skip to main |
skip to sidebar
I am in a losing battle with the Cosmic Muffin who has set up camp in my life. Like unpacked the summer clothes and decorated.Today, I spent 5 hours seeing 3 mechanics (and the DMV), spending $228 on a rear oxygen sensor in order to pass the mandatory smog test so I can get my car registered in California. Well, this project has been extended, since the check engine light is still on. The last mechanic told me to drive the car 100 miles to see if the check engine light clears itself. Unfortunately, I never drive anywhere except the grocery store. Also, if this oxygen sensor isn't the problem, then I get to drop even more money on a new catalytic converter, even though there is still honeycomb catalyst still there. But I got a free espresso truffle latte at Starbucks, and I got a few pages of Judith Butler read. I drove home feeling largely frustrated because I really got nothing accomplished today. And then my day got worse.
Drove up to the 4th floor of the parking garage where I always park, because no one else ever parks up there. Parked in my diva spot, got out of the car, keys in hand to unlock my bike. Which wasn't there. Every time I move my car, I ride my bike (it's on the opposite side of the complex). I take the bike on the elevator and lock it to itself up on the 4th floor, out of the way. I can put my groceries in my basket and ride home, instead of schlepping bags for the 10 minute walk. Now it's missing.I called the police, afraid, but hoping the bike was just impounded. Instead, they send over an officer to take a report. The officer was really impressed, because I could give detailed information, including providing a receipt with serial number, printing a photo, and giving a narrow window of disappearing. Then he told me they probably wouldn't ever find the bike. ARGH!!!
As a consolation prize, I walked into IV to get a cheesesteak. And there is a matte periwinkle bike! With black basket and leather handles!! I call the police; the "owner" comes out, insisting it's his. There was drama. Squad car. Only to find out that there are 2 matte periwinkle bikes out there. Part of what was so appealing about this bike was how unique it looked. Now I feel like a prat for calling the cops, accusing this perfectly innocent exchange student. I offered to buy the guy a pizza or something, but he was really nice about it, and just wanted to get home.
This is the 3rd bike I've had stolen from me. My first bike was stolen in Williamsburg. Another bike was stolen off my front porch at Yellow House. The red bike I bought to replace the first one was hit by a car, which bent the front fork irreparably. And let's not forget the stolen car adventure.It sucks because I loved that bike, and I don't like walking places, because it's inefficient. I liked walking in Chicago as leisure not transit, but that was back when my iPod still worked (The battery doesn't hold a charge). I don't have the $150 for a new iPod OR a new bike. Just another charming event in a list of bad luck I've been having. Last month, I tried getting a new phone, but that turned into drama because it was a lemon. Friday, I got slapped with a parking ticket in L.A. because I punched in the wrong parking space number to the kiosk. Someone got free parking, and I got a $48 ticket.
And all my chocolate has fat bloom, which makes it crumbly and yucky. But I can't just curl up and hide, because I still have Judith Butler to read, presentations to assemble, grants and book reviews to write.
Winter in California means 50F and rainy. Not even the non-stop typhoon season of Williamsburg, but a couple days here and there. The whole thing is laughable really. Suddenly, people are bundled in ski parkas and scarves. (The UGG boots are always in season here.) I am guilty of busting out the pea coat, because the light jacket isn't quite enough on the bike, and the pea coat has a hood. It's not cold, which I occasionally have to remind myself.
Light rain is the California equivalent of snow, because apparently the weather is just too inclement for Californians to leave the house. Seriously, in my 42 person history lecture, 20 people showed up today. That's PATHETIC! Even worse - the professor wasn't even a little surprised! Oy! Virginians just pull on the slicker and pack extra socks in a plastic bag. Chicagoans just laugh and enjoy the "warm" weather.
The last time it rained like this, I got drenched riding the bike home. I HATE riding my bike in rain. Wearing glasses is extra difficult, and waterlogged jeans make it harder. I came in, called a warning to SuperK if he was in before I stripped down to my undies before scurrying into the bathroom to dry off and pull on toasty, warm, dry jammies. Of all ironies, I was wearing my W&M t-shirt.
We William and Mary kids got used to this. We packed spare clothes, grocery bags, umbrellas. At the theater, we had the added bonus of getting throw wet clothes into the costume shop dryer occasionally. You always had a couple of pairs of shoes so that there was always something wet, something dry, and the emergency backup flip-flops (I always hydroplaned in flips, but if the other option was soggy sneaks, it could be a tough call.)
What I found really abysmal wasn't even that the kids didn't show up, but the fact that those who did mostly just took up space. It was embarrassing, disrespectful and distracting. The girl in front of me was doing the crossword. The girl next to me was reading a book for a different class. When she wasn't texting on her iPhone. The guy behind me was reading the paper, and the guy next to him read the school paper. By comparison, I was less offended by the kid who left in the middle of class with his phone, because it was probably something serious, or at least he had the courtesy to not waste time.
Rain isn't my favorite, and I would much rather be tucked in my bed with some fiction, but it's not gonna keep me from doing what needs to get done.
on the DVR: "Trust Me" pilot
In the past couple of weeks, my inner classicist has been rearing her head more often. We read Bourdieu a couple weeks ago, and none of my classmates knew the proper plural of his central concept of Habitus (it's habitus - long U, 4th declension - NOT habiti). The repeated use of habiti was making me cringe, especially since someone actually asked the correct plural.
Tonight, I met with DJ Grad to discuss Austin's How to Do Things with Words. There, I got to geek with another classicist. (Well, technically medievalist, but he took Latin too). It's an odd sense of community - the few, the proud, the extra-nerdy. And Latin attracts a certain personality. For this particular book in particular, a knowledge of Latin was super-helpful, since so much of Austin's argument and structure reflect his Latin-training. As a result, our discussion was so stimulating, because it used parts of my brain I haven't used lately. Since we didn't have to explain the Latin-ness to each other, we could really take off philosophically. 2 hours flew by, working with text, riffing on each other, making connections, extrapolating--this is what I love about grad school. (DJ Grad and I joked about co-writing a book, mostly using SuperK and the bull as primary metaphor.)
The book itself is really interesting to geeks like us, because it is so deliberate, orderly, systematic. All about the notion of a performative (a statement that is also an action ~ 'I warn'). Lots of grammar and minutia. Oddly applicable to performance. It appeals to me because of its focus on action and specificity. It makes me want to diagram sentences and re-read Alice in Wonderland. (I think JL Austin was a/the Caterpillar).
98% of the time, SuperK is an awesome roommate. We keep different hours, so there is never any fight over the bathroom. He's pretty neat (in both the tidy and fun ways). He will wash the dishes (admittedly, poorly) if I make dinner for both of us. And it's fun to snark with him. But right now, he has committed two food violations in a week.Last week, I got home from the grocery store to make a chicken sandwich, incorporating some of the fresh produce I just got. Only to find exactly 1 slice of bread in my bag. Not enough to a sandwich, but not enough to either throw away or grab my attention as something I needed to get. Just now, I go into the fridge to enjoy some cold cheesy bread that I splurged on the other night. That night, I had 2 slices. Yesterday, 1 slice. And I know he asked to have a few, but I didn't realise that a few meant "all but a really tiny slice." ARGH!!In his defense, he did ask to have SOME bread, and some cheesy-bread, which was fine. I just didn't know the extent of the damage until it was too late. The only time I ever eat his food is when I am making a big pot of pasta that both of us will eat. (The boy doesn't know how to cook pasta, and I had to teach him how to wash dishes. I'm not sure how he got through college.)The good news is I found a Little Caesars (Pizza! Pizza!) who does crazy bread and it's way cheaper than Woodstocks. Bad news - Little Caesars doesn't deliver and closes at 10PM. Why are there no good delivery places around here? I miss my Papa Johns student special! And if I am gonna drop cash on pizza, I want the organic, hippy insanity of Avalanche. (Their Godzilla and Cheeseburger pizzas are awesome). I also think they should cater to the niche market of graduate students who want cake at 2AM. Because I'm sure I'm not the only one.
Blending my research with my resolutions, I have started attending ballroom practice regularly. Last quarter, I tried it a few times, but there were too many people, most of whom had never danced before. While I love me some newbies, it's not great for learning or even crowd control. Also, practice was scheduled after my Pedagogy class, which was the last class of the week, after which I was always pretty tired/burned out. In case I didn't miss it enough, I have the double incentive of a professional instructor AND a partner! Last night we had a 90 minute lesson in bronze-level international waltz. Learned more than half of a routine that combines some cool elements. Little bit of technique. I danced with one of the team members who is nice and tall, and has this freakish ability to grow another 6 inches getting into frame. Then one of the alumni (who is currently competing) taught the fan in rumba. The waltz was awesome, but I keep wrecking the timing on the fan. Intelligently, I have a good idea how it works, but my timing is utter crap, even with the best lead. It is so striking to me though how very out of practice I am. Rusty doesn't even begin to describe it. It's like the super-rusty bike frame in the shed that you hope will not disintegrate under you. I haven't competed in 6+ years, and I haven't even taken lessons in 4. Also, my training is primarily American-style, which is less rigid than International. The timing is different, just a little faster, which is throwing me.My partner is a science guy, again. Which makes for some fun, since I am arts/humanities-oriented. If I will be dancing alot and competing again, I now have a reason to buy new ballroom shoes. The old Latin shoes are dying, and I may have lost my smooth shoes in the many shuffles. I really want these fabulous purple shoes, but I know I should get sensible tan satin. *sigh* And the purple shoes wouldn't match my old costumes, but then again, I don't know I would still fit into those costumes... I see major spendy-bender with sparkles in my future.
Watching Princess Diaries over breakfast (Julie Andrews is genius in this one, even if it totally underuses her talent.), I saw an add for this movie - New in Town. They billed it as "Legally Blonde meets Sweet Home Alabama" - both Reese Witherspoon movies. Except that the blonde in this one is the pinched-face Renee Zellweger. I do prefer Witherspoon, and aparently she wasn't available, so they went to the next best thing. Or something.
The movie looks more like Fargo meets Legally Blonde, but that might just be the accent thing. And seriously, what is up with Zellweger's face? It looks like her face was just removed from a Dyson vac or something. And while I appreciate her moving away from her uniform of strapless Caroline Herrera, she looked like a serious train-wreck for the Globes. Then again, most of the celebrities looked a bit rough. To hell with writer's strike, where are all of the good stylists? Looking at pictures, everyone looked either old, overly-made up or that they just had major work done. And I know they are all of those things, but generally they don't look like it. It's bad when Miley Cyrus is the best-dressed/styled one at the party!
For the past week or two, I have been alternately amused and surprised by the weather reports. Or the extremes and disparities. I mean, I remember those anomaly days in VA where it was so nice, I had a t-shirt on in December. Last year, the day I left Chicago for Christmas, it was so warm, I forgot my coat!
For the past week, the highs have been in the upper 70s. Total t-shirt weather. Or if you are a Santa Barbie, bikinis and teeny tiny terry "cover-ups." I have been totally enjoying it. Makes the laundry schlep oddly pleasant, the 8AM class pretty, and the apartment nice and fresh from all the open windows. Meanwhile, my east coast kids, or even worse, my Chicago peeps, are in the throes of deep freeze. Chicago spent the better part of this week below zero, even before windchill. East coast was well below freezing. I feel minorly evil as I bop around in shorts (and then brag about it). The funniest moment I had was reading the Trib, who wrote an article surveying why people choose to live in Chicago. And they actually called out Santa Barbara as the absolute opposite, the "perfect weather." This week, that was totally the truth. But the inner Chicagoan in me felt kinda dirty, sad, homesick. Then I went outside and took care of that. The article made me think. I love Chicago. I have survived a Chicago winter. Why would I go back, after living in "paradise"? Because the summers make the winters worth it. Because those crazy winters have made the Chicago personality more hardcore. It's harder to faze them; and when it gets that cold, it builds a weird sense of community. We're all hatin' it together. And paradise has lame architecture, overpriced ethnic food, and just not as much fun. But paradise doesn't require the dork coat.
Today it is lovely all over again. Unfortunately, I woke up at 3PM, which limits the daylight. And then I made the mistake of roasting a chicken, which has trapped me inside. Oh well, it's not like I can't bike along the beach in my t-shirt tomorrow.
on the toob: Step into Liquid - a surfing documentary
This birthday has tremendous suck-potential: turning 30 = old, Wednesday, limited social circle, etc. But this birthday worked out pretty well!
For my actual birthday, I went to bed around 6, rolled out of bed at noon. Made pancakes and checked the explosion of birthday wishes on my Facebook. Skipped the Schechner in favor of sating my cleaning OCD. Also, it was impossible to sit down and read because my phone was ringing off the hook! For class, SuperK brought cheesecake in my honor. There was the awkward singing, but still nice. And instead of doing work or eating decent food, we went to In-n-Out. It was a leisurely, gluttonous day.
And yesterday was really just part 2. After a few hours of domestic chores (laundry, dishes, etc), SuperK and Mev got back from the mock-interviews with some great gossip to fuel the ride downtown to my birthday dinner. We met up with the Chef and her boyfriend at Sojourner Cafe. The vegetarian options were extensive, but the giant slices of tofu were a bit much for me. I got some fabulously snarky cards (oh Mev, I love it when you get all radical feminist!) It was fun, polite, classy birthday - a nice counterpoint to my 29th birthday at Broney's with my OU kids and lots of girly drinks.
Driving back to campus, SuperK dropped me off at ballroom practice, where I learned the technical execution of a rag-doll in salsa, and then danced (poorly) some standard with a potential dance partner. So much fun! But the cherry flats were not really the best choice for Viennese Waltz. Guess I will just have to buy new ballroom shoes! But do I get new Latin shoes to replace the dying pair I bought 10 years ago? Standard shoes for competition? Dance sneaks? And I still need a pair of flats and slouchy boots... I smell a field trip to L.A.!
This whole milestone birthday has been rather creeping me out. Because thirty is undeniably adult. I struggle with the adult-ness. Blame my student-lifestyle, my being mistaken for a minor, and my biological clock all working their mindfuck mojo on me.
Instead of trying to ignore it or escape it, I decided to embrace it. I lay down my books, pulled on my Keens and the big sweater the Cheese Fiend made me, jumped on my periwinkle bike and went to the beach. I listened to the crashing of the waves, standing on an empty (slightly smelly), moonlit beach as I transitioned from 29 to 30. The beach just seemed appropriate. It represents something exciting and special from my childhood and it now represents my new life. The beach is something consistently pleasant and escape-y in my life. The week at Bethany Beach with the whole extended family sharing a condo was always the best week of the year. And I remember driving to Virginia Beach on a whim after our ER parties in college. Or standing on the beach in Massachusetts on the first day of spring as it snowed (I'm a sucker for irony). Or some of the best dates I've ever been on, playing in the water and basking on the sand. Add the cliche of waves/passing of time and its inherent different-ness, and it was an obvious choice.
Of course, because it was me, I was nearly late. Which meant that my heart was pounding from pedalling faster to make it to the beach by 4AM PST/7AM EST. And the waves kinda made me have to pee. And I didn't lock my bike at the stairs, which made me a bit paranoid. But totally worth it.
on Pandora: "You Got Yr Cherry Bomb" - Spoon
Perfectionism/OCD rears its ugly head.
Every week, we are assigned piles of reading to do. People have told me that it is not possible to do all of that reading, and that impossibility is part of the joke. But it is possible for me, just unpleasant. Up until the last couple of weeks of the quarter, I read every page. This quarter, the reading is even denser. After a chapter or 2, my brain is full, and I can't absorb any more information. Combine this with apathy or animosity (I don't care about things unrelated to my work, and I am annoyed that I have to do it). Now, I am trying to learn to let go. To send my response without reading every page. It makes me twitchy. Like physically twitchy. Now I trying to resist the impulse to pick up where I left off.
I have aced procrastination (designing my GauchoSpace profile with Buttercup as my avatar), love the lazy, but I still haven't figured out the slacking thing. Slacking shouldn't be this hard!
on the tube: Grey's Anatomy pilot. on the floor: me and the yoga mat
If you haven't seen it, this is what I want for my birthday party.
No, no, not the cruise (although I wouldn't turn it down). I want this giant pinata.
Can you imagine what it would kind of things you could whack it with? Being surrounded by hundreds of other people who have all turned into 5 year olds at a block party? Or better - standing under the shower of candy?
(PS. It was filmed in Philadelphia at Broad/Washington)
Now back to my regularly scheduled Schechner.
For its size, Santa Barbara has an impressive dance calendar. This quarter in particular, there seems to be alot of modern concerts, guest artists and master classes. Today, I had tickets for the New Works event.
The concert itself was OK. There were some interesting moments (one dance piece had tango music, but modern choreography), and quite a bit of lame/amateurish. I really liked the last two pieces. The lighting designer finally found her groove, instead of just poorly blended areas and ineffective side lighting (the booms were focused too high and had pale colors), she started playing with color and movement. The last piece had alot of magenta and deliberate dark, combined with the remixed industrial music, goth-dominatrix costumes and general Furies intensity. It was high energy, balanced but not symmetrical trio, interesting shapes.
Much better than the autobiographical piece about the dancer's schizophrenic aunt. The music was live and cool, but the choreography + spoken word was annoying. I totally called her as dance therapy/yoga girl. More striking was the difference between them who can dance and them who can choreograph. I was very pleased to see an older soloist, but she is a much better dancer than choreographer. Also exciting - a guy who could do all the choreography of his female counterparts, but still look masculine. I saw my 8AM dance instructor doing his own choreography, and noticed that I only pay attention to faces when I already know them.
Now we get to the truly snarky review: I have no patience for fat dancers. Let me clarify - I love curvy girls; I like seeing actual flesh much better than sinew and bone. Candidly, I don't know how trained dancers can get fat, given how much time they spend moving, burning calories. But if you are too fat to do the moves, that's when I have a problem. There were the fat dancers who couldn't heave their asses on top of their pointes; it looked sloppy. Then again, there were the skinny girls who got away with looking like a dancer instead of actually having good technique. To be fair, I didn't like the anorexic girl in the modern amalgam any better. You need calories to move like that.
What burned me was the total scheduling chaos it wreaked on my day. First, I thought the matinee was at 11AM, for reasons unknown. Then the concert lasted alot longer than dance concerts usually do. It totally killed me at the end when they spent 20 minutes RE-presenting the annual award. It was gratuitous, and totally destroyed the pacing/energy. Instead of leaving after a really rockin' piece, talking it up, we had to sit through a ceremony and then race out to pee and catch up on our days.
Now I debate the merits of going the event next week. But I have to find another $13.
I'm trying to expand my dance experience and vocabulary, which is proving much harder than I expected. First, finding dance in Theater & Dance is largely impossible, since the dancers operate on an entirely different plane. Theater people don't know much about them. The dancers hide behind locked doors. I have been trying to make connections, which is tricky, since they don't seem to check email.I found one guy who does Laban. He recommended his new somatics class at UCSB. Which is scheduled for 8AM. Ouch. In an attempt to get to know this guy, pick his brain, etc, I dragged my butt out of bed at 7.30AM. Let me tell you what I think of biking in the fog/mist (with glasses on since it's too early to pry my eyes open enough to put contacts in), with a wet bike seat. To do a movement class before my body, let alone my mind can function. Extra bitchy - the instructor was late. Then we spend all of the class lying on our back trying to be aware of our breath and body. All I was aware of was how much comfier my bed is.When I got home, I was so sore. Fell asleep so hard I was drooling. And the interrupted vampire hours combined with movement that early tweaked my cataplexy. Nothing like feeling like your body cannot move because all muscle tissue has been replaced by lead.I'm really not persuaded that this class has any merit. Or at least not enough merit to drag ass that early. But he might make a great resource, so it makes it harder to blow it off.
It must be one hell of a class when you realise that the first sip of water you take is over an hour into things, and then only to take an advil to sooth the headache I have gotten trying to absorb all of this information. All those brain cells rubbing together, exploding. It was actually amazing.
This seminar is called Epistemologies of Performance. But before we could dive into our book-a-week assignments, the professor wanted to lecture on some of the precursors. To the uninitiated, this would sound very dull. In reality, it was awesome. In 2 hours, he explained, with great insight and clarity Aristotle, Hegel, Kierkegaard, Marx, Freud, Lacan, Deleuze. He even illuminated the Benjamin article we read for yesterday's class. Holy crap! I had heard of these people, who are constantly name-dropped, but I never really understood them. Suddenly dialectic, sublation, WWI, angst, and such all made sense. After 2 hours, I wanted to raise my hand and ask to be excused since my brain was full.
Both seminars are 5-8. SuperK hates it, but I love it. At first I didn't understand the choice of time slot, but now it makes sense. Pop Culture should happen at night, when you can go home and watch all the pop culture you just discussed. And the performance class will require the kind of discussion more appropriate to a later time that involves wine. Like classical symposia.
Because I forgot:
1. My fun new GPS doesn't work in Santa Barbara.
2. In an attempt to set up a savings account to sock way the tax-money the school doesn't take out of my check, the bank is hassling me, but only during normal business hours on the east coast.
3. O'Blenness sends me mail like it was going out of style, because apparently the last 2 times I paid them just wasn't enough. see also: Insurance blows.
4. The WB just took the season of the show I was watching offline. Thanks.
I'd just eat some chocolate and go to bed, but SuperK and his Costco card have not gotten my chocolate, oh, and I should probably start reading one of the 20+ books I get to read this quarter. ARGH!
PS. California may be sunny, but warm is a joke. And sunny just isn't as much fun when your freakin sunglasses broke.
Technically, the first day of winter quarter was yesterday, but I only started classes today. Impressively, it went from zero to suck even faster than last quarter. Pushing my bike back to the apartment with SuperK, I was already at my mid-quarter level of rage. It's not a good sign.
Last night, I went into mini-panic in anticipation of the suck. I got the syllabi for my classes before the break, so I knew the workload ahead of me. Attending class today added the element of humanity. I am currently taking 3 classes, all of which culminate in a 20 page paper. In each of 2 grad seminars, I will be reading a book of theory a week, then writing. And add grant proposal+syllabus+prospectus. The History of Argentina class would be great if it was actually just the standard lecture. The professor is fun, but clearly hasn't updated his syllabi in 15 years. Also sketch - required reading = the professor's books. In the same way that I don't like self-citations in articles, I don't trust teachers who only their books. It's like trying getting paid twice and doing half the work. I am one of 2 grads, the other being Dumbass, who thinks we're all chummy.
The popular culture class had potential, but it going south quickly. The professor pretends to be super-interested in all of our research, and then proceeds to dismiss people. And as the added bonus, I get to lead a discussion all by myself on one of the hardest books. Lucky me. Oh and because the professor screwed up, the book on the syllabus that we all ordered already wasn't actually the one she wanted, that is now in the bookstore. But instead of having the one person who bought the 2nd book return it to the bookstore, all the rest of us just dropped $30 on a book we aren't using and will have to buy another $30 book.
Class session themselves are fun, but then I have to deal with annoying people. Zero STILL doesn't know my name and then gets miffy when I correct him. C has adopted Zero's habit of shouting and ignoring social cues. The people I like either get blown off or don't speak at all. However, there is an added bonus that we already know each other and can sort of mock either already.
Added bonus - a flaky friend asked me to pick him up from the airport and then drive him to the ass end of town. Oh, but since he forgot to pay his phone bill, he can't call me when he arrives and just expects me to keep up on his flight status, assuming he makes all his flights. This has moved out of "favor" or even "karma banking" into imposition.
10 weeks. 2 books a week. 60-80 pages. 4 people on the shit list already.
3.46PM, 1/3/9In the past few weeks, I have spent many quality hours in transit. It’s a shame that it is nearly impossible to read theory on a plane. But here are some of my more ‘charming’ observations:
1. Why do I keep getting selected for the extra screening? What about me screams ‘terrorist’? Is it my pleasant demeanor, my mismatched luggage or my ability to be confused for a minor? For the kicker – if I get held up in my screening and am running late, they won’t hold the plane for me, even if I pass, and even though it was the airline’s idea in the first place. (I smell overselling seats conspiracy, but then again, I also smell boy funk right now).
- Spite factor 1: As part of the “VIP treatment,” the guy had to swab inside every single pocket of my carry-on items. Imagine my infinite glee as he discovered that Green Bag has 9 pockets, with magnets and broken zippers.
- Spite factor 2: Next time, I will resist my OCD tendency to pack carefully using lots of Ziploc and instead make my carry-on just explode with dirty undies and loose tampons (because it’s always a guy). Swab that!
- Remorse?: In his defense, the guy was as efficient and pleasant as possible.
2. I think the airlines are a stain upon humanity. There is something so fundamentally unethical about cramming that many people into a confined space for exorbitant rates and then nickel-and-diming them out of their minds. I could almost accept the checked bag fee (not happily, but it makes some rational sense). The one that totally burns my ass is the food charges. You can’t bring beverages past security, meaning that you are forced to buy them at the airport, or for the truly unlucky, the airplane. And US Airways got you there. If you are thirsty on a plane, you are shit out of luck. Not even the water is free. And you had better have exact change - $2 to be exact. The fact that a dinky sandwich and mini-bag of chips is $10 on American blows my mind. Henceforth, I strive to be a camel.- Spite factor: You can carry an empty bottle through security and fill it inside the airport. I’ve gotten smirks from Homeland Security, but it is still ok. I also tend to be the one who packs snacks, but that is because I am secretly about 5.
3. I have decided to design the sensory deprivation kit. It’s a set of noise-canceling headphones to block out engine noise, tantrum babies and the “expert traveler” who thinks his platinum rating means he can harass other travelers or get chummy with the flight attendants. These headphones will also be fitted with blinders so you can block out the person next to you who insists on picking their nose to amuse themselves. I need to figure out a way to block smell after someone unpeeled a banana in coach, and I nearly yakked.
4. Air travel and illness do not mix. My return trip from Argentina was like the 2nd ring of hell because I was alternately congested then all dry. I thought my ears would never pop. Also, the whole recirculated air just screams contagion. Which is why products like Airborne are so popular. But for the Airborne Guy flying from SBA-Vegas, please pack tissues just in case, because the wiping of snot and then touching things is not sanitary for the rest of us. (He is the poster child for Purell, even though I hate the stuff). Also, the alcohol in those three Bloody Mary’s you actually lowered your immunity and entirely defeated the purpose of tomato juice.- Spite factor: Pull a Stark Raving Mad and gift the Purell to the freakshow instead of ever touching it again.
Well, once I make it back to SBA, I will be grounded for a while. Till March at least, when I get to fly to Chicago!
I first heard the term from the Fashionista, and it amused me to no end. Conceptually, I appreciate the practicality of it, as well as the mild transgressiveness of it for girls. In reality, it rather scared me. It’s the whole reason I refuse to do primitive camping. I will schlep supplies, cook over fire, scour for wood, no problems. Peeing in the woods – um, no. Because knowing my luck, I would probably end up peeing on a sleeping animal or my jeans. But tonight, I popped my first squat, and it was surprisingly liberating.
Context: It’s about 6 hours from Athens to NoVA. Unfortunately, that middle-to-late section when you inevitably have to pee, is in the boonies with exits many miles apart and nothing visible from the road. Also, my residual cold has totally thrown off my hydration, as I discovered after I finished my second 20oz bottle of water.
I had crossed into MD, and I was wondering about my kidneys of steel. But I would need gas and more water before I would get to NoVA. So when I saw a sign for gas stations AND a Dunkin Donuts, I decided to take a pit stop. (I’m a total sucker for DnD). But the DnD was NOT to be found. Apparently I went the wrong way or something, because there was nothing but me and deer in the darkness. At this point, the bumpy road combined with my realization that I had downed not one but two bottles of water made the situation go sour quickly. I am trying to navigate back to the highway and ideally the DnD/gas station, but ended up pulling over in some parking lot. I looked both ways, found a conveniently large bush, and backed myself into it. Nothing like the cold winter breeze on your bare bum as you water the plants as discreetly and quickly as possible.
I still wanted the DnD, but when I did find it, it was closed! And the 7-Eleven I filled up at didn’t have water at the fountain! ARGH! A very frustrating pit-stop, but at least mildly entertaining.Post-script: Airplane bathrooms are possibly even worse. Probably less sanitary, more smelly and you have the added challenge of turbulence.
