It’s 6:20 p.m. and I’m sitting in a wheelchair at the Bob Hope Airport, foot in one of those big boots and crutches nearby. It’s just a bad sprain, nothing broken.
Because I couldn’t walk through the scanner, I got one of those “special” pat-downs. The TSA woman was very pleasant and professional, but after that encounter I think she should buy me dinner.
And the plane is delayed. Sigh. They’re hoping it will leave at 7 p.m. (Original departure time was 4:30 p.m.)
In mid-May I wrote about carelessness in “Inattention can cost you. Ask me how I know.” I noted that it’s important to focus on what you’re doing, lest you do something like break a toe.
Last night I lost focus, and I hurt myself. On vacation. Dammit.
I’ve been in Los Angeles for four days and no one has offered me an avocado. Isn’t this place supposed to be lousy with alligator pears? And yet the only avocado I’ve seen was the guacamole in a Mexican restaurant.
(I politely declined the guac, having changed too many diapers in my time ever to want squishy green stuff on my plate. In fact, my private name for the stuff is caca-mole.)
But it’s definitely southern California: Oranges growing in the back yard of the place I’m house-sitting, lemons and grapefruit growing in the front yards of homes past which I walk my friend’s dog. Pastels everywhere, too.
George Wendt is reported to live a stone’s throw away, and one of George Clooney’s homes (one of them?) is apparently close as well.
The other day I walked the dog past a distinguished-looking older man. “Good afternoon,” I said. The man flinched a little and said, “Hello” in a guarded way that makes me think he’s accustomed to being recognized, and tormented, by fans.
I have no idea who he was. Maybe he wasn’t famous. Maybe he was simply trying to duck a process server.
I returned from my month in Alaska on Monday night. I cleared up accumulated mail and papers, met a Living With Less deadline, did a laundry, had lunch with my sister and then got up at 4:15 a.m. Friday to head back to the airport.
Now I’m house- and dog-sitting for a friend. It’s raining and chilly in Los Angeles. Naturally.
From here I go to Phoenix, where below-freezing temperatures are being reported. Am I being punished? I feel stupid for having packed shorts and light slacks, and even stupider for thinking I’d have a nice warm vacation in either place.