30,000 feet, five hours of uninterrupted bliss

I boarded the plane to Phoenix this morning with blood shot eyes and an impatient, and emptied spirit from six days of conferencing in Boston. While the convention itself was remarkable (on a variety of levels), what it didn’t offer was sleep or time to yourself. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned the value these two factors have in the recipe of my happiness. 

So I was a tad edgy.

I was ready to be back in Arizona, albeit for just under 24 hours to hop on another flight to Arkansas. I’d identified my 15A window seat, and gestured to my already seated row mates in 15B and 15C to let me in. 15C didn’t look pleased to be getting up, which was confusing since he looked a lot like Santa.  Well, a Boston version of Santa in Red Sox gear. My carryon bag was ridiculously heavy, and to make matters worse, I had selected a silk blouse with sharp buttons on the shoulder. The strap was no doubt creating a permanent imprint into my thin, alcohol-flushed membrane. Just as I began the awkward “duck and two-step shuffle maneuver” to get into my window seat - the whole time desperate to lighten my load - a woman behind me got my attention.

“Excuse me, you.  Um… that’s my husband in your row -- 15C [Santa]. Would you mind trading me seats? I figured it wouldn’t be too much trouble since we’re both window seats…” She asked the question reticent; like there was a good chance I’d not accept her offer.

“No problem,” I returned. Whatever. Just move. I scooted back out of my row and into a completely empty one behind me. Congratulating myself on the luck of the situation, I overheard the woman in the middle seat ask this woman if she wanted to sit by her husband then, since although they’d arranged to now be seated in the same row, they were split by 15B. The Santa husband, silent until this time, piped up with an emphatic NO. Surprised, I looked up at him and waiting for the laughter to follow. Nobody laughed, and his eyes were hard as they met mine.

And that was that. The woman who’d negotiated her new row casually side-stepped right into her new seat, followed by a puzzled middle-seater, and an angry Boston Santa husband.

A girl did end up coming to my row, but we were blessed with an empty middle seat the whole ride across the country. She spent most of the five-hour flight openly reading 50 shades. I sat relishing in my solitude at the expense of a dysfunctional marriage.

Battle of the Loo

I’m the type of person that, often to my relationship detriment, is constantly competing. I compete as I’m driving, bargain shopping, selecting produce at the store, even against my roommate for things as trivial as who leaves for work first in the morning (a race I nearly always win but the times I don’t have been known to ruin entire mornings as I sulk into my cubicle with a defeated travel coffee). Sometimes, the competition comes in the form of races or time trials against myself– how quickly can I get from my desk to the office bathroom? Can I take fewer steps and also improve my time? Can I hold my breath the entire way? The result of these challenges has often been simply a very awkward looking girl in the back hallway from my office to the restroom taking quick, elongated steps, pale from not breathing.

I decided it was time for a new sport, and to up the ante even. What has seemed to take roots lately has been a “me against the office complex” challenge centering on… the first-floor community bathroom, my mini battlefield. Allow me to offer a sketch of the course of play. This is a fairly standard six-stall community restroom. The first five stalls are standard size, and the last is handicapped. We’ve got auto-flush toilets and no courtesy music. Sinks are auto, and despite everything else being automatic, we have paper towel hand dyers, no air dryers. It’s state government, so we’re not talking frills. I think you can guess where this is going; the object is to get in and out undetected. If you’re a guy, you might not get it. The ladies know what I’m sayin’.

Each game commences with the pushing open of the heavy bathroom door. It feels like a freshly dealt hand of poker upon each entrance. Your fate of the game is hinged upon the contents. I’ve crafted a few solid approaches to navigate any situation.  

You enter at the same time as another go-er (if it’s a coworker, disengage. This only applies to a stranger).  You both settle into your respective stalls. There's always that awkward silent moment. The other might rattle with the tp, or shift their feet, perhaps even a long sigh. Your hope is that they get in, get out and leave you in peace. However, there are times that they too want to be left in peace. It’s in this instance that you’re forced to engage in a stall-down.

It all depends on the urgency of the situation, but in my experience, you can almost never wait these people out. They are government employees and I’ve found their threshold to return to their desks to be much higher than mine. Leave and come back.

You enter to find a squatter, and by the position of their feet, they’re not planning to vacate any time soon. Depending upon the look of the shoes, you may or may not be able to draw them out of their stall by sink activity and clicking of makeup to kill time. Following etiquette (they arrived first), you must defer to them. Your choice is either skilled auto-flushing, or to simply leave and come back.

You find the place empty. You not only have your choice of stalls – a great position to be in – and you also have first right of continuance. Act fast, since time is limited. In an 11-story building, the bottom level restroom is rarely empty. I almost always select the handicapped stall at the end, lovingly referred to by others in my office as “the apartment.” If you’re able to get in and out without disturbance, you’ve won.

I could keep going, but think perhaps I should save some matters to the imagination. Maybe it’s a little late for that… oh well. Game on, suckers.

Office Nosher: The Sequel

Somehow, the saga of office noshers -- a very small subset of the underground group - has persisted through the summer. I've nearly pinpointed the nosher in question with 100 percent accuracy. Shown below is the most recent act of office noshing, this time on an innocent cookie-pop given to our agency as a congratulations for a conference well done. The cookie basket was placed on the community credenza, and in the plain view. There were plenty for everybody. There was no need to conduct this level of drive-by-noshing.

That sugar cookie was once the state of Arizona. Honestly, I don't know what's wrong with people.

Of Mice and Theremin

I've found myself occupying the limited mental space that is not reserved for work with new interests these past weeks. Well, some are new.  Some seem to persist.

The Theremin. For those unfamiliar, it's the weird old sci-fi instrument played by air waves and the positioning of your hands to vary the pitch. Basically, it's the real-life version of playing an air guitar, except actual sound matches your twitchy hand movements.

A few things about the theremin that I find superior to other instruments, or interests for that matter: (1) It's creepy sounding, which I like. (2) It has the power to make me feel like I'm in the movie "The Shining" and simultaneously, a character in Charlie Brown, and also helping Snow White at her well. (3) Even homeless people can produce cool covers with it. (4) It feels magical.

Vermin. I've also been scanning rooms, desks and walls for mice. I had a dream last night about a mouse with two colors in its snout fur. At the end of a long day in the office last week, I actually picked up a flat manila folder to see if there was a mouse under it. As I sit and write this, my feet are propped up, just in case.

All work and no play leads to theremin obsession and paranoia.

The end.

Saturday Shenanigans

It was supposed to be a fun-filled Saturday night. I'd been psyching myself up for it all week. The evening's agenda contained a friend's going-away party at a happening night club in [oh so posh and pretentious] Scottsdale, and I came prepared with neon yellow skinny-leg jeans and a see-through top. In hindsight, perhaps I was asking for it, although I maintain the pants' superior standing.

Keeping with the trend of this month, I had company in town -- Miss Whitney, my tourism partner in crime. That is... she was my partner in crime until she decided to abandon the desert, and me, and move to the pacific northwest where it rains all the time and the sun never shines. Whatever. We were hustling to get out the door when I got a message. My friends -- ones we were supposed to ride with that evening -- had just gotten in a car accident. We rushed to the scene to see what help we would be able to offer. They were all okay mostly, but needed to head to the ER for a few aches and pains. As it turned out, the best part of their evening was the Vicodin they walked away with. Little did I know that my night... was just getting started.

We left the hospital feeling frazzled and cautious, but made our way towards Scottsdale. I changed lanes on the interstate, looking carefully around me before merging. Speed limit was being abided by (side note: that never happens). Full attention was being paid to the road. Suddenly, the gauge for my engine temperature spiked to red. That's odd. It wasn't like that a second ago. I should be fine... No...it's glowing red. And a psycho red. Not burgundy or a friendly barn-door red. I'll just take this exit riiiight here. I can pull over to check out the scene from there. 


I could see the glowing oasis of a gas station on the horizon when my car started to grumble and within seconds, steam began to creep from under my hood. Reflex set in and I floored the engine towards the gas station. I threw the car into park, shut off the engine and leapt from the vehicle, nearly tripping over my 5 inch wedges in order to get to the hood as quickly as possible. Once I made it, I froze. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Do I open the hood? What if the steam gives me third degree burns? Or worse, what if the car blows up?? 


I placed one pinky finger on the open lever and settled into a pre-sprint position like an Olympian ready for the 400-meter dash. By the time the hood was open and I'd hurled myself a safe distance away, I was able to catch a glimpse of steam releasing itself into the hot Phoenix night. We stood there staring up, and then at the engine for a good five to 10 minutes. We were completely stupefied. We were clueless. We were waiting for a random good samaritan to offer us help.

When that didn't come, I turned to Google. "What to do when car overheats." The answers seemed straight forward enough...

"Try turning your heat on full blast."
"Turn your air conditioner on full blast."
"When the engine is cool, add water."
"Check the coolant level in your radiator."

But... where do I add this water? Where might I find my radiator? My mind was racing and it was only getting later and somehow hotter. A group of dark shadows approached.

"Need a ride?" The figure came into the light and a homeless woman in a shopping cart came into view. "Seriously..." cackle, spit, cackle... "You need a ride!? At least my shit works! HA!" The wheels on her cart zigged along the cracked sidewalk as she flaunted her toothless smile and working vehicle past us. Touché, you cackling homeless woman. Your shopping cart unquestionably beats out my broken-down BMW.

A instant later, two creepy men in a lowrider pulled up alongside the mayhem. "Te ayuda?" Inner dialogue with myself told me to smile and say "no thank you." But the more realistic, "it's nearly midnight and we have no other way to get home" side of me relented.


"Yes sir, we need any help you can give us," I said with a trusting smile.

The man turned out to be a Mexican angel. He was a mechanic himself, and while he didn't speak any English (and for whatever reason, my panicked stage caused me to forget any and all Spanish), the universal language of automobile maintenance prevailed. He topped me off with water, and upon seeing it all flow directly out from under my car, he gestured for me to drive as quickly home as possible. There was a leak, but he thought what he'd added would last me. He continued to pour water into the hood as we got in the car. He slammed the hood and we swerved out, waving goodbye to our savior.

The next few minutes can be regarded as some of the most anxiety-wridden, crack-head resembling moments of my young life. Barreling through a rough neighborhood at half past midnight, the sound my car was expending into the desert night was causing me to become short of breath. I was shaking. I was dripping in sweat. The a/c still wasn't working. The screeching noise intensified, and I was sure we were going to catch on fire. Our race to safety placed us two blocks from the house and at this point, I was coasting in neutral. I could almost see the stoplight on my street when steam began to funnel out of hood from all sides, and my car decided to fire off several loud noises and completely shut off. We were in the middle of an intersection. Absolutely certain we were about to blow up, I think I blacked out, screamed for Whitney to "get out of THIS CAR!" and sprinted across moving traffic for cover at the nearby Circle K.

Thirty seconds later, no such explosion occurred. I called the tow truck, and 30 minutes later, we were riding shot gun in his rig on the way back to my house.

It wasn't until this afternoon that I had my poor car towed to my mechanic. The verdict is still out whether or not I completely fried the engine. I arranged for a rental car, and the place offered me a cop car, which I naturally gleefully accepted and am now happily cruising the streets of Phoenix in [gangster] [or geezer] style.

The way I see it, the moral of the story could be a few things. The universe does not want me to attend any Scottsdale clubs; Sometimes, you don't have control over situations and you have to learn not to lost your shit and completely panic (this one, unlikely); Black cars sometimes overheat when it's over 110 outside; When in doubt, the answer is always the Crown Victoria (very likely).

#OverallWin