I’ve been getting lots of phone calls from (212) 448-5501 (caller ID says, “New York Call”), including four today. From looking around online, I gather that this is a shady reputable survey organization that has been calling countless people countless times at odd hours, hanging up without leaving messages, and being otherwise weird. For me, this week’s countless calls, including the four today, border on harassment. Whoever you are, every time you call me I’m contacting the DNC Registry. Keep it up, and I’ll up the ante.
Tag Archives: life
Holiday party and a winter’s day
There’s something about spending a single night away from home that makes me feel more disoriented than returning after a week-long trip. J. and I went to the last Hyatt party Friday night, and it was Monday before my sense of strangeness started to dissipate.
On Friday at about 6 p.m., I met J. at Moonstruck, one of my favorite places downtown. We started the evening with watching the dancing, which become less coordinated and more creative as the night wore on. As I stood on the second level, I couldn’t help thinking of ballroom dancing in 1930s movies and how much has changed in what is a relatively short period of time. For a moment, I could imagine the sweep of tuxedos and gowns.
When most attendees were at their happiest and most uninhibited, Exhibit A shows me nursing a midnight coffee — proof that I am old or dull or both. For the first time at this event, I could not be persuaded to dance, although I am not sure what held me back.
On Saturday, after substituting breakfast for a swim in the pool that no longer existed, J. and I headed to the Rosemont elevated stop, where we saw a flock of perhaps 80 Canada geese divided into four parts nibbling on the small islands of grass along the Kennedy Expressway. It struck me as an odd sight, a glimpse of nature adapting to the unnatural and unpleasant speed and noise of the expressway.
The weather was perfect for spending an hour and a half at the outdoor Christkindlmarket — a little below freezing, not too cold, no wind, and with a steady flurry of snow coating everything. While J. shopped, I found myself fascinated by the snow-covered model train as it made its monotonous rounds. A few boys watched the train for a bit, then commented in a deprecatory tone of voice to prove that they were too old for such toys. I envision them in 20–25 years, telling their children about the model train at the Christkindlmarket, even if it is by then more of a feeling than a memory.
Near the train tracks we came upon a snow-covered bench occupied by tiny snow people, made of regular-sized snowballs with evergreen twigs for arms. I named them Peter and Héloise, as doomed lovers. They were such a charming couple that almost everyone who spotted them did a double take, then snapped a photo of them. One woman even looked at us strangely as though we were the responsible parties. I wish I were that imaginative! It was with great reluctance that I left Peter and Héloise behind.
When all I could feel of my hands was pain, I dragged J. away on the bus and home with me, where a well-fed Hodge greeted us. I lit candles, plied J. with Holiday Dream tea and a Homemade pizza and cookie, and put on the 1938 version of A Christmas Carol with Reginald Owen so J. could sleep through it. Fortunately, the pizza and cookie revived him in time for a second showing.
In the meantime, the weather had become truly frightful. At 8 p.m., when we went downstairs to wait for the cab that never arrived, the wind was whipping The Flamingo’s awning furiously, and snow was coming down heavily and even less realistically than in a Hollywood movie. Since J. had to wait another two hours for the next train, I plied him with fair trade hot cocoa while we watched a Judy Garland, Dean Martin, and Frank Sinatra TV concert. I told J. that times have changed; today, Judy Garland couldn’t get away with a bare stage, a simple dress, and pumps. She would have to have a full band onstage, scantily clad chorus girls and dancers, a light show, and fireworks. During this performance, though, the stage, lights, and outfit didn’t matter. All attention was on that tragic face and that remarkable voice. You don’t need to distract your audience when you have talent.
J. finally arrived at the train station, after a 20-mph taxi ride in blizzard-like conditions. I couldn’t see Lake Shore Drive from my bedroom window. When I called him at 2 a.m. to see if he’d gotten home in one piece, the weather was still howling and blowing. Yet by 8 a.m. Sunday, it was sunny, clear, and calm, with the new coating of snow the only evidence of the previous long winter’s night.
Marina Cafe, Chicago
J. and I had dinner at Marina Cafe, which overlooks Jackson Harbor. Sunny, comfortable temperature and humidity. We walked the mile+ to the Flamingo. Perfect.
What is a life worth?
Every time you look into the printed photographic eyes of someone who’s been killed, are you seeing the trials of pregnancy and the pains of childbirth? The countless feedings plus clothing and diaper changes? The education, whether informal or formal; at home, at school or on the streets?
Beyond an act of love, passion, or lust (or all three), combined with intentional or thoughtlessness, it takes considerable effort to make a human being. And that effort can be destroyed in an instant, just as intentionally or thoughtlessly — an exploded vehicle in Iraq or a blown-up bus in London, a bullet ripping through an organ, a beating that ends in internal bleeding, an accidental blow to the head.
How does each of us determine what a life is worth? For most people, human life seems nearly sacred until our person, our family, or our property is threatened. A mother who never dreamed of killing might do so without thought if her child is endangered. A man might kill if he catches someone in the act of looting his home. Most of us will never face these circumstances, but we do have an idea of our priorities and an instinct for self-preservation.
How do we really feel when a stranger is killed? When soldiers are ambushed in action, it’s sad and regrettable, but all too often they’re just a face and a name, with perhaps a brief biography and some quotes. We don’t have any personal attachment, and while parents may empathize with those of the fallen (and feel gratitude that it wasn’t their child), and the same for girlfriends, boyfriends, brothers, sisters, spouses, it’s nearly impossible to become emotionally invested beyond the superficial when it comes to most strangers (with well-publicized exceptions). Undoubtedly this is programmed into our psyches; no one could afford the energy it would take to grieve every loss as though it were personally meaningful. So our reaction tends to be, “I feel bad for the parents,” “Doesn’t he remind you of Steve Flynn over on Sixth Avenue?” or “What a shame.”
Then there are those who invest their emotions in dead celebrities, in John F. Kennedy, Marilyn Monroe, Natalie Wood, John Lennon, Princess Diana. Years, decades, after the death, they write of their loss, sadness, and heartbreak as thought it were a deeply personal tragedy. Do such people value life? Or do the value the artificial association they have created with a person or an idea that is bigger than themselves? For such people, was it Marilyn Monroe or Princess Diana who died? Or was it the idea that died, not just of beauty, but of fantasies of lives that never existed, of their own youth and memories that began to fade long ago? Is it the lives of these celebrities that they miss and mourn, or their own lives, doomed never to achieve the impossible fantasy that no one’s life can?
Soon there will be more deaths in the headlines, and the cycle begins again. Very little changes. We spend billions trying to treat and cure disease because disease will affect us and every one we know; we hope that violence, in whatever form, does not.
Every day, though, the behavior of seemingly ordinary people reveals a combination of egotism and lack of empathy for lives that are not our own. I thought of this when another case of a child in joint custody of her divorced parents was mentioned. The girl supposedly hates her time with her father, who fought bitterly for joint custody, because he ignores her. She senses that she was an object in a power struggle. It is long since over, so she seems to hold no interest for her own father. I find myself wondering how I could look into the face of my child, a face that would surely resemble mine in some ways, and not feel enough love and compassion to show it in everything I do, to feel only cold indifference. Doesn’t what he helped to give her — life — have any value to him? How can he not know or not care about the effect of his indifference on his own child?
In another case, the mother has one child with one man and two children with a second man. As a toddler, the first child was not welcome in his mother’s home. He has spent most of his childhood living with an uncle and aunt. How can anyone value life so little that they don’t want their own child living with them, that they prefer that someone else raise them even when they have the ability and the means? Does he understand why his mother doesn’t want him and can foist him off on a relative like he is an unwanted item for which there is no room? What value will he place on life when he is older?
The same boy had a docile, affectionate cat. One day, the boy’s half-sister, with an established reputation as a bully, decided to scare the cat while the boy was holding it. Already, she has learned her mother’s valuation of her half-brother. Predictably, the startled cat panicked and clawed the boy badly. Rather than punishing the girl for her bullying behavior, the family decided that the life of the victimized cat was forfeit. What value does life have under such circumstances, when victims are victimized twice, when they are victimized permanently?
Children are life, animals are life, trees are life, just as we as stewards of the Earth are life. Those who kill, those who destroy — they are anti-life, like matter and anti-matter. For some, it is a socially accepted hobby or habit — the hunter, the fisherman. Soldiers must kill when ordered to. Butchers slaughter animals every day of their working lives on our behalf. For others, it’s an accident, a temporary suspension of judgment, the proverbial crime of passion or anger or fear. Then there are the sociopaths, who kill compulsively, without empathy or compassion. Some value the life of some but not that of others; some value life but must destroy it, however regretfully. The sociopath doesn’t understand the value of life, if it is not his own.
For those who die to nourish ours and to protect it, we should never fail to feel gratitude. For those who have lost their lives, we should stir our memories. For those who have lost a life that they created, we should feel the deepest of sorrow. And for those who have taken life for the vilest of reasons, what must we feel? Hate? Contempt? Loathing? Pity? Anguish? Pity and anguish that that person could destroy the only thing of value that has been granted to us, the only thing that has meaning? Life itself, without which there is nothing.
Dentures no more
I went to a dentist about 15 years ago, who told me I had some new cavities and that he was going to use Novocain. I told him that I’d never had Novocain, and he said I had to be lying, given the number and type of cavities I had.
But it was true. In the 1960s, it was not unheard of for dentists to drill into children and teenagers without using anesthetic. It could be the reason so many people supposedly stopped going to dentists or were afraid to go in the first place, after hearing horror stories of primitive treatment and assuming not much had changed in the last 30 years.
My first experience with Novocain was not positive. My face swelled for two or three days, so I thought I had had an allergic reaction. Later, an endodontist told me that the dentist had possibly broken a blood vessel, but that an allergy to Novocain would be rare. I don’t know, but my current dentist also uses Novocain. A few years ago she told me that it wasn’t an option for at least one tooth because of how deep the cavity was. Because I could feel pain even under the Novocain, I concede that she was right.
Why the interest in dentistry? A month or so ago, the orthodontist’s assistant removed my upper braces and made a mold of my teeth, then gave me a retainer a week later with the instructions to rinse them in Efferdent or a similar cleaner. I didn’t think much of it until I was in Walgreens looking for Efferdent, and couldn’t find it at first. Eventually I located it on the bottom shelf, underneath all the whitening and brightening toothpastes. Bottom-shelf products are the ones that move slowly. Of course — how many people have dentures compared to how many have a need for whiter and brighter real teeth?1
This prompted me to think how different today’s generation is from mine and that of my parents. Both of my parents had full upper and lower plates. If I remember right, my dad’s teeth were removed courtesy of the U.S. Army Air Force. I’ve seen one photo of him smiling with his natural teeth, and it wasn’t pretty. They grew up in an era when the water wasn’t fluoridated, and country kids brushed, if at all, with baking soda. His youngest sister, however, did manage to keep most of her teeth.
My brother and I have many, many cavities, plus he had a root canal or two in his twenties. His are probably due to genetics because he took care of his teeth, while mine are due to poor dental hygiene. I didn’t want to brush when I was a child, and my parents didn’t push it. I can’t remember when I did start brushing regularly, but it was late in adolescence and then only once a day. No flossing. Surprisingly, I did not have bad breath, but I did get cavities. Now, of course, with braces, I brush and rinse twice a day and floss at night; gums deteriorate pretty quickly under braces if you aren’t fastidious, I quickly found out.
Most of the younger people I know are surprised to learn I have fillings because they have few if any. At first, this surprised me. I always believed that cavities were inevitable, that hygiene only staved them off or minimized them. Apparently, however, a combination of good genes and dental hygiene can actually mean a cavity-free existence. What’s it like never to have know the grating sound and feel of a drill chipping away at your teeth?
At this rate of progress, soon there will be a day when Efferdent will be needed only for retainers, mouth guards, and similar appliances. Dentures no more.
Stalked and harassed
I took today off work. I need it for reasons I won’t go into. My plan, such as it was, was to enjoy the day because it was to be such a perfect one — warm but not hot, not humid, sunny. A beautiful late summer’s day.
I went to Promontory Point about 10:45 a.m. and was reading on my blanket under the big, twin-trunked tree that could have been Robin Hood’s. I heard a voice and saw a man behind a tree. I thought his stance was odd, but assumed he was talking on a cell phone. Then, over the next hour and a half, I noticed he was circling me repeatedly. And would start talking now and again. Beyond, say, 10-15 feet, I can’t distinguish words well, but I caught enough snippets to realise that he was harassing me (and probably the odd stance was hiding behind trees and doing, ummm, things).
I kept hearing “book” (because I was reading) and then I heard (these bits were all distinct): “big ass,” “I know you ain’t got no boyfriend,” “**** you right there on that blanket,” and “lay back down,” and “lay on your stomach so I can see that big fat ass.” There were other bits as well. I ignored it as best I could and then finally left because I felt like I couldn’t move without provoking more verbal abuse, and the position I was in was aggravating my back (sciatica). At one point I think I heard him saying something about I’d (meaning me) be back and tomorrow. He probably saw me limping back to my building.
I haven’t had anyone bother me in years, and not for so long. And no one’s hinted that they’d continue to.
It was a gorgeous day, and I ended up feeling a bit scared and trapped. A lot, actually.
Tomorrow’s supposed to be lovely, too. I don’t know if I can go back . . .
Birthday
It’s my birthday, and I’ll cry if I want to.
No, really, it’s been a very good day; for one thing, I took my personal day. No writing, no editing, no people.
I made a Betty Crocker cake and used Betty Crocker icing, stars, and candles. it’s the first time I’ve made a cake, even from mix, in years. It reminded me of being at home, being a kid again. Licking the eggbeaters and the bowl. And doing something even slightly out of the ordinary.
It was at least 96ºF today (and there I was with the oven on!), although the humidity wasn’t bad. Nothing like my birthdays as a child in Hamburg, New York, when it was often wet and even a bit chilly. I remember one where I went out and sat in the field, with the grey sky, the air misting, and the drops falling. Not exactly running through the dandelions in the sunshine, like you’d see on a TV commercial.
I sat at Promontory Point for a while and wrote to cwriter. (Hi, there! 🙂 Look for a letter from the States soon! 🙂 The beach was busy, and the air was filled with the cries of happy children.
A man walked by and called me “sweetheart.”
A very good day.
Wintry sunset with moonrise sonata
About 50 minutes before sunset, I walked by the lake. Saturday’s blizzard had left everything covered in snow. Even the Chicago Park District plows had not gotten all the snow off the walking paths. Someone had made an odd snowman, a big trunk with a triangular head rather than the traditional three spheres of decreasing size upwards. Perhaps it was a depiction of an alien snowman. Elsewhere, someone had lain down next to the path and flapped a perfect snow angel.
Surprisingly, despite the barrage of snow yesterday, there were several places where the grass was peeking out from under a very thin layer of snow. The ice on the lake, which had looked solid only a couple of days ago, is breaking up into little islands with expanses of water in between. You could almost envision burly polar bears leaping from one to the next, or tired seals crawling out onto them. (Although none of them are that solid!)
It was the sky and the water, though, that caught my eye. The eastern sky was an odd shade of pinkish gray around the horizon, where it reflected the setting sun. The sky overhead was almost a sea green, and the sea green and pinkish gray were perfectly reflected in the open water. The colours were exquisitely varied and subtle. Even Monet would have been hard pressed to have captured the nature of the colour and the light.
Above it all, a hand’s breadth above the horizon, a nearly full moon was taking over the dying day.
Sigh.
This is living. Everything else is a dream. A bad one.
Travels with an underwire bra
This is an old anecdote, from 1997.
Another exciting :::sarcasm alert::: round of airline travel — so exciting that I should share. You can laugh, you can cry, you can empathize. I EARNED these frequent flier miles, honey.
The original itinerary
Tuesday morning: Chicago to Minneapolis. Spend the day at the Minneapolis office.
Tuesday night: Fly with Debbie to Sioux City, IA. Drive to South Dakota to client. Meet Shellie, client manager from Minneapolis, who had been in Chicago shooting a video.
Thursday: They return to Minneapolis. I return to Chicago via St. Louis.
Ha! Maybe the first clue was when Shellie was delayed in Chicago due to weather . . .
Let’s rock and roll!
Shortly before my plane was due to take off from O’Hare to Minneapolis, a downpour began. A serious downpour. No thunder or lightning, but rain galore. The plane began taxiing — and promptly slid to the left. I’m pretty sure it was sliding because the grassy area kept coming closer and closer and I thought the idea was to go straight. Then, the plane began sliding to the right. The other grassy area approached. Finally, the plane straightened out (there were a few more slides, but not as bad). I was probably white as death by then, but I seemed to be the only soul who had noticed. I spent far too much time in the next few minutes wondering if a plane slides more in rain taxiing or taking off. It turned out to be more taxiing. Whew.
Security!
A couple weeks ago when I went through security at Minneapolis, my carpetbag set the alarm off, so this poor fellow had to search it thoroughly. It wasn’t so bad when it was the standard stuff — clothes, shampoo, etc. But his face took on an interesting look when he got to the black undies. That look that says, “Some days, I really hate this job.”
This time at O’Hare, I didn’t set security off, but a five-year-old female thumb sucker and her stuffed animal did. Talk about a juvenile delinquent. Although she certainly played the confused innocent as a man waved the wand all over her.
Spent a productive day at Minneapolis before leaving the office at 7 o’clock for the 8:10 flight to Sioux City, Iowa. Debbie and I thought we had plenty of time. Ha. I had to buy my ticket, so we tried going the e-ticket route. No chance. We tried the teleticket route. No chance. We finally settled for the “purchase ticket” line (which, thank goodness, was short) at about 7:45. Five minutes later, the agent says, “I have to escort you through security.” Me? I thought maybe it had to do with buying my ticket at the last minute.
After being escorted through security, I was asked to step aside because “it’s an FAA rule.” I was by this time a little confused. I couldn’t imagine the FAA rule that says, “Search Diane Schirf every other trip out of Minneapolis.” Debbie was on the other side of security looking increasingly distraught. She had told me that we had to catch a shuttle to some far-off terminal because we were going to be on one of the proverbial puddle jumpers. I couldn’t figure out why she didn’t have to go through security at all. And I could hear only snatches of what she was screaming. (Basically, it was, “Hurry up! The shuttle’s leaving!”)
Now, I didn’t have a choice. Because a middle-aged woman with an accent was hand searching my bags. This involved feeling everything in them and, in some cases, opening the bags within the bag. She was fascinated by the pocket in my Franklin planner. She pulled the planner out twice, unzipped the back pocket, and felt in it. (It’s just big enough to hold a floppy.) I don’t know what she thought was going to be in there. The second time she pulled it out, she said, “This is a planner, no?” (“Yes.”) Meanwhile, Debbie is waving at me frantically and jumping up and down. And the searcher stopped periodically to chat with another security person and to ask him if he knew where some abandoned passport came from.
Suddenly, my interrogator asked, “What’s this?” She was feeling a pocket in the bottom of my new suitcase. I looked and replied, “Underwear.” “This? This is a WIRE.” I was by then very confused and felt where she indicated. Aha. “Ahem, it’s an underwire bra.” “Oh, aren’t those things uncomfortable? Wires poking you all over the place.” Meanwhile, more Debbie in the background.
Next was my computer bag. She had me turn it on. “What do you need to see on it?” I foolishly asked. “Three lines. I need to see three lines. Three lines.” She looked a bit upset when my Mac OS smiley faces came on and quickly said, “Turn it off.” (I realized much later she was looking for three lines of DOS. Ha! Not on my Mac! 🙂
I could see Debbie was about to blow a blood vessel and hurriedly zipped the computer bag. All of a sudden, I feel this woman going through my purse thrown over my shoulder. And by then Debbie is screaming so I could hear, “Oh my! The shuttle left!” The security woman finally let me go after insisting on chatting some more and Debbie yelled “Run!” We ran to the exit at top speed and Debbie is yelling hysterically at the shuttle driver, “I CANNOT believe he left with my stuff! FLOOR IT!” As it happens, she had put her bags on the shuttle in the interest of time and the driver had told her he’d wait for her. Then he took off. All the way to the terminal she never stopped saying, “I can’t believe he left! With my computer and printer! I can’t believe he did that! Oh my!”
When our shuttle pulled up, she ran off it, literally mowed down the people getting off the other one, and grabbed her bags. We ran to the terminal, where a shuttle to the plane was boarding (remember, it was a puddle jumper). The agent was kind enough to check us in after everyone was on the shuttle. So, we run to that shuttle with our seven bags (two computers, two suitcases, two purses, and a printer). We squeeze on and I announce loudly for all my fellow passengers’ benefit, “I want you people to know that I am going to be the safest person on this plan. I HAVE BEEN HAND SEARCHED.” :::waving my ticket stub in the air with the words “hand searched” stamped in red:::. And another woman yelled from the middle, “Hey, I’m as safe as you! I was HAND SEARCHED in Atlanta!” She was even luckier than me. She apparently had been pulled into a room. Just so everyone could be suspicious of her, I suppose.
Weights and balances
The plane revved up and pulled out onto the runway. The flight attendant (yes, there was one — and even soda and pretzels) walked obssessively up and down the aisle, on the prowl for someone with an unfastened seatbelt. Finally, she caught Debbie with her computer case strap in the aisle. “Yes,” I said, “What are you trying to do — kill us all?” Debbie gave me her patented scrunchy face. The flight attendant returned and whispered something to her. “What’s up?” I asked. Debbie said, “I have to move to the front. For weight balance during takeoff and landing.” It was at this point that I remembered why I don’t like flying.
Country inns
We picked up our rental car and drove to the hotel, which was about 25 minutes away. As we checked in, the young man at the counter told Debbie that her travel agent had demanded she get a kingsize bed. “Oh, good.” Then he told me, “Your travel agent also said you have to have a kingsize bed.” Debbie found this fascinating as we have different corporate travel agents with thousands of business clients. We were touched by their concern.
I got to my room — 126 — unpacked, and tried to make a phone call. I dialed 9 for an outside line and got a busy signal. This went on for a half hour. Clearly, the phone wasn’t working. I called the desk. They kept giving me an outside line but that didn’t work, either. The older guy at the desk just kept saying, “I don’t know what to tell you.” (Tell me that you’ll fix it. Never happened. So much for concern. 😉
Debbie and I had agreed to meet at 7:40 a.m. in the lobby, so I set my alarm. Next morning, I show up on time (a rarity for me) — no Debbie. Debbie is the type who is prompt. Finally, I asked the desk guy for the time (I never wear a watch). “Oh, it’s 6:50.” Apparently, I had changed the time on the clock to an hour earlier — and gotten up at some ungodly hour just to wait. On my three hours of sleep from having had to get up at 4 the morning before for the early flight to Minneapolis. I was facing two intense days of client meetings on energy empty. I made use of my time to ask about the phone. “I really need a working phone.” “Well, you can use that one.” (Points to one on the wall in the lobby.) I needed to make an extremely personal call, and somehow making it in the lobby just as everyone is passing by for breakfast didn’t appeal to me.
Eventually, Debbie and Shellie arrived and we headed to a hearty breakfast of cornflakes and sticky rolls, then off to the client, with me lugging computer, purse, and a ream of documentation and communications pieces in a redweld.
Clients
We were greeted by a young woman and an affable, beefy guy at the front visitors’ desk. The guy looked at me and asked, “What time is it?” I just looked at him, but Debbie looked at her watch and helpfully said, “8:20.” He gave her a funny look and said, “Ummm, she’s got her hands full.” (He was hoping I’d dump my redweld all over the floor turning my wrist — a redweld full of highly confidential stuff, by the way.) And I looked back at him and said, deadpan, “Ummm, I’m not wearing a watch.” (I never do.) And the girl with him laughed and said, “I was wondering why you were asking the time when there’s a CLOCK right behind us. The guy ended up looking cutely sheepish. Don’t you love it when it backfires on you? 🙂
The return trip — sort of
The next day, Shellie and Debbie suggested I try to get on their flight to Minneapolis (it had been fully booked) to avoid going through St. Louis, which would take longer and get me into Chicago from Minneapolis pretty late Thursday night. I do. Everything’s set.
After two days of labour, we are released. Kinda of late, so we peel to the airport in Sioux City. Where we discover there as been a problem in Minneapolis and Chicago, and the 2:45 flight to Minneapolis actually left at 6:30. We sit around, making calls, working, chatting, etc. Shellie said something to me about going to use the bathroom. She returned and said, “I can’t go in there. There’s a guy in there [cleaning].” I said, “Well, Shellie, it’s times like these where you mow the sucker down and do your thing.” The guy sitting across from us doubled over laughing. Shellie left again (and apparently mowed ). The guy asked me who we were with and who we’d been visiting. I told him, and it turned out he’d been at the same client. We had a nice little chat about the culture at this client and our respective tours. He also told me I might want to suggest Shellie take off her visitor badge.
Finally, we left around 7:45. This did me little good since my flight from Minneapolis to Chicago was scheduled for 8. Guess I was going to miss it. Uneventful flight. We arrived around 9 or so.
On the shuttle from the one terminal to another, I said something to Shellie that made a woman in front of me start laughing. Soon, everyone’s looking at me. A guy across from then looks and says, “Hey, you and I have been together all night and all day!” (He’d been at the hotel and had checked out at the same time I did.) I thought, Ummm, you might want to rephrase that . . . but instead we got into a conversation about the hotel. Everyone was listening. When the shuttle stopped, the woman next to me leaned over and said to me a little grouchily, “I couldn’t hear what he [the driver] said.” Oh, well. She was envious no one was talking to her.
Shellie pointed me to the United area at Minneapolis and I headed for a flight. I was a little suspicious why there weren’t any United agents around. Finally, I called our travel agent’s emergency number. I got booked on a Northwest flight that was leaving in minutes . . . from another concourse. I walk fast from the blue concourse to the gold . . . and don’t see a plane. I look at the agent, who is filling out forms and ignoring me. Finally, she realises I’m not going away. “I’m NOT answering any more questions. I am leaving!” “Tell me one thing — did that plane leave for Chicago?” “Yep.”
The stay and real return
Another call to the emergency number. “Okay, please get me a room at the Embassy Suites and a 6 p.m. flight tomorrow night.” So, after a lovely night at the Embassy Suites and another day in Minneapolis (including a very nice pub lunch with Shellie), I did make the 6 p.m. flight. One minute before the door closed. Thank goodness for first class. (We have a deal where our flights between Chicago/Minneapolis are cheaper first class than coach. Darn. ) The first flight attendant took a liking to me and talked to me the entire trip. She was an extremely cute, perky, happy young thing. She got so distracted by our conversation that when she went into her spiel at the end, she said into the PA, “And, as always, we’d like to thank you for choosing Chicago . . . er, United.” She looked at me and literally fell out of her chair laughing.
Now, about that fire alarm at 1 a.m. . . .
Addendum: I no longer wear underwire bras.
Open letter to Comedy Writer
Dear Comedy Writer (you know who you are),
Last week, you told me that you’d rated my journal 9 out of 10 and that I’d lost a point because I didn’t mention you. You were teasing me, but you do make a good point — I rarely mention my friends. Part of it is because, despite appearances (the rich dream life that anyone can read about, for example), I’m private and keep my friendships private, too. Most of my friends who don’t know each other also don’t know about one another.
For me, however, the online world is largely about friendships — primarily because the so-called real world is not conducive to making friends for people like you and me, who are different, whose tastes are unusual, whose reading is eclectic, and who are reserved and introverted. Where would we make friends? Not at work. Not at bars — I don’t know about you, but I rarely go out, and no one out there is anything like me. There are always things like volunteer organizations, but I haven’t done that in a while, either.
So there’s here, the online universe, where people can read what I write and decided for themselves, without my participation or knowledge, whether I’m their kind of folks. We e-mail, chat, exchange photos, and, if we’re lucky, we continue to exchange ideas.
It isn’t always as satisfying as having a friend in person, of course. I can’t call you or knock on your door and say, “Let’s go get something to eat” or “Want to come over to watch a movie?” We can’t give each other the physical comfort of a heartfelt hug when we’re down. But I can try to imagine you sitting across from me, me with coffee, you with beer (you hate coffee, as you keep reminding me) in a restaurant or outdoor café, people watching and making wry commentary. We could speculate about people’s occupations, interests, and even sex lives, in the bitterly humorous way that seems to be second nature with us. I can imagine people wondering what we are laughing at — ourselves, as much as anyone else.
We’ve known each other for nearly five years, having met on a certain Usenet group at a time when you were suffering and I was beginning to climb out of the pit that had sucked me down and was sucking the life out of me. I think I contacted you first, because I sent an e-mail that began with, “Welcome.” We talked about how it’s easier to “pretend everything is ok.”
You were so curious about me that you looked up my real name and photos and other information. It was risky on your part, because I might have been upset, but I was flattered. Someone found me intriguing enough not to ignore me after a brief exchange! And to want to know more about me! And then you didn’t seem to find me ugly — one of my fears that had often been justified.
And you’ve stuck with me, even when I’ve been sick and miserable — not easy to do, I’m certain. We don’t agree on everything, even some very important ones, but I think we do agree that very little is worth jeopardizing such a rare friendship over. Despite our fears and our mistrust of everyone, we have come to trust each other — at least a little.
Since we began talking in April 2000 through e-mail, ICQ, AIM, letters, and even on the phone, a lot has changed for both of us. You’ve gone to college and gotten a degree, and you’ve moved a few times. You’ve been hospitalised after a brutal attack, and I’ve undergone outpatient surgery. I’ve been promoted at work, finally moved into a much better place, and even tried to have a relationship. I truly believe I have more confidence in myself because you’ve made me feel that I have possibilities. And I hope you feel that way, too.
Whatever happens, good or bad, to us, I hope that we will always have each other.
Love,
Diane