocolate and snow was butter cream frosting.
These are the scenarios I make up in my head that cause the weeping and the drinking and the praying and the more drinking- and there it was, unfolding in front of me in real-life. All I could think of was officials reviewing the black box tapes later and the subsequent newspaper articles- "The first indication that something was wrong came around 11:42 am when Captian Mike Jones alerted passengers that there was some possible engine trouble, though there was no need for worry... he was so, so wrong."
But there were no tragedies for me today save the two teenagers making out in the seat next to me. They parked us at Knoxville for a couple of nail-biting hours, and the kind people at Northwest gave us all food vouchers to tide us over the lunch hour, apologizing profusely while handing them out- which, I get it, they're concerned about customer service, but in this kind of situation, it's not some scheduling error causing a delay, it's an effort to keep us from dying. And while I appreciate a free Quizno's sub, I am really really okay with the sitatuion at hand.
Note to any and all professionals who may ever provide me any type of service during my future here on earth: Don't ever, ever, EVER apologize for doing things that end in me being more or less alive as opposed to dead. I actually appreciate these efforts a great deal. I would rather spend 2 hours reading in the airport than bursting into flames somewhere over the Smoky Mountains.
So I made it to balmy 70 degrees Grenville (so THIS is why I moved to South Carolina), but not without a few gray hairs. The best part about flying out of Greenville is that the airport is lovely and small and approximately three planes a day fly out of there, meaning there is virtually no wait time for anything. But the worst part is that I always end up on these tiny planes that are barely bigger than my parents' old Grand Marquis, and you can feel every tiny bump riding in one of those flying Mini Coopers. There's none of the smooth, graceful takeoffs and landings like you get with the behemoth planes; instead it feels like you're bouncing down a gravel road on the side of a mountain with brakes that have just gone out. It is an experience that does not exactly instill one with confidence. Or happiness. Or the desire to ever patronize an airline company again.
On a much, much, MUCH happier note, here's my whole, wonderful family at our fake Christmas this past weekend:
And here is a pictorial testament to my brothers' nerdiness- their idea of a family portrait:
A little piece of my shoe-shopping self dies every time something like this happens. (And yes, there are five of us under there, and yes that is a John Deere book on the far left. Hey, like your family is normal??)Near-death (in my mind, anyway) experiences and extreme nerdiness aside, it was one of the best Christmases in my memory, even if it was on the short side. The newfallen snow I spied on the front lawn upon waking "Christmas" morning was literally icing on the cake... if our earth was filled with German Chocolate and snow was butter cream frosting.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Obviously I made it alive or you wouldn't be reading this post
I write this from 26,000 feet in the air- on wordpad, of course, not the internet. I would never try to connect to the world wide web while on a plane- ever since seeing Soul Plane (not this century's greatest cinematic achievement, I know), I'm terrified of accidentally leaving my cell phone on when traveling the friendly skies and it causing the plane to explode mid-flight.
I am not what they in the industry would call 'a good flier'. I used to be a good flier- a great one in fact. I loved flying. I will never forget landing in Seoul when I flew to Korea seven years ago, after the longest. flying. experience. ever. Six-hour drive to Chicago. Couple hours sleep at the bro's apartment. One-hour drive to the airport. Four-hour flight to San Francisco. Five-hour layover /delay there. Twelve-hour flight to Korea, touching down almost 40 hours after I'd left Monroe. (and that wasn't even the end- the hold-up in Cali caused us to miss the last flight out to Pusan, and we had to spend the night in a hotel before making the one-hour trip the next morning.)
Anyway, when we finally landed in Seoul, on a clear, crisp night in November, I remember thinking "Holy wow. I'm in a DIFFERENT COUNTRY. I got on this plane in Michelle Tanner's hometown and I'm about to get off in South Korea". I was literally on the other side of the world, and the idea that a plane could do that- transport me across the planet in the span of half a day- was nothing short of magical.
But those days are long gone. As I've mentioned before, I seem to become more like my mother more with each passing day, and now I am a nervous flier . Statistics mean nothing to me, because unless you have a 100% success rate, there is always a chance that something can go wrong. Nobody gets on a plane thinking they're going to crash. It's ALWAYS A possibility.
The kicker is, I love everything about flying, except the actual in-the-air part. I love luggage and gift shops and reading a book in the waiting area and strangers in the seat next to me.
I've been particularly anxious about this flight, and by the time I was seated in row five, I was bent over in my seat, crying because it was the only thing that could release the tension. So I cried and I prayed and cried and prayed and when the flight attendant announced that they were beginning their in-flight service with adult beverages available for only $7.00, my tears came to an abrupt end.
Now, I am not one to spend seven dollars on anything (the last thing I purchased for that amount was a skirt from J. Crew, if that gives you any idea of my price threshold) but I'd just received my Christmas bonus earlier in the day and I figured if my plane was going to fall out of the sky and send me to the Happy Hunting Ground in the Sky (or in my case, the Happy Shopping Mall in the Sky) I figured the most authentically Catholic way for me to go out would be with a prayer on my lips and booze in my veins.
I drank that glass of wine like it was about to go bad, and by the time the flight attendant came back up the aisle after finishing her service (um. there were maybe ten rows behind me), I was already ready with my trash.
So I'm feeling pretty woozy, especially since I declined the complimentary pretzels, and the only thing I've eaten today was sushi for lunch, which I'm starting to regret, but at least if my plane crashes in a fiery explosion, my final thoughts will be recorded for all the world to enjoy.
On the bright side, now I can focus on the waves of nausea washing through my body instead of the crippling anxiety. God bless Cabernet.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Therapy
In regards to the last post about my heartbreak over Cute Mass Guy- which, frankly, I am still not over- my roommate offered the suggestion that perhaps it was a chastity ring causing all this trouble in our non-relationship. To which I say, if there is one way to ensure your "chastity" remains intact forever, it is to adorn your left ring finger with some solid gold bling. Moving on.
My job is strange. Some days I produce a radio show done entirely in Spanish, a language in which I'm not entirely confident I can even say 'hello'. Other days I spend an entire morning carefully removing incorrect address labels from already-stamped envelopes so that new, (hopfeully) correct labels can be applied. Today- well, today I said the word 'jackass' on a internationally broadcast radio show. I was quoting Martin Luther, but still. My job is strange.
Every once in a while I check out Post Secret, but honestly, I get bored quickly. My life is not that dramatic. I just know that if I were ever to submit one, it would be like "Sometimes I drive with both feet on the pedals because I'm too lazy to move my right foot between the gas and the brakes". Sorry, Dad.
Last night, I was helping with the 7th-graders at Religious Ed since their regular teacher couldn't make it last-minute. Since I was going off the fly, we did some trivia and I told them about Our Lady of Guadalupe, whose feast day is this weekend.
Two observations: First, half of the class didn't know what three gifts the wise men brought to baby Jesus. And I don't mean they faltered momentarily over the pronunciation of frankincense (like I just faltered not-so-momentarily over its spelling). I mean they stared at me with dead eyes and a gaping mouth. Sad. Secondly, the only kid who had even heard of Our Lady of Guadalupe was the single Mexican boy. Oh how I love when people fulfill their stereotypes.
I was reminded of this over Thanksgiving when my brother's Canadian girlfriend told me she was on a curling team in high school. You. were. NOT. I think she was a smidge alarmed at my glee, but I can't help it. It just tickles me down to my very toes when I see two cops eating donuts in a coffeeshop. Makes me want to go shoe shopping and dance in formation with 40 other white people. Just for the sake of the stereotype, of course.
My job is strange. Some days I produce a radio show done entirely in Spanish, a language in which I'm not entirely confident I can even say 'hello'. Other days I spend an entire morning carefully removing incorrect address labels from already-stamped envelopes so that new, (hopfeully) correct labels can be applied. Today- well, today I said the word 'jackass' on a internationally broadcast radio show. I was quoting Martin Luther, but still. My job is strange.
Every once in a while I check out Post Secret, but honestly, I get bored quickly. My life is not that dramatic. I just know that if I were ever to submit one, it would be like "Sometimes I drive with both feet on the pedals because I'm too lazy to move my right foot between the gas and the brakes". Sorry, Dad.
Last night, I was helping with the 7th-graders at Religious Ed since their regular teacher couldn't make it last-minute. Since I was going off the fly, we did some trivia and I told them about Our Lady of Guadalupe, whose feast day is this weekend.
Two observations: First, half of the class didn't know what three gifts the wise men brought to baby Jesus. And I don't mean they faltered momentarily over the pronunciation of frankincense (like I just faltered not-so-momentarily over its spelling). I mean they stared at me with dead eyes and a gaping mouth. Sad. Secondly, the only kid who had even heard of Our Lady of Guadalupe was the single Mexican boy. Oh how I love when people fulfill their stereotypes.
I was reminded of this over Thanksgiving when my brother's Canadian girlfriend told me she was on a curling team in high school. You. were. NOT. I think she was a smidge alarmed at my glee, but I can't help it. It just tickles me down to my very toes when I see two cops eating donuts in a coffeeshop. Makes me want to go shoe shopping and dance in formation with 40 other white people. Just for the sake of the stereotype, of course.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Heartbreak
There is a man in my life that I call Cute Mass Guy. I call him this because I don't know his real name. Because we've never actually met. (This is the part where you shake your head and say "Oh, Karen...")
I noticed Cute Mass Guy one of the first times I went to mass at St. Mary's in Greenville. Week after week he was there at the same mass as me. There aren't many singles at church, so he stuck out. For the past year and a half, he has almost always been at the 11 o clock mass when I'm there, and he is ALWAYS alone. Every. Single. Time. (Take note of this; it will be important later) He usually sits within one or two pews of me; a couple times we've sat in the same pew.
I've mentioned CMG to my friends, because, what else would we have to talk about? Really. But none of them have ever actually seen him with their own eyes.
WELL. Yesterday was the Feast of the Immaculate Conception (happy Catholic birthday to me!) and I hit mass last night with a few of my closest. Just as I was sitting down, I noticed CMG take a seat directly in front of us, at which point I started freaking out and waving my hands to Stacey and V sitting next to me, trying to indicate with wild hand motions that THIS! WAS! CUTE MASS GUY! RIGHT IN FRONT OF US! Luckily they are both well-versed in the Crazy that is Karen and immediately understood.
So I sat through Mass, happily staring at CMG's broad shoulders, and feeling pleased that I'd finally proved he was a real person and not a figment of my imagination. And then something terrible happened.
We got up for communion, CMG turned around, and I saw it. A WEDDING RING.
WHAT? WHAT?!?!?!?! A feeling of adulterous horror settled into the pit of my stomach as I craned my neck to see if maybe it was just a class ring worn on the very WRONG finger, but unless his alma mater is in the habit of issuing plain gold bands to their graduates, I'm out of luck.
Oh Cute Mass Guy, where is your wife? Yeah, yeah, maybe she's not Catholic, but neither is my mom, and I promise you that she's been to church with my dad at least ONCE in 2009. Also, HOW did I miss that tell-tale sign? Since graduating college, I like to think I have perfected the art of ring-spotting: that is, the ability to identify a wedding band on any man between the ages of 18 and 35 within a 50-foot radius. How could my ring radar fail me in such a crucial endeavor?
Sigh. I need to go to the mall, drown my sorrows in an Auntie Anne's pretzel and hone my skills. Clearly. If you need me, you know where to find me.
I noticed Cute Mass Guy one of the first times I went to mass at St. Mary's in Greenville. Week after week he was there at the same mass as me. There aren't many singles at church, so he stuck out. For the past year and a half, he has almost always been at the 11 o clock mass when I'm there, and he is ALWAYS alone. Every. Single. Time. (Take note of this; it will be important later) He usually sits within one or two pews of me; a couple times we've sat in the same pew.
I've mentioned CMG to my friends, because, what else would we have to talk about? Really. But none of them have ever actually seen him with their own eyes.
WELL. Yesterday was the Feast of the Immaculate Conception (happy Catholic birthday to me!) and I hit mass last night with a few of my closest. Just as I was sitting down, I noticed CMG take a seat directly in front of us, at which point I started freaking out and waving my hands to Stacey and V sitting next to me, trying to indicate with wild hand motions that THIS! WAS! CUTE MASS GUY! RIGHT IN FRONT OF US! Luckily they are both well-versed in the Crazy that is Karen and immediately understood.
So I sat through Mass, happily staring at CMG's broad shoulders, and feeling pleased that I'd finally proved he was a real person and not a figment of my imagination. And then something terrible happened.
We got up for communion, CMG turned around, and I saw it. A WEDDING RING.
WHAT? WHAT?!?!?!?! A feeling of adulterous horror settled into the pit of my stomach as I craned my neck to see if maybe it was just a class ring worn on the very WRONG finger, but unless his alma mater is in the habit of issuing plain gold bands to their graduates, I'm out of luck.
Oh Cute Mass Guy, where is your wife? Yeah, yeah, maybe she's not Catholic, but neither is my mom, and I promise you that she's been to church with my dad at least ONCE in 2009. Also, HOW did I miss that tell-tale sign? Since graduating college, I like to think I have perfected the art of ring-spotting: that is, the ability to identify a wedding band on any man between the ages of 18 and 35 within a 50-foot radius. How could my ring radar fail me in such a crucial endeavor?
Sigh. I need to go to the mall, drown my sorrows in an Auntie Anne's pretzel and hone my skills. Clearly. If you need me, you know where to find me.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Blue Bell Tastes "Just Like the Good 'ol Days"
Thanksgiving 2009 was a holiday that Must be Blogged About, but it will have to wait for now. At the moment, there are more pressing matters.
Today, I hopped over to the Nielsen homestead for a quick panini lunch. Alycia does, true to her word, make a mean panini, but the deliciousness of the grilled sandwich was quickly overshadowed by dessert:
Blue Bell White Chocolate Almond Ice Cream
Ahhhhh.
I'm pretty sure Blue Bell can only be found in the south, so for all you saps in the north: too damn bad, as they say. Sorry, sorry, that lacked compassion: It is sad for all you Yankees. Enjoy your many liberties. I'll enjoy another bowl of Blue Bell.
I should produce commercials.
Clearly this delicious post-dinner treat is causing me to lose it a little.
Seriously, though, about this ice cream- it's soooooooo good. And when i went to the website today to check it out, I discovered it's a seasonal flavor so you can bet your patootie I'll be celebrating Advent like it's 1 BC by eating my body weight in creamy white chocolate deliciousness.
Speaking of which, Happy Advent, y'all!
Today, I hopped over to the Nielsen homestead for a quick panini lunch. Alycia does, true to her word, make a mean panini, but the deliciousness of the grilled sandwich was quickly overshadowed by dessert:
Blue Bell White Chocolate Almond Ice Cream
Ahhhhh.
I'm pretty sure Blue Bell can only be found in the south, so for all you saps in the north: too damn bad, as they say. Sorry, sorry, that lacked compassion: It is sad for all you Yankees. Enjoy your many liberties. I'll enjoy another bowl of Blue Bell.
I should produce commercials.
Clearly this delicious post-dinner treat is causing me to lose it a little.
Seriously, though, about this ice cream- it's soooooooo good. And when i went to the website today to check it out, I discovered it's a seasonal flavor so you can bet your patootie I'll be celebrating Advent like it's 1 BC by eating my body weight in creamy white chocolate deliciousness.
Speaking of which, Happy Advent, y'all!
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