Tuesday, April 29, 2008

W is for Women, M is for Men

I will admit, I have been in my share of men's restrooms.

Once, many years ago at a theater in NYC where there was a short intermission between acts and a long line for the ladies' room, one of the women, in desperation, finally commandeered the men's room, and a bunch of us followed her in. My father-in-law (who was standing in a nearby hallway), never quite got over it. To hear him talk about it, you would think we had desecrated holy ground. Till the day he died, he couldn't pass a restroom without shaking his head and muttering something under his breath about Visigoths, Huns or Vikings.

Then there was the time at Versailles when one of the bathroom attendants motioned for a whole group of us to come over and use the men's room. Unfortunately, I was the last one in, last one out, and by that time, the men had reclaimed their turf.

I figured I had two choices at that point. I could either stay in the stall (which had a floor to ceiling door and one very tiny window) until they closed down for the night, or I could try to squeeze out the window. Just as I was measuring the size of the window against my butt (and the two were not compatible), someone started pounding on the stall door and rattling the handle.

Since they both looked old enough and therefore fragile enough to actually be from the reign of Louis IV, I decided to go with option three. I put my head down, wrenched open the door and beelined it for the exit. I still have the impression of a whole row of guys frantically hugging the walls imprinted on my brain. Not good. (That was also pretty much the end of my liquid intake for the day. Dehydration was definitely preferable to repeating that experience!) I could almost hear my father-in-law rolling over.

Last Sunday night though, the tables were turned.

We had gone to dinner at one of the old, historic hotels downtown, and I had visited the ladies' room, which was down a corridor off the main hallway of the hotel. As I was freshening my lipstick at the mirrors in the first of the two rooms, the door came flying open, a man stuck his head in and yelled, "Teresa!"

He halted briefly upon seeing me. "You're not Teresa."

No, and I can't tell you right now how glad I am that I'm not. "Can I help you?"

"No thanks, mind if I look in there?" he gestured toward the second door, even as he breezed by me and started to push it open.

"Um, sure." Don't mind me, I'm only in the ladies' room.

"Teresa, are you in here?"

A muffled, "I'm putting my lipstick on," answered him.

"Well, I'm ready to leave. Now." Wow. Whatever happened to a five minute warning?

With that, he strode back out, nodded at me, and said, "Thanks."

Sure. No problem.

I never did see Teresa, but when I exited, there was no sign of the guy in the corridor or the hallway, and I thought I heard a soft male chuckle.

Friday, April 25, 2008

The Joys of Air Travel

Once again, this week I was on a plane. And once again, it was an ... experience.

First, we were delayed taking off because our flight crew was coming from another plane that was late landing.

I thought, "Good opportunity to use the restroom." So did everyone else, which is why there was a stampede for the one, tiny, little room that resulted in a line longer than the Great Wall and slower than a herd of turtles walking through quicksand. Oh well, it was just a thought.

Upon boarding, we were all told, in no uncertain terms, to take our seats immediately, so that we could leave ASAP (okay, we were not the ones who were late getting here!). Doing so, we discovered our seats were directly in back of a family with a very, very unhappy child. This kid was hitting notes Whitney Houston could only dream about. Even the flight attendants were shushing him.

As we sat there at the gate waiting for "instructions for the flight" (Instructions?!? The pilot needed instructions ? He didn't know how to fly the plane?), one of the flight attendants took pity on us and offered us two seats up front in the third row.

Before he had even finished explaining where the seats were, we were bolting up the aisle like a couple of racehorses at the Kentucky Derby.

Our new seats were much, much better. Here, the screaming child was one row up and across the aisle. Now we only needed to put our hands over our ears instead of trying to stuff them into them. Well, at least it was near the bathroom, and perhaps I actually had a shot of getting in there this time.

No sooner had we settled in though, than the "fasten seatbelt" sign came on and the crew warned everyone to remain seated. We hadn't actually moved away from the gate yet, but apparently they wanted to be prepared to go as soon as the pilot figured out how to put the plane in reverse.

One poor passenger committed the crime of standing up to get his jacket and was chastised over the PA system before being pounced on by two flight attendants. I decided to remain seated rather than risk public humiliation and having to write a one thousand word essay on why it is important to follow directions.

Finally, Doogie Howser got us airborne. Before I could make my way to the bathroom though, a guy from somewhere behind us came running by and locked himself in there for a nice long stay. Uh oh. Not good.

And it got worse. He had to page the flight attendant for help. When he eventually stumbled out, the bathroom was declared "off limits" for the duration of the flight while those of us up front were enveloped in a cloud of vanilla scented spray deodorizer.

So let's see. So far we had been delayed, had our eardrums pierced, been denied bathroom facilities, and now we were experiencing crop dusting from the bug's point of view.

Thankfully, it was a fairly short flight, and we were able to pamper ourselves in the arrival terminal with luxuries like multiple bathrooms, clean air and a decibel level below four thousand.

Yes, I just love to fly.

Friday, April 18, 2008

How Can I (Not) Help You?

Not only did Tim's trip get off to a comical start, but a rocky one as well.

About an hour after he had gotten on the train, I realized that he had forgotten to pack his medicine. A few calls later, we found out that if we called our doctor with the number of a pharmacy, she could order a temporary prescription for him.

Getting online, I quickly found a list of pharmacies that were open twenty-four hours, but since I am unfamiliar with the area (he was actually staying in Jersey), I couldn't tell which ones were close to his hotel.

Quickest way: Call the hotel and ask them. Not.

First call: -Hi. I'm looking for someone there who can help me find a drug store near the hotel.
-Hold Please.
John Denver song. Julio Iglesies song. I hung up before Willie Nelson warbled out a tune.

Second call: -Hi. I need to speak to the concierge.
-Oh, you're the one who needs a drug store, right?
-Uh, Yeah. (Did I call the hotel or the psychic hotline?)
-We don't have a concierge at the moment. Hold on and I'll connect you to someone though.

Oh good. Someone. Someone helpful, or someone who will aggravate me? She went with option number two, but only after subjecting me to a lovely little ditty by KC and the Sunshine Band.

-Hello, you need a drug store near the hotel?
-Yes. One that has a twenty-four hour pharmacy.
-We have an Eckerd down the street.
-I know, but it doesn't have a 24-hour pharmacy. I pulled up a list online, but I'm not sure which ones are close to the hotel.
-Eckerd is closest. You'd need a ride to get anywhere else. I can pull up a list online though.
-(in my mind) Grrr. (out loud) Actually, we are coming from the train station, so I already have a car. And a list. I just need--
-We also have a shuttle bus that will take you to Eckerd.
-(in my mind) Okay, whatever Eckerd is paying you, I'll double it if you don't say Eckerd again. (out loud) Look, I'm going to read off the addresses of several CVS pharmacies, and you tell me which is closest to the hotel, okay?
-There aren't any CVS in the neighborhood, but...(if he said the E-word again, I was googling Tony Soprano and asking for a favor)...I can give you directions or get a cab for you.
--(in my mind) I don't want a cab, or a shuttle, or directions. I just want a yes or no as I read you the list. Think you can do that? (out loud--well, actually, that was out loud.)

Quickly, I started running down the list.

#1: he knew the road, but not exactly where on the road it was. Maybe ten minutes away. He could...Before he could repeat a previous suggestion which would get him killed, I moved on.

#2: closer to the train station than the hotel. Next?

-Wait. This one is close to the station? Do we pass it on the way?
-Yes. But we can take you there from the hotel, or you might want to go the the first one on the list because it is only ten minutes away.
-(out loud. And this was nowhere near a bad as what I was really thinking) Sure, we'll pass the one on the way from the station, come to the hotel, get rid of our car, and then you can get us a cab and give us directions to the other one. Thanks. That would be a huge help.
-Well, uh, (perhaps he sensed the sarcasm? Finally?) Don't you want to check in first, then go to the drug store?

For his safety, and to preserve what little was left of my sanity, I hung up and called the doctor.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Information, Please

On Sunday, Tim was scheduled to go to New York on the 6:00 Acela Express Train. Around 2:00, on our way home from running our errands, he decided to call Amtrak and see if he could catch an earlier train.

Using his car's speaker phone, he called information and asked for Amtrak's number.

"Uh, is that a business?" the operator asked after a rather long pause.

Rolling his eyes while Rose and I grinned, Tim expanded on his initial request. "Yes. The Amtrak train station in DC."

"Oh. Trains. Okay," the guy somehow managed to sound both relieved and confused at the same time. He then named several businesses with the word train in the title.

"No, not trains. Amtrak," Tim rolled his eyes and shook his head as Rose and I stifled our giggles.

"Amtrak train," the guy repeated, back to sounding plain old confused. "Do you have an address for that?"

Of course, and we have the number too. Hellooooo. Aren't you supposed to be information?

Gritting his teeth as Rose and I clapped our hands over our mouths to check our guffaws of laughter, Tim replied, "It's at Union Station."

"Union Station?" the guy parroted back, like he was trying to learn a difficult technical term.

"Amtrak train at Union Station in DC." Tim had apparently decided that repeating all the information in one breath at top volume while waving his arms about like a windmill (thankfully, we were stopped at a light at the time) was the key to better understanding here.

"I have an Amtrak office on Mass Ave.," the guy tentatively offered after another painstaking pause.

"Fine," Tim roared with frustration while Rose and I roared with laughter.

A minute later, we were connected to a voice activated system. "If you want to check on train times, say "schedule"," it crooned smoothly.

"Schedule," Tim dutifully repeated, the brilliant red color slowly retreating from his face. The computer seemed a lot smarter than the guy he had just dealt with.

"What is your starting point?" Emerac (the computer from the Hepburn/Tracy movie Desk Set) asked.

"Union Station."

"I heard Durham," Emmy replied.

Uh oh. This was not good. The red tide began to rise again.

"Union Station," the volume rose as well.

Fourteen questions later, with no sign of any actual information forthcoming, Tim tried to cut to the chase. Foolish man.

"Acela Express train," he threw at Emmy. Rose and I exchanged head shakes as we wiped tears from our eyes.

"Please repeat," she sounded as confused as the information guy.

"Acela Express train." It was kind of sweet and a little pathetic the way he was clinging to the hope of actually getting the information he wanted.

Pause.

"Did you say you want to talk to an agent?" Like the information guy, Emmy too was now trying to make Tim somebody else's problem.

And once again, Tim fell for it. "Yes!" he choked out, finally seeing the humor here and joining in our uncontrollable laughter as the sounds of Muzak filled the car.

Next time, we decided, it would probably be easier to just keep the reservation, even if it wasn't nearly so entertaining.

Friday, April 11, 2008

How to Get Out of Volunteering in One Easy Lesson

Tim is not the only one in the family who has found themselves "volunteering" at mass. It happened once before to his brother. As far as I can tell, it's a "twin thing".

Several years ago, the three of us were innocently strolling into church when Tom was waylaid by an usher and pressed into service. They wanted him to help pass the basket for the weekly collection.

First, he tried playing dumb. How did one do that? he enquired. Was there a certain procedure he had to follow? When, exactly, was the collection taken up? (I'm pretty sure he would have asked what a basket was if he thought he could get away with it.)

With a nice-try-but-you're-not-getting- out-of-it smile and a reassuring pat, the usher gave detailed instructions and sent us on our way.

Tom's next tactic was to try and talk Tim into taking his place.

They'll never know it's you and not me, he pleaded desperately. You're better at this kind of thing than I am. Besides, he concluded, playing what he obviously believed to be his trump card, I'm wearing shorts and you have long pants on. That means you should do it.

Hmm. You can't take up the collection while wearing shorts. Was that rule in the King James version of the bible, or the New Catholic edition?

Giving him a nice-try-but-there-is-no-way-on-God's-green-earth-that-I-am-doing-this look, Tim settled down smugly into his seat.

And so, Tom eventually subsided into a grumpy silence where he continued to brood over the whole collection issue. You could almost hear the wheels in his brain churning.

Actually, we did hear something. About half-way through the mass, during one of the quieter moments, Tom grumbled, "I have to get up, walk to the front of the church, pick up a (not so nice word) basket, bow, and start at the first pew."

Heads swiveled, mouths gaped open, eyes grew wide, breaths were sharply indrawn with audible gasps. A full heartbeat passed before Tom realized he was the center of much unwanted attention. Coloring a lovely shade of pre-dawn pink, he leaned over to us and, keeping his eyes firmly fixed forward, asked out of the side of his mouth, "Was that out loud?"

Um, yeah, kind of.

I don't believe he was ever asked to take up the collection again.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Take These Papers, Please

Some men are born to volunteer, some hope to achieve volunteer status, and some have it thrust upon them. Like Tim at Easter Sunday mass.

Since we arrived a bit late, we ended up sitting on folding chairs in the back next to one of the side doors of the church. It was also next to the table holding stacks of the church bulletins.

Toward the end of mass, one of the ushers, an elderly gentleman whose main job seemed to be organizing, rearranging and distributing the bulletins, approached Tim with a speculative gleam in his eye. "Are you double parked?" he slyly asked with a guileless expression pasted on his face.

Caught off guard, Tim blurted out, "No," and then felt the jaws of the trap snap shut.

"Good," the man crowed, stacking both a pile of the bulletins and a pile of some other pamphlet on the corner of the table. "Then you can stand at this door when mass ends and make sure everyone has a bulletin as they leave." Then, he scurried off before Tim could do more than gape at him. Obviously, this was not the first time he had shanghaied an unsuspecting victim.

Tim and I looked at the two piles and spent the next five minutes quietly debating whether he was supposed to give out both items or only the one.

Before our subtle whispered discussion could progress to some not-so-subtle hand gestures, the man returned and proceeded to demonstrate the fine art of bulletin distribution (I guess Tim looked to be in need of remedial instruction.).

As the first few people tried to sneak out a few minutes early, he planted himself in the doorway like a bouncer at Studio 54 in its heyday and demanded they show both the bulletin and the other pamphlet before they were allowed to exit.

A few foolish souls tried to wave him off or bluff their way out, but he wasn't to be denied. No papers, no exit, no exceptions. (A guy with a walker and oxygen tank almost succeeded in his bulletin-free bid for freedom, but apparently the valve on the tank doubles nicely as a paper holder. Who knew?)

After several more minutes of demonstrating the proper technique, the man seemed to feel that Tim was ready to fly solo, and thrust the remaining pile of bulletins into his hands. The other pamphlets he kept for himself, apparently judging that Tim was not yet ready for the challenge of multiple handouts, and moved on to another door where madness reigned and people were leaving in a willy-nilly fashion without those earth-shakingly vital pamphlets (Didn't they know the fate of the free world hung on whether or not they could name all the members of the choir?).

Left to his own devices, Tim tried his best to live up to the gargantuan task he had been assigned. Gamely, he offered the bulletins to each and every departing churchgoer, but it wasn't the same. Like a classroom full of rowdy eight year olds who've just discovered they have a substitute teacher, the congregation surged out the door, hands firmly in their pockets, practically trampling poor Tim in their haste.

As the tide of escapees continued, I began to worry what would happen when bulletin-man returned and found out that Tim had allowed some people to actually leave without the all-important piece of paper.

Would he be forced to confess this sin, perhaps given a penance of forty-five Hail Marys, sixty-two Our Fathers and a few Glory Bes thrown in for good measure? Or maybe he would just be taken out to the parking lot for a lesson in the finer points of body-tackling eighty year olds with canes.

Before we could find out what exactly his punishment would be though, the last person exited, and since our friend was still terrorizing people at the other door, we made good on our escape.

I'm guessing that the next time, Tim will be a bit warier when someone asks him if he is double-parked.

Friday, April 4, 2008

Or Not

My sister-in-law gives up sweets every Lent. Forty days of no chocolate, no cake, co cookies, no candy. Personally, I would rather give up something less necessary, like oxygen, for forty days, and I feel confident that Tim would fully support my choice since he would be the one dealing with a sugar-free me. It would not be pretty. Although it couldn't be much worse than this past Easter weekend when I gave up eating...pretty much everything.

It all started Friday morning when I barely had time to cram half of a bagel down my throat before running out the door. Oh well, maybe we'd have an early lunch.

Or not. Lunch turned out to be a plate of tomatoes and mozzarella at 3:00 while we waited for our hotel rooms to be ready. Oh well, dinner was at seven, so I'd get a nice meal then.

Or not. Turns out our reservation was for seven, but our table wasn't actually ready until 8:30. By that time, I'd eaten enough nuts to keep Bonzo happy for a year and drunk enough club soda to float a battleship.

I barely made it through the appetizer, never mind dinner, and to add insult to injury, they brought over a fabulous (complimentary) chocolate dessert that I couldn't even touch. Oh well, things would be better on Saturday.

Or not. Room service forgot half our order and the luscious-looking muffin that I got turned out to be chock-full-o-coconut! Yuck. What kind of sick, twisted person ruins a lovely little muffin with coconut? Seriously, they should have a warning label on the menu: Caution. Muffins may be hazardous to your taste buds. Oh well, I'd get something to eat once we got to the pool.

Or not. Around noon, we ordered water and fruit plates. Forty minutes passed, and so did a lot of waiters with trays of burgers, sandwiches and fries, but the only fruit we saw during that time was the dreaded coconuts hanging from the trees around us, mocking us as they swayed in the breeze.

At 1:25, we finally had to cancel our order and rush off to keep our 1:30 massage appointments. The waiter apologized profusely, offering to have the plates ready when we returned at 3:00.

Or not. The new waiter didn't seem to have any idea who we were or what arrangements had been made, but he assured us that fruit plates would be no problem.

Yeah. We fell for that one before. He had five minutes before we headed to Mickey D's. Maybe there we could get a few measly berries and some melon with our Big Macs.

We did get our fruit, along a side of rain, but dinner was only a few hours away and would be good.

Or not. Oh, the actual food wasn't bad, but the restaurant had an...odor...so that it was sort of like eating in the bottom of an old, wet sneaker. Oh well, Sunday would be better.

Or not. Sunday morning, we decided to go to mass at the church twenty minutes away where my mom was in the choir. Opting to skip the coconut muffins, we decided to grab some breakfast along the way in one of the many little towns or strip malls we would pass.

Unfortunately, it was pouring rain and we missed a turn, so we needed up taking the interstate. Not a lot of places to eat there. Oh well, we'd grab a bite somewhere near the church.

Or not. Turns out it took us twice as long to get there due to the rain, and there wasn't any place near the church. Easter Sunday breakfast turned out to be a pack of peanut butter crackers from my purse and two day old water from the bottle I left in the cup holder.

Fortunately, through all these trials and tribulations, I managed to remain sweet, pleasant and even tempered.

Or not.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

When Life Hands You Lemons

Flying these days is like playing the slots in Vegas. You take your seat hoping for cherries, but you know the odds are against you and it's usually not a surprise when you end up with lemons instead.

And boy, have I gotten some big, old lemons the last few times I've flown down to Florida.

There was the woman with the dog which she smuggled on board (did the TSA not notice her purse walked through the x-ray machine, or perhaps she convinced them it was a guide dog despite the fact that it was a Chihuahua?)

All I know is, somehow I became her accomplice. My job was to keep an eye out for approaching flight attendants and sound the alarm if they got too close. At that point, she would stuff the dog back down in her purse, throw her coat (and mine) over it, and proceed to regale me with her entire lengthy medical history in full technicolor detail beginning with her appendectomy in 1952 right up to her hip replacement last year. Tim, on my other side, pretended he didn't know me and slept through the whole thing. (He always preferred Roulette to slots anyway)

Then there was the guy who apparently didn't get out much.

"You look like you travel a lot," he commented perkily, leaning across the middle seat as I settled into my window seat.

Why, do I have my frequent- flyer miles stamped on my forehead? Sensing that after an opening like that, the conversation could only go downhill, and I was effectively trapped in my seat for the next few hours, I dug out my ipod and opened my book.

"Do you come to Florida often? You're really pale. Don't you tan?" I was right. This lemon was rolling downhill very quickly.

Fortunately (for him), I was saved the necessity of a reply as the tenant of the middle seat arrived.

"My, you're a big girl," the silver-tongued Casanova quipped as she sat down with her McDonald's bag and gave him a look that could have frozen boiling oil.

"I mean, you're tall and big boned," he blithely continued on, not seeming to realize his life was on the line. "Do you play basketball?"

Well, at least he wasn't my lemon anymore.

At Christmas, I got to sit next to Mrs. Clean. Before sitting down, she pulled out a monster-sized pack of anti-bacterial wipes and proceeded to clean her seat, both armrests, the overhead bin handle, the back of the seat in front of her and her hands. She then offered a wipe to all of us around her (I'm not sure whether we were supposed to clean our seats or ourselves from head to toe), sat down, pulled her coat over her mouth and nose (I guess she forgot her hospital mask) and complained (to me) about the temperature on the plane (ironically, it was too cold for her) and how unsanitary the conditions were (if she thought the seats were unsanitary, wait until the first time she sees an airplane bathroom. I'm guessing she will need CPR--after the person administering it uses a wipe, of course).

On my other side, Tim read the paper and dozed while I made lemonade.

This last trip, I was seated next to a woman who was flying for the first time. Between the maintenance problems, lack of fuel and high winds, well, let's just say that this was no cherry either.

Half her time was spent grabbing my arm, demanding "What was that?", at every creak, shimmy and bump (and I wanted to help ease her fears, honestly, but I was a teensy bit busy running around in my head screaming, "We're all going to die!" to do much for her.)

The other half was spent directing me in the use of her camera and trying to get the perfect shot of all the pretty lights on the ground (I hoped she still thought they were pretty when we crashed into them.)

Tim, of course, slept through the bulk of this, which is just as well since he never really liked lemonade anyway.