Monday, February 27, 2006

Tag and Release

Pez is such a silly girl... and there's nobody left to tag, so it's catch and release today in the Aquarium. Trace, this oughta hold ya until I have sufficient to say. ;)

Four Jobs I've had in my Life:
1. A/P clerk at a bolt company
2. H&R Block Tax Preparer
3. Preschool Coordinator
4. Script writer

Four Movies I'd Watch Over and Over
1. Pride and Prejudice (Colin Firth - yum!)
2. Mystery Science Theatre 3000 the movie
3. To Kill a Mockingbird
4. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

Four Places I've Lived:
1. Texas
2. Texas
3. Texas
4. Um, Texas. I'm boring like that.

Four TV Shows I like to Watch
1. What Not to Wear
2. VH1 Web Junk
3. Phil of the Future (shhh, I <3 Ricky Ullman)
4. 24

Four Favourite Places I've been on Vacation:
1. San Antonio
2. Acapulco, Mexico
3.
4. I don't get around much, do I?

Four Web Sites I Visit Daily:
1. The Grocery Game
2. MissDoxie
3. Pleytime
4. Something Fishie

Four of my Favourite Foods:
1. Homemade Pizza
2. Caramel Apples
3. Guacamole
4. Mom's chili

Four places I'd rather be right now:
1. HEB grocery store
2. At a Steve concert
3. DSW Shoe Warehouse
4. A BBQ place

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Flying Fish

The Bigun is still glowing about her trip to D.C. which makes me a happy Fish. She's come home full of stories about their program and the things they saw and the people she met. Oh, and also she came home with a cold.

When we picked her up at the airport here, she just looked cold and tired, but as we got her in the car and closer to home, she was positively verbose. At least about her forum experience. She didn't have much to say about the airport.

Which I find funny, because really? For me half the fun of the journey is scoping out the airport. It's a controlled environment and has its own rules and quirks and verboten topics and procedures. And its own stores.

Imagine! Shop at the AIRPORT! Who DOES this?

All over Dulles are signs assuring you that no, we do not jack up these prices. You will find these same jacked-up prices in these same establishments outside the airport. Which is weirdly reassuring. I mean, if I'm going to get fleeced, let's get that out of the way as soon as I land. Why wait for it?

I think it's a conspiracy among airport authorities. Clamp down on security breaches and force people to go through security the moment they enter the airport, which, according to most airlines, should be 1.5 to 2 hours early. Then, after spending only 15 minutes in the security process, including wanding and shoe removal, let them sit for an hour and a half with nothing to do before their planes arrive. What to do,... what to do,... Oh, let them SHOP!

Of course, this does not ever work in reverse. Get off a plane with luggage to claim and it's: SO LONG! This way to GET OUT! Leave already! They conveniently place the baggage claim beyond the point of no return (only ticketed passengers beyond this point!) and beyond the reach of any refreshment. You just got off the plane? You're hungry and tired? Who the hell cares? Get a taxi, fer cryin' out loud, and GO.

This was not fun for me when I got to DC and realized there was no food to be had, and with a desperate daughter who had exactly 3.5 hours to see everydamnthing. (Note to self: pack a lunch.)

But of course, Fish is nothing if not teachable.

So when I left the Bigun with her group Tuesday 5 hours before my flight home, I had two options. I could go ride around on an expensive bus for three hours, or I could explore Dulles. Door Number Two, please.

Evidently the airline doesn't want to take possession of your potentially explosive luggage too early, so I had an hour to kill before I could even go through security. Now I feel a whole new level of pity for people stranded in airports. Remember the images of the flood refugees after Katrina, stuck in that airport? HOW did they ever SLEEP on those chairs? I managed about thirty minutes worth in the hour I tried to sleep. Those are pretty good odds for Vegas, not so much for resting.

But after divesting myself of the luggage (no wonder they call it that if you LUG it around) it was on to security. Now, mind you, I had managed to skillfully (read: accidentally) smuggle 5 lighters and a pair of scissors on board my initial flight in my purse and carry-on. If they wanted those items, they were going to have to actually find them. I'm ornery like that. So I'm imagining that making it through DC security would be the same. Um, no. (Note to self: remember DC is the Nation's Capital, and they're probably a little more anal about security. And this is good.)

A very nice, thorough security officer held me up while he hunted down all five lighters. Did he get the scissors? Of course not. But we chatted and he advised me matches were perfectly acceptible. (Note to self: do not try to understand security regulations; it makes your head ache.)

So on to the wonder that is the Dulles Shopping Experience. There are basically 5 concourses off the main terminal, and many places to spend money. My gate was in G terminal, in, I believe, eastern Maryland. Checking the map like a smart Fish, I learn there is only ONE shop listed there. No way am I going to get there one minute before I need to. The lovely moving sidewalk to B concourse was a necessity, as B is in another county apparently, but still in Virginia. Having got to B, I went in search of a smoking lounge. I mean, priorities are important, and airports apparently also have this thing about letting people go in and out of secured areas.

B's lounge is closed, so that means traversing B to A and getting the shuttle to C. Lost yet?

C's lounge is dark, smoky, and populated by Germans who smoke something altogether different than I. So off to find food and the lounge in D. Of all the choices, and there were many, where did I eat lunch (at 2:45?) Wendy's. Wouldn't you know? I was indecisive, it was close, and I was starved. I went all the way to DC to eat at Wendy's. Oh, and Dunkin' Donuts. *sigh* I'm such a loser.

D's lounge was much better. Still filled with furriners, but better ventilated ones at least. It was wonderful until I got tired. So tired I was afraid of passing out altogether and missing my flight. This meant I had to do more shopping!

What, pray tell, did I buy, you ask? That pashmina shawl that looked so gorgeous? Some of that gorgeous silver jewelry? The Rosetta Stone Spanish software I need so very badly? Oh, but no.

A stinking snow globe without even any snow in it.

Here's this lovely little replica of the White House, all perfect for the Little Critter (because I will PAY DEARLY if I do not return home with some offering in my hands) and it has those little confetti music notes and stars in it, and DOLPHINS. Yes, I said dolphins. I've pondered this since the moment I got it. What in the HELL are DOLPHINS doing in a snow globe of the White House? Is this the new intelligence network the administration proposes to use? Pets for the fountain on the Lawn? Or is this some kind of sign, fish to Fish, that I'm supposed to decode?

Anyway, dolphins in tow, I make it to G just in time. I've gone so far east by now it's surely in Baltimore. Down the unheated, open air walkway and out to... a gate? Oh, no. It's out ON THE RUNWAY like in the movies. And I'm hauling my own carry-on up these stairs, collapsing into my seat, closing my eyes and...

listening to the guy across from me snore.

It's sure good to be home. With the dolphins and all.

Friday, February 17, 2006

Frozen Fish

Well, we did it. The Bigun is now in the nation's capital and I'm safely home.

It was really kind of funny.

Flying over, we noticed this alien white substance covering parts of the earth below, and kept nudging each other and looking out the window in wonder, pondering what it could be. Once on the ground, we learned they call it snow. And it was cold. We arrived at the hotel and the Bigun promptly threw herself down in it.

She was desperate to see something of the city before her official tour started, so we planned to go downtown to see what we could. Did I rent a car? No I did not. Fish decided to take the plunge and rely on public transportation. Of course, the Bigun wanted to take a taxi. We did, back to the airport, after which DD swore up and down she would never take one again in her life. Especially since she had to pay for it.

The airport has a handy bus that takes you to West Falls Church, where you can hop the train into town. Unfortunately, it's $14 round trip. Still, she was desperate to see things, so we hopped on, after consulting the map and trying to decide on a destination. The Bigun needed headphones, and decided she would purchase them at the National Mall. When I tried explaining it's not that kind of mall, she pipes up "How do YOU know?"

When we got to the bus station, however, we didn't realize that we had to cough up more dough for a ride on the metro. Silly Texas bumpkins! So train passes purchased we plunged underground.

And came up at 8:30 right under the Washington Monument, staring across at the Capitol building. Oh my stars, that right there was worth the price of admission. But at this point, it's 28 degrees and a little breezy, we're in clothes designed to take the chill off Texas evenings, not frigid nights off the Tidal Basin, and we've been up for 12 highly stressful hours. Does this daunt Fish and the Bigun?

No it does not, though Fish definitely was feeling some affinity by this time for a box of Gorton's seafood in the grocery store.

On we trudge to the Monument. And beyond. Nobody is out and about walking in downtown; people have sense and drive here. The only people we see are security guards near the White House and a guy sleeping on a subway grate outside the Elipse. But, dangit, we're THERE.

And then, we're heading back to the Metro station, deciding that if we gawk much longer, we'll miss the last bus from WFC. So we're wandering near the EPA building trying to find the Metro station, and here are dozens of people milling about! Look, Bigun! People in Downtown!

They have lights, huge lights, and headsets, and big coats, and look! There's a... commisary cart? Oh, Lord, we've stumbled on to a movie set! No, we didn't get our big break either. We shuffled out of there as quickly as possible, and ran to the elevator. I mean, neither of us think a movie set outside the EPA building would be anything we'd want to be associated with.

So back to the train, and under Foggy Bottom and all to the WFC station, where the subway pass has DEMAGNETIZED and won't let DD out. Sigh. The perturbed station attendant, who had had to explain just WHY we had to fork out extra dough earlier to ride the thing, won't let her off without scanning that ticket minutely. And the damned bus is WAITING outside! I tell you, this was not my first notion that I wasn't in Texas anymore, but it was certainly the most glaring example of the fact that People Are Different Outside The South. And by that I mean the Real South, not this I'm-a-hop-skip-and-jump-away-from-New-York South.

So back on the bus, and back to the airport and then to the shuttle (after a half hour wait in the cold!) to the hotel, where Fish promptly gives the Bigun her room service order, and goes to soak in hot water.

Conclusions: I hate public transportation. And I loved seeing, however briefly, the capital. And the smile on the Bigun's face when we emerged from the station near the Smithsonian was worth every last moment of suffering. Yes, baby, I'd even get pneumonia for you and do it all again.

Next, we'll talk about Dulles. Oh, yes, we will.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

Can't Get There from Here

I'm a Flying Fish. Or at least, that's what I'm trying to be. We're scheduled to fly from Houston to DC Monday. Direct. Nonstop. Straight shot. Easy-peasy, right?

Ha. Ha hahaha ha.

Pop called tonight and started with the "You know they're having a blizzard in the northeast, don't you? Have you called the airlines? What are you going to do if they cancel your flight?"

What I'm gonna do is be out about $2500 smackers is what.

So after Pop panicked me, I've been online and on the phone with an airline I won't name (but which lookes a lot like UN-TIED) and I think I have spoken to exactly one human from the airline in six hours.


Phone drone: I don't understand you. Tell me the reservation number of your flight.

Me: Start. Over.

Phone drone: Did I understand you want information on a flight to California? Yes or No?

Me: I hate you.

PD: I'm sorry I'm having trouble understanding you. Let's look up the flight another way. Tell me what date you want to travel.

Me: I just want to talk to a human! Is that so wrong?

PD: I'm sorry, I'm not getting the information you wanted. Do you want to start over?

Me: YES!!

PD: If you want information about a flight, press one.

Me: AAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHH!


I finally spoke to Sam in it-had-to-be-Bangalore about whether the flight would go. Sam shows no flights cancelled as of this evening. Funny, because the AIRPORT sure does. And the website shows ticket policy changes, meaning there MAY be a way not to have to sell the Little Critter to pay for all of this. Except, other than the possibility of recouping the travel cost or at least re-ticketing to another airport, I have nothing to go on and about 27 hours until we have to be at the airport to catch the re-ticketed flight we want.

It gets funner, y'all.

In looking up flights using the Same Damn Airline, I discovered that, no, I can't GET there from here. We were hoping to get into Atlanta in order to drive the rest of the way to DC. Yeah, it'd be a push, but we wouldn't have to worry about driving straight through, which, I am convinced, would kill me. But lo! You-Smited airlines doesn't GO from here to there. We get to wake up three hours earlier, drive across the city to the airport and take the early early bird to where? Oh, yeah, O'Hare in Chicago.

Chicago? You might even be giggling at me right now. You worldly travelers are sniggering at me this minute because, you say, sooner or later EVERYONE goes through O'Hare. Fine, but does it have to be THIS TIME? I have to take a plane half-asleep to Chicago, where I can wait an hour and a half to take another plane to Atlanta, where I can rent a car and drive to DC. In one day. And hope that I can actually get there. And that they will hold my hotel room in DC. And that I will not fall down exhausted and surrender somewhere along the way.

If only we had an Amtrack leg of this journey, it would be complete. I'd be looking for John Candy clones wherever I went.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

You're the Top

The Bigun takes Technical Theatre in school, and is in the middle of a run of Anything Goes. I, having been a Theatre Major for a time, and a lover of musicals, have been immensely supportive and encouraging and insanely jealous.

I saw the show Friday, and the kids were magnificent! The timing was excellent, the singing very competent, and the accents were hilarious. I fell in love with them. For several hours I was transformed back into the realm of my college days, where long hours and sweat equity were always rewarded with a great feeling of accomplishment when we'd done a show well.

I remember learning I had "it" on stage one day.

The play we were taking to contest was a weird one called Dark Ride. It was pretty awful, but interestingly, the set design was great. Each character had a tarot card painted to look like him. These cards were 4'x8' in a wood frame, and were on casters, so as each character made an entrance or exit, he would wheel his card on to the stage and use it as a door. The "card" was mounted in the center, so when it opened either side had space to enter through. Think of a revolving door with no compartments, just two sides.

My character was an obnoxious old lady who had been in door-to-door sales for years. Dressed in a 2' tall beehive and an enormous felt coat, I had to deliver my lines in the sweet-Southern accent of Dallas (I suppose) and make like a spry little old lady. This was fine with me. I would come out, start rambling my lines, tool around the set, and then exit. It was my one big scene.

So these card/doors? They were weighted with sandbags to keep them stable and upright. It worked a charm, until it didn't. Here we were with a full house, my scene was coming up. I leave the green room and get behind my card. I wheel it out without a hitch and make my entrance. Only my door doesn't close. It's sitting there wide open, distracting to me and the audience. So taking a look at the audience, to whom my lines are addressed anyway, I hold up a finger and ad-lib "'Scuze me jest one sec, 'kay?" And I proceed to kick the devil out of the offending sandbag.

Huge laugh. "There! That's better!" And I continue.

Meanwhile, listening in the green room, the director is having a fit, thinking that I've forgotten my lines and am messing up her play. It isn't until after that one of the veteran actors comes to my defense and explains what happened, and that the audience thought it was planned. She was skeptical until the audience came up after the show and told her how funny that part was. (In yo FACE, AP!)

And after that show, she learned that I was indeed pregnant, and had been so during that show (Thank God for large costumes and small bellies!) and I pretty much had to sit out any shows from there. Soon I went into accounting (I'll never understand to this day why I did that) and had to give it all up.

But here's the Bigun, working backstage at shows now. Shows with singing and dancing and quick changes and creative staging and lighting. And I miss it, once in a while. There's nothing like standing on a stage and cracking a line that brings the house down. And nothing like being up there and knowing everyone in the room is looking at you, waiting to hear what you'll say. Wanting to fall in love with your character and with you as an actor.

B, the costumer, was the leading lady in Anything Goes. She's not a tiny little dainty thing at all. This is not the girl they would think of in the lead of your typical high school play. But she was awesome. She soared, and my heart soared with her, glad that there was this great lovely memory of her senior year where she had the whole room falling in love with her each night. And glad that no matter how many little chippies she comes up against in life, she had one moment in that spotlight that no one can diminish.

Monday, February 06, 2006

Throw Him Back

Okay, so I'm a strong personality. So I'm a woman who knows what I want. So I like to be in control of things as much as possible. So I'm outspoken. So I'm, if not independent, at least able to handle myself.

Not everyone is made that way, I get that.

I'm thinking about my sister. Arlen is about a decade older than I, and we weren't really thrown together much after I turned six and she got a license. She slept in the house but she wasn't really there. And I had Liz, baby sister and playmate and all-around pest, to occupy me. After all the growing-up stuff, Arlen and I got better acquainted; having kids and cousins for them will do that I suppose.

Arlen's love life was always pretty quiet. I don't remember seeing boyfriends or hearing about dates. When she moved away to work after college, I guess my curiosity was low. I'd never really seen her in a relationship-type situation. So when she got a boyfriend years ago that seemed to stick around, I didn't know what to think. I had nothing to compare it to.

So this guy stayed. And stayed. And married her.

Mark is your typical BUBBA. I mean, a truck-muddin', car-fixin', shade-tree mechanic with a preference for barbecue and beer, and a habit of hanging out at the Army/Navy Surplus. He has friends who stock up on surplus MREs and sell them on ebay. This comes in handy after a hurricane, I guess, or in case of Armageddon. A certain amount of this, I'm sure, can be fun. And useful.

But the thing about Mark is he's neither.

He's crude and obnoxious. He's always in job jeopardy of one sort or another. He just pops out with any old thing that comes into his head, heedless of its appropriateness. His fuse is extremely short. He's nearly always bitching about something Arlen did or the kids did. And bitching to anyone who will listen. His friends are always welcome at all hours, but Arlen's family can rarely visit because all the kids make too much noise.

He makes arbitrary decisions that affect everyone in the house, and Arlen will not step in and challenge him. And I'm beyond feeling sorry for her anymore. It's the kids I ache for. Want lessons in something? Nope, Daddy doesn't want to have to haul you over there and back twice a week. Getting an award? Sorry, Daddy can't be there; he's got plans to be in his shed rebuilding something. Want some ice cream that Mom bought yesterday? Too bad; Daddy sat down and ate it all after you had a bowl last night.

I try and try to put myself in Arlen's shoes. What would I do if all that were happening in my home? And I just Can. Not. Imagine. It.

Make no mistake that my own darling hubby is a pushover and a wimp. Not in the least. He just lets me have a lot of leeway if it's something he doesn't know much about or that is less important to him than to me. But when he has strong feelings, we certainly work that out. Together. He falls over himself to be a good dad, and he works at surprising them with a treat or a random fun idea. He enjoys his girls, where Mark seems to barely tolerate his.

Liz tells me that I once verbally ripped Mark a new fecal exhaust port, in front of his parents even. I don't remember this, although I'd like to. We just have very little to do with them, and since they're not living in the same town anymore, that works for us. But since Arlen calls Liz several times a week ranting about Mark, I frequently get a call from Liz saying "You will NOT believe what Mark just did NOW."

I suppose I took it to heart when, before JJ and I married, I heard the advice about not going to your family with your marital problems. I never have. When we fight the children don't even know it, much less my family or friends. And perhaps my sisters believe all is wonderful and perfect here in the Fishbowl. I don't really know what they think. What I do know is that they have no memories of JJ being a jerk or hearing about how he did this awful thing or how I nearly plucked out his eyes over that.

I'm a little tired of hearing about the same boorish awful behavior from Mark and of Arlen's persistent whine. A few months ago, the D(ivorce) word was thrown around between them, and I wondered how long that fad would last. So far, it's still flying, and yet nothing changes. As alien as he is to me, she's even more so. We grew up in the same house, had the same parents, and she's completely happy with being unhappy. I'll never understand it; and as long as I don't have to hear it, I think I'll just get the Reader's Digest version if anything happens.

And God help her if she ever complains to me about him. The reaming he got will look like a trip to a spa.

Friday, February 03, 2006

Out of My Everlovin' Mind

Remember, oh, a few days ago when I was bitching about the cost of sending the Bigun to DC? Do ya? Is that a vague little tucked-away memory just a scroll away? Yes?

I. Am. Insane.

Oh, yes, I am. Because I spent $400 on tickets because I AM GOING TOO. FOR ONE DAY.

Could I BE any dumber?

We'll fly in on a Monday afternoon, take the shuttle to the hotel, stay there. Then Tuesday we'll take the bus to the Mall, see a little of that on foot, take the bus BACK to the hotel, take the shuttle BACK to the airport, and then I'll fly home while she takes the OTHER shuttle to the OTHER hotel.

Nobody ever accused me of having common sense.