She knocked on the door so quietly that I questioned whether or not anyone was there at all. It's a good thing that I was close to the door, though, because she was there. It was time for our home inspection. I recognized Saira through the peephole, took a deep breath, fixed my hair, and opened the door.
I had been waiting all week for this moment. Really, I felt as if I had been waiting my whole life for this moment. Rex and I were having a home inspection to see whether or not we would be good foster parents. This "Saira" got to judge us and our home and decide whether or not she would trust us with tiny lives.
Before you start getting crazy ideas, let me specify that we don't want to foster children. I mean, duh - we live in a one bedroom apartment and barely have enough room/time/money for ourselves. We want to foster rescue pugs. Okay, fine, I admit it - I want to foster a rescue pug. Rex just loves me enough to support the crazy shenanigans I get us into.
Last Saturday we talked to Saira to set up our home visit, and the visit was scheduled for Thursday at 5:00. I spent all week panicking about it. I mean, I LOVE pugs. This could be so huge for me! It's the perfect compromise for Rex and I, because I still get to help out pugs but Rex doesn't have to own one. It's great. It might be the closest that I ever come to my dream of being a pug owner. I'd already submitted our application and met the board of the Southern Nevada Pug Rescue, so it all hinged on this home inspection. I wanted it to be perfect.
I spent all week preparing. I dragged Rex around town to get new balcony furniture and potted plants to make our balcony look like a beautiful, dog-friendly retreat. I cleaned the apartment and purposely put Elvis's dog toys away but left just a couple out casually on the floor as if to say, "We're clean here, but we're not neat freaks. We believe in letting dogs be dogs." I brought home my pug page-a-day calendar from my desk at school and set it up inconspicuously on our DVD player. I gave Elvis and Elsie extra play sessions in the hope that they would become friends before the Thursday visit (they didn't). I fell in love with Rex all over again when he said, "I put two issues of Dog Fancy on top of the toilet for when she inspects the bathroom. That way, if she picks up one to see if we just got it as a decoy, she'll see that we have two so we're REAL dog people." If only we would have put the March issue on top (there was a pug on the cover of that one). Perhaps that would have been a bit of overkill, though, and we wanted to seem nonchalant. I even put thought into my outfit: jeans to seem casual, but a fancy top with jewelry so that I show that I'm not a total grunge-slob. I felt like my life dream was resting on impressing this Saira with my love of pugs. Even though I know he couldn't understand me, I had a long talk with Elvis about how he HAD to be good for this lady and prove that we were good dog-owners. Also, he couldn't act psycho or she wouldn't want any of their little babies to stay with us.
Anyway, back to the part when Saira knocked on the door. She knocked at exactly 5:01, while I was frantically checking my e-mail to see whether she had cancelled our appointment. After all, it was past 5:00 and she hadn't arrived. My heart was beating so fast - THIS WAS IT. I opened the door and smiled brightly. "Hi!" I chirped. Then I freaked out - was I supposed to shake her hand? Should I re-introduce myself? I mean, I'd already met her once, but still... I hadn't practiced the greeting! Aaaaaaaah! I settled on some variation of "Great to see you again, come on in!" As she walked in, I peered cautiously around for her clipboard and checklist or maybe even a tape recorder for her to take verbal notes in to be reviewed by the board after our meeting. She was only holding her purse. Hmmm...maybe the recorder was IN the purse, recording everything I said. Maybe there was a camera in the button on her shirt! Oh, except she was wearing a T-shirt with pugs on it. There were no buttons to hide a camera. She seemed deceptively casual. I would have to tread carefully.
Saira and I made our way over to the couch, where Elvis performed perfectly. It was as if he'd understood everything he and I had talked about earlier. He jumped up on the couch and licked Saira's face to say, "Hi! I like you!" He played around sniffing her for a few minutes, then when I said "Elvis, time to calm down," he obediently retrieved his bone from his "toy corner" and laid down on the floor to chew on it contentedly. I beamed with pride - what a good dog! See, Saira? I'm a good dog owner!! So what if he's putting on an act because I promised him a lifetime of treats if he made this visit go well? He's being good! Whoooo hooooo!
Saira and I sat on the couch and talked about the pug rescue and the responsibilities of fosters for about a half an hour. We had a lot of fun discussing the pugs that are currently in foster homes (I have all of their profiles memorized from the website), and we discussed the idiocy of people who don't like pugs. "Don't worry," she comforted me. "My boyfriend used to think that he didn't like pugs either, but now we have three. Your husband will come around." We can only hope.
After about a half an hour, Saira picked up her purse and said, "Well, that's about it! Thanks for having me over!" I wanted to scream, "Wait! You didn't take any notes! You didn't notice the Dog Fancy magazines on top of the toilet. You didn't look anywhere except the living room! I haven't even shown you our 'doggie retreat' balcony garden!" I quickly backtracked, though, when I realized that not showing Saira the rest of the apartment meant that she didn't have to meet Elsie. Elsie is a complete psychopath cat who should not be trusted near any dogs or humans, and that is why we keep her in the bedroom. She probably would have smelled pug on Saira and decided to kill her. I figured that the less Saira knew about the Elsie, the higher my chances were of becoming a pug foster. And that, my friends, is a very good thing.
When Rex got home from school, he asked how things went with Saira. I said that I thought they went well. He got a nervous look on his face and asked, "What did she say about Elsie?" I told him that she didn't even meet Elsie, and he broke into a huge grin, high-fived me, and said, "Sweet! Than we've got a chance!" HA HA!
So maybe I over-prepared for that meeting a bit...but it's better to be over-prepared, right? I am very happy to announce that within two hours of the end of our meeting, I got an e-mail telling me that our application to foster a pug had been APPROVED! HOORAY! Now I just have to wait for a little homeless pug to need a home to take care of him while he waits on getting adopted. I feel like a horrible person for hoping that it happens soon, but I can't help it. I'm going to (maybe, if they need one) be a pug foster mom! :-D
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Pet-a-Palooza
I used to think that Rex and I were pet fanatics, but that was before I saw the people pushing their cat around in a stroller. Their cat, by the way, was wearing a bow and a tutu.
I am writing to you because I absolutely adore pugs and want to help the pug rescue out in any way I can. I think I'm the biggest pug fan in the country who doesn't actually own a pug. My husband and I moved to Nevada last summer, and Pug-O-Rama last October was like Christmas to me. I don't own a pug myself because my husband loves dogs but thinks that pugs "look like someone threw them face-first into a wall" (a common misconception of the unenlightened).
Okay fine, I'll admit it. I didn't really see the cat; Rex did. I'm really sorry that I missed it, though, because it sounded pretty awesome. Those pet owners could make me look normal!
This wonderful pet experience stemmed from a e-mail that I sent to the Southern Nevada Pug Rescue a few days ago. Here was my first paragraph of that e-mail:
I am writing to you because I absolutely adore pugs and want to help the pug rescue out in any way I can. I think I'm the biggest pug fan in the country who doesn't actually own a pug. My husband and I moved to Nevada last summer, and Pug-O-Rama last October was like Christmas to me. I don't own a pug myself because my husband loves dogs but thinks that pugs "look like someone threw them face-first into a wall" (a common misconception of the unenlightened).
I went on in the rest of the e-mail to explain that my husband studies a lot, leaving me with more free time than I care to have. I would love to spend that time volunteering with the pug rescue...did they need any help? I got a response almost immediately from Saira, one of the board members at SNPR. She said that she would love to have me help out, and was I available to meet her and the rest of the board at "Pet-a-Palooza" this Saturday? Of course I was.
I looked up Pet-a-Palooza online, and I was surprised that I hadn't heard of it before. Apparently it's a huge annual event. I told Rex that we had to go. He didn't really argue...last year there were 15,000 people and 4,000 dogs. Who wouldn't want to go to that party?
We arrived at the fields where Pet-a-Palooza was located, and our first reaction was "WHOA." It was a lot bigger than we had imagined. Picture a county fair that is completely made for dogs. There were countless vendor tents, bounce houses, small roller coaster rides, and even a "food court" of vendor tents. It was crazy.
It probably took about a half hour for me to find the SNPR tent, but I finally did. I'm so excited to get involved with them! The ladies there seemed really nice. One large old lady who works there really looks like a pug...it kind of freaked me out a little. If I hang out with pugs too much will I start looking like one? I feel my eyes getting buggy...
Once we left the SNPR ladies, we kept exploring Pet-a-Palooza. We had a total blast. There was a jumping competition, and we watched one dog do a seven foot vertical jump. WOW. That was really cool. We periodically took Elvis to the "watering tent," where they had about a dozen kiddie pools set up for the dogs to splash around in. That was probably my favorite part. There was always at least one pool that was completely filled up by some huge dog who just decided to plop down and cool off (it was 96 degrees out, poor dogs). The littler dogs jumped around and splashed each other, and then they jumped out and shook all of the water off of their coats, drenching their owners. No one really minded, though, because it was so hot out. Elvis made some cute beagle friends, and we got invited to join their owner's beagle club and go on beagle hikes together. Cool!
Pet-a-palooza also had a mainstage where concerts were being performed. It made me wonder - people think they've "made it" if they get a performing gig in Las Vegas, but does it really count if you're performing at a giant afternoon dog party? I couldn't decide. The performers seemed happy, though, so I figured they were counting it.
I guess the name "Pet-a-Palooza" doesn't really specify which types of pets were invited, but the overwhelming majority of attendees were dogs. I already told you about the stroller cat - I feel like that's still a pretty normal pet (even if her owners were weirdos). Here's what I want to know - who brought their PONY? Yes, folks, someone was walking around with their pet pony. I at first thought, "Okay, that is a HUGE dog," but then I felt dumb when I realized it wasn't a dog at all. Oops. Another person brought a giant pig that is probably the size of my students. It spent most of the time rolling around in the mud. It's owner went to go get it and the pig tried to bite her, so she let him keep rolling. He's probably still in that mud patch as I type this. There were other assorted ferrets, rabbits, etc. I would not bring my rabbit around a bunch of dogs, especially breeds that have instincts to hunt rabbits, but oh well. Not all pet owners are thinkers.
Anyway, our little Webb family had a great day. Elvis fell asleep in the car on the way home, and he's been pooped ever since. Here is what he's been doing for most of the evening:
Pet-a-Palooza was a lot of excitement for a small dog! Just wait until I convince Rex we should be foster parents to a rescue pug...Elvis is going to flip out.
Friday, April 20, 2012
My Drug
The first step to curing an addiction is admitting that you have a problem, right? I fully admit that I have a problem, but I don't think I want to be cured of it. I love it. I revel in it. I partake in this addiction at all sorts of times of the day and night, and I have spent countless amounts of money on it. I've been addicted since first grade, and I see no relief in the future.
I am addicted to new books.
The first new book I remember getting (though I'm sure I must have had some before this) was a Boxcar Children book. My mom ordered it for me out of my first grade scholastic book order (thanks Mom!). I can't be positive, but I think it was the Case of the Mysterious Twin. Anyway, I remember sitting in my tiny first grade chair, holding the book that the teacher had handed out to me, and thinking, "Wow! This is MY book. I'm going to be the very first person in the world to read this particular book, and it's no one else's but MINE!" Call me greedy, but with the recent addition of my little sister to my family I was starting to fear I would have to share everything I owned. I stared at the shiny sky blue cover in awe, not even wanting to touch it for fear that I would put a fingerprint smudge on the perfect publisher-fresh illustration.
Fast forward almost twenty years. Here I am sitting at my teacher's desk, and I just wiped a fingerprint smudge off of a brand new book that one of my students bought for me ten minutes ago. I guess I haven't changed much since first grade. The Scholastic book fair is at our school this week, and I bribed my students by saying that anyone who bought me a book from the book fair would get McDonalds fries next week (this bribe always works tremendously well. Fries and extra credit are my two secret weapons). I started to realize that I had an addiction when a student raised her hand and said, "Can we bring you books from home?" My immediate answer was, "No. It has to be a NEW book. Donate all of the old books you want, but I'm only buying fries for people who get me new books."
Now, if you know me, you know I'm not a very high maintenence person. I rarely buy new clothes. I've never bought new furniture, and I don't think I'll ever buy a new car. I even told Rex that he could buy me a secondhand wedding ring because I didn't really need a new one (he got me a new one anyway). Still, I have a thing about new books. I love them. I must have them. Sure, I buy a ton of used books off of Amazon because they're cheaper, but they just don't give me the same high. I'm like a drug addict who is desperate for a hit of anything but who really wants to get a hold of the "good stuff." I get this thrill every time I hold a new book in my hands, and it's the same thrill that I had in first grade. This is MY book that NO ONE else has ever read. It's perfect - no pages are bent or torn, the cover isn't dirty or smudged, and no one has written anything in it. A tiny bit of perfection resting in my own two hands. It's simultaneously mystical and glorious.
What caused me to write this blog in the first place is when I realized how weird I must have looked to any passers-by in the hall who saw me sitting here at my desk with my entire face literally buried deep into the pages of my new book. I open each new book to a random page and just smell. I suppose part of the "new book drug" is an inhalent. New books smell SO good, and they always smell the same. It's reassuring to me, like "No matter how crazy the world gets, you can always count on a new book to smell like a new book." Why don't they sell air fresheners that smell like that? I want to move into an old publishing factory or something so I can smell that smell all the time. It's better than the smell of roses or cologne or even puppies (yes, Rex, it smells even better than puppies. We're already married so you can't dump me for that). New books make me so happy. Who can be sad when holding a shiny new book? The world could save a lot of money on therapists and mental health drugs if they would just pass around more new books. Getting my Barnes and Noble Educator's card was probably my favorite part of becoming a teacher. 20% off everything at Barnes and Noble?? SERIOUSLY?? IS THIS HEAVEN!?
Yes, I know, I have a problem. If you'll excuse me, though, I have a new book to read.
I am addicted to new books.
The first new book I remember getting (though I'm sure I must have had some before this) was a Boxcar Children book. My mom ordered it for me out of my first grade scholastic book order (thanks Mom!). I can't be positive, but I think it was the Case of the Mysterious Twin. Anyway, I remember sitting in my tiny first grade chair, holding the book that the teacher had handed out to me, and thinking, "Wow! This is MY book. I'm going to be the very first person in the world to read this particular book, and it's no one else's but MINE!" Call me greedy, but with the recent addition of my little sister to my family I was starting to fear I would have to share everything I owned. I stared at the shiny sky blue cover in awe, not even wanting to touch it for fear that I would put a fingerprint smudge on the perfect publisher-fresh illustration.
Fast forward almost twenty years. Here I am sitting at my teacher's desk, and I just wiped a fingerprint smudge off of a brand new book that one of my students bought for me ten minutes ago. I guess I haven't changed much since first grade. The Scholastic book fair is at our school this week, and I bribed my students by saying that anyone who bought me a book from the book fair would get McDonalds fries next week (this bribe always works tremendously well. Fries and extra credit are my two secret weapons). I started to realize that I had an addiction when a student raised her hand and said, "Can we bring you books from home?" My immediate answer was, "No. It has to be a NEW book. Donate all of the old books you want, but I'm only buying fries for people who get me new books."
Now, if you know me, you know I'm not a very high maintenence person. I rarely buy new clothes. I've never bought new furniture, and I don't think I'll ever buy a new car. I even told Rex that he could buy me a secondhand wedding ring because I didn't really need a new one (he got me a new one anyway). Still, I have a thing about new books. I love them. I must have them. Sure, I buy a ton of used books off of Amazon because they're cheaper, but they just don't give me the same high. I'm like a drug addict who is desperate for a hit of anything but who really wants to get a hold of the "good stuff." I get this thrill every time I hold a new book in my hands, and it's the same thrill that I had in first grade. This is MY book that NO ONE else has ever read. It's perfect - no pages are bent or torn, the cover isn't dirty or smudged, and no one has written anything in it. A tiny bit of perfection resting in my own two hands. It's simultaneously mystical and glorious.
What caused me to write this blog in the first place is when I realized how weird I must have looked to any passers-by in the hall who saw me sitting here at my desk with my entire face literally buried deep into the pages of my new book. I open each new book to a random page and just smell. I suppose part of the "new book drug" is an inhalent. New books smell SO good, and they always smell the same. It's reassuring to me, like "No matter how crazy the world gets, you can always count on a new book to smell like a new book." Why don't they sell air fresheners that smell like that? I want to move into an old publishing factory or something so I can smell that smell all the time. It's better than the smell of roses or cologne or even puppies (yes, Rex, it smells even better than puppies. We're already married so you can't dump me for that). New books make me so happy. Who can be sad when holding a shiny new book? The world could save a lot of money on therapists and mental health drugs if they would just pass around more new books. Getting my Barnes and Noble Educator's card was probably my favorite part of becoming a teacher. 20% off everything at Barnes and Noble?? SERIOUSLY?? IS THIS HEAVEN!?
Yes, I know, I have a problem. If you'll excuse me, though, I have a new book to read.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Gate B18
Hurry, flowered shirt woman! Hurry! If you run slower, you might miss your plane like I missed mine! Don’t worry about your hair…no one is looking at your hair because they’re too preoccupied with the ginormous shocking pink flowers splashed all over your shirt.
Oops, don’t run over that kid, flowered shirt woman! I know he’s totally mucking up the moving walkway by executing a poor imitation of Michael Jackon’s moonwalk. Of course he’s standing right in the middle, too. He just wants everyone to pay attention to him. Don’t take it personally, flowered shirt woman. He looks to be about in middle school, and I know a lot about that age. They’re pretty much all idiots. If the worst he’s doing is moonwalking on the moving walkway, his parents will probably call it a good day. Goodbye, flowered shirt woman! I hope you make your flight!
Oh, hello reader. I didn’t see you there. I’m too busy watching the insanity that is the Chicago Midway airport. As I sit on this very uncomfortable stool at a “charging station,” I see a plane taking off into the distance and flying into the sunset. Is that the plane I was supposed to be on? Probably not, but you never really know. It could be.
See, what I want to do is go home to Las Vegas to see my husband, my puppy (who turns 1 year old tomorrow!), and even my cranky cat. That’s not what I get to do, though. What I get to do is sit here and pray that the next flight to Vegas out of Chicago (which leaves in three hours) doesn’t get cancelled. I’m flying home from visiting my grandma in New Hampshire. The plane from New Hampshire to Chicago was delayed, and I missed my connecting flight by ten measly minutes! TEN! I should be on a plane right now, sipping complementary Sprite and dreaming of the happy “cling cling cling!” of the slot machines that will welcome me home at McCarran Airport. Instead, I’m here blogging to pass the time. Actually, correction: I’m writing a blog in Microsoft Word that I will later transfer to my real blog, because this airport charges $6.95 for internet access. Is that insane or what?! I just want to sign on and check some e-mails, surf facbeook, etc. I can get free wifi if I buy a $1 cup of tea at Starbucks, but if I drop a few hundred on airline tickets then suddenly I’m charged? This is silly. I’m sticking it to the proverbial Airport Man and not buying his wifi. HA! I will write in word, which you cannot charge me for.
Anyway, I figure I’ll sit here for a while and transcribe what I see for you. It will be almost as if you’re here with me in the airport. How fun! I have to warn you, though, that I am being strongly tempted by the smell of fresh McDonalds fries that is wafting over to me from the McDonalds next to this gate. I think scientists should do a study on how long people can sit and smell McDonalds fries without wanting to buy some. It’s not very long; that’s for sure. So I will probably follow my nostrils over there in a little bit. Until then…
The guy passing in front of me right now is genius, but I hope he’s not in a hurry. This man is in a wheelchair, and he’s rolling next to the moving walkway. He’s holding onto the arm rail of the moving walkway, so the belt is pulling him along and he doesn’t have to push his wheelchair. Good job, my disabled friend! You’re not going quickly, but you are expending absolutely no energy whatsoever in getting to your destination. That’s something not many of us can do.
The man sitting next to me at the charging station has taken notice of our disabled friend. He turns to me and says, “Well, that’s a new way to use the walkway!” I agree. Charging Station Man comments that we can watch the whole world go by from where we’re sitting. I agree again. Gasp – is he a fellow writer? Is he writing down everything he sees too? Perhaps he is writing about me right now: “This crazy girl with a way outdated MacBook is sitting next to me…she’s kind of quiet, but she’s super fashionable. It looks almost as if her grandma just bought her a whole new summer wardrobe…” Good job, Charging Station Man! She did.
I can’t stand it any more. I’m taking a peek at Charging Station Man’s computer to see what he’s writing. Oh! He’s about to eat a chip - perfect opportunity to peek.
That was anticlimactic. He’s working on a spreadsheet. It’s probably something for work. Maybe he’s a high-class businessman billionaire. I feel like only really sophisticated business people work on spreadsheets in their spare time. Perhaps his jeans and tee shirt are a disguise he wears when he goes out into public so that people won’t notice him and hound him for money or take unflattering pictures of him that will end up in Us Weekly or something. Let me check if he’s famous a second (he’s going to think that it’s weird that I keep looking at him).
Blast. Not famous. Well, not anyone that I know of anyway. To a normal observer he would look like an average guy working on a spreadsheet. Hmm… I must find another subject. Charging Station Man is boring me.
Oh look! A mobster pushing some luggage carts. Perfect. I am in Chicago, after all, so I suppose that fits. He’s probably not really a mobster, but he looks like one. He’s a mid-twenties tallish Mexican, and he’s not really skinny or fat. His hair is gelled straight up from his head, and it looks either like black flames or deadly spikes. It’s tall, too – probably about six inches shooting out of his head. Picture Heat Miser from The Year Without a Santa Claus as a Mexican, and you’ve got the idea. He also has a really thin mustache that looks as if he’s been trying to grow it out since he was fourteen but hasn’t really gotten very far. The gold chains clinking together around his neck complete the look.
Wait, are mobsters Mexican? I thought they were Italian… This guy is definitely Mexican; I heard him speaking Spanish. He didn’t sound Italian at all. Then again, I shouldn’t be mobster racist. I’m sure mobsters can come from any race. Black, White, Mexican, British….whatever. To the poor African tribal men playing bongos in your bamboo huts – YOU TOO CAN BE MOBSTERS IF YOU FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS!
Crap. Charging Station Man got French fries. See? I told you that they were unavoidable! Now I can smell them even more…mmmm…. He got a cheeseburger too! Mmmm….cheeseburger… I will resist for now, though. I have more to tell you about.
Excuse me, woman with the stroller, did you notice that you have no baby? This woman is pushing a stroller with a stuffed panda in it, but no baby. No, I’m not kidding. Do you really think I could make this stuff up? I’m not that creative. I’m looking around her for a husband or other family member holding the child, but there is no one. It’s just this woman and her panda flying solo. I’m waiting to hear an announcement over the intercom saying, “Excuse me travelers – please check your strollers. If you are missing a baby, she can be picked up at Terminal 3.”
Seriously, this woman has no baby. Maybe that panda is really important to her. OH MY GOSH, what if she’s smuggling drugs inside of that panda?! She is just pretending to have a baby so that no one will suspect her. Panda Lady – the mobster went the other way! What if I watched a drug deal go down right here at Gate B18? Now that would be truly crazy.
Here is a poor woman who deserves a blog shout-out – a grandma traveling with four kids. Before you start calling me ageist, I know she’s their grandma and not their mom because they’re calling her “grandma.” More accurately, they’re yelling it across the terminal as they run in four different directions and expect her to follow them. None of the children can be over ten. No way. What is this, “vacation with Grandma” week? This poor grandma is dealing with the fallout of the fact that her grandchildren have discovered the moving walkway. Now that you mention it, Benny, it IS kind of like a mini-rollercoaster! Let’s play on it all night or until your grandma has a heart attack from trying to corral all of you – whichever comes first. I can tell you something: this will probably be their last vacation with Grandma. She looks really tired and entirely too old to be dealing with this. If I had a badge of airport honor, I would give it to her.
This blog is now three single spaced pages long, and I’m still an hour and forty-five minutes from my flight. GAH! Maybe I should suck it up and pay the $6.95 for internet so I can fight boredom. No, I won’t pay! I will hold my ground. You know what? I could buy a whole feast at McDonalds with my $6.95, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’m coming for you, delicious fries!
Oops, don’t run over that kid, flowered shirt woman! I know he’s totally mucking up the moving walkway by executing a poor imitation of Michael Jackon’s moonwalk. Of course he’s standing right in the middle, too. He just wants everyone to pay attention to him. Don’t take it personally, flowered shirt woman. He looks to be about in middle school, and I know a lot about that age. They’re pretty much all idiots. If the worst he’s doing is moonwalking on the moving walkway, his parents will probably call it a good day. Goodbye, flowered shirt woman! I hope you make your flight!
Oh, hello reader. I didn’t see you there. I’m too busy watching the insanity that is the Chicago Midway airport. As I sit on this very uncomfortable stool at a “charging station,” I see a plane taking off into the distance and flying into the sunset. Is that the plane I was supposed to be on? Probably not, but you never really know. It could be.
See, what I want to do is go home to Las Vegas to see my husband, my puppy (who turns 1 year old tomorrow!), and even my cranky cat. That’s not what I get to do, though. What I get to do is sit here and pray that the next flight to Vegas out of Chicago (which leaves in three hours) doesn’t get cancelled. I’m flying home from visiting my grandma in New Hampshire. The plane from New Hampshire to Chicago was delayed, and I missed my connecting flight by ten measly minutes! TEN! I should be on a plane right now, sipping complementary Sprite and dreaming of the happy “cling cling cling!” of the slot machines that will welcome me home at McCarran Airport. Instead, I’m here blogging to pass the time. Actually, correction: I’m writing a blog in Microsoft Word that I will later transfer to my real blog, because this airport charges $6.95 for internet access. Is that insane or what?! I just want to sign on and check some e-mails, surf facbeook, etc. I can get free wifi if I buy a $1 cup of tea at Starbucks, but if I drop a few hundred on airline tickets then suddenly I’m charged? This is silly. I’m sticking it to the proverbial Airport Man and not buying his wifi. HA! I will write in word, which you cannot charge me for.
Anyway, I figure I’ll sit here for a while and transcribe what I see for you. It will be almost as if you’re here with me in the airport. How fun! I have to warn you, though, that I am being strongly tempted by the smell of fresh McDonalds fries that is wafting over to me from the McDonalds next to this gate. I think scientists should do a study on how long people can sit and smell McDonalds fries without wanting to buy some. It’s not very long; that’s for sure. So I will probably follow my nostrils over there in a little bit. Until then…
The guy passing in front of me right now is genius, but I hope he’s not in a hurry. This man is in a wheelchair, and he’s rolling next to the moving walkway. He’s holding onto the arm rail of the moving walkway, so the belt is pulling him along and he doesn’t have to push his wheelchair. Good job, my disabled friend! You’re not going quickly, but you are expending absolutely no energy whatsoever in getting to your destination. That’s something not many of us can do.
The man sitting next to me at the charging station has taken notice of our disabled friend. He turns to me and says, “Well, that’s a new way to use the walkway!” I agree. Charging Station Man comments that we can watch the whole world go by from where we’re sitting. I agree again. Gasp – is he a fellow writer? Is he writing down everything he sees too? Perhaps he is writing about me right now: “This crazy girl with a way outdated MacBook is sitting next to me…she’s kind of quiet, but she’s super fashionable. It looks almost as if her grandma just bought her a whole new summer wardrobe…” Good job, Charging Station Man! She did.
I can’t stand it any more. I’m taking a peek at Charging Station Man’s computer to see what he’s writing. Oh! He’s about to eat a chip - perfect opportunity to peek.
That was anticlimactic. He’s working on a spreadsheet. It’s probably something for work. Maybe he’s a high-class businessman billionaire. I feel like only really sophisticated business people work on spreadsheets in their spare time. Perhaps his jeans and tee shirt are a disguise he wears when he goes out into public so that people won’t notice him and hound him for money or take unflattering pictures of him that will end up in Us Weekly or something. Let me check if he’s famous a second (he’s going to think that it’s weird that I keep looking at him).
Blast. Not famous. Well, not anyone that I know of anyway. To a normal observer he would look like an average guy working on a spreadsheet. Hmm… I must find another subject. Charging Station Man is boring me.
Oh look! A mobster pushing some luggage carts. Perfect. I am in Chicago, after all, so I suppose that fits. He’s probably not really a mobster, but he looks like one. He’s a mid-twenties tallish Mexican, and he’s not really skinny or fat. His hair is gelled straight up from his head, and it looks either like black flames or deadly spikes. It’s tall, too – probably about six inches shooting out of his head. Picture Heat Miser from The Year Without a Santa Claus as a Mexican, and you’ve got the idea. He also has a really thin mustache that looks as if he’s been trying to grow it out since he was fourteen but hasn’t really gotten very far. The gold chains clinking together around his neck complete the look.
Wait, are mobsters Mexican? I thought they were Italian… This guy is definitely Mexican; I heard him speaking Spanish. He didn’t sound Italian at all. Then again, I shouldn’t be mobster racist. I’m sure mobsters can come from any race. Black, White, Mexican, British….whatever. To the poor African tribal men playing bongos in your bamboo huts – YOU TOO CAN BE MOBSTERS IF YOU FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS!
Crap. Charging Station Man got French fries. See? I told you that they were unavoidable! Now I can smell them even more…mmmm…. He got a cheeseburger too! Mmmm….cheeseburger… I will resist for now, though. I have more to tell you about.
Excuse me, woman with the stroller, did you notice that you have no baby? This woman is pushing a stroller with a stuffed panda in it, but no baby. No, I’m not kidding. Do you really think I could make this stuff up? I’m not that creative. I’m looking around her for a husband or other family member holding the child, but there is no one. It’s just this woman and her panda flying solo. I’m waiting to hear an announcement over the intercom saying, “Excuse me travelers – please check your strollers. If you are missing a baby, she can be picked up at Terminal 3.”
Seriously, this woman has no baby. Maybe that panda is really important to her. OH MY GOSH, what if she’s smuggling drugs inside of that panda?! She is just pretending to have a baby so that no one will suspect her. Panda Lady – the mobster went the other way! What if I watched a drug deal go down right here at Gate B18? Now that would be truly crazy.
Here is a poor woman who deserves a blog shout-out – a grandma traveling with four kids. Before you start calling me ageist, I know she’s their grandma and not their mom because they’re calling her “grandma.” More accurately, they’re yelling it across the terminal as they run in four different directions and expect her to follow them. None of the children can be over ten. No way. What is this, “vacation with Grandma” week? This poor grandma is dealing with the fallout of the fact that her grandchildren have discovered the moving walkway. Now that you mention it, Benny, it IS kind of like a mini-rollercoaster! Let’s play on it all night or until your grandma has a heart attack from trying to corral all of you – whichever comes first. I can tell you something: this will probably be their last vacation with Grandma. She looks really tired and entirely too old to be dealing with this. If I had a badge of airport honor, I would give it to her.
This blog is now three single spaced pages long, and I’m still an hour and forty-five minutes from my flight. GAH! Maybe I should suck it up and pay the $6.95 for internet so I can fight boredom. No, I won’t pay! I will hold my ground. You know what? I could buy a whole feast at McDonalds with my $6.95, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’m coming for you, delicious fries!
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