Archive for the 'Planes trains and automobiles' Category

Sporadic verbosity

December 17, 2007 | Filed under: "Oh night divine", Great moments in narcissism, Planes trains and automobiles

“In everyone’s life, at some time, our inner fire goes out.  It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being.  We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.”  ~Albert Schweitzer

I hate to be a downer but every time someone asks me how I am or how things are going I shrug my shoulders, sigh heavily, and say “It’s OK”. I sound like Eeyore and anyone who crosses my path half expects my tail to fall off or for me to keel over due to an extreme bout of ennui. I can’t even get into the spirit of the season without it all feeling extremely forced and obvious. I’ve baked cookies while listening to Ella Fitzgerald with a fire crackling in the background and yet I would look outside at the snow, the thing that signifies the loveliness that should come this time of year, and the only thing I wanted to do was beat myself in the head with a crowbar. Nothing says “Joy” like blunt force trauma.

I’ve actually kept most everything to myself – especially as of late - because I don’t want to be a bother and I’m boring and most people find whining to be abhorrent. So I stay silent. In general though I tend to be shy and quiet. Some call it aloof but I like to refer to it as observing my surroundings intently so that later I can write about all the drunk dumbshits within five miles. So my rather subdued behavior ends up being advantageous.What really ends up happening is that I keep it all inside, bottled up and under pressure. And much like a bottle of Brut, once the cork is popped, everything comes pouring out. Sometimes it’s messy and I end up with verbal diarrhea and tell my life story to some unsuspecting friend and other times I try to let a little out at a time so as not to frighten everyone away. And if you were wondering, several glasses of wine might cause things to spill out as well and suddenly I’m telling people about shit that happened in 1995 and apparently I am not over an incident involving my brother, a bike and a pool cue.

God willing, barring any ill winter and something I’ve been trying to keep from discussing due to jinxing it all but I just cannot hold it inside: I will be going to Oklahoma City for a brief vacation. Susan thinks that it is just to drink wine and bask in her presence when in reality so that I can unload all of the shit that has been plaguing me for months and months and months. Thankfully I’m being quite nice to her and writing everything out in list form; that way I know what I want to say and it will keep my thoughts in place. It will be a lovely way to spend the pre-Holiday: Me talking endlessly about myself, because I don’t get to do enough of that already and Susan sitting there possibly bored to death but oh so very happy that someone came to visit her in one of the reddest states in the country. For nothing says “Merry Christmas” like slowly killing the ones you love with loquaciousness.

Arrivals

November 26, 2007 | Filed under: Oh The Stupidity You'll See, Planes trains and automobiles

“I travel a lot; I hate having my life disrupted by routine.” ~Caskie Stinnett

My first trip to Europe was a weeklong visit to Rome to visit friends of mine who were studying abroad. Being beyond giddy about going somewhere that wasn’t Canada, I was full of endorphins upon landing. The rush of the sights and sounds carried me from the airport to Trevi Fountain to my friend’s apartment where I promptly saw a pillow and swore I would have it’s babies if I could just rest my head on it for a few moments. I felt like every fiber of my being, anything holding me upright, was being sucked out of me via my toes and my body was languishing and about to toss itself off the nearest precipice if I didn’t shut my eyes soon.

It seems that my body is a bit of a delicate flower and does not handle time change well. Yet I feel the need to keep pushing and pushing it by pretending that I don’t need to stinkin’ rest. It’s like I’m seven years old again and my bedtime is at 7:30 PM yet I just can’t sleep even though the need is made evident by my repeated thrashings against my bedroom door, but I fear missing out on something exciting by sleeping. Such is the reason for why I thought I was a bad ass my first day in Spain and instead of sleeping, like I so desperately needed, I stayed up until 2 AM learning the hard way that euros are worth more than dollars and drinking sangria. I woke up the next morning in tears and promptly fell out of the shower due to exhaustion and the worst hangover I have ever experienced since the night after my 21st birthday.

Before I left for France I knew that when I got back I would have a 36 hour turn around in NY before going to the west coast to Las Vegas and San Diego. My mind was all “FUCK YEAH!” and my body was all “You are such a dumb bitch. I’ll get you, my pretty.” The initial descent into Sin City was just fine it was the subsequent all-nighter that had me in the fetal position ordering room service for three days straight while everyone else ventured off to Mexico and made light hearted banter over cocktails in the hot tub. I spent four days in San Diego barely able to say my first and last name together. I spent four days known only as Heather from New York. Heather with no last name. I was like fucking Madonna.

Anyway, I’m back now and back into semi-top condition having spent the last week laying in bed or watching Weeds or sitting in my office with the door shut having a ‘moment’. Attempting to recoup several lost hours and days of my life that at this point are nothing but a foggy memory of pictures and sliced words and bits of paper found in my pants pockets. Each one reminding me that I went somewhere new, ate something and from the number of receipts from bars and the perpetual feeling of fuzziness, I’m pretty sure I had a good time.

Departure

November 13, 2007 | Filed under: Planes trains and automobiles, Va-cay-cay-cay

“To get away from one’s working environment is, in a sense, to get away from one’s self; and this is often the chief advantage of travel and change.” ~Charles Horton Cooley

About seven minutes before stepping on the Airtrain to JFK, I decided to check the crackberry for any last minute work email that I might need to respond to. This would probably give one the impression that I am highly important with my office and window and excessive travel and what not, but that’s actually a load of bullshit. The real problem is that I spent several years with a boss who took great pleasure in forcing my first crackberry into my hands and then making me respond to emails at 7 PM on a Saturday night while he was out club hopping in Atlanta and I was sitting in my apartment crying because I knew that by Monday, I’d want to toss myself off the balcony once again. Rinse and repeat for 19 months. Even though my current boss isn’t anywhere close to Stalin-esque I still felt compelled to quickly check one last time even though I am fully aware that nothing good ever comes from checking work email while not at work or about to get on an international flight.

And wouldn’t you know, I checked my email and their blaring, with a little red “read this or else you’ll be unemployed” envelope was a message that forced my blood pressure to sky rocket and my heart to feel as if it were beating out of my chest. An email that sent me reeling into the depths of “Ohmygodi’mgoingtoprisonandtherewillbeorangejumpsuits” type panic and so I replied as calmly as possible after my very well imagined possible threat of handcuffs and Federal prison for not filling out a form and then called my mother breathless because I do NOT look good in orange. And the material the handcuffs would be made from would cause me to break out. My mother told me to calm the fuck down but with gentler language because her tongue would fall out of her mouth if she ever dared use the word ‘fuck’. She soothed me and told me that I was on my way out to France and maybe a xanax or some vodka or throwing my crackberry onto the train tracks would do me some good. I checked my email one more time and noticed a response and was told by my coworker that “it” would be taken care of, not to worry, and why the hell are you checking your email you psychotic bitch? So I turned it off and went to France.

There are a million things I could say about Paris and will need to process over the next few days. Because even though I was only there for five days, it feels like I was a world away and it doesn’t help that I was sick on the way there and that I now am going to the West coast for six days. It will be really great to see my internal clockwork spontaneously combust. At any rate, I always feel this way when I return to Europe for I’m going from a very chill and zen-like while lolling around drinking coffee in the middle of the day and purchasing the softest tights known to woman to being thrust back into the cold cruel world and the soft vibrations of electronic devices every ten minutes.

The plane ride there was superb, I am so very blessed to be one of those people who plops her ass right at her window seat and then falls asleep for seven hours. I’ve seen those people, once or twice, the ones who don’t sleep. Walking up and down the aisles of the main cabin with sunken eyes, staring at the monitor that counts down the miles and hours left until arrival. Their skin gray and slacking and why, God, why are they not wearing shoes? I stare at them and shake my head and fall back into blissful slumber after a double dose of Moet and Cotes du Rhone. That’s what they give you on the way to France, champagne, wine, a baguette and Camembert. It’s like a little foreplay for what you’ll be getting upon touchdown. Like “Oh yeah, you think this is good baby? Wait until you see how I can make you feel once you try the chevre and a crepe with nutella. I’ll have you eating out of the palm of my hand.” Well then, consider me wooed.