You’ve heard talk of the proverbial corner, right? The one that, miraculously, will solve all your problems once taken advantage of? (No, this is not that kind of corner, nor that kind of advantage…keep it clean, people.)
I’m talking about the little baby steps that we must make to keep our lives running more-or-less smoothly. I don’t think there is one Big Corner of Life that, upon turning it, all one’s problems will be solved. I do, however, believe in many little corners, small hurdles, and quiet victories.
People, I have come to one of those corners; and you better be darn sure I turned it. I turned it right up. I did not pass Go. I did not collect $200 dollars. I turned the corner.
Finally.
I realize this is not the first time I have announced this statement for all the Internets to scoff at–but this time it’s more true than last time. And it’s Awesome!
I have finally found myself in a position that not only challenges me, but also puts to good use the talents I enjoy the most. I have found a position where I am needed and appreciated. Things are still brand new right now, but let me put this into a little bit of perspective for you: I just finished working a 15-hour day, I have another 15-hour day tomorrow, and I am happy as a clam. Ya know, if there were scientifically based evidence that clams are, in fact, happy.
I have yet to figure out how, exactly, to talk about this here–but I am so excited about the turn of events I couldn’t not share. Next week will have a lot more information, I promise!
Happy Friday!
Filed under: Bloggy McBloggerson
The following post was not written by me, it is part of the lovely Blog Share organized by -R- from And You Know What Else. I have an anonymous post published elsewhere on The Internets (but I’m not telling you where, it’s a secret) and the post below is from an anonymous BlogFriend. From the sounds of things, it looks like she could use a little support, please leave some comment love. For a complete list of participating Blog Sharers (is that even a word?) check the bottom of this post.
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I hate my job. I know I am supposed to be grateful that I have a job. I would rather have my job than no job, but I don’t think that means I have to like it or that I can’t complain.
My friend’s wife is pregnant with their third kid. My friend’s boss told him not to tell anyone at work that his wife is pregnant because management won’t think my friend is dedicated to his job if he has “too many” kids.
The men at my job are supposed to have kids because it makes them look well-rounded, but I guess they aren’t supposed to have more than two kids, and they definitely aren’t supposed to actually spend time with their kids.
My friend who worked during her “maternity leave” and traveled to speak at a conference on behalf of our company during her “maternity leave” was told when she came back from leave that she didn’t seem dedicated to her job and will not be promoted.
Our pay was cut, but we have to work more hours.
I know three senior men who are currently have affairs with junior women who work for them. The official policy is that these kind of affairs are not allowed. One of the men having an affair was recently promoted.
I had an interview at a different company two weeks ago. Today I got a call that the company wants me to come back and meet with a few more people. If I don’t get this new job, I am going to be devastated.
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Check these out for more Blog Share posts:
Not the Daddy
O is for Olson
Red Red Whine
Rediscovering Me
Reflections in the Snow-covered Hills
The Reluctant Grownup
Sauntering Soul
Serendipity Now
Snarke
So, This Is a Treadmill
Thinking Some More
Time for Change
Together They Come
Wondering and Pondering
And You Know What Else
Andrea Unplugged
Arctic-ulate
Bright Yellow World
Bwildered
Catheroominations
Did I Say That Outloud?
Dispatches from the Failed Mommy Club
Full of Snark
Hot Chicks Dig Smart Men
Just Below 63
The Little Goat
I know that Halloween is sooo last week and most people are already talking about Christmas, but I did want to give the vast realm of The Internet a peek at my self-made costumes. I don’t really do the scary, dripping in blood and oodles of white cakey goth-makeup costumes, but I do love the cute ones.
Exhibit A: Alice in Wonderland, a bit grown up; this was for Friday night at a fantastic Halloween party. The dress was from Ross or T.J. Maxx a year ago and I wear it all the time, although not usually with stripey tights or an apron.
Exhibit B: Little Red Riding Hood, a bit grown up, for Saturday night. My mom actually made the cape (which has a hood, btw) when I was four or so. Granted, at the time it came down to my lower calf and now it hits me at the hip, but I decided that I couldn’t not wear it. I made the pink skirt and apron and carried a little basket full of snacks, keys, phone, etc. It should be noted, the curly hair thing is definitely a new move for me. Admittedly, it takes a solid hour and half a can of hairspray to make my naturally stick-straight hair into something resembling Shirley Temple or Goldilocks, the final product was completely worth it.
Filed under: All about me
I am not afraid of spiders, or snakes, or critters (except cockroaches make me queasy, but they can hardly be classified as animals, they’re more like radioactive aliens or something). I am not afraid of dogs or
I used to be afraid of sharks. Deathly afraid. Ok, perhaps “deathly” is a bit of an exaggeration. I have yet to die from thinking about sharks. However, all fears aside I took a solid couple of steps towards becoming okay with sharks when I passed my SCUBA certification over the summer. I have yet to dive in the ocean–ya know, where they actually keep sharks–but I would very much like to give it a try. And that, my friends, is saying a lot. I doubt I will ever include sharks on my favorite animal list, but I have a much higher tolerance for them and possibly, even, a bit of respect.
I used to be afraid of the dark. I couldn’t sleep in total blackness until just a few years ago. I had a nightlight in my bedroom for ages and it wasn’t until I moved into my current apartment–with a blinking smoke detector on my bedroom ceiling and enough light coming through my window to distinguish furniture and furnishings–that I could give up the night light.
I am afraid of dead people. Not ghosts, I think ghosts are either pests or friends. But dead bodies. Funerals are really hard for me, besides the emotional loss that must be dealt with one is expected to pay respects to the deceased person and his or her family. Unfortunately, this usually requires walking past, staring at, talking to or otherwise interacting with a stone-cold dead body. And the way funerals and viewings are set up, it is very difficult to tactfully avoid this part of a funeral.
When I was a very small child my great-grandfather died. I wasn’t really upset about the whole situation; he was old and sick for as long as I could remember and my three-year-old mind understood that playing around in Heaven with Jesus and an unlimited supply of toys and candy had to be better than staying in the smelly nursing home. At his funeral there was a very unfortunate incident with my toddling self and a grieving woman. I was practically forced to kiss my great-grandfather’s cold, dead, waxy face. Kiss him. On the face. While he was in his coffin. This is so vividly burned onto my brain I doubt I could ever forget it.
Shudder…this gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it. I was three! Who does that?!? I suppose the good news is that a few years later when my goldfish died I didn’t think anything of it. At least no one made me kiss my dead fish before I flushed it to goldfishy heaven.
I am afraid of zombie’s. Yeah yeah, they aren’t “real”, blah blah blah. Whatever. They are creepy. And essentially dead people, but without the sterile smell and fake-satin lined casket. Zombie’s are creepy! I hate zombie movies, zombie hauntings, zombie references, the works. I don’t even really want to talk about it. Because last time I watched a zombie movie (that wasn’t supposed to be a zombie movie, actually) I had nightmares for months and frankly, I’d rather not start doing that all over again. I won’t be dressing up as a zombie or any other kind of dead/un-dead individual this year. I never do. It’s just too creepy.
So, let the record show that I am terrified of zombies and any other version of dead people. What are you afraid of?
One of my goals for this year is to read twenty-five books, at the moment I just finished book twenty-four (The Omnivore’s Dilemma) and have no worries that I will hit my goal by Dec. 31. I haven’t been great about posting book reviews here, perhaps next year I’ll add that goal to The List.
A little while ago Nilsa posted a book review of Julie & Julia and mentioned, in passing, her distaste for Eat, Pray, Love. I was relieved to find another individual who was not gushing about Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir/documentary and was shocked to discover in the comments that most people did not particularly like Eat, Pray, Love.
In my next life I will have some kind of corporate sponsorship and/or independent financing to allow me to travel to exotic places and lounge about eating pasta, relaxing, and meeting handsome men. Someone will purchase, in advance, the artistic rights to my recovery from a major life crisis and I will have the opportunity to spend a solid year wallowing and wading in said recovery because, hey, someone has already ponied up the cash for me to do so.
Wait. Hold on. Seriously?
The premise for Liz Gilbert’s best seller, Eat, Pray, Love, is just that. She and her husband get divorced under emotionally tumultuous (but undefinable) circumstances, her publisher agrees that Liz should spend a year traipsing around Italy, India and Indonesia on the company’s dime and write a book about her experiences. Now, before I get too much farther into this–allow me to explain a few things. Am I jealous that Liz Gilbert managed to swing an all-expenses paid trip around the world? Yes. Do I wish someone would give me a similar opportunity? Yes. Do I think that her experiences helped her to “find herself”? Ummm…not necessarily. In a lot of ways I think it actually hindered her psychological recovery.
I agree that I am not Liz and I don’t know what she was really going through and there is no possibly way to really judge her situation. But here’s the catch, in many ways I do know what she was going through. She wrote it all down, page by self-depreciating, impossible-to-get-through page. Elizabeth Gilbert is a fantastic writer, she can paint metaphors like nobody’s business and I do envy her talent as a writer. But as a memoirist (is that even a word?), she is severely lacking. I was shocked at the lack of honest self critique or even self-reflection. Bad things happened to her, sure. She somehow doesn’t seem to realize that there may have been something in her behavior that contributed to her problems. Similarly, she is completely unaware that by changing her behavior she can change her perspective, and vice versa. Spending a year lounging about the world, eating pasta and putting on strange meditational/self-centered religious ideals is not going to heal you. I really don’t know how many times I can say this; I am loathing the film-version of this book because I will have to hate the whole concept all over again.
Admittedly, I may have had too high of expectations regarding this book. I was married once, I left my husband, I had my own year of recovery with small milestones along the way. I guess I thought I would identify with Liz Gilbert on some level.
Um….FAIL. I didn’t find a single thing in Liz Gilbert’s experience, or the way she describes herself or her life, that I could identify with.
Actually, I take that back. That’s not true, at the very beginning of the book when she has locked herself in the bathroom, and is sitting on the floor sobbing about her life being in shambles…I remember doing that. Vividly. More than once. Okay, so I could identify with a half page of her 331 page memoir. This is not a very convincing statistic.
Alright, I’m done ranting about the emotional crap that is scribbled all over Eat, Pray, Love. Elizabeth Gilbert has a talent as a writer, and I would probably read a completely fictional novel of hers, but I won’t even give away her memoir because I hated it that much. It will be recycled.
And now I’m curious, did you read Eat, Pray, Love? Did you like it? Did you like her writing skill? Or her sentiment? I’m genuinely curious. (Also, I feel it important to mention that if you did like her book I will not judge you and we can still be friends. We can be friends, right? Even if I hated Eat, Pray, Love? Right?)
Filed under: All about me
I love Halloween, I really do. But, my Halloween love is a little more elementary than anything else. I love the cutesy Halloween, not the bloody-zombie-goulish Halloween. I don’t like the undead, or scary movies, or monsters, or freakish masked goons…I don’t like any of that. I don’t like Haunted Houses (or Haunted Villages, or Haunted Places of Any Sort) and despite a (horrible, not-scary-at-all) tour of Salem, Massachusetts, I have not frequented a Haunted Anything for a solid decade.
That being said, last week I was invited to go to the Haunted Village in Salt Lake. I must have been under some kind of influence because I immediately accepted and even when I wasn’t feeling all that great, I showed up at the haunted location dressed appropriately for coldish weather and creepy gouls and hoped for the best.
Within 3 minutes I was regretting my choice. The Haunted Village People broke our group up and I was split up from the two people I knew and left with two complete strangers–who, for the record, ended up being really great about the whole Haunted Village thing.
In a normal Haunted House there are all sorts of creepers jumping from behind doors and lots of fake blood smeared on walls, right? Well, in a Haunted Village there are acres of orchards, and scrub oak, and lots of little houses full of scary sets and lots of caped people sneaking around all of that mess, following you too closely for a quarter mile. There are trenches of dead soldiers, and battles, and headless horsemen…it’s a Big Scary Deal.
I was terrified.
But I had a plan. Ok, it may have been less of a “Plan” and more Survival Technique. I needed to deflect the creepers. This is serious business. In order for me to make it through the Haunted 100 Acre Wood I needed to make the gouls and goblins think that I was not scared of them whatsoever.
People, this is much easier said than done. You need to confront each of the 387 Scary People who come your way, you need to talk to them, you need to make them think that you are bored so they will move on. Yes, I sacrificed strangers to the Creepers in order to maintain any sense of stability. I should be on a reality TV show, I’d totally win.
So, I complimented the dead Civil War Soldier on his dimples, the creepy Cape Guy on his flattering black, told the Leprosy Face Guy that I had some facewash that would help his skin, and the Sasquatch Under-the-Bridge Creeper that conditioner would help his dred locks immensley. Inevitably, the Soldier, the Cape Guy, Leprosy Face and Sasquatch left me alone and started stalking the poor girl on my left and the guy whose hand I was crushing on my right.
I would love to announce that due to my savvy skillz I wandered through the Haunted Village without being scared once…but, well, that would be a lie. I may not have scruples or morals when it comes to pawning off the Creepers to unsuspecting companions, I don’t like to lie on the Internet. So, in a sense of full discloser, I was terrified. The Living Dead people scared me to death, the Zombie Mummies were horrifying, and Grim Reaper nearly made me pee my pants and the Sasquatch Under-the-Bridge guy was perhaps the most scary moment of recent memory.
Dear Strangers Who Held My Hands and Took The Brunt Of The Creepy Psycho Zombie-Guys:
A million thank you’s! I’m sorry I threw you under the bus, or the headless horseman, I was scared! People do crazy things under the influence of fear! Like hold hands with total strangers or talk to Sasquatch! And Sweeny Todd! AND Civil War Era Bar-Wench Zombies! (Yes, the Haunted Village has all three plus about a hundred other types of Creepers.) Can we still be friends?
Love, heidikins
To Everyone Else Who Is Nervous About Visiting Haunted Places of The World:
Take my advice, talk to the Creepers and convince them that you are not scared. Feel no guilt while they prey on other members of your scaredy-cat party, this is survival of those most able to distract those higher up on the food chain. Own it.
Love, heidikins
Filed under: There and Back Again
During the planning bits of this New England blogger meet-up / vacation NPW mentioned the Pumpkin Festival in Keene, NH. As soon as I heard the words “pumpkin” and “festival” uttered in consecutive order I knew I was sold. Pumpkin Festival? Really? Absolutely!
In order to actually get to Keene, a small town of about 2,200 people, one must drive nearly 2 hours from Boston through a ton of gorgeous leafery. Now, I realize all your East Coast people, or Pacific North West people, or Southern people, seem to think that thousands of trees lining your freeway corridors is normal and not terribly impressive. It’s not normal and it is impressive! I was floored by the sheer number of trees in various stages of red or orange or yellow. Absolutely gorgeous.
At any rate, when we arrived, and parked, and rode the (old, yellow, school) bus from the parking lot into town, and finally got to the actual pumpkin festival I was expecting a couple of hundred jack-o-lanterns.
People…I was soooo wrong. Dead wrong. There were upwards of 30,000 pumpkins lining both sides of the sidewalk, the street, the median, the buildings, the curb. There were carved pumpkins everywhere for at least a mile along the drag of Main Street closed off for the event. Thirty-thousand Pumpkins! That’s a lot of pumpkins!
In addition to the row upon row of pumpkins, there were two giant (GIANT!) scaffolding/pyramid contraptions holding scores more.
Do you see the kind of orangey goodness we’re talking about here? THOUSANDS of jack-o-lanters, all carved differently, and as it got darker they began to glow. NPW, OPH, Janssen (and Bart) and I wandered around looking at the pumpkins, trying to decide on a little spot for some dinner…or some fried dough at the very least.
I wanderd around taking pictures of piles of glowy pumpkins, and the more I wandered the more I really wanted to have a pumpkin festival of my own. Imagine dozens of pumpkins to be carved, pumpkin pie, apple cider, gingersnaps, fried dough if I could figure it out….all with a side of jack-o-lantern. This will be epic, I tell you!
This was such a delightful evening, wandering around with My Girls, chatting about this and that, deciding which snack was better…this was just one of those classic New England Fall type of events and, except for the 7 hour flight and the 2 hour drive, I would totally go back in a minute.
Can you find the “ghosts” in the above pic? Hmmmm? Anyone?
Filed under: There and Back Again
On Friday I hopped back on the T and ventured up to meet NPW for lunch. Oh my goodness, people, I was SO excited! I absolutely adore her and couldn’t wait to bask in her geek-loving ways.
She is just as fabulous in real life as you would suspect form her blog. Seriously. Delightful. We laughed and chatted over burgers and sweet potato fries–something I feel I need more of in my diet. We wandered around Chinatown and Bunker Hill for a while and then went to meet OPH at the train station.
First order of business, after a general squeeing-ness from all parties involved, (ZOMGoodness!! NPW! OPH! NPW! OPH! Squeeeeeeee!!) was to meander down to the North End, the Italian District, for a cannoli from Mike’s Pastry.
Now, I feel I need to stop for a minute here. Just the night before Janssen, Bart & I had gone to Mike’s Pastry. We had both hear from various sources that Mike’s Pastry was the place to go in Boston for dessert. On Thursday night we braved the cold and rain and traffic and crazy Boston streets for pastry. That’s right, pastry. But not just any pastry, Mike’s cannoli’s are little pieces of heaven that are wrapped up in boxes by frightening looking employees and the whole store is general chaos surrounded by neat piles of chocolate covered this and ricotta stuffed that. People–Mike’s Pastry will change your life, my favorite is the Ricotta Florentine dipped in chocolate. Get ye hence and pastrify!
Ok–enough about the girly, frilly “squee” events and the dessert…let’s talk about Ghosts.
Salem, Massachusetts. Home of hundreds of ghost stories, creepy history, witches, warlocks, probably a were-panther or two…ya know, Super Creepy Haunted Stuff.
Apparently, our tour guide either a) didn’t know a thing about Haunted Stuff or b) cannot tell a ghost story to save his sorry life. People, there is a ghost story and then there is dry, unrelated facts being cobbled together to pass as a cliff’s notes version of a kindergarten ghost story complete with insane hyperboles and completely bogus claims. Just because every Sheriff of Salem has passed away from heart-related problems does not mean Giles Corey’s death-bed curse came true…but it may have a lot to do with the fact that heart disease is the leading killer in the nation. I dunno, maybe I’m way off base here. Anyone else see an undeniable correlation between “Damn you Sheriff I curse you and Salem!” and heart disease?
…I didn’t think so.
At any rate, back to the tour. We were supposed to bring our cameras, turn the flash on, and magically ghosts would appear in our photos. Something about orbs being the haunted spirits of Salemites of old. Okay, so Tour Guide Jeff would provide the haunted places and the stories and my little Cannon point-and-shoot would provide the rest. I kept my camera in-hand ready to shoot.
No Ghosts. I got nothin’ except Tour Guide Jeff’s shiny mug. Quite disappointing, really. I tried again at our second location, determined to capture a ghost. When I first looked at this pic I was ecstatic that I had caught three ghosts on film! Or, pixels, rather. However, on closer inspection this whole “orb’s are ghosts” thing turned into a complete hoax, as I have carefully and scientifically detailed here for your perusal and judgement.
I was sorely disappointed. After this point OPH, NPW and I got really frustrated with Tour Guide Jeff’s lame analogies, bad story-telling skills and all around lack of creepiness. We were in Salem, Massachusetts for heaven’s sake! Wandering around the cemetery! Where was the scariness!?! All three of us had the distinct impression that our $13 dollars for, and I quote, “The Third Best Ghost Tour in the Country, featured on The Travel Channel” was a bit of a waste.
Tour Guide Jeff told badly correlated stories about the cemetery, the quasi-catacombs that we couldn’t see, the areas of town he wouldn’t take us to, the people we’d never heard of, and the curses that never could be verified. It was an evening of “never’s”, quite disappointing.
We actually left early…I couldn’t handle his blatantly wrong information about vampire’s a second longer. Firstly, the only reason he’s talking about vampire’s is because of the Twilight/Vampire craze…there were no vampires in Salem. Ever. Talk about a bad case of capitalism. Secondly, he got the whole story wrong to start with. Bram Stoker probably rolled over in his grave, several times.
Tour Guide Jeff made sure to let us know that all the pictures of ghosts taken on his tour on their free website. He really drove home the fact that the website was free. Frankly, I was offended that he thinks I’m the type of girl who always pays to see pictures online. Hrmph.
Moral of the Story: Salem is full of cool, creepy things. But make sure you DO NOT go on the Vampire & Ghost Tour from Spellbound Tours, it is a waste of money, boring like you could not believe, and not a single ghost to be seen. Maybe try the candlelight tour, or just wandering around in the dark by yourself. I’m sure you’ll have a better scare.
Filed under: There and Back Again
Upon arrival in Boston I had a giant list of things I’d like to see or do and a crazy-flexible attitude about when or if that list was completed. I knew I would become fast friends with the T and bought myself a 7-day pass. On Thursday morning I decided to head down to Plymouth to check it out before meeting Trish for lunch in Harvard Square.
(Firstly, as a native of places with little to no clout relative to early American history, just saying things like “I’m going to Plymouth in the morning and Harvard in the afternoon” makes me giddy. Seriously.)
Plymouth is just a small, quaint, New England town with a lot of hype about a smaller-than-anticipated rock. All that being said, I wanted to wander around for a while. I loved all the picturesque little churches, parks, and shops. Even at 8:00 in the morning it was adorable. I found a small park near the harbor and wandered around for a while snapping pictures of leaves and the stream and picturesque bridges. After a few minutes I came across the Pilgrim equivalent of Lady Liberty, and she was beautiful.
There is a tablet nearby with the following inscription:
To those intrepid English women, whose courage, fortitude and devotion brought a new nation into being, this Pilgrim Maiden is dedicated.
I can’t really get over this–I love it so much I kind of want to supplant the Pilgrim Maiden into my front yard…you know, hypothetically…if I had a front yard.
After a bit of wandering and a lot of picture-snapping I made my way down to the water for a quick glance at Plymouth Rock (lame, spend less than 2 minutes here, please) and The Mayflower II.
While images of these two icons–and the history they impart–are what many people recall when thinking of Plymouth, I quickly moved on to more intriguing discoveries. At least, more intriguing to me.
Plymouth Harbor had piqued my interest and when I found a small, rocky causeway/tide breaker path curving nearly a mile out into the harbor I was immediately hooked.
I was completely alone, watching the early-morning fishermen bringing in their hauls and scaring away the occasional gull trying to crack open crabs or mollusks on the rocks. It was quiet and the wind whipped my hair around my face. I probably could have stayed on this rocky path for hours and been completely content. However, I had a commuter train to catch back to Boston, reluctantly I turned back to land and civilization.
A fairly quick commuter train ride back to Boston and a transfer to the T brought me to Harvard Square where I wandered around gawking at the beautiful old buildings.
I wandered around campus as students were heading to their classes, lectures, and study halls and wondered what it would be like to actually live here, go to school here. Sigh…this is one of those thoughts that get’s me nerdy-giddy and excited. I think I’d move to New England for the architecture alone. I do love me an old, crumbly church.
John Harvard and I. I think we would have been friends. Seriously.
At noon I met up with the fabulous Trish for lunch at Bartley’s, a Harvard Square hamburger legend. I have been reading Trish’s blog since long before her book came out and have loved her since the moment her blog first popped onto my radar. I have been known to send her panicky emails about life and love at 3:30 in the morning, and she has always been so kind, solid and generally AwesomeSauce in her response. If there was a Trish Ryan Fan Club, I’m sure I’d be a founding member…actually, is there a Trish Ryan Fan Club? Gasp! Is it possible I’m behind in my Ardent Fan duties? Dear Trish…please advise…where can I join your fan club?
I was perhaps a site nervous about meeting her and wondered if we would get along as well as we do in my head. There was nothing to be nervous about. Trish is warm, kind, funny and has incredible insight into relationships, life, personalities and God. We talked for hours without ever running out of things to say. She gave me a driving tour of Boston, we meandered through a few different neighborhoods and criss-crossed the Charles.
I really think my bloggy crush on Ms. Ryan is resurfacing. Love you dear!
Trish dropped me off near Newbury street where I could drool over H&M and Filene’s basement–neither of which are anywhere near Salt Lake City–and two scarf purchases later I was back on the T and heading back to Janssen’s apartment, happy and exhausted.
Filed under: There and Back Again
The Scene: Last Wednesday morning in the too-early-to-legally-function hours.
Location: My apartment and the Salt Lake International Airport.
5:00 am Annoying rooster-crow alarm set to go off, volume turned all the way up.
5:10 am Second annoying rooster-crow alarm set to go off, volume turned all the way up.
5:00 am heidikins hears annoying rooster-crow alarm and hits what she thought was the “snooze” button but in actuality turns both alarms off completely.
5:15 am heidikins must be in shower to make flight to Boston.
5:45 am heidikins must leave apartment to make flight to Boston.
6:05 am heidikins must check in at airport to make flight to Boston.
6:29 am heidikins awakes and immediately panics, calls United Airlines.
6:35 am Finally talks to an actual person at United,explains sleeping-in situation without anger, is very apologetic although a bit stressed and am told my ticket can be rebooked…on Saturday. (Note: it is Wednesday…)
6:36 am Crying may have been involved, cannot imagine my 5-day New England vacation being chopped down to an overnight jaunt due to my (admittedly, my fault) mistake. Try to explain about [redacted] situation and the desperately needed girls’ weekend.
6:37 am United person advises of a canceled flight and absolutely no stand by–says she can rebook my flight through a different route tomorrow for $150. Says airport may have different information and to try rebooking there, fee will be the same.
6:37 am heidikins takes fastest shower in history bemoaning the fact that her free ticket to Boston will now cost $150 in rebooking fees.
6:38 am heidikins mutters fervant–although discombobulated–prayers to God, the Pope, Google Steve Jobs and Jimmy Choo that flight can be rebooked
7:05 am heidikins flight to Boston leaves Salt Lake International Airport, sans heidikins
7:06 am heidikins roommie shuttles her to the airport.
7:19 am heidikins arrives at airport and explains the entire sleeping in and [redacted] situation to the nicest looking ticket agent. Admits fault of turning off alarm, not being responsible, and general “I’m a complete idiot”ness, begs gate agent to see what she can do.
7:20 am Gate agent takes pity on the very harried, quite pathetic blonde in front of her–rebooks ticket without the $150 fee for a flight 2 hours later and sends heidikins through security.
7:21 am heidikins nearly begins her career as a lesbian as she fights the urge to french kiss the ticket agent.
7:22 am Kissing offer is politely declined, heidikins offers prayers of thanks to God, The Pope, Google, Steve Jobs and Jimmy Choo–and also Rainbow Brite, just to make sure she’s covered everyone.
7:25 am heidikins arrives at gate, double-checks flight with gate agent and breathes huge sigh of relief to get seat assignment.
7:26 am heidikins updates Facebook and Twitter with good news, praises phone (and Google, again) for 3G Internet connection.
7:45 am heidikins cooly glances at group of entirely too-handsome 30-something investors en route to California, tries to look fascinating.
7:56 am Investors board plane, not a single one even noticed the blonde…sad.
7:57 am heidikins is bored–boys are more entertaining than Twitter and they have vacated the premises.
8:00 am heidikins purchases overpriced bagel and settles down with new book.
9:35 am heidikins boards flight to Boston (by way of O’Hare) and what promises to be the Best! Weekend! Ever!
….
8:27 pm Janssen picks up heidikins from T station, weekend of Awesomosity commences.
