The Bomb Bag
The travel curse comes in small, medium and large sizes. And on some occasions, super-sized. I’m never quite sure when I travel, which travel happy meal I’ve ordered, and it’s not typically until I’m at home and can finally reflect on my trips, that I can classify what falls where.
Only super-duper, “you’ve got to be kidding me” curses fall under the Super Sized category. Like when I actually, truthfully, got on the wrong airplane and flew to Madison, WI instead of Houston, TX. Imagine my surprise when we landed only 45 minutes after take-off! Or how about the time when I got stuck on a runway for four hours, to turn around, go back to gate and subsequently find out they gave another passenger my first class seat…on the same flight apparently to no where. And when I complained, “Missy – one more word out of you and I’m calling security!” Or finding out on my way to Florida that we were being denied boarding because Delaney was on the no-fly list.
Which brings me to a recent trip to Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, or more importantly one of two cursed hubs that I fly between. It all started out relatively calm. Well, I suppose I should know better. My flight landed on time, my first set of meetings went without a hitch, which only meant the travel gods had a good one in store for me.
After leaving the confines of the Sofitel and catching a cab in Philly to the train station, it appears that I had picked up the cab driver who either was sidelining as a suicide driver, or was gunning for the world record of how long he could stay awake. I should have gotten out of the cab when he almost, literally, hit a pedestrian crossing the street. Both the man he almost hit, and myself managed to lock eyes with a look of, “Help!” But no, it was too early, I was too tired and the train station was only 5 blocks from the hotel.
As we’re pulling up to the train station, I reach down into my purse (also known as the black hole of every scrap of paper less than 3” square) to find the small fortune it costs to go a mere few blocks. And after the squeal of screeching tires, foreign language cursing and shattered glass, I found myself in a small heap in the seat well of the taxi. It’s true, my taxi driver had chosen apparently to maximize every last mile on the trip and step on the gas, instead of slowing down and stopping at the train station. I made quite the entry, and unfortunately, there were no red carpets, lights or camera for my grand entrance. I believe I literally said as I hobbled out of the car to find a policeman, “And I’m not paying for that ride!” Ah, such clarity of thought, huh?
Well, in normal circumstances, a taxi ride accident would only qualify as a large-sized travel curse. The combination of the taxi ride, and my subsequent return flight home, more than qualifies as “super-size” material, and definitely ranks as one of the top five travel curses of all time.
I have to do a side story here for a minute. My husband Dave and I are both independent, stubborn, and occasionally share things. For example, we both have the same eye prescription and share contacts and glasses. We share a glass of wine when the kids are in bed. We share the same work title, the same birthday month, the same kids. We used to even share the same car when we were a one car family. And the one oddity that we share – yes, we share one rollerbag. It’s strange, it’s weird, I don’t even understand it. The theory, being of course, is that we should never both be out of town at the same time, why get two rollerbags? And so it goes, that while we both travel extensively for our jobs, we rotate the one black rollerbag between us.
Back to our regularly scheduled program, and on with my story. After limping along after my taxi ride from hell, getting to Harrisburg, PA in one piece, returning back to Philly to catch a flight home, I landed the equivalent of the TSA lottery – the dreaded SSSS, which stands for “Secondary Security Screening Selection.” In other words, bend over, strip down, let the magic wand, paper wipes and TSA agent feel you, your bag, and other belongings in front of dozens of other happy travelers.
Myself and another gentleman were having our bags scanned. Have you ever had them wipe the inside of your bag with the “baby wipe held with tongs” to be processed on an itty-bitty machine? I often wondered if that machine actually picked up something, or if it was really a teleprompter for the TSA agents, “Don’t touch your bag.” “Hands up, palms down.” “I’m going to pat your front, is that okay?” (Umm…do I actually have a choice?”) You get my drift. Well, wouldn’t you know it, the poor guy next to me clearly had all the bells and whistles go off. The blinking red lights, the silent alarm, the knowing glance of the agents, “Oh, one of those.” And as I was looking the poor soul up and down, in the corner of my eye, I see multiple agents gathered around my bag inspecting every last item in there. Why are they holding up my underwear and scanning it? Those TSA’s are perverts, I knew it! Crap – it wasn’t the old guy’s bag next to me, it was my bag!
No sooner did my internal panic button go off, than I noticed some very official looking men headed my direction with clipboard, pen and stern faces. Ugh, I’m screwed. I had vague recollections of Dave using the roller briefcase (yes, one more thing we share), and filling it with the contents of his desk including a box cutter, glue stick and string. That was an experience in Florida at the security line. Or how about when the TSA agent literally ran after me in the Philly corridor because they failed to fill out the proper paperwork for me? (I forgot my license at home).
“M’am, we’d like to ask you a couple of questions.” Great – they’re calling me M’am, just like the 16-year old bag boy at Jewel. I feel older than 39, but like a kid caught with my hand in the cookie jar. “Can you tell me the last place you’ve used this bag?” Crap…where did Dave go, where did he go? Crap – I don’t remember. Ah, let me just tell them the truth. “Well, it’s not really my bag.” S***. Wrong answer. Lesson #1 – Never tell a TSA agent that it’s not your bag, when it has all of your stuff in it. That will get you nowhere. “Excuse me, it’s not your bag? Did you know that this bag has not passed the bomb inspection?” Clearly now, they have moved over the “If they answer B, go to questions C through Z” which meant another 45 minutes of questioning. Lesson #2 – Sometimes, it’s okay to have the small white lie and not air your dirty laundry about sharing a rollerbag with your husband. “Let me get this straight, you and your husband share the same suitcase? Do you happen to know where your husband traveled last?” “Umm, not really, I think maybe he went to California last week…or was it Detroit. I don’t really know.” Lesson #3 – back to that white lie thing, just make something up. Now it looks like Dave and I don’t talk – which is true some of the time, but the reality is, neither of us rarely remembers where the other flew to. Hard to believe, but true. “I’m thinking California because there’s a Pebble Beach golf hat in the front pocket.” Hah – I’m on a roll now! “Do you think he went golfing?” “Duh, didn’t I say he left his golf hat in the front pocket of the suitcase?” And so it was, the TSA believed that not only did Dave leave his golf hat in the front pocket, but also a piece of Pebble Beach with him in the bag. To the best of our knowledge, Dave wore his golf shoes, picked up some fertilizer with his shoes, packed the shoes in the bag, took the shoes out, but managed to leave the fertilizer in the bag, thus creating, “The Bomb Bag.”
So it goes that I’m now on the hunt for the most girly looking travel bag that Dave would be horrified to use, ending the decade long sharing theory behind the single travel bag. And this my friends, would indeed be classified as a Super-Sized, I can’t believe it, travel curse.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Travel Curse - Her name is Fay
The Travel Curse – Her Name is Fay
I amazingly had an uneventful trip to Philly last week – so smooth it was actually proclaimed by co-workers in my office that perhaps I had kicked the Travel Curse. Of course, I knew that it only meant the calm before the ‘storm’ and a smooth trip only means the curse accidentally fell asleep and once the travel gods are woken up, beware!
The case in point, please note my e-mail string to my client in Florida below:
07/24/2008 12:53 PM
Subject: Boca meeting
Su;
Can you give me some specific dates w/o 8/11, 8/18 or 8/25 that work for you.
Bill
Here’s my response to Bill:
07/24/2008 02:06 PM
Subject Re: Boca meeting
Bill,
Alright, here's my availability:
8/12 p.m. - 8/14 a.m.8/19 p.m. - 8/21 a.m.
I am not available the following week.
As hurricane season is upon us, I highly suggest making sure you have appropriate flood and "act of God" insurance on hand, as it's highly likely any travel by me during this period will make the travel gods restless.
Su
And so with the above e-mail, we scheduled that ever important planning meeting for August 20th and 21st and by so doing, tempted the travel gods to whip up a storm, after all, I ‘kicked’ the travel curse according to my boss! Read today’s e-mail:
08/18/2008 11:50 AM
Subject Re: Boca meeting
Bill,
As predicted on my e-mail dated 7/24, making plans during Hurricane season to come visit the fine folks at your company has made the travel gods restless, and in turn, they have churned up a nice little storm named Fay. Terri reminded me this morning, as other people in the office that knew I was traveling, that Fay only exists due to my impending travel to Boca. In addition, United is now on my case with notes of "Reschedule without Penalty", "Waivers available", "Avoid Florida at all costs between 8/18 - 8/21". In order to save the citizens of Florida, and more specifically my friends at your company, I believe it's in my best interest to reschedule our meetings for Thursday. As luck would have it, I could probably get there and then be stranded, or end up in the black hole of the travel curse never to be seen again. By rescheduling our meeting, I believe I am giving you the best opportunity to have Fay die at sea before it hits land, in which case, you can personally thank me in September.
Thanks,Su
P.S. If there was a Travel Curse Olympics, I would definitely medal, if not win gold.
So there you have, proof to some that even the thought of flying sends the travel gods in a tizzy. I highly suspect that by simply averting the potential curse and canceling my trip, the travel gods will have a ‘special’ trip planned for me next time.
On a side note – Dave and I were discussing the merits of Michael Phelps, the Olympics, and who is truly the greatest athlete ever. While arguably Michael Phelps can not only swim, he can also breathe like a bull frog, eat like a champion chicken wing eater and likely run laps around me while I sit on the couch training for my 2-person Luge Olympic moment. I believe the best way to determine who the best athlete is to create the “Olympic Shuffle”. While you are entitled to enter the Olympics in your chosen field, you are also subject to compete in unrelated events to find out who is truly the best athlete by luck of the draw. Just think, the Equestrian rider jumping hurdles on land instead of on a horse. The swimmer trying their hand at Table Tennis. The volleyball player holding a sword fencing instead of a volleyball spiking. Let’s get one of those Jamaican sprinters to use their speed and run towards a gymnastics vaulting event. How about the “barely 14” gymnasts trying their hand at the high flying stakes of basketball. More like Bitty Basketball. The list goes on and on. I truly believe that if each athlete performed in a series of events they never trained for, it might actually be an interesting Olympiad. Either that, or let’s include animals in the Olympics. For example, how about giving the Pigeon a medal for surviving a round of Pigeon Shooting. I suppose there is good reason I publish cookbooks and not the Olympics.
I amazingly had an uneventful trip to Philly last week – so smooth it was actually proclaimed by co-workers in my office that perhaps I had kicked the Travel Curse. Of course, I knew that it only meant the calm before the ‘storm’ and a smooth trip only means the curse accidentally fell asleep and once the travel gods are woken up, beware!
The case in point, please note my e-mail string to my client in Florida below:
07/24/2008 12:53 PM
Subject: Boca meeting
Su;
Can you give me some specific dates w/o 8/11, 8/18 or 8/25 that work for you.
Bill
Here’s my response to Bill:
07/24/2008 02:06 PM
Subject Re: Boca meeting
Bill,
Alright, here's my availability:
8/12 p.m. - 8/14 a.m.8/19 p.m. - 8/21 a.m.
I am not available the following week.
As hurricane season is upon us, I highly suggest making sure you have appropriate flood and "act of God" insurance on hand, as it's highly likely any travel by me during this period will make the travel gods restless.
Su
And so with the above e-mail, we scheduled that ever important planning meeting for August 20th and 21st and by so doing, tempted the travel gods to whip up a storm, after all, I ‘kicked’ the travel curse according to my boss! Read today’s e-mail:
08/18/2008 11:50 AM
Subject Re: Boca meeting
Bill,
As predicted on my e-mail dated 7/24, making plans during Hurricane season to come visit the fine folks at your company has made the travel gods restless, and in turn, they have churned up a nice little storm named Fay. Terri reminded me this morning, as other people in the office that knew I was traveling, that Fay only exists due to my impending travel to Boca. In addition, United is now on my case with notes of "Reschedule without Penalty", "Waivers available", "Avoid Florida at all costs between 8/18 - 8/21". In order to save the citizens of Florida, and more specifically my friends at your company, I believe it's in my best interest to reschedule our meetings for Thursday. As luck would have it, I could probably get there and then be stranded, or end up in the black hole of the travel curse never to be seen again. By rescheduling our meeting, I believe I am giving you the best opportunity to have Fay die at sea before it hits land, in which case, you can personally thank me in September.
Thanks,Su
P.S. If there was a Travel Curse Olympics, I would definitely medal, if not win gold.
So there you have, proof to some that even the thought of flying sends the travel gods in a tizzy. I highly suspect that by simply averting the potential curse and canceling my trip, the travel gods will have a ‘special’ trip planned for me next time.
On a side note – Dave and I were discussing the merits of Michael Phelps, the Olympics, and who is truly the greatest athlete ever. While arguably Michael Phelps can not only swim, he can also breathe like a bull frog, eat like a champion chicken wing eater and likely run laps around me while I sit on the couch training for my 2-person Luge Olympic moment. I believe the best way to determine who the best athlete is to create the “Olympic Shuffle”. While you are entitled to enter the Olympics in your chosen field, you are also subject to compete in unrelated events to find out who is truly the best athlete by luck of the draw. Just think, the Equestrian rider jumping hurdles on land instead of on a horse. The swimmer trying their hand at Table Tennis. The volleyball player holding a sword fencing instead of a volleyball spiking. Let’s get one of those Jamaican sprinters to use their speed and run towards a gymnastics vaulting event. How about the “barely 14” gymnasts trying their hand at the high flying stakes of basketball. More like Bitty Basketball. The list goes on and on. I truly believe that if each athlete performed in a series of events they never trained for, it might actually be an interesting Olympiad. Either that, or let’s include animals in the Olympics. For example, how about giving the Pigeon a medal for surviving a round of Pigeon Shooting. I suppose there is good reason I publish cookbooks and not the Olympics.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
E-Mail Updates
** Hey, check it out. I am motoring down the Blogger Superhighway in my White Ford Bronco - yes, I learned how to add the e-mail subscription widget. Now you don't have to hunt for the URL, stay up late at night wondering when I'll post - just subscribe and let the power of the Internet come to you! **
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Olympics
** I try to write 2-3 times a week, sometimes more, sometimes less. This week would have qualified for the 'less', but no need to fear, the Travel Curse is near! I travel on Wednesday, so I'm fairly certain that I will have an up-to-the-date minute blog posting on my travel curse, and if not, I still have 4-5 blog postings in my archive to post. Enjoy! **
The Olympics
I write this evening’s post while watching the Olympics, which is an every-four-year kick in the butt to remind myself that at heart, I’m a truly lazy person. I mean, really – Dana Tores, 41 years old. Some German gymnast who is competing at 33. And me, I’m in the Travel Curse Olympics at best, with barely the energy or stamina to even make it through the four hours of Olympic coverage each evening. Yes, it’s true, I couldn’t even medal in the Couch Potato Olympics.
I’ve always wondered what Olympic sport I could still potentially train for and possibly be an “Olympic Hopeful”. It’s a goal worth hitting before the big 4-0, but the reality is, there are few sports in which lazy, working moms with no energy and no time could possibly excel in, let alone medal in. I’ve investigated relatively obscure sports that I might have a genetic advantage. Take Table Tennis – mostly excelled by Asians. Being half Asian, that at least gives me a 50% advantage over my pasty, American counterpart, right? What about the under appreciated, and now defunct Pigeon Shooting Olympic sport? Surely living in Chicago, with our overpopulation of rats and pigeons would give me a leg up than my neighbors in Wisconsin that would only hope for a Cheese Curd Olympic sport.
I realized that I have found my possible Olympic calling while watching the gymnast twist their bodies into pretzel shapes (which, clearly, my 39 year way-too-old-body will not do) – it’s a winter sport, which gives me two years to investigate and figure it out…drum roll please – I want to be part of the two-person luge. Primarily, the person on the bottom. Let’s think about this for a minute, what exactly does the person on the bottom do, except provide a cushion for the person on the top? If I recall, the person on the top does the steering, which once again leads us to the question of what does the person on the bottom do? A little flapping of the arms upon take-off (hey, I can just imagine my three kids running after me, and you can better believe that I’ll be the faster arm-flapper luger around) and then providing a cushion of support during the race. I’ve had three kids – my mid-section is very squishy and definitely not your “abs of steel” that would make a very nice, pillow-top like mattress feel for the luge-person actually on top trying to steer the sled. I think I have found my calling…except, who knew, I already had my Olympic moment.
It’s true, I have participated in an Olympic sport when I was 16. While my counterparts were admiring the strength, agility and super-watt smile of Mary Lou Retton, I was preparing for my own Olympic calling. My parents saw my talent early on and insured that I honed my skill in my ‘sport’ by doing such extracurricular activities as playing the piano, drawing, and playing the clarinet. A little reading also helped. I know you’re wondering, what Olympic sport could these possible skills entail outside of the Asian-geek Olympics? (Which by the way, I would have won in my youth)
Just remember, some Olympic sports carry on into your life in ways that you wouldn’t suspect. I’m sure those Olympic gymnasts are still flexible when they’re 40 – that’s cool. Or the Table Tennis Olympian can crush you during your after dinner party. But my Olympic sport allows me to write this blog in no time flat, create presentations in minutes, and write memos with ease. Yes, it’s true, I was part of the TYPING OLYMPICS when I was 16.
I’m sure you are shaking your head, ‘you were what?’ First of all, I am completely dating myself to even say that my life at one point involved typing on a typewriter instead of a computer. But early on, I was a fast typer. It was all those years of piano lessons that made me type faster than Ollie North’s secretary and your local court reporter. More than 100 words per minute, who knew that the geeky half-Vietnamese school girl was an Olympic hopeful in the making? Unfortunately, just prior to the Typing Olympics, I suffered a set-back. All of that piano playing and dexterity I showed with my 10 fingers caused a stress injury that set me back under 100 words a minute. And as such, while I competed, I did not medal and only received a certificate of recognition for my efforts to keep alive a dinosaur…the typewriter. And for those that think I’m joking – I’m really not. I believe Brother was the sponsor of the Olympics, I’m sure a brand-spanking new typewriter was likely one of the medal prizes, but alas, I went on to own an Apple instead and my life as a late blooming blogger was born on the keyboard of a computer, not a typewriter. I recall being recognized in my typing class for “representing the school and the state of Illinois in the Typing Olympics” but alas, it would take great effort to find my award and any photos from my day of being an Olympic Hopeful.
I am optimistic that one day the official Olympics can incorporate mundane office assignments into the roster of the Olympics. What could be better than “Memo Taking”, “ Copy This!” and “Boss Suck Up” to know that you too, can be an Olympic athlete. I believe it takes more endurance, patience, and training to succeed in any Office Olympic sport, and as such, I propose a petition to include some of these sports to be added into the next summer or winter Olympics.
The Olympics
I write this evening’s post while watching the Olympics, which is an every-four-year kick in the butt to remind myself that at heart, I’m a truly lazy person. I mean, really – Dana Tores, 41 years old. Some German gymnast who is competing at 33. And me, I’m in the Travel Curse Olympics at best, with barely the energy or stamina to even make it through the four hours of Olympic coverage each evening. Yes, it’s true, I couldn’t even medal in the Couch Potato Olympics.
I’ve always wondered what Olympic sport I could still potentially train for and possibly be an “Olympic Hopeful”. It’s a goal worth hitting before the big 4-0, but the reality is, there are few sports in which lazy, working moms with no energy and no time could possibly excel in, let alone medal in. I’ve investigated relatively obscure sports that I might have a genetic advantage. Take Table Tennis – mostly excelled by Asians. Being half Asian, that at least gives me a 50% advantage over my pasty, American counterpart, right? What about the under appreciated, and now defunct Pigeon Shooting Olympic sport? Surely living in Chicago, with our overpopulation of rats and pigeons would give me a leg up than my neighbors in Wisconsin that would only hope for a Cheese Curd Olympic sport.
I realized that I have found my possible Olympic calling while watching the gymnast twist their bodies into pretzel shapes (which, clearly, my 39 year way-too-old-body will not do) – it’s a winter sport, which gives me two years to investigate and figure it out…drum roll please – I want to be part of the two-person luge. Primarily, the person on the bottom. Let’s think about this for a minute, what exactly does the person on the bottom do, except provide a cushion for the person on the top? If I recall, the person on the top does the steering, which once again leads us to the question of what does the person on the bottom do? A little flapping of the arms upon take-off (hey, I can just imagine my three kids running after me, and you can better believe that I’ll be the faster arm-flapper luger around) and then providing a cushion of support during the race. I’ve had three kids – my mid-section is very squishy and definitely not your “abs of steel” that would make a very nice, pillow-top like mattress feel for the luge-person actually on top trying to steer the sled. I think I have found my calling…except, who knew, I already had my Olympic moment.
It’s true, I have participated in an Olympic sport when I was 16. While my counterparts were admiring the strength, agility and super-watt smile of Mary Lou Retton, I was preparing for my own Olympic calling. My parents saw my talent early on and insured that I honed my skill in my ‘sport’ by doing such extracurricular activities as playing the piano, drawing, and playing the clarinet. A little reading also helped. I know you’re wondering, what Olympic sport could these possible skills entail outside of the Asian-geek Olympics? (Which by the way, I would have won in my youth)
Just remember, some Olympic sports carry on into your life in ways that you wouldn’t suspect. I’m sure those Olympic gymnasts are still flexible when they’re 40 – that’s cool. Or the Table Tennis Olympian can crush you during your after dinner party. But my Olympic sport allows me to write this blog in no time flat, create presentations in minutes, and write memos with ease. Yes, it’s true, I was part of the TYPING OLYMPICS when I was 16.
I’m sure you are shaking your head, ‘you were what?’ First of all, I am completely dating myself to even say that my life at one point involved typing on a typewriter instead of a computer. But early on, I was a fast typer. It was all those years of piano lessons that made me type faster than Ollie North’s secretary and your local court reporter. More than 100 words per minute, who knew that the geeky half-Vietnamese school girl was an Olympic hopeful in the making? Unfortunately, just prior to the Typing Olympics, I suffered a set-back. All of that piano playing and dexterity I showed with my 10 fingers caused a stress injury that set me back under 100 words a minute. And as such, while I competed, I did not medal and only received a certificate of recognition for my efforts to keep alive a dinosaur…the typewriter. And for those that think I’m joking – I’m really not. I believe Brother was the sponsor of the Olympics, I’m sure a brand-spanking new typewriter was likely one of the medal prizes, but alas, I went on to own an Apple instead and my life as a late blooming blogger was born on the keyboard of a computer, not a typewriter. I recall being recognized in my typing class for “representing the school and the state of Illinois in the Typing Olympics” but alas, it would take great effort to find my award and any photos from my day of being an Olympic Hopeful.
I am optimistic that one day the official Olympics can incorporate mundane office assignments into the roster of the Olympics. What could be better than “Memo Taking”, “ Copy This!” and “Boss Suck Up” to know that you too, can be an Olympic athlete. I believe it takes more endurance, patience, and training to succeed in any Office Olympic sport, and as such, I propose a petition to include some of these sports to be added into the next summer or winter Olympics.
Monday, August 4, 2008
The Tornado Watch
** My blog is a bit like a newsstand tabloid - when newsbreaking stories hit, you backburner those previous blog postings you wanted to post. And yes, I'm 4-5 posts behind - a few more glasses of wine, peaceful evenings where I can write and you too can read about The Bomb Bag, The Travel Curse Taxi Style, The Travel Curse Again, etc. Tonight, that would be newsbreaking story - not as cool as Angelina having twins, but chaotic none the less. Enjoy! **
The Tornado Watch
Most people embrace each day with a smile and hope for the best that life will bring them. While I share in this optimistic view of life, the truth is instead of embracing each day, I usually brace for my day steeling my nerves and readying myself for the inevitable chaos that will ensue. Today was no exception.
This evening, as a family fun outing, we planned a Cubs game to see our beloved Cubbies play hard towards the hope of a World Series title. The game started at 6:08 p.m., thanks to ESPN, and of course, I was running late home from work…with the tickets. Once I arrived home, Dave and the kids were packed up and ready to go, complete with mitts (in case of a foul ball), healthy snacks (to counter the cotton candy they would be eating) and tickets to awesome seats where we could yell out to the players and they could actually hear us.
The benefits of living one block from Wrigley Field are numerous. We can hear the ballgame from inside our house, with the windows closed. We can set up a lemonade stand for the kids and make $50 (although Delaney last week asked if she could sell beer instead, she thought she could make more money – unfortunately all of her profits would have gone towards her bail). We can sell parking spots and let the kids earn extra money. The list goes on and on. The biggest benefit of living close to the Field, however, is when we are at a game. The typical plan is we take the kids to the game, and once one or more of the kids start to freak out, I take them home leaving Dave, his beer, and the Cubs to enjoy the rest of the game.
This evening, during the top of the 5th inning, Max started rumbling of wanting to go home. OK, he actually had to go to the bathroom, but none the less, “I want to go home!” was heard around the ballpark. Looking for an excuse to leave the chaos of the game and go home to some peace and quiet, I quickly volunteered to find the next pedi-cab to take me the one block home (alright, truth is, I’m lazy – or, I think having a guy ride me home on a bike is pretty cool, one of the two). Just as we were pulling in to our home, the heavens opened and the rain poured down. I’m sure airplane passengers everywhere were wondering if I was flying and thus the reason for the storms. What can I say, not today.
After 15 minutes behind me, Dave, Delaney and Jack come racing home soaking wet, leaving my brother in law Mike, and his fiancé Lindsay, at the game. As Dave said, “We don’t do rain delays – we wait those out at home.” And so we began to settle in for a early evening, a bottle of wine, and most importantly, my just delivered People magazine with Brangelina and the twins on the cover. Yippee! I had settled in to reading my 19-page spread of the Lady who lived in a Shoe, aka, Angelina, when we heard the most peculiar sound.
“Su – do you hear what I hear?” “I think I do – it’s either the party siren or we have a tornado barreling down on us.” “Get the kids, go to the basement.” “Right-o, I’ll run upstairs and see if I can snatch them away from the entertainment of SpongeBob Squarepants.” “Kids – to the basement…I think. I can’t remember what I learned in 4th grade about tornados. But I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to be in the basement.” Let see, flooding – go to the top floor. Earthquake – stand between a door. Snowstorm – pile on the fleece and dress in layers. Tornado – bottom floor? Basement? Get away from the mobile homes? Crap – I don’t remember! “Delaney, quick – what did you learn in 3rd grade about tornados? Or is that 5th? Are you smarter than a 5th grader?” “Mommy, go to the basement, and wait 20 minutes after the tornado comes to make sure we’re safe.” “OK, RUN to the basement! Go to the bedroom down there, I’ll protect you…after I get a few things.”
So, after the kids make their way to the protection of a mattress in an interior room (heard that was important), I run to grab a few things while Dave either opens or closes the windows, I still don’t remember what you’re supposed to do with the windows and frankly, I wasn’t paying attention.
While the kids were huddled on the bed, and we were listening to the AM radio, it felt a bit like Y2K. Remember that? The earth was supposed to implode, but I was ready with my cans of baked beans, water bottles and duct tape. Frankly, I could have sold that duct tape to the airlines for the work they did on the broken nose gear. Anyway, as I’m listening to the radio, I hear them say, “Go to the basement and put your hands on your head.” I look over and what are my kids doing, yep, they have their hands on their head. “Mommy – PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!” “But guys, if my hands are on my head, I can’t reach my glass of wine and I’m really thirsty!” Then I hear Delaney say, “I don’t feel so good.” Great, it’s a freaking tornado and Delaney has Tornadoitis. For all those medical types that are reading this, don’t pretend you don’t know what Tornadoitis is. It’s the immense fear of Tornados that makes you sick to your stomach. Yes, you guessed it – my precious, sweet daughter Delaney decided at that moment to throw up the contents of Wrigley Field concessions - the hot dog, malted chocolate ice cream, cotton candy, peanuts...and the carrots that Dave packed. UGH! Throw-up cleaning supplies were not on my list of Tornado-prepardeness!
I’m sure as you are reading this you are beginning to wonder where Dave is. I, too, was beginning to wonder where Dave was. “Dave, where are you? If we’re going to die, could you at least come down here and join us?” “I was thinking I would stay by the door and just in case Cubs fans needed a basement to run to, we could let them in.” O.K., in theory, nice. In reality, come on! This is not the Titantic, all I need is 35,000 screaming Cubs fans in my basement. I already have one puking kid, I don’t need more! “Dave, umm…, I think that’s a bad idea. Not a big fan of throwing a party right now. I only have one bottle of wine and it has my name on it.”
And I’m sure many of you are wondering what is in my Tornado-prepardness-kit. Frankly, I was working by the seat of my pants, so I only took the things that were important to me:
· Kids - Dave clearly was more concerned about helping his fellow baseball loving pal
· Bottle of wine - hey, I might get thirsty, and I had just opened it
· Jill’s Orzo Pasta Salad – yum, it’s really good, even better on the second day
· Computer – constant access to all things important like weather.com
· Cell Phone – my new iPhone did me no good as I got no reception in the basement
· New People Magazine – hey, if I’m going to die, I want to know what those twins look like!
That’s it. That’s what I took to sweat through the tears and fears of my first siren-blasting Tornado Warning in the city. Completely pathetic, but I know some of you girls out there are thinking I had the making of a nice night in. Mike and Lindsay took shelter at the stadium, in which they locked the gates. First time in 40 years. Dave held firm by the door and popped his head downstairs occasionally to make sure we were okay. And now? Well, the kids are asleep on the 2nd floor and we have started our flood preparations – moving everything off the floors, saving the Wii and all other important items in our basement. While many times I feel like Old Mother Hubbard who lived in a Shoe, days like today, I feel a bit more Noah’s wife while we wait out the storm.
The Tornado Watch
Most people embrace each day with a smile and hope for the best that life will bring them. While I share in this optimistic view of life, the truth is instead of embracing each day, I usually brace for my day steeling my nerves and readying myself for the inevitable chaos that will ensue. Today was no exception.
This evening, as a family fun outing, we planned a Cubs game to see our beloved Cubbies play hard towards the hope of a World Series title. The game started at 6:08 p.m., thanks to ESPN, and of course, I was running late home from work…with the tickets. Once I arrived home, Dave and the kids were packed up and ready to go, complete with mitts (in case of a foul ball), healthy snacks (to counter the cotton candy they would be eating) and tickets to awesome seats where we could yell out to the players and they could actually hear us.
The benefits of living one block from Wrigley Field are numerous. We can hear the ballgame from inside our house, with the windows closed. We can set up a lemonade stand for the kids and make $50 (although Delaney last week asked if she could sell beer instead, she thought she could make more money – unfortunately all of her profits would have gone towards her bail). We can sell parking spots and let the kids earn extra money. The list goes on and on. The biggest benefit of living close to the Field, however, is when we are at a game. The typical plan is we take the kids to the game, and once one or more of the kids start to freak out, I take them home leaving Dave, his beer, and the Cubs to enjoy the rest of the game.
This evening, during the top of the 5th inning, Max started rumbling of wanting to go home. OK, he actually had to go to the bathroom, but none the less, “I want to go home!” was heard around the ballpark. Looking for an excuse to leave the chaos of the game and go home to some peace and quiet, I quickly volunteered to find the next pedi-cab to take me the one block home (alright, truth is, I’m lazy – or, I think having a guy ride me home on a bike is pretty cool, one of the two). Just as we were pulling in to our home, the heavens opened and the rain poured down. I’m sure airplane passengers everywhere were wondering if I was flying and thus the reason for the storms. What can I say, not today.
After 15 minutes behind me, Dave, Delaney and Jack come racing home soaking wet, leaving my brother in law Mike, and his fiancé Lindsay, at the game. As Dave said, “We don’t do rain delays – we wait those out at home.” And so we began to settle in for a early evening, a bottle of wine, and most importantly, my just delivered People magazine with Brangelina and the twins on the cover. Yippee! I had settled in to reading my 19-page spread of the Lady who lived in a Shoe, aka, Angelina, when we heard the most peculiar sound.
“Su – do you hear what I hear?” “I think I do – it’s either the party siren or we have a tornado barreling down on us.” “Get the kids, go to the basement.” “Right-o, I’ll run upstairs and see if I can snatch them away from the entertainment of SpongeBob Squarepants.” “Kids – to the basement…I think. I can’t remember what I learned in 4th grade about tornados. But I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to be in the basement.” Let see, flooding – go to the top floor. Earthquake – stand between a door. Snowstorm – pile on the fleece and dress in layers. Tornado – bottom floor? Basement? Get away from the mobile homes? Crap – I don’t remember! “Delaney, quick – what did you learn in 3rd grade about tornados? Or is that 5th? Are you smarter than a 5th grader?” “Mommy, go to the basement, and wait 20 minutes after the tornado comes to make sure we’re safe.” “OK, RUN to the basement! Go to the bedroom down there, I’ll protect you…after I get a few things.”
So, after the kids make their way to the protection of a mattress in an interior room (heard that was important), I run to grab a few things while Dave either opens or closes the windows, I still don’t remember what you’re supposed to do with the windows and frankly, I wasn’t paying attention.
While the kids were huddled on the bed, and we were listening to the AM radio, it felt a bit like Y2K. Remember that? The earth was supposed to implode, but I was ready with my cans of baked beans, water bottles and duct tape. Frankly, I could have sold that duct tape to the airlines for the work they did on the broken nose gear. Anyway, as I’m listening to the radio, I hear them say, “Go to the basement and put your hands on your head.” I look over and what are my kids doing, yep, they have their hands on their head. “Mommy – PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!” “But guys, if my hands are on my head, I can’t reach my glass of wine and I’m really thirsty!” Then I hear Delaney say, “I don’t feel so good.” Great, it’s a freaking tornado and Delaney has Tornadoitis. For all those medical types that are reading this, don’t pretend you don’t know what Tornadoitis is. It’s the immense fear of Tornados that makes you sick to your stomach. Yes, you guessed it – my precious, sweet daughter Delaney decided at that moment to throw up the contents of Wrigley Field concessions - the hot dog, malted chocolate ice cream, cotton candy, peanuts...and the carrots that Dave packed. UGH! Throw-up cleaning supplies were not on my list of Tornado-prepardeness!
I’m sure as you are reading this you are beginning to wonder where Dave is. I, too, was beginning to wonder where Dave was. “Dave, where are you? If we’re going to die, could you at least come down here and join us?” “I was thinking I would stay by the door and just in case Cubs fans needed a basement to run to, we could let them in.” O.K., in theory, nice. In reality, come on! This is not the Titantic, all I need is 35,000 screaming Cubs fans in my basement. I already have one puking kid, I don’t need more! “Dave, umm…, I think that’s a bad idea. Not a big fan of throwing a party right now. I only have one bottle of wine and it has my name on it.”
And I’m sure many of you are wondering what is in my Tornado-prepardness-kit. Frankly, I was working by the seat of my pants, so I only took the things that were important to me:
· Kids - Dave clearly was more concerned about helping his fellow baseball loving pal
· Bottle of wine - hey, I might get thirsty, and I had just opened it
· Jill’s Orzo Pasta Salad – yum, it’s really good, even better on the second day
· Computer – constant access to all things important like weather.com
· Cell Phone – my new iPhone did me no good as I got no reception in the basement
· New People Magazine – hey, if I’m going to die, I want to know what those twins look like!
That’s it. That’s what I took to sweat through the tears and fears of my first siren-blasting Tornado Warning in the city. Completely pathetic, but I know some of you girls out there are thinking I had the making of a nice night in. Mike and Lindsay took shelter at the stadium, in which they locked the gates. First time in 40 years. Dave held firm by the door and popped his head downstairs occasionally to make sure we were okay. And now? Well, the kids are asleep on the 2nd floor and we have started our flood preparations – moving everything off the floors, saving the Wii and all other important items in our basement. While many times I feel like Old Mother Hubbard who lived in a Shoe, days like today, I feel a bit more Noah’s wife while we wait out the storm.
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