Dis-Tressed for Success

My family has issues with hair.  I'm not sure exactly why that is, but it has become clear over the years that none of us will ever be on a best-tressed list.  My husband has thick, curly hair which should be the envy of women everywhere, but he sadly lacks the hair-styling gene and so runs around more often than not with scraggly, overgrown hair.  It doesn't help that he has a double crown, which makes his hair difficult to cut.  I'm lucky if he gets it cut every three months; his would-be luscious curls inevitably pull out mostly straight from the weight of uncut hair and flap about his face, forever unruly.  When he was younger, he was subjected to home haircuts (with 4 kids in the house, saving money was important).  As a result, most of the pictures I've seen from that era involve something between a bowl haircut and a really, really bad Beatles' 'do.

Grade School Hair

High School Hair--nice glasses, Dude...clearly I married Eric Forman.

In grad school--the tie-dyed shirt and hemp sandals
must have been in the wash.

So far, my daughter has fared the best of the three of us.  She started out as a towhead with wispy fine hair that grew so slowly that she was three before she even had enough hair to cut.  Eventually her hair started to darken, much to her consternation, thickening as she grew.  She even picked up a little wave, courtesy of her father.  Her only real follicle challenge is a slightly high hairline and a marked disinterest in bothering with hair any more than absolutely necessary.  Sounds oddly familiar.

Cutie Patootie, Age 3

Senior Pic, age 17.  Taking the time to fix her hair
is worth the effort, no?  I love this girl.

  
 While my husband has the potential for awesome hair, even if he lacks the ability or interest in pulling it off, I am doing good simply to have the potential for hair.  Ever since I was small, my hair has been very thin and fine and generally the bane of my existence.  In an effort to combat this over the years I have had a string of highly unfortunate perms that tended to make me look like an electrocuted poodle.  These perms were interspersed with poor haircuts that usually rendered my hair flat and lifeless or short and stuck to my head like one of Esther William's swim caps.  This condition was not improved by my mother's own attempts to save money by cutting my hair.  Mercifully no bowls were used; rather, my bangs were regularly cut by Scotch Tape.  She'd tear off a strip of tape and slap it across my forehead, using it as a ruler to cut a straight line.  Unfortunately, the tape was rarely (if indeed ever) put on straight, so my bangs were constantly cut at an angle.  More often than not, I looked like my hair had been styled with a weed-whacker.  

Notice the wavy hairline, angled down to the left.
Though to be fair, this is better than many of my haircuts.

Who gives their kid a perm at age 5?  My hair was freaking TRIANGULAR.
Also, my bangs are still wavy and higher in the middle than on the sides.

 
By the time I was in 8th grade, I was determined to remedy this atrocity by cutting my own hair, sans tape.  I went into the bathroom with my mom's (dull) scissors, and proceeded to cut.  Crap.  Too short on one side.  So I trimmed the other half a little more.  Crap.  Too short on that side now.  This went on, back and forth, for approximately 30 minutes, at the end of which I was left with stubby 1/2" bangs.  Worse still, I was left with stubby 1/2" bangs a mere TWO DAYS before school pictures.  Bad enough to to something so stupid, much less to have it immortalized in film.  

My embarrassment for your pleasure.  You're welcome.
Also, you know you want those glasses.

You would think having thin, fine hair would make it easier to cut--there's just not that much of it, after all--especially when its growth is predisposed towards stopping at shoulder length.  Seriously--my hair stops growing as soon as it gets anywhere near my collarbone, splitting almost with seconds of hitting my shoulder.  And yet, nearly every time I go into a new salon I have to deal with the humiliation of some stylist pawing through my hair, saying things like "Oh, Marge, come over here!  Feel this--she has hair just like a BABY!!"  Because what grown woman doesn't love hearing that?

One of many horrible perms over the years, as well as another
ugly pair of glasses.  I made that dress, though.

Short hair FAIL.  I look like a boy in a Charlie Brown shirt. 
And check out the butt-ugly couch.

With my brother in '85.  Probably my all-time most favorite haircut,
which I first got from a BARBER on the Butler campus.  Go figure. 
Pretty '80s, though.

Not surprisingly, finding a new stylist whenever I move is a major pain, and moving to Georgia has been no different.  After spending 18 years going to the same guy in Memphis, I dreaded starting over down here.  Turns out I had good reason.  I went to one place and showed them pictures of how I wanted my hair.  Not pictures of Jennifer Anniston's hair or any other celebrity's hair--I showed pictures of my very own hair cut in the way I liked.  Fat lot of good it did.  The woman styling my hair cut it, blew it out and styled it.  I started to worry when partway through it started looking suspiciously "big."  I wear glasses and always have to take them off when my hair gets cut, which means that it's difficult to judge new people while they are cutting since I can't really see what's going on.  I grabbed my glasses and was horrified to discover that she had given me Sally Field's helmet hair from the movie Steel Magnolias.  I immediately started pawing through it in an attempt to make it deflate.  My hair was poofy, it was crooked, and it was just terribly cut.  I was so put out by the whole thing that the receptionist ended up refunding my money, but I still never went back.

No one likes Helmet Hair.

My next couple of forays went marginally better, but not great.  I often ended up waiting 2-3 months between haircuts just so I could have my old stylist do my hair when we were back in Memphis to visit.  Finally, though, I found a new guy just last month.  The cut wasn't perfect, but it was head and shoulders above any other I've had here so I actually went back to him today.  I always figure I'll give a new stylist a chance to cut my hair first, and if they get that right then I'll let them try coloring it.  While my hair is naturally auburn, its color has varied over the years, darkening from reddish blonde to reddish brown as I've gotten older.  I'm convinced that my mother only adopted me because I had red hair; she has always had an obsession with redheads, so much so that when she found out my second boyfriend was a carrot top, she started pushing me to marry him so that she could have "red-headed grandchildren."  I was 18 at the time.  

Ginger Pimpin'.  Otherwise known as bad perm
and specs #15.

Anyway, a few years ago, I began suffering the indignity of "mutant albino hairs" (my hair is not getting grey...I'm far too young to go grey...) and so now I have to have my natural color touched up as well.  I suppose technically I don't have to touch it up, but most redheads don't look all that fabulous with grey hair.  We look like someone left us out in the sun too long and we faded.  It's not pretty.  Dying hair red can be an issue, though.  I want my hair to look natural, like it was before the advent of mutant albino hair.   Too often new stylists make it come out brassy or an odd shade that doesn't suit my skintone.  Fortunately, my man Ricky did an excellent job matching my hair color and camouflaging those grey roots.  He was also able to improve on the cut, presumably because we are becoming a little more acquainted with each other and he is understanding my needs more.

Happy Hair

I don't know what it says about me that I seem to do better with male stylists, but I do.  The two I've had tell me all about their wives, their kids, and they make me laugh.  Just today Ricky and I were swapping bad haircut stories.  I told him about my junior high debacle and he told me about a client he had who felt the need to adjust her bangs right before her daughter's wedding.  Um, what?  It seems she had a couple stray hairs that just wouldn't do, so in order to make corrections she grabbed the only thing she had to hand--her nail clippers.  When all was said and done, this 60-year-old woman went to her daughter's wedding with little curved divots cut out of her hair.  Can you imagine the wedding pictures?  "Nice scalloped hair, Mom..."  Of course, the problem with telling me such a story is that I immediately suggested using a pinking shears.  Ricky just looked at me and said "You know you don't have to try to best her, right?"  Fifteen minutes later we were giggling hysterically while we considered all sorts of other interesting items that could be used for cutting one's hair, including (but not limited to) a potato peeler, a cheese grater, and an egg beater.  ("Whip it--whip it good!")  I don't suppose I should be surprised that Ricky and I were talking kitchen gear; turns out he is a part-time baker as well.  I have threatened to pay for my next trim in snickerdoodles.  His eyes lit up when I said "snickerdoodles," so I think he may be game for a trade.

Oh, please--like you didn't know they'd show up again sooner or later.

Snickerdoooooooodles...future haircut funding?

So what about all of you?  Best hair experience?  Worst hair experience?  Discuss.

Dis-Tressed for Success

My family has issues with hair.  I'm not sure exactly why that is, but it has become clear over the years that none of us will ever be on a best-tressed list.  My husband has thick, curly hair which should be the envy of women everywhere, but he sadly lacks the hair-styling gene and so runs around more often than not with scraggly, overgrown hair.  It doesn't help that he has a double crown, which makes his hair difficult to cut.  I'm lucky if he gets it cut every three months; his would-be luscious curls inevitably pull out mostly straight from the weight of uncut hair and flap about his face, forever unruly.  When he was younger, he was subjected to home haircuts (with 4 kids in the house, saving money was important).  As a result, most of the pictures I've seen from that era involve something between a bowl haircut and a really, really bad Beatles' 'do.

Grade School Hair

High School Hair--nice glasses, Dude...clearly I married Eric Forman.

In grad school--the tie-dyed shirt and hemp sandals
must have been in the wash.

So far, my daughter has fared the best of the three of us.  She started out as a towhead with wispy fine hair that grew so slowly that she was three before she even had enough hair to cut.  Eventually her hair started to darken, much to her consternation, thickening as she grew.  She even picked up a little wave, courtesy of her father.  Her only real follicle challenge is a slightly high hairline and a marked disinterest in bothering with hair any more than absolutely necessary.  Sounds oddly familiar.

Cutie Patootie, Age 3

Senior Pic, age 17.  Taking the time to fix her hair
is worth the effort, no?  I love this girl.

  
 While my husband has the potential for awesome hair, even if he lacks the ability or interest in pulling it off, I am doing good simply to have the potential for hair.  Ever since I was small, my hair has been very thin and fine and generally the bane of my existence.  In an effort to combat this over the years I have had a string of highly unfortunate perms that tended to make me look like an electrocuted poodle.  These perms were interspersed with poor haircuts that usually rendered my hair flat and lifeless or short and stuck to my head like one of Esther William's swim caps.  This condition was not improved by my mother's own attempts to save money by cutting my hair.  Mercifully no bowls were used; rather, my bangs were regularly cut by Scotch Tape.  She'd tear off a strip of tape and slap it across my forehead, using it as a ruler to cut a straight line.  Unfortunately, the tape was rarely (if indeed ever) put on straight, so my bangs were constantly cut at an angle.  More often than not, I looked like my hair had been styled with a weed-whacker.  

Notice the wavy hairline, angled down to the left.
Though to be fair, this is better than many of my haircuts.

Who gives their kid a perm at age 5?  My hair was freaking TRIANGULAR.
Also, my bangs are still wavy and higher in the middle than on the sides.

 
By the time I was in 8th grade, I was determined to remedy this atrocity by cutting my own hair, sans tape.  I went into the bathroom with my mom's (dull) scissors, and proceeded to cut.  Crap.  Too short on one side.  So I trimmed the other half a little more.  Crap.  Too short on that side now.  This went on, back and forth, for approximately 30 minutes, at the end of which I was left with stubby 1/2" bangs.  Worse still, I was left with stubby 1/2" bangs a mere TWO DAYS before school pictures.  Bad enough to to something so stupid, much less to have it immortalized in film.  

My embarrassment for your pleasure.  You're welcome.
Also, you know you want those glasses.

You would think having thin, fine hair would make it easier to cut--there's just not that much of it, after all--especially when its growth is predisposed towards stopping at shoulder length.  Seriously--my hair stops growing as soon as it gets anywhere near my collarbone, splitting almost with seconds of hitting my shoulder.  And yet, nearly every time I go into a new salon I have to deal with the humiliation of some stylist pawing through my hair, saying things like "Oh, Marge, come over here!  Feel this--she has hair just like a BABY!!"  Because what grown woman doesn't love hearing that?

One of many horrible perms over the years, as well as another
ugly pair of glasses.  I made that dress, though.

Short hair FAIL.  I look like a boy in a Charlie Brown shirt. 
And check out the butt-ugly couch.

With my brother in '85.  Probably my all-time most favorite haircut,
which I first got from a BARBER on the Butler campus.  Go figure. 
Pretty '80s, though.

Not surprisingly, finding a new stylist whenever I move is a major pain, and moving to Georgia has been no different.  After spending 18 years going to the same guy in Memphis, I dreaded starting over down here.  Turns out I had good reason.  I went to one place and showed them pictures of how I wanted my hair.  Not pictures of Jennifer Anniston's hair or any other celebrity's hair--I showed pictures of my very own hair cut in the way I liked.  Fat lot of good it did.  The woman styling my hair cut it, blew it out and styled it.  I started to worry when partway through it started looking suspiciously "big."  I wear glasses and always have to take them off when my hair gets cut, which means that it's difficult to judge new people while they are cutting since I can't really see what's going on.  I grabbed my glasses and was horrified to discover that she had given me Sally Field's helmet hair from the movie Steel Magnolias.  I immediately started pawing through it in an attempt to make it deflate.  My hair was poofy, it was crooked, and it was just terribly cut.  I was so put out by the whole thing that the receptionist ended up refunding my money, but I still never went back.

No one likes Helmet Hair.

My next couple of forays went marginally better, but not great.  I often ended up waiting 2-3 months between haircuts just so I could have my old stylist do my hair when we were back in Memphis to visit.  Finally, though, I found a new guy just last month.  The cut wasn't perfect, but it was head and shoulders above any other I've had here so I actually went back to him today.  I always figure I'll give a new stylist a chance to cut my hair first, and if they get that right then I'll let them try coloring it.  While my hair is naturally auburn, its color has varied over the years, darkening from reddish blonde to reddish brown as I've gotten older.  I'm convinced that my mother only adopted me because I had red hair; she has always had an obsession with redheads, so much so that when she found out my second boyfriend was a carrot top, she started pushing me to marry him so that she could have "red-headed grandchildren."  I was 18 at the time.  

Ginger Pimpin'.  Otherwise known as bad perm
and specs #15.

Anyway, a few years ago, I began suffering the indignity of "mutant albino hairs" (my hair is not getting grey...I'm far too young to go grey...) and so now I have to have my natural color touched up as well.  I suppose technically I don't have to touch it up, but most redheads don't look all that fabulous with grey hair.  We look like someone left us out in the sun too long and we faded.  It's not pretty.  Dying hair red can be an issue, though.  I want my hair to look natural, like it was before the advent of mutant albino hair.   Too often new stylists make it come out brassy or an odd shade that doesn't suit my skintone.  Fortunately, my man Ricky did an excellent job matching my hair color and camouflaging those grey roots.  He was also able to improve on the cut, presumably because we are becoming a little more acquainted with each other and he is understanding my needs more.

Happy Hair

I don't know what it says about me that I seem to do better with male stylists, but I do.  The two I've had tell me all about their wives, their kids, and they make me laugh.  Just today Ricky and I were swapping bad haircut stories.  I told him about my junior high debacle and he told me about a client he had who felt the need to adjust her bangs right before her daughter's wedding.  Um, what?  It seems she had a couple stray hairs that just wouldn't do, so in order to make corrections she grabbed the only thing she had to hand--her nail clippers.  When all was said and done, this 60-year-old woman went to her daughter's wedding with little curved divots cut out of her hair.  Can you imagine the wedding pictures?  "Nice scalloped hair, Mom..."  Of course, the problem with telling me such a story is that I immediately suggested using a pinking shears.  Ricky just looked at me and said "You know you don't have to try to best her, right?"  Fifteen minutes later we were giggling hysterically while we considered all sorts of other interesting items that could be used for cutting one's hair, including (but not limited to) a potato peeler, a cheese grater, and an egg beater.  ("Whip it--whip it good!")  I don't suppose I should be surprised that Ricky and I were talking kitchen gear; turns out he is a part-time baker as well.  I have threatened to pay for my next trim in snickerdoodles.  His eyes lit up when I said "snickerdoodles," so I think he may be game for a trade.

Oh, please--like you didn't know they'd show up again sooner or later.

Snickerdoooooooodles...future haircut funding?

So what about all of you?  Best hair experience?  Worst hair experience?  Discuss.

Ten Things I Should Not Have to Say to Adults Possessing Genius-Level IQs

10.  Me:  Why didn't you empty the dishwasher?  I'm not the only one who 
                dirties dishes (in fact, you go through easily twice as many as me), 
                so I shouldn't be the only one to clean them or put them away.
       Genius 1:  I didn't know if it was clean or not.
       Me:  What do you mean you didn't know?  It says it's clean!
       G1:   No it doesn't...the little sign says "dirty."
       Me:  See the little green light that's on?  The one right next to the word 
               "CLEAN"?  Surprisingly, that means that the dishes are CLEAN, regardless 
                of whether or not I remembered to change the dirty/clean sign.
       G1:   What green light?
       Me:  ::headdesk::

  9.  Thank you for hanging my picture.  For the record, Lieutenant Literal, "hanging 
       the picture" includes cleaning up afterwards, not leaving piles of white drywall 
       dust on my floor for over a week.  Nor does it mean telling me that you did see
       some white dust on the floor after I brought this to your attention three weeks ago
       (and which you still left on the floor).

  8.  G2:  My bathroom is dirty.
       Me:  So clean it.
       G2:  I don't know how.
       Me:  I've showed you how like 5 times.
       G2:  I don't remember.
       Me:  When Ms. Paper Towel and Mr. Spray Bottle love each other very much,
                they get freaky in the sink until they make little scrubbing bubbles, and
                nurse them on dirt and gunk and germs.  No?  Then just use the paper
                towels and Scrubbing Bubbles TILL THE SINK IS CLEAN.  This isn't 
                rocket science.  Yes, I know you would understand rocket science better.
                I just don't care.

  7.  Thank you for taking out the trash.  However, I would appreciate it if you 
       would attempt to remember that there is not, in fact, a trash-sucking vortex 
       that has escaped from the Star Trek universe to pick up all the stray bits of refuse 
       that missed the bin.  You actually have to pick those up yourself.  I'll provide 
       rubber gloves for you if necessary.  And no, you can't blow them up into balloons 
       and play with them.
  
  6.  When you sign up for classes next semester,  please remember to schedule time
       to eat and to sleep.  It is okay to have "blank spots" on your course schedule...
       even God rested once a week, you know.

  5. Telling me approximately 687 times that you need to get your glasses fixed will not, 
       in fact, cause them to be fixed.  Calling the eye doctor will.  So call him.  Today.  I 
       mean it.  (This conversation took place over a year and a half ago.  The glasses have
       still not been replaced.)

  4. Telling a woman that she is in any way "geometrically implausible" is not, in fact,
       a kinder way to inform her that she is overweight or that certain postitions 
       arrangements are awkward, unless of course you are hoping never ever to get laid
       again and would really like to have your congruence snapped into a null set.
       (Meanwhile, when G1 reads this, the only thing that will likely stand out to him 
       is that I have incorrectly used "congruence" and "null set" and/or that they cannot 
       be combined at all, much less in this fashion.  Sometimes I say things like this just
       to make him twitch.  #missingthepoint)

  3.  No woman finds a man wearing nothing but black socks sexy.  And no, I am
       not making this up.  I asked them.  All of them.  They all said you look dorky 
       like that.    

  2.  Do NOT keep playing Jenga with the dishes in the sink unless you want me to 
       start playing Jenga with all your computer stuff downstairs.

  1.  Bill Gates is not the Antichrist.  People who annoy you are not automatically
       equivalent to ultimate evil in the universe--with the possible exception of 
       Jar Jar Binks.

Ten Things I Should Not Have to Say to Adults Possessing Genius-Level IQs

10.  Me:  Why didn't you empty the dishwasher?  I'm not the only one who 
                dirties dishes (in fact, you go through easily twice as many as me), 
                so I shouldn't be the only one to clean them or put them away.
       Genius 1:  I didn't know if it was clean or not.
       Me:  What do you mean you didn't know?  It says it's clean!
       G1:   No it doesn't...the little sign says "dirty."
       Me:  See the little green light that's on?  The one right next to the word 
               "CLEAN"?  Surprisingly, that means that the dishes are CLEAN, regardless 
                of whether or not I remembered to change the dirty/clean sign.
       G1:   What green light?
       Me:  ::headdesk::

  9.  Thank you for hanging my picture.  For the record, Lieutenant Literal, "hanging 
       the picture" includes cleaning up afterwards, not leaving piles of white drywall 
       dust on my floor for over a week.  Nor does it mean telling me that you did see
       some white dust on the floor after I brought this to your attention three weeks ago
       (and which you still left on the floor).

  8.  G2:  My bathroom is dirty.
       Me:  So clean it.
       G2:  I don't know how.
       Me:  I've showed you how like 5 times.
       G2:  I don't remember.
       Me:  When Ms. Paper Towel and Mr. Spray Bottle love each other very much,
                they get freaky in the sink until they make little scrubbing bubbles, and
                nurse them on dirt and gunk and germs.  No?  Then just use the paper
                towels and Scrubbing Bubbles TILL THE SINK IS CLEAN.  This isn't 
                rocket science.  Yes, I know you would understand rocket science better.
                I just don't care.

  7.  Thank you for taking out the trash.  However, I would appreciate it if you 
       would attempt to remember that there is not, in fact, a trash-sucking vortex 
       that has escaped from the Star Trek universe to pick up all the stray bits of refuse 
       that missed the bin.  You actually have to pick those up yourself.  I'll provide 
       rubber gloves for you if necessary.  And no, you can't blow them up into balloons 
       and play with them.
  
  6.  When you sign up for classes next semester,  please remember to schedule time
       to eat and to sleep.  It is okay to have "blank spots" on your course schedule...
       even God rested once a week, you know.

  5. Telling me approximately 687 times that you need to get your glasses fixed will not, 
       in fact, cause them to be fixed.  Calling the eye doctor will.  So call him.  Today.  I 
       mean it.  (This conversation took place over a year and a half ago.  The glasses have
       still not been replaced.)

  4. Telling a woman that she is in any way "geometrically implausible" is not, in fact,
       a kinder way to inform her that she is overweight or that certain postitions 
       arrangements are awkward, unless of course you are hoping never ever to get laid
       again and would really like to have your congruence snapped into a null set.
       (Meanwhile, when G1 reads this, the only thing that will likely stand out to him 
       is that I have incorrectly used "congruence" and "null set" and/or that they cannot 
       be combined at all, much less in this fashion.  Sometimes I say things like this just
       to make him twitch.  #missingthepoint)

  3.  No woman finds a man wearing nothing but black socks sexy.  And no, I am
       not making this up.  I asked them.  All of them.  They all said you look dorky 
       like that.    

  2.  Do NOT keep playing Jenga with the dishes in the sink unless you want me to 
       start playing Jenga with all your computer stuff downstairs.

  1.  Bill Gates is not the Antichrist.  People who annoy you are not automatically
       equivalent to ultimate evil in the universe--with the possible exception of 
       Jar Jar Binks.

Travel Upgrade: The Voyage Home (Humpback Whales Sold Separately)

For those of you asking how my return trip from Indy went, here's the scoop:  it actually went surprisingly smoothly, all things considered.  This time I arrived at the airport in plenty of time to drop off my rental car (undamaged, in spite of my niece's attempt to jinx me by telling me how many people have accidents after declining the insurance--she works for Enterprise--which of course I had also done).  On the downside, I was charged an additional $30 for forgetting to fill up the gas tank before returning it, even though I'd only used a quarter of a tank.  Score one for the airport mafia.

Once in the terminal building, I headed straight for Security, thinking to get it over with before finding someplace to eat on the concourse.  The Indianapolis International Airport was unexpectedly sedate for a Saturday afternoon; in fact, there were virtually no people waiting in line at Security.  I pretty much strode directly up to the podium to have my ID checked and then was waved on to the actual scanners.  I dutifully deposited my flip flops, phone, purse, and iPad in the bin and threw my carry-on bag up as well.  As I approached the scanner, I could see the TSA agent clearly trying to catch the eye of another agent on duty at the Naked Scanner, undoubtedly so he could ship me over there.  She was too busy talking with other agents during the lull to notice him, though, so he sighed and waved me through the normal scanner.  I passed.  Thank you, plain, boring T-shirt and blue jeans.  Score one for me.

Because I was got to the airport early for a change, I was able to stroll leisurely down the concourse.  As a result, I arrived at one of the restaurants looking like a normal person rather than how I looked during my last two trips to the airport:  like a red-faced serial killer dripping with sweat and the stench of fear (over missing the plane) and breathing heavily on the gate agents.  Just as well.  At best, they would have just thought I was celebrating Halloween early.  At worst, I would have been detained and had my luggage searched for errant chainsaws.  Instead, I was able to sit calmly and quietly at a small pub and have a lovely Caesar salad and a nice, greasy, burnt hamburger for lunch.  On the plus side, the burnt hamburger did successfully counteract the bitter coffee ground taste I'd gotten from my banana breakfast (which was especially weird since I don't even drink coffee).  So no sweating glowing like a pig (Southern women don't sweat, I'm told, they "glow"--as though enormous rivulets of salty, stinky, stagnant water rolling off of them could be somehow misconstrued as merely "pleasantly luminescent") for me.  Airport Mafia 1, Ginger 2.

After my lunch, I strolled up to a gate agent and asked if the flight was particularly full.  I was told it wasn't.  Feeling decadent, I asked if I could upgrade to first class.  I couldn't.  So instead I asked if I could get a row all to myself.  Apparently this was no problem so I was switched from 27D to 36A--makes it sound like I'm talking about bra sizes rather than plane seats.  When it was time to board, I trucked all the way to the back of the plane for my new seat, only to discover that row 36 was right next to the engine.  Furthermore, it was behind a bulkhead, so my view consisted of nothing but a wall in front of me and a giant white suppository out of the window beside me.  Best of all, it appeared to be the only row with fixed, permanent armrests, guaranteeing that I would have to be crammed into one of the seats with a shoehorn after first being greased down like Paula Deen's skillets.

I considered my position for a while, eventually asking one of the flight attendants if I could change rows.  She said the plane was only half full, that everyone was on board, and to pick whatever seat I liked.  Score!  I hauled my bag out of the overhead compartment and headed back towards my original seat, which was still empty as was the seat beside it.  So why did the gate agent feel the need to shove me in the back of the plane like cargo, rather than just tell me that in the first place??  Whatever.  As I got to row 27, I noticed that the exit row in front of it was also empty (extra leg room, yay!).  I threw my bag in the overhead bin and settled into that row instead.  I guess because the flight was lighter than usual the attendants were likewise more laid back than usual, since no one ever came up to me and demanded that I accept responsibility for ripping out the door should we crash.  Happy seat, lots of leg room, no seat partner...score another one for me.

Everything went according to plan and to schedule and we started rolling out in a timely fashion, only to stop suddenly about 40 feet from the gate. We waited there a few minutes, puzzled, to see what would happen.  Which was nothing.  At all.  

After about 10 minutes of this, the captain announced over the loudspeaker that we had been put into a ground hold not because of bad weather either in Indy or Atlanta, but because Atlanta apparently had scheduled more planes to come in than they had gates.  Good job, Atlanta!  As a result, we pulled back into the gate to wait--for an hour or more we were told--until Atlanta's airport could get its crap together.  Awesome.  Within seconds of the PA system clicking off, every single passenger whipped out a stowed electronic device and started using it to keep busy during the delay.  Score another one for the airport mafia.

Everyone behaved calmly and quietly during the delay, and the captain updated us regularly.  He even went so far as to back the plane out and hover near the appropriate strip so that literally seconds after we were given clearance, he could pull out and take off.  The only real issue for me during all of this was the guy in the row opposite me, who was also seated on the aisle of an otherwise empty row.  Throughout boarding and the delay he sat right next to me puffing away on what appeared to be some sort of black metal smokeless pipe.  I say "smokeless" only in that large quantities of grey, tar-spiked clouds did not hover over us.  That said, he still managed to release clouds of white vapor something whenever he exhaled off to his side.  I found it supremely annoying and rude.  It was bad enough I had to share germs with every single person on the plane; I didn't feel like I needed to be sucking in this guy's germy fake nicotine vapors as well.  I realize that technically-speaking puffing on his contraption didn't count as a smoking, which is presumably why the attendants did nothing about it.  However, I am extremely sensitive to strong smells, particularly those of certain perfumes/powders/soaps and all tobacco products.   "Smokeless" or not, this dude's hookah toking was giving me a migraine that was not improved when he jumped up to dig in his bag overhead for a small bottle of brown liquid which he then used to refill his mini-bong.  If I thought his fake smoke was bad, the bottle was far worse.  It reeked of a turpentine and body odor that only marginally dissipated once he had closed the bottle and stashed it in his pocket.  I confess that in my irritation I behaved very passive-aggressively, first covering my nose with my fingers then eventually pulling up my shirt to do so as well.  He finally got the message and moved down the row to the window seat where he could steam up the window instead of me, which did help a little.  He finally quit when drinks were served and did not start toking again while he was on the plane.  Conscientious Captain vs. Toker Asshat = nil score. 

Tampon Toker™ for people who want to be smokinnnnnnnn'.

The rest of the flight went smoothly enough and I landed in Atlanta in due course.   I returned to my mom van in the first row of the parking lot, loaded up and headed home.  I took my husband's back route once again because it is more chill (if not shorter) and because I wanted to stop at an O'Charley's for dinner that is only on that route.  After finishing my meal, I had about an hour left to drive home, or at least I should have only had an hour.  When it came time to turn onto Hwy 78 for the last leg home, I accidentally turned left instead of right.  Imagine my surprise when I hit a big sign that said "Welcome to Loganville" instead of "Welcome to Athens."  Greaaaaaat.  I really need to start learning my Georgia geography, and soon.  Sighing, I made the first available u-turn and headed back in the correct direction.  On the plus side, I saw the best. road. sign. ever. for a town called "Between."  Had I not turned the wrong direction, I would never have been so entertained by the "Between City Limit" sign.  It's almost as good as "North, SC."  I wish I'd gotten a picture of it to add to my collection, but it was dark and I was driving.  Maybe next time.  

I made it home, intact, with a functional car and all my luggage at 7:30 pm.  So, score for this trip:  Airport Mafia 2, Ginger 3.  Total score for round-trip:  Airport Mafia 4.5, Ginger 6.  

I'M STILL WINNING.

Travel Upgrade: The Voyage Home (Humpback Whales Sold Separately)

For those of you asking how my return trip from Indy went, here's the scoop:  it actually went surprisingly smoothly, all things considered.  This time I arrived at the airport in plenty of time to drop off my rental car (undamaged, in spite of my niece's attempt to jinx me by telling me how many people have accidents after declining the insurance--she works for Enterprise--which of course I had also done).  On the downside, I was charged an additional $30 for forgetting to fill up the gas tank before returning it, even though I'd only used a quarter of a tank.  Score one for the airport mafia.

Once in the terminal building, I headed straight for Security, thinking to get it over with before finding someplace to eat on the concourse.  The Indianapolis International Airport was unexpectedly sedate for a Saturday afternoon; in fact, there were virtually no people waiting in line at Security.  I pretty much strode directly up to the podium to have my ID checked and then was waved on to the actual scanners.  I dutifully deposited my flip flops, phone, purse, and iPad in the bin and threw my carry-on bag up as well.  As I approached the scanner, I could see the TSA agent clearly trying to catch the eye of another agent on duty at the Naked Scanner, undoubtedly so he could ship me over there.  She was too busy talking with other agents during the lull to notice him, though, so he sighed and waved me through the normal scanner.  I passed.  Thank you, plain, boring T-shirt and blue jeans.  Score one for me.

Because I was got to the airport early for a change, I was able to stroll leisurely down the concourse.  As a result, I arrived at one of the restaurants looking like a normal person rather than how I looked during my last two trips to the airport:  like a red-faced serial killer dripping with sweat and the stench of fear (over missing the plane) and breathing heavily on the gate agents.  Just as well.  At best, they would have just thought I was celebrating Halloween early.  At worst, I would have been detained and had my luggage searched for errant chainsaws.  Instead, I was able to sit calmly and quietly at a small pub and have a lovely Caesar salad and a nice, greasy, burnt hamburger for lunch.  On the plus side, the burnt hamburger did successfully counteract the bitter coffee ground taste I'd gotten from my banana breakfast (which was especially weird since I don't even drink coffee).  So no sweating glowing like a pig (Southern women don't sweat, I'm told, they "glow"--as though enormous rivulets of salty, stinky, stagnant water rolling off of them could be somehow misconstrued as merely "pleasantly luminescent") for me.  Airport Mafia 1, Ginger 2.

After my lunch, I strolled up to a gate agent and asked if the flight was particularly full.  I was told it wasn't.  Feeling decadent, I asked if I could upgrade to first class.  I couldn't.  So instead I asked if I could get a row all to myself.  Apparently this was no problem so I was switched from 27D to 36A--makes it sound like I'm talking about bra sizes rather than plane seats.  When it was time to board, I trucked all the way to the back of the plane for my new seat, only to discover that row 36 was right next to the engine.  Furthermore, it was behind a bulkhead, so my view consisted of nothing but a wall in front of me and a giant white suppository out of the window beside me.  Best of all, it appeared to be the only row with fixed, permanent armrests, guaranteeing that I would have to be crammed into one of the seats with a shoehorn after first being greased down like Paula Deen's skillets.

I considered my position for a while, eventually asking one of the flight attendants if I could change rows.  She said the plane was only half full, that everyone was on board, and to pick whatever seat I liked.  Score!  I hauled my bag out of the overhead compartment and headed back towards my original seat, which was still empty as was the seat beside it.  So why did the gate agent feel the need to shove me in the back of the plane like cargo, rather than just tell me that in the first place??  Whatever.  As I got to row 27, I noticed that the exit row in front of it was also empty (extra leg room, yay!).  I threw my bag in the overhead bin and settled into that row instead.  I guess because the flight was lighter than usual the attendants were likewise more laid back than usual, since no one ever came up to me and demanded that I accept responsibility for ripping out the door should we crash.  Happy seat, lots of leg room, no seat partner...score another one for me.

Everything went according to plan and to schedule and we started rolling out in a timely fashion, only to stop suddenly about 40 feet from the gate. We waited there a few minutes, puzzled, to see what would happen.  Which was nothing.  At all.  

After about 10 minutes of this, the captain announced over the loudspeaker that we had been put into a ground hold not because of bad weather either in Indy or Atlanta, but because Atlanta apparently had scheduled more planes to come in than they had gates.  Good job, Atlanta!  As a result, we pulled back into the gate to wait--for an hour or more we were told--until Atlanta's airport could get its crap together.  Awesome.  Within seconds of the PA system clicking off, every single passenger whipped out a stowed electronic device and started using it to keep busy during the delay.  Score another one for the airport mafia.

Everyone behaved calmly and quietly during the delay, and the captain updated us regularly.  He even went so far as to back the plane out and hover near the appropriate strip so that literally seconds after we were given clearance, he could pull out and take off.  The only real issue for me during all of this was the guy in the row opposite me, who was also seated on the aisle of an otherwise empty row.  Throughout boarding and the delay he sat right next to me puffing away on what appeared to be some sort of black metal smokeless pipe.  I say "smokeless" only in that large quantities of grey, tar-spiked clouds did not hover over us.  That said, he still managed to release clouds of white vapor something whenever he exhaled off to his side.  I found it supremely annoying and rude.  It was bad enough I had to share germs with every single person on the plane; I didn't feel like I needed to be sucking in this guy's germy fake nicotine vapors as well.  I realize that technically-speaking puffing on his contraption didn't count as a smoking, which is presumably why the attendants did nothing about it.  However, I am extremely sensitive to strong smells, particularly those of certain perfumes/powders/soaps and all tobacco products.   "Smokeless" or not, this dude's hookah toking was giving me a migraine that was not improved when he jumped up to dig in his bag overhead for a small bottle of brown liquid which he then used to refill his mini-bong.  If I thought his fake smoke was bad, the bottle was far worse.  It reeked of a turpentine and body odor that only marginally dissipated once he had closed the bottle and stashed it in his pocket.  I confess that in my irritation I behaved very passive-aggressively, first covering my nose with my fingers then eventually pulling up my shirt to do so as well.  He finally got the message and moved down the row to the window seat where he could steam up the window instead of me, which did help a little.  He finally quit when drinks were served and did not start toking again while he was on the plane.  Conscientious Captain vs. Toker Asshat = nil score. 

Tampon Toker™ for people who want to be smokinnnnnnnn'.

The rest of the flight went smoothly enough and I landed in Atlanta in due course.   I returned to my mom van in the first row of the parking lot, loaded up and headed home.  I took my husband's back route once again because it is more chill (if not shorter) and because I wanted to stop at an O'Charley's for dinner that is only on that route.  After finishing my meal, I had about an hour left to drive home, or at least I should have only had an hour.  When it came time to turn onto Hwy 78 for the last leg home, I accidentally turned left instead of right.  Imagine my surprise when I hit a big sign that said "Welcome to Loganville" instead of "Welcome to Athens."  Greaaaaaat.  I really need to start learning my Georgia geography, and soon.  Sighing, I made the first available u-turn and headed back in the correct direction.  On the plus side, I saw the best. road. sign. ever. for a town called "Between."  Had I not turned the wrong direction, I would never have been so entertained by the "Between City Limit" sign.  It's almost as good as "North, SC."  I wish I'd gotten a picture of it to add to my collection, but it was dark and I was driving.  Maybe next time.  

I made it home, intact, with a functional car and all my luggage at 7:30 pm.  So, score for this trip:  Airport Mafia 2, Ginger 3.  Total score for round-trip:  Airport Mafia 4.5, Ginger 6.  

I'M STILL WINNING.

Travel Upgrade

Today, a mere two weeks after my most recent debacle in the joyous world that is air travel, I got to head to the airport yet again for another crack at getting it right. 

This time, I got into my van and it started.  This time, I was still running behind by taking the hub's special back route to the airport.  While less freaky than driving on the 6+ lanes of I-85, I still don't see why he thinks it takes less time. The speed limit is slower, the traffic is more meandering, and it still took me the same 90 minutes that the other route would have taken (the hubs may be getting a visit from Mini-Beyoncé when I get home).

This time, I trotted the long walk from the economy lot to the terminal--why doesn't Atlanta have freaking shuttles in that lot?--after finding a spot in the first row of the lot.  Score one for me.

I packed more lightly this time, so I was able to save time by skipping the baggage check and heading straight for security.  Just like last time I got to security with maybe 15 minutes to spare before boarding would begin.  The lines were surprisingly empty, so I more or less walked straight up to the checker and was passed through.  I got into a scanner line that was relatively short, deliberately selecting one which did not lead to the Naked Scanner.  I deposited my things, walked through the normal scanner and PASSED.  Score another one for me.

I collected my things and headed to the tram.  I got off on the B Concourse, because every Delta flight to date has gone from there, even though I didn't have a gate written on my boarding pass.  When I got off the tram, I went over to the departure screens, only to discover that I was supposed to have gotten off at Councourse A.  I also discovered that the illegible "AM" written on my boarding pass in highlighter was apparently sloppy security penmanship for "A-4."  Okay, airport, I'll give you that one, but only a half of one because it's my own bloody fault for not checking the screens before getting on the tram.  So score.5 for the Airport. 

I walked back to the tram for Concourse A, got on, and begin the interminable (see what I did there?) walk to Gate 4.  Naturally, because I'm running late, my gate is at the opposite end of the concourse.  Score another point for the Airport. 

When I got to the gate I inquired why my confirmed seat selection had been changed from 23C to 31E.  I was told that I had been bumped for "equipment" or something, "equipment" apparently being code for "10-year-old girl flying alone."  Sigh.  Score another one for the Airport.

I quickly got in the boarding line so I could to my new row and settle in before my seat mate arrived, since I hate climbing over people just to get wedged up against the window.  My carry-on ended up in a compartment a few rows down from my seat, guaranteeing that I would be one of the last people off the plane.  After getting comfortable (or at least as comfortable as it is possible to get these days), I waited to see who my seat mate for the flight would be.  Eventually a gentleman a few years older than me came down the aisle, nodded and smiled at me--with a complete lack of eye rolling and dramatic sighing.  Score!  Once situated, he began to answer several emails on his phone.  He was still playing with it when we taxied out; every time the flight attendant walked by he would quickly turn it over to hide the fact that he hadn't turned it off.  The second time he did this, I couldn't quite repress a little snort.  He smirked sheepishly and gave me a conspiratorial nudge in the shoulder.  Score another one for me. 

After that we had quite a nice chat during the flight, making the trip both short and pleasant--in spite of our apparent invisibility to the flight attendant serving snacks.  After Ms. CrankyPants served drinks to everyone but us, my subversive phone friend hit the call button overhead.  Ms. CrankyPants came back in a mild huff to see what we wanted then returned with our drinks, grudgingly at best.  Later, when she was collecting everyone's trash, she all but jerked my cup from my hand to throw it in the bag.  Well, alrighty then.  Clearly, we had been branded as troublemakers.  Perhaps she saw us sneaking electronics when we weren't supposed to and was annoyed by it.  Or perhaps she just had a big stick up her butt; if so, I could hardly blame her for being cranky.  Butt sticks chafe.

All in all, the first half of my trip went much better than the last one.  So, with the first leg of the journey completed, the score stands thusly: Airport, 2.5. Me, 3. 

I'm WINNING!

Stay tuned for Part Two:  The Voyage Home (Humpback Whales Sold Separately).