Monday, May 30, 2011

In the Airport, Again

The conversation to my left is super intense. I sat down with a wholesome sandwich which will hopefully put me in a food coma on my upcoming flight, when two guys, late twenties, asked to sit at the table to my right. They may have caught me picking my nose.

The ensuing conversation was therapeutic in nature, during which Gentlemen 1 encouraged Gentlemen 2 to press through life's crap, drop alcohol because he is beyond that life stage, and not be afraid to fail. And, WOAH!, he is telling his companion to stay in Vegas. Call the woman who offered you a job and STAY! I feel inspired. Maybe I'll stay... I hear dancers make good money.

The past year, I have spent much time alone in airports. While I enjoy sharing memories and experiences with those closest to me, there is a liberating aspect of being one among millions. If there is one place capable of shrinking you to that infinitesimal size, it is Las Vegas. I wandered the strip for eight hours today, attempting to absorb all of its grandeur. Indeed, there was much to absorb. Bums used various tactics to obtain money. Drop dead gorgeous women flaunted their flawless bodies arm in arm with equally beautiful men. Drunk girls linked arms and stumbled down the boulevard. Elderly married couples stood hand in hand, waiting for the famous Bellagio fountain to spout.

In situations such as these, you find that while you are one among millions, so are those around you. In that, there is a common bond. When in the company of loved ones, this faint bond is often ignored, because the other is so strong. However, when alone, you are able to appreciate this bond, as it is all you have. I find myself saying hi to the Starbuck's worker when I may not have, or engaging in conversation when I otherwise would be chatting with a close friend.

And these conversations are sometimes my favorite. I talked to a very efficient flight attendant, and he told me the scope of his capabilities. He was able to service fifty seats in thirty minutes, as he was the best in the business. In his words, he "turned it on and turned it up." I had a lovely conversation with my cab driver en route the airport, which opened with him guessing I was from Ohio. Apparently, my laid back attitude and lack of accent were strong indications. Even as I was writing this, the gentlemen to my right broke conversation and we were able to discuss issues deeper than the Indians. When it was over, I bid them farewell with a "God bless."

Friday, May 27, 2011

The Butterfly Effect

I was just told that our flight is in the air, but since the runway has been shortened, it may not be able to land. There are a few obvious observations and questions prompted from this knowledge.

Observation – Aviation will never rise above Mother Nature.

1) From where is this plane coming? Presumably, it is approaching Charlottesville from another location, but arrival time depends on the city - Charlotte, D.C., Philly. On second thought, those are the only options, so I suppose the difference is negligible.
2) Why is the runway shortened due to rain? I understand that precipitation would render the path slick, but I would also imagine the whole runway would be slick, not just one section. Unless one section has superior drainage, in which case, why were the engineers not capable of designing a runway with adequate drainage throughout? The engineers probably did not come from UVA.
3) I think Charlottesville airport is one of the few airports worldwide that has a Christian radio station entertaining its guests. Irrelevant, but an interesting note, and I think it keeps the collective helpless at ease.
4) Perhaps the greatest question is why would I, the shameless skeptic of air travel, think it was a good idea to schedule a flight to Las Vegas at 5:45 on a Friday night? Had all gone smoothly, I would land in Sin City at 9:30. Late, yes, especially because that is 12:30 EST and I worked out at 6 this morning, but completely manageable. As it is, the earliest I will arrive is midnight, meaning I will either need a large power nap on the flight or a large vodka on the rocks.

For now, however, all I can do is sit. As others scurry around, frantically hoping to find arrangements, I relax. Perhaps it is because I just received an automated call from US Airways stating my flight to Vegas does not leave until 9:50.

A greater influence on my mood is belief in the butterfly effect, which is stronger than my frustration with air travel. Call it Divine intervention, chance, fate, or the hand of God, but there are times when a series of seemingly insignificant occurrences lead you to an unintended experience. This experience can be life changing or simply put a smile on your face, but you know it was not of your own making. As a believer in the hand of God, these little happenings impact me, if only because they offer the hope of Someone greater than I considering my well-being.

I had one of these experiences recently, and if I had to pin the causes, they would be my pesky obligation to follow through on commitments, desire to lend a helping hand, and food. (Obviously, food was going to be involved. It always is.)

Wednesday, I was feeling drained, mentally and physically. Apparently, after eighteen years of shutting down come mid-May, my brain and body were not prepared to press on through the summer months. This did not change the fact that we had a softball game, and while every inch of my body wanted to spend the evening on my couch, my spirit of team solidarity would not allow me to do so. I arrived at the game minutes before we sang the national anthem - just kidding, there is no singing of the national anthem in rec league, but that would be awesome - to find one of our players needed a ride home after the game.

No one was leaping at the opportunity, so I offered my taxi services. The game was brutal, although I blame our mercy rule defeat on lack of chemistry due to players being called from the minors on a minute's notice. Afterward, Andy and I hopped in my car, and during the drive across town, I noticed Fry Spring's Pizza Station. This restaurant is city-renowned for pizza, and since I was going to Vegas in two days, I had been battling the insatiable craving for grease and chocolate all week. White flag held high, I entered the bar in my navy shorts and navy t-shirt. The look was accentuated by a sweaty pony tail. I promptly sat at the bar, ordered a Diet Coke, and focused my full attention on the menu. Within moments, a young gentleman asked if the seat beside me was taken. I graciously indicated the chair was vacant.

Having him on my left was much preferable to the old gentleman on my right, who I knew was just itching to tell me about the ‘79 Eastern Conference Finals.
PanAm (explanation of nickname to come later) and I engaged in the standard small talk subjects, such as jobs, college, Mike Brown becoming the head coach of the Lakers. This was fortunate for the kitchen staff, because my pizza took an inordinate amount of time. Eventually it did come, and with it, my departure.

PanAm requested my number, and when he called to give me his, I asked his last name. Afterwards I thought it may have sounded a bit stalkerish, but really I just like having an organized contacts list. Since I did have his name, though, I decided to Google him as any normal girl would. It just so happens he is quite the wrestler, placing seventh in Division I, winning a bronze medal in the Pan American games. I felt comforted that he would not be overly intimidated by my illustrious collegiate tennis career.

So here I am, finishing this entry during my layover, where I was just informed the flight has been delayed yet again, landing in Vegas at one o’clock in the morning. Perhaps I should have taken an earlier flight. Perhaps I should have used my vacation days a bit more wisely. Perhaps I should not have gone. I think that is what life is, though. Occasionally, it may be impulsive, it may be falling into temptation, it may be acting in a way others would not. In spite of this, the hand of God has placed me where I am. In an airport. At 10:15 on a Friday night. Having spent forty dollars on a Pepsi. But, hey, PanAm just texted.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Temporarily Off the Wagon

Or is it on the wagon?

Regardless the correct idiomatic expression, my position relative to the wagon was altered over the weekend. The influences blazing my wayward path - my cousin Tasha and her husband Andy. They followed through on their promise to visit, and the trip could not have come at a better time. My new roommate and I were moving the furniture into our apartment, which I conveniently forgot to mention during their planning process. Obviously, Andy's hardworking spirit would feel obligated to help, and obviously, I would stand at the base of the stairs and act as moral support. Hidden motives aside, I was abundantly grateful for their company.

Since we grew up ten minutes from one another and she is only a month and a day older than I, my relationship with Tasha has been akin to that of sisters, minus the bickering regarding who gets to shower first. We spent summer days frolicking about my grandma's backyard and summer nights talking into the wee hours of the morning, eating ice cream and watching movies. Whether it was balancing on stilts for 100 laps around my basement, playing dress up, or riding bikes through the neighborhood, being around Natasha was natural. Through middle school, we experienced many adolescent crushes, heartbreaks, and petty problems together. Although we both went to different schools and led separate lives, we never lost our childhood friendship.

The summer before our junior year of high school, I was experiencing boy issues yet again, and Natasha was telling me of her friend's brother, a cute incoming freshman. Of course I laughed at her prospective boy toy, but she defended him by saying he was old for his grade and "very mature." Plus, there is a negatively correlated "cuteness to age" dating scale. The cuter the prospect, the younger he can be.* Even during these initial butterfly stages of the courtship, I could see the qualities that drew Natasha to Andy - mainly, he played football.

Natasha was vindicated, and since they began dating seven years ago, the two have been inseparable. Selfishly, I am most grateful that despite their blossoming love, my relationship with Natasha never changed. Rather, Andy was able to immediately mold himself into a tight knit friendship without altering a single dynamic. He joined in our laughing, eating, bursting into spontaneous song, and occasionally, even dancing.

Throughout college, Natasha and I spent many nights chatting around Aunt Jill's counter top. During those conversations, in between bites of whatever goodies the Ziegler family had whipped together, we released every frustration, hope, doubt, or dream we had. Not once during these hormone driven vent sessions did Natasha's devotion to Andy waver. Further, in all my time spent with the two of them, I have only seen them grow closer.

Three years ago, we began the treasured tradition of sharing Valentine's Day dinner. Each year, our tricycle rolls to a different restaurant for a lovely evening. I tell them of my childish adventures like flashing children or losing my shoe in a cupboard, and they tell me of their increasingly adult life issues like mortgages and graduate programs. Honestly, the thought of bringing a fourth has never occurred to me, as our chemistry is too sacred to risk disruption. Due to my geographic location, I was unable to join them for Valentine's Day dinner this year. While I hate breaking tradition, I am glad I had them to myself this entire weekend.

In twenty two years, the only aspect of Natasha that has changed is her bossy behavior. As children, she insisted that the "guest picked"; now, I am quite sure she would have been married in jeans for lack of dress had I not been in the store with her. Our time spent together was no different than any other childhood memory, except that I had to choose every activity from where we should visit to when they should brush their teeth. We had a nice Mexican dinner during which I spilled salsa all over my jeans, laughed our way through a chick flick, satisfied our cravings for frozen yogurt (which is healthier than ice cream - being adults we must consider the consequences of such indulgences), complained about various people in our separate lives. I even introduced them to the greatness of Nutella and McDonald's French Vanilla cappuccinos. Driving in the car, belting country music, I was taken back to my senior year of high school, post Mike break-up #4. The three of us took a trip to Taco Bell and sat in the parking lot singing Carrie Underwood at the top of our lungs. Just as I had felt during an insignificant moment five years ago, the closeness I have with Natasha and Andy comforted me in the midst of life's uncertainty.

I began this entry referring to my hiatus from the three week alcohol hiatus. Yes, I did drink with them. In fact, I may have gotten a bit tipsy off the four shot glasses we imbibed at the Carter Mountain wine tasting (although I was definitely not impacted as severely as Natasha, whose innate aversion to beverages of any sort renders her tolerance quite pitiful). I feel no guilt regarding this hiatus; in the case of Tash and Andy, I can feel comfortable doing most anything.

They left on Sunday, and with them left a bit of that coveted comfort. Determined, as always, to confront said lack of comfort, I called weight room boy to give the situation another chance - I say situation because while I do not expect this to develop into a dating relationship, I must also remain open to friendships. We watched three quarters of the Bulls/Heat game, and perhaps it is unfair of me to judge in such a way, but the time was a bit disappointing after my weekend. Of course, he was against the staunch competition of summer volleyball, hours of laughter (whose initial roots could only be identified 30% of the time), years of dessert table gatherings, and a lifetime accumulation of memories. The poor guy never stood a chance.

*The granular results of this scientific study are pending.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

A Mother's Love

I feel as though much time has passed since we last spoke. In reality, it has only been a week, but a very noteworthy week. Since I am without wireless due to a miscommunication with Comcast and am staunchly opposed to cheating the office time clock, I have been unable to write - much to my dismay. Sitting barefoot at my desk, listening to a Pandora station that is perfect besides the occasional overplayed DMB song, I believe this is the time to post a personal tribute.

Two weeks ago was Mother's Day. Although I would love to purchase my mother an inspired gift every opportunity that approaches, I find it stressful to choose a gift three times a year. Of course I appreciate all she has done for me, but to display that affection on Mother's Day, her birthday, and Christmas requires much creativity. I attribute this occasional lack of effort to my first grade teacher, who thought it was a good idea to mention our mother's negative qualities in honor of Mother's Day. Needless to say, my mother was sent into a tizzy of tears, and I have subconsciously questioned every gift thereafter. This year, I went home for the weekend and was more than happy to grant her request of cleaning my room in lieu of a present.

Early last week, Mom called and told me she wanted to help as I was moving across town. Of course there was no obligation to do so, but she assured me she wanted to make the eight hour drive. I was relieved once I began packing; as is my tendency, I had seriously underestimated my belongings.

Friday afternoon Mom texted me, telling me she was stuck in traffic but near Charlottesville. Just as well because I had arrived at work later than intended. I called when I left and was surprised to hear her suggest we begin the moving process immediately. Spurred by her motivated spirit, I agreed, and by seven o'clock, we were done for the evening.

We ate a lovely dinner, and upon returning to my apartment, realized I had no toilet paper. This required a trip to Target, which began with the necessity of toilet paper, and ended with two carts of necessities for the kitchen, bathroom, cleaning cupboard (my mother may be naively optimistic that I am as dedicated to cleaning as she). Mom was coughing the entire time, but this did not hinder her drive to equip me with the essentials of life on my own. It was ten o'clock by the time we again returned to my house and began unloading the car. My first trip into the house, I spotted a bug creeping along the floor. Disgusted, I decided that closing the door nearly all the way was the perfect way to inhibit such creatures from entering. In retrospect, this was probably not the most sensible solution, since the screen door was adequate protection from outdoor pests. However, it seemed logical at the time.

I am not sure if it was the wind, my unknown strength, or the hand of God, but moments after I had left the apartment to bring in another load of goodies, Mom asked for the keys to unlock the door. There is a simple solution; unfortunately, this solution lay inside the locked apartment with the keys to my car and the other house. We looked at each other and reacted in the most appropriate way - laughter. Then we wondered how I was going to get into the apartment when my roommate was four hours away. Or how I was going to let the cable guy in the following day. Or what I was going to wear for the next two days (although, obviously, this was the least of my concerns).

As Providence would have it, after an hour of phone calls and a trip to the police station, we reached a locksmith. He unlocked my door at midnight, and I decided if this online advertising career does not pan out, I am becoming a locksmith, as he was paid eighty dollars for no more than thirty seconds of labor. Mother and I said good night and both slept very heavily.

The rest of the weekend Mom spent buzzing around, doing everything from organizing my kitchen to researching coffee tables. She befriended my new neighbor and learned more about him in twenty minutes then I would have in days. She even flashed a smile and asked for him to help move boxes. She took my old roommates and I for a delicious dinner to thank them for welcoming me to a new city.

As I encounter others and hear of experiences with parents, I become increasingly grateful for my mother's love and loyalty to her husband and family. I consider myself blessed that I cannot remember a negative word my mother has spoken about my father. (My dad may insist there are none to be spoken, but I am quite sure there are a few.)

While I have no children of my own, I can imagine being a mother is a thankless task at times. Raising five extremely different children must be more than trying. Yet, my mother rarely shows fatigue or weakness. Through tennis matches, heartbreaks, life decisions, petty problems, she has been supportive. More than that, she has felt the joy, sorrow and frustration with me. I have always respected her for many reasons, but as I get older, the extent of her grace and love continues to astound me. It was most apparent this weekend. I hope that I can someday care about others as strongly as she cares about those she barely knows, honor my husband as she honors my dad, and love one child with the strength and selflessness she has shown to each of hers - so much so that I do not call my daughter an idiot when she locks us out of her apartment.

I am quite sure I will never be able to repay her for the sacrifices she makes on a daily basis, but perhaps a proper Mother's Day present is a start. Right now, though, I have to start planning for her birthday present.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Starting with Sprinkles


Monday was a big day for RKG. Furthering our quest for global search domination, we recruited a treasonous Google employee. After the accolades preceding his arrival, I expected him to approach the building in a limousine or on a white steed. Although he did not make a glorious entrance, we were treated to a free lunch at the Hibachi Grille Buffet in his honor. The company also had an ice cream social on the front lawn; if this is the only way in which his employment benefits the company, I will be satisfied. Not only did I get free Ben & Jerry's, I also had another idea for an inspiring innovation. (As with all enhancements, the aforementioned allocations of profits still apply.)

One of the most crucial and underrated aspects of nachos is accoutrement distribution. While bar nachos may have all the essentials (beef, cheese, sour cream, jalapenos, beans, salsa, guacamole), if you reach the bottom of the pile to find bare tortilla chips, the dish is a disappointment. Similarly, should the chips be soaked and soggy, one cannot be satisfied.

If we apply the lesson learned from nachos to sundaes, we can take our ice cream experience to new levels. It has come to my attention in recent weeks that not everyone is aware of the strategic approach required to assemble a sundae worthy of the dessert connoisseur's palette. Like any culinary art, though, there is a process that includes pairing toppings, calculating ratios, and placing ingredients appropriately. Just as coconut and peanut butter should not be blended in a bowl, too much brownie will overpower the flavor of cookie dough ice cream, robbing taste buds of potential pleasure.

As everyone should, at this point, recognize and appreciate the necessity of flavor throughout experience, I will now revolutionize indulgence.

Soft serve ice cream cones. Dipped in sprinkles. Dipped in nuts. Dipped in fudge. First lick. Delicious. Second lick. Delectable. Third lick. Mildly depressing. Why?

Because the pretty sprinkles that once adorned the outer edges are no more. Yes, the vanilla ice cream is still tasty, but licks 3 - 20 feel naked. Unfulfilling. Perhaps, you think, there would be a way to prolong the enjoyment of licks one and two, but apart from intense tongue maneuvering, it cannot be done. Even then, few tongues have the agility and strength, making such aspirations nearly impossible to attain. Until now.

I propose a very basic spout that shoots through the middle of soft serve machines. There will also be a compartment in which you pour the topping of choice, be it nuts, sprinkles, or any other yummy morsels your tummy craves. Ideally, there will be an alternate tube that holds fudge, caramel, and the like, but my mental schematics have yet to formulate that function. For now, know that not only will those sprinkles be distributed evenly, enabling you to lick at whatever angle you prefer, but they will not lose their consistency because they were added to the ice cream seconds before.

According to Google, product distribution is one of the four P's I was taught in marketing courses. As innovators, though, I believe we should focus on distribution within the products before we focus on distribution of the products. Starting with sprinkles.