Now that Irene has said good night – and as a topical storm rather than a hurricane – it’s time for everyone to attack the news media for hype and scare tactics.
social interaction
How to complain.
After BlogHer 2011 ended my daughter and I stayed in San Diego for a couple of extra days. I’d used a Travelocity voucher I’d gotten through Eversave to get a decent deal for a hotel in the city’s Gaslamp section.
The conference had been pretty tiring, so we were ready to lie down by the time we showed up for the 3 p.m. check-in. A desk clerk told us it would be another 20 minutes because our room had not been cleaned.
Twenty minutes went by. Abby, who has a chronic health condition, was so fatigued she could barely sit upright. I inquired again. Still not clean, but they’d let us know as soon as something was available.
Another 20 minutes elapsed, during which I saw the clerk have a soft drink and chat with co-workers. What he didn’t do was call housekeeping to ask about the progress of the room. Meanwhile, I was wondering just how big a bitch I needed to be to get this fixed.
Share a pint with someone you don’t know.
A pint of blood, that is. Tuesday, June 14 is World Blood Donor Day 2011. I’m just putting the idea out there, although I don’t expect everyone to rush the bloodmobile van all at once,
In fact, I think you shouldn’t donate tomorrow.
Stamp Out Hunger 2011: Spare a can for your fellow man.
According to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, 50 million people in this country are “food insecure,” i.e., they do not have regular access to adequate nutrition. More than 17 million of them are children.
You can help, at least a little.
The cougar in spite of herself.
I brought a cold and/or upper-respiratory bug from Cornwall to London. (Should have stuck with postcards, huh?) It worsened the next day so I decided to go to bed early rather than see “War Horse.” The virus had chewed its way into my bones.
Fortunately I’d packed some cold meds. A paranoid traveler is a prepared traveler, as well as a traveler who doesn’t have to go out in search of a pharmacy when she’s feeling like homemade shit.
As I crept along the hostel hallway I saw some young dude using a cell phone. He hung up and said, “Hallo, how are you doing?” Couldn’t place his accent or his provenance.
I replied,“I’m sick and I’m going to bed” and kept moving.
He followed me. “You are sick? What’s wrong?”
“A cold.” I coughed to punctuate/demonstrate. “Good night.”
“You should take a shower,” he said.
That sounded odd to me but I shrugged it off. “Maybe later.” As I pushed the heavy door open I saw the light I’d left on was now out. Apparently my roomies were early-to-bed types, too. So I opened the door as little as possible to keep out the hallway glare and slipped through the narrow space.
And the guy tried to follow me in.
The Underground tried to eat me! And other shocking travel tales.
When the Megabus from Cardiff dropped me off last week, I headed toward Victoria Station and found myself trudging along in lockstep with thousands of Underground commuters. I followed the crowd into the subway car, carrying my suitcase in front of me. Then people stopped moving. I could see there was room elsewhere in the car, but apparently these folks liked being close to the doors.
“Excuse me, could I get by?” I said.
No one moved.
“I’m not quite in, please let me get by,” I said, louder.
This was met with a peculiarly British inertia. People looked at advertising placards, or their shoes. A few looked at their cell phones, as though scanning texts. Nobody looked at the tired American tourist who was carrying way too much baggage. (Physical, not emotional.)
Then the doors shut on me.
Walking around in your underpants: Sometimes it’s good to be single.
The blogger at the The Quest for $85,000 is about to become an empty nester. Her son’s set to move out soon, which means all four fledglings will officially be launched.
It will be odd, she muses, to live “on my own terms again without worrying about the impact my choices will make on impressionable lives.”
Quest: You don’t know the half of it. For starters, you’ll be able to walk around in your skivvies without giving your progeny a sight they can’t un-see.
2011, in one word.
A number of bloggers have chosen words that represent what they want the year to bring.
Here’s my word: Permission.
Here’s why.
Limping toward Phoenix.
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.)
Live from L.A.: Gelato, funny signs, undercover celebs.
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.