Today, I spent the day -- once again -- in airports. Actually, it wasn't all bad. It's hard to complain (too much) about leaving home at the normal time, hopping on a plane, going to a meeting, flying back, and finding yourself home earlier than normal.
While the schedule was working out for me, God wanted to be sure that I knew my proper place. As I got on the flight home, the flight attendant announced that it would be a completely full plane. I found the first open aisle seat and took it. It wasn't until I sat down that I realized that I was sitting in the middle of a party of five. Mom, Grandma, and the two-year old were seated to my left. Dad and the four-year old were right next to me on my right. Where do you think they were going? Disney World, of course!
"Are you serious, God?" I asked. But, it was too late to get up and move. So, I hunkered down in my seat, cursed silently (I think), and prepared myself to gut it out. That's when the questions in my head started. Today is February 29th. It's Leap Day. Why isn't it a Federal Holiday? If we have to work, shouldn't we get an extra day's pay? At a bare minimum, if you have to sit next to a Disney-bound family on Leap Day, shouldn't you at least get compensatory time?
I had a lot of questions. I pondered them in my head (just like Mary, for all you New Testament readers). Before I knew it, the flight was over. I grabbed my bag and started to exit the plane. Then it hit me. The Disney family had been very well-behaved. No outbursts, no over-excitement, no loud-talking parents. I really couldn't find anything bad to say about them.
I guess it was good I'd worked on Leap Day. I'd learned something -- not everyone bound for Disney World is a pain in the butt. A simple lesson but one worth learning.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
And the Oscar Goes To ...
Forty minutes into the Oscar telecast last night, I gave up and headed off to bed. After watching Billy Crystal (predictably) kick off the show with yet another bit where he inserted himself into key scenes from the past year's films and then (even more predictably) do a song-and-dance about each of the nominated films, even I had to ask why anyone should care. And, remember, I'm a certifiable entertainment industry junkie.
What are the Academy Awards anyway? It's a lame get-together where there's no alcohol, you have an assigned seat, you listen to boring speeches, and members of the popular clique give themselves awards. In other words, it's kind of like junior high school. Who wants to go through that again?
My only regret from going to be so early was that I missed Angelina Jolie. In case you also missed her, here she is:
I know most people are mocking her for the way she purposefully thrust her bare leg through the slit of her dress while on-stage to present an award. Not me. I'm mocking her for adopting the "I'm a little tea pot" pose made famous by sorority girls on college campuses across the country. I thought I was the only person allowed to mimic that pose, Angelina!
What are the Academy Awards anyway? It's a lame get-together where there's no alcohol, you have an assigned seat, you listen to boring speeches, and members of the popular clique give themselves awards. In other words, it's kind of like junior high school. Who wants to go through that again?
My only regret from going to be so early was that I missed Angelina Jolie. In case you also missed her, here she is:
I know most people are mocking her for the way she purposefully thrust her bare leg through the slit of her dress while on-stage to present an award. Not me. I'm mocking her for adopting the "I'm a little tea pot" pose made famous by sorority girls on college campuses across the country. I thought I was the only person allowed to mimic that pose, Angelina!
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Fashion vs. Function
Would you rather be comfortable or look good? That's an easy one for me. Comfort wins every time. For example, I need my jeans to be loose. When I say loose, I mean I want to be able to pull them down over my hips without unbuttoning or unzipping them. You never know when that will come in handy, right?
This morning I got grief for my latest fashion vs. function choice. Kim just doesn't understand why I now tuck in my undershirt. I'm not talking about tucking my t-shirt into my pants. I'm talking about going full bore -- tucking it all the way into my underwear.
OK, I get that it looks ridiculous. But, I got tired of my t-shirt riding up on me during the day. By late morning, my untucked t-shirt would be bunched up an inch or two above my belly button. I'd reach in, grab the bottom, and jam the t-shirt back into my pants. As long as I stayed perfectly still, there was no problem. As soon as I'd get up and move around, however, there it would go again. It started to get ridiculous. I was tucking and re-tucking my t-shirt a dozen times each day.
Finally, I bit the bullet. One day, I got out of the shower and said, the hell with it, I'm tucking this thing in, no matter what it looks like. What do you know? Twelve hours later I came home from work and my t-shirt was right where I'd put it -- tucked firmly into my underwear! Ever since, there's been no turning back.
You know what? I don't think it looks all that bad, either.
This morning I got grief for my latest fashion vs. function choice. Kim just doesn't understand why I now tuck in my undershirt. I'm not talking about tucking my t-shirt into my pants. I'm talking about going full bore -- tucking it all the way into my underwear.
OK, I get that it looks ridiculous. But, I got tired of my t-shirt riding up on me during the day. By late morning, my untucked t-shirt would be bunched up an inch or two above my belly button. I'd reach in, grab the bottom, and jam the t-shirt back into my pants. As long as I stayed perfectly still, there was no problem. As soon as I'd get up and move around, however, there it would go again. It started to get ridiculous. I was tucking and re-tucking my t-shirt a dozen times each day.
Finally, I bit the bullet. One day, I got out of the shower and said, the hell with it, I'm tucking this thing in, no matter what it looks like. What do you know? Twelve hours later I came home from work and my t-shirt was right where I'd put it -- tucked firmly into my underwear! Ever since, there's been no turning back.
You know what? I don't think it looks all that bad, either.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
I Feel Pretty
I woke up in a grumpy mood today. That's not really news around here. But, today was extra bad. I had all of two minutes to interact with Kim and the boys before heading off to work. In that time, I got a roll of the eyes from Kim, a derisive laugh from Nick, and a groan from Jay. They couldn't wait for me to get out of the house.
Things didn't improve at work. I had just returned from two days in Philadelphia last night. Yet, first thing this morning, I had to plan for a return trip up there tomorrow. I MapQuested the route, saw the estimated travel time of 2 hours and 37 minutes (each way), and just shook my head in disgust. I had almost reached my breaking point.
Four hours later, I had sat through several conference calls, attended one meeting, and waded through dozens of e-mails. As I sat there eating lunch (which consisted of leftover butter-and-salt noodles, yogurt, and a roll), I got an idea. "I know exactly what you need," I told myself. "You need to go get your hair done."
That's how I found myself at 1PM sitting in my favorite Asian barber shop getting my "regular" (#1 on the sides, #2 on top, squared off in the back, and leave the sideburns alone). I've been getting my hair cut at the same place for over 10 years and the price is still exactly what it was the first time I visited -- all of $9. What a bargain! Even better, no one ever tries to talk to me while they cut my hair. They just get you in the seat, put the robe around you, and get started.
As I walked out, I rubbed my hands over my bristly head, and smiled. I felt much better. Best of all, the woman who cut my hair hadn't even offered to trim my bushy eyebrows. That always makes me feel way too old. She must have known just by looking at me when I walked in that today was not the day for that. Smart lady.
Things didn't improve at work. I had just returned from two days in Philadelphia last night. Yet, first thing this morning, I had to plan for a return trip up there tomorrow. I MapQuested the route, saw the estimated travel time of 2 hours and 37 minutes (each way), and just shook my head in disgust. I had almost reached my breaking point.
Four hours later, I had sat through several conference calls, attended one meeting, and waded through dozens of e-mails. As I sat there eating lunch (which consisted of leftover butter-and-salt noodles, yogurt, and a roll), I got an idea. "I know exactly what you need," I told myself. "You need to go get your hair done."
That's how I found myself at 1PM sitting in my favorite Asian barber shop getting my "regular" (#1 on the sides, #2 on top, squared off in the back, and leave the sideburns alone). I've been getting my hair cut at the same place for over 10 years and the price is still exactly what it was the first time I visited -- all of $9. What a bargain! Even better, no one ever tries to talk to me while they cut my hair. They just get you in the seat, put the robe around you, and get started.
As I walked out, I rubbed my hands over my bristly head, and smiled. I felt much better. Best of all, the woman who cut my hair hadn't even offered to trim my bushy eyebrows. That always makes me feel way too old. She must have known just by looking at me when I walked in that today was not the day for that. Smart lady.
Monday, February 20, 2012
"I Want My $50"
One of my favorite movies from the 1980's is "Better Off Dead." In the movie, John Cusack (the best actor of my generation) stars as Lane Myer, a teen-ager who just can't seem to catch a break. His girlfriend dumps him to date the captain of the high school ski team. Suicidal after the break-up, Lane makes several attempts to kill himself, each more comical than the next. In the midst of his suicide attempts, Lane falls for the French foreign exchange student who is staying with the fat mama's boy next door. It's a goofy movie but I've seen it multiple times and it still holds up well.
There's a recurring part in the movie where Lane is terrorized by the local paperboy, a pre-teen runt on a dirt bike. The paperboy constantly appears out of nowhere, often at very inopportune times, to try and collect his $2. As a former paperboy, I always loved this part. The paperboy's mantra of "I want my $2" is one of my all-time favorites.
I've been reminded of the paperboy quite a bit lately as I've been in pursuit of some money of my own. You see, we're in a new-fangled health plan. My employer (who shall remain nameless) has put a slew of restrictions and requirements on the entire family. In order to pay the lowest amount for our health insurance, we're given all sorts of "assignments." To earn premium credits that reduce the amount we pay every two weeks, we track each and every minute of exercise that we perform. We keep track of what we eat, how much sleep we get, and how many times a day we brush and floss. We take health risk assessments once a year. We "swear" that we don't smoke cigarettes and that we drink alcohol only in moderation. The list goes on and on.
In addition to all this voluntary reporting, we were given one other opportunity to get an extra $50 per month off our premium. In order to earn this credit, Kim and I had to undergo biometric screenings. This meant that we each had to make a visit to Quest Diagnostics to have our body mass, cholesterol levels, blood pressure, and blood glucose levels measured.
Both Kim and I had the screenings done in early December. My results made it to the payroll department in no time and, sure enough, I started seeing an extra $25 in my paycheck each month. Pretty neat. I was happy. But, what about the credit for Kim's test?
Kim's screening results were sent to us at home shortly after her test. One month went by and there was no corresponding credit for Kim's test in my paycheck. That's when my phone calls started. I know $25 isn't a lot of money but, by golly, we'd earned it (or, at least, Kim had). One phone call. Nothing. Two phone calls. No money. Three phone calls. Still, no money. By now, we were into month two. I'm pretty sure that meant that we were owed $50. Four phone calls. Still nothing.
This was getting ridiculous. I thought that the purpose of all this health and wellness stuff was to teach us the importance of things like keeping your blood pressure under control. But, going without my $50 was having the opposite effect.
Finally, this afternoon, I got an e-mail from HR. "Check your secure mailbox," it said. Eagerly, I went to the HR website and checked my mailbox. What do you know? Kim's test scores had arrived and we would begin receiving her monthly credit.
My guess is that HR now thinks I'm happy. If so, they're wrong. As best as I can tell, we're still out two months of credits. I still want my $50. This former paperboy might ride his dirt bike all the way up to Hartford to get it.
There's a recurring part in the movie where Lane is terrorized by the local paperboy, a pre-teen runt on a dirt bike. The paperboy constantly appears out of nowhere, often at very inopportune times, to try and collect his $2. As a former paperboy, I always loved this part. The paperboy's mantra of "I want my $2" is one of my all-time favorites.
I've been reminded of the paperboy quite a bit lately as I've been in pursuit of some money of my own. You see, we're in a new-fangled health plan. My employer (who shall remain nameless) has put a slew of restrictions and requirements on the entire family. In order to pay the lowest amount for our health insurance, we're given all sorts of "assignments." To earn premium credits that reduce the amount we pay every two weeks, we track each and every minute of exercise that we perform. We keep track of what we eat, how much sleep we get, and how many times a day we brush and floss. We take health risk assessments once a year. We "swear" that we don't smoke cigarettes and that we drink alcohol only in moderation. The list goes on and on.
In addition to all this voluntary reporting, we were given one other opportunity to get an extra $50 per month off our premium. In order to earn this credit, Kim and I had to undergo biometric screenings. This meant that we each had to make a visit to Quest Diagnostics to have our body mass, cholesterol levels, blood pressure, and blood glucose levels measured.
Both Kim and I had the screenings done in early December. My results made it to the payroll department in no time and, sure enough, I started seeing an extra $25 in my paycheck each month. Pretty neat. I was happy. But, what about the credit for Kim's test?
Kim's screening results were sent to us at home shortly after her test. One month went by and there was no corresponding credit for Kim's test in my paycheck. That's when my phone calls started. I know $25 isn't a lot of money but, by golly, we'd earned it (or, at least, Kim had). One phone call. Nothing. Two phone calls. No money. Three phone calls. Still, no money. By now, we were into month two. I'm pretty sure that meant that we were owed $50. Four phone calls. Still nothing.
This was getting ridiculous. I thought that the purpose of all this health and wellness stuff was to teach us the importance of things like keeping your blood pressure under control. But, going without my $50 was having the opposite effect.
Finally, this afternoon, I got an e-mail from HR. "Check your secure mailbox," it said. Eagerly, I went to the HR website and checked my mailbox. What do you know? Kim's test scores had arrived and we would begin receiving her monthly credit.
My guess is that HR now thinks I'm happy. If so, they're wrong. As best as I can tell, we're still out two months of credits. I still want my $50. This former paperboy might ride his dirt bike all the way up to Hartford to get it.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Forever Young
Most days, I'm convinced that I'm getting old. The evidence is pretty overwhelming -- my oldest child is twenty, I'm balding, my knees hurt. The list goes on and on.
There's one thing I have, though, that tells me that maybe I'm not that old. That would be my zits.
I thought zits were a teen-age problem. I know they definitely started for me when I was a teen-ager. Here I am -- thirty years later -- and I just can't seem to get rid of them.
I've always been lucky in that I never have a lot of zits at the same time. It's usually just a lone ranger camping out somewhere on my face. But, there's always at least one. I really can't remember a time when I didn't have at least one blemish on my otherwise flawless face.
For the past 10 days or so, I've had a single zit on the left side of my forehead. It's about one inch about my eyebrow and an inch from my hairline. I've pretty much left it alone, giving it a rub a couple times a day just to see if it was getting bigger or smaller. About three days ago, it started to get smaller. By yesterday morning, it was almost gone. In fact, if you weren't looking for it, you'd hardly even notice the little red blemish that was still there.
This morning, I woke up and took a look at my zit in the mirror. Yep, it was almost gone. It was a good feeling. I filled up the sink with water so that I could shave, bent forward, and splashed some water on my face. As my hands brought the water up onto my face, I felt something with my left thumb. I stood up and peered back into the mirror. There it was, just at my jawline almost directly below the corner of my mouth. Like clockwork, as one zit was exiting, a new one was emerging to take its place.
Seeing my new zit, I wasn't angry or upset. Instead, I sighed a bit with relief. "Look at you," I told myself. "Who says you're getting old?"
There's one thing I have, though, that tells me that maybe I'm not that old. That would be my zits.
I thought zits were a teen-age problem. I know they definitely started for me when I was a teen-ager. Here I am -- thirty years later -- and I just can't seem to get rid of them.
I've always been lucky in that I never have a lot of zits at the same time. It's usually just a lone ranger camping out somewhere on my face. But, there's always at least one. I really can't remember a time when I didn't have at least one blemish on my otherwise flawless face.
For the past 10 days or so, I've had a single zit on the left side of my forehead. It's about one inch about my eyebrow and an inch from my hairline. I've pretty much left it alone, giving it a rub a couple times a day just to see if it was getting bigger or smaller. About three days ago, it started to get smaller. By yesterday morning, it was almost gone. In fact, if you weren't looking for it, you'd hardly even notice the little red blemish that was still there.
This morning, I woke up and took a look at my zit in the mirror. Yep, it was almost gone. It was a good feeling. I filled up the sink with water so that I could shave, bent forward, and splashed some water on my face. As my hands brought the water up onto my face, I felt something with my left thumb. I stood up and peered back into the mirror. There it was, just at my jawline almost directly below the corner of my mouth. Like clockwork, as one zit was exiting, a new one was emerging to take its place.
Seeing my new zit, I wasn't angry or upset. Instead, I sighed a bit with relief. "Look at you," I told myself. "Who says you're getting old?"
Friday, February 17, 2012
It's Five O'Clock Somewhere
What’s the worst place you could possibly be at 5PM on a Friday afternoon? Your office, stuck on a conference call? The Beltway, stuck in traffic? In an elementary school auditorium, listening to a beginning orchestra concert? All three of those are bad, particularly the orchestra concert (trust me). But, none are worse than where I find myself right now – the Orlando airport.
Being at any airport at 5PM on a Friday afternoon is bad. It means you’re away from your family. It means you still have a ways to go before you get home. It means your weekend is going to be shorter than it should. Being in the Orlando airport, though, is the absolute worst. Why? Because it’s loaded with families who’ve all just been to Disney.
Based on what I’m seeing, there are a couple things that seem to be common among all these families that are coming back from Disney:
- They wear silly-looking Disney clothes, most of which seem to have Mickey Mouse on them. Even some of the dads wear these clothes. Talk about turning in your man card.
- They have goofy-looking sons who are old enough to shave but who haven’t yet been taught to do so by their fathers. All those fuzzy little mustaches in one place is a bit freaky.
- The ones without the goofy-looking sons have goofy-looking pre-teen daughters with sweaty, flushed faced. I have no idea why. Whether they’re standing in the security line, sitting at the gate, or wandering through the terminal, they all have this same sweaty, flushed look. I don’t get it.
- The mothers of pre-schoolers are all loud talkers. They over-annunciate and seem intent on being certain that everyone around them hears everything they say to their precious little ones. Enough already. Shut up!
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Linsanity!
Real men don't use exclamation points. That was a lesson I was taught many years ago. However, I'm using one today. I don't care what you say.
I hate the NBA. I'm proud to say I've never watched an entire game on TV. In fact, it's been years since I've even watched 30 seconds of a game. I've got a lot of reasons for feeling this way but the primary ones are that NBA teams don't play defense, the continuation rule is ridiculous, and players are allowed to blatantly carry the basketball. NBA basketball just isn't a sport -- it's pure entertainment. I don't have time for it.
As if I needed another reason to hate the NBA, let's talk about Kobe Bryant. You know him. He's the guy who's always on SportsCenter with the permanent scowl and the "woe-is-me" attitude. Give it up, Kobe. You went to Lower Merion High School. Your father was a professional basketball player. You are not downtrodden and you never were.
With all that said, why did I find myself standing at attention at 5:15AM this morning in front of the TV, anxiously checking the scroll at the bottom of SportsCenter for NBA scores? Simple. I needed to see if the Knicks won last night. Why? Because I've gone Linsane.
It all started last Saturday morning at 4:40AM. I'd been awake for over an hour. I knew there was no chance of getting back to sleep so I finally gave up trying and decided to turn on the TV. After cycling through all the channels, I realized that there weren't many options. ESPN was showing a repeat of the Friday night game between the Knicks and the Lakers. I'd heard all the growing hoopla about Jeremy Lin and I was mildly intrigued. There were about 5 minutes of game time left so I took a deep breath and decided to see what all the excitement was about. Twenty minutes later, I was hooked. This Jeremy Lin guy was the real deal. He had the crowd at Madison Square Garden standing and cheering. Even I pumped a fist when he made a reverse lay-up with about 90 seconds to go, icing the game.
Ever since, I've been captivated. I love that Jeremy Lin and his Knicks beat Kobe and the Lakers. I love that he's a Harvard grad. I love how he calmly hit that three-pointer with 0.5 seconds left last night to beat Toronto. And, I love that Lin is doing all this with the Knicks' big gun, Carmelo Anthony, sitting on the bench in street clothes.
But, you know what I love most? It's the fact that, at dinner tonight, even Kim was talking about "Linderalla." You read that right. Kim has caught the fever.
The Knicks play again tonight. As usual, I won't be watching the game. I haven't gone that "Linsane." But, I know that I'll be in front of the TV as soon as I wake up in the morning, looking to find out what my man Jeremy Lin did tonight against the Kings.
I hate the NBA. I'm proud to say I've never watched an entire game on TV. In fact, it's been years since I've even watched 30 seconds of a game. I've got a lot of reasons for feeling this way but the primary ones are that NBA teams don't play defense, the continuation rule is ridiculous, and players are allowed to blatantly carry the basketball. NBA basketball just isn't a sport -- it's pure entertainment. I don't have time for it.
As if I needed another reason to hate the NBA, let's talk about Kobe Bryant. You know him. He's the guy who's always on SportsCenter with the permanent scowl and the "woe-is-me" attitude. Give it up, Kobe. You went to Lower Merion High School. Your father was a professional basketball player. You are not downtrodden and you never were.
With all that said, why did I find myself standing at attention at 5:15AM this morning in front of the TV, anxiously checking the scroll at the bottom of SportsCenter for NBA scores? Simple. I needed to see if the Knicks won last night. Why? Because I've gone Linsane.
It all started last Saturday morning at 4:40AM. I'd been awake for over an hour. I knew there was no chance of getting back to sleep so I finally gave up trying and decided to turn on the TV. After cycling through all the channels, I realized that there weren't many options. ESPN was showing a repeat of the Friday night game between the Knicks and the Lakers. I'd heard all the growing hoopla about Jeremy Lin and I was mildly intrigued. There were about 5 minutes of game time left so I took a deep breath and decided to see what all the excitement was about. Twenty minutes later, I was hooked. This Jeremy Lin guy was the real deal. He had the crowd at Madison Square Garden standing and cheering. Even I pumped a fist when he made a reverse lay-up with about 90 seconds to go, icing the game.
Ever since, I've been captivated. I love that Jeremy Lin and his Knicks beat Kobe and the Lakers. I love that he's a Harvard grad. I love how he calmly hit that three-pointer with 0.5 seconds left last night to beat Toronto. And, I love that Lin is doing all this with the Knicks' big gun, Carmelo Anthony, sitting on the bench in street clothes.
But, you know what I love most? It's the fact that, at dinner tonight, even Kim was talking about "Linderalla." You read that right. Kim has caught the fever.
The Knicks play again tonight. As usual, I won't be watching the game. I haven't gone that "Linsane." But, I know that I'll be in front of the TV as soon as I wake up in the morning, looking to find out what my man Jeremy Lin did tonight against the Kings.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
One Less Song in the Repertoire
I can't sing. That doesn't mean I'm not a diva, though. In fact, I have an entire diva repertoire that I'm prone to running through at any given moment. Here's my top five:
- "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going." This number took a sabbatical from the collective consciousness of the general public for a number of years until Jennifer Hudson brought it back after her performance in Dreamgirls. But, I never forgot it and have been performing it for years.
- "Beautiful." There's not a dry eye left in the house after I finish this one.
- "My Heart Will Go On." This one is usually prefaced by my dead-on recreation of Kate Winslet's scene in the freezing water after the Titanic has sunk. You know, the part where Rose croaks out "Jack, Jack" before realizing he's gone. At first tempted to let go of the board to which she's clinging and join Jack in an icy cold grave at the bottom of the Atlantic, Rose ultimately turns to the whistle that he put around her neck before he drowned. I've got that scene down pat. I even recreate Rose's initial feeble attempts at blowing air through the whistle.
- "Ariel's Song." OK, I don't think this is an actual song. It's the part in The Little Mermaid where Ariel has to give her voice to the evil sea witch. She starts singing "Ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah," going on and on, and getting higher in pitch each time. This is really my pièce de résistance. I can take it to a place that no man should ever go. You'll have to trust me
- "I Will Always Love You." I'm talking about Whitney Houston's rendition, not the Dolly Parton original. Like any true diva, my right arm starts to defy gravity during this number, undulating up towards the heavens as I get further and further into the song. It's a performance that shouldn't be missed.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Postcard from the Westin Diplomat
I spent 4 nights at the Westin Diplomat in Hollywood, FL, this week. I don’t think I’ll be going back.
The only saving grace was that my room had a nice bathrobe. I get kind of grossed out in hotel rooms, walking around in bare feet, sleeping in beds that other people sleep in, and all that. But, I’m a sucker for those soft, fluffy hotel bathrobes. I’m sure I was quite the sight, sitting at my desk, doing e-mails in my robe. But, you know what? I deserved it.
In case you're wondering why I decided to suck it up and stay there all four nights and not ask for a transfer back to the beach property when a room opened up, I give you two answers. First, God forbid I have to re-pack. Second, I figured it would give me some good fodder for a post. I was right.
It all started at arrival. Before leaving home, I checked the address on my e-mail confirmation, plugged it into MapQuest, and printed out my directions. I landed a little after 7:30PM, got my rental car, and headed off to the hotel. The drive from the airport was easy and I soon found myself parked at the hotel entrance. I took my bag out of the car, tipped the valet, and happily, headed to the front desk. I gave the desk clerk my name. He looked at his computer screen and promptly said (somewhat snidely) “We have you at the other hotel.”
Other hotel, I thought? Huh? I asked the desk clerk "So, I'm not staying at this hotel?" "No," he replied, "You need to go to the other hotel." Too tired to argue and figuring I must have made some sort of mistake mistake, I asked the clerk if he could tell me how to get there. "It's easy," he shot back and proceeded to tell me to turn here, turn there, then turn again, blah - blah -blah. "Could you write those down for me, please?" I asked. He handed me a pre-printed sheet with directions and, before I knew it, I was back in my car driving to the other Westin property in Hollywood.
Upon arriving there, I was greeted by another valet. He, of course, also needed to be tipped. I went to the front desk and, sure enough, they told me they had a room for me. I checked in, went to my room, unpacked and, with nothing better to do, began to check e-mail. Immediately, I got a message from one of my colleagues. She was livid. “They don’t have a room for me at the hotel,” she wrote. “They’re overbooked.”
I don’t know about you but I’ve never heard of a hotel being overbooked. I thought that only happened with airplanes. Who knew it could also happen with a hotel? And, by the way, how about some sort of proactive acknowledgement of that to me and an apology instead of the pretty rude brush-off that I got when I showed inquiring about my room?
Oh, well, I figured. I'll just deal with it. So, I settled in for my stay.
Have I mentioned yet that the Westin where I was supposed to be staying was a beautiful skyscraper of modern design, set right on the beach, with several pools, multiple dining options, and loads of beautiful people? And that the Westin to which they “re-directed” me was a half-mile off the beach, around the corner from a Burger King and a Wal-Mart, and across the street from some rather ratty apartments? Or that all my meetings were at the beach hotel? Every single time I had to go back and forth between properties, I had to deal with multiple tip-expecting valets? By day two, I was cashing in ten-dollar bills for singles.
At the beach hotel, rooms have beautiful balconies that overlook the Atlantic Ocean. My view from my second floor balcony? You guessed it - an unencumbered view of the front entryway where guests arrive and depart. Just lovely.
What else can I tell you? Oh, right. The safe in my room didn’t work. I told the front desk. They sent someone up who couldn't fix it and then never made any further attempt to help me out. The restaurant (that’s right – the lone restaurant) was closed all day on Friday. They were kind enough to slip a note under my door about that on Thursday evening. In a very thoughtful gesture, the note told me that the front desk would be happy to make reservations for me at any one of the multiple restaurants at the beach property? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?The only saving grace was that my room had a nice bathrobe. I get kind of grossed out in hotel rooms, walking around in bare feet, sleeping in beds that other people sleep in, and all that. But, I’m a sucker for those soft, fluffy hotel bathrobes. I’m sure I was quite the sight, sitting at my desk, doing e-mails in my robe. But, you know what? I deserved it.
In case you're wondering why I decided to suck it up and stay there all four nights and not ask for a transfer back to the beach property when a room opened up, I give you two answers. First, God forbid I have to re-pack. Second, I figured it would give me some good fodder for a post. I was right.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Welcome Back, Leon
Do you remember Leon? He was the football player in those Budweiser commercials that ran several years ago. The running joke in the commercials was that Leon worried only about what was good for Leon, not what was good for the team. His catch phrase was "Leon can't do everything."
Out of all the Leon commercials, my favorite was the one where he's asked to comment on whether his 4 fumbles in a single game might have contributed to the team's devastating defeat. Leon gestures over his shoulder to his teammates in the locker room and responds "Not if one of those other guys would have jumped on the ball." The bemused reporter says "I guess there's no 'I' in team." Leon comes right back at him with "Well, there ain't no 'We' either."
I'd forgotten about Leon until this evening. That's when I realized that he had died and come back as Giselle Bundchen. You know Giselle, right? She's married to my favorite New England Patriot, Tom Brady.
After watching her man (hey, that's what Al Michaels called him last night) get called for intentional grounding in the end zone early in the game, costing his team two points, and then just miss several open receivers late in the game, Giselle was not happy. So, she called on her inner Leon to assess what went wrong for the Patriots. While leaving the stadium, she was captured on tape spouting the following nugget: "My husband can not $#%@!&# throw the ball and catch the ball at the same time. I can't believe they dropped the ball so many times."
Giselle, you are the best. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I can't wait to see the reaction you get the next time you're seen at Gillette Stadium. Should be fun.
Out of all the Leon commercials, my favorite was the one where he's asked to comment on whether his 4 fumbles in a single game might have contributed to the team's devastating defeat. Leon gestures over his shoulder to his teammates in the locker room and responds "Not if one of those other guys would have jumped on the ball." The bemused reporter says "I guess there's no 'I' in team." Leon comes right back at him with "Well, there ain't no 'We' either."
I'd forgotten about Leon until this evening. That's when I realized that he had died and come back as Giselle Bundchen. You know Giselle, right? She's married to my favorite New England Patriot, Tom Brady.
After watching her man (hey, that's what Al Michaels called him last night) get called for intentional grounding in the end zone early in the game, costing his team two points, and then just miss several open receivers late in the game, Giselle was not happy. So, she called on her inner Leon to assess what went wrong for the Patriots. While leaving the stadium, she was captured on tape spouting the following nugget: "My husband can not $#%@!&# throw the ball and catch the ball at the same time. I can't believe they dropped the ball so many times."
Giselle, you are the best. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I can't wait to see the reaction you get the next time you're seen at Gillette Stadium. Should be fun.
Highlights From the Super Bowl
Well, I managed to stay awake for the entire game. That's become increasingly rare. Here are my impressions from the game:
- I see that David Beckham accepted the H&M underwear commercial that I turned down. You all will just have to keep on waiting.
- Echo & The Bunnymen, The Cult, and The Darkness all featured during Super Bowl ads? Thank you.
- I was actually worried about Madonna during that halftime performance. For the first half of her act, I worriedly watched the screen, waiting for her to tumble over as she wobbled around in those high-heeled boots. Eventually, she seemed to get comfortable. I breathed a sigh of relief when her show was finally over and then made my prediction for 2037 when Lady Gaga's featured as the halftime entertainment.
- Regarding the actual game, I don't think I'm ever as happy at the end of a Super Bowl game as when the Patriots lose. I feel a little bad for Robert Kraft as he seems like a nice guy. But, watching Bill Belichick and Tom Brady walk off the field disappointed is OK with me any time.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
The Sweet Smell of Success
I had a 6-hour drive back from Ellicottville today, with a stop halfway through to visit with Hannah over lunch in State College. The drive took me through the bowels of Pennsylvania, particularly the first half with its path through Bradford, Johnsonburg, Ridgway, Phillipsburg, and several other rather dilipidated old-line Pennsylvania towns.
One after another, the old towns rolled by. I was struck by the way each town looks just like the one before it -- tired old homes, abandoned storefronts, crumbling concrete sidewalks, and dusty old cars. In each town, there were several homes that still had their Christmas decorations on display. As I passed them, I wondered if the decorations ever come down or if they just stay up all year long. Quite frankly, I wondered if the people inside those homes were still alive and, if not, how long it would take for a neighbor to notice.
I had lots of questions about those towns as I passed through them. Who lives in those old houses? How do they make a living? Does anyone ever move in or do people only move out? How many of those towns has a meth lab?
The good news is that a couple of those old towns seem to have a bit of a pulse. Johnsonburg, in particular, stands out. There's a huge Domtar plant there that seems to take up almost three-quarters of the town. Even early on a Sunday morning, steam was pouring out of the smokestacks as paper production continued. "This must be where all these people in the northern tier of the state work," I thought. "Good for them. But, how do they deal with that awful smell?" It was a cold February morning so my car windows were tightly shut. But, the awful smell of paper production still made its way through and into my car.
As I breathed in that smell, I wondered again about the homes that still had their Christmas decorations out on display. If you die in your house in Johnsonburg, that Domtar plant may keep you undiscovered for quite some time. Just saying.
One after another, the old towns rolled by. I was struck by the way each town looks just like the one before it -- tired old homes, abandoned storefronts, crumbling concrete sidewalks, and dusty old cars. In each town, there were several homes that still had their Christmas decorations on display. As I passed them, I wondered if the decorations ever come down or if they just stay up all year long. Quite frankly, I wondered if the people inside those homes were still alive and, if not, how long it would take for a neighbor to notice.
I had lots of questions about those towns as I passed through them. Who lives in those old houses? How do they make a living? Does anyone ever move in or do people only move out? How many of those towns has a meth lab?
The good news is that a couple of those old towns seem to have a bit of a pulse. Johnsonburg, in particular, stands out. There's a huge Domtar plant there that seems to take up almost three-quarters of the town. Even early on a Sunday morning, steam was pouring out of the smokestacks as paper production continued. "This must be where all these people in the northern tier of the state work," I thought. "Good for them. But, how do they deal with that awful smell?" It was a cold February morning so my car windows were tightly shut. But, the awful smell of paper production still made its way through and into my car.
As I breathed in that smell, I wondered again about the homes that still had their Christmas decorations out on display. If you die in your house in Johnsonburg, that Domtar plant may keep you undiscovered for quite some time. Just saying.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
"Oh, My God"
Not only was today Groundhog Day (which is my second favorite holiday after Arbor Day), it was also the day that the newest trailer for "The Hunger Games" movie was released. Jay said it best after watching it -- "Oh, My God!!!"
It's only one minute long, but the trailer has it all. There's President Snow wishing us all a Happy Hunger Games, lots of shots of Katniss looking pensive, some training scenes as the tributes prepare themselves, the Mockingjay pin, and (best of all) hardly any Gale. I like it! March 23rd can't come soon enough. I may just camp out for the midnight show -- if my mom will let me.
It's only one minute long, but the trailer has it all. There's President Snow wishing us all a Happy Hunger Games, lots of shots of Katniss looking pensive, some training scenes as the tributes prepare themselves, the Mockingjay pin, and (best of all) hardly any Gale. I like it! March 23rd can't come soon enough. I may just camp out for the midnight show -- if my mom will let me.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
The Dilemma
"The Dilemma" was a poorly-reviewed Ron Howard movie starring Vince Vaughan and Kevin James. It was released last year to middling box office results. The premise of the movie was that a guy finds out that his best friend's wife is having an affair. His "dilemma" is whether or not to share that news with his friend. I have no idea what he does because I never saw the movie.
I bring this up because today I faced my own dilemma. I spent the day in a meeting in Hartford. We had food brought in so that we could continue our discussion during lunch. The lunch was pretty straightforward -- a tray of sandwiches, a green salad, a bowl of pasta salad, chips (salt!), and cookies. It all seemed pretty harmless. I ate my fill and thought nothing of it -- until I got to the airport.
I arrived at the airport about an hour before my flight departed. As I sat at the gate going through e-mails, I realized that I needed to fart.
When I need to fart, there is no stopping me. If I hold it in, my stomach starts to feel like someone has reached inside and is jabbing pins into my intestines. That's no fun. Why bother with that pain? So, I let it out. It's what God intended, I tell myself. Generally speaking, it doesn't even matter where I am. I've become pretty good at the silent fart. And, I've got about a 90% success rate at getting away with it without any detection whatsoever, if you know what I mean.
One memorable exception happened years ago when the kids were younger. We were out on a Saturday night, waiting for a table in the crowded entryway at Red Robin. I needed a release and figured I could get away with it in all the hub-bub. So, I let one out. Unfortunately for me, it wasn't silent. The nice young suburban mom standing in front of me immediately turned around with a look of dismay on her face. What she saw wasn't me with a sheepish look on my face. No, she saw me staring at Nick with a mixture of shame and disgust on my face. I turned to catch her eye, glanced back at Nick, and just shook my head. She smiled as if to "Those kids just do the darnedest things." I smiled back. "Well played," I told myself.
Anyway, back to my dilemma this afternoon at the airport. I looked around. I was kind of early so there weren't that many people at the gate yet. "Here goes," I thought and let one go. That was better. No one appeared to notice. A minute or two later, I realized that I still had gas. "I can get away with this again," I figured. How right I was. In fact, I was right about 10 more times while I sat there waiting for the plane to show up at the gate.
So, if you were at Gate 6 at Bradley International Airport this afternoon waiting for Southwest Flight 703 to BWI this afternoon, I apologize. But just a little.
I bring this up because today I faced my own dilemma. I spent the day in a meeting in Hartford. We had food brought in so that we could continue our discussion during lunch. The lunch was pretty straightforward -- a tray of sandwiches, a green salad, a bowl of pasta salad, chips (salt!), and cookies. It all seemed pretty harmless. I ate my fill and thought nothing of it -- until I got to the airport.
I arrived at the airport about an hour before my flight departed. As I sat at the gate going through e-mails, I realized that I needed to fart.
When I need to fart, there is no stopping me. If I hold it in, my stomach starts to feel like someone has reached inside and is jabbing pins into my intestines. That's no fun. Why bother with that pain? So, I let it out. It's what God intended, I tell myself. Generally speaking, it doesn't even matter where I am. I've become pretty good at the silent fart. And, I've got about a 90% success rate at getting away with it without any detection whatsoever, if you know what I mean.
One memorable exception happened years ago when the kids were younger. We were out on a Saturday night, waiting for a table in the crowded entryway at Red Robin. I needed a release and figured I could get away with it in all the hub-bub. So, I let one out. Unfortunately for me, it wasn't silent. The nice young suburban mom standing in front of me immediately turned around with a look of dismay on her face. What she saw wasn't me with a sheepish look on my face. No, she saw me staring at Nick with a mixture of shame and disgust on my face. I turned to catch her eye, glanced back at Nick, and just shook my head. She smiled as if to "Those kids just do the darnedest things." I smiled back. "Well played," I told myself.
Anyway, back to my dilemma this afternoon at the airport. I looked around. I was kind of early so there weren't that many people at the gate yet. "Here goes," I thought and let one go. That was better. No one appeared to notice. A minute or two later, I realized that I still had gas. "I can get away with this again," I figured. How right I was. In fact, I was right about 10 more times while I sat there waiting for the plane to show up at the gate.
So, if you were at Gate 6 at Bradley International Airport this afternoon waiting for Southwest Flight 703 to BWI this afternoon, I apologize. But just a little.