Archvillains

Remember SuperFishie and the Amazing Curriculum?

Remember SuperFishie Thwarted?

The latest installment in the Adventures of SuperFish :

I wrote eleven scripts. Roughly nine pages each. The first was performed last weekend. They had hacked it up quite a bit and cobbled in some other things, but the essence was still very much there. They even managed to rehearse, something they NEVER do. The timing on everything WE could control was excellent. A few hiccups here and there, but overall a pretty good job.

But now I sort of understand how a screenwriter feels when he gives his product to a producer and director; it's out of my hands. My work product is now subject to being mutilated by someone who hasn't quite got the vision. That's okay, in a way, because people never see the same thing in a script. I get that.

But they nixed video segments, which the Kahuna has been griping at us for NOT having, because apparently the video people don't care to work with us, or something. Uncooperative, is all I was told. A shame. To replace video Bible Story segments, they asked a person to just pretend to be the reporter and tell the story, a singularly un-reporter-like thing to do. It didn't come off theatrically. However, I can't even say that with all confidence, because the children, when they got to the "TEST" part of the script, were able to answer some of the questions correctly.

They also hacked out the Object Lesson, another thing the Kahuna has been nagging about.

And somehow, there is no "Hero Homework" take-home cards, not even the plain cardstock with plain print to go home with the kids. I worked my butt off on that.

Additionally, the scripts that were supposed to be written by the new chick? She never did them. She put it off and put it off for a month, so I volunteered to do them, and churned out four scripts in two days. Did anything happen to said lazy-ass coworker? Two guesses.

There were three scripts to finish the whole curriculum. I was ready to start on them yesterday. Instead, here's basically what I got in my e-mail from the director: Thanks for all your hard work. Stop writing scripts; I'm going to do them myself and get them all done by tomorrow. If you have anything else you've written send it to me and I'll see if I can use it.

Huh?

Not only did they rip my stuff up, but apparently after I'd written eleven scripts, she wants to do the last three? She who hasn't even got her SET finished? She who hasn't figured out how to do major segments of the performance, so she dropped them? She who can't get the sound people to record the scripts properly, who can't be bothered to answer questions, who can't give a straight answer?

Fish has been dismissed.

And the worst thing is that I'll be in the new theatre to see the hack job in all its glory EVERY WEEK, because I am now scheduled to be the door person for this event every Sunday.

I've found my kryptonite.

The Only Post Ever in Which I refer to Paris Hilton, I swear

Driving back from Columbia to Atlanta was hardly memorable. Apparently we timed it wonderfully, though, because that day all eastbound traffic on I-20 at the state line had major accident issues. And then after we passed all that traffic going the other way, the local radio station reported an accident where we had just been. Sufficiently relieved, we proceeded to drive faster. (No we didn't, Georgia State Troopers! Just Kidding! Ha!)

So Atlanta appeared just as the sun started to go down, a good thing because who wants to drive into the sun? Except Atlanta is really, come to think about it, a lot like Houston. There's so darn much of it. Sprawl, thy name is Southern Metropolis.

So on through about 17 bedroom communities and suburbs until, miracle of miracles, the airport and the Hilton magically appear in the windshield.

Say whatever the heck you please about Paris Hilton, her folks know how to run a hotel. Oh my goodness. We check in to a suite. Not a pretend suite like we had found at the Holiday Inn Express. No, this was two rooms, pull-down bed in one, full bath in each, fluffy pillows everywhere and the little snack bar thing. My parents had a corner view on the Executive floor with chocolate on the pillows. They could watch planes take off and land all night if they chose. And y'all, you couldn't HEAR those planes. You could see them well enough to wave to passengers, but you could NOT HEAR THEM. Who builds buildings like that?

Of course, my sinus issues may have rendered me partially deaf, too, so what do I know?

Anyway, after staying twice this year in Hilton Hotels, I am sold. The rooms cost the same as the icky ones we had just left, and we slept ten times better. The Little Critter had a long swim in a large pool, a quick meal, and then collapsed quite early. Oh, yes, I no longer care if Paris Hilton snorts all the money I give the chain up her nose. Keep snortin' honey, if that's what it takes to keep this chain running like it is now.

Of course, in the morning, Pop is panicked a little.

"You should come down to the business center and print your boarding passes. Right Now!" Of course I am in pajamas and have hair a la rat's nest.

"We should get an early start turning in the rental cars because the security lines will be enormous!" Remember, this is two days after the Baby Bottle Bomb Ring, or whatever they planned to do, were rounded up in London. Every television we'd seen had images of airport refugees, people hoping one day they will have purged enough liquid or gel materials from their baggage to enter the airport bathrooms, never mind the actual plane.

But who is late getting out the door? Pop and Company. Meanwhile we'd found (Karma!) another Waffle House next door and leisurely dined on cholesterol-laden food products, gassed up the car to return to the rental folks, and had checked out without leaving one thing behind in the room. (This is a remarkable achievement for me, since last year the Little Critter left her two loveys behind in Dallas when we evacuated from Rita. One of which we eventually did get back. Try driving Dallas to Waxahachie, then back to Dallas and then resignedly to Houston with a child sobbing uncontrollably the whole way because Piggy Is Lost. I still have to do the evacuation story, don't I?)

We're at Atlanta airport and immediately upon entering we see: a huge line. Fortunately it's for Air Tran (or not so fortunately, if you happened to be flying Air Tran that day) and not security, so Continental is looking great with two lines open and no waiting. Five minutes and our bags, gel items inserted, are checked. Five minutes later finds s in the Security area. Ten minutes after that we are through. And I'm thinking "That was IT? I panicked for that?"

Unfortunately the terminal we were in was under major renovation, meaning one place to sit down and eat if you don't mind a two hour wait for a seat, and a bunch of kiosks serving, well, kiosk food. This made Nana a less-than-happy camper. But eventually they called the flight to board. Three minutes later they called Last Call to Board. What the heck? Since when do they give you five minutes to board? Especially since you KNOW you will sit on the tarmac out there for a minimum of forty minutes (federal aviation regulations) before being allowed to actually GET to a position that looks like a runway is attached. I give up.

Apparently I was so exhausted on the flight home I slept, upright, through everything but the drink service. And then, by the time we got home, the Bigun had offloaded her things, gone the rounds of the friends she hadn't seen in ages, visited work and saw everyone, called in to say she was spending the night out, and we never saw her until the following evening.

I keep saying I love to travel, and then when I write it all down, it doesn't sound so much fun. That's so weird.

We Arrive on the Base

Driving up Wednesday, the Bigun called and relayed the news that she was flying home the day of graduation. This, after we all made plans to stay an extra day, just in case. So we would be kissing her goodbye and staying another night in the No Tell Motel. I made a few quick calls and realized there was a lovely Hilton right next to the airport in Atlanta, and they had rooms, rooms without wet floors. Rooms with irons that worked. Rooms with lights! I booked them for Friday night, on the hope we could all drive back to Atlanta a day early after the Bigun flew home.

This, people, is what is known as unintended brilliance.

The next morning the entire news media was awash in stories of the thwarted terrorist plot in London. Immediately parents begin panicking, sure that we will wait twelve hours in security lines. They praise Fish for having the foresight to book these rooms.

I only did it to save getting up early and because their room was crap, but okay, Fish will take that!

Thursday morning I was up with the early birds and after a quick (Waffle House) breakfast, we drove to the base to meet the Bigun. After an "orientation meeting" we met her in her cammo and my heart was overcome. I picked her up, even. She is much taller than I, but I did it.

My father was the weepy one. Awwwww, Pop had to keep walking off and getting the handkerchief out. We heard all about her best bud and met her family. We spent the day getting lost on base and hearing the stories they had to tell. Then came dinner at the officer's club, where some doofus dropped a cake onto my purse in the next chair and kept right on walking. I didn't notice until after I ate. But my sister saw it and didn't tell me. My family is certifiable. Then we went bowling and said goodbye until the morning.

We were obscenely early to graduation having checked out while it was still dark. But already crowds had gathered, so we weren't as early as we hoped. The ceremony was inspiring, the words spoken were uplifting, but all we could do was pass the binoculars back and forth as her company marched out. The Bigun and her bud had drawn us "maps" to know where to look for them, and sure enough we found them, the Bigun with her Serious Face on. I did really well until they recited the Soldier's Creed. THAT, of all things, got me.

The rest of the day was ours after signing the Bigun out, and we went to Applebee's for their first taste of off-base food in months. Gorging does not describe it. We must have been there two hours, just letting them enjoy the sensation of food not purchased in bulk by the Armed Forces Department of Acquisition of Barely Edible Food Products.

Then the Columbia Airport to say goodbye. It's a beautiful terminal, what I saw of it. But all I could think of was that the Bigun would be home alone for a day before we even got to her. There were directions to be given, keys to be passed on, money to be pressed on her, and instructions to call upon landing. Then she was gone. Our reunion ended abruptly, and we had ahead of us another 4 hour drive to Atlanta, with a Hilton waiting at the other end, and Lord only knew what airport chaos to face in the morning.

I never get lost, I just take the scenic route

Oh, what a time we had at the Bigun's graduation.

On the flight to Atlanta, I realized that JJ and I had never flown anywhere together, despite 10 years of marriage, and 15 years of togetherness. Note to self: take vacation with JJ sans kiddos SOON. At the airport we met my parents and sister and niece, all of whom were waiting around forever because they believe the media warnings saying "Arrive 2 hours before your flight for security." Ha, Fish has learned not to do this, at least not to go past security until Fish is darn good and ready, because though Fish will get through the first pass at security with flying colors, Fish will be wanded and X rayed and practically strip-searched (EWWWWW!) if she tries to go out and then go through again. And really, who wants to see that?

And here's another question; no matter if I book my flight solo, with my child and hubby, whatever, I ALWAYS sit on the wing. What up with that?

Anyway, we arrive in Atlanta and find our bus to Enterprise ("We pick you up!" - hot damn, and all my luggage too) and after 45 minutes of Dad trying unsuccessfully to get the Enterprise people to rent him a Cadillac, we're on our way to Fort Jackson. How hard can this be? Columbia is rightthehell down I-20, just a few hours. This becomes 5 hours as we have wee traffic coming from Atlanta, a few stops here and there to stretch, and a much needed refueling at Cracker Barrel. God Himself put Cracker Barrel on this earth, I am telling you, and that's all I'll say about that.

Closer to Columbia, Sis calls the hotel we're going to, and asks directions, then calls them in to me since she's riding with Dad. Note to self: get the damned directions yourself. Dad, who is driving behind me, is tired of me driving like a granny at 78 mph (just kidding, SC State Troopers! Fish? Speed? Unthinkable!) and so he passes us. Fine, I think, I'll let them get lost and we'll get there on our own.

Ha.

We miss the major turn we needed, and didn't feel like turning around and trying to hit the interchange from the other direction, so we kept going in the general vicinity of the base. After fifteen minutes of creative driving in the correct direction, if somewhat meanderingly, my sister calls and says "Do you know where you're going?" "Why?" I ask. "Where are you?" "RIGHT BEHIND YOU, DUMBASS!"

So they had passed me up, got skeered, fell in behind me again without my knowledge (shut up, it was getting dark,) missed the same turn I did because they were following me, and then blamed me for getting them lost.

Note to self: do not travel with parents and sister again. Ever. Not even in a hurricane.

We finally get to the hotel, check in, and discover that the "suite" my parents booked is a room with a jacuzzi tub out in the room, and the carpet is wet everywhere. And their iron doesn't work. And their bathroom light doesn't work. It never fails; they always manage to get the room with everything wrong. And my dad is a First Class Complainer. This is the man who sends restaurant silverware back for water spots. Ugh.

My brain is flashing "This Does Not Bode Well." Whatever boding is.

But the next day is Family Day, where we can finally lay eyes, and hands, on the Bigun, and that's all I care about at that point. That and the fact that Waffle House is Right Next Door to the hotel.

Priorities, people, priorities!

My Baby's Back

Finally! After a whole long summer being the parent of a lone 7 year-old, I finally have my 17 year-old back. Basic Training agreed with her, apparently, and now she's back for her senior year of high school. More on the trip, the ceremony, and Fish's first brush with life on a military base as soon as I get up off my knees from giving thanks to God she's back home.

But for now, bask in the reflected glow of one proud mamma.

Stick it to the Bad Companies

I was reading this post in Frugal Homemaker's blog, and it got me thinking. Their friend had a cell phone that the company wouldn't repair, so they attempted to fix it themselves, and I am so impressed, they succeeded.

But when you sign up for a cell plan, or attempt to do business with any new provider of any service, how do you know what you're getting? The Better Business Bureau is some help, but not much. And does the BBB deal with how you are treated by service representatives, or how their people speak to you? I'm thinking no.

So what I propose is to have people post their "hit lists."

Who has really messed you over as a consumer?

What company would you never do business with again?

Which companies always do it right?

Share here, and help other consumers avoid the stinkers. Let's try to keep it national, or if local, state the region.

For the record, GEICO has been awesome for us, through an accident concurrent with a Hurricane Rita Evacuation. Their people are always great on the phone, and they don't call to sell us stuff all the time.