This Is How We Roll

My colleague, friend, co-conspirator, how-to-raise-a-son guru, and fellow make-lemonade-out-of-lemons chick, Olivia, and I got called to the middle of the woods remote, Maine on a matter.  Did I mention this place is remote?  As in, while I was trying to find the rallying point I rolled up to a gate with a guard shack at the end of the road.  The gate was closed so I was planning to ask the guard for directions (zero cell coverage) but there was no guard inside.  Just a sign that read…Canada beyond this point.  Oopsie, time to turn around.  

So, at the end of day 1 (late, dark and HOT), the entire team (about 20 people total) travel 30 minutes to the nearest hotel where our office had secured rooms for everyone.  Upon checking in, we noticed that fans are being handed out. FANS. It was easily 100 degrees out and a musty, humid 100+ indoors.  We were told the hotel is considered “rustic”, “quaint” and “charming”…code words for old without air conditioning or TVs.  We all received keys (yes, an actual key, not electronic) and went off to get some sleep.

Olivia and I met for breakfast bright and early, headed to the rallying point, got our assignments and went about our day.  On day 6 of this routine, we got an urgent message to return to the main rallying point. (At that point, our office had erected a cell tower so we could all communicate – thank goodness!)  We were told that we had to provide critical information to someone ASAP. Ok, will do.  We were on it.

We hopped into Olivia’s work car – a Chevy HHR.  Now, no offense to anyone who may have voluntarily opted for this as their car, but we HATED these cars.  They look like hearses and when you are in a job where you may be called upon to provide sad news, this is not a good look. But it was a company car and got the job done so who was I to complain? Off we rolled.  

(not our actual car but you get the idea)

Olivia was the driver, I was in charge of the GPS and keeping our boss updated as to our whereabouts and if we had accomplished our task.  A bit of pressure.  We were off to a good start as we were given an actual address (as opposed to what we had been dealing with all week, “oh, you need to go where? Ok, that’s past the old bait and tackle store…go left at the dairy barn…..that’s Jimmy’s old gas station…” etc. etc. -  none of which still had structures or addresses) AND the GPS actually had the address.

I was looking at the GPS, shouting out next steps and responding to emails/texts when Olivia asked if I was sure that we should be turning left just then.  I looked at the GPS and said yes then we travel a mile before the next turn.  She said ok, and carried on.  I continued with my emails when she asked again if she should keep going.  I said yes, the GPS says to keep going and we are in a rush so step on it.  She told me the road had turned to dirt so questioned if she keep going.  I looked up.  It was a road, just a dusty, dirt road.  Seemed normal for out in the woods, remote Maine so I said yes and we rolled on.  A minute later, Olivia stopped.  Without looking up, I told her we had to go .2 miles, turn right and we would be at the destination.  She chuckled, told me to stop emailing and look up.  We were in a cow pasture.  As in, out my window, touchable, was a cow.  We were parked on grass.  There were trees in front of us.  

Refusing to believe the GPS had steered us wrong, and in a panic that we didn’t have time to go back, find a new route, and make our deadline, we got out of the car, walked to the tree line to see if we can somehow bust through it.  Well, the trees were at the top of a steep ravine so that was a negative.  We actually contemplatedleaving the car, hiking down the ravine and walking the rest of the way.  We were already dusty, sweaty and hot so why not abandon our car, slide down a ravine and walk.  Very professional.  Not.  

Then we regained our sanity, hopped in the pseudo hearse, peeledout of the grassy pasture and found where we needed to go.  We accomplished our task, returned to our car, and started cracking up at the notion that we had actually considered ramming our car through the trees.

By that point, everyone was told that their work was done and they could go home. Everyone checked out of their rooms.  We decided to have a group dinner together then hit the road.  As dinner finished up and everyone walked to their cars, our boss said, “oh no, you two need to stick around to handle a matter in the morning”.  So we made our way back to the hotel.

We approached the front desk and the clerk said, sorry, no rooms available.  Umm, hello….20 people had checked out like 4 hours ago….what did he mean no available rooms?  He explained they put an ad on some discounted site, selling rooms for $45 for that night to fill our rooms and they sold out.  The next closest hotel was an hour away.  I tried to get on my cell but when everyone left, they took the temporary cell tower with them so I was back to no service.  

On the verge of crying and screaming.  Olivia and I begged, there must be SOMETHING they can do otherwise we were going to have to sleep in our cars.  The manager came over and said, he had 1 room.  We would have to share.  We said fine, we will take it.  He then said it is the honeymoon suite.  Lordy.  He told us it had a window air conditioner so no need for a fan…..sold.  We agreed to take it.

We took our key and entered the honeymoon suite. We knew it is the honeymoon suite because there was a big sign above the door and it was just off the lobby.   It smelled.  There was shag carpet.  Pink shag carpet.  A dresser sat in one corner.  It had a mirrored front and the rest was covered in the pink shag carpet.  There was a heart shaped Jacuzzi tub next to the bed.  The bed.  Oh, the bed.  It was up 3 small shag covered stairs, like on a pedestal in the middle of the room.  It was round. A faux fur bedspread covered it.  We flopped down on it LAUGHING and looked up to see a giant mirror above the bed.   

When morning arrived, we stepped out of the honeymoon suite to find people smiling and nodding at us.  It was odd but we figure it was because our place of work was emblazoned on our shirts.   And then, as I sipped coffee and ate French toast, an elderly woman came up to us and said how lovely to see us “in all our unashamed glory” and that she supported love of any kind.  That is when Olivia and I realized, people thought we were newlyweds. And even though we weren't it was refreshing to know that the people out here, in the middle of the woods, remote Maine, would have been accepting of us.

Homeward Bound

As I pulled into my parent's driveway, they were waiting for me and came rushing out, arms open, thrilled that their baby girl was home for winter break.  My Dad opened the trunk to grab my suitcase and upon seeing my television, area rug, radio, telephone etc., he said, "hun, you didn't have to pack up your dorm room to come home for break.  Your stuff would have been safe in your room."  My Mom started chuckling along with my Dad and they were shaking their heads at "all the extra packing and unpacking" I'd have to do.  They were laughing and in a good mood so I figured, aw, what the heck, I will lay it on them now....


All bright eyes and bushy tailed, still in the driveway turn around I blurted it out, "I was going to wait but I'm so excited, I might as well tell you now...Tracy and I withdrew from school, packed up our stuff, and at the end of holiday break, we aren't going back to school, we are going to drive cross country and experience life. How awesome does THAT sound?!?!"


30 seconds of silence followed by my Mom looking at my Dad and saying, "you deal with this" and he did. I quote, "What car do you plan to take? I own 'your' car. Who is going to pay your health insurance? I cover you now but you'll be dropped if not in school and no child of mine will go without health insurance. How will you eat? How will you pay for gas? Where will you sleep? Exactly how do you plan to pay for your fancy moisturizers, lotions and potions you so love? Who will buy your clothes? Contact lenses? Shoes? Pedicures? Sunscreen? Advil? Magazines? Doctor co-pays?"


Umm, hello, Daddy Downer.


All I said was, "Well Tracy and I heard that the first 6 rows of all crops were public domain so we just thought we would live off the land and become vegetarians or something."  I swear, I honestly said that.  Wisely, my Dad ignored that and simply kept on tailing, "Starting tomorrow, finding a new University that will take you after this holiday break will become a full time job for you." What?!?!? "But Dad, once I decided to 'withdraw' I kinda stopped going to class and like none of my grades are like, um, good, as in I barely passed anything this semester."


"Well, we all know you are a master bullshitter so you better get cracking with the admissions officers." I was starting to get pouty and angry when, as he walked into the house, still clutching my suitcase, he muttered, "I'm so disappointed.  What did I do wrong that she would think this was ok." Crap, my Dad was disappointed. He has never said that to me. Never. And worse yet, he thinks this screw up is somehow his fault.  Double crap.  I had to make this right.


The rest of the day was awkward but we got through dinner, watched some Jeopardy! and then I went out with some friends to catch up after a long semester scattered at various colleges. Finally, sleep in my old bed. Pure comfort.


But then, a rather loud knock on my door awoke me. The clock read 6 am. What the flip is that all about? Then a booming voice, my father, "CeeCee, time to get up.  THe work day has begun and you've got a busy day ahead of you." HOLY CRAP. Dad meant business when he said finding a school was going to be a full time job for me.


I poked my head out and he said, take a shower, get dressed - in a suit, the one you wore when you interviewed with Dean of Universities last year is still in your closet. Coffee and breakfast at 6:30." I showered, dressed and ragged myself to the kitchen.  He had the desk where my Mom usually wrote the household bills out, set up for me with the computer, stapler, legal pad, an appointment calendar, pens, the college book I used when originally looking for a school, along with various odds and ends."  We ate breakfast and he left for work.  He would call and check on me, came home during my hour lunch break and cracked the whip until 5 pm.


Let me tell you, my number one mission was to find a freaking school, fast.  My winter break was disappearing before my eyes.  I started calling area Universities. Thank God that NJ is full of good schools, close by.  I would book appointments, meet with admissions' staff, tell my story of woe, and lay upon my sword and tell them that I had screwed up, disappointed the man I admire most and that if only their school would look past my crappy first semester grades and at my high school record, they would know that I was a good candidate for their University and I would dig myself out of this hole.  By the end of the week, I had 7 universities offering me positions in their winter semester.


Over dinner, Mom, Dad, and I would discuss what school was best suited for me and we decided upon the Madison campus of:

My Mom and Dad were pleased. I was thrilled and determined to regain their trust in me. I got my winter break back. At every opportunity, I traveled far and wide, still do.  I never did make the drive cross country but everyone needs a dream and that one isn't dead.


My plan had always been to transfer out of there to another school but something amazing happened at FDU, I found that when I got to choose the courses that interested me, I liked school after all. By the time I graduated, I was sad to leave school behind and would eventually return (much to the shock of my parents) to grad school.


ps.  While all of this was going on, I thought for sure, my best friend Tracy would be mad that I was bailing on our plan. Turns out, she was in the same host I was and found a different school and went to graduate, with honors, as a nurse.  Beauty school drop outs made good after all.

Beauty School Drop Out?

I hated school. I mean, I really hated school - from day one. In the first grade, I found out that pre-K and kindergarden weren't legally required.  At the end of the day, I stormed through the door and demanded to know why my Mom would send me to school before she legally had to. And my dislike of school grew from there. I had plenty of friends, liked my teachers, enjoyed school sports, did okay in my classes but for whatever reason, I never liked school.  As for my studies, if I could do minimal work and get a B or C, that was good enough for me - to the frustration of my parents. I studied with the radio on, did school readings while chatting on the phone with friends, and completed homework during the 5 minutes between classes.


Again, this frustrated my parents to no end, especially since Big Bro put in plenty of study time and excelled in class.  He was a great role model - scholar, athlete, social kid, in fact, he would have received the perfect attendance award in school if I hadn't begged him to play hooky senior year and take me skiing.  Meanwhile, I had zero interest in school and faked every illness to get out of going.


Similar to finding out that pre-K and kindergarten weren't legally required, the day came when I realized college wasn't grade 13 - it was a voluntary choice that cost a ton of money.  Well, I came home one day and declared, "college is a choice and I choose not to go."  To which my parents calmly my replied, "college is not a choice for you. You will go. We don't care what you get a degree in and we don't care what you ultimately decide to do for work but we will send you into the world debt free with a 4 year degree.  If you screw up your life after that, it is on you, not us. Period."  And that was that.


The time finally came for me to go to grade 13, err, college.  I decided on......

Why did I decide on URI? Was it because of the vast education opportunities? No. The tennis team I planned to play on? No. Was it because it is the unofficial state university of NJ as so many New Jersians go there? No. It was because it was close to the beach and a short drive to my beloved Cape Cod.  Also, my best friend, Tracy, was attending UMASS - Amherst, which wasn't too far so all in all, URI would do.


I was miserable at URI. My classes were too big for me. The campus was huge. Freshmen weren't allowed to have cars on campus (which foiled my beach and Cape Cod plans), my roommate actively practiced voodoo in our dorm room...the list goes on and on.  Every time I called my parents I would say, "I can't believe you are paying money for me to be in this prison." A bit dramatic, I know.  They told me to just gut out the first year and it would get better.


Lucky for me, Tracy was unhappy at UMASS so we would cut classes and chat on the phone all afternoon.  Or, we would hop on a train and meet up with one another.  Our favorite way to avoid school was to go to the Cape for extended weekends.  We would talk about what we would be doing if our parents hadn't forced us to get an advanced degree.  We always came up with driving cross country, no schedules, no set plans, just 2 girls in a car, living off the land wherever the road took us.  By the end of the fist semester, a plan was hatched.....we would withdraw from school, spend the holidays with our families, and then hit the open road for a year. That Christmas vacation, I packed up my car and headed to Mom and Dad's (to fill up on good food and tell them all about my exciting plan).........


Stay tuned........

I'm A Georgia Peach, Honest, I Am

Abraham and I met through work though our offices were an hour and a half apart. When we first started dating, we knew we could see each other on the weekends but it would be difficult to see each other during the week, unless.....Unless something happened near Abraham's office that required me to head out that way to do my job - be nice to people. Right from the get-go, I knew I really liked this guy but I had a little pit of fear that separation would not make the heart grow fonder. So, I hoped that I would have a reason to work out his way during the week - and soon.

Well, the stars aligned and something happened where someone needed me to be nice to them. It would take a couple of days of early mornings through late nights of being nice and my agency didn't want me driving back and forth so they approved me a hotel room. So, I called Abraham and told him I would be in the office mid week and if he was around, let's grab dinner. I was cool. I was hip. I wasn't rushing anything. I was scared crapless that he'd be like, "listen nutter butter, we had plans this weekend and now you are popping up at my office on Wednesday. Stalker...."

But no, Abraham sounded psyched and told me to meet him at the office when I was done and he would show me where the hotel was since it was in a fairly shady area. Also, he told me that we could do dinner whenever I was done woking, he'd wait for me and was looking forward to seeing me. The pit in my stomach turned to excited butterflies.


When my work was finished, I headed back to the office.  Abraham carried my bag as we walked over to the hotel.  As we walked, we chatted about what to have for dinner, our day, etc.  Knowing that I would be seeing Abraham, I had put a little effort into my look, skirt, nice top, cute little black kitten heels. I had actually done my hair and put on more makeup than the usual chap stick.  I was feeling pretty good.  My feet were a little sore from the heels but that is the price you pay for looking cute.  Abraham and I are making a plan for the evening, he said he'd wait in the lobby while I bring my bag up and then we will head out.  I am trying to be so cool and relaxed as I breezily toss my hair aside, look back over my shoulder and say, "see you in a few".  


That's when I feel it, something wet and gloppy coming over the tops of my cute open toed heels. And I feel like I am sinking.  What's going on? I see Abraham looking down and suppressing a smile.  That's when I look down and see that somehow, despite the caution tape, I have sauntered through a patch of fresh, wet cement.

Everyone in the lobby and the front desk is looking at me. All I can think to say is, "I bet y'all would never guess I'm a Southern Belle.  Born in Georgia.  This is the move of a Georgia Peach."  I did not make the South proud with that move!

The Griswolds - Jersey Style

So, if you don’t actually know my family by now, some of my previous blogs have given you a sense of the characters I’ve grown up among.

Our family is a creature of habit. If we find something we like, we stick with it. Food, clothes, car makers, vacation destinations. For 15 years, every April vacation, we would return to the same tropical destination. The resort staff knew us, knew where we liked to set up our chairs on the beach, that we like extra towels, that Big Bro is a surfer, I’m a beach reader, Mom is a people watcher, Dad a beach sleeper. When Big Bro got married, my sister-in-law got to join the routine. She’s a People magazine reader mixed in with a daily swim in the ocean kind of girl. We are all, end the beach day-in the hot tub-watching the sun set-while drinking mud slides, kind of people.

This story is before my nieces and nephew were on the scene and added extra entertainment on trips….

The five of us (yes, per usual, I was the odd woman out. The deal has always been that you couldn’t bring anyone on these trips unless you were married to the person. Even the year Big Bro and Sis-in-Law were engaged, Big Bro came without her) head off to the land of fruity drinks, tropical weather, and 3 meals a day eaten beachside. By day 3 of relaxing bliss, Big Bro decides he will go to the other side of the island and go surfing. He takes the rental and disappears for the day.

If you’re reading this, you know Big bro likes to push his luck and get that one last set in – even if it means being late for dinner. So, upon his return to the resort, we were all showered and ready to hit up dinner. He jumped in the shower, got dressed (my Dad impatiently waiting and regularly checking his watch – in matters of being on time – son is NOT like father). Off we rush to dinner where we have a lovely meal. Big Bro is a bit fidgety but really, that’s not that unusual.

What is unusual is that after dinner we are debating whether or not to go hang on the beach, read on the balcony, or maybe hit up the bar when Big Bro says he needs to get back to the room, something is wrong.

Naturally, we are a family of nosey bodies and follow hot on his heels. We huddle into the room and ask a hundred questions. Well, in the light of the room, we see he is covered in HUNDREDS of welts and he’s itching up a storm. Ewww….

Remember, it is late at night and we are in a foreign country. We call the front desk who connects us to an “on-call” doctor. Big Bro explains the welts, surfing, itching etc. The “doctor” says to meet him out front, he will have medication. He pulls up, takes $20 cash and hands over a bottle. Never looks at the spots. The bottle has a scull and cross bones on it and contains some milky liquid. Through his thick accent, he says to apply it to each spot and “wait for it to die”. To die? Huh? Wait for what to die?!?!? Ah, wait for the sea lice to die, he tells us.

We all freak as he explains it is common that time of year if you swim through seaweed to catch tropical sea lice (jellyfish larvae). Big Bro caught it on the far side of the island where there is lots of warmer waters with seaweed. Ewww, ewww, eww.

With the help of my saintly sis-in-law, Big Bro applies this stuff, to each of his hundreds of spots. The next day, he’s fine. It is like nothing happened...except for the fact that our family can’t help but to discuss it on the beach.

The sun is shining, sunscreen applied, steamy day, waves crashing, beach full of tourists like us – except we are Jersey loud. We are talk/screaming over the sound of the waves about Big Bro’s sea lice and Big Bro is saying how he doesn’t want to talk about it (sure he’ll be thrilled with this blog) because it grosses him out. My Mom then screams, loud and clear for all to hear, “you SHOULD be grossed out. Last night you had an ORGASM living and growing inside you. And then it died. An ORGASM!” As the entire beach looks in horror at us, my Dad calmly says, “I think you mean he had an ORGANISM living in him last night.”

Sound the Alarm

I lost my keys. I take pride in the fact that I don’t lose anything…not my wallet, not my jacket, not my hair ties, not my sunglasses, not my mind and certainly not my keys.

I need to get to work and can’t put my hands on my keys. Ugh! Abraham “misplaces” many things frequently, especially his keys, but luckily, I can usually find them for him. Of course, as I find his stuff for him, I heckle and ask where he left them while bragging how I never misplace anything. As a result, today he stands ready to arm our alarm with a smirk on his face asking if I’m ready yet. I'm frantic. A crazed loon looking in the same places, over and over again...coming up empty handed.

I fling the door open to retrace my steps from when I pulled in from work the night before. Maybe I left them in the mailbox as I gathered mail? I’m starting to lose my mind and this worries me as I never lose anything and in 1 morning I'm going to lose my keys and my mind!?!? Yikes.

But hold on....as the door flies open......I hear a jingle. It is my keys. They are hanging in the doorknob. I left them in the door. That’s right, all night my car and house keys hung in our door. I look up at Abraham, who is stifling a laugh and simply says, “see, you didn’t lose your keys, they were right where you left them.”

Touche.

Arctic Adventure

Recently, I had dinner with my nieces, nephew, and sister-in-law. I was complaining how cold it had become when Jess reminded me that it wasn’t “nearly as cold as our Artic Adventure” which reminded me of our fun trip…

As you may have read in previous blog posts, my sister-in-law and I took my nieces, Ella and Jess, to Sea World in Florida a few months ago. On our first day at the park, it poured rain. There was still a lot to see so we bought slickers and headed out anyway. It was nice because there were no lines anywhere and few people crazy enough to trudge through ankle deep puddles on a random Thursday but there we were. By mid afternoon, we needed to escape the downpour so we headed over to the Arctic Adventure exhibit.

Little Jess was just the right height to get onto the “helicopter” ride that would take us to the polar bears and ice hut. We explained the ride, and buckled in. The “pilot” told us to keep our items on our laps as it may be a bumpy ride. Jess commented, “I like keeping my backpack on my lap, better than when we flew in the plane down to Florida. This way, if I want to color on the trip, it is right here.” I started to think that maybe Jess didn’t understand the concept of this “helicopter” ride. I looked over at Ella who heard Jess’s comment, and being older and wiser, Ella shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes. The “helicopter” jolted us in our seats, tossed and turned. Jess whispered, “Is this bumpiness normal?” I explained that it was. “Oh good,” she says, “it is kind of fun.” People around us just smiled.

Then images of the frozen tundra started whirling by us on large screens and cool air swirled at our feet. Jess started to look around frantically. She questioned, “Do you think we will see Santa? I mean, I know he is really busy making toys but it would be neat to at least see him and his house.” Seriously, you can’t make this stuff up. To stinking cute.

Suddenly, the “helicopter” lands and Jess declares, “humph, I thought the trip to the North Pole would be longer than our trip to Florida. Who knew Santa lived so close?” People chucked and so did big sister Ella who whispered in my ear, “she doesn’t get that it’s not real but that’s ok.” Well bat-ear-Jess heard Ella declare the ride fake just as we stepped into the exhibit. Jess touched an iceberg and pointed at a large, very real polar bear, and argued, “oh yea, this is ice and that’s a polar bear. It could eat your head. That is for real?!?!”

No arguing with that logic.

Golden Boy

In an effort to shield my big brother, who is quite possibly one of the greatest men I know, I have not written too much about him but this story has to be told. Those if you who know our family, will not find any of this as out of the ordinary but I think it sums up our crew.

For as long as I can remember, every Easter, my parents would pack up my brother and I and we would spend the week in some tropical paradise. Our little family of four would eat together, swim together, share books on the beach and what I remember most is how much we laughed on these trips. The first year my brother went off to college, I know my Mom worried that our Easter getaways would disintegrate and that her baby boy would want to do spring break with his new college buddies. When my bro came home for Christmas, I think he got my Mom a college sweatshirt but the best gift he gave her was when he asked what the dates were that we were all going on vacation. She was on a cloud the rest of the day and I will admit, I was very excited that our crew was still intact, my brother still didn’t consider me an annoying little sister, and we were all looking forward to some spring break fun.

My Dad made all the arrangements. My brother would fly down to NJ and the 3 of us would meet him at the airport so that all four if us could be on the same plane to the tropical getaway.

Being former military, my Dad has a very regimented travel routine. I always saw the logic in his way – orderly packing, carry-on only, arrive 1.5 hours ahead of time, identification and boarding pass in pant pocket, hussle through security, set up a base point at the gate then go to the bathroom, get food etc., be first on the plane for maximum overhead space, schmooze the counter personnel to see about upgrading…all makes perfect sense. My Mom and brother were more free spirits. We would be in check in line for 30 minutes, finally get to the counter and my Mom would then start searching for her passport. She sought out restrooms at the worst possible time, and my brother walked slower than a snail and was easily distracted if a basketball game was playing on some tv somewhere in the terminal. Lucky for us, my Dad stands head and shoulders above most crowds so he could bellow for us and we could fall in line. We always got to where we needed to be. A well-oiled machine, each with our roles.

So, back to this particular trip – the first one that we didn’t leave the house all together.

My Mom, Dad and I arrive per our usual routine. We arrive at our gate, set up base camp and await my brother’s arrival. We had checked the monitors and knew that his plane had arrived, we had 30 minutes before boarding so all was right in the world. As every minute ticked by that my brother didn’t appear, my Mom grew frantic. He wasn’t answering his cell phone, we had no messages saying he wasn’t making it. My Mom declared that none of us were getting on the plane without Brian. Umm, that sounded like I was going to miss my vacation. Ugh. My Dad wanted us to board and get the precious overhead space figuring Brian would show up but my Mom wouldn’t hear of it.

The boarding process begins and my Mom is on the verge of tears and my Dad is growing frustrated as people board before us. We hear some commotion in the walkway of the terminal. Some people start to board our plane complaining that some kid on a skateboard is flying through the airport, he has a backpack with sneakers swinging off of it and is weaving in and out of crowds. My Dad grumbles to my Mom, “Who would do that?” My Mom’s frown turns upside down and she and I both answer, “Golden Boy.”

Five minutes later, my brother slides into our gate, flips his skateboard up and shoves it in his backpack – the one with sneakers swinging around. “Hey guys, ready to go? I was watching a game and lost track of time. You didn’t have to wait for me, I was going to make it.” You see, things always work out for my brother, he walks the golden path. My Dad, who had just minutes earlier decided whoever was skateboarding through the airport was a rude punk just laughed and said, “glad you could make it. Way to be innovative.”

That kid is a modern day Ferris Bueller.

I Pity The Salesman

By the time the cosmos decided Abraham and I should meet, we both owned homes. So, when we got married and began to merge our belongings, we had to figure out what to keep, what to donate, and what – if anything – we needed to buy new.

My bedroom set was the one I had as a little girl. Abraham’s was a mish mash of dressers and end tables. My bed was as hard as a concrete slab, Abrahams soft and fluffy but not doing anything positive for our backs. The decision was made…we would buy a new bed and bedroom set to begin our married life.

I thought the hard part would be agreeing on a bedroom set we both liked but that was easy. The first store we walked into, the first set we saw, we loved. And as luck would have it, the entire set was within our budget and could be delivered in a week. Score.

Off to find a bed. This is where things get difficult…..why are bed salesmen more annoying and creepy than car salesmen?!?!?!

Abraham and I start at the furniture store. Having learned from my Mom and my couch buying experience, we know to avoid eye contact and shuffle by the salespeople mumbling polite, “we’re all set, thanks” as they ask if we need help. We make it to the bed showroom unscathed. We know our price range which immediately limits us to about 4 bed options.

Just as we are about to sit on one, a salesman spies us and hollers out, “Jump on up there! You have to lay there to get a feel for it so go ahead, lay on down.” I look at Abraham, pleading with my eyes for him to not make me do that. He sits on the edge of the bed, ignores the salesman and starts to talk to me but the salesman won’t be swayed. In a more booming voice he instructs us to the importance of really getting a feel for the bed so we do what any well mannered, well raised children would do…we climbed on up. We lay there on our backs, ensuring we don’t touch, as this strange man watches us and lectures us about the virtues of a quality mattress. He’s jiggling the bed up and down demonstrating the springiness as we lay there bouncing up and down. The salesman starts to sound like a Charlie Brown teacher because all I’m thinking about is how many other people have been on this bed….did they have dirty hair? Is my hair going to be yucky when I get up? Did the people who were here before me feel this awkward?

After what feels like forever, we sit up and are instructed to the next bed. To his credit, Abraham tries to tell the salesman that we are more comfortable discussing on our own and will find him when we make a decision but this guy won’t. go. away. We leave that store telling him we need to think about it and will be back. As we get to the safety of our car, we start laughing about how odd that was and that we will find our mattress elsewhere.

We move on to a bigger chain mattress store. As we walk through the door, Abraham breaks left, I wander right. Uh-oh, how did that happen? Alone across of sea of mattresses, the sales people descend upon me asking about budget, size, firmness. I’m a deer in headlights. I look across the showroom and Abraham is happily wandering, unaccosted by salespeople, reading labels, feeling different beds…he finally looks up and comes to my rescue. Again, the salespeople are insisting we get up on the bed. We go through the same motions as last time but this sales guy is insisting we get “into the mood and cuddle.” Yes, he used the word cuddle. We ignore him and he says again, “you two shouldn’t be shy. You won’t get a feel for the bed if you don’t try it out like you would in bed. Snuggle. Roll around. Give it a work out.” I’m preparing to get up when Abraham grabs me, hugs, kisses, squeezes, rolls me around the bed. As I’m trying to break free and ask what the heck he is doing, the salesman is cheering us on, “That’s right. Really get into it. Gotta’ test it out man!”

We finally sit up and the salesman looks at Abraham and asks, “So sir, what do you think? Good for a tumble with her, eh?” While flattening my hair with my hands, I‘m about to voice my annoyance when Abraham says, “I guess. I mean it was a little uncomfortable because she’s my sister but you told me to go for it so I did.” Abraham gives me the head nod and off we walk. As we reach the door we steal a glimpse at the sales guy and he has a look of perplexed horror on his face.

We ended up calling some 800 number and having the perfect bed delivered.

Insight to all bed sales people...you work in a bed store. Most people aren’t browsing beds like shoes, we’re there to buy. I will find you if I have questions and when I’m ready to purchase otherwise, keep your distance, please. Less is more.

This is what it feels like parking on one of the City lots...and you pay for it!

It Is True...

...a small kindness can make all the difference in the world.

Eleven years ago, my first job in RI was for a non profit organization in Providence. I had to drive from Newport to "the city" every day (if you lived in RI, you would know that very few people venture over the bridges every day but being from NJ, that commute was a piece of cake). I had to park in a pay lot where you were supposed to leave your keys with the attendant. The less expensive lot filled quickly but being a full-time grad student and a full time, not for profit employee, I was barely able to pay even the cheapest lot. Anyway, one day it was raining, cold and miserable out. I was running into Dunkin Donuts to grab a coffee before trying to park in my usual lot. I figured the parking attendant must be cold and miserable as his post was outside, no shelter in sight, so I picked him up a coffee.

As I rolled in, spaces were tight and I was having trouble squeezing into the spot (the parking attendant - barley 18 - could tell I was struggling. In a thick Vietnamese accent, he told me to just leave it, he'd park it. Totally relieved, I handed him the coffee, he looked utterly shocked, and barely stammered a thanks as I ran for the office doors. When I came out at the end of the day, the sun was shining and it had turned into a beautiful day. I headed toward my car when I saw the parking attendant - which was odd because he usually left the keys under the floor mat since his day ended at four and mine at 5. I thought something must be wrong with my car. Shyly, he approached me and said, "Hi. My name is Cabbie. I didn't really get to thank you for the car so I wanted to be here when you got out. So, thanks." And then he took off.

That's how our friendship started. I began to realize that no matter how late I was running or how full the lots were, cabbie always had a spot for me - an easy spot to pull in and out of. If I didn't have cash on hand, he knew I was good for it and let me pay double the next day. He was interested in what I was learning at school, I was interested in how he emigrated Vietnam and landed in RI. The 2 years that I had that job, every morning started with a big smile from him and a greeting, "hello Ms. Sunshine" (his nickname for me. It was a nice way to go through the week.

After 2 years, I graduated and found a new job - a few blocks from my old job and parking lot. My new job came with a parking space so my time with Cabbie came to an end. I no longer had a reason to be on that remote part of town. He congratulated me on my new job, I wished him all the best. Flash forward 7 years to this afternoon...

...I was having a bad day. Was 15 minutes into my 90 minute commute when I realized I left my blackberry at home. I had to go back and get it. Annoying. I arrived at the office at 7 am to find my computer inoperable. Annoying. By noon, I had called the computer help line 3 times to no avail. Annoying. I decided to drive back the 90 minutes from where I came to go to tour Western, MA office and try to use the computer there. Not looking forward to driving through the rain. Annoying. On my way to my car, a truck sped by spraying me with water. Annoying.

Then, out of the distance, I heard, "Hello, Ms. Sunshine!" I looked up to find Cabbie waving frantically. He remembered me! I was touched. He rushed over. We exchanged greetings. He graduated college, was going for a job interview. I was thrilled for him. He was ecstatic that I was married and asked about "the lucky guy". His kindness and the mere fact that he remembered me wanted to make me cry.

I said, "of all the people you see come and go every day, Cabbie, you just made my day by remembering me. I really needed your positive attitude today and here you are." He looked down shyly and said, "you brought me coffee once, on the day after my sister passed away. You didn't know it but it was the kind of positive thing I needed then."

People are amazing and I am fortunate to have so many wonderful encounters with unbelievable people who keep life in perspective for me.

Memories....

Sweet Tea, Sweet Memories

This week, I have felt overwhelmed, over-worked, and woefully under appreciated. I was dealing with this feeling by wallowing in my misery. I looked for an opening in my schedule so I could take a couple of hours to go to the spa, sit in the sun, sleep past 5am....anything that would give me some down time. My calendar provided no such openings. Driving down the Mass Pike, off to another person in need of kindness, grumbling to myself, grunting at jerky drivers, snorting with disgust every time my phone rang, I did something I rarely do....I pulled across 3 lanes of traffic and found myself in the McDonald's drive-thru. I felt a little guilty -I'm a Burger King girl- as I ordered my sweet tea. Only a dollar. What a score. I had actually caught my first break of the week. The guy even remembered to put a lemon in it. It was 3 pm on Friday but the week was finally improving.

As I took my first sip - a long, greedy gulp actually, I felt a smile creep over my face. This was the real deal - real Southern Sweet Tea. It immediately took me back to 2005 - Louisiana - Hurricane Katrina. I had been sent there by my employer to help with humanitarian aid. I was sent alone and scared but knew I was doing good work at a shelter. It was long days (I worked from 9 am until 11 pm every day) and there were few restaurants open, let alone restaurants open at the hours I was available to eat.

At the end of my first shift (11pm), I was driving back to my hotel, the Gentlemen's Quarters, when I saw the bright yellow Waffle House sign. I pulled in, saddled up to the counter, ordered a grilled cheese and a sweet tea. The women behind the counter (who had gold teeth, gang tattoos, the most unruly braids I had ever seen, and neon fake nails) stared at me like I was crazy but served me the most refreshing iced tea I had ever had. I watched as they took thick slices of bread, held them over a spinning wheel of melted butter, slapped it down on the griddle. Next, 2 thick slices of American cheese were placed directly on the hot griddle until they melted to a bubbly perfection. As one woman scooped the cheese onto the grilled bread, the other filled my glass with more fresh brewed sweet tea. Comfort food at its best. When the bill came, it was $8 - I left a $20 and went off to catch some sleep.

Morning came too soon. I headed to the check-in area which had advertised a "morning special" which I assumed was food. Wrong. It was sexual in nature. Oops.

So it was back to the Waffle House for me where the same 2 women were working, still looking at me like I was insane. I had an english muffin, hot coffee with real cream, and a grilled english muffin which enjoyed the same butter bath my grilled cheese had the night before. My bill came, $4 - I left a $10. That night, the routine began - at 11 pm, I pulled into the Waffle House and ordered the same meal. The next morning, my same breakfast. Always the same women there.

By the third day, I asked, "don't you two ever get to go home?". They retorted, "don't you know you're the only white person in here at all sorts of odd hours?". I explained I was an aid worker and we got to chatting. Over tall glasses of sweet tea, they would tell me how they were sisters, Nadine and Jadine, how they worked nights (10pm - 8 am) as their Mom watched their kids so that they could be home when their kids came home from school and keep an eye on them. It was important that they cooked dinner for their kids every night and had dinner around the table. They would tell me how they saw too many kids slip away because their Mamas didn't keep an eye on them. They wold joke that they would catch up on sleep when they were old and gray.

They had lost people to the Hurricane. I explained how I worked with kids in shelters, tried to help complete aid forms, that I missed my dog and my nieces.......a friendship was forged. After about a week, they told me I could stop tipping them insanely, they liked me and had "put the word out" not to mess with the white chick. I explained that I appreciated that but I wasn't tipping them out of fear, I was tipping them because no matter what I ordered, I was getting a flat rate for food so I would rather pass it on to them...I wasn't there to make money. Always, fresh, cool pitchers of sweet tea full of lemons sat amongst us as we talked the night away. They laughed as I begged for a real southern sweet tea recipe - I had tried to duplicate it and just came up with a cloudy mess of tea.

Then I received word that I was to fly home. On my last night, I told Nadine and Jadine I would be flying out the next day. They made me promise to come in the nex morning before I left so we could say "proper" good-byes. I showed up bright and early. We took pictures. Cried a little. Hugged. As I was waving my final good-bye, the ladies tucked a gift bag in my hand and wished me safe travels.

Once I was settled on the plane, reliving all my Katrina memories, I remembered the bag. I opened it and found a note that said, "You gave us so much and we had nothing of value to give so we put this together. Thanks for showing us that not all white ladies are bitches. We miss ya already." In the bag was a Waffle House mug for coffee, a tall Waffle House glass (perfect for sweet tea), a long handled spoon a box of tea bags (a brand I had never heard of before) and the recipe for real southern sweet tea. The secret is in the brand of tea bag (which they had enclosed) and a pinch of...something else I won't tell.

I started to tear up. Nadine and Jadine thought they had nothing of value to give but they gave me comfort, friendship, protection and a recipe I searched my whole life for. All things I value tremendously.

So back to current day, while I cruise down the Mass Pike, sipping my McDonalds sweet tea, I am reminded of that time of my life and can't help but put aside my grumpiness and just appreciate all my good fortunes.

Who knew sweet tea could be so important?