Our trip to Florida started out so well. We arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare despite it being rush hour. Security lines were short, the flight boarded on time, and we didn't have to fight for overhead bin space. The pilot informed us that we had clearance, and would have an on time departure.
And that is when it all went terribly, terribly wrong. Instead of going up, up and away, we sat. And sat. And sat.
Finally, the pilot came back on the PA and told us that they were having a problem figuring out how much fuel we would need for a full plane. Huh?
They got everyone on board, loaded all the luggage, were cleared to taxi out to the runway, and that is when they decided to worry about the fuel? Was this their first time flying a plane? Ever? What were they going to do, wait until the ground was rushing up to meet us to see if they knew how to operate the landing gear and brakes?
While we were all scratching our heads over that announcement, the pilot came back on and explained that since one of the air conditioning units was broken, we would have to fly at a lower altitude, thereby burning more fuel than usual. The problem was that with a full plane, they couldn't carry enough fuel to get us to our destination. Therefore, we would be landing in Charlotte (NC) to refuel.
Goody. An extra two or three hours to enjoy our spacious and luxurious coach seats, questionable air conditioning, an unscheduled stop and the threat of running out of fuel. Was it too late to change our minds and choose an alternative method of transportation, like, say, walking, that would get us there faster, safer and more comfortably?
As we taxied down the runway fifty minutes late, there was one final announcement: they would try to get us there as quickly as possible, but since we were probably landing in Charlotte...
Wait a minute. Probably? What happened to erring on the side of caution and definitely landing in Charlotte? Let me get this straight. We were taking off and they still didn't know if we had enough fuel? Who was doing those calculations, a chimp with an abacus? When were they going to have an answer, right before we made an emergency landing on I95?
As if things weren't exciting enough, when we finally did take off, the wind was gusting up to fifty miles an hour, so the first half hour of our trip felt more like riding a bucking bronco than an airplane. A really, really mean bronco, with a burr under his saddle.
Despite all of these little problems though, the only truly tense moment came when we were taking off from Charlotte and the flight attendant told everyone to sit back, relax and have a pleasant flight. I believe the boat had sailed on that several hours earlier.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
The Plastic is in the Pudding
This weekend, we had our annual St. Patrick's Day dinner. I got up Saturday morning, put the corned beef in the crock-pot, and then turned to the dessert--Strawberry and Bailey's Fool. Turns out, I was the fool.
I carefully washed and dried the eight million strawberries needed for the recipe, reserving the nicest ones for the garnish. I painstakingly hulled each and every one before dropping it into the blender. I hit the puree button on my shiny new blender and...nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. I stabbed it for a third time as though that might magically make a difference (It does in the fairy tales). Shockingly, it didn't.
I then performed ten minutes worth of useless maneuvers to try and puree the @#*@! strawberries. I detached and reattached the blender from the base the same magic three times (it worked so well with the button pushing). I carried the blender across the kitchen to another outlet and repeated the button pushing and unscrewing exercises again, four times each this time around. Still nothing.
I tested the outlet by dragging out another appliance and plugging it in only to discover that wasn't the problem when the beaters nearly tore my fingers off since they had gotten bumped to the "on" position in the drawer (Note to self. Never trust household appliances. Did I learn nothing from all those Stephen King movies?)
Just as I was considering mashing the blender to a pulp along with the berries, I realized there was one other thing I could try...pushing the "on" button before selecting "puree". Duh. (My old blender was much simpler to work. Puree was on, but tragically, it died before its time in a senseless homemade peanut butter incident.)
Once the mechanical glitch was worked out, it was on to the next problem. Too many strawberries, not enough blade.
Wishing I had decided on a less labor intensive dessert like homemade ice cream made from a cow I had personally milked, I emptied out the blender of all but a few berries and punched in the proper launch sequence. Two berries got half-heartedly crushed.
Enough was enough. I decided to get tough with the blender and jammed my spatula (green in honor of the day) down into the pathetic little slush puddle. Slowly, the blade was worked free and it began pulverizing berries with reckless abandon.
Elated to be moving on to the next step, I put on my protective gear and braved the beaters again to whip up my last cup of heavy cream. I added the final half cup of our Bailey's Irish Cream and half of my precious strawberry puree and beat them all together along with some sugar. Yum.
The end was in sight. Using a pastry bag and spouted measuring cup, I carefully alternated layers of the puree and the cream into chilled champagne glasses (Now I was remembering why I only make this dessert once a year.). Finally though, after all the aggravation, I was done, and had eight beautiful parfaits.
Happily, I set about washing up, and that is when I discovered it. My green spatula was missing a not-so-small chunk.
Frantically, I peered into the bottom of the blender hoping against hope it would somehow be there, intact. Desperately, I groped around the sink trying to find the plastic amid the bubbles. Hopelessly, I spooned through the remaining mixtures straining to see that chunk of green. Sadly, the luck of the Irish was not with me.
As I poured all my lovely desserts down the drain, I saw what I should have seen before...tiny flecks of green plastic spatula which, while festive, were not edible.
And so it was back to square one as well as back to the grocery store, and the liquor store, and maybe...the bakery.
I carefully washed and dried the eight million strawberries needed for the recipe, reserving the nicest ones for the garnish. I painstakingly hulled each and every one before dropping it into the blender. I hit the puree button on my shiny new blender and...nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. I stabbed it for a third time as though that might magically make a difference (It does in the fairy tales). Shockingly, it didn't.
I then performed ten minutes worth of useless maneuvers to try and puree the @#*@! strawberries. I detached and reattached the blender from the base the same magic three times (it worked so well with the button pushing). I carried the blender across the kitchen to another outlet and repeated the button pushing and unscrewing exercises again, four times each this time around. Still nothing.
I tested the outlet by dragging out another appliance and plugging it in only to discover that wasn't the problem when the beaters nearly tore my fingers off since they had gotten bumped to the "on" position in the drawer (Note to self. Never trust household appliances. Did I learn nothing from all those Stephen King movies?)
Just as I was considering mashing the blender to a pulp along with the berries, I realized there was one other thing I could try...pushing the "on" button before selecting "puree". Duh. (My old blender was much simpler to work. Puree was on, but tragically, it died before its time in a senseless homemade peanut butter incident.)
Once the mechanical glitch was worked out, it was on to the next problem. Too many strawberries, not enough blade.
Wishing I had decided on a less labor intensive dessert like homemade ice cream made from a cow I had personally milked, I emptied out the blender of all but a few berries and punched in the proper launch sequence. Two berries got half-heartedly crushed.
Enough was enough. I decided to get tough with the blender and jammed my spatula (green in honor of the day) down into the pathetic little slush puddle. Slowly, the blade was worked free and it began pulverizing berries with reckless abandon.
Elated to be moving on to the next step, I put on my protective gear and braved the beaters again to whip up my last cup of heavy cream. I added the final half cup of our Bailey's Irish Cream and half of my precious strawberry puree and beat them all together along with some sugar. Yum.
The end was in sight. Using a pastry bag and spouted measuring cup, I carefully alternated layers of the puree and the cream into chilled champagne glasses (Now I was remembering why I only make this dessert once a year.). Finally though, after all the aggravation, I was done, and had eight beautiful parfaits.
Happily, I set about washing up, and that is when I discovered it. My green spatula was missing a not-so-small chunk.
Frantically, I peered into the bottom of the blender hoping against hope it would somehow be there, intact. Desperately, I groped around the sink trying to find the plastic amid the bubbles. Hopelessly, I spooned through the remaining mixtures straining to see that chunk of green. Sadly, the luck of the Irish was not with me.
As I poured all my lovely desserts down the drain, I saw what I should have seen before...tiny flecks of green plastic spatula which, while festive, were not edible.
And so it was back to square one as well as back to the grocery store, and the liquor store, and maybe...the bakery.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Stood Up
I think I am having a flashback to high school. You know when you tell your friend that you want to meet a certain cute boy and they talk to his friends to set it up, and then you wait by the phone for the call?
Well, I talked to some of my friends and I am waiting for a call. The only difference is that now it is from a painter, and I don't really care whether he is cute or not. As far as I am concerned, he could have one eye in the middle of his forehead, a hump on his back Quasimodo would be proud of, hair sprouting out of both ears so long it could be braided and a wart the size of Gibraltar on his nose. If he can hold a paintbrush and isn't afraid of heights, we have a date!
The first friend I talked to had just the guy for me, and set us up for a Monday morning. In anticipation, I went to the store and got paint samples, carefully holding each one up to the various walls. This one made the room look too dark, that one too light, several were the wrong color entirely, and others were just not really flattering in certain lighting. Finally though, I had it narrowed down to two or three perfect colors.
With breathless anticipation, I welcomed Painter Number One into the house and spent the next half hour talking trim and faux finishes. I guess he was just not that into my walls though, because I never heard from him again.
"It's not you, it's him," my friend consoled me. "He just got bogged down in previous commitments. But I know someone else who would be perfect for you."
Enter Painter Number Two. Although, to be technical, Painter number two never actually entered. Painter number two never actually called. At all. So now I was being rejected, sight unseen.
I thought about calling Painter Number Two myself and demanding to know what was wrong with me, but I didn't want to appear desperate.
Telling myself that I could do better, I called another friend to see if they could set me up with someone. It was okay if they couldn't do faux finishes or murals, those guys just break your hearts. I only wanted someone who could fill my basic needs for something other than white walls, and not mess up the trim.
He said he had just the guy for me, and would have him call me to give me an estimate. That was five days ago, and the phone still hasn't rung. Are my walls fundamentally unpaintable? Am I asking too much to add a little color to my world?
I'm afraid if I don't hear from someone soon, I'll do something truly desperate like look in the newspaper or the Yellow Pages, or worse yet, try to do it myself (I actually did try the faux finish in our last house, and Tim begged me never to do it again...something about the pink, which was supposed to be more of a salmon color, making him feel like he was living in the bottom of a Peptobismol bottle. The more I tried to fix it, the pinker it got. Not good.) Hopefully, I will get a call before it comes to that.
Well, I talked to some of my friends and I am waiting for a call. The only difference is that now it is from a painter, and I don't really care whether he is cute or not. As far as I am concerned, he could have one eye in the middle of his forehead, a hump on his back Quasimodo would be proud of, hair sprouting out of both ears so long it could be braided and a wart the size of Gibraltar on his nose. If he can hold a paintbrush and isn't afraid of heights, we have a date!
The first friend I talked to had just the guy for me, and set us up for a Monday morning. In anticipation, I went to the store and got paint samples, carefully holding each one up to the various walls. This one made the room look too dark, that one too light, several were the wrong color entirely, and others were just not really flattering in certain lighting. Finally though, I had it narrowed down to two or three perfect colors.
With breathless anticipation, I welcomed Painter Number One into the house and spent the next half hour talking trim and faux finishes. I guess he was just not that into my walls though, because I never heard from him again.
"It's not you, it's him," my friend consoled me. "He just got bogged down in previous commitments. But I know someone else who would be perfect for you."
Enter Painter Number Two. Although, to be technical, Painter number two never actually entered. Painter number two never actually called. At all. So now I was being rejected, sight unseen.
I thought about calling Painter Number Two myself and demanding to know what was wrong with me, but I didn't want to appear desperate.
Telling myself that I could do better, I called another friend to see if they could set me up with someone. It was okay if they couldn't do faux finishes or murals, those guys just break your hearts. I only wanted someone who could fill my basic needs for something other than white walls, and not mess up the trim.
He said he had just the guy for me, and would have him call me to give me an estimate. That was five days ago, and the phone still hasn't rung. Are my walls fundamentally unpaintable? Am I asking too much to add a little color to my world?
I'm afraid if I don't hear from someone soon, I'll do something truly desperate like look in the newspaper or the Yellow Pages, or worse yet, try to do it myself (I actually did try the faux finish in our last house, and Tim begged me never to do it again...something about the pink, which was supposed to be more of a salmon color, making him feel like he was living in the bottom of a Peptobismol bottle. The more I tried to fix it, the pinker it got. Not good.) Hopefully, I will get a call before it comes to that.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Mr. Toad's Wild Ride
I have always considered my bungee-jumping, motorcycle-riding sister to be the risk-taker of the family, but last Friday, I did something I'm betting even she wouldn't even do. I rode in a pedi-cab in NYC, in rush hour, in the rain.
In my defense, it was NYC, in rush hour, in the rain.
My friend and I tried to get a regular cab. Really. We frantically waved, we jumped up and down, we planted ourselves in the path of oncoming traffic, we practically did semaphore with our bags, but all the cabs were taken.
As we scurried along the crowded streets, wondering whether we could make it the twenty-five blocks to the station before we either drowned or missed the train, we heard it. The ding ding of a bicycle bell.
"Where to?" the driver (?) called. Clearly, we looked like tourists. Dumb tourists.
Politely declining (which confirmed his whole tourist theory), we moved up the street and renewed our efforts (along with about two dozen other soggy people) to catch a real cab.
Ding ding. "I'll give you a good rate." Yeah, right, on what, the funeral costs when we end up as roadkill?
Again, we declined, less politely this time, and began madly waving our arms like some large, flightless birds recently escaped from the zoo in order to secure a cab that was larger than a Cracker-Jack box.
Ding ding. Apparently, our disparaging remarks with regard to the safety factor of a large tricycle competing with actual rush hour traffic failed to deter this guy. "Anywhere in Manhattan, faster than a regular cab and just as safe."
Hmm. Why not just say "as safe as a swim in shark infested waters", or "as safe as juggling chainsaws that are on fire". Yeah, he might want to rethink that as a possible slogan.
Brushing him off once again, we slogged through another block teeming with rain and cranky pedestrians, but no cab was to be had.
Ding ding. And that is when is struck. Temporary insanity. We looked at each other, said a quick prayer to the patron saint of idiots and squeezed into the "cab".
After zipping the plastic cover, sealing us in like leftovers in a Ziploc baggie, our driver hopped on his bike and took off down Fifth Avenue. Before we could even register the lack of seat belts, protective headgear or roll bars, the nice "safe" ride became the Tour de France and our driver Lance Armstrong.
We hurtled down the street zigging and zagging through traffic, narrowly missing cars, buses, construction barrels, concrete barriers and a few stray pigeons. Pedestrians dove for safety, horns blew, brakes squealed, and we learned some wonderful new phrases that are sure to make us a lot of friends in several different languages.
We flew like the wind, hitting every pothole, rut and sewer lid until we felt like a couple of pieces of Shake'n Bake chicken. Finally though, the end was in sight...Penn Station. But wait, we weren't slowing down. We were still doing Mach 10 in a Mach 3 zone and three lanes over from the curb. As we tried to attract our "driver's" attention by clawing at the plastic (apparently, he had grown immune to our screams about fifteen blocks back), he suddenly swerved one final time, cutting off a cab, a limo and a bus and propelling us up and over the curb to come to a bone-jarring halt three feet from the door. (well, that explained the speed. It's hard to get airborne doing anything less than sixty mph I guess.)
As he unzipped us with a grand flourish and boasted, "Ten minutes!", we pried our fingers from around the sides of the "cab" and practically fell to our knees and kissed the pavement in sheer gratitude at still being alive.
I think I'll leave the daredevil stuff to my sister from now on.
In my defense, it was NYC, in rush hour, in the rain.
My friend and I tried to get a regular cab. Really. We frantically waved, we jumped up and down, we planted ourselves in the path of oncoming traffic, we practically did semaphore with our bags, but all the cabs were taken.
As we scurried along the crowded streets, wondering whether we could make it the twenty-five blocks to the station before we either drowned or missed the train, we heard it. The ding ding of a bicycle bell.
"Where to?" the driver (?) called. Clearly, we looked like tourists. Dumb tourists.
Politely declining (which confirmed his whole tourist theory), we moved up the street and renewed our efforts (along with about two dozen other soggy people) to catch a real cab.
Ding ding. "I'll give you a good rate." Yeah, right, on what, the funeral costs when we end up as roadkill?
Again, we declined, less politely this time, and began madly waving our arms like some large, flightless birds recently escaped from the zoo in order to secure a cab that was larger than a Cracker-Jack box.
Ding ding. Apparently, our disparaging remarks with regard to the safety factor of a large tricycle competing with actual rush hour traffic failed to deter this guy. "Anywhere in Manhattan, faster than a regular cab and just as safe."
Hmm. Why not just say "as safe as a swim in shark infested waters", or "as safe as juggling chainsaws that are on fire". Yeah, he might want to rethink that as a possible slogan.
Brushing him off once again, we slogged through another block teeming with rain and cranky pedestrians, but no cab was to be had.
Ding ding. And that is when is struck. Temporary insanity. We looked at each other, said a quick prayer to the patron saint of idiots and squeezed into the "cab".
After zipping the plastic cover, sealing us in like leftovers in a Ziploc baggie, our driver hopped on his bike and took off down Fifth Avenue. Before we could even register the lack of seat belts, protective headgear or roll bars, the nice "safe" ride became the Tour de France and our driver Lance Armstrong.
We hurtled down the street zigging and zagging through traffic, narrowly missing cars, buses, construction barrels, concrete barriers and a few stray pigeons. Pedestrians dove for safety, horns blew, brakes squealed, and we learned some wonderful new phrases that are sure to make us a lot of friends in several different languages.
We flew like the wind, hitting every pothole, rut and sewer lid until we felt like a couple of pieces of Shake'n Bake chicken. Finally though, the end was in sight...Penn Station. But wait, we weren't slowing down. We were still doing Mach 10 in a Mach 3 zone and three lanes over from the curb. As we tried to attract our "driver's" attention by clawing at the plastic (apparently, he had grown immune to our screams about fifteen blocks back), he suddenly swerved one final time, cutting off a cab, a limo and a bus and propelling us up and over the curb to come to a bone-jarring halt three feet from the door. (well, that explained the speed. It's hard to get airborne doing anything less than sixty mph I guess.)
As he unzipped us with a grand flourish and boasted, "Ten minutes!", we pried our fingers from around the sides of the "cab" and practically fell to our knees and kissed the pavement in sheer gratitude at still being alive.
I think I'll leave the daredevil stuff to my sister from now on.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
When Good Technology Goes Bad
This past weekend, we had friends from out of town come visit, bringing their eighteen month old daughter with them who loves chocolate and musicals starring Julie Andrews (well, Sound of Music and Mary Poppins . For some reason, I think they want to wait a few years before exposing her to Victoria/Victoria and having to explain cross-dressing and homosexuality -- go figure.)
Thrilled to have someone who shares my main passions in life (although I do need to work on her to expand her repertoire to include Danny Kaye), I prepared for the visit by stocking up on several forms of chocolate and dusting off my Mary Poppins DVD.
Sure enough, within two hours of hitting the door, the request was made to watch "Mary"(at a year and a half, she rules the world with about four basic words: Mama, Daddy, No and Mary. She knows more, but combined with a smile, these generally get her pretty much everything she wants).
Since I was up to my elbows in spaghetti and meatballs, I assigned Tim the honor of popping "Mary" into the DVD player--big mistake.
After insisting on putting in a fairly complex and rarely working sound system two years ago, Tim has learned precisely four things: TV on, TV off, change channel, and increase volume (like the baby, he finds these four are adequate to rule his world).
Tuner? CD? DVD? Cable goes off? That's what I am here for. The panic that fills his eyes when I travel without him was touching until I realized it was the thought of being without CNN for five minutes that motivated it.
After trying to play the DVD through the (apparently) CD only sound system, he eventually found the DVD player...but it wouldn't open. It wouldn't even turn on, despite the green light on the front (I guess green for the people at Yamaha doesn't mean go).
Many buttons were pressed in many different combinations. Many curses were bitten off with many different grunts and groans. All to the accompaniment of the baby carefully enunciating "Mary" and pointing to the TV screen as though Tim was a bit on the slow side and needed some extra help (Hmmm.)
With remarkable calm (for him), Tim abandoned our fabulous, high-tech surround sound system and settled for playing "Mary" on his laptop...which worked fine for the first ten minutes, then it started freezing and skipping. One minute Mary was floating in to save the day, the next, she was mixing up a batch of rum punch (Let's see that on The Nanny show).
Hoping it wasn't the DVD itself, we moved on to Tim's old portable DVD player, but that was broken (now I remember why it is his old DVD player), and wouldn't even turn on properly.
The poor child was by now surely thinking to herself, "I've landed in a house of dummies. Mom and Dad can do this with one hand tied behind their back," as she patiently repeated "Mary" and watched the opening sequence eighteen times on progressively smaller screens. (At one point, I was sure she was trying to spell it to see if that might help. I distinctly heard her singing the ABC song under her breath).
Our fourth (and thankfully final) attempt was made with Tim's new DVD player (which he had never opened and so it naturally needed charging).
At last though, "Mary" was up and running (and by now, we all knew "Spoonful of Sugar" backwards, forwards and upside down).
The baby settled down very happily for the next hour and a half, although I'm certain I saw her throw several pitying glances our way and look wistfully at the big, dark TV screen.
Thrilled to have someone who shares my main passions in life (although I do need to work on her to expand her repertoire to include Danny Kaye), I prepared for the visit by stocking up on several forms of chocolate and dusting off my Mary Poppins DVD.
Sure enough, within two hours of hitting the door, the request was made to watch "Mary"(at a year and a half, she rules the world with about four basic words: Mama, Daddy, No and Mary. She knows more, but combined with a smile, these generally get her pretty much everything she wants).
Since I was up to my elbows in spaghetti and meatballs, I assigned Tim the honor of popping "Mary" into the DVD player--big mistake.
After insisting on putting in a fairly complex and rarely working sound system two years ago, Tim has learned precisely four things: TV on, TV off, change channel, and increase volume (like the baby, he finds these four are adequate to rule his world).
Tuner? CD? DVD? Cable goes off? That's what I am here for. The panic that fills his eyes when I travel without him was touching until I realized it was the thought of being without CNN for five minutes that motivated it.
After trying to play the DVD through the (apparently) CD only sound system, he eventually found the DVD player...but it wouldn't open. It wouldn't even turn on, despite the green light on the front (I guess green for the people at Yamaha doesn't mean go).
Many buttons were pressed in many different combinations. Many curses were bitten off with many different grunts and groans. All to the accompaniment of the baby carefully enunciating "Mary" and pointing to the TV screen as though Tim was a bit on the slow side and needed some extra help (Hmmm.)
With remarkable calm (for him), Tim abandoned our fabulous, high-tech surround sound system and settled for playing "Mary" on his laptop...which worked fine for the first ten minutes, then it started freezing and skipping. One minute Mary was floating in to save the day, the next, she was mixing up a batch of rum punch (Let's see that on The Nanny show).
Hoping it wasn't the DVD itself, we moved on to Tim's old portable DVD player, but that was broken (now I remember why it is his old DVD player), and wouldn't even turn on properly.
The poor child was by now surely thinking to herself, "I've landed in a house of dummies. Mom and Dad can do this with one hand tied behind their back," as she patiently repeated "Mary" and watched the opening sequence eighteen times on progressively smaller screens. (At one point, I was sure she was trying to spell it to see if that might help. I distinctly heard her singing the ABC song under her breath).
Our fourth (and thankfully final) attempt was made with Tim's new DVD player (which he had never opened and so it naturally needed charging).
At last though, "Mary" was up and running (and by now, we all knew "Spoonful of Sugar" backwards, forwards and upside down).
The baby settled down very happily for the next hour and a half, although I'm certain I saw her throw several pitying glances our way and look wistfully at the big, dark TV screen.
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