Although I spend more than half of my year on travel, it’s not too often that I spend the weekend in a hotel. A few times each year, when looking at some tight variance in my schedule, I decide that it’s easier and cheaper to stay put in DC rather than to go home and come back on a short turn-around. These plans are made a month or six weeks prior to that specific trip, and almost always (when I’m actually on that trip) I regret that decision and wish I had planned to go home, if even for part of one day.
This weekend the decision to stay put was easier because my second meeting (starting Sunday) is at one of my favorite hotels. The Courtyard Gaithersburg sits on the edge of a lake and is bordered on one side by an 18 screen movie theater and the other by a row of restaurants, coffee and book shops and a Super-Target (just in case I run out of underwear or socks). It’s a great place to be if I can’t be at home.
I arrived here Friday night after leaving my previous meeting location in Arlington, VA. The taxi driver was none too happy when he picked me up (expecting a quick trip to the nearby airport) and I told him that instead I needed to go twenty miles through heavy rush hour beltway traffic. Still, he was polite and accepted that like most of us, he must take the good with the bad. Since I was the “bad,” I tipped him well when we reached our destination safely and with no typical DC taxi driver NASCAR maneuvers.
My room is nice, with a beautiful view of the frozen lake. I unpacked quickly, making the room into my personal living space for the next five days. That first night I grabbed take-out from the California Pizza Kitchen next door and came back to my room for some HBO and relaxation.
I’ll use the excuse that I have a lot on my mind to explain why I always forget that people who come to hotels on weekends are totally different that the calm, sedate, serious people who are usually in hotels during the week. Business travelers have been in meetings or doing some other work all day long. Many are jet-lagged. We know that the alarm will go off early the next morning and we must spend yet another day doing the exact same thing. We ride the elevators quietly, staring silently at the floor or sometimes giving each other a nod and the shared expression of “yeah, I know.”
As I settled onto the couch and scanned the channels of the television, I heard the first of what would be a steady pattern of noise coming from the room next door and the hallway outside. Laughter…loud, raucous, obnoxious laughter…echoed into my room, mixed with voices raised to the level usually reserved for cheering at a high school football game.
I’ve been on this bus before, and I don’t like where it’s going. I called the front desk.
“Hello, this is Michelle, how can I help you Mr. Warford?”
“Uh, yeah…I was wondering if there were any floors where there aren’t any groups of…uh…do you have a floor where there aren’t any…uh…people?”
“I’m sorry, is there a problem?”
“Well, it’s pretty loud on my floor. It sounds like there’s a party or something. I was wondering if there might be a quieter floor I could move to?”
“I’m sorry Mr. Warford, but we’ve got several groups in house this weekend. A reunion, two wedding parties and a few school groups. I’m not sure there’s a quieter floor, but I can send someone up to ask them to keep it down.”
I’ve played that scenario out in my head before and it never works out well. I’m always afraid that whoever comes up and tells them to be quiet will point at my room and say “that guy said that you need to shut up.” The next day the maids will find my door lock broken and my room is suddenly a crime scene. I thanked her for her offer and hung up the phone.
I listened to the voices. They were all relatively older. That was a good sign. They would probably go to bed early. I was grateful not to be on the floor with the school groups. Depending on the quality of the chaperones, the kids can party pretty late. This group sounded like they were already up past their bedtime, so their body clock and medication should start kicking in soon.
It sounded like there were four women in the room next to me. From the sound of her hacking cough, one appeared close to death. I also believe that all or part of them were hard of hearing, because everything they said was in a yell. I turned up my television to the point that my ears were nearly bleeding and I could still hear them yapping away.
Thankfully, their slumber party crashed at around 10:30pm; their dreams of reliving their youthful “all night gab-fests” falling victim to the ravages of age and wear. I can relate. I enjoyed another hour of relative peacefulness before I crashed myself.
I was hoping to sleep late, but the ladies were early risers. The sick one got up around 6:30am, slamming the door to her bathroom and spending at least fifteen minutes trying to cough the lungs out of her body. I covered my head with a pillow, but I could still hear her. Finally, I was so overwhelmed with both annoyance, concern and a little bit of nausea that I knew I would not go back to sleep.
I turned on the television and made a pot of horrible hotel room coffee. I’ve never had a good cup of in-room hotel coffee. I’m not sure why they even provide it, considering that it’s usually so weak and tasteless that it should really be called “brown water,” but then again, I keep making it, as I assume many others do, so they probably think we can’t get enough. We are our own worst enemies.
I had breakfast downstairs surrounded by who I assume were the reunion and wedding folk. There were not a lot of teenagers, so the school groups must have gone the fast food route. That was a good thing. They would have eaten all of the bacon in the buffet. As it were, the heaviest traffic was at the oatmeal station, so I took that as a sign to have some protein.
I was reminded why I like this hotel so much when I checked the movie schedule and found that there were showings as early as 9:30 in the morning. They don’t show movies in the morning in Tennessee. I think that it’s assumed that you are doing something productive at least until noon.
I sauntered over and settled in for a showing of the Mel Gibson movie, Edge of Darkness. I used to see movies at least once a week, but I’m considerably behind right now. This would be a good time to catch up. After the movie, I strolled around the lake and enjoyed the early afternoon sunshine. It was such a beautiful day that I almost forgot about the annoyance factor of my fellow hotel guests.
I grabbed take-out from California Pizza Kitchen again. After trying and loving their Jambalaya Friday night, I couldn’t resist getting it once more. I am nothing if not a creature of habit. Also, one thing I have learned in my excessive travel…repetition is comforting.
On my way back into the hotel lobby with my bag of Cajun goodness, I ran into a cluster of Stepford teens that I could only guess was part of the school group I had heard about. This clique must have been restricted to slender brunettes with dark eyes, and smiles that were only used for private jokes and insincere taunting.
They were walking just ahead of me in the narrow hall that leads to the elevators. A few glanced over the shoulder in my direction, and then turned back and giggled. I had checked my zipper carefully before I left the room and knew it was not down, so I assumed they were giggling because I was alone and they were in their element.
Like a wolf pack, they felt strong. I was older, but considered weak. Somehow, at such a young age, they had the presumption that they were better than everyone else. I didn’t care. I’ve seen their kind before. I’ve been laughed at before. When I was younger, it bothered me. Now that I’m older, I could care less. I’m also aware of their weak spots.
They reached the elevator just as the door opened and an older couple exited. The girls pushed past them and turned to face me as I approached. They looked at me like I was trying to break into their party, but I had no interest in getting on the elevator with them. I would gladly wait for the next car.
One of the girls, probably the ringleader, gave me a quick once over and said in a sarcastic tone, “Sorry, but I don’t think there’s room for anyone else.” The other girls giggled. One in the back put her hand over her mouth to stop a laugh.
I nodded my head in agreement and smiled. “I think you’re right,” I said. I surprised them by putting my hand out and halting the door when it was trying to close. They stopped giggling. I leaned in a little and looked around. “These things are supposed hold several more people, but it looks like you girls have taken up all the space. You’re probably pushing the weight limit too. I’ll catch the next one.”
I reached over and hit the “door close” button and stepped back. Their confused faces quickly disappeared behind the sliding silver panels. I’m sure they talked about me as they went to their rooms. To them I was just some weird, overweight old guy who didn’t know what he was talking about. But if I planted even one tiny seed of self-doubt in any of their spoiled, overly-entitled little minds, I feel like I did the world a great service.
As soon as they were gone, I grabbed the next elevator back to my floor, where a night of laughing, wheezing and loud talk awaited. I was grateful. They would all be gone soon, leaving me to the quiet hallways more suitable for the weekday, business traveler.
.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
A Cold Day in Heaven
As I watched the snow pile up outside my hotel room window last week during the back to back blizzards attacking Washington DC, I couldn’t help but wish my kids were there with me. We’ve not had a big snow like that in their lifetime, and the few inches we usually get in Tennessee barely reach the top of the grass. A sled run quickly turns muddy, turning the beauty of the winter landscape into a dirty, sloppy mess.
Almost every day throughout the winter, my youngest daughter Taylor excitedly asks if it is going to snow. I remember that feeling well. I asked the same question of my parents each cold, frosty night from January thru March. I answer her much like my father answered me, with little faith in the magic of the clouds and the power of a thousand kids praying for a snow day. It was the only time I didn’t really believe my Dad was going to be right, and I’m sure Taylor doesn’t believe me either (although she feels that way on many more subjects than I ever did with my parents). I fell asleep with the promise of snow in my dreams, believing that when I awoke the next morning, there would be a blanket of white outside my window.
As far as kids are concerned, snow days are like a surprise late Christmas gift from God. Although they are usually bored and whiny by 11am, the promise of a little extra sleep and a day at home is overpowering. I never understood why parents didn’t get as excited over schools closing for snow as kids did…until I was a parent. That’s when I learned that it’s very rare to get a “snow day” from work (for some reason, if you get paid, they expect you to be there). Also, someone has to deal with the kids for the day.
When the home routine is broken, tension levels rise. Connie is used to having the day all to herself. She gets the kids off to school, me off to work; she sips some coffee, answers some email, watches a little of the Today show. Then she works…at her pace, without interruption.
Snow days ruin her plans. Not that she hates having the kids or me around, but we are kind of annoying. She doesn’t get a lot done on snow days because someone is always yelling. Either they are yelling at each other over some perceived injustice, or they are yelling for Mom to get something, fix something, look at something or answer something that they should already know the answer to.
Connie tries very hard to get them out of the house early and often, but that requires a considerable amount of work. Gathering coats, gloves, boots, sleds, etc., takes a lot of effort, and although the kids can’t wait to get out there and play, they don’t seem to have the skill set to prepare for it without extensive help.
I don’t know about most people, but we don’t think about snow gear until there is snow on the ground and we can’t get our car out of the drive. That means that the boots that fit last year are too tight now, and the waterproof gloves have mysteriously disappeared. All that is left in the “winter clothing drawer” are some mismatched cotton mittens and a toddler snow suit that was outgrown eight years ago.
Sleds are kept in our outside storage, usually covered up by coolers, camping supplies, empty bags of peat moss and a million microscopic cobwebs. Since no one else will venture into the back of our storage building, I somehow find myself crawling awkwardly over my lawnmower, arms outstretched while I get pummeled by falling rakes and shovels. When I finally stagger outside, sleds in tow, the kids know better than to say “what took you so long?”
Throughout the summer months we often complain about our back yard. Too steep for any game play (if you start running at the top, it’s hard to stop running until you hit the fence at the bottom of the hill), we usually go to one of our local parks to play. Those same features, however, make it a pretty great yard for sledding. There are a few trees to dodge if you go off course, but the central strip is just right to build up some decent speed. Although the fence can seem to be approaching pretty fast, we’ve learned exactly when and where to roll off the sled to avoid any ugly accidents.
For all the trouble it takes to get the mass of snow gear together, you’d think that they would stay out most of the day, but that would be far too easy. Usually after no more than an hour, they come back in, muddy and wet, dripping and tracking all over the floor, demanding hot chocolate and food. Soon they are in pajamas, covered up by soft blankets, watching the Disney Channel and wondering if they will have school the next day. It’s barely noon.
It’s great to be a kid.
It takes me back to the winter of 1977. We had snow, then some more snow, topped off by even more snow. I think I was out of school for the entire month of January. It was great...until we had to go to school every Saturday in May and for half of June to make up all the time we missed. You don’t think about those things at the time though. Kid’s minds don’t deal in consequences.
Unlike my current yard, our yard growing up was flat. The alley way behind us however, had a slight slope, and after a few trucks had tamped down the snow, it made for a pretty good run. Dad built a sled for us, welding the rails and cross bars, and topped it off with a piece of plywood. I don’t know how fast we went, but in my mind, it was a rocket.
A friend of Dad’s came with a tractor and scraped our driveway, creating a huge pile of snow in the corner of our yard. With a small shovel and hours of determination, we made a snow cave; big enough for several of us to get inside and contemplate how amazingly cool it was that we had our own snow cave. As I recall, that cave lasted until mid-June.
The timing of that school free month was perfect, at least for me, because I got to stay up late for the eight nights of the television miniseries Roots. It was a turning point for me, as my 13 year old eyes saw something different than reruns of The Brady Bunch and Gilligan’s Island. Obviously I was aware of slavery and had studied and been tested in very general terms in Social Studies class, but I did not understand it on a personal level. Roots changed that. I will never forget experiencing the saga of Kunta Kinte, Chicken George, Kizzy and Fiddler. American History changed for me that month.
Another highlight of winter when I was a kid was snow-cream. It was plentiful and cheap, so we ate it until our stomach hurt and our internal body temperature dropped by ten degrees. The next day, we’d do the same thing again. Today, we’re a little afraid of eating snow out of fear of what might be in the atmosphere, particularly where I live. A few bowls of Oak Ridge snow-cream and you might start to glow.
As good as my memories are from my own childhood snow days, and despite my griping over the mud and the gear and the cobweb covered sleds, I have to admit that I just might be enjoying these weather related closings a little bit more. Nothing in my memory is quite as great as the sight of my own children having a good time. Even at their most irritating and selfish (and let’s face it, kids are really good at both of those things), they are my kids. Seeing them happy is the best memory of all.
Almost every day throughout the winter, my youngest daughter Taylor excitedly asks if it is going to snow. I remember that feeling well. I asked the same question of my parents each cold, frosty night from January thru March. I answer her much like my father answered me, with little faith in the magic of the clouds and the power of a thousand kids praying for a snow day. It was the only time I didn’t really believe my Dad was going to be right, and I’m sure Taylor doesn’t believe me either (although she feels that way on many more subjects than I ever did with my parents). I fell asleep with the promise of snow in my dreams, believing that when I awoke the next morning, there would be a blanket of white outside my window.
As far as kids are concerned, snow days are like a surprise late Christmas gift from God. Although they are usually bored and whiny by 11am, the promise of a little extra sleep and a day at home is overpowering. I never understood why parents didn’t get as excited over schools closing for snow as kids did…until I was a parent. That’s when I learned that it’s very rare to get a “snow day” from work (for some reason, if you get paid, they expect you to be there). Also, someone has to deal with the kids for the day.
When the home routine is broken, tension levels rise. Connie is used to having the day all to herself. She gets the kids off to school, me off to work; she sips some coffee, answers some email, watches a little of the Today show. Then she works…at her pace, without interruption.
Snow days ruin her plans. Not that she hates having the kids or me around, but we are kind of annoying. She doesn’t get a lot done on snow days because someone is always yelling. Either they are yelling at each other over some perceived injustice, or they are yelling for Mom to get something, fix something, look at something or answer something that they should already know the answer to.
Connie tries very hard to get them out of the house early and often, but that requires a considerable amount of work. Gathering coats, gloves, boots, sleds, etc., takes a lot of effort, and although the kids can’t wait to get out there and play, they don’t seem to have the skill set to prepare for it without extensive help.
I don’t know about most people, but we don’t think about snow gear until there is snow on the ground and we can’t get our car out of the drive. That means that the boots that fit last year are too tight now, and the waterproof gloves have mysteriously disappeared. All that is left in the “winter clothing drawer” are some mismatched cotton mittens and a toddler snow suit that was outgrown eight years ago.
Sleds are kept in our outside storage, usually covered up by coolers, camping supplies, empty bags of peat moss and a million microscopic cobwebs. Since no one else will venture into the back of our storage building, I somehow find myself crawling awkwardly over my lawnmower, arms outstretched while I get pummeled by falling rakes and shovels. When I finally stagger outside, sleds in tow, the kids know better than to say “what took you so long?”
Throughout the summer months we often complain about our back yard. Too steep for any game play (if you start running at the top, it’s hard to stop running until you hit the fence at the bottom of the hill), we usually go to one of our local parks to play. Those same features, however, make it a pretty great yard for sledding. There are a few trees to dodge if you go off course, but the central strip is just right to build up some decent speed. Although the fence can seem to be approaching pretty fast, we’ve learned exactly when and where to roll off the sled to avoid any ugly accidents.
For all the trouble it takes to get the mass of snow gear together, you’d think that they would stay out most of the day, but that would be far too easy. Usually after no more than an hour, they come back in, muddy and wet, dripping and tracking all over the floor, demanding hot chocolate and food. Soon they are in pajamas, covered up by soft blankets, watching the Disney Channel and wondering if they will have school the next day. It’s barely noon.
It’s great to be a kid.
It takes me back to the winter of 1977. We had snow, then some more snow, topped off by even more snow. I think I was out of school for the entire month of January. It was great...until we had to go to school every Saturday in May and for half of June to make up all the time we missed. You don’t think about those things at the time though. Kid’s minds don’t deal in consequences.
Unlike my current yard, our yard growing up was flat. The alley way behind us however, had a slight slope, and after a few trucks had tamped down the snow, it made for a pretty good run. Dad built a sled for us, welding the rails and cross bars, and topped it off with a piece of plywood. I don’t know how fast we went, but in my mind, it was a rocket.
A friend of Dad’s came with a tractor and scraped our driveway, creating a huge pile of snow in the corner of our yard. With a small shovel and hours of determination, we made a snow cave; big enough for several of us to get inside and contemplate how amazingly cool it was that we had our own snow cave. As I recall, that cave lasted until mid-June.
The timing of that school free month was perfect, at least for me, because I got to stay up late for the eight nights of the television miniseries Roots. It was a turning point for me, as my 13 year old eyes saw something different than reruns of The Brady Bunch and Gilligan’s Island. Obviously I was aware of slavery and had studied and been tested in very general terms in Social Studies class, but I did not understand it on a personal level. Roots changed that. I will never forget experiencing the saga of Kunta Kinte, Chicken George, Kizzy and Fiddler. American History changed for me that month.
Another highlight of winter when I was a kid was snow-cream. It was plentiful and cheap, so we ate it until our stomach hurt and our internal body temperature dropped by ten degrees. The next day, we’d do the same thing again. Today, we’re a little afraid of eating snow out of fear of what might be in the atmosphere, particularly where I live. A few bowls of Oak Ridge snow-cream and you might start to glow.
As good as my memories are from my own childhood snow days, and despite my griping over the mud and the gear and the cobweb covered sleds, I have to admit that I just might be enjoying these weather related closings a little bit more. Nothing in my memory is quite as great as the sight of my own children having a good time. Even at their most irritating and selfish (and let’s face it, kids are really good at both of those things), they are my kids. Seeing them happy is the best memory of all.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Pet Peeves 3.0
Here is my first list of Pet Peeves for 2010. I would like to say that there won’t be any more this year, but I’m not feeling very optimistic.
“HE WENT TO JARED.”
Yeah, I don’t care. This jewelry store commercial has so annoyed me that I wouldn’t get a ring there if there were no other ring stores and Jared was giving them away free.
PEPSI
More and more restaurants and hotels have changed over to carrying “Pepsi” rather than “Coke.” Apparently, Pepsi cuts a much better deal which promises bigger profits. This would be a sound business decision if people accepted the change in taste and didn’t say, “never mind I’d rather have water.” I’m sorry, but when I am asked what I want to drink and I say, “Coke,” the response of “will Pepsi be okay?” makes me angry. If they want to provide only fake cola, then my response from now on will be, “Sure, can I pay with monopoly money?”
FASHION EXPERTS
Who do these people think they are? More importantly, why in the world would anyone listen to them? After every awards show or celebrity event, this panel of arrogant, self-imposed masters of beauty and elegance deconstruct and belittle others with a cruelty and cold blooded viciousness usually reserved for a middle-school girls locker room. I will admit to sitting in my comfy recliner and having a good giggle fit over some of the ridiculous outfits stars wear, but I would never laugh in their face. That would not be right. Somewhere under all that plastic surgery and sequins, those celebrities have feelings too.
FAKE CELEBRITIES
I don’t’ mind people who have actually accomplished something being on the cover of People magazine or being discussed on the morning news, but I’d like to put some rules and limits on who gets their 15 minutes of fame and why. Being an idiot should not entitle someone to money or fame. The “Octomom” and her frightening lips continue to plague us, while a group of cretins from the New Jersey shore might make even Billy Graham begin to wonder if Darwin was on to something. I also don’t know where “Heidi and Spencer” came from, or what they supposedly did to get their names in the news, but I’d like to mark them all “return to sender” and get them off the cultural radar. They are an embarrassment to the human race.
HARD BUTTER
Why do restaurants seemingly store their butter packets in the freezer? There’s nothing worse than getting some nice hot bread or biscuits delivered to your table and then being offered cold little yellow bricks that tear and rend rather than spread and melt. Very frustrating.
SAMPLERS
No, I’m not talking about “appetizer samplers” (those are AWESOME). I’m talking about musicians who do not have the talent or ability to write their own music, but instead steal from others. Sadly, many young people, hearing these words or melodies for the first time, think that these “non-artists” are brilliant. They are not. With rare exception (like Kid Rock’s “Summertime”), these songs are neither a homage nor a tribute. They are cheap forgeries by people who can’t conjure an original thought on their own.
PRECIOUS: BASED ON THE NOVEL “PUSH” BY SAPPHIRE
If you have heard of this Academy Award nominated film, you should know that I’m not hating on the movie itself. It sounds like a great film about a very serious subject (child abuse), and I will probably try to see it. My issue is with the extended title. Either call it “Precious” or call it “Push.” You don’t need to declare your literary origin in the title. People who care will read about that in the credits. Besides, although we might recognize “by Jane Austin” or “by William Shakespeare,” most of us don’t have a clue who “Sapphire” is. Get over yourself. I rename you “Pretentious.”
GYM PEOPLE
I know what you’re thinking, and you’re mostly wrong. I think exercise is a wonderful and necessary thing. I genuinely wish that I enjoyed it more. My problem is with people who have a compulsion to let you know that they do it. You know the kind. They fit it into almost every conversation:
“sorry I’m late, I had to workout,”
“This yogurt is delicious…did I tell you I was at the gym this morning?”
“I wanted to attend my Uncle’s funeral, but it interfered with my spin class.”
I think there must be a course taught at the gym about “rubbing it in other people’s faces.” It’s not an attractive quality. At least not to fat people like me.
LEMONS
I enjoy a nice glass of iced tea. My preference is for sweet tea, but I can drink it with Spenda, Equal or even nothing at all. I like the taste of plain tea (not the flavored kind, thank you very much…not “peach tea” or “raspberry tea,” just plain old Lipton tea), and when I go out, that is my drink of choice. Here is my problem: most restaurants, for some reason, operate under the assumption that everyone wants “lemon” in their tea. If I wanted “lemon” flavor, I would order “lemonade.” Even more bothersome is when the server takes the time to ask if I want “lemon” in my tea, and then completely ignores my stated preference. Believe it or not, this happens nine times out of ten (and yes, I have completed an exhaustive and thorough study on this, with certified data to back it up). Yes, the only thing more frustrating than assuming that you automatically want lemon in your tea is to give you the option, repeat the choice of “no lemon,” and then spoil the lip of the glass with a sour wedge anyway.
Previous Pet Peeve Postings:
http://aimless-saunter.blogspot.com/2009/03/my-pet-peeves-part-one.html
http://aimless-saunter.blogspot.com/2009/08/another-pet-peeve.html
“HE WENT TO JARED.”
Yeah, I don’t care. This jewelry store commercial has so annoyed me that I wouldn’t get a ring there if there were no other ring stores and Jared was giving them away free.
PEPSI
More and more restaurants and hotels have changed over to carrying “Pepsi” rather than “Coke.” Apparently, Pepsi cuts a much better deal which promises bigger profits. This would be a sound business decision if people accepted the change in taste and didn’t say, “never mind I’d rather have water.” I’m sorry, but when I am asked what I want to drink and I say, “Coke,” the response of “will Pepsi be okay?” makes me angry. If they want to provide only fake cola, then my response from now on will be, “Sure, can I pay with monopoly money?”
FASHION EXPERTS
Who do these people think they are? More importantly, why in the world would anyone listen to them? After every awards show or celebrity event, this panel of arrogant, self-imposed masters of beauty and elegance deconstruct and belittle others with a cruelty and cold blooded viciousness usually reserved for a middle-school girls locker room. I will admit to sitting in my comfy recliner and having a good giggle fit over some of the ridiculous outfits stars wear, but I would never laugh in their face. That would not be right. Somewhere under all that plastic surgery and sequins, those celebrities have feelings too.
FAKE CELEBRITIES
I don’t’ mind people who have actually accomplished something being on the cover of People magazine or being discussed on the morning news, but I’d like to put some rules and limits on who gets their 15 minutes of fame and why. Being an idiot should not entitle someone to money or fame. The “Octomom” and her frightening lips continue to plague us, while a group of cretins from the New Jersey shore might make even Billy Graham begin to wonder if Darwin was on to something. I also don’t know where “Heidi and Spencer” came from, or what they supposedly did to get their names in the news, but I’d like to mark them all “return to sender” and get them off the cultural radar. They are an embarrassment to the human race.
HARD BUTTER
Why do restaurants seemingly store their butter packets in the freezer? There’s nothing worse than getting some nice hot bread or biscuits delivered to your table and then being offered cold little yellow bricks that tear and rend rather than spread and melt. Very frustrating.
SAMPLERS
No, I’m not talking about “appetizer samplers” (those are AWESOME). I’m talking about musicians who do not have the talent or ability to write their own music, but instead steal from others. Sadly, many young people, hearing these words or melodies for the first time, think that these “non-artists” are brilliant. They are not. With rare exception (like Kid Rock’s “Summertime”), these songs are neither a homage nor a tribute. They are cheap forgeries by people who can’t conjure an original thought on their own.
PRECIOUS: BASED ON THE NOVEL “PUSH” BY SAPPHIRE
If you have heard of this Academy Award nominated film, you should know that I’m not hating on the movie itself. It sounds like a great film about a very serious subject (child abuse), and I will probably try to see it. My issue is with the extended title. Either call it “Precious” or call it “Push.” You don’t need to declare your literary origin in the title. People who care will read about that in the credits. Besides, although we might recognize “by Jane Austin” or “by William Shakespeare,” most of us don’t have a clue who “Sapphire” is. Get over yourself. I rename you “Pretentious.”
GYM PEOPLE
I know what you’re thinking, and you’re mostly wrong. I think exercise is a wonderful and necessary thing. I genuinely wish that I enjoyed it more. My problem is with people who have a compulsion to let you know that they do it. You know the kind. They fit it into almost every conversation:
“sorry I’m late, I had to workout,”
“This yogurt is delicious…did I tell you I was at the gym this morning?”
“I wanted to attend my Uncle’s funeral, but it interfered with my spin class.”
I think there must be a course taught at the gym about “rubbing it in other people’s faces.” It’s not an attractive quality. At least not to fat people like me.
LEMONS
I enjoy a nice glass of iced tea. My preference is for sweet tea, but I can drink it with Spenda, Equal or even nothing at all. I like the taste of plain tea (not the flavored kind, thank you very much…not “peach tea” or “raspberry tea,” just plain old Lipton tea), and when I go out, that is my drink of choice. Here is my problem: most restaurants, for some reason, operate under the assumption that everyone wants “lemon” in their tea. If I wanted “lemon” flavor, I would order “lemonade.” Even more bothersome is when the server takes the time to ask if I want “lemon” in my tea, and then completely ignores my stated preference. Believe it or not, this happens nine times out of ten (and yes, I have completed an exhaustive and thorough study on this, with certified data to back it up). Yes, the only thing more frustrating than assuming that you automatically want lemon in your tea is to give you the option, repeat the choice of “no lemon,” and then spoil the lip of the glass with a sour wedge anyway.
Previous Pet Peeve Postings:
http://aimless-saunter.blogspot.com/2009/03/my-pet-peeves-part-one.html
http://aimless-saunter.blogspot.com/2009/08/another-pet-peeve.html
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Living
Bad things happen. It rarely makes sense and it’s rarely fair. It is the curse of life that we must also deal with death; both our own and of those we know and love.
Yesterday morning I learned that a co-worker and friend had passed away in the night. Darrell was only 38 years old and his sudden death came as a shock to all of those who knew him. He did not have time to say goodbye to his wife and young daughter. They did not have time to say goodbye to their loving husband and father. With the speed of the cold, smothering darkness when a light switch is abruptly turned off, he was gone. Eventually the memory of the light and warmth he brought to their lives will bring them comfort…but it will take time to get past the horrible shock of the moment.
In contrast to Darrell’s unexpected death, I learned last night that another friend back home in Shelbyville had passed away after a long, courageous battle with cancer. Debbie was just a little older than me. Her sister Jeannie and I went to school together, and like a lot of old friends have reconnected through Facebook. For the last year and a half I have watched their struggles and triumphs during treatment, as they fought to squeeze every last drop out of life before it slipped away. The photos of those smiling sisters, who didn’t let the gloom of the situation or the probability of the outcome stop them from living, were an inspiration and will continue to inspire as a way to deal with cancer and the threat of death with strength, humor and grace.
I cannot say that I knew Debbie or Darrell extremely well. They were both part of that periphery of friends who float in and out of our lives almost without notice until they are gone. It is only when you realize that you have missed that opportunity to know them better…to see them again…that you realize what you have lost.
My heart aches for their families. Both are dealing with loss and extreme pain. Whether you know the end is coming or it comes like lightening from a clear, blue sky, it hurts. I pray for comfort and some eventual peace for them all.
It’s natural (at least, I hope it’s natural and not just me being supremely selfish) to put ourselves into the situation. Most of yesterday I thought of my own family. I imagined the unbearable pain I would feel if I lost one of them, or the pain it might cause them if I were suddenly gone. I am far less frightened at the thought of dying than I am of the image of my wife and children having to deal with it. I don’t consider myself all that special, but I am who they’ve got. Even in my most self-deprecating moments, I know it would not be easy on them. Not for me, but for them, I pray they do not have to face that any time soon.
This year and this decade is barely a month old and we’ve already experienced death on a massive scale through the images of the catastrophe in Haiti. Now, some of us are dealing with it on a personal one. It’s a reminder that death is a constant, and somewhere, at any given time, there is a family that is experiencing a loss. They mourn their loved one, but also the fact that the life they knew will forever be changed. The fragile fabric of their existence has been torn and must be slowly and gently altered into something that fits the new direction they have suddenly been forced to take.
Although we can try to ignore the possibility of death, we can’t hide from it. It will eventually find us, and those we love. I’ve had these wake-up calls before, and after a while I’ve lazily fallen back into the slumber of the life I allow myself to live. Once again, I find myself saying (and hoping that I do better this time) that I need to live a life without regret; with purpose and a sense of urgency.
I know with every ounce of my being that I love my wife, my children and my family…but shame on me if I don’t tell them and show them every chance I get. There should never be a doubt in their mind or mine that we left anything unsaid. I pray that I will be quick to apologize for my many and ongoing mistakes. And for their sake, let them always know that no matter what is said or done, I have forgiven them before they even ask.
Yes, bad things do happen. The worst thing of all would be not to love and live to the fullest while we have the chance.
Yesterday morning I learned that a co-worker and friend had passed away in the night. Darrell was only 38 years old and his sudden death came as a shock to all of those who knew him. He did not have time to say goodbye to his wife and young daughter. They did not have time to say goodbye to their loving husband and father. With the speed of the cold, smothering darkness when a light switch is abruptly turned off, he was gone. Eventually the memory of the light and warmth he brought to their lives will bring them comfort…but it will take time to get past the horrible shock of the moment.
In contrast to Darrell’s unexpected death, I learned last night that another friend back home in Shelbyville had passed away after a long, courageous battle with cancer. Debbie was just a little older than me. Her sister Jeannie and I went to school together, and like a lot of old friends have reconnected through Facebook. For the last year and a half I have watched their struggles and triumphs during treatment, as they fought to squeeze every last drop out of life before it slipped away. The photos of those smiling sisters, who didn’t let the gloom of the situation or the probability of the outcome stop them from living, were an inspiration and will continue to inspire as a way to deal with cancer and the threat of death with strength, humor and grace.
I cannot say that I knew Debbie or Darrell extremely well. They were both part of that periphery of friends who float in and out of our lives almost without notice until they are gone. It is only when you realize that you have missed that opportunity to know them better…to see them again…that you realize what you have lost.
My heart aches for their families. Both are dealing with loss and extreme pain. Whether you know the end is coming or it comes like lightening from a clear, blue sky, it hurts. I pray for comfort and some eventual peace for them all.
It’s natural (at least, I hope it’s natural and not just me being supremely selfish) to put ourselves into the situation. Most of yesterday I thought of my own family. I imagined the unbearable pain I would feel if I lost one of them, or the pain it might cause them if I were suddenly gone. I am far less frightened at the thought of dying than I am of the image of my wife and children having to deal with it. I don’t consider myself all that special, but I am who they’ve got. Even in my most self-deprecating moments, I know it would not be easy on them. Not for me, but for them, I pray they do not have to face that any time soon.
This year and this decade is barely a month old and we’ve already experienced death on a massive scale through the images of the catastrophe in Haiti. Now, some of us are dealing with it on a personal one. It’s a reminder that death is a constant, and somewhere, at any given time, there is a family that is experiencing a loss. They mourn their loved one, but also the fact that the life they knew will forever be changed. The fragile fabric of their existence has been torn and must be slowly and gently altered into something that fits the new direction they have suddenly been forced to take.
Although we can try to ignore the possibility of death, we can’t hide from it. It will eventually find us, and those we love. I’ve had these wake-up calls before, and after a while I’ve lazily fallen back into the slumber of the life I allow myself to live. Once again, I find myself saying (and hoping that I do better this time) that I need to live a life without regret; with purpose and a sense of urgency.
I know with every ounce of my being that I love my wife, my children and my family…but shame on me if I don’t tell them and show them every chance I get. There should never be a doubt in their mind or mine that we left anything unsaid. I pray that I will be quick to apologize for my many and ongoing mistakes. And for their sake, let them always know that no matter what is said or done, I have forgiven them before they even ask.
Yes, bad things do happen. The worst thing of all would be not to love and live to the fullest while we have the chance.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Writing
I’m pretty deep into one of my whiny “what am I doing with my life” wallows right now. I usually get this way when I feel like I’m spinning my wheels…wasting my rapidly diminishing days away. I’m not a fun guy to be around when I’m like this. It’s probably good that I’m sitting alone in a hotel watching the cold wind blow snow around outside, otherwise I’d be bringing other people down with me, and who needs that kind of guilt?
Of course, some would say that it’s because I’m sitting in a lonely hotel room watching the cold wind blow snow around that I’m a bit depressed, and I appreciate their optimism. I just don’t agree with it. I’m used to sitting in hotel rooms alone. It’s kind of sad, but true. “Loner” is my middle name, so I really don’t think that’s the problem.
I think my problem is that I haven’t been writing. I did a lot of writing in 2009, and many of you humored me by reading and making the occasional comment. I felt productive, which is something I don’t often feel as an employee of the U.S. Government.
For the last couple of weeks, I’ve started and deleted several blog pieces, none of which got very far. Any ideas I had seemed cursed as “too bitter,” “too pointless” or “too bizarre.” (I know what you’re thinking…”how is that different from any other blog pieces you’ve written?”) Writing is a process. My process is highly flawed.
Most of my recent ideas have been about triggered by current events, usually something stupid a politician said or did. Those are always fun to write, but since my last post was about politics, I didn’t want to repeat myself. Although I care about such things, I wonder if you would even notice? Most of my ideas have been about triggered by current events, usually something stupid a politician said or did. Those are always fun to write, but since my last post was about politics, I didn’t want to repeat myself. Although I care about such things, I wonder if you would even notice?
I’ve been tempted to start a separate blog, one that is completely political and can be easily ignored by those who either don’t like politics or don’t agree with anything I have to say on the subject. I wouldn’t take it personally. I ignore people I don’t agree with, like Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck and that crazy, drunk homeless guy who sits on bench number four in Washington’s Dupont Circle. Writing a separate blog would be easier than having some poor, unsuspecting soul start to read one of my blog posts, expecting that it’s one of my whimsical walks down memory lane, or a description of my latest humiliation, and then learning, too late, that instead it dares to question the integrity of Sarah Palin, or argues the logic of not banning assault weapons.
The good thing (for me, at least), is that I can always find something to rant about in the political arena. It’s a rare week when someone in office doesn’t say or do something totally stupid which either ticks me off or makes me shake my head. Hypocrisy seems to be the one quality that most politicians have in common.
So…that is why I’ve decided to start another blog. I will not be linking it to Facebook Notes, so if you want to read it, you’ll have to sign up as a follower at the blog site. That way, I can write (which seems to keep me somewhat sane), and you can ignore (which might allow me to keep at least a few friends, as well as continued membership in both mine and my wife’s respective families).
Of course, some would say that it’s because I’m sitting in a lonely hotel room watching the cold wind blow snow around that I’m a bit depressed, and I appreciate their optimism. I just don’t agree with it. I’m used to sitting in hotel rooms alone. It’s kind of sad, but true. “Loner” is my middle name, so I really don’t think that’s the problem.
I think my problem is that I haven’t been writing. I did a lot of writing in 2009, and many of you humored me by reading and making the occasional comment. I felt productive, which is something I don’t often feel as an employee of the U.S. Government.
For the last couple of weeks, I’ve started and deleted several blog pieces, none of which got very far. Any ideas I had seemed cursed as “too bitter,” “too pointless” or “too bizarre.” (I know what you’re thinking…”how is that different from any other blog pieces you’ve written?”) Writing is a process. My process is highly flawed.
Most of my recent ideas have been about triggered by current events, usually something stupid a politician said or did. Those are always fun to write, but since my last post was about politics, I didn’t want to repeat myself. Although I care about such things, I wonder if you would even notice? Most of my ideas have been about triggered by current events, usually something stupid a politician said or did. Those are always fun to write, but since my last post was about politics, I didn’t want to repeat myself. Although I care about such things, I wonder if you would even notice?
I’ve been tempted to start a separate blog, one that is completely political and can be easily ignored by those who either don’t like politics or don’t agree with anything I have to say on the subject. I wouldn’t take it personally. I ignore people I don’t agree with, like Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck and that crazy, drunk homeless guy who sits on bench number four in Washington’s Dupont Circle. Writing a separate blog would be easier than having some poor, unsuspecting soul start to read one of my blog posts, expecting that it’s one of my whimsical walks down memory lane, or a description of my latest humiliation, and then learning, too late, that instead it dares to question the integrity of Sarah Palin, or argues the logic of not banning assault weapons.
The good thing (for me, at least), is that I can always find something to rant about in the political arena. It’s a rare week when someone in office doesn’t say or do something totally stupid which either ticks me off or makes me shake my head. Hypocrisy seems to be the one quality that most politicians have in common.
So…that is why I’ve decided to start another blog. I will not be linking it to Facebook Notes, so if you want to read it, you’ll have to sign up as a follower at the blog site. That way, I can write (which seems to keep me somewhat sane), and you can ignore (which might allow me to keep at least a few friends, as well as continued membership in both mine and my wife’s respective families).
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