Observations from the Mothership: Day 2

The Day of Extreme Oversleeping

Sometimes things don't go quite according to plan.  Today was just such a day.  I'd intended to get an early(ish) start and do all my sightseeing today when I could leave my junk behind at the hotel and not have to worry about carting it everywhere, thereby saving the Scottish archives for tomorrow.  Instead, I was jolted awake at almost 1 pm by a horrific screeching noise blaring through my hotel room.  I've got to tell you, that's one hell of a way to wake up, and not one I care to repeat.  I don't know if all fire alarms in Britain or Scotland are that loud, but there might as well have been 6 ambulances parked around my bed.  I have a new sympathy for the plight of Odysseus trying to keep his sailors deaf to the Sirens' songs. While certainly I didn't intend to sleep past 10 am or so, a random fire drill still seems an unnecessarily enthusiastic wake-up call on the part of my hotel. That's not how you elicit tips, people.

Restored to enforced alertness, I took a quick shower involving a hotel bath towel far larger than the traditionally postage-stamp-sized towels we generally get in American hotels, got dressed, and checked my messages before finally making it out the door around 2-2:30.  While perhaps understandable after the jet lag and caffeine of last night, losing some 4-5 hours of potential adventure to sleep still seems an egregious waste of my already far too limited and precious time on this continent.  Didn't stop me from trying to make the most of what day was left, however.

My first stop upon leaving the hotel was to go grab one of the city's sight-seeing buses even though I took the tour some 15 years ago in the scant 3 hours I had here.  But I figured it would be the quickest and easiest way to get around where I wanted to go and I was assured that the hop-on, hop-off buses would be running till 8 pm tonight.  Plus, I got a discounted ticket to the Castle (which I've also seen but still wanted to visit again).  I didn't spend too much time on the bus before arriving at the castle stop, but I appreciated the modern upgrade in technology which allowed me to plug in earphones to the side of the bus so I could more easily and clearly hear the audio tour.  No doubt this also saves the cost of paying salaried workers to stand around in the cold and rain repeating the same spiel 5,000 times a week.  And because I could hear over the road noises and the rattling of the buses, I learned several interesting tidbits like the one about the brewer who was responsible for building Usher Hall and who happened to be a teetotaler, or that a young Sean Connery once posed nude for a student life studies class at the College of Art (is that your sporran, or are you just happy to see me?) The more you know...

Once at the castle stop I jumped off the bus so I could see everything before the castle closed at 6 pm.  This proved to be a wise move as I was one of the last people to leave the environs.  Whichever tour guide said to allow 2-3 hours to view the grounds was spot on.  Another handy technological upgrade was the addition of DIY audio tours.  I was given headphones and a giant iPhone into which I could punch the numbers listed conveniently around the castle and listen to stories and facts about that particular part of the castle.  This was actually nice because it allows you to move throughout the grounds at your own speed, as well as to repeat or fast forward through any bits of audio you liked.  As a result, I learned several new things about the Castle that I didn't remember from my previous trip, including that the castle is built on top of Castle Rock, which was formed by a volcano that erupted some 350 million years ago, that St. Margaret's Chapel is the oldest building in Scotland (12th century) and that my 1st cousin Sir Walter Scott (of Ivanhoe fame) was one of the people who set out to find and recover the Honours of Scotland (Scotland's crown jewels), which had been hidden away for over 100 years after the Acts of Union cause the dissolution of the Scottish Parliament.  Yup...my family is just that awesome.

Royal quarters

While there I saw the Scottish War museum, the war memorial, the prison (which I didn't remember) and the esplanade lined with cannons.  These were wussy, lackluster cannons compared to Mons Meg, a behemoth bombard built in 1449 as a gift for James II.  The "largest gun ever fired in anger on British soil," this 20" caliber cannon took 400 lb (insert rude jokes here); when it was fired in salute for Mary Stuart's marriage to the dauphin of France, the shot was found some two miles away.  That's some serious firepower for the time.  No wonder the Stuarts were gunning for Elizabeth I.  I also got to see the tiny closet chamber where James VI/I was born and I took a selfie with Mary Stuart, because why  not?  She looked bored...positively stony, in fact.  Meanwhile, visitors to the castle were truly diverse; I overheard conversations in French, Spanish, German, assorted Asian languages, and various dialects of American and British English.  I also saw a woman with Canadian flag gloves and a big, fuzzy hat that made her look a little like Cookie Monster.

Mons Meg

After leaving the castle, I wandered down the upper part of the Royal Mile for a bit to look for some clan scarves because I wanted a little of the Scott tartan now that I know I am descended from that clan (among others).  Not surprisingly, this section of the Royal Mile consists almost exclusively of shops flogging cashmere and lambswool scarves and assorted other kitschy trinkets, so much so that I'm now convinced "Royal Mile" is Gaelic for "Tourists, Please Spend Your Money Here."  I did purchase a couple of scarves, springing for the good stuff since I'm not likely to get this way again any time soon.  Mmmmm, cashmere....  I was also treated to an odd group of people wearing matching t-shirts emblazoned with a symbol that looked like nothing so much as a space-age number nine.  Obviously they were together, but I've no idea what their group was and I hadn't seen them at the castle.

After making my purchases I went to the bus stop, only to discover that I had just missed the last run of my particular tour.  This confused me, since they'd said they would be running till 8 pm (which it wasn't yet), but after loitering for over half an hour waiting on buses that should be running every 15 minutes, I finally gave it up as a bad job and started walking. Unfortunately, my feet were hurting from treading all the cobblestones, on which I'd earlier half-rolled my ankle twice.  I'm starting to remember why I gave up wearing orthotics a few years ago  Sure, they keep your feet aligned and ease the pressures of unsupported arches and insteps, but they also encourage already weak ankles to fall off the side of any non-level surface, aka the entirety of Castle Hill and the Royal Mile.  As a result, I wimped out and started looking for a taxi.  One finally stopped in front of me and I waited for the current passenger to get out, only to have him fall literally at my feet after stumbling over a step on the taxi.  If I had known that Edinburgh was going to rain men at my feet, I'd have come to visit here much sooner.  Anyway, I checked that the man was okay, then climbed in the taxi and took it to the Hard Rock Cafe for dinner.

Apparently there's more to do in Edinburgh than see the castle or shop for wool.

Okay, I realize that Hard Rock is a bit of a cop-out when one is surrounded by the unique cuisine of an entire nation, but I was exhausted by this time and it was close and a known quantity.  Besides, I can now say that I have eaten at a Hard Rock in 4 different countries (not that I'm bragging, or anything...nope).  Totally worth it, though, for no other reason than my server Crrrrrrrraig, who was really a bartender, but who waited on me while I sat at a table by the window.  Crrrrrrraig was tall, had sandy hair, and was lovely and charming and made me laugh.  We discussed the relative merits of the barbecue options when compared to Memphian BBQ:  "I don't knooooow about Mehmphis barrrrrbecue..."  "It's world-famous."  "Weeeeel, if it's wharld-fehmous, you might find this a wee bit disappointing..."  He suggested instead a Hickory Smoked burger which involved cheddar, carmelized onions and bacon, because I was too big a coward to try the burger with haggis and it was indeed delicious.  Crrrrrrraig did tell me that you could get some haggis samples at some of the food stalls so that you could try it without committing to a whole meal of it.  Crrrrrrraig kept coming over to chat with me and check on me; I think he enjoyed the novelty of my accent as much as I enjoyed his.  When he asked if I wanted dessert, I said I wanted some, but didn't really need any. I then asked him about the apple cobbler, only to have him warn me about the abundance of cinnamon in the dish..."Do you like cinnamon?"  Oh, Crrrrrrraig, if you only knew. He then told me that I needed to "trrrrrrreat myself because I'm on holiday."  Twist my arm, Crrrrrrraig, twist my arm.  Hell, I'll start making your car payments if you just keep talking to me in that accent all night.  Seriously--I am such a Highland brogue whore.

Across the street from my window was The George, a hotel I'd considered when making my reservations for Edinburgh because it wasn't far from the archives.  Ultimately I selected a different hotel instead because it was cheaper and actually isn't far from stuff either. Still, I'd be willing to bet this gorgeous Georgian-style hotel doesn't assault its patrons with the song of the bean sidhe.  I mean, I know I'm in Scotland and all, but banshee sirens seem a little above and beyond the call of duty.  If that's the difference, perhaps I should have spent the extra few pounds for the swankier hotel...the façade certainly was lovely.

After dessert I paid the bill and received well-wishes from Crrrrrrraig, then headed back to my hotel, my feet much happier after the brief respite.  Outside the last of the sunset was fading away, leaving the skies a deep azure falling like a protective blanket over the glorious spires of the city and giving me a most beautiful and peaceful walk home.  What more could a girl want?

Blue skies at night, Scotland's delight.

Kilt count:  4 1/2 (Caught a quick flash of one, but not a proper look...and no, not that kind of
                             flash, ya perv.)
Trews count:  3   (Still not as good as kilts...no knees showing.)

Observations from the Mothership: Day 2

The Day of Extreme Oversleeping

Sometimes things don't go quite according to plan.  Today was just such a day.  I'd intended to get an early(ish) start and do all my sightseeing today when I could leave my junk behind at the hotel and not have to worry about carting it everywhere, thereby saving the Scottish archives for tomorrow.  Instead, I was jolted awake at almost 1 pm by a horrific screeching noise blaring through my hotel room.  I've got to tell you, that's one hell of a way to wake up, and not one I care to repeat.  I don't know if all fire alarms in Britain or Scotland are that loud, but there might as well have been 6 ambulances parked around my bed.  I have a new sympathy for the plight of Odysseus trying to keep his sailors deaf to the Sirens' songs. While certainly I didn't intend to sleep past 10 am or so, a random fire drill still seems an unnecessarily enthusiastic wake-up call on the part of my hotel. That's not how you elicit tips, people.

Restored to enforced alertness, I took a quick shower involving a hotel bath towel far larger than the traditionally postage-stamp-sized towels we generally get in American hotels, got dressed, and checked my messages before finally making it out the door around 2-2:30.  While perhaps understandable after the jet lag and caffeine of last night, losing some 4-5 hours of potential adventure to sleep still seems an egregious waste of my already far too limited and precious time on this continent.  Didn't stop me from trying to make the most of what day was left, however.

My first stop upon leaving the hotel was to go grab one of the city's sight-seeing buses even though I took the tour some 15 years ago in the scant 3 hours I had here.  But I figured it would be the quickest and easiest way to get around where I wanted to go and I was assured that the hop-on, hop-off buses would be running till 8 pm tonight.  Plus, I got a discounted ticket to the Castle (which I've also seen but still wanted to visit again).  I didn't spend too much time on the bus before arriving at the castle stop, but I appreciated the modern upgrade in technology which allowed me to plug in earphones to the side of the bus so I could more easily and clearly hear the audio tour.  No doubt this also saves the cost of paying salaried workers to stand around in the cold and rain repeating the same spiel 5,000 times a week.  And because I could hear over the road noises and the rattling of the buses, I learned several interesting tidbits like the one about the brewer who was responsible for building Usher Hall and who happened to be a teetotaler, or that a young Sean Connery once posed nude for a student life studies class at the College of Art (is that your sporran, or are you just happy to see me?) The more you know...

Once at the castle stop I jumped off the bus so I could see everything before the castle closed at 6 pm.  This proved to be a wise move as I was one of the last people to leave the environs.  Whichever tour guide said to allow 2-3 hours to view the grounds was spot on.  Another handy technological upgrade was the addition of DIY audio tours.  I was given headphones and a giant iPhone into which I could punch the numbers listed conveniently around the castle and listen to stories and facts about that particular part of the castle.  This was actually nice because it allows you to move throughout the grounds at your own speed, as well as to repeat or fast forward through any bits of audio you liked.  As a result, I learned several new things about the Castle that I didn't remember from my previous trip, including that the castle is built on top of Castle Rock, which was formed by a volcano that erupted some 350 million years ago, that St. Margaret's Chapel is the oldest building in Scotland (12th century) and that my 1st cousin Sir Walter Scott (of Ivanhoe fame) was one of the people who set out to find and recover the Honours of Scotland (Scotland's crown jewels), which had been hidden away for over 100 years after the Acts of Union cause the dissolution of the Scottish Parliament.  Yup...my family is just that awesome.

Royal quarters

While there I saw the Scottish War museum, the war memorial, the prison (which I didn't remember) and the esplanade lined with cannons.  These were wussy, lackluster cannons compared to Mons Meg, a behemoth bombard built in 1449 as a gift for James II.  The "largest gun ever fired in anger on British soil," this 20" caliber cannon took 400 lb (insert rude jokes here); when it was fired in salute for Mary Stuart's marriage to the dauphin of France, the shot was found some two miles away.  That's some serious firepower for the time.  No wonder the Stuarts were gunning for Elizabeth I.  I also got to see the tiny closet chamber where James VI/I was born and I took a selfie with Mary Stuart, because why  not?  She looked bored...positively stony, in fact.  Meanwhile, visitors to the castle were truly diverse; I overheard conversations in French, Spanish, German, assorted Asian languages, and various dialects of American and British English.  I also saw a woman with Canadian flag gloves and a big, fuzzy hat that made her look a little like Cookie Monster.

Mons Meg

After leaving the castle, I wandered down the upper part of the Royal Mile for a bit to look for some clan scarves because I wanted a little of the Scott tartan now that I know I am descended from that clan (among others).  Not surprisingly, this section of the Royal Mile consists almost exclusively of shops flogging cashmere and lambswool scarves and assorted other kitschy trinkets, so much so that I'm now convinced "Royal Mile" is Gaelic for "Tourists, Please Spend Your Money Here."  I did purchase a couple of scarves, springing for the good stuff since I'm not likely to get this way again any time soon.  Mmmmm, cashmere....  I was also treated to an odd group of people wearing matching t-shirts emblazoned with a symbol that looked like nothing so much as a space-age number nine.  Obviously they were together, but I've no idea what their group was and I hadn't seen them at the castle.

After making my purchases I went to the bus stop, only to discover that I had just missed the last run of my particular tour.  This confused me, since they'd said they would be running till 8 pm (which it wasn't yet), but after loitering for over half an hour waiting on buses that should be running every 15 minutes, I finally gave it up as a bad job and started walking. Unfortunately, my feet were hurting from treading all the cobblestones, on which I'd earlier half-rolled my ankle twice.  I'm starting to remember why I gave up wearing orthotics a few years ago  Sure, they keep your feet aligned and ease the pressures of unsupported arches and insteps, but they also encourage already weak ankles to fall off the side of any non-level surface, aka the entirety of Castle Hill and the Royal Mile.  As a result, I wimped out and started looking for a taxi.  One finally stopped in front of me and I waited for the current passenger to get out, only to have him fall literally at my feet after stumbling over a step on the taxi.  If I had known that Edinburgh was going to rain men at my feet, I'd have come to visit here much sooner.  Anyway, I checked that the man was okay, then climbed in the taxi and took it to the Hard Rock Cafe for dinner.

Apparently there's more to do in Edinburgh than see the castle or shop for wool.

Okay, I realize that Hard Rock is a bit of a cop-out when one is surrounded by the unique cuisine of an entire nation, but I was exhausted by this time and it was close and a known quantity.  Besides, I can now say that I have eaten at a Hard Rock in 4 different countries (not that I'm bragging, or anything...nope).  Totally worth it, though, for no other reason than my server Crrrrrrrraig, who was really a bartender, but who waited on me while I sat at a table by the window.  Crrrrrrraig was tall, had sandy hair, and was lovely and charming and made me laugh.  We discussed the relative merits of the barbecue options when compared to Memphian BBQ:  "I don't knooooow about Mehmphis barrrrrbecue..."  "It's world-famous."  "Weeeeel, if it's wharld-fehmous, you might find this a wee bit disappointing..."  He suggested instead a Hickory Smoked burger which involved cheddar, carmelized onions and bacon, because I was too big a coward to try the burger with haggis and it was indeed delicious.  Crrrrrrraig did tell me that you could get some haggis samples at some of the food stalls so that you could try it without committing to a whole meal of it.  Crrrrrrraig kept coming over to chat with me and check on me; I think he enjoyed the novelty of my accent as much as I enjoyed his.  When he asked if I wanted dessert, I said I wanted some, but didn't really need any. I then asked him about the apple cobbler, only to have him warn me about the abundance of cinnamon in the dish..."Do you like cinnamon?"  Oh, Crrrrrrraig, if you only knew. He then told me that I needed to "trrrrrrreat myself because I'm on holiday."  Twist my arm, Crrrrrrraig, twist my arm.  Hell, I'll start making your car payments if you just keep talking to me in that accent all night.  Seriously--I am such a Highland brogue whore.

Across the street from my window was The George, a hotel I'd considered when making my reservations for Edinburgh because it wasn't far from the archives.  Ultimately I selected a different hotel instead because it was cheaper and actually isn't far from stuff either. Still, I'd be willing to bet this gorgeous Georgian-style hotel doesn't assault its patrons with the song of the bean sidhe.  I mean, I know I'm in Scotland and all, but banshee sirens seem a little above and beyond the call of duty.  If that's the difference, perhaps I should have spent the extra few pounds for the swankier hotel...the façade certainly was lovely.

After dessert I paid the bill and received well-wishes from Crrrrrrraig, then headed back to my hotel, my feet much happier after the brief respite.  Outside the last of the sunset was fading away, leaving the skies a deep azure falling like a protective blanket over the glorious spires of the city and giving me a most beautiful and peaceful walk home.  What more could a girl want?

Blue skies at night, Scotland's delight.

Kilt count:  4 1/2 (Caught a quick flash of one, but not a proper look...and no, not that kind of
                             flash, ya perv.)
Trews count:  3   (Still not as good as kilts...no knees showing.)

Observations from the Mothership: Day 1

The Day of Endless Travel

A couple of weeks ago, as I was trying to get my trip all planned out around the chaos at home, my friend Leslie commented that she "couldn't wait to read all my observations from the mothership." Now I don't know about you, but to me this comment was clearly screaming to be the title of a blog series about my adventures overseas...so thanks, Leslie!  And thus the blogging begins...

Once my plane took off from Philadelphia, the 7-hour flight itself went fairly smoothly, sketchy mechanical issues notwithstanding.  I did spend a rather uncomfortable beginning of the flight learning that Delta Comfort Plus seats aren't particularly comfortable and freezing my ass off (if only), which convinced me that we were flying to London via the polar ice cap.  To stave off the frigid cabin, virtually every passenger broke out their complimentary little red blankets, which were hardly more substantial than fuzzy red toilet paper of the thinnest possible variety (you know, like the kind used in airports--ironically appropriate, no?)  After two hours of trying to type with ice blocks for fingers, the captain finally found the heater switch and the cabin slowly returned to a less glacial temperature. I tried doing a little writing during the flight, but had issues with my laptop throwing up obnoxious pop-up ads every time I tried to access Google and with keeping the in-flight wifi signal, so I gave up and instead did some crossword puzzles and watched a movie about Queen Elizabeth I staring Cate Blanchett.  Considering the first leg of my journey will take me to the home of Elizabeth's chief rival and my namesake, the choice seemed oddly apropos. 

Once disembarked at the airport I eventually managed to navigate my way to the Heathrow Express, an overpriced direct train from the airport to Paddington Station in central London.  Sadly, I saw no cute teddy bears in blue coats while wandering around Paddington pretending to know where I was going and not looking at all clueless.  From there I grabbed a taxi to King's Cross, figuring it would just be less hassle since I didn't want to get Tube passes till I was actually going to be in London for more than 20 minutes.  Once at King's cross I went to find a bathroom, unexpectedly passing Platform 9 3/4 along the way.  Somehow I had foolishly thought that the mockup of Harry Potter's trolley would be at a wall legitimately placed next to Platforms 9 and 10, but I suppose that would be a logistical nightmare given the number of travelers--never mind tourists--on any given day at King's Cross.  I was amused that one staff member was snapping photos for people while another arrayed each patron with the house scarf of their choice, flipping it in the air at the crucial moment to make it look like you were really being sucked through to the hidden platform.  I wandered about trying to snap a photo just of the cutoff trolley, but the photographer lady just looked at me and said "Come on, you know you want to..."  So I did.

Real Ravenclaws don't fall for tourist schlock like this.

After my photo op I grabbed a quick to-go breakfast from a shop called Pret-A-Manger (French for "ready to eat").  The sandwich was pretty tasty, but the chocolate chip cookie had the texture of a steamrolled hockey puck.  Anyway, I grabbed the bag of food, went to the ticket office to get my rail pass validated, and had 15 minutes to spare before the express train to Edinburgh departed.  I was lucky enough to get a seat by a table so I could do some writing before my laptop battery died and ended up sitting across the aisle from a lovely older British couple on their way to visit Scotland for the first time.

I remember liking the trains from my previous trip to the UK 15 years ago.  All told, they are surprisingly comfortable and efficient, something Americans could desperately stand to emulate.  Other than a brief bit of rain through Newcastle, it was a beautiful and sunny morning and I quite enjoyed the trip north.  The large windows in each carriage made it much easier to enjoy the countryside speeding by, which didn't look so terribly different from home what with all the farmlands and giant windmill turbines, especially if you pretended not to notice the gothic churches and castles and country cottages dotting the countryside...as if one ever could.  I particularly enjoyed seeing a few neighborhoods that perfectly evoked the #4 Privet Drive of the Harry Potter books, as well as the North Sea lapping the shores of Berwick-Upon-Tweed. At one point along the route I saw what appeared to be an apartment building with brightly colored boxes installed over random windows that I found fun--very Mondrian. I even appreciated the little hand grips on the back of each aisle seat provided to give passengers a place to pull up or to hold on when the train lurches about without actually having to fondle the seat and/or a passenger's shoulder by accident the way we would have to do. It struck me as terribly British--polite to a fault.  Either that or just a concerted effort to avoid contact with strangers...either way.  I did discover to my chagrin that I fail at working the toilets on the train, though.  First you have to stagger like a drunken badger to the bathroom, working against the rhythm of the train, then you have to work out which button works the door and push it firmly after the first couple efforts fail to yield any results other than people in the next carriage smirking at your ignorance.  I eventually figured it all out, though you almost need seat belts to keep from careening headfirst into the wall opposite during some of the more enthusiastic train lurches.  The doors slid open and shut in such a way that I deeply wanted them to make the whooshy sounds of the doors in Star Trek and was terribly disappointed when they didn't.

Absolutely beautiful countryside.

So far I have found the people I've talked with perfectly friendly and helpful, if perhaps a bit cautious (stranger danger!)  There were even some train staff singing and jamming to music in the cafe car behind me, pretty much negating the many American stereotypes that all British people are stuffy, very proper graduates of Oxford who have nothing but tweed in their closets, including their undergarments (though frankly, if I had to wear tweed skivvies, I'd probably be a bit tense and reserved  too).

As we went along I listened to the various train stops being announced and thought the practice was likely helpful in more ways than one, such as in keeping idiot foreigners from mistakenly pronouncing  things like "Derby" instead of "Darby" or  "Worechester" instead of "Wooster."  I hope this will aide me in Wales, because otherwise I'm screwed.  Pronouncing English city names is one thing--I've mostly got that down--but the Welsh deliberately steal all the vowels from their language and ship them overseas (I'm guessing) to languages consisting mostly of vowels in some sort of devilish linguistical exchange designed to torture residents and foreigners alike.  At l.east I know how to pronounce "Aberystwyth" and "Llewellyn" properly...that's a start.

After I departed the train station in Edinburgh, I schlepped my stuff down Princes Street to my hotel, passing the Walter Scott Memorial along the way (Hi, 'Cuz!  Did you miss me?).  I eventually found the hotel tucked away between a New Look (not that I know what we're supposed to be looking at) and a Starbucks (manna from heaven!).  Upon reaching my room I discovered that I have to leave my card in a little slot in the wall to keep the electricity turned on.  I can only assume that electricity thieves run rampant throughout Edinburgh otherwise.  Either that or they knew I was coming from Philly, home of Benjamin Franklin, the original electrical thief.  I seem to recall his efforts involving a questionably-deployed key as well.  I'd also forgotten that British tubs are frequently so tall one needs a stepladder or stilts to get in and out of the basin.  On the plus side, there will always be enough bath water to completely cover a person wider deeper than 3", unlike with American tubs.

Now, with convenient handrails to keep you from falling to your death on the way out.

After spending a few minutes exploring the room amenities, I sat down, took off my shoes, and checked all my messages.  And, since I'd not really slept on either the plane or the train, I nearly passed out on the bed but forced myself to stay awake till a normal (or slightly early) bedtime in order to recalibrate my internal clock.  I also took the time to change out of my sweaty and gross clothes; nearly 24 hours of nonstop traveling of one sort or another can make a person just that little bit ripe.  The funny thing is that a friend suggested before my departure that I should only take old underwear and socks and just ditch them as I go, freeing up more room for souvenirs and such in my bag.  Ironically, I had already been considering this, though I confess to wondering how this will go over with the hotel maids.  Can you imagine?  One of two things is likely to happen:  either they'll think someone is making random sacrifices to the trash and knickers gods or else they'll try to solve the mystery by following the trail of underpants left behind in my wake all over Great Britain, which can only lead to all sorts of awkward questions such as "What exactly were you doing in all those British hotel rooms again???" or "Is that how you were paying for your trip???" Ah, well...that might be embarrassing, but it's not like some random American can damage our international reputation much more than it already has been. Besides, think of the story the maids would have to tell their families that night...almost better than a tip, right?

After a couple hours of rest, I ventured out to find some dinner.  I'd seen a steakhouse online that had gotten pretty good reviews and set out to find it.  All I can say is that I don't have to worry about being considered an 'Ugly American' after my expedition, because all the locals were likely too busy smirking over my Keystone Kops antics.  I must have spent an hour walking around in ever-expanding circles while trying unsuccessfully to find this place, which included an eloquent and graceful faceplant (think the dancing hippos from Fantasia) onto the pavement after I tripped over one of the ubiquitously uneven flagstones in the sidewalk and skinned my knees.  A couple minutes later I looked up and saw a pub called 'Shakespeare' and thought to myself, "Screw it--I'm tired and sore.  Also?  BILLY SHAKES--duh."  So I crossed the street and went into the pub, only to learn that their kitchen was untimely ripped, erm, closed for the day.  Sigh.  Exhausted as I was after the long traveling, this only served to make me more determined to find the steakhouse.  I ended up going into a small cafe with wifi, thinking to look it up on my phone, but was assisted by a young man at the counter with a beautiful Scots accent (I can't help it...it's a thing.  I have an inexplicable weakness for a good Scottish brogue. Genetics, bitches.)  Fifteen additional minutes of walking later, I finally arrived at my destination:  McKirdy's.  I found it disconcerting that a place with such good reviews seemed to be a complete and utter mystery to the locals I'd asked for directions. Turns out McKirdy's is a steakhouse run by a family of butchers for that fresh-to-table-hunk-of-bloody-meat sort of thing.

After consulting with the owner, I opted for a classic burger over the more expensive rib-eye or filet.  The nice thing about talking to the butcher himself is that you get the inside track, like that the burger is basically just chopped-up rib-eye and,  I have to say, that burger was arguably the best burger I have ever put in my mouth...it was freaking DELICIOUS.  Those Lothian cows are damn tasty. The burger came with some perfectly serviceable curly fries and a pepper sauce which I found surprisingly subtle and tasty when dipping both fries and burger into it.  I also learned that "Rocket" is a type of lettuce described as "peppery."  Between the peppery mustard and pepper sauce and peppery lettuce, I'm beginning to sense a theme here in the Isle of the Mighty.  Could it be that the British are secretly spicy?  I couldn't remember the name of that type of lettuce back home, so had to look it up later in my hotel room.  Seems that 'rocket' = 'arugula.'  Who knew?  For desert I ordered the cheesecake of the day, a sticky-toffee cheesecake which looked uncomfortably like cat food paté with a couple of piroulines stuck in the top and a scoop of ice cream beside.  Looks notwithstanding, the cheesecake was tasty enough, though nowhere near the caliber of the burger.

For when you need utensils long enough to feed your neighbor.

After dinner I meandered back to my hotel, stopping first at Boots for some chapstick, water and to look for a particular cough syrup for a friend.  I couldn't help noticing as I walked that with the majority of shops closed the streets had mostly cleared of everyone but young people and young couples.  Seems even in Edinburgh teens and college-age kids go cruising, just on foot or by bus instead of cars.  And I don't think I saw a woman of any age not wearing some variety of tights or hose with her skirt or pants, though I imagine in this climate that is nothing more than sheer (ahem) practicality.

All in all, it was a very pleasant evening, in spite of my Coca-Cola and jet-lag kicking in.  On a side note, how is it that Coke tastes lovely and refreshing when poured over ice but once the ice has melted it burns in much the same way I imagine paint stripper might.  What's up with that?  How are ice cubes the magic ingredient?

Likewise, how is it that it takes approximately 12 hours of excruciating pain to trudge towards one's hotel but the same distance is traversed later in a pleasant 10 minutes?  Stupid perspective and adaptive walking.

Hopefully you've all had as pleasant an afternoon as I have.  Next up, Archives and Edinburgh castle!

So what are your favorite trips/sights?

Kilt Count:  Sadly only one, and that was on a girl piper near the Scott memorial.  I did see a guy wearing plaid trews, though, and another dude with a Stewart tartan tam, so there's that.

Observations from the Mothership: Day 1

The Day of Endless Travel

A couple of weeks ago, as I was trying to get my trip all planned out around the chaos at home, my friend Leslie commented that she "couldn't wait to read all my observations from the mothership." Now I don't know about you, but to me this comment was clearly screaming to be the title of a blog series about my adventures overseas...so thanks, Leslie!  And thus the blogging begins...

Once my plane took off from Philadelphia, the 7-hour flight itself went fairly smoothly, sketchy mechanical issues notwithstanding.  I did spend a rather uncomfortable beginning of the flight learning that Delta Comfort Plus seats aren't particularly comfortable and freezing my ass off (if only), which convinced me that we were flying to London via the polar ice cap.  To stave off the frigid cabin, virtually every passenger broke out their complimentary little red blankets, which were hardly more substantial than fuzzy red toilet paper of the thinnest possible variety (you know, like the kind used in airports--ironically appropriate, no?)  After two hours of trying to type with ice blocks for fingers, the captain finally found the heater switch and the cabin slowly returned to a less glacial temperature. I tried doing a little writing during the flight, but had issues with my laptop throwing up obnoxious pop-up ads every time I tried to access Google and with keeping the in-flight wifi signal, so I gave up and instead did some crossword puzzles and watched a movie about Queen Elizabeth I staring Cate Blanchett.  Considering the first leg of my journey will take me to the home of Elizabeth's chief rival and my namesake, the choice seemed oddly apropos. 

Once disembarked at the airport I eventually managed to navigate my way to the Heathrow Express, an overpriced direct train from the airport to Paddington Station in central London.  Sadly, I saw no cute teddy bears in blue coats while wandering around Paddington pretending to know where I was going and not looking at all clueless.  From there I grabbed a taxi to King's Cross, figuring it would just be less hassle since I didn't want to get Tube passes till I was actually going to be in London for more than 20 minutes.  Once at King's cross I went to find a bathroom, unexpectedly passing Platform 9 3/4 along the way.  Somehow I had foolishly thought that the mockup of Harry Potter's trolley would be at a wall legitimately placed next to Platforms 9 and 10, but I suppose that would be a logistical nightmare given the number of travelers--never mind tourists--on any given day at King's Cross.  I was amused that one staff member was snapping photos for people while another arrayed each patron with the house scarf of their choice, flipping it in the air at the crucial moment to make it look like you were really being sucked through to the hidden platform.  I wandered about trying to snap a photo just of the cutoff trolley, but the photographer lady just looked at me and said "Come on, you know you want to..."  So I did.

Real Ravenclaws don't fall for tourist schlock like this.

After my photo op I grabbed a quick to-go breakfast from a shop called Pret-A-Manger (French for "ready to eat").  The sandwich was pretty tasty, but the chocolate chip cookie had the texture of a steamrolled hockey puck.  Anyway, I grabbed the bag of food, went to the ticket office to get my rail pass validated, and had 15 minutes to spare before the express train to Edinburgh departed.  I was lucky enough to get a seat by a table so I could do some writing before my laptop battery died and ended up sitting across the aisle from a lovely older British couple on their way to visit Scotland for the first time.

I remember liking the trains from my previous trip to the UK 15 years ago.  All told, they are surprisingly comfortable and efficient, something Americans could desperately stand to emulate.  Other than a brief bit of rain through Newcastle, it was a beautiful and sunny morning and I quite enjoyed the trip north.  The large windows in each carriage made it much easier to enjoy the countryside speeding by, which didn't look so terribly different from home what with all the farmlands and giant windmill turbines, especially if you pretended not to notice the gothic churches and castles and country cottages dotting the countryside...as if one ever could.  I particularly enjoyed seeing a few neighborhoods that perfectly evoked the #4 Privet Drive of the Harry Potter books, as well as the North Sea lapping the shores of Berwick-Upon-Tweed. At one point along the route I saw what appeared to be an apartment building with brightly colored boxes installed over random windows that I found fun--very Mondrian. I even appreciated the little hand grips on the back of each aisle seat provided to give passengers a place to pull up or to hold on when the train lurches about without actually having to fondle the seat and/or a passenger's shoulder by accident the way we would have to do. It struck me as terribly British--polite to a fault.  Either that or just a concerted effort to avoid contact with strangers...either way.  I did discover to my chagrin that I fail at working the toilets on the train, though.  First you have to stagger like a drunken badger to the bathroom, working against the rhythm of the train, then you have to work out which button works the door and push it firmly after the first couple efforts fail to yield any results other than people in the next carriage smirking at your ignorance.  I eventually figured it all out, though you almost need seat belts to keep from careening headfirst into the wall opposite during some of the more enthusiastic train lurches.  The doors slid open and shut in such a way that I deeply wanted them to make the whooshy sounds of the doors in Star Trek and was terribly disappointed when they didn't.

Absolutely beautiful countryside.

So far I have found the people I've talked with perfectly friendly and helpful, if perhaps a bit cautious (stranger danger!)  There were even some train staff singing and jamming to music in the cafe car behind me, pretty much negating the many American stereotypes that all British people are stuffy, very proper graduates of Oxford who have nothing but tweed in their closets, including their undergarments (though frankly, if I had to wear tweed skivvies, I'd probably be a bit tense and reserved  too).

As we went along I listened to the various train stops being announced and thought the practice was likely helpful in more ways than one, such as in keeping idiot foreigners from mistakenly pronouncing  things like "Derby" instead of "Darby" or  "Worechester" instead of "Wooster."  I hope this will aide me in Wales, because otherwise I'm screwed.  Pronouncing English city names is one thing--I've mostly got that down--but the Welsh deliberately steal all the vowels from their language and ship them overseas (I'm guessing) to languages consisting mostly of vowels in some sort of devilish linguistical exchange designed to torture residents and foreigners alike.  At l.east I know how to pronounce "Aberystwyth" and "Llewellyn" properly...that's a start.

After I departed the train station in Edinburgh, I schlepped my stuff down Princes Street to my hotel, passing the Walter Scott Memorial along the way (Hi, 'Cuz!  Did you miss me?).  I eventually found the hotel tucked away between a New Look (not that I know what we're supposed to be looking at) and a Starbucks (manna from heaven!).  Upon reaching my room I discovered that I have to leave my card in a little slot in the wall to keep the electricity turned on.  I can only assume that electricity thieves run rampant throughout Edinburgh otherwise.  Either that or they knew I was coming from Philly, home of Benjamin Franklin, the original electrical thief.  I seem to recall his efforts involving a questionably-deployed key as well.  I'd also forgotten that British tubs are frequently so tall one needs a stepladder or stilts to get in and out of the basin.  On the plus side, there will always be enough bath water to completely cover a person wider deeper than 3", unlike with American tubs.

Now, with convenient handrails to keep you from falling to your death on the way out.

After spending a few minutes exploring the room amenities, I sat down, took off my shoes, and checked all my messages.  And, since I'd not really slept on either the plane or the train, I nearly passed out on the bed but forced myself to stay awake till a normal (or slightly early) bedtime in order to recalibrate my internal clock.  I also took the time to change out of my sweaty and gross clothes; nearly 24 hours of nonstop traveling of one sort or another can make a person just that little bit ripe.  The funny thing is that a friend suggested before my departure that I should only take old underwear and socks and just ditch them as I go, freeing up more room for souvenirs and such in my bag.  Ironically, I had already been considering this, though I confess to wondering how this will go over with the hotel maids.  Can you imagine?  One of two things is likely to happen:  either they'll think someone is making random sacrifices to the trash and knickers gods or else they'll try to solve the mystery by following the trail of underpants left behind in my wake all over Great Britain, which can only lead to all sorts of awkward questions such as "What exactly were you doing in all those British hotel rooms again???" or "Is that how you were paying for your trip???" Ah, well...that might be embarrassing, but it's not like some random American can damage our international reputation much more than it already has been. Besides, think of the story the maids would have to tell their families that night...almost better than a tip, right?

After a couple hours of rest, I ventured out to find some dinner.  I'd seen a steakhouse online that had gotten pretty good reviews and set out to find it.  All I can say is that I don't have to worry about being considered an 'Ugly American' after my expedition, because all the locals were likely too busy smirking over my Keystone Kops antics.  I must have spent an hour walking around in ever-expanding circles while trying unsuccessfully to find this place, which included an eloquent and graceful faceplant (think the dancing hippos from Fantasia) onto the pavement after I tripped over one of the ubiquitously uneven flagstones in the sidewalk and skinned my knees.  A couple minutes later I looked up and saw a pub called 'Shakespeare' and thought to myself, "Screw it--I'm tired and sore.  Also?  BILLY SHAKES--duh."  So I crossed the street and went into the pub, only to learn that their kitchen was untimely ripped, erm, closed for the day.  Sigh.  Exhausted as I was after the long traveling, this only served to make me more determined to find the steakhouse.  I ended up going into a small cafe with wifi, thinking to look it up on my phone, but was assisted by a young man at the counter with a beautiful Scots accent (I can't help it...it's a thing.  I have an inexplicable weakness for a good Scottish brogue. Genetics, bitches.)  Fifteen additional minutes of walking later, I finally arrived at my destination:  McKirdy's.  I found it disconcerting that a place with such good reviews seemed to be a complete and utter mystery to the locals I'd asked for directions. Turns out McKirdy's is a steakhouse run by a family of butchers for that fresh-to-table-hunk-of-bloody-meat sort of thing.

After consulting with the owner, I opted for a classic burger over the more expensive rib-eye or filet.  The nice thing about talking to the butcher himself is that you get the inside track, like that the burger is basically just chopped-up rib-eye and,  I have to say, that burger was arguably the best burger I have ever put in my mouth...it was freaking DELICIOUS.  Those Lothian cows are damn tasty. The burger came with some perfectly serviceable curly fries and a pepper sauce which I found surprisingly subtle and tasty when dipping both fries and burger into it.  I also learned that "Rocket" is a type of lettuce described as "peppery."  Between the peppery mustard and pepper sauce and peppery lettuce, I'm beginning to sense a theme here in the Isle of the Mighty.  Could it be that the British are secretly spicy?  I couldn't remember the name of that type of lettuce back home, so had to look it up later in my hotel room.  Seems that 'rocket' = 'arugula.'  Who knew?  For desert I ordered the cheesecake of the day, a sticky-toffee cheesecake which looked uncomfortably like cat food paté with a couple of piroulines stuck in the top and a scoop of ice cream beside.  Looks notwithstanding, the cheesecake was tasty enough, though nowhere near the caliber of the burger.

For when you need utensils long enough to feed your neighbor.

After dinner I meandered back to my hotel, stopping first at Boots for some chapstick, water and to look for a particular cough syrup for a friend.  I couldn't help noticing as I walked that with the majority of shops closed the streets had mostly cleared of everyone but young people and young couples.  Seems even in Edinburgh teens and college-age kids go cruising, just on foot or by bus instead of cars.  And I don't think I saw a woman of any age not wearing some variety of tights or hose with her skirt or pants, though I imagine in this climate that is nothing more than sheer (ahem) practicality.

All in all, it was a very pleasant evening, in spite of my Coca-Cola and jet-lag kicking in.  On a side note, how is it that Coke tastes lovely and refreshing when poured over ice but once the ice has melted it burns in much the same way I imagine paint stripper might.  What's up with that?  How are ice cubes the magic ingredient?

Likewise, how is it that it takes approximately 12 hours of excruciating pain to trudge towards one's hotel but the same distance is traversed later in a pleasant 10 minutes?  Stupid perspective and adaptive walking.

Hopefully you've all had as pleasant an afternoon as I have.  Next up, Archives and Edinburgh castle!

So what are your favorite trips/sights?

Kilt Count:  Sadly only one, and that was on a girl piper near the Scott memorial.  I did see a guy wearing plaid trews, though, and another dude with a Stewart tartan tam, so there's that.

Winter Olympics Theme Songs

I admit it; I'm an Olympics junkie.  I have been ever since I was in high school, when all anyone could talk about was the "Miracle on Ice" at the 1980 Winter Olympics in Lake Placid (which was anything but placid at the time).  Summer or winter, when the Olympics is broadcast I am glued to the television like some wide-eyed limpet, regardless of the sport.  In fact, when the Olympics is on, I'll watch sports I would never otherwise give a second glance (I'm looking at you, Race Walking and Cross-Country Skiing).  I just can't help myself; I get caught up in all the Olympic spirit--not just in rooting for the home team or in watching athletes medal, but in all those side stories of people upholding sportsmanship and class to a degree that's not always seen outside of the Olympics.  Like this time, when a Canadian ski coach replaced a Russian skier's broken ski so he could finish his race with dignity instead of crossing the line broken and battered and demoralized, or the freestyle skier who is taking home 4 puppies he rescued from Sochi's stray dog extermination program, or the speed skater who gave up his spot to a teammate who had a better chance of medaling in one event, even though he hadn't qualified for it.  There is just something about the Olympics that makes athletes (and we spectators) rise above petty rivalries and which brings out the best in us all.  And of course, there's also The Pants--Norway's Men's Curling team and their gloriously loud and exotic pants.  I adore those pants.  I still don't really get curling, but if a bunch of hot men wearing fantastically inventive pants want to yell "Harder, harder!!" at the screen as though personally inviting me to play with their stones, well, then, who am I to argue?  They are welcome to sweep me off my feet.

Anyway, while watching the Games this week I keep seeing ads for the ski jumping (presumably because it's such a big deal that women are ski jumping these Games for the first time.  And always during these ads are set to the wildly appropriate lyrics "'Scuse me, while I kiss the sky..."  Eventually it made me start wondering about what theme songs the other events should have, so I came up with this list.  You're welcome.

Biathlon:  Bang Bang (alternatively, Happiness is a Warm Gun)

Bobsled:  With A Little Help From My Friends

Cross Country Skiing:  500 Miles

Curling:  Everybody Must Get Stoned (alternatively, If I Had a Hammer)

Downhill Skiing:  Flirting With Disaster (alternatively, Don't Stop Me Now)

Figure Skating:  I Feel Pretty

Freestyle/Mogul Skiing:  I Love Rocky Road

Hockey:  Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Luge:   Slip Slidin' Away

Short Track Speed Skating:  Wipeout

Skeleton:  Suicide Is Painless

Ski Jump:  Defying Gravity

Snowboard:  Livin' On The Edge

Speed Skating:  Ice, Ice, Baby

Winter Olympics Theme Songs

I admit it; I'm an Olympics junkie.  I have been ever since I was in high school, when all anyone could talk about was the "Miracle on Ice" at the 1980 Winter Olympics in Lake Placid (which was anything but placid at the time).  Summer or winter, when the Olympics is broadcast I am glued to the television like some wide-eyed limpet, regardless of the sport.  In fact, when the Olympics is on, I'll watch sports I would never otherwise give a second glance (I'm looking at you, Race Walking and Cross-Country Skiing).  I just can't help myself; I get caught up in all the Olympic spirit--not just in rooting for the home team or in watching athletes medal, but in all those side stories of people upholding sportsmanship and class to a degree that's not always seen outside of the Olympics.  Like this time, when a Canadian ski coach replaced a Russian skier's broken ski so he could finish his race with dignity instead of crossing the line broken and battered and demoralized, or the freestyle skier who is taking home 4 puppies he rescued from Sochi's stray dog extermination program, or the speed skater who gave up his spot to a teammate who had a better chance of medaling in one event, even though he hadn't qualified for it.  There is just something about the Olympics that makes athletes (and we spectators) rise above petty rivalries and which brings out the best in us all.  And of course, there's also The Pants--Norway's Men's Curling team and their gloriously loud and exotic pants.  I adore those pants.  I still don't really get curling, but if a bunch of hot men wearing fantastically inventive pants want to yell "Harder, harder!!" at the screen as though personally inviting me to play with their stones, well, then, who am I to argue?  They are welcome to sweep me off my feet.

Anyway, while watching the Games this week I keep seeing ads for the ski jumping (presumably because it's such a big deal that women are ski jumping these Games for the first time.  And always during these ads are set to the wildly appropriate lyrics "'Scuse me, while I kiss the sky..."  Eventually it made me start wondering about what theme songs the other events should have, so I came up with this list.  You're welcome.

Biathlon:  Bang Bang (alternatively, Happiness is a Warm Gun)

Bobsled:  With A Little Help From My Friends

Cross Country Skiing:  500 Miles

Curling:  Everybody Must Get Stoned (alternatively, If I Had a Hammer)

Downhill Skiing:  Flirting With Disaster (alternatively, Don't Stop Me Now)

Figure Skating:  I Feel Pretty

Freestyle/Mogul Skiing:  I Love Rocky Road

Hockey:  Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Luge:   Slip Slidin' Away

Short Track Speed Skating:  Wipeout

Skeleton:  Suicide Is Painless

Ski Jump:  Defying Gravity

Snowboard:  Livin' On The Edge

Speed Skating:  Ice, Ice, Baby

Checkout of Shame

Like most people, I occasionally avail myself of the self-checkout lines at the grocery store.  Usually I do this because I have a small number of items to purchase or perhaps because the lines happen to be shorter that day.  Sometimes I even use them because I'm not wearing makeup and I let my vanity get the better of me, so I make a beeline to the self-checkout line rather than face some potentially judgey cashier.  I recognize in my head that most of them don't even notice, much less care, whether or not I've camouflaged my blemishes with my specially-tinted Spackle For Her™ (now in giant economy size!), but even the best of us have our insecure days and would rather be held accountable only by a computer screen.

More often than not, though, I frequent the self-checkout line because I don't want to have to explain the seeming eccentricities in my purchases.  For example, today I hit the self-checkout because I had five boxes of La Choy's fortune cookies and some 9-volt batteries.  That's it.  If I went through the regular lines, such a purchase would at the very least garner a raised eyebrow; more frequently it encourages an awkward conversation with my cashier who is busy trying to figure out why I would need two such disparate items at the same time.  Such purchases just never look good.  [For the record, I like fortune cookies and they happen to be low in fat--so they make a good, diet-friendly snack.  You get a little crunch and a little sweet...just enough to take the edge off of cravings.  And if you decide to go on a rampant binge and scarf down the contents of the entire box (not that I would ever do that), you're still gorging on less fat than in a king-size Snickers bar (13 cookies = 10 Weight Watcher points...you're welcome).  And the batteries were for my food scale...nothing kinky to see here...just keep moving.]

For some inexplicable reason, I seem to have a knack for timing my purchases for the most awkwardness possible, like the time I bought multiple packages of feminine hygiene products and a birthday card.  And no, I wasn't stocking up for my next trip to the Texas legislature, I just happen to like keeping a pack both upstairs and down for the utmost in convenience at a time which is normally anything but.  Still, had I gone to the cashier (who with my luck would almost certainly have been a dude) carrying multiple hygiene products and a birthday card, it would have looked distinctly like I was preparing to give a rather unprecedented birthday gift to someone apparently possessing serious gynecological issues. Needless to say, the electronic cashier is much more understanding about such unusual product juxtapositions.

I have raised any number of eyebrows and occasioned no small comment over the years with purchases like 3 bags of jelly beans and a hunk of cheese or a muffin (I'm auditioning for "Chopped"); a new pack of underwear, Post-It notes and pencils (which just looks like a kinky party game); a bakery mix and Sudafed (methamphetamine brownies, anyone?); a case of water, 3 boxes of cinnamon Crest toothpaste and matches (mission trip to Zimbabwe?  Practicing for Survivor in the wilds of Northern Georgia?  MacGyvering a bomb??); or double-stick tape and toilet paper (yeah, I got nothing).

Invariably my weird pairings are the result of having to shop at multiple stores to complete my grocery list since the local Publix never carries everything I want. As a result, I always seem to end up with a last couple of oddly unrelated items. Coincidental or not, it can still be rather difficult to explain oneself when presenting dubious (or suspicious) items like a new plunger and Preparation H to the average cashier.  I know if someone handed me a plunger, Preparation H and a crisp $20, I'd be hard-pressed not to make some injudicious or suitably snarky comment.  Who wouldn't?  No, on days like these, it's far safer and infinitely less embarrassing to bring my shopping of shame to the friendly, non-judgmental scanners at the self-checkout, where I pray enthusiastically that no ill-timed electronic glitches expose me to the supervising cashier on duty.

Really, it's only a matter of time before I get banned from one or another of these stores.

Please...like you've never made an awkward purchase before.  Now stop looking at me like that.

Checkout of Shame

Like most people, I occasionally avail myself of the self-checkout lines at the grocery store.  Usually I do this because I have a small number of items to purchase or perhaps because the lines happen to be shorter that day.  Sometimes I even use them because I'm not wearing makeup and I let my vanity get the better of me, so I make a beeline to the self-checkout line rather than face some potentially judgey cashier.  I recognize in my head that most of them don't even notice, much less care, whether or not I've camouflaged my blemishes with my specially-tinted Spackle For Her™ (now in giant economy size!), but even the best of us have our insecure days and would rather be held accountable only by a computer screen.

More often than not, though, I frequent the self-checkout line because I don't want to have to explain the seeming eccentricities in my purchases.  For example, today I hit the self-checkout because I had five boxes of La Choy's fortune cookies and some 9-volt batteries.  That's it.  If I went through the regular lines, such a purchase would at the very least garner a raised eyebrow; more frequently it encourages an awkward conversation with my cashier who is busy trying to figure out why I would need two such disparate items at the same time.  Such purchases just never look good.  [For the record, I like fortune cookies and they happen to be low in fat--so they make a good, diet-friendly snack.  You get a little crunch and a little sweet...just enough to take the edge off of cravings.  And if you decide to go on a rampant binge and scarf down the contents of the entire box (not that I would ever do that), you're still gorging on less fat than in a king-size Snickers bar (13 cookies = 10 Weight Watcher points...you're welcome).  And the batteries were for my food scale...nothing kinky to see here...just keep moving.]

For some inexplicable reason, I seem to have a knack for timing my purchases for the most awkwardness possible, like the time I bought multiple packages of feminine hygiene products and a birthday card.  And no, I wasn't stocking up for my next trip to the Texas legislature, I just happen to like keeping a pack both upstairs and down for the utmost in convenience at a time which is normally anything but.  Still, had I gone to the cashier (who with my luck would almost certainly have been a dude) carrying multiple hygiene products and a birthday card, it would have looked distinctly like I was preparing to give a rather unprecedented birthday gift to someone apparently possessing serious gynecological issues. Needless to say, the electronic cashier is much more understanding about such unusual product juxtapositions.

I have raised any number of eyebrows and occasioned no small comment over the years with purchases like 3 bags of jelly beans and a hunk of cheese or a muffin (I'm auditioning for "Chopped"); a new pack of underwear, Post-It notes and pencils (which just looks like a kinky party game); a bakery mix and Sudafed (methamphetamine brownies, anyone?); a case of water, 3 boxes of cinnamon Crest toothpaste and matches (mission trip to Zimbabwe?  Practicing for Survivor in the wilds of Northern Georgia?  MacGyvering a bomb??); or double-stick tape and toilet paper (yeah, I got nothing).

Invariably my weird pairings are the result of having to shop at multiple stores to complete my grocery list since the local Publix never carries everything I want. As a result, I always seem to end up with a last couple of oddly unrelated items. Coincidental or not, it can still be rather difficult to explain oneself when presenting dubious (or suspicious) items like a new plunger and Preparation H to the average cashier.  I know if someone handed me a plunger, Preparation H and a crisp $20, I'd be hard-pressed not to make some injudicious or suitably snarky comment.  Who wouldn't?  No, on days like these, it's far safer and infinitely less embarrassing to bring my shopping of shame to the friendly, non-judgmental scanners at the self-checkout, where I pray enthusiastically that no ill-timed electronic glitches expose me to the supervising cashier on duty.

Really, it's only a matter of time before I get banned from one or another of these stores.

Please...like you've never made an awkward purchase before.  Now stop looking at me like that.

Remembering Mom

For most people April 14th is primarily about finishing the taxes they spent all of Spring trying to avoid.  For me, however, April 14th is slightly more significant than just attempting to fly under Uncle Sam's radar. That's because my mother passed away one year ago today.  Her death was not completely unexpected; she'd had Parkinson's with dementia for several years, the onset of which began with Alzheimer-like symptoms shortly before my father died.  Still, it's not every day one has to say that final goodbye to a parent.

Mom's high school graduation photo (Class of 1950).

To be honest, the week after Mom died was a bit of a blur involving three trips to the Indianapolis airport in 2 days and a 16-hour road trip through four states on a different day.  I flew up the day before the funeral then had to go back to the airport the next day both to pick up my daughter as well as to return her to school later that same day once the services concluded so she could finish completing assignments due before the end of the semester.  The day after the service I drove to Tennessee with my brother and niece for my mom's interment.  The hubs met me there.  Afterwards, I threw my stuff from my brother's vehicle into our van and we drove off in opposite directions.  All told, I think I personally drove around 10 hours or more that day.

What I remember most about the funeral is not that it was very small because Mom's few remaining relatives were on the West Coast, or that her mouth/face somehow didn't look quite right (in spite of how many people tried to tell me she "looks really good" in a misguided attempt to comfort me), or even how exhausted I was afterwards.  What I remember most is the flowers.  And the Statler Brothers.

Nasal is as nasal does.

When we were growing up, my mother loved to listen to the Statler Brothers.  Personally I found them far too nasal and "country" for my taste, but then I wasn't in control of the record player.  So we heard the Statler Brothers.  A lot.  I'd mostly forgotten about it till my brother mentioned that he wanted to play a couple of their songs during the service (one of which was the "Captain Kangaroo" song), the titles of which he did not remember.   We ended up pillaging Google in an effort to locate the relevant songs and then drove to Lafayette to search several stores for one of the two CDs in the Statler Brother canon on which were recorded both songs.  We were so proud of ourselves for successfully completing this quest that we failed to listen very carefully to the lyrics of said songs beyond identifying them as the correct selections.  While everyone was settling in and quieting down before the service, a loudspeaker came on and "Flowers on the Wall" began to play.  The tune was quiet and mellow included lyrics like "smoking cigarettes (well, she did) and watching Captain Kangaroo."  Next some last-minute substitute minister came up to do the "service," which consisted mostly of his speaking in religious generalities and reading my mother's obituary because of course he'd never met her and so had no clue who she was.  As a result, the service was short and largely impersonal.  Afterwards, while everyone was still sniffling, the loudspeaker started playing the second selection:  "Whatever Happened to Randolph Scott."  Everyone sat there quietly grieving until a random Statler brother, who had been singing about movie ratings up to that point, suddenly blurted out that "the screen is filled with SEX."  Didn't see that coming.  It was all I could do not to burst out laughing.  Immediately I was reminded of the Mary Tyler Moore show and the funeral of Chuckles the Clown, during which Mary was trying desperately (and largely unsuccessfully) not to laugh.  On the one hand, my mother likely would have been annoyed by not receiving what she might consider a sufficient degree of gravitas and despondency on our parts; on the other hand, she told me many times that I should wear bright colors to her funeral instead of black and should be happy because she was in Heaven.  I suppose stifling snorts of wildly inappropriate laughter counts as a form of "happiness."   Meanwhile, a friend from high school who I'd not seen in 20+ years came to the funeral and sat right behind me; she was giggling gleefully because the unexpected musical selections sounded like something her own family would do at a funeral.

Chuckles is a NAME, not a COMMAND.  Sheesh.

I also remember the flowers, or at least the significance of the flowers.  My mother was obsessed with flowers her entire life.  She absolutely loved them.  There were always potted plants in our house and she was especially proud of the giant, 6 ft tall lilac bushes that lined one side of our front yard when I was a kid.  Naturally, we had flowers on Mom's casket, and a few people (mostly people my brother knew) sent arrangements.  I only took one arrangement home afterwards since it had to survive the trip from Indy back to Georgia.  I still have it (and it's even still alive, though it could stand repotting).  When we got to the cemetery, there was a funeral spray by the graveside.  My brother thought this was overkill since Mom had already had flowers at the service and couldn't understand why I would have bothered.  But flowers were her thing.  They just were.  When Mom moved to Tennessee one of the first things I bought her was a book about the local flowers and trees and bushes.  As far as I was concerned, she wouldn't be happy unless she were surrounded by flowers at all times.  Besides, it seemed so sad and lonely not to have something at the graveside other than the wilting casket flowers that had come down with Mom in the hearse.   Before we left TN after the interment I pulled a few flowers out of the spray and put them in the little brass vase by Mom's and Dad's headstone, after which I put the rest of the spray in the van to take home.  Once there I salvaged what I could, putting them in a container of my own.  For the next week whenever I went into the kitchen the entire room would smell of flowers...of Mom.  In the mail on the day we got back was a flyer from Teleflora to remind me to order Mother's Day flowers.  What Teleflora didn't realize is that I had already gotten some Mother's day flowers.  They were just a little early.

Because you can never have too many flowers.  Yes, even then.

My mother was, in many ways, a contradiction in terms.   She would boil canned vegetables until they were so limp and lifeless that Viagra couldn't have helped them.   She frequently murdered broccoli and cauliflower and eggplant, the pungent smell of which would hover throughout the house for hours at a time like a gaseous cloud of acid rain.  It has taken me years to learn to appreciate (or even eat) most vegetables and the smell of a couple varieties being cooked will still make me gag.  Our meat was often dry or overcooked and I have lost count of the number of meals she served which consisted only of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and hotdogs.  A chef Mom was not.  Yet every week without fail she would make 4 loaves of the most delicious homemade bread you ever tasted.  I would regularly beg her to make one of those loaves into cinnamon bread, which she occasionally did and which would have me dancing in anticipation.  When I was little she'd let me help knead the dough and would give me a small handful of my own to work, which I would then get to put into a little pot pie tin and bake.  I always loved having my own little loaf of bread!  I couldn't wait to slather it in butter when it was still too hot to eat and would scarf it down anyway, oblivious to the melting butter dripping down my chin or to the burned spots on my tongue.  Rarely a week went by without some form of pie or cake or cookie sitting on the table.   I even got my recipe for snickerdoodles from my mother.  True, I've tweaked the recipe a little over the years, but she is the person who first introduced me to the joy of cookie goodness that is the 'dood.

Mmmmmm...snickerdoodles...

Mom was not an educated woman; in fact, she frequently told me how much she sucked at schoolwork.  This is not really an exaggeration; I've seen the report cards.  She grew up on a farm in Montana and went to a tiny school in the area. Sometimes Mom seemed to move slower (she once got fired from a job for being too slow) or to be just a little slower on the uptake than others.  I've sometimes wondered if maybe this was partly the result of having been born with her umbilical cord around her neck; I'm told that if her grandmother had not been there at the birth, she likely would have died of asphyxiation.  And yet, my mother is the one who instilled my love of reading.  She read countless books to me when I was little and used to argue about my bedtime, always capitulating to allow me an extra half hour to read in bed.   Mom never went anywhere without a book by her side.  True, many of them were Harlequin Romances (about which I ragged her endlessly), but she loved learning the history and geography that was peripherally present in them and dreamed of being a world traveler one day (she longed to visit Australia), never mind dreaming of getting lots of good sex, apparently.  I can remember watching my mother sit reading for hours at a time with a cup of coffee at one hand and a glass of ice cubes (which she chewed) at the other.  She would come back from every trip to the library with a new stack of books to read.  She may not have always been the brightest crayon in the box but she had a passion for at least trying to learn new things (any time she read something she didn't understand she'd run to look it up in the dictionary or would look up unfamiliar places in the atlas) and she always supported my academic pursuits, even though she rarely understood them.

True story.

My mother could also be very passive-aggressive.  She was very shy growing up and never handled conflicts well even as an adult.  So she tended to make her feelings known through sneaky, passive-aggressive ways.  When I was in high school I did a lot of theater and Mom absolutely despised driving.  Picking me up every afternoon from rehearsal when the buses were no longer running used to piss her off because it cramped her reading and soap opera time.  Often when I'd call her to pick me up (back in the days of the pay phone, long before anyone had ever heard the words "cellular phone"), she'd answer "Well, what if I don't want to??" and only halfway (or less) be kidding.  So I'd usually call her bluff by answering that I'd just walk home instead, which would invariably flip her out because she was forever convinced that someone was going to jump out of the cornfield and molest me.  She was incredibly paranoid that one or both of us would be raped at any given moment.  She even dreamed about it sometimes (she had very vivid dreams her entire life).  Years later, before she moved back to Indy, I used to take her out to lunch every week and to do her grocery shopping or run errands.  One day I told her that I was going to have to stop doing the weekly lunch and maybe do monthly instead because neither my health nor my wallet could afford it any longer.  I thought she had taken the news well till we got back in the car, at which point she informed me that she'd "noticed I was getting fat but had decided not to say anything because she 'knew' I'd figure it out eventually."  This was Mom-Code for "I'm pissed that you've decided to stop spoiling me and treating me like the princess I want to be," something she'd never dare say to my face (or anyone else's).

While Mom could be a major pain in the ass sometimes, she was also very loving in her own way.  Mom and Dad felt bad that they couldn't afford to help me pay for college so when Mom used to write to me every week she'd often stash a $5 or $10 bill in each envelope.  Sometimes those few dollars were the difference between whether I ate that day or not, though I doubt she knew that.  Mom also made sure that both my brother and I knew we were adopted even before we were old enough to know what "adoption" really meant.  I grew up knowing that I was chosen.  True, I also knew that it was largely because I had red hair (she was obsessed with redheads too) and "had a cold" so she "felt sorry for me."  Still, I never doubted that she picked me because she wanted me nor that she always loved me.  Every year on our birthdays she would make us whatever we wanted for dinner and the cake of our choice.  Because I am me, my cake was often something non-traditional like a pie or strawberry shortcake.  In fact, even after I left home she always had some strawberries put up in the freezer just for me which she'd defrost whenever I came home.  She tried hard to make us feel special, particularly since there was rarely any extra money floating around.  She also liked to torture us with our presents.  Since she didn't have much to give, she tried to make it last by wrapping something like a cheap little necklace in 15 different boxes, individually wrapped one inside the other so that you had to dig through them like Matryoshka dolls to find the prize.  Or she'd fill a box with tissue paper and you'd search the whole thing only to discover she'd taped the necklace to the side of the box or wrapped a $10 bill in one of the sheets of tissue paper you'd just tried to throw away.  One year for Christmas she bought me a pack of socks (which I doubtless needed, not that anyone wants socks for Christmas).  So to make it more interesting, she wrapped each sock individually.  I can remember going into the living room Christmas morning and thinking Santa had left the mother lode, only to discover that 10 of my gifts consisted of a single sock.  You can imagine my disappointment over "Santa's" sadism.  Mom also frequently put gag gifts in our stockings, so I suppose that at least some of my quirky humor comes from her (which is also presumably why I used to tell her that her name--Lorraine LaRue--sounded like a stripper name).

I'd like to say that my mother was a perfect mom, but she wasn't.  Who is, really?  (Other than me, of course.)  But Mom did a lot more right than she did wrong (which is more than I can say for a lot of people) and she was brave enough to give someone else's child a home and all the love she had to offer.  For good or for ill, much of who I am today is because of her...and I am grateful.

I miss you, Mom.