I Drive Me Crazy

We all have our ways of dealing with stress. Some people work out. Some people paint. Others drink. (Not that I'm saying any one particular coping mechanism on that list stands out to me ...)

We all also have our ways of not dealing with stress -- the little idiosyncrasies and quirks that arise when there's a bit too much on our plates and our subconscious rears up in revolt. Some people scream, Some people cry. I forget how to pump gas.

I know, I know, you're probably thinking that that sounds absolutely crazy. But, there's something about the ability to complete day-to-day, mundane tasks that goes completely out the window when I'm consumed by other matters or living too much in my head.

In a situation where others might squeeze a stress ball or indulge in an ice cream Sunday, I find myself absolutely baffled by the idea of choosing an Octane rating.

In high school, when I was struggling with AP Calculus and SAT prep, I went to fill-up at the gas station across the street and just couldn't get the pump to work. I told the gas station attendant that his pump was broken and that he might want to check on that ASAP.

"The pump isn't broken," he said.

"Yeah, it is," I said. "Why else wouldn't I be able to get gas? I'm not an idiot, you know."

The only trouble was that in that situation, I was being an idiot. After fuming back to my car, I realized I hadn't lifted the lever that triggers gas flow at the pump.

I have probably been spoken to through the intercom at the pump more than any other human being on earth. That magical, difficult-to-comprehend voice has informed me that I forgot to pay at a pre-pay (overwhelmed by errands), do not have a Diesel engine (dressing down from the boss) and, during an ill-fated trip to New Jersey, that it was illegal to pump one's own gas in that state (relationship trouble). 

No matter how well I think I'm handling life, the gas station is my ultimate test: Can I fill the tank without threatening the attendant or banging my head against the steering wheel? Will I find myself entangled in the gas hose? Will I be able to reward myself with a single bag of Cheetos?

Luckily, in these days of working from home, I'm operating on far fewer tanks of gas per month. Otherwise, between the bills and my concerns for the characters of General Hospital, there could be trouble.

A Skymall Summer

The only stainless steel wallet? How can that bet? Surely other companies have been dying to jump on this bandwagon. There must be copy cats galore. After all, who wouldn't want a stiff, relatively un-malleable material to carry in their back pocket. The seat of one's pants is definitely the place for discomfort if there ever was one.

And, even if the wallet is woven of stainless steel and has rounded edges as the ad claims (for the safety of the buyer), what's the point of having a stainless steel wallet to begin with? Do that many credit cards and driver's licenses break and suffer unnecessary damage because the wallet holding them just isn't strong enough?

At $89.95, I'm going to pass.

The Friendly Skies

I’m not a good flier.

I’m sure it’s shocking to most, but something about my fear of heights, death and touching strangers added to my anxiety disorder doesn’t make for the best mix. I tend to vacillate between near-hyperventilation, the temptation to start inappropriate conversations with strangers (“Tila Tequila, what a whore, huh?”) and staring into the abyss of my own mortality from the moment I enter the airport until my last flight touches the tarmac.

I’ve developed a series of rituals to deal with this fear. They includes touching the plane before I board, crossing myself on takeoff and landing and listening to the safety instructions every single time so that no greater power decides to strike me down for my arrogance.

Let’s just say that between my panic and having to remember all of the little details that keep the plane in the air (you’re welcome pilots), I find air travel absolutely exhausting.

So, I don’t fly that much. And since I don’t fly that much, I often forget about the one thing I do actually like about planes, mainly, the Skymall catalog. (I actually have so much to say about Skymall, I’m thinking of subtitling this blog “The Summer of Skymall” for the next few months. More on that later.)

 When I first saw a Skymall catalog, I became obsessed with the four-compartment shampoo, conditioner, soap and lotion shower dispenser. I wanted it so badly, I begged my  mother to let me order one for about two years. After all, what high school sophomore wouldn’t love her own wall-mounted shower dispenser, right?

When the darn thing finally came, I was intrigued for about five minutes before it ended up under my bathroom sink never to be filled or used again. (A turn most likely evident of even more of my mother’s wisdom.)

 But, while I may remember the Skymall catalog as being both fascinating and useless, I don’t remember it being racist.

Which is one of the reasons I was so surprised to see a table like this in its pages. What on earth do you think when you spy this in someone’s home? And how do they explain buying it?

“Here’s a coaster, and feel free to put that drink right on top of the Asian man on all fours.”

I just don’t think crouching people are a very good choice in furniture design. And I really can’t see this item going over well on international flights.

A Trip Abroad

My parents left for a cruise yesterday. They’ll board a shipin Venice and then visit Greece, Croatiaand Turkey.As they were getting ready for their trip, I was reminded of my first trip to Italy in thespring of my senior year of high school.

My high school’s Latin teacher took a group of students to Italyeveryyear (or every other year, I’m not sure I can remember which at this point). Myyear, there were 16 of us going, and I’ve rarely been so excited for avacation. I was lucky to have visited Europe before – London, Paris and Ireland -- but there was something about Italy.I imagined myself surrounded by art, buying tons and tons of clothes and eatingas much pizza as I could stand.

I was surrounded by art, but the clothes were still quite abit out of my price range (no “discount” Prada for me), and thanks to some sortof ridiculous travel bug, I could barely keep anything down, let alone eat myweight in pizza.

Because of this very unpleasant stomach problem, I ended upin a pharmacy in Florence having one of the most awkward conversations a teen girl can have.

“Excuse me?” I said. “Do you have any Pepto?” Admittedly, itwas naïve of me to expect that I could ask for an American pharmaceutical brandname, in English, in Italy,but I was miserable. And, I hoped that the pink stuff was universal.

The woman behind the counter didn’t answer my question atall. She just stared at me before going off to find a man in a white coat. “Yes?”he said.

“I was wondering if you had any Pepto.”

“Pepto?”

“Stomach stuff. I have an upset stomach.”

“Oh,” he said and nodded. “You have the cramps.”

“No, no, not the cramps,” I said. “Upset stomach.”

“Yes,” he nodded again. “The cramps.” Then he looked over somemedicines behind the counter. “Woman problems.”

“No, not woman problems. Stomach problems.”

“The cramps,” he said even louder while motioning with hishands in wide circles in front of what I think was his imaginary uterus. “Thecramps!”

Just a little FYI here, teenage girls don’t like to talkabout their periods. Buying tampons is beyond an ordeal for adolescents, and wego to great lengths to hide these womanly matters from our male peers and mostothers. Having a strange man in a foreign land yell about cramps while comingup with hand motions to illustrate his point is a tad bit, well, mortifying. (Also, I was pretty sure whatever he wanted to give me wasn't going to work. Otherwise, I probably could have sucked it up and given it a shot. But, Midol wasn't going to cut it.)

“Cramps,” he said one last time before digging for moremedicine.

Having turned bright red by now, I ran from the store while thepharmacist was checking his inventory. We clearly weren’t getting anywhere.

Eventually, my stomach just settled itself out, and I wasthoroughly grateful for the absence of pain and the fact that I wouldn’t haveto try that conversation again.

So, here’s to wishing my parents a trip without smallhumiliations, and here’s to learning to buy medicines for any and allsituations before leaving the country. It’s not a mistake I’ve made since.

Friday Night Fever

A few weeks ago, I went down to Mobile for the Osiris Mardi Gras ball.(Osiris is the only all-inclusive Mardi Gras ball in Mobil, if you getmy drift. In 2008, there were two kings rather than the standard kingand queen.) I had a great time, and despite my normal aversion toparades, I found that my love for free stuff far outweighs my disdainof floats and crowds. Once I had collected a few dozen moon pies, somenecklaces and a plastic rose, I deemed the Mardi Gras parade a success.

Anyways, on my way down, I had to stop for gas.

Now,I am not a stopper. When I'm on a long car trip, my pit stops areminimal. My poor sister still complains that when we drove home for theholidays from D.C. she was allowed two stops — one in Roanoke and onein Knoxville. (Those are the cities 1/3 and 2/3 of the way home foranyone wondering about the logic.) A common conversation went somethinglike this:

Rachael: Laurel, I think I need to go to the bathroom.

Me: Ooh ... Hmmm ... Do you think you could hold it for awhile?

Rachael: How long is awhile?

Me: Two hours ... two and a half hours tops ...

With the rideto Mobile being about four hours, I figured that I could have one stop,max. I would have to get gas, food and a bathroom break all in oneplace. And, since I knew I wouldn't have much time between arriving inMobile and going to the ball, I also had to pick up anything I mighthave forgotten there. (I usually have to find an exit with a CrackerBarrel for the books on tape and a BP gas station for my gas card, sothis particular combination wasn't even really all that taxing.)

Ipulled over in Clanton for the Whataburger and the BP station with theconvenience store. There, I bought batteries for my digital camera,minis of white zinfandel for my pre-ball cocktail and duct tape for myboobs. (I couldn't wear a bra with the dress I had brought.) I stillfelt somewhat shameful about my shopping list three hours later, so Ihad to tell my friend R about it.

Me: Is it sad that I bought batteries, white zin and duct tape in a Clanton convenience store to start this Friday night off?

R: What's sadder is that most Friday nights in Clanton probably start out that way.

From the mouths of gays, I say. From the mouths of gays ...

On the Road

As I've said before, I love the South. And yet, it continues to amaze me how many I times I see people in my beloved home state of Alabama who seem intent on proving everyone else right in their stereotypes of our region.

This past weekend, I drove back through Alabama after a week at the beach with my family. When we stopped for gas, I went into the station to use the bathroom and saw one of these aforementioned people.

It was 2:00 in the afternoon, and there was a shirtless guy wandering through the store with a gallon of sweet tea in one hand and a case of Natty Light in the other. (Natty Light is the nickname for Natural Light discount beer for those of you who might exercise standards when you drink, entertain and/or bake chicken.)

Plus, because he wasn't wearing a shirt, I could see the very prominent bulldog tattoo on his bicep that I can only assume was a memorial to a favorite pet since "Sarge" was tattooed beneath it.

Maybe it's silly, but I really don't understand why men don't wear shirts. (I make exceptions for men at the pool or exercising, but even when they're exercising, I feel that if other people are around, men should be clothed.) Truth be told, I just prefer the world clothed. I'm not really one for total honesty, and being able to see all that exposed stuff/skin on a person whose name I don't even know just seems like too much. What could have been so important about sweet tea and Natty Light (and I do understand how pressing these purchases can be to Southerners) that the guy couldn't put on a shirt before running to the Exxon? Seriously?

And, before you say it, the heat is no excuse.

It's Alabama - it's always hot. In fact, it's hot and humid for half the year. It can be freakishly hot in the middle of December. In the middle of August, it's going to be disgustingly hot. But, that certainly isn't a reason not to wear a shirt. It's not like that thin layer of cotton jersey really makes a difference to your body temperature, and if you really think about it, the heat provides even more of a reason to wear a shirt. In the heat, you're going to sweat more, and, if nothing else, I feel that I, as a tax-paying, voting, decent citizen, deserve that thin layer of cotton jersey between me and your sticky flesh when I am in public.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Labels: pet peeves

Pacific White-Sided Dolphins and Me

Monday afternoon, I took a trip to the Shedd Aquarium in downtown Chicago.

Other than the penguins, one of the biggest attractions at the aquarium is the dolphin show. After all, who doesn't love a good dolphin?And, because most people do love dolphins, it's quite a popular exhibition. My friends and I barely got seats, and once we did, we still had to wait about half an hour for the show to start. So, full of excitement and animal kingdom wonder, I waited for the big event.

Unfortunately, the show was hosted by Alison*, who, clad in her Shedd Aquarium-issued polo shirt and mom khakis, and equipped with a wireless microphone over the ear, leads the audience on the journey into the "mysterious" world of dolphins. (From here on out, all words placed in quotation marks will be Alison's choices and not mine.)

Even though we never actually met and Alison was never less than 20 feet from me -- we did not get along.She opened the show with an intro she must have stolen from an old show on the Discovery Channel, but embellished with what I assume to be a background in amateur theater. (I will say this for her -- someone taught her to enunciate and someone taught her sweeping hand motions.)

Personally, I don't think anyone should be as confident as Alison was when she asked overdone rhetorical questions like "What about dolphins is fact [long pause] and what is fiction? [second long pause complete with meaningful sweeping glance over the audience] And, how do we separate the myth [pause] from the reality?"

Also, I don't think Alison fell into her work. I'm pretty sure it was a life-long dream to lead the aquarium show, and thinking of this made me feel like I did when I learned that being a character at period attractions like colonial Williamsburg and The American Village in Montevallo, Alabama is a coveted job and not something forced upon people by some sort of over-arching, all-powerful historical monopoly or the work of a particularly creative judge in the penal system.

Some people really want to wear pantaloons, use hybrid accents, and explain the process behind shoeing a horse.But, that doesn't mean I get these people.

Anyway, here was one of the "myths" about dolphins:"Some people say that dolphins are aliens." Now, who thinks that is a reality?"

Oh, my poor, disturbed Alison ...Here's my question: Who are these people that say dolphins are from outer space?!?! Seriously, when have you ever met someone in a rational and non-institutionalized setting who claimed to believe that dolphins were alien creatures? Who the hell does Alison hang out with that she hears this? And, if she has never heard it ,but only got her poorly syndicated Jonathan Frakes hosted Fact or Fiction confused with something from the history channel, what makes her think it is reasonable to repeat it as part of an educational discussion on sea creatures?

I don't get Alison either.

*Names have been changed because I'm insecure and non-confrontational.