After twenty years of marriage, things change, and not always the way you expect.
During our first year of marriage, Tim and I met some friends after work one night at what turned out to be a very crowded and noisy bar.
One of the other women and I started chatting and ended up off to one side where some guy approached us and offered to buy us drinks. We politely but firmly declined and turned our backs thinking the matter finished.
Fueled by God only knows how much alcohol (I'm guessing a lot ), he kept trying. "I'm with NASA," he announced, attempting to shoehorn himself in between us.
And he looked it, only not in the Tom Hanks, Kevin Bacon, Apollo 13 sort of way, but rather in the control room scene, black, horn-rimmed glasses, pocket protector Apollo 13 sort of way.
Where did he get this line anyway, page 135 of "How to Pick up Women Without Really Trying"? And who exactly did this work on? Was there really some woman somewhere that, upon hearing that line, turned to him and said, "Take me, I'm yours!"?
Our response this time was just as firm, but not nearly as polite. To the best of my recollection, it had something to do with launching himself into space after inserting a probe.
Tim, meanwhile, had seen the guy approach and lept to my defense without even hearing a word of the conversation. Despite my protestations that it was nothing, Tim firmly, but not politely at all, escorted the guy out of the bar.
Fast forward twenty years. A while back, we were out for the evening and decided to stop for a drink before going home.
As we sat at the bar, a guy who had clearly been over served detached himself from the end of the bar, stumbled up next to me, ordered another drink, and told me he wanted to buy me a drink.
Gesturing to Tim on my other side, I declined saying that my husband was buying my drinks.
Undaunted (okay, too drunk to hear me), he asked my name. Now this was not the easy opening the NASA guy had given me, but I could work with it all the same. Before I could deliver another not-so-subtle setdown though, the bartender intervened, telling the guy he was cut off.
Okay, let me get this straight. You are willing to serve a guy who staggers up to the bar and probably doesn't even know his own name a big ole glass of booze, but when he asks mine...clearly, he is so far gone it is time to call a cab!
And what did Tim do while all this was going on? Nothing. Not so much as a twitch out of him. Doubly insulted at this point, I couldn't help but comment on how things had changed since we were newlyweds. To which Tim responded, "What? I thought he was just asking to borrow a seat or something!"
Friday, July 27, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Remembering
Our twentieth anniversary got me thinking about our wedding day. And our first fight. On the altar.
It was a balmy ninety five degrees outdoors and about one hundred and ten indoors. That's right...no air conditioning in the church.
Seven bridesmaids, eight priests, four musicians, three hundred guests (and a partridge in a pear tree). We even had a printed program so everyone could tell the players apart, keep track of the ceremony, and, more importantly, use it as a fan!
This was not some simple, "Do you? I do. Do you? I do too." event. Oh, no. This was a spectacle.
After a seven minute entrance procession down the aisle (my mother actually timed it, probably so that she could tell the coroner exactly what time it was when the trumpet player dropped dead from heat exhaustion..."he was only eight bars from the end!"), the ceremony began.
Over an hour later, after everyone had dissolved into little puddles of sweat, it was time to present a small bouquet of flowers to the Blessed Mother, whose statue was off to the right of the altar.
"Stay over there until the song ends," the priest instructed us. "Then come back for the final blessing." Little did he know, but this was like the referee telling the fighters to go to their corners and come out fighting when the bell rings.
We had barely gotten over to the statue when Tim said,"Okay, let's go." (The fact that he was wearing a wool blend tux in a sauna might have been making him a little irritable, and the thought of escaping to an air-conditioned car prompted him to act rashly and poke the tiger).
Naturally, I refused (I may have been a bit cranky myself, but hey, that's a bride's perogative. Why did he not see that it was all about me?)
As the song progressed (I still don't know where they came up with the extra seventy-two verses of the relatively short song I had chosen), so did the argument.
The more Tim insisted that we leave, the more I insisted that we stay, the more verses the musicians added.
Meanwhile, everyone who was still conscious in the church thought that we had some kind of weird fanatical devotion to Mary and we were intent upon reciting the entire rosary.
Of course, this entire conversation was conducted in hissed whispers out of the sides of our mouths (now after twenty years, we just yell) with fake toothpaste commercial smiles plastered on our faces.
Eventually, we did go back, get that final blessing and climbed gratefully into our air-conditioned car, the whole unfortunate incident forgotten (okay, not really forgotten). We even managed to make it through the entire reception without going a second round (It's amazing what a thirty degree drop in temperature can do!). After all, we had to save something for the honeymoon!
It was a balmy ninety five degrees outdoors and about one hundred and ten indoors. That's right...no air conditioning in the church.
Seven bridesmaids, eight priests, four musicians, three hundred guests (and a partridge in a pear tree). We even had a printed program so everyone could tell the players apart, keep track of the ceremony, and, more importantly, use it as a fan!
This was not some simple, "Do you? I do. Do you? I do too." event. Oh, no. This was a spectacle.
After a seven minute entrance procession down the aisle (my mother actually timed it, probably so that she could tell the coroner exactly what time it was when the trumpet player dropped dead from heat exhaustion..."he was only eight bars from the end!"), the ceremony began.
Over an hour later, after everyone had dissolved into little puddles of sweat, it was time to present a small bouquet of flowers to the Blessed Mother, whose statue was off to the right of the altar.
"Stay over there until the song ends," the priest instructed us. "Then come back for the final blessing." Little did he know, but this was like the referee telling the fighters to go to their corners and come out fighting when the bell rings.
We had barely gotten over to the statue when Tim said,"Okay, let's go." (The fact that he was wearing a wool blend tux in a sauna might have been making him a little irritable, and the thought of escaping to an air-conditioned car prompted him to act rashly and poke the tiger).
Naturally, I refused (I may have been a bit cranky myself, but hey, that's a bride's perogative. Why did he not see that it was all about me?)
As the song progressed (I still don't know where they came up with the extra seventy-two verses of the relatively short song I had chosen), so did the argument.
The more Tim insisted that we leave, the more I insisted that we stay, the more verses the musicians added.
Meanwhile, everyone who was still conscious in the church thought that we had some kind of weird fanatical devotion to Mary and we were intent upon reciting the entire rosary.
Of course, this entire conversation was conducted in hissed whispers out of the sides of our mouths (now after twenty years, we just yell) with fake toothpaste commercial smiles plastered on our faces.
Eventually, we did go back, get that final blessing and climbed gratefully into our air-conditioned car, the whole unfortunate incident forgotten (okay, not really forgotten). We even managed to make it through the entire reception without going a second round (It's amazing what a thirty degree drop in temperature can do!). After all, we had to save something for the honeymoon!
Friday, July 20, 2007
Surf and Turf...and eyeballs
A beach vacation for us means three things: surf, sand and surf and turf.
We begin our day by applying the first layer of sunblock fifty, the primer coat, before we head out to the beach (Hey, we're Irish. Our skin color choices are white or red!).
Once we have our chairs, towels and the largest beach umbrella we can find, we hit the water, coming out only long enough to eat lunch and apply coats two through twenty of the sunblck.
After a full day of paddling and floating (no water sports or hugging sea mammals for us; that would require actual effort), we head out to dinner where we try to eat our body weight in rich food.
Fortunately, after our first soggy day in the Bahamas, the weather decided to cooperate with our plan.
Since this was our anniversary celebration, Tim asked the concierge at our hotel for some dinner recommendations. He had three stipulations: 1. great food, 2. romantic atmosphere, and 3. no more than fifteen minutes away by cab.
Day one was perfect. A mansion built by a pirate in the 1700's complete with snowy white tableclothes, soft candlilight and a piano playing softly in the background.
Day two was a little less than perfect: Fish in a Bucket, or The Poop Deck. Whatever. Yes, it was close, but picnic tables, family style service and people dressed up as Shamu didn't really scream romance, at least not for us. I can't answer for the concierge, but to each his own. Needless to say, we opted out of this one.
Her alternate recommendation (why were we still listening to this woman?) was a place called Provence. It boasted a veranda with water views and fresh fish. We should have stuck with the Poop Deck.
You know you're in trouble when the cab driver hasn't even heard of the place (our first clue that we should have just ordered up a movie and raided the mini-bar).
However, based on directions from the doorman, we headed out. To Miami. I'm pretty sure that's where this restaurant was, because half an hour and three bridges later, we still werent't there (three lousy stipulations! How hard should it be to at least hit two of them!).
The time went by quickly though as our chatty driver regaled us with the gory details of Bahamian fish specialties. Personally, I stopped listening after the description of deep fried eyeballs, but I'm pretty sure it got worse judging by the shade of green Tim was turning (the mini-bar even had Famous Amos cookies!).
At last, we arrived at Provence. We were actually around the back of the building, but the waiter assured us that it was simply through the archway behind him. Weak from hunger and slightly nauseaus from the conversation (and we were going to a fish place?!), we followed him around front to...Villa d'el something-or-other.
Villa...Provence. Yeah. They sound exactly alike. How bad was this place that the waiters had to waylay unsuspecting tourists?
Luckily (for the waiter), we managed to catch our driver, who was still circling the lot trying to get out, and insisted he take us to the correct restaurant (or back to the hotel, whichever came first).
This time, he wisely kept silent. Of course, that could have had something to do with Tim muttering about things like disembowelment and drawing and quartering.
We eventually did arrive at Provence and, while it wasn't really worth the journey, at least there were no eyeballs, fried of otherwise in the food. At least I hope not.
We begin our day by applying the first layer of sunblock fifty, the primer coat, before we head out to the beach (Hey, we're Irish. Our skin color choices are white or red!).
Once we have our chairs, towels and the largest beach umbrella we can find, we hit the water, coming out only long enough to eat lunch and apply coats two through twenty of the sunblck.
After a full day of paddling and floating (no water sports or hugging sea mammals for us; that would require actual effort), we head out to dinner where we try to eat our body weight in rich food.
Fortunately, after our first soggy day in the Bahamas, the weather decided to cooperate with our plan.
Since this was our anniversary celebration, Tim asked the concierge at our hotel for some dinner recommendations. He had three stipulations: 1. great food, 2. romantic atmosphere, and 3. no more than fifteen minutes away by cab.
Day one was perfect. A mansion built by a pirate in the 1700's complete with snowy white tableclothes, soft candlilight and a piano playing softly in the background.
Day two was a little less than perfect: Fish in a Bucket, or The Poop Deck. Whatever. Yes, it was close, but picnic tables, family style service and people dressed up as Shamu didn't really scream romance, at least not for us. I can't answer for the concierge, but to each his own. Needless to say, we opted out of this one.
Her alternate recommendation (why were we still listening to this woman?) was a place called Provence. It boasted a veranda with water views and fresh fish. We should have stuck with the Poop Deck.
You know you're in trouble when the cab driver hasn't even heard of the place (our first clue that we should have just ordered up a movie and raided the mini-bar).
However, based on directions from the doorman, we headed out. To Miami. I'm pretty sure that's where this restaurant was, because half an hour and three bridges later, we still werent't there (three lousy stipulations! How hard should it be to at least hit two of them!).
The time went by quickly though as our chatty driver regaled us with the gory details of Bahamian fish specialties. Personally, I stopped listening after the description of deep fried eyeballs, but I'm pretty sure it got worse judging by the shade of green Tim was turning (the mini-bar even had Famous Amos cookies!).
At last, we arrived at Provence. We were actually around the back of the building, but the waiter assured us that it was simply through the archway behind him. Weak from hunger and slightly nauseaus from the conversation (and we were going to a fish place?!), we followed him around front to...Villa d'el something-or-other.
Villa...Provence. Yeah. They sound exactly alike. How bad was this place that the waiters had to waylay unsuspecting tourists?
Luckily (for the waiter), we managed to catch our driver, who was still circling the lot trying to get out, and insisted he take us to the correct restaurant (or back to the hotel, whichever came first).
This time, he wisely kept silent. Of course, that could have had something to do with Tim muttering about things like disembowelment and drawing and quartering.
We eventually did arrive at Provence and, while it wasn't really worth the journey, at least there were no eyeballs, fried of otherwise in the food. At least I hope not.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Welcome to the Bahamas
After all the aggravation at the airport, we arrived in the Bahamas to...crystal clear, blue skies? endless sunshine? a gentle carribbean breeze wafting inland from the ocean?
Nope. Dark, threatening skies, one hundred and ten percent humidity, and a car whose driver had the air on so high, I was thinking more of long johns and hot coffee than I was of bathing suits and frozen, tropical drinks!
"Don't worry," Tim joked, as I grumbled and huddled into my jacket trying to keep the frostbite at bay,"this is the Bahamas. If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes!"
Five minutes later, it was raining. Five minutes after that, it was pouring. I was not amused.
Apparently thinking Tim could use some moral support, the driver chimed in, telling us how lucky we were that we hadn't come during the last two weeks because it had rained every day(as opposed to the liquid sunshine that was presently coming down?)
Of course, he continued, in August there was less chance of that happening, but then you had hurricanes blowing through. Still, it was better than January or February when it got kind of chilly.
I wondered why the tourism board hadn't snapped this guy up as head of their PR department.
Out of sheer self-defense, I decided to turn on my blackberry and call everyone I know before I got the weather report for the remaining months.
Three bars. A good signal. I punched in my parents' number, only to get a recording saying that I was not authorized to use the system. Hmm. Interesting. I guess world-wide service includes France, which is seven hours and entire ocean away, but not the Bahamas, which is only two hours and a tiny bit of ocean away.
I decided to put my vast technological knowledge to work. I turned the phone off, then on again. Still not authorized. I punched a few buttons, took out the battery and reinserted it. Once again, not authorized, and I was pretty much at the limits of my computer expertise.
Sensing my growing frustration (perhaps the bulging veins in my neck coupled with the clenched teeth clued him in), Tim pried the blackberry out of my hands and went through essentially the same process, adding a few more steps. This time...no service!
To add insult to injury, not only was Tim's blackberry working, but so was his cell phone, which had Verizon as the provider, same as my blackberry. Now it was personal.
By this time, we had reached the hotel. Naturally, our rooms weren't ready (based on our day so far, I would have been shocked if they were), so we settled in to the lounge to watch the rain pound down on the beach where by now we should have been two degrees into our third degree burns.
Deciding to put our down time to good use, I borrowed Tim's blackberry and called Verizon to see if they could help me. Fat chance.
A perky-voiced service rep answered the phone. "Okay," she said. "Turn off the phone and take out the battery." Gee, I hadn't thought of that, good thing you are there. "Still not working? Let's punch some buttons." Half an hour later, she wasn't quite so perky, and transfered me to tech support. And the rain kept coming down.
"Okay, turn off the phone..." Uh, uh. I wasn't falling for that again. And so another half hour was sucked out of my vacation, and I still wasn't authorized to use the system. Not to worry, this woman assured me, she would fill out a trouble ticket and someone would get back to me within twenty-four hours. Usually. Probably. Maybe. Or not.
Yeah, and the rain would stop soon. Probably. Maybe. Or not.
Nope. Dark, threatening skies, one hundred and ten percent humidity, and a car whose driver had the air on so high, I was thinking more of long johns and hot coffee than I was of bathing suits and frozen, tropical drinks!
"Don't worry," Tim joked, as I grumbled and huddled into my jacket trying to keep the frostbite at bay,"this is the Bahamas. If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes!"
Five minutes later, it was raining. Five minutes after that, it was pouring. I was not amused.
Apparently thinking Tim could use some moral support, the driver chimed in, telling us how lucky we were that we hadn't come during the last two weeks because it had rained every day(as opposed to the liquid sunshine that was presently coming down?)
Of course, he continued, in August there was less chance of that happening, but then you had hurricanes blowing through. Still, it was better than January or February when it got kind of chilly.
I wondered why the tourism board hadn't snapped this guy up as head of their PR department.
Out of sheer self-defense, I decided to turn on my blackberry and call everyone I know before I got the weather report for the remaining months.
Three bars. A good signal. I punched in my parents' number, only to get a recording saying that I was not authorized to use the system. Hmm. Interesting. I guess world-wide service includes France, which is seven hours and entire ocean away, but not the Bahamas, which is only two hours and a tiny bit of ocean away.
I decided to put my vast technological knowledge to work. I turned the phone off, then on again. Still not authorized. I punched a few buttons, took out the battery and reinserted it. Once again, not authorized, and I was pretty much at the limits of my computer expertise.
Sensing my growing frustration (perhaps the bulging veins in my neck coupled with the clenched teeth clued him in), Tim pried the blackberry out of my hands and went through essentially the same process, adding a few more steps. This time...no service!
To add insult to injury, not only was Tim's blackberry working, but so was his cell phone, which had Verizon as the provider, same as my blackberry. Now it was personal.
By this time, we had reached the hotel. Naturally, our rooms weren't ready (based on our day so far, I would have been shocked if they were), so we settled in to the lounge to watch the rain pound down on the beach where by now we should have been two degrees into our third degree burns.
Deciding to put our down time to good use, I borrowed Tim's blackberry and called Verizon to see if they could help me. Fat chance.
A perky-voiced service rep answered the phone. "Okay," she said. "Turn off the phone and take out the battery." Gee, I hadn't thought of that, good thing you are there. "Still not working? Let's punch some buttons." Half an hour later, she wasn't quite so perky, and transfered me to tech support. And the rain kept coming down.
"Okay, turn off the phone..." Uh, uh. I wasn't falling for that again. And so another half hour was sucked out of my vacation, and I still wasn't authorized to use the system. Not to worry, this woman assured me, she would fill out a trouble ticket and someone would get back to me within twenty-four hours. Usually. Probably. Maybe. Or not.
Yeah, and the rain would stop soon. Probably. Maybe. Or not.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Another Week, Another Airplane
This year, to celebrate our twentieth anniversary, we decided to spend a week in the Bahamas. The stars all seemed to line up for this trip. We got the last room at a really great resort, and first class tickets for less than coach! Ahhh, life was good.
Until we got to the airport. Then it started to suck.
There was only ome line for all international travel. No special, speedy line for first class on this airline. Oh no, just an incredibly long line of cranky people and one ticketing agent. It was ugly.
Wait. They had machines at the counter too. This should really move things along then. Except the machines didn't work for international travel, only domestic. So we got to stand there for an hour watching people from the domestic line cut over, use the machines and happily be on their way in minutes while we ground our teeth down to stumps and watched each other grow old and withered. The mood was getting uglier by the minute.
Finally, a second agent showed up. We'd be through in no tme now. Not! If possible, the line moved even more slowly than before. Were they hand printing the boarding passes using wet clay tablets and papyrus reeds? Maybe they were translating the flight info from ancient Greek texts into Latin and then English.
At this rate, not only would we miss our flight, but it wasn't looking too good for Christmas either.
At last, we were next. Without waiting to be called, I rushed up to the counter where the man informed me that he was taking a break. Trying to keep myself from vaulting over the counter and ripping him apart with my bare hands, I turned to tell Tim not to come up (okay, I yelled from the counter that the guy was leaving).
The mood of the waiting crowd now made the mob that stormed the Bastile look like they were holding a peaceful, non-violent protest. And it was going downhill from there. Needless to say, the poor guy rethought the whole break idea.
Fortunately, we made it to the gate on time. Too bad the plane wasn't on time. Or the flight crew. Did they not realize that we were teetering on the edge of sanity after the ordeal out front. Were they trying to push us over the edge?
Eventually, the boarding call came. First class? Not first on this airline. You are zone 1,2,3 or 4 just like everyone else. No special treatment here. (I was starting to understand why our tickets were such a bargain).
But at last we were up, up and away, looking forward to a nice breakfast (okay, not nice, it was airline food after all...edible).
Half and hour after take-off, the flight attendant came through with a large basket. Fruit, croissants, something with chocolate inside to soothe my nerves? I peered over the edge of the basket, licking my lips in anticipation only to find...bags of potato chips!
"Take as many as you want," he chirped cheerfully. "We've got plenty more!"
Potato chips!!! If we were getting chips, what were the people in coach getting, pictures of food?
To add insult to injury, he then preceeded to get on the intercom and deliver a fifteen minute commercial for the airline touting the many advantages of becoming a prefered customer! Prefered member? Advantages? What did all that mean? Did you get a bag of chips and a bag of peanuts? Maybe you got earplugs to block out the annoying sales pitch.
Finally, we landed in Nassau, got our luggage and began our week-long vacation, which gave us plenty of time to get the one thing we needed in order to get on the flight home...valium (and something chocolate)!
Until we got to the airport. Then it started to suck.
There was only ome line for all international travel. No special, speedy line for first class on this airline. Oh no, just an incredibly long line of cranky people and one ticketing agent. It was ugly.
Wait. They had machines at the counter too. This should really move things along then. Except the machines didn't work for international travel, only domestic. So we got to stand there for an hour watching people from the domestic line cut over, use the machines and happily be on their way in minutes while we ground our teeth down to stumps and watched each other grow old and withered. The mood was getting uglier by the minute.
Finally, a second agent showed up. We'd be through in no tme now. Not! If possible, the line moved even more slowly than before. Were they hand printing the boarding passes using wet clay tablets and papyrus reeds? Maybe they were translating the flight info from ancient Greek texts into Latin and then English.
At this rate, not only would we miss our flight, but it wasn't looking too good for Christmas either.
At last, we were next. Without waiting to be called, I rushed up to the counter where the man informed me that he was taking a break. Trying to keep myself from vaulting over the counter and ripping him apart with my bare hands, I turned to tell Tim not to come up (okay, I yelled from the counter that the guy was leaving).
The mood of the waiting crowd now made the mob that stormed the Bastile look like they were holding a peaceful, non-violent protest. And it was going downhill from there. Needless to say, the poor guy rethought the whole break idea.
Fortunately, we made it to the gate on time. Too bad the plane wasn't on time. Or the flight crew. Did they not realize that we were teetering on the edge of sanity after the ordeal out front. Were they trying to push us over the edge?
Eventually, the boarding call came. First class? Not first on this airline. You are zone 1,2,3 or 4 just like everyone else. No special treatment here. (I was starting to understand why our tickets were such a bargain).
But at last we were up, up and away, looking forward to a nice breakfast (okay, not nice, it was airline food after all...edible).
Half and hour after take-off, the flight attendant came through with a large basket. Fruit, croissants, something with chocolate inside to soothe my nerves? I peered over the edge of the basket, licking my lips in anticipation only to find...bags of potato chips!
"Take as many as you want," he chirped cheerfully. "We've got plenty more!"
Potato chips!!! If we were getting chips, what were the people in coach getting, pictures of food?
To add insult to injury, he then preceeded to get on the intercom and deliver a fifteen minute commercial for the airline touting the many advantages of becoming a prefered customer! Prefered member? Advantages? What did all that mean? Did you get a bag of chips and a bag of peanuts? Maybe you got earplugs to block out the annoying sales pitch.
Finally, we landed in Nassau, got our luggage and began our week-long vacation, which gave us plenty of time to get the one thing we needed in order to get on the flight home...valium (and something chocolate)!
Monday, July 9, 2007
Photo Finish
At last. After two weeks and three countries, we were home. First order of business...a trip to CVS to print out our photos.
Unfortunately, the printer was out of order. No problem. Like weeds, CVS stores have sprung up in great number around our neighborhood. There was another one right up the street. With another broken printer! Okay, this was getting weird. First I couldn't take pictures of anything in London because everything was closed, and now I couldn't get the pictures I did take printed.
Feeling like I was trapped in a bad Twilight Zone episode, I bypassed a third CVS and went to Eckerd, where I was happy to find they had an actual working printer. Rod Serling was not getting his paws on me!
Relieved, I popped in my CD and waited for the machine to read it. And waited. And waited. Uh oh. This was not good.
I took it out, checked it was right side up, reinserted it, and waited some more. Frustrated, I tried punching some buttons. Nothing. Suddenly, I could hear the theme music from Twilight Zone ...do do do do...do do do do...
Finally, A message came up: CD is blank. No. Not possible. I had checked it after I downloaded the pictures. I know I did.
I could fel Rod Serling breathing down my neck, "Imagine a trip that never happened, except in (dramatic pause) the twilight zone."
Grabbing the CD, I headed for that third CVS, repeating to myself,"It did happen. I was really there, and I have the pictures to prove it!"
The third time (at CVS) was the charm. I inserted the CD into the machine and, voila, the pictures all came up. I hit select all, and was rewarded with the happy clickety-clack sound of photos being printed out. Take that Rod!
A quick trip to the dry cleaners and then back to pick up my photos. But wait. Something was wrong. The machine was flashing a message: Printer out of ink! over and over while blank sheets of paper landed in the tray.
Arrgh! This couldn't be happening. Do do do do...it was louder now. And was that cigarette smoke that I smelled wafting over from the shampoo aisle?
I didn't wait around to find out. I headed for my car, telling the girl I would be back the next day for the photos. She tried to assure me that she would change the cartridge and my prints would be ready in twenty minutes, but I wasn't taking any more chances.
I would return tomorrow with Tim. He had been on the trip too. He would back me up that it had really happened. Plus, I think he could take Rod down if he had to.
Unfortunately, the printer was out of order. No problem. Like weeds, CVS stores have sprung up in great number around our neighborhood. There was another one right up the street. With another broken printer! Okay, this was getting weird. First I couldn't take pictures of anything in London because everything was closed, and now I couldn't get the pictures I did take printed.
Feeling like I was trapped in a bad Twilight Zone episode, I bypassed a third CVS and went to Eckerd, where I was happy to find they had an actual working printer. Rod Serling was not getting his paws on me!
Relieved, I popped in my CD and waited for the machine to read it. And waited. And waited. Uh oh. This was not good.
I took it out, checked it was right side up, reinserted it, and waited some more. Frustrated, I tried punching some buttons. Nothing. Suddenly, I could hear the theme music from Twilight Zone ...do do do do...do do do do...
Finally, A message came up: CD is blank. No. Not possible. I had checked it after I downloaded the pictures. I know I did.
I could fel Rod Serling breathing down my neck, "Imagine a trip that never happened, except in (dramatic pause) the twilight zone."
Grabbing the CD, I headed for that third CVS, repeating to myself,"It did happen. I was really there, and I have the pictures to prove it!"
The third time (at CVS) was the charm. I inserted the CD into the machine and, voila, the pictures all came up. I hit select all, and was rewarded with the happy clickety-clack sound of photos being printed out. Take that Rod!
A quick trip to the dry cleaners and then back to pick up my photos. But wait. Something was wrong. The machine was flashing a message: Printer out of ink! over and over while blank sheets of paper landed in the tray.
Arrgh! This couldn't be happening. Do do do do...it was louder now. And was that cigarette smoke that I smelled wafting over from the shampoo aisle?
I didn't wait around to find out. I headed for my car, telling the girl I would be back the next day for the photos. She tried to assure me that she would change the cartridge and my prints would be ready in twenty minutes, but I wasn't taking any more chances.
I would return tomorrow with Tim. He had been on the trip too. He would back me up that it had really happened. Plus, I think he could take Rod down if he had to.
Friday, July 6, 2007
The Search for Men's Dress Socks
Tim realized our last day in Paris that he was one pair of socks short. So, based on the theory that you can never have too many socks, he decided to go ahead and buy a pair.
As luck would have it, there was a men's clothing store nearby named Old England. Perfect. In we went and began the great sock seach.
We found shoes, suits, shirts and pants. Sweaters, scarves (in June?!), scented candles (cucumber, melon and vanilla...hmmm curiouser and curiouser), body lotion and spray (lavender and rose...apparently, French men are very secure in their masculinity. It must be all those years of eating quiche.). Everything a man could want, except socks.
Spying a clerk, Tim asked (in English, which seemed a safe bet in a store named after the mother of all English speaking countries) where he could find men's dress socks. Blank look.
He lifted his pant leg, pointed to his sock, and repeated the request. Semi-blank look, but the guy directed us downstairs, where we repeated the whole process with a different clerk. He directed us upstairs.
Clearly, the pantomime method was not working.
As I dug in my purse for our dictionary, Tim tried again with yet another clerk. "Socks," he bellowed, his patience at an end, contorting himself into a strange yogaesque pose.
His antics were rewarded with a puzzled look as the woman backed slowly away and tried to surreptitiously signal for security.
"Chaussettes!" I interspersed before the woman could direct us downstairs again where I would have to watch Tim melt like one of those sixty dollar melon candles.
"Ah." A tentative smile lit her face as she cautiously stepped around Tim. Keeping an eye warily on him, she led us to a counter where she proceeded to unearth an array of men's dress socks from various drawers and compartments.
Success at last! As Tim sorted through the socks, I couldn't help thinking how glad I was that he hadn't run out of underwear!
As luck would have it, there was a men's clothing store nearby named Old England. Perfect. In we went and began the great sock seach.
We found shoes, suits, shirts and pants. Sweaters, scarves (in June?!), scented candles (cucumber, melon and vanilla...hmmm curiouser and curiouser), body lotion and spray (lavender and rose...apparently, French men are very secure in their masculinity. It must be all those years of eating quiche.). Everything a man could want, except socks.
Spying a clerk, Tim asked (in English, which seemed a safe bet in a store named after the mother of all English speaking countries) where he could find men's dress socks. Blank look.
He lifted his pant leg, pointed to his sock, and repeated the request. Semi-blank look, but the guy directed us downstairs, where we repeated the whole process with a different clerk. He directed us upstairs.
Clearly, the pantomime method was not working.
As I dug in my purse for our dictionary, Tim tried again with yet another clerk. "Socks," he bellowed, his patience at an end, contorting himself into a strange yogaesque pose.
His antics were rewarded with a puzzled look as the woman backed slowly away and tried to surreptitiously signal for security.
"Chaussettes!" I interspersed before the woman could direct us downstairs again where I would have to watch Tim melt like one of those sixty dollar melon candles.
"Ah." A tentative smile lit her face as she cautiously stepped around Tim. Keeping an eye warily on him, she led us to a counter where she proceeded to unearth an array of men's dress socks from various drawers and compartments.
Success at last! As Tim sorted through the socks, I couldn't help thinking how glad I was that he hadn't run out of underwear!
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