I leave for Utah today and I can't think about anything else. I'm plagued with worries. Traveling sucks, in a way. I don't mind the part where you're on the road or in the plane, but everything leading up to that time is rather stressful. All I can think about is getting to the airport on time, or being certain I've packed everything -- as we all know, if you forget something the trip will dissolve into a nightmare. Not really, but with the way I obsess you'd think that was the case.
In other people's lives, I'm sure that traveling is really smooth. Other people appear unruffled. These are also the kind of people who never pass gas or do the dishes or put their pants on one leg at a time. They walk through the airport with their laptop bag slung over their shoulder, their suits are neatly pressed, they exude confidence. They hang out with their peers at the airport bar, drinking and laughing like a beer commercial. Their teeth glimmer when they smile, their eyes are bright and sparkly and photoshopped. Everything is easy. Everything is good. Before the trip they have a manservant pack their bags for them. They know if they forget all their pants or socks, they'll just buy a new wardrobe. No big deal. A limo picks them up and takes them to the airport on a private back road. They can charter a helicopter if traffic is monstrous.
At least, this is how it looks from the outside. There's always people running around the airport who you'd think could never afford a ticket. They look like they just rolled out of a garbage can. There seems to be a windstorm of chaos following in their wake. You see them and expect to find loose newspapers trailing behind them and cookie crumbs stuck to their sweater. They look like they couldn't decide whether to travel comfortably, in their sweats, or business casual, in their freshly ironed sweats. You pass them as they sit in the McDonald's of the airport food court munching on fries and they look as harried as someone forced from bed at three in the morning to pick up their son who just got a DUI.
I fit into the harried crowd. I look like I've had second thoughts about my carry-on, like I wish I'd checked it after all. I look like I'm always just about to miss my plane and I'm lost and I can't read the sign announcing my gate. I don't wear sweats, but I'd be at home in them and everyone knows it and the flight attendants always ask if I want a blanket and a pillow as though they suspect I might have my own in that carry-on I've been sneering at the whole time. That would be wise, actually, since the blankets have been used by other passengers and who knows what diseases they were carrying. Small pox. Measles. Something like that.
Wish me luck.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Busy Trip, No Triathlon Training, etc.
Yesterday I ran a seven minute mile in 100 degree heat. I don't know what I was thinking. It was actually about 7:30, the mile. And I'm sure I could have been faster in better conditions. When I decided I wanted to do a sub-eight minute mile, I wasn't thinking about the temperature outside. Luckily, I took my water bottle and it was full of ice.
After the all out mile, I ran two more. But the heat nearly had me sick. So I had to walk often and ended up only doing the three miles in 28 minutes. It was a terrible time. I'm trying to find out how well I might do in the triathlon I signed up for. Anyway, I didn't get to exercise much on the Utah trip, though I ran four miles one day (it was very difficult, what with the elevation difference).
All in all, it was a busy trip (photos). I actually feel worse physically than I did before I went. I feel better mentally, however.
I told my mom on the trip that I no longer plan on sleeping well when I go home. It used to be different, back before the introduction of grandkids. Now the grandkids wake up and scream and throw things on the linoleum above the room I sleep in while I'm visiting. They're genuine busybodies. I used to think I had a lot of energy to kill, but then I met Dani's twins, Ellie and Emma and they have outdone me.
But Jack, the twins' brother, has gotten older and his vocabulary has also grown and now we have great conversations. On this trip Jack told his dad that we're buds. It's weird how a kid makes you want to be a hero. Or, in my case, a heroine. Except I've never really been fond of that distinction, so let's go back to hero.
Jack makes me want to be a hero. I imagine it's how a parent feels, and in that case, it must be ten times harder to be a "mean" parent (in the parlance of the child). But sometimes you have to have the big picture in mind, right? For me it's not too hard to be mean occasionally because I know that I'll leave and the kid will most likely forget me in favor of his or her toys.
One of the things that I talked about with Jack was his brand new cousin Isabelle. For some reason Jack didn't want his other cousin Clayton (Anji's boy) to look at or be near her. She was laying in her car seat carrier thing (I'm still not sure about all the baby paraphernalia) and Clayton came over to look at her and Jack put his arm up to block him. It was a very subtle move. I didn't know kids could be so subtle.
I said to Jack, "Why'd you do that? Don't you want Clayton to see her?"
And Jack shook his head and said, "No."
"Why not?" I asked him.
"Because she's too precious. You have to be careful with her."
I'm not kidding. He really said that. I think Jack is four. And then he touched her cheek really softly and I told him that he's very good. This all went on beneath the attention of the adults, except for me because I still have all those great childlike qualities about me. Essentially, I'm on their level.
I'm not sure what Jack thought Clayton might do to Isabelle the baby, accidentally hit her or something, maybe (not that Clayton is violent or anything. So far I've seen no evidence that any of them are vicious children). Kids live in their own world, you know, and they see things adults don't see. Like when an adult leaves the kids' room and all the toys come to life and have a tea party with the child. Of course, as the child grows older these tea parties become less frequent, until, eventually, the toys no longer come to life because the kid's an adult. You know what I'm talking about.
On Sunday, Abby, my sister Kelly's first daughter (Isabelle is the second), got a birthday cake. Basically the cake was a naked Barbie doll. Jk jk. The doll was only naked underneath all the frosting because, get this, the cake WAS the doll's clothes. You've never seen a kid happier about a cake, a doll, or a box ("I, I, I think it's a box!"). She absolutely loved the attention and I can only assume that this is because of my sister's overindulgent parenting.
I had my cell phone out to take pictures so I could send them to Stoker, and Abby noticed and said, "Take a picture," in a very adorable, childlike voice. She has a bit of lisp—also adorable. Take note that the command to "take a picture" is only acceptable when coming from a child. Please don't use this one on me next time we hang out, otherwise I'll be forced to deck you.
After the all out mile, I ran two more. But the heat nearly had me sick. So I had to walk often and ended up only doing the three miles in 28 minutes. It was a terrible time. I'm trying to find out how well I might do in the triathlon I signed up for. Anyway, I didn't get to exercise much on the Utah trip, though I ran four miles one day (it was very difficult, what with the elevation difference).
All in all, it was a busy trip (photos). I actually feel worse physically than I did before I went. I feel better mentally, however.
I told my mom on the trip that I no longer plan on sleeping well when I go home. It used to be different, back before the introduction of grandkids. Now the grandkids wake up and scream and throw things on the linoleum above the room I sleep in while I'm visiting. They're genuine busybodies. I used to think I had a lot of energy to kill, but then I met Dani's twins, Ellie and Emma and they have outdone me.
But Jack, the twins' brother, has gotten older and his vocabulary has also grown and now we have great conversations. On this trip Jack told his dad that we're buds. It's weird how a kid makes you want to be a hero. Or, in my case, a heroine. Except I've never really been fond of that distinction, so let's go back to hero.
Jack makes me want to be a hero. I imagine it's how a parent feels, and in that case, it must be ten times harder to be a "mean" parent (in the parlance of the child). But sometimes you have to have the big picture in mind, right? For me it's not too hard to be mean occasionally because I know that I'll leave and the kid will most likely forget me in favor of his or her toys.
One of the things that I talked about with Jack was his brand new cousin Isabelle. For some reason Jack didn't want his other cousin Clayton (Anji's boy) to look at or be near her. She was laying in her car seat carrier thing (I'm still not sure about all the baby paraphernalia) and Clayton came over to look at her and Jack put his arm up to block him. It was a very subtle move. I didn't know kids could be so subtle.
I said to Jack, "Why'd you do that? Don't you want Clayton to see her?"
And Jack shook his head and said, "No."
"Why not?" I asked him.
"Because she's too precious. You have to be careful with her."
I'm not kidding. He really said that. I think Jack is four. And then he touched her cheek really softly and I told him that he's very good. This all went on beneath the attention of the adults, except for me because I still have all those great childlike qualities about me. Essentially, I'm on their level.
I'm not sure what Jack thought Clayton might do to Isabelle the baby, accidentally hit her or something, maybe (not that Clayton is violent or anything. So far I've seen no evidence that any of them are vicious children). Kids live in their own world, you know, and they see things adults don't see. Like when an adult leaves the kids' room and all the toys come to life and have a tea party with the child. Of course, as the child grows older these tea parties become less frequent, until, eventually, the toys no longer come to life because the kid's an adult. You know what I'm talking about.
On Sunday, Abby, my sister Kelly's first daughter (Isabelle is the second), got a birthday cake. Basically the cake was a naked Barbie doll. Jk jk. The doll was only naked underneath all the frosting because, get this, the cake WAS the doll's clothes. You've never seen a kid happier about a cake, a doll, or a box ("I, I, I think it's a box!"). She absolutely loved the attention and I can only assume that this is because of my sister's overindulgent parenting.
I had my cell phone out to take pictures so I could send them to Stoker, and Abby noticed and said, "Take a picture," in a very adorable, childlike voice. She has a bit of lisp—also adorable. Take note that the command to "take a picture" is only acceptable when coming from a child. Please don't use this one on me next time we hang out, otherwise I'll be forced to deck you.
Look at that, I DID Complain about Lost Luggage the Whole Time
Last week I signed up for a triathlon. I'm nervous about it. I took my stuff with me on the trip to Utah, so I could swim laps at least one morning. My plan was to get up early on Friday and swim at the local pool. But United or Frontier lost my luggage. They didn't really lose it, but it wasn't in Utah when I arrived. I got into Salt Lake City at 11:00 pm, made the rounds yelling at people until midnight, and then gave up and went to my mom's. She had been waiting in the car for me for that entire hour. Normally I wouldn't have been so upset about my luggage being misplaced, but I had big plans for the next morning.
And I didn't really yell at anyone. I just went to the United lost luggage counter and expressed my frustration. The girl seemed to want to tell me it was Frontier's fault for not transferring the luggage. So I went to the Frontier counter. But the only person there was the Jetblue guy. He told me he couldn't do anything about it, and said, "All I can tell you to do is to go over to that white telephone over there on the wall and ask to speak to someone at Frontier about lost luggage." Translation: "Go call someone who cares." So I did that. After being passed around a few more times, the people I called said they couldn't do anything about it, really, and the girl wanted to give me another number to call.
There's an idea, just keep giving angry customers different numbers to call.
All in all, it was frustrating, and I don't want to spend this entire entry complaining about the lost luggage. Clearly it's a big industry, the lost luggage industry, because they have a system in place to deal with it (as my mother pointed out on the drive to her house). The next day a guy called and said he would be dropping my luggage off soon. He didn't even need directions to the house because he had a GPS. I told my mom it's just AMAZING that they can't think of a more cost effective way to deal with it, like not losing luggage. She countered that she's just AMAZED they don’t lose MORE luggage than they do. And she claims that it's gotten worse over the years.
I think she's probably right, as the possibility for more airlines has grown, flight and international travel is less a pastime for the refined: we now share elbow room with chickens and the homeless looking for a place to sleep. One company is even called Airbus, which simply reinforces my feeling that an airplane is really nothing more than a glorified bus.
Not so insightful from where I sit right now, but on the plane itself you really wonder how you could have paid $400 for such a narrow space between two large men who smell like they ran several laps out on the tarmac and then ate a few chili dogs before hopping on the flight. Next time, you think to yourself, I'll just take a Greyhound. That way, instead of being trapped with a chicken in front of your face and smelly neighbors, when the bus pulls over for a pit stop, you can change your mind about the ride and reconsider your transportation options. Maybe a train with a private car?
I'm just waiting for the glorified flying train. When will airplanes look like flying caterpillars? Someday . . . preceded, of course, by the airplane with the stretchy middle.
And I didn't really yell at anyone. I just went to the United lost luggage counter and expressed my frustration. The girl seemed to want to tell me it was Frontier's fault for not transferring the luggage. So I went to the Frontier counter. But the only person there was the Jetblue guy. He told me he couldn't do anything about it, and said, "All I can tell you to do is to go over to that white telephone over there on the wall and ask to speak to someone at Frontier about lost luggage." Translation: "Go call someone who cares." So I did that. After being passed around a few more times, the people I called said they couldn't do anything about it, really, and the girl wanted to give me another number to call.
There's an idea, just keep giving angry customers different numbers to call.
All in all, it was frustrating, and I don't want to spend this entire entry complaining about the lost luggage. Clearly it's a big industry, the lost luggage industry, because they have a system in place to deal with it (as my mother pointed out on the drive to her house). The next day a guy called and said he would be dropping my luggage off soon. He didn't even need directions to the house because he had a GPS. I told my mom it's just AMAZING that they can't think of a more cost effective way to deal with it, like not losing luggage. She countered that she's just AMAZED they don’t lose MORE luggage than they do. And she claims that it's gotten worse over the years.
I think she's probably right, as the possibility for more airlines has grown, flight and international travel is less a pastime for the refined: we now share elbow room with chickens and the homeless looking for a place to sleep. One company is even called Airbus, which simply reinforces my feeling that an airplane is really nothing more than a glorified bus.
Not so insightful from where I sit right now, but on the plane itself you really wonder how you could have paid $400 for such a narrow space between two large men who smell like they ran several laps out on the tarmac and then ate a few chili dogs before hopping on the flight. Next time, you think to yourself, I'll just take a Greyhound. That way, instead of being trapped with a chicken in front of your face and smelly neighbors, when the bus pulls over for a pit stop, you can change your mind about the ride and reconsider your transportation options. Maybe a train with a private car?
I'm just waiting for the glorified flying train. When will airplanes look like flying caterpillars? Someday . . . preceded, of course, by the airplane with the stretchy middle.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
What to Do for the Fourth
I have a day off tomorrow. In the middle of the week. I know they can't change the day the country gained independence, but would they? I mean, it doesn't help me much to have a day off on Wednesday, unless I take two extra days off.
They do other things, I don't know why they wouldn't move the fourth to a Friday or a Monday.
So what to do with that one day? I'm not sure yet. We just barely found out Stoker won't have to work. All I know is that we won't be camping. Tennessee isn't a great place to camp in the summer. Have you seen the bugs here? Well, rest assured they've seen you and they like what they're seeing. They're thinking it's time for a feast. They're thinking pass the salt and get me a knife and a bib.
Yeah, so be careful. I'm not kidding. Especially be careful if you're used to a four-season high desert with just a spider or two and an occasional stink bug. The bugs here have longer to evolve. Soon they'll be building tiny cities with tiny technology: anti-aircraft missiles, nuclear bombs, and giant robots they control in a cockpit behind an eyeball. It will be war on the human race. The bugs will win, enslave humanity, and reign supreme over the earth.
That's how it feels in Tennessee at night. In the woods. Bug spray is futile, so don't even try it. They'll only laugh.
They do other things, I don't know why they wouldn't move the fourth to a Friday or a Monday.
So what to do with that one day? I'm not sure yet. We just barely found out Stoker won't have to work. All I know is that we won't be camping. Tennessee isn't a great place to camp in the summer. Have you seen the bugs here? Well, rest assured they've seen you and they like what they're seeing. They're thinking it's time for a feast. They're thinking pass the salt and get me a knife and a bib.
Yeah, so be careful. I'm not kidding. Especially be careful if you're used to a four-season high desert with just a spider or two and an occasional stink bug. The bugs here have longer to evolve. Soon they'll be building tiny cities with tiny technology: anti-aircraft missiles, nuclear bombs, and giant robots they control in a cockpit behind an eyeball. It will be war on the human race. The bugs will win, enslave humanity, and reign supreme over the earth.
That's how it feels in Tennessee at night. In the woods. Bug spray is futile, so don't even try it. They'll only laugh.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Something Resembling a Vicious Universe
Once again, I'm looking for a job. I think the Universe is trying to tell me something. What is it, do you think? I feel like my entire life has been a series of moving and looking for a job. I mean, except, of course, when I was a child and lived with my mom. At that time, I was pretty lucky to have some kind of something resembling stability. Since I turned 18 and left home, I've had nothing of the sort. An insistent roller coaster ride. That's what life is.
Yes, yes, I know I should count my blessings. At least the country I live in isn't in uproar and we're not constantly wondering what our national boundaries are, like some countries. Or are we? I mean, is the U.S.-Mexico border, really a border? And what about that hilarious U.S.-Canada border?
The borders, they're just laughable. I can't help it. Right now I feel like busting up. It's all a bunch of pantomiming, this false sense that there's a division between Mexico and the U.S. Take, for example, when Stoker and I were coming back from Cabo San Lucas. In the airport in Mexico, their customs consisted of a line with some men in something resembling an official uniform, who told us to push a button, one person at a time. If the light flashed green after you pushed the button, you were okay, move along. If it turned red, you were not okay and you had to be searched. Stoker and I split up and went in different lines. Green for me, okay, go ahead. Red for Stoker, not okay, bludgeon him on the head. Just kidding, they're not that serious about customs.
They opened our bags. Actually, I think we switched the bags before they looked through it because Stoker had the bag with all our dirty laundry in it, and no one wants to air their dirty laundry in a Mexican airport. Ha ha. The officials did something resembling a baggage search, and whatever we had in there was okay. No drugs, no fruit, no illegal firearms, that sort of thing. So they let us go free, much to their dismay. They were so hoping for the chance to detain some unlucky American.
Yeah, so anyway. The job search is promising. I'll keep everyone updated. Perhaps the next thing you'll know, I'll be some top record executive raking in the dough.
Yes, yes, I know I should count my blessings. At least the country I live in isn't in uproar and we're not constantly wondering what our national boundaries are, like some countries. Or are we? I mean, is the U.S.-Mexico border, really a border? And what about that hilarious U.S.-Canada border?
The borders, they're just laughable. I can't help it. Right now I feel like busting up. It's all a bunch of pantomiming, this false sense that there's a division between Mexico and the U.S. Take, for example, when Stoker and I were coming back from Cabo San Lucas. In the airport in Mexico, their customs consisted of a line with some men in something resembling an official uniform, who told us to push a button, one person at a time. If the light flashed green after you pushed the button, you were okay, move along. If it turned red, you were not okay and you had to be searched. Stoker and I split up and went in different lines. Green for me, okay, go ahead. Red for Stoker, not okay, bludgeon him on the head. Just kidding, they're not that serious about customs.
They opened our bags. Actually, I think we switched the bags before they looked through it because Stoker had the bag with all our dirty laundry in it, and no one wants to air their dirty laundry in a Mexican airport. Ha ha. The officials did something resembling a baggage search, and whatever we had in there was okay. No drugs, no fruit, no illegal firearms, that sort of thing. So they let us go free, much to their dismay. They were so hoping for the chance to detain some unlucky American.
Yeah, so anyway. The job search is promising. I'll keep everyone updated. Perhaps the next thing you'll know, I'll be some top record executive raking in the dough.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Rock City: Not So Rockin'
I hurt my back on Friday. I was at work, lifting a case of water, and I twisted while lifting. Something you shouldn't do. But who knows that kind of stuff? Really. Is it so strange to think that my body is invincible? Aside from all the typical aches and pains that I regularly complain about to Stoker or my mother, I'm in good health. And I think I'm tough and buff and athletic and all that stuff that's not true about me anymore, but has essentially carried over from my youth, which ended at 27 (an aribitrary age that I picked by virtue of it not being 28). So I pick up a case of water, hefting it around like it's not a struggle, like it weighs about the same as my kitten, Sobek. But it doesn't. And I twisted (everyone told me after it happened: no no no, you shouldn't twist while lifting. Never, never do that).
So I tweaked something in my back and I was down for the count. Well, not really. I kept lifting things and working and trying to sit or stand, neither of which were very comfortable. Once I got home, lying down also wasn't comfortable and 800 mg's of Ibuprofen didn't seem to help, nor did the intermittent icing and heating.
This all led me to call my boss at 9:00 pm (Friday) to tell him I wouldn't be working on Saturday. Then I went to the grocery store to get some more powerful drugs, which they don't have at a grocery store, but I hoped perhaps they had started selling Lortab as an OTC without my knowledge. They didn't. But while I was there I picked up some other groceries. Then I went home.
Surprisingly, the walk did me good. My back felt somewhat better. Or maybe the 800 mg's of Ibuprofen had finally kicked in.
So the next day, Saturday, Stoker had off. And he had Sunday off too. And I had Saturday (called in*, remember?) and Sunday off. Hmmm. What does one do in a case like this? (I know, the average couple usually has the weekends off together. This hasn't happened for Stoker and I since we got married and moved to Arizona. I swear it.) One goes to Chattanooga. I know, you're thinking: why wouldn't you go to Chattanooga? It's obviously the thing to do. And you're right. So we went to Chattanooga.
We did all the things you would do in Chattanooga. We went on the Incline Railroad, a legendary railroad car that goes up a very steep mountain, known as Lookout Mountain (which, as they tell you while you're riding in the railroad car, is the southern most tip of the Appalachian Mountain range). And we went to Rock City.
What is Rock City, you might ask? Well, if you've driven anywhere in the south and especially if you've driven along I-24 towards Chattanooga, you've seen the billboards and barns imploring you to See Rock City. So we did. I imagined, from Stoker's description (based on what others had told him and what he'd read on the internet) and from the brochure, that it would be something akin to Zion National Park. If you've seen the brochure for Rock City, you'll notice that it mainly features cool images of giant boulders that you have to squeeze between and a cool waterfall and a great view of the valley below. And certainly there are those things.
Except the waterfall is man made. And the neat swinging bridge isn't quite as cool as the brochure makes it out to be (I know, that's the purpose of advertising). And there are freaky fake gnomes everywhere and all the places have fairy tale names. Literally. One of them, I think, is actually Fairy Tale. And there's this horrible section of the path (the path is paved with flagstones and it's pretty much the only way through it), a tunnel, wherein there are tiny scenes depicting gnomes mining, all lit up with black lights, and ocean coral glued to the ceiling. There are also scenes from fairy tales, like Hansel and Gretel, also lit up with black lights. Did I mention this portion of the path is freaky? I'm not quite sure why it's there or what to make of it, save the creators are trying to acheive some kind of Small World type of thing. Why? I don't know. They should simply embrace the rocks of Rock City instead of trying to be a theme park.
All in all, I'd have to say save your $15 (yes, that's the price of a measly walk through a freakish garden) and go to Zion National Park if you want to see a real wonder of the world. Admission to Zion's is much cheaper and it's all real. Seriously. My complaint is that the natural beauty of Rock City hasn't been exploited so much as it's been turned into something carnivalesque.
I'll allow that someone with children might get a kick out of Rock City. I guess that's the only time I could potentially justify a visit. Even then, I'd skip the freaky tunnel. Had I gone through it as a six-year old I think I'd come away a bit frightened, and probably would have had nightmares. Yes that's right. Nightmares.
*Interestingly, in Nashville they call it "calling out" when you call in sick. In Utah, where I'm from, they call it "calling in."
So I tweaked something in my back and I was down for the count. Well, not really. I kept lifting things and working and trying to sit or stand, neither of which were very comfortable. Once I got home, lying down also wasn't comfortable and 800 mg's of Ibuprofen didn't seem to help, nor did the intermittent icing and heating.
This all led me to call my boss at 9:00 pm (Friday) to tell him I wouldn't be working on Saturday. Then I went to the grocery store to get some more powerful drugs, which they don't have at a grocery store, but I hoped perhaps they had started selling Lortab as an OTC without my knowledge. They didn't. But while I was there I picked up some other groceries. Then I went home.
Surprisingly, the walk did me good. My back felt somewhat better. Or maybe the 800 mg's of Ibuprofen had finally kicked in.
So the next day, Saturday, Stoker had off. And he had Sunday off too. And I had Saturday (called in*, remember?) and Sunday off. Hmmm. What does one do in a case like this? (I know, the average couple usually has the weekends off together. This hasn't happened for Stoker and I since we got married and moved to Arizona. I swear it.) One goes to Chattanooga. I know, you're thinking: why wouldn't you go to Chattanooga? It's obviously the thing to do. And you're right. So we went to Chattanooga.
We did all the things you would do in Chattanooga. We went on the Incline Railroad, a legendary railroad car that goes up a very steep mountain, known as Lookout Mountain (which, as they tell you while you're riding in the railroad car, is the southern most tip of the Appalachian Mountain range). And we went to Rock City.
What is Rock City, you might ask? Well, if you've driven anywhere in the south and especially if you've driven along I-24 towards Chattanooga, you've seen the billboards and barns imploring you to See Rock City. So we did. I imagined, from Stoker's description (based on what others had told him and what he'd read on the internet) and from the brochure, that it would be something akin to Zion National Park. If you've seen the brochure for Rock City, you'll notice that it mainly features cool images of giant boulders that you have to squeeze between and a cool waterfall and a great view of the valley below. And certainly there are those things.
Except the waterfall is man made. And the neat swinging bridge isn't quite as cool as the brochure makes it out to be (I know, that's the purpose of advertising). And there are freaky fake gnomes everywhere and all the places have fairy tale names. Literally. One of them, I think, is actually Fairy Tale. And there's this horrible section of the path (the path is paved with flagstones and it's pretty much the only way through it), a tunnel, wherein there are tiny scenes depicting gnomes mining, all lit up with black lights, and ocean coral glued to the ceiling. There are also scenes from fairy tales, like Hansel and Gretel, also lit up with black lights. Did I mention this portion of the path is freaky? I'm not quite sure why it's there or what to make of it, save the creators are trying to acheive some kind of Small World type of thing. Why? I don't know. They should simply embrace the rocks of Rock City instead of trying to be a theme park.
All in all, I'd have to say save your $15 (yes, that's the price of a measly walk through a freakish garden) and go to Zion National Park if you want to see a real wonder of the world. Admission to Zion's is much cheaper and it's all real. Seriously. My complaint is that the natural beauty of Rock City hasn't been exploited so much as it's been turned into something carnivalesque.
I'll allow that someone with children might get a kick out of Rock City. I guess that's the only time I could potentially justify a visit. Even then, I'd skip the freaky tunnel. Had I gone through it as a six-year old I think I'd come away a bit frightened, and probably would have had nightmares. Yes that's right. Nightmares.
*Interestingly, in Nashville they call it "calling out" when you call in sick. In Utah, where I'm from, they call it "calling in."
Monday, August 28, 2006
Imaginary Conversations with Bastet
We’re going to Utah on Saturday to visit family. I’m excited about that. I’m a homebody, for those of you who don’t know that about me.
The strange thing is that I’m a homebody for this home here, now, the one I’ve made with Stoker and our two cats. I’m nervous about leaving it behind. Nervous about leaving the cats. We’ve arranged to have a trustworthy friend (Kevin) take care of them, but I’m the kind of person who projects my thoughts into their beautiful little minds. Perhaps, I think, they’ll worry. They’ll wonder when I’ll come home. They’ll be waiting for me, to see me, to have me open the door and come inside and feed them a tiny bit of tuna fish as their evening dinner. And I won’t open the door for many days. Will they worry? Do cats worry? I know, I know. I’m ridiculous. But that’s me.
I wish I could call them up and talk to them. Tell them that I’ll be home soon and have them understand that I haven’t left for forever.
Bastet: Hello?
Me: Basty?
Bastet: Yes, this is Bastet. Who is this?
Me: It’s your mom. It’s me.
Bastet: Ah yes. Where the hell are you?
Me: I’m in Utah visiting my mom. How are you doing?
Bastet: I’m starving. Where’s my treat?
Me: Kevin is supposed to be stopping by to check on you and give you your treat. He hasn’t been there yet?
Bastet: Kevin? Who the hell is Kevin? I haven’t seen anyone all day. I’m hungry and Sobek [the kitten we adopted] is bugging the hell out of me.
Me: I just wanted you to know I miss you and that I’ll be home before you know it.
Bastet: All I know is I miss my treat. Man, I’m starving.
Bastet has an attitude. I’m sure that if she could talk she’d say things like ‘hell’ and ‘damn.’ Perhaps a well-timed f-bomb when Sobek startles her. No, I’m kidding. Bastet is very regal and classy. She’d never stoop to cursing. But I do.
I’m not quite sure why I made her so unfeeling about our relationship. I suppose because it wouldn’t be funny to read about a cat telling her owner that she misses her. It’s much more humorous to have the relationship seem one-sided. But I know she loves me and will miss me. I like to think, anyway.
As this weekend approaches, I feel myself becoming more anxious, nervous and stressed. And I don’t want to go. At least, a part of me doesn’t want to. Like I said, I don’t want to leave the cats. I worry about the most impossible things happening. Like that Kevin won’t be able to come by and feed them because he gets in a car accident or something and so the cats starve. My mind goes so far as to supply images of them trying to scratch their way through the pantry door to get to their food. Or, the apartment burns down and no one is around to care enough to rescue them. Or there’s a tornado. Or an earthquake. Or some kind of enormous gas crisis and the airline can’t buy gas to fuel the plane and so we’re stuck in Utah.
It’s ridiculous. I know. Where do I get these ideas? Don’t ask me. A friend told me, recently, that these are things I can’t change so don’t worry about them.
But she’s wrong. I can change them, right? I can simply refuse to travel ever again.
Stupid, real stupid.
The strange thing is that I’m a homebody for this home here, now, the one I’ve made with Stoker and our two cats. I’m nervous about leaving it behind. Nervous about leaving the cats. We’ve arranged to have a trustworthy friend (Kevin) take care of them, but I’m the kind of person who projects my thoughts into their beautiful little minds. Perhaps, I think, they’ll worry. They’ll wonder when I’ll come home. They’ll be waiting for me, to see me, to have me open the door and come inside and feed them a tiny bit of tuna fish as their evening dinner. And I won’t open the door for many days. Will they worry? Do cats worry? I know, I know. I’m ridiculous. But that’s me.
I wish I could call them up and talk to them. Tell them that I’ll be home soon and have them understand that I haven’t left for forever.
Bastet: Hello?
Me: Basty?
Bastet: Yes, this is Bastet. Who is this?
Me: It’s your mom. It’s me.
Bastet: Ah yes. Where the hell are you?
Me: I’m in Utah visiting my mom. How are you doing?
Bastet: I’m starving. Where’s my treat?
Me: Kevin is supposed to be stopping by to check on you and give you your treat. He hasn’t been there yet?
Bastet: Kevin? Who the hell is Kevin? I haven’t seen anyone all day. I’m hungry and Sobek [the kitten we adopted] is bugging the hell out of me.
Me: I just wanted you to know I miss you and that I’ll be home before you know it.
Bastet: All I know is I miss my treat. Man, I’m starving.
Bastet has an attitude. I’m sure that if she could talk she’d say things like ‘hell’ and ‘damn.’ Perhaps a well-timed f-bomb when Sobek startles her. No, I’m kidding. Bastet is very regal and classy. She’d never stoop to cursing. But I do.
I’m not quite sure why I made her so unfeeling about our relationship. I suppose because it wouldn’t be funny to read about a cat telling her owner that she misses her. It’s much more humorous to have the relationship seem one-sided. But I know she loves me and will miss me. I like to think, anyway.
As this weekend approaches, I feel myself becoming more anxious, nervous and stressed. And I don’t want to go. At least, a part of me doesn’t want to. Like I said, I don’t want to leave the cats. I worry about the most impossible things happening. Like that Kevin won’t be able to come by and feed them because he gets in a car accident or something and so the cats starve. My mind goes so far as to supply images of them trying to scratch their way through the pantry door to get to their food. Or, the apartment burns down and no one is around to care enough to rescue them. Or there’s a tornado. Or an earthquake. Or some kind of enormous gas crisis and the airline can’t buy gas to fuel the plane and so we’re stuck in Utah.
It’s ridiculous. I know. Where do I get these ideas? Don’t ask me. A friend told me, recently, that these are things I can’t change so don’t worry about them.
But she’s wrong. I can change them, right? I can simply refuse to travel ever again.
Stupid, real stupid.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Stupid California
I took Stoker to the airport this morning. His flight left at 7:10 am, and we were an hour and half away. So, we left at 4:30 am. He texted me at 9 am to tell me that they were on the ground in L.A. and they’d get their luggage and whatnot and then he’d call me. That was an hour and a half ago. Why hasn’t he called?
I feel like a nutcase. I can’t take this. All I can think about is that he’s forgotten me. He’s in sunshiney Los Angeles, city of angels, surrounded by beautiful surfer girls in a very Beach Boys-esque way, and I’m the frumpy mountain girl from boring, cold Utah. He probably met some hot girl in the airport. He probably got off the plane and it was like in the movies when you go to Hawaii, with the gorgeous natives draping a lei around your neck saying, “Aloha,” with a dazzling, straight-toothed smile and dark, exotic skin. California airports have probably started welcoming tourists like that now, and the girl with the lei probably fell in love with his adorable, boyish face and asked for his phone number and how long he’ll be staying. She’ll probably take him to the beach in his spare time and teach him how to surf. Then they’ll sit on a blanket in the dusk with a little fire going (do they allow fires on beaches? I don’t know) and she’ll kiss him. What a bitch.
Okay. Stoker just called me. He didn’t say anything about a girl with flowers at the gate.
But I’m still a nutcase. Last night I told him that this trip will be the final test to determine whether or not I’ll marry him. If we pass this, great. I have my doubts. I’m already crazy and he’s only been gone four hours. I kind of thought I’d be fine. Kind of thought I’d be so busy I’d hardly notice. He lives an hour and half away from me anyway. We only see each other once during the week and on the weekends. I guess it’s not the distance that’s killing me. It’s the idea of where he is and who he’s with.
I have these ideals about love—that it’s not putting chains on someone, but finding freedom in the ability to trust someone and have their support. I have a friend, an older woman whose children are raised and she’s remarried. I really like how her relationship looks from the outside. It’s redundant to say that I don’t know what it’s like from the inside. But anyway, they get along very well. She’s a poet and her husband is always there to support her. He’s a carpenter and owns a dry-wall company—they’re from completely opposite worlds, in a way. Yet they love and support each other. They’re not trying to shape the other, make them into what they think they should be. I like that. I want that for myself. I want to trust Stoker and have him trust me. I want to grow because he supports my desires and dreams and I want to do that for him. It’s just difficult to feel like maybe he’ll forget me. Maybe he’ll be having so much fun and he won’t miss me and calling me will be a burden for him.
So I think that and then I push him away.
I have this other friend who’s been married for less than a year. She’s a year or two younger than me (I’m 26) and she just found out her husband has been living this whole lie, this other life. They’re getting divorced, and not because that’s what she wants. I think she’d work it out with him. It’s pretty nasty, what’s happening to her and I worry about my own life. I’m a worrier, I guess. I think in some ways I’m better off staying single. I’m not such a nutcase when I’m single. I don’t have to feel lonely and achy about being left behind, like I feel right now. I don’t have to worry about naked women on the covers of magazines at the 7-Eleven, or the fake-breasted (or not fake, you decide) woman with the thong hanging out walking past me on the street. I don’t have to worry about the gap I sometimes feel between me (a woman), and men. Sometimes I think it’d be easier to be a lesbian, except I’d be forcing that.
Anyway, I’m sure I can overcome the desire to push Stoker away, just because he’s in California and I’m not. Tonight I’ll run a million miles at the gym and I’ll exhaust myself. I’ll get enough sleep and eat healthily, take care of myself. I’ll get my hair trimmed. I’ll tie up all the loose ends that are flapping in my face all the time and distracting me. It’ll be like in the movies. Stupid movies, they’re always ruining my life.
I feel like a nutcase. I can’t take this. All I can think about is that he’s forgotten me. He’s in sunshiney Los Angeles, city of angels, surrounded by beautiful surfer girls in a very Beach Boys-esque way, and I’m the frumpy mountain girl from boring, cold Utah. He probably met some hot girl in the airport. He probably got off the plane and it was like in the movies when you go to Hawaii, with the gorgeous natives draping a lei around your neck saying, “Aloha,” with a dazzling, straight-toothed smile and dark, exotic skin. California airports have probably started welcoming tourists like that now, and the girl with the lei probably fell in love with his adorable, boyish face and asked for his phone number and how long he’ll be staying. She’ll probably take him to the beach in his spare time and teach him how to surf. Then they’ll sit on a blanket in the dusk with a little fire going (do they allow fires on beaches? I don’t know) and she’ll kiss him. What a bitch.
Okay. Stoker just called me. He didn’t say anything about a girl with flowers at the gate.
But I’m still a nutcase. Last night I told him that this trip will be the final test to determine whether or not I’ll marry him. If we pass this, great. I have my doubts. I’m already crazy and he’s only been gone four hours. I kind of thought I’d be fine. Kind of thought I’d be so busy I’d hardly notice. He lives an hour and half away from me anyway. We only see each other once during the week and on the weekends. I guess it’s not the distance that’s killing me. It’s the idea of where he is and who he’s with.
I have these ideals about love—that it’s not putting chains on someone, but finding freedom in the ability to trust someone and have their support. I have a friend, an older woman whose children are raised and she’s remarried. I really like how her relationship looks from the outside. It’s redundant to say that I don’t know what it’s like from the inside. But anyway, they get along very well. She’s a poet and her husband is always there to support her. He’s a carpenter and owns a dry-wall company—they’re from completely opposite worlds, in a way. Yet they love and support each other. They’re not trying to shape the other, make them into what they think they should be. I like that. I want that for myself. I want to trust Stoker and have him trust me. I want to grow because he supports my desires and dreams and I want to do that for him. It’s just difficult to feel like maybe he’ll forget me. Maybe he’ll be having so much fun and he won’t miss me and calling me will be a burden for him.
So I think that and then I push him away.
I have this other friend who’s been married for less than a year. She’s a year or two younger than me (I’m 26) and she just found out her husband has been living this whole lie, this other life. They’re getting divorced, and not because that’s what she wants. I think she’d work it out with him. It’s pretty nasty, what’s happening to her and I worry about my own life. I’m a worrier, I guess. I think in some ways I’m better off staying single. I’m not such a nutcase when I’m single. I don’t have to feel lonely and achy about being left behind, like I feel right now. I don’t have to worry about naked women on the covers of magazines at the 7-Eleven, or the fake-breasted (or not fake, you decide) woman with the thong hanging out walking past me on the street. I don’t have to worry about the gap I sometimes feel between me (a woman), and men. Sometimes I think it’d be easier to be a lesbian, except I’d be forcing that.
Anyway, I’m sure I can overcome the desire to push Stoker away, just because he’s in California and I’m not. Tonight I’ll run a million miles at the gym and I’ll exhaust myself. I’ll get enough sleep and eat healthily, take care of myself. I’ll get my hair trimmed. I’ll tie up all the loose ends that are flapping in my face all the time and distracting me. It’ll be like in the movies. Stupid movies, they’re always ruining my life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)