Schmolite

I made my way to Subway for lunch today (which was lovely, by the way). As I was heading back to my car and back to the office so I could eat and peruse the internets at the same time, I saw a guy and a girl headed in for some 6-inchers – or possibly foot-longs if they were feeling really crazy, not that we’re going down that dirty-minded road at this point – of their own. They were youngish, probably either high school seniors or in their first couple years of college. I thought, “How nice. They’re doing a Subway lunch date.”

Since the timing was just about right, I held the door open for them as I exited. The girl said, “Thank you…” and I couldn’t help but think how nice it is when people – strangers, even – are spontaneously but simply polite to each other, and I started to smile at the the thought when those ellipses caught up with me. Those ellipses can be a total bitch when it comes to dialogue, and in this case the girl finished her sentence, “… Sir.”

At that point I rabbit-punched her in the back of her big, dumb, blonde, luxuriously hirsute head, slammed the door on her falling body, and said, seething, “Don’t. [kick] Call. [door slam] Me. [stomp] SIR!” At that point, I stormed back to my car, any pleasant thoughts about people being polite disintegrating into mutters of “Polite? I’ll show you polite. I got your polite right here, you trollop!”

As I later reflected on the scene and the carnage that resulted, some questions came to mind:

• Was that a proportional response? Does feeling old because of something a teenager said justify assault and battery?
• Does politeness often go wrong like this?
• Is there anyone who actually likes being called sir or ma’am in this type of situation, especially by nubile, young people, when he or she (anyone being called sir or ma’am, not the young people doing the calling) is repeatedly reminded of advancing age by things no less clichéd than back pain?
• Isn’t “hirsute” a great word?

 

P.S. OK, fine. It’s possible that I didn’t actually hit the girl. Or even say anything mean to her. It’s possible that I just kind of grunted something like “Welcome,” and walked (rather than stormed) back to my car bemusedly. But there was some serious, if very well-hidden, rancor in that grunt.

I’m No Boy Scout

The first time I proposed to a girl was via email.

Shockingly, she said no.

I suppose I should provide a little more detail. This all happened several years ago, when I was youngish, had a much fuller head of hair, and still sported the goatee. I met the girl in question, whom we will call Pomona, on a free trip to the Caymans, courtesy of the Pretty Boy. I know you’re probably thinking that I was a fool to let an island encounter get me carried away and lead to a marriage proposal. OK, there’s a large percentage of you who don’t believe there was an island encounter in the first place, and, sadly, you are quite correct. Many of us on the free trip hung out and partied on and in the white sand and blue, blue water of the Caymans, and it was a magical week. But not quite so magical as to lead to a semi-random hook up for me.

Nonetheless, a number of fun people from that early December trip – most of whom lived in the Philly area – decided to try to have some more good times together by coming to D.C. to ring in the new year with those of us who were clever enough to already live in the D.C. area (i.e. me). Many emails flew around (this was before IM really caught on), and I traded several with Pomona. In one exchange she divulged 3 highly unusual things:

1. She and her dad had season tickets to Temple basketball games, not because they had any connection to the university at all, but solely because it allowed them to see some college hoops in person.
2. She happened to know off hand that UNC had lost the night before, but was bummed that she was unable to watch the game.
3. She liked Bobby Knight. (As a speaker. Mainly, anyway. She was trying to book him as a speaker for some event she was coordinating. I point this out not because that makes her right or smart but it’s such an unusual stance for anyone other than an old school IU fan to have.)

That was quite a lot to take in all at once, and I couldn’t help but be more than a tad shell shocked. I decided to go with some email flirtation, and I concluded my response with this gem:

I have to admit that I am fairly disturbed by many of your comments.  A woman who likes college basketball?  What?  She pays close enough attention to know that UNC lost last night?  She likes Bobby Knight?!!  It's a crazy thing.  I can't really explain how the existence of these things turns my world on its ear.  This may sound a little forward . . .  I mean, I know I don't know you that well . . .  but, um . . . well . . .  will you marry me?

Those of you who know about these things will know that my efforts at flirtation are doomed to fail because, as a middle reliever, I’m actually incapable of flirting. And, seriously, that could have possibly been just scary enough to scuttle the whole New Year’s Eve outing. However, my email wasn’t really about marriage. It really just meant, “I’m impressed by you, and I’d really like to date, or at least shag, you, and I’m going to attempt to convey that desire in a possibly creepy and definitely opaque manner that I misconstrued as charming, funny, and flirtatious.” As it turned out, Pomona wasn’t outwardly creeped out (or she at least hid it well), given this response:

I'll have to say no to the marriage proposal today...though, if you present me with a really big ring tomorrow night, I might reconsider.

That was actually somewhat funny and definitely cleverly deflecting of the whole issue. I suppose it could be summed up as, “I’m not particularly interested in shagging you, but I see no reason not to keep my options open for the time being.” Of course, I took it at the time, as was my wont, to mean, “I’d get wit cha if you were rich.” (I believe Kanye had a song about that sort of thing.)

I wrote something back, inevitably about how tough it was on an Abs in those days, and let the whole thing drop.

Right?

Wrong! At least about letting it drop. Yadambetcha I wrote about how tough it was on an Abs in those days. Because it was. However, instead of letting it drop, I opted to respond in a clever, charming, and witty way, even if doing so made me risk going a bit over the top. I decided to buy her that big ring and give it to her the next night.

So, when we met up at the hotel where we were crashing to head out for the New Year’s Eve festivities, Pomona surprised me by immediately asking, “Did you get me a big ring?” I wasn’t expecting her to continue our little joke, especially in front of our whole group of people, and I was more than a little perturbed by her stealing my surprising and charming move’s thunder. Still, there was nothing for it, so I somewhat reluctantly reached into my pocket and handed her a big, red ring pop. I suppose if I were being especially clever, I would have gotten down on a knee or something, but I was too put off of my game. She said, “Thanks,” smiled and we all headed out for the night.

An hour or so later, Pomona had a brief moment to chat, and, as she looked at the big sucker on her finger, I asked her about it: “So you were expecting me to give you a ring pop?”

“Yep.”

“Really?”

“Well, it was the obvious response.”

Sensing my distress at the utter failure of my charm, at being so “obvious,” she opted to be nice: “I liked it though. It was still funny. I would have liked it better if it was a green one, though.”

She was borderline stunned when I reached in my pocket and pulled out a green ring pop. I hadn’t been able to decide between the red or the green, so, big spender that I am, I bought both. “I definitely didn’t expect that,” she told me.

It was dumb luck that I was prepared for that situation, and one might think it was looking good for the Kid right there. What happened next, you wonder? Did Abs shock the world and manage to ring in the New Year with some fireworks? Did he capitalize on this unprecedented show of suavity?

Absolutely not. The details are a bit fuzzy, but at that point, some of our friends came over with shots, I proceeded to get famously drunk, and she went home with one of the guys she had traveled down from Philly with, which was really her plan all along, unbeknownst to me.

So what’s the point of this, you ask? I’m not exactly sure, other than that I was recently thinking about this story and how that second sucker ring made me so prepared. And it just didn’t matter because she just wasn’t particularly interested.

The next time around, I wasn’t nearly as prepared. I only got one ring for the Girl. Lucky for me, she didn’t say she would have preferred a green one; she just said, “Yes.”

So let those boy scouts “be prepared.” Maybe sometimes it’s better to just get it right.

How Big Is Your Car Hole?

For a long time now I've enjoyed talking about the size of garages on houses. Granted, some people, like Moe on The Simpsons, don't approve of the word garage, as explained in this exchange:

Moe: Garage? Hey, fellas, the garage. Well, ooh la-di-da, Mr. Frenchman.
Homer: Well, what do you call it?
Moe: A car hole.

Still, la-di-das aside, I think what got me started talking about garage sizes was when I heard someone talking about how their house had a "one and a half car garage."

"A 1.5 car garage?! That's absurd!" I said. "Is that for your extra half car that you have lying around?! Reediculous!"

Had I applied a bit of a filter between brain and mouth, I might have been able to figure out that it kind of makes sense to talk about garages that way. I mean, garages can be useful for holding things other than cars. They're dead useful for storing things like tools, lawn mowers, rakes, boxes full of random A/V cables, fishing gear, and other things that one doesn't use all that often and/or that just don't have a sensible home inside. Anyway, after hearing about a 1.5 car car hole for the first time, I started noticing that the size varied quite a bit.

By way of example, Lawton must have at least a 2.5 car garage, given that it can hold 2 decent sized cars with ample space between them for opening doors and even some room left over for storing some other shit. I've claimed for years that my mom has the biggest no car garage in the world, full to the brim as it is with junk and Emergency Backup Furniture just sitting there hoping that some of the Primary Furniture will break or be otherwise ruined thus leaving an opening for EBF to gain entry to the house.

When the Girl and I moved into the Halfway House, I decided that we have a 1.0 car garage. I suppose there are some shelves at the end of  it that make it a tad bigger, but it's not much more than 1.1 at the most. My car is both long and wide, meaning that I have to favor the right side when I get to park in there just so I can open my door enough to get out. I also have to pay attention to how far I pull in there to make sure there's ample room for the door to close. Still, a 1.0 car garage is better than no car hole at all, and I'm generally glad to have it.

As as aside, I should mention that the Girl and I have differing opinions about the garage door and just how important its status is in our daily lives. Whenever we leave together or come in through the garage together, she is always very insistent that she watch the garage door to make sure it closes all the way. She claims that's important for home security, in that it helps make sure no one can enter our garage as the first step in stealing her. Her insistence on watching tends to annoy me, because the garage door is clearly going to close all the way. After all, that IS why we have a garage door opener, and there can't really be a problem with a piece of machinery doing such a simple job that it has done many times in the past. Never mind the fact that there have been a few times when the door allegedly went almost all the way down, only to change its mind and rise up again. That was due to some rakes partially covering the sensor, a situation that I have since remedied. I suppose to give you a complete picture of our differing opinions about the garage door, I should mention that there are times when I will leave via the garage in the morning well after the Girl has gone off to work (having parked across the street to avoid having to move the car out of her way in the morning, thus giving me some extra snooze time in the AM). We have a couple of locks on the front door, and it's much simpler to just hit the close button on the remote than to deal with the multiple locks. A couple of those times, I have received calls from the Girl asking me why in the world the garage door is not even pretending to be closed, and I have had no choice but to sheepishly admit that not only did I not watch the door close, I never even hit the button to tell it to close. So ... we definitely pay different levels of attention to that garage door.

The other night I came home from work after a pretty long day with several work things bouncing around my brain. I parked in the driveway, hopped out, and came in through the front door, only to discover that the Girl was putting in an even longer day at work. So I went back out through the garage and pulled my car into the car hole, still thinking about work. On my way in, I hit the button to close the door, paying its ensuing activity all the attention I typically think it is due, which is to say none. A while later, the Girl finally made it home, and I heard the garage door start to go. I figured she must have also had her mind on work to open the garage door when she knew I was already home and parked in there. No matter, though. I waited for her to come upstairs. And then I heard the door opener start up again. It seemed to be going on for a while. Something was not quite right. So I hopped up and went down to see what was going on. I poked my head out and asked, kind of smiling, "Why you keep runnin' that door up and down?"

"I'm not. I'm just trying to close it. It was wide open when I came home."

"Whaaaaaattt? Oh no."

And I walked around to the back of my car to see the results of my distracted parking. Apparently, I had not made sure to pull all the way inside the garage. Thus, unsurprisingly, the garage door had encountered my rear bumper and absolutely scraped the shit out of it in an attempt to close before deciding that something was wrong and going back up. That sequence repeated itself twice when the girl came home and tried to get the door to close.

The moral of this story? I think there might be several, most of which I'm probably not clever enough to grasp. In fact that may be one of the morals. But the ones that are apparent to me are 1) don't park distracted, 2) don't think about work when you're at home -- or anywhere else outside of work, 3) in the case of car holes size may very well matter, and 4) the Girl may be right about the garage door opener deserving at least a little more attention.

But 5) don't you go telling her I said so.

Luck Runs Out

No, I'm not talking about the Patriots' almost perfect season here. I wouldn't use the word "luck" in any way when talking about their season. (If I were going to talk about that, the title would probably have been "Cheaters Don't Always Win.") What I am talking about is the AbsPod. Almost a year ago, I wrote a couple of posts about leaving my iPod on an airplane. While it seemed pretty bad at first, I ended up lucky, getting the AbsPod back just one day later, after it had made a nice little round trip jaunt to Grand Rapids, MI.

Well, I wasn't so lucky this weekend. I was talking with the BHK when I arrived home after golf (yes, golf!) Saturday, and I had a few too many things going on as I opened the door to enter the house. As a result, the AbsPod fell right out of my hands. I've dropped the thing several times before, but I typically manage to get a foot under it to cushion the blow or something. Not so much this time. It fell straight down and landed flat on its back on the concrete floor of the garage with a sickening smack. I was bummed about it, but I had other things going on, and I quickly stopped thinking about it.

Sunday morning, I grabbed my standard five things (keys, gym ID card, bottle of water, towel, and AbsPod) and went to the gym, not thinking at all about the stomach-turning smack from the day before. As I started into my work out, I fired up the AbsPod to listen to something, and it did it's normal turning on things, then presented me with a cartoon-ized picture of an iPod with a frowny face, along with this message: "www.apple.com/ipod/support." DOH! I messed with it for a while, but listening to it closely revealed that the hard drive was making lots of clicks and grinding noises, which told me that the hard drive was toast.

I guess I shouldn't be too bummed out about it. I could decide that I've been using it on borrowed time for the last 11 months. I could possibly fix it by cracking it open and digging into the actual iPod molecules and replacing the hard drive, and I probably will. But that's not a for-sure thing. That's just the engineer in me talking. In the more immediate future, I ordered an iPod touch to replace it. The upside of that is that it has no hard drive to ruin.

It's not all bad. For a little anguish and a lot of money, I get a new toy to play with. Still, I hope your weekend was luckier than mine.

Hi, I'd Like to Write a Blog Post

Having just recently polished off lunch, my brain is filled with a topic I have to share, hopefully flushing it from my brain in the process. I had a pita sandwich from a local place that I've been patronizing for well over 10 years now. When I started going there, they only had the one little store, and they were only open from 8 AM - 3 PM on workdays. They've grown over the years, adding a couple of other stores, one of which is even open part of the day on Saturdays now. Anyway, the first location is the one that I go to most of the time because it's closest to the office. It's just a little building with no place to sit down or anything. You pretty much walk in, wait in line, place your order, move around for a little while to get out of everyone else's way that you are constantly in while waiting for your order to be prepared, pick up your order when they call your name, and get the heck out to go eat. That's one way of doing it.

The preferred method of interacting with the place, though, is to call ahead and place your order, which they prepare before you get there. That way, you can just go to the special call-ahead register to quickly pay, pick up, and leave. I used the preferred method today, but the start of that call got me thinking about how it's a bit awkward. Obviously, when they answer, they're not expecting small talk about their health or the weather or anything. They're busy people, and they have a job to do and they don't want to talk to you just now. However, I feel some compulsion to announce my intention to them: "Hi, I'd like to place an order for pick up," is something you might hear me say if you were around me when I called to place an order for pick up.

And maybe that's fine, but it seems silly to me. First of all, of course I want to place an order for pick up. It's not like they deliver. And it's not like I can place an order to dine in. Really, the only option I have is to place an order for pick up. Has ordering pizzas so conditioned me that I'm inflexible in the way I start a food order call? Why can't I just launch into my order? Why do I need the preamble? Do I somehow think they might not be ready to write it down, sort of like the protocol where you ask people if they're ready to write down a phone number when you give it to them over the phone? Do I worry they might not know I'm calling to make an order, that maybe I want to know when they close or whether they sell things other than pita sandwiches or where my socks are or some such nonsense? Am I concerned that they can't process my order without the preamble?

I mean, what would you do if I called you and said, "Hi, I'd like to talk to you on the phone now?" I'd like to think that you would either hang up or say something to the effect of, "Duh." but I guess that reaction would cure me of such things. Sigh. I'll probably keep doing it until they respond with a "Duh."

I'm going to stop writing this post now.

No Tire Trash

As I alluded to briefly not long ago, the Girl and I recently traveled to Mexico for a wedding. I know you're wondering where we went and thinking about places like Cancun, Cabo, or ... other places in Mexico that are kind of tropical and/or resort-y. However, we went to San Pancho. Never heard of it? I hadn't either. Upon hearing that we were going there, a friend pointed out to me that San Francisco, Mexico is quite the up-and-comer as far as Mexican destinations go. I had no idea why she was telling me that when we were going to San Pancho, but I didn't correct her, since none of it particularly mattered to me. I have since learned that it's the same place. Apparently, Pancho is a nickname for Francisco, I assume in much the same way that Peggy is a nickname for Margaret, by which I mean "in a stupid way." Apparently, that is just one of many things that I didn't understand about names and words down there. That said, we had quite the good time, the wedding went off without real issues (even though it was really a poser wedding, as the couple had already been married by a JOP in the states a week or so prior), and none of the scorpions or lizards in our villa attacked us.

It was quite the whirlwind tour, though. We left our home at butt-early on a Thursday, making use of three flights and four airports (cursing the chaos and uncertainty in the Mexico City airport along the way) to get to Puerto Vallarta. Those of you who are very observant will have noted by now that Puerto Vallarta was not our final destination. From there, after just barely surviving the onslaught of questions from people about whether we needed a taxi or had some sort of voucher, we took an hour-long cab ride to San Pancho (confusingly -- at the time --following the signs to San Francisco to get there) and exhaustedly trekked down the mountain from our villa to a cocktail party. [Aside: if you can glean from the website for the villa that we rented that it's on the side of a mountain, please explain how. Otherwise, my tip is that you specifically ask that question of the rental agent, lest you be doomed to walking down and, much, much worse, up the side of a mountain to get from and to your temporary domicile. Looking at it again makes me think one should be very wary of the word "hillside," which I didn't see until just now.] Sleeping quickly if not thoroughly, I got up at 5:45 the next morning to take the trip back to Puerto Vallarta for a golf outing. On the way, I noticed a road sign through my morning brain fog that told people not to throw tires out. And then the morning brain was off, lumbering along on that train of thought. Is that how they do it in Mexico? Do they just chuck old tires out on the side of the road? And is the problem so rampant that they have to post signs up along the highway saying "no tire trash?" Or is it just that somehow some damned kids made it into a tradition to throw tires out in that particular place? (Having not been on any other roads, I couldn't really know whether this particular sign was on any others.) Either way, it's definitely not a very eco-friendly practice, and it seems like a very odd sign to have on the side of the highway.

A couple of days later, I saw the same sign while in a cab on the way to the airport to head home. And I couldn't help but marvel at it again. But my morning brain wasn't in full effect at the time, and I had no choice to laugh at my idiocy. See, for some reason I know that the Spanish word for trash is basura. And I know that the Spanish word for no is no. So what I read on that sign through my groggy and confused view of the world was "NO TIRE BASURA," which obviously translated into "NO TIRE TRASH." However, the second time around, I realized that road signs in Mexico are probably written entirely in Spanish, rather than in Spanglish, and certainly not in Spanglish wherein the Spanish part is limited to the 4 Spanish words I know. So what the sign actually said was "NO TIRE BASURA." A little Googling leads me to believe that tire is a form of the verb tirar, which, in the context of basura, means "to throw away." So the sign wasn't telling people "no tire trash;" it was telling people "no littering." Remember that next time you're in Mexico and exceedingly tired while traveling on the highway. It will save you a lot of unnecessary thinking.

Hasta Pasta.

Luck be the AbsPod

Here's a follow-up on yesterday's post explaining once again that not only am I an idiot, but allowing myself to be irritated only leads to bad things.

All day yesterday I was wondering what the possibilities were that I would get my iPod back. When I filled out the Lost Item Form at the airport on Sunday night, I asked the woman working there what she thought my chances were of me getting the AbsPod back. She said, "Well, if it's still there and our people find it, they'll send it back. But if someone else found it, it's pretty much gone." That was an impressive non-prediction from her. So I calmly fretted about it for much of the day yesterday, willing myself not to call early and often. Instead, I waited until about 3:30 to call, at which point no one answered. I got a voice mail box indicating that I could leave a message. So I did, but I felt very sure that no one would call me back.

The hours crawled by without a return call, and I tried to decide whether that meant that they didn't find it in Michigan, or whether they just didn't have it back at DCA yet. Surprisingly, I wasn't able to work that out, but I thought about it any way. After 3 hours, I decided they weren't going to call me back at all. Still, I decided that I would not inundate them with phone calls, as that would drove both them and me crazy. So I waited.

I was talking with the Girl around 7:40, and I got another call from a phone number I didn't recognize it. I quickly answered to find that it was the woman from Northwest Baggage Services, and she said, "You know we got your iPod back." What?! HELL NO I DIDN'T! "You can pick it up whenever you like."

So I scooted over there and picked it up without much trouble. Rather than having to replace it, I had to worry for a day, make two trips to the airport, and pay $4 for parking. That's not a bad reclamation fee.

I happily left the airport without even asking if I would be credited with frequent flier miles for the round trip to Grand Rapids.

Good, Bad, and Ugly

This weekend, the Girl and I jetted off to Indiana. Sure, some people like to get away to someplace warm during a February cold snap, but we went someplace even colder. And I know that some people like to go someplace that might be considered hip, where things are happening. However, we had a very specific goal on this trip: to watch our beloved Hoosiers play in person in the Assembly Hall in Bloomington, IN. And watch we did.

We flew into Indy on Friday (going direct and being sure to avoid Atlanta), and managed to borrow a vehicle from my folks that had neither a flat tire nor a cracked windshield, and we headed down to B-town. We saw some friends, had some meals, went to some bars, and watched the Hoosiers eke out a closer-than-we-hoped-but-very-exciting-all-the-same victory against the Illini. Good times. There was snow, I ate a breaded pork tenderloin, and we tooled around in a pickup truck. It was a very Hoosier weekend as far as I was concerned. It was, without question, Good.

While driving back and forth, we used the AbsPod (which is my shiny, relatively new, black 80GB iPod with video) and an iTrip to listen to the tunes we liked on the truck's radio. On the way back to Indy, the battery in the AbsPod just gave out, which was a bummer, since we had a plane trip coming up, and I might need to use it to watch or listen to something to entertain myself while the Girl slept (she typically falls asleep on planes well before take off). Luckily, we had some time to visit with my folks in Indy before heading to the airport, and I took advantage of that time to give the AbsPod a bit of a charge, asking everyone around to help me remember it before I left. They all obliged, and I remembered the AbsPod when we went off to the airport.

At the airport, I got to experience a couple of the ways in which the TSA hates me. There was only a short line at security, but it seemed to be growing rapidly. While we were waiting, one woman just offered a bit of an "excuse me" and ignored everyone's complaints as she weaved through all the would-be travelers in line and eased through the machines. As we were discussing how rude that was, another woman began lifting the barricade ropes and escorting a man to the front of the line. Noticing annoyed looks, she said, "We have a Clear passenger." You could hear the capital letter. "Oh, well, in that case, of course. Go right ahead." I was irked. On her way back, she stopped to tell me that I should pick up their brocure. Rather than punch her in the kneecap for trying to sell me something while being condescending at the same time, I asked if it cost money and sent her on her way when she said it was about $100/year. Now, I know about this program where people pay to have background checks and do biometric identification to get through security faster, but I think has to be a better way to handle it than making everyone who's already in line move out of the way for the royalty to get through. I almost went all Monty Python and hollered, "Help! Help! I'm being oppressed!"

But I'm sure I wasn't being fair to these people skipping past all of us waiting our turn in line. I was already predisposed to annoyance because I could see that this security line was making everyone go through a Puffer. For those of you who haven't experienced one, the Puffer is the most irritating fake security measure the TSA has come up with yet. I can't get into a rant about that right here, because neither you nor I have the time, but suffice it to say that these devices make me think that a little monkeying with things would be a good idea. It also makes me think that the TSA is trying to make the airways safe by annoying travelers enough so that they will just not fly anywhere. Planes without passengers are inherently safe from terrorists. Even more irritating is that the Puffer, in conjunction with people constantly cutting through the line, had backed things up so much that they opened a second, non-puffer security line just as I got to the front of the more irritating one. However, since my blood pressure is rising just thinking about all of this, let's move on.

Our plane was a regional jet, and we took off only a few minutes late after the ground crew added some ballast to the cargo hold to help balance the plane. I'm all for the plane being balanced, so that slight delay didn't bother me even a little bit. We also landed on time, but we had to sit on the tarmac for 30 minutes because there was another plane in our gate. Pretty much everyone on the plane thought it was ridiculously annoying, but there was nothing we could do about it. I kept myself entertained by alternately reading and laughing at the flight attndant, who repeatedly marched up and down the aisle insisting that anyone who had unbuckled his seat belt put it back on. I'm not making this up. She was very concerned about those seat belts staying on and told several people that they "needed" to put their belts back on. Every time she heard the click of a seat belt, she raised her head and marched down the aisle to find the offender. By the time we got to a gate, I was pretty irritated, and I grabbed my bag, coat, and book and deplaned as quickly as I could, which wasn't very quickly given that the Girl and I were seated in the very last row. Security irritation and sitting on the tarmac for a half hour: Bad.

Still, we'd had a good trip and a good weekend, and our bags came out of the baggage return very quickly. After a short cab ride, I was back at home sort of unpacking. It was at that point that i realized that the AbsPod was nowhere to be found. In my annoyance, I had departed the plane without retrieving my iPod from the seat back pouch I had put it in when I first sat down. I did some googling to figure out what to do, and it wasn't very clear. So I called Northwest reservations who told me he wasn't sure, but he thought I would have to call the ticket counter at the aiport. Unfortunately, they don't have a number one can call (what?!), so I would just have to go there the next day (they were naturally closed at 9 PM on a Sunday). Instead, I drove to the airport. I figured maybe the plane was still there, maybe I could get someone to get it for me, assuming the cleaning crew hadn't found and kept it. After asking around about what to do, I went to Northwest's baggage services office and explained my plight. The very nice and efficient woman there told me that the plane had already left for Grand Rapids. As I filled out a form, she called the Grand Rapids airport and asked someone there to check my seat back pouch -- the plane had just landed here -- for the AbsPod and to send it back to DCA if they found it. She gave me a number to call this afternoon and no predictions on whether I would get the device back. So I trudged back to my car contemplating the Ugly thought that I might have to replace the AbsPod and that I have once again proven that I am, without question, an idiot.

Another Straw on the Haystack

It was very odd to me when I received a request for my blog last week. First, someone was admitting out loud that he or she reads it, damn the aspersions that fact may cast on his or her character. Second, the request was specifically for "non-sports" content. Granted, my blog is not a sports blog. However, I do love the sports. And the college basketball. (Yes, I know it's a sport, but I feel it deserves its own mention.)

Still, never let it be said that the reader's voice goes unheard or unheeded. This is not at all a sports post. Instead, it is another small pebble in the mountain of evidence that I am an idiot.

I thought I managed my morning pretty well today. I got out of bed, showered, dressed, grabbed my computer, iPod, breakfast, and soda, and hit the road. I made it in in plenty of time for my morning meeting, did my part, and headed back to my desk. All good, right?

The only thing is that on the way back to my desk, another meeting attendant discreetly told me that there was a sticker on my pants. So I looked. No, on the other side, the informant told me. Sure enough, there was a sticker indicating the size of the trousers, which is helpful when there are many of them on a shelf, but not so helpful post-purchase. That is, it's not helpful unless one is looking for evidence that the wearer is somewhat clueless. Sigh.

The worst part is that I couldn't be completely certain whether I had worn these pants before. I'm hoping I hadn't.