October 30, 2013 · 9:12 pm

Who hasn’t broken a toe?

clumsyYou know you’ve reached some upper level of clutz-ness when you don’t realize that some things just aren’t normal.

To be fair, I know I’m a clutz – I always have been. It’s what happens when you grow too tall too fast, and your momentum can’t keep up with the size. At my tallest (at 46 I’ve noticed I’m starting to shrink a bit – or “settle,” as my Great Aunt Bev would say) I was an even 6’0″ – and I hit that at age 12. My feet grew pretty quickly, too – from the time I was 5 to the time I was 12 my age and my shoe size were the same number. I used to worry as a child what my feet would look like when I turned 30.

When I was a teenager my mom thought she could help by sending me to modeling classes. I could re-learn how to walk, she thought, and pick up some other tips along the way. It worked, sort of. I did learn to walk with my head up, shoulders back, and with confidence. I learned to appreciate the natural look rather than the over-makeup’ed look. And I got to do a few runway shows and photo shoots.

But I still ran into things. I still fell. I still got bruises and scratches and cuts and scrapes.

I was still me.

Which brings me to this week, and my discovery that some things I thought were normal just … aren’t.

Things like broken toes.

I broke my pinky toe Friday night. It wasn’t the first time, so I didn’t think too much of it. I mean, it hurt – a lot – but there’s really nothing you can do for a broken pinky toe other than tape it up and let it heal on its own. So that’s what I did.

Before you jump to conclusions – you know who you are – I was completely sober. OK, I had one beer with dinner, but that was a few hours earlier. I was changing into my pajamas and was uber tired and you know when you get so darned tired and you just can’t get your foot out of your yoga pants (OK, maybe those of you with normal-sized feet don’t have this problem) and the more it won’t come out the more frustrated you get, so you just shake it harder and harder, and it keeps not coming out? Finally I’m shaking and kicking really hard and I kick my bed – and my pinky toe got stuck between the box springs and the bed frame. The toe instantly turned several shades of pink, red and purple, swelled to double the size and hurt. like. hell.

I cried and yelled and laughed and cried and my daughter, who was home from college, came running in to see what happened. When I showed her my toe she stopped, looked at it, and simply said, “Again?”

So, yeah. This wasn’t the first time.

And I thought everybody broke their little toes. My now-ex-husband did it a few times, once shortly after we were married when he was trying to lift the garage door at the old farmhouse we rented, and it was frozen to the ground. He thought – wrongly – that getting mad and kicking it would solve the problem. The door didn’t budge, but his toe swelled and turned all sorts of great holiday colors.

My brother has had broken pinky toes. Both of my parents have, at various times, had broken pinky toes. It’s just a thing. It happens. The little toes are tiny, they’re fragile. And they’re down on the ground where anything can happen to them.

Because I’d broken my toe so many times before, I was actually getting around pretty well by Saturday night and Sunday, and started getting ready for work on Monday morning. Then, in the shower, I went to put my foot up on the ledge so I could shave my leg, and – you guessed it – I slammed that toe right into the tub wall.

I collapsed. I cried – no laughter this time, just tears. The dogs came running in – I swear they looked at my toe and thought, “Again?” and left – and I sent a note to work letting them know I was incapacitated and would be working from home.

The next day my concerned coworkers asked about my foot. I started to explain and I said, “You know, it’s a broken toe. It happens all the time!”

They all just looked at me. Then at each other. Then back at me.

Apparently none of them have ever broken a toe. So I went about on a mission to see who around me had never broken a toe. I couldn’t find anyone all day who had ever broken a toe.

I could have sworn it was normal.

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October 25, 2013 · 9:57 pm

Thou Shalt Not Be Late to the Doctor’s Office

ImpatienceIt’s no secret in my family, or with my friends, or with anyone with whom I’ve ever had an appointment that I have a chronic problem with being on time. Most of the time it’s just a few minutes, but there have been occasions – and I’m not particularly proud of them – where I’ve been a half-hour late or better.

Don’t get me wrong, I typically call well in advance of the 30-minute mark passing by – but that does little to quell the frustration of someone who wanted two drinks instead of one before a show, or who wanted dinner rather than appetizers before a movie. I’m not intentionally late – but yet, I’m almost always late. It’s gotten so some members of my family – my parents, my kids, my boyfriend – will sometimes hedge the time they want me to be somewhere and tell me 30 minutes earlier, just because they know I’ll be late and by showing up late I’ll still be early.

It’s a problem, I know.

My doctor’s office, however, has apparently found a way to deter late-comers.

This morning I was about 15 minutes late for my annual physical – again, not intentional, my doctor is super-cool and we have a great time talking – but when I apologized while checking in the clerk smiled politely and oh-so-nicely brushed it aside and said, “Oh, no big deal, things happen. You’re not that late.”

Great, I didn’t cause a backlog, I thought.

She pointed me to the waiting room – Waiting Room 3, down the hall and to the left, and then all the way to the end – and I walked in and joined an older couple, probably in their 60s. I generally try not to pay too much attention to other patients so I pulled out my phone and started a game of Candy Crack Saga. A nurse came in and called the other woman into a room and after some shuffling of papers and a short discussion with the-man-I’ll-assume-was-her-husband, she went with the nurse.

And that’s when it started.

The man pulled out a bag of something and began crunching away, savoring every crunch as though it were his last. The bag must have been small because the crunching didn’t last long. What I didn’t know, though, was that the crunching was just the beginning.

No sooner had he stopped crunching did he start those strange hiccup/burps, the ones that start to sound like a hiccup, have a little bit of burp in them and end with a slight expulsion of air. You know the ones – the sounds Grandpa would make after a big meal, or after half a can of beer. And with that slight expulsion of air came the distorted stomach-acid lined smell of whatever was last eaten.

I don’t know what it was, but if I ever smell that on my plate, I’m not eating it.

The man’s issues didn’t end there. Oh no, after about a half dozen of these hiccup/burps, his stomach started to gurgle. Not in an “I’m still kinda hungry” way, but more of a, “What in the hell did you just put in me?” kind of way. It started slow, and small, but gradually got a little louder and more fierce.

I could no longer concentrate on my game. I tried. I matched a few purple candies, then a few red ones, but the louder he got the more frightened I became.

Then the nurse came in and called my name. I jumped up and followed her.

“You made it in, huh?” she said.

“Yes, and I’m so very sorry. I promise, I’ll never be late again.”

I swear she turned back and winked at that guy.

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October 7, 2013 · 9:07 pm

Are you ready for some football?

FootballMy mother would be so proud.

Well, maybe not proud. Surprised, probably, but proud? That may be pushing it.

The reason? I’m in a fantasy football league. AND … not only am I in a fantasy football league, but I am currently in 3rd place (of 14 teams) and am the current points leader (rankings are based on win-loss records, not points accumulated).

Why would that surprise my mother, you ask?

Football was never really my schtick. I played basketball, volleyball and softball growing up, but football never really seemed to catch my interest – my mother used to joke (until not that long ago) that I likely didn’t know what a football was or how many points came with a touchdown.

Growing up in a one-television home – I don’t think I ever lived anywhere with more than one television until I got married – football season was the bane of my existence. In the off-season, Dad and I would watch movies after church on Sundays – I grew up with Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, and Lee Marvin, as well as the Bowery Boys and old Little Rascals movies. When football season started, though, the parents took over the TV and watched whichever game was on (this was years before ESPN and definitely before NFL Gameday). They watched the pre-game, the game, the post-game, and then switched it over to the next game.

In high school, football games were a must-attend social event, but not for the game. I seldom knew who was winning until the game was over, and rarely – if ever – actually sat in the stands. Generally my friends and I would walk around the field, meet up with other friends and go behind the concession stand to smoke. In college it was largely the same thing, except I didn’t need to hide behind the concession stand to smoke, and I often did sit in the stands.

I thought my football days would end with the end of my college days, but then I met a boy who loved football and watched whatever games he could. He was an avid Chiefs fan – he had been since he was old enough to speak – and so I tolerated his Sunday indulgences. When we got engaged, I figured those indulgences would come to an end and he’d want to do nothing but be married to me and raise our children and play with them all the time, occasionally stopping to whitewash the picket fence that was going to go around the yard of our perfect, immaculate ranch home.

One night when we were having dinner with his parents the talk turned to football (it must have been football season) and I mentioned to my then-fiance’s mom that I agreed once we got married that my husband would be able to watch his Chiefs on Sundays, but that he should really spend the rest of the day with me.

His mom laughed.

What happened instead was I adopted an, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” attitude and started watching football. And started liking football, and the Chiefs. We got season tickets to the Chiefs games even though we lived in west central Iowa – we’d pick two games to go to and then sell the rest. That was back in the early to mid-’90s, when the Chiefs had the likes of Derrick Thomas, Neal Smith, Christian Okoye, Tim Grunhard, Marcus Allen … the tickets were never hard to sell.

My love of football lasted longer than my marriage, and the ex got the tickets in the divorce. I remained a fan but my game-watching wasn’t as fervent as before. If it didn’t have to be on, sometimes it wasn’t. And since the kids and I had moved to eastern Iowa – at about the same time the Chiefs’ seasons started taking a nosedive – often the games weren’t even aired in this area.

I’ve come back to watching the last few seasons, and am ecstatic about the Chiefs’ season this year. My first year in a fantasy football league many of my players are Chiefs, so I’m even happier they’re doing well.

So there you go. Through the years I’ve done an about-face on my football habits.

And Mom – the football is the oblong brown ball with the white laces, and touchdowns score 6 points, plus one extra point for the kick or two if the players run it into the endzone. See? I can be taught.

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September 27, 2013 · 2:39 am

The day the Mother of All Embarrassments came to visit

spiral of embarrassmentRemember, growing up, there were certain things that the mere thought of doing them – or getting caught doing them – made you cringe in terror?

Pulling a wedgie out in public. Putting sanitary pads or tampons in the grocery cart (I always quickly covered them up with a cereal box or whatever was in there and could never understand why Mom thought that was so weird). Scratching your nose in a purely innocent Jerry Seinfeld-esque manner but having someone confuse it with a pick (It was a scratch!).

As adults we eventually get over them, or learn how to maneuver around them. I’m more tolerant of wedgies now, so the urgent need to pull has been replaced by a quick search for a bathroom to do it in private. Not only do I not hide the box of tampons when I go to the store, I sometimes will just boldly hold it in my hands from the shelf to the checkout if it’s the only thing I’m buying. As for the nose, I still worry someone will think I’m picking, so I try to leave that alone in public as much as humanly possible.

But there’s one thing – that one mortifying, horrendous, incredibly embarrassing thing – that will forever be unacceptable for females to do in public. The one thing I am mortified of doing in front of my boyfriend, the man I’ve been dating for 18 months.

The audible fart.

There, I said it. And I not only said it, I did it. But not in a grocery store or department store or crowded room where it could be blamed on anyone else. Oh, no. I did it in grand look-at-me-I-just-made-THAT-sound fashion. In a small room during physical therapy. Just me and my pretty good looking male physical therapist.

It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t intentional – it wasn’t even one of those where you know something bad is coming because you feel the bubbles in your stomach moving all around. This one was completely and totally unannounced.

It was a good morning, a great morning. I got to work early, had my bagel and banana for breakfast along with my half pot of coffee (don’t judge me – it was early). I got a few things done before I needed to leave for my 8:30 a.m. PT appointment – one of the benefits of working in a hospital is that every one of your health care needs are virtually at your doorstep.

Got to PT and had to wait a bit; still, nothing wrong, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Went into the patient room and we talked about the improvement in my knee, the therapist apologized for being late and even told me I was the highlight of his day when I suggested I reschedule to put his schedule back in order.

He had me get up on the table and lie on my back so I could bend my knee – no problem. Much improvement. Then he told to roll over onto my side so he could test my hip strength – again, no problem. I rolled back onto my back and we did a few more exercises and then … he reached for my hand to help me sit up.

I sat up, swung my leg off the bed and … it happened.

I could have said it was my shoe on the vinyl. I could have pretended nothing happened. I could have done a lot of things. What I did to, however, was throw my hand up to my mouth, exclaim, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” and move over to my chair. I could feel the heat of humiliation rise up my neck and spill over my face.

And then it was out there. My appointment wasn’t over. I had to sit in my chair, five feet from where he was sitting in his chair, and have a serious discussion about my knee.

I have no idea what he said. When he was explaining the next steps in exercise, I was thinking, “Dear God, is he sitting there in a green cloud and just being too nice to say anything?” When he started pointing to the sheet of instructions, my thoughts were, “He’s very subtly using the paper as a fan to get some fresh air.” When he got up to show me out, I though, “OH GOD, the cloud has floated to the top of the room and now he’s standing in it!”

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. And the only thought that crossed my mind the entire walk back to my office?

“Why couldn’t I have just gotten caught buying a box of tampons?”

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September 20, 2013 · 9:53 pm

Karma is an unforgiving wench

imagesYou ever have one of those days where you wake up and just know something is going to be a little off about this day? The ones where you really, really want to just crawl back under the covers and wait for the storm – whatever it is – to pass?

Today was one of those days.

The morning itself was fine. I almost literally jumped out of bed, turned off the alarm and felt refreshed and energized, ready to face the day. No hitting snooze and snuggling with my pillows this morning – no, I was up and ready to face the day. I turned off the alarm, turned on the lights and started my ritualistic walk toward the kitchen where, thanks to the wonderful designers at Mr. Coffee who put automatic timers on their machines, my cup of hot morning necessity would be waiting.

Halfway down the hall it hit me: This is not how morning is supposed to be. And since this good morning isn’t how it’s normally supposed to be, something is going to balance it out later in the day. Something …

It nagged me for a little bit, but then I put the music from my phone on and proceeded about my morning routine. All went well.

Work was busy, but good. While writing is a big part of my job, another part – the media relations-defined part – is to escort members of the media through the hospital when they have interviews with doctors or patients and their families, and to get consent forms signed from or on behalf of the patients (in the case of our pediatric patients). This morning I had a radio personality from Mason City come and get patient and family interviews for an upcoming radiothon for Children’s Miracle network. We walked through different parts of the hospital for four hours, but he got what he needed and left.

Then I started to feel it again. I knew whatever it was hadn’t happened yet. It wasn’t the four-hour media tour. It wasn’t listening to Christmas tunes on the Cambus in September.

I still didn’t know what it was, but I couldn’t shake it.

I was set to do another media escort at 3, so just a few minutes shy of the hour I went down to where I’d agreed to meet the reporter. I waited. And waited. And at 3:20 I tried calling the patient’s room to see if the reporter had gone up without me. No, I was told, that patient was discharged.

There would be no interview. And no one called to let me know.

I knew who was responsible. It was karma, in all her glory, snickering behind the plants in the lobby.

The reporter, as it turns out, was from the station I anonymously mocked on my Facebook page yesterday for having three language/grammatical errors in a 140-character tweet. I didn’t name the station, just posted the tweet.

Karma, you miserable little bitch.

 

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September 18, 2013 · 12:56 am

Confessions of a (new) D&D nerd

That's me, er, Murphy. NO, not that one - the one in the green dress.

That’s me, er, Murphy. NO, not that one – the one in the green dress.

I have a confession: I play Dungeons and Dragons. I have two characters – a human and a half-elf – and I even own my own dice.

What’s worse is, well, I like it. A lot.

And to answer a question one of my friends asked when she found out I started playing, Yes, D&D is very much still around.

Don’t get me wrong, I know what a big deal this confession is. If anyone would have asked me 30 years ago if I thought I’d ever have an interest in Dungeons and Dragons, I’d have laughed at them. Thirty years ago I was 16, completely self-absorbed, smoking cigarettes with my friends behind the buildings at high school football games. I listened to Motley Crue, Black Sabbath, AC/DC – and Air Supply, Andy Gibb, Duran Duran and Loverboy.

The only thing I played when I was 16 was backgammon or Scrabble with my dad, and even that was becoming a rarity at 16.

That’s not to say I didn’t do role-playing. Oh no, we all play different roles when we’re 16: we’re the badass with our friends, except our best friends, who know who we really are; we’re the rebel (I was the compliant rebel most of the time) with our parents; the good girl with our pastors; the A student with our teachers. I played a variety of roles back then, but never, NEVER did I play a half-elf fighting off hobgoblins and trolls.

To be honest, if anyone had asked me two years ago what I thought of D&D, I’m not sure I would have responded. Most likely I would have given them the, “Are you kidding me right now?” look and moved on, ignoring the question. I mean, really, who still plays Dungeons & Dragons?

Well, it turns out, my boyfriend does. And so do his kids, and their spouses/partners. And, now, so do I.

And it’s fun.

We’ve gotten together one night of almost every weekend the last three months, sat around a big table with our map and die-cast characters and worked on a mission of freeing a group of people who were captured and made into slaves in a giant castle filled with monsters.

I happily played with my first character, a human fighter named Murphy (hey, I was new, I was told to name my character and I gave the first Irish name that came to mind), for a while when I was first introduced to the game last fall, but I didn’t play much. This summer our games took on new life and became a weekly event. After a while, Mark, the boyfriend/Dungeon Master, asked if I wanted a new character, one with some magical powers.

This time I gave some more thought to my name. (Mostly because I was publicly ridiculed for having a character named Murphy. I believe I was told that “Murphy is not a D&D name.”) I searched Irish elf names and came up with Scoithniam, pronounced SKUH nyee uv, which means “shining, radiant blossom.” OK, still not much of name for strength and intimidation, but it’s cool.

I’ll admit it, I initially agreed to play so I could spend time with Mark and see what he found so intriguing about this game. The first night I felt a little self-conscious, but the more I play, the more I like it. We’re not dressing up and flailing real swords and maces and daggers – but we are in our minds, which makes it even more fun.

 

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August 27, 2013 · 7:56 pm

Kicking around the empty nest

When my daughter left for college, to take that step of defining herself and growing, I, too, started to find more of myself that had been hidden.

A week ago Saturday, on the 17th, I followed my 18-year-old daughter – my baby, my youngest, the last one still at home – to her new home, a college dorm two hours away. We unloaded the two cars, started putting her side of her room together, ran a few errands on campus and had lunch. I think we both were moving slower than we normally would, trying to put off the inevitable – the time I’d have to get in my car and head home without her.

Kimberly and Justin, as I choose to think of them, at ages 3 and 6

Kimberly and Justin, as I choose to think of them, at ages 3 and 6

As much as I’d proclaimed my excitement for her next step, as excited as I was for her to start college and begin truly defining herself, I dreaded that moment. I dreaded that moment like I’d never dreaded anything before. My son, three years older than his sister, graduated and went to college, too. There was some “mom sadness” when that happened, but he went to a nearby community college and commuted from home to save money. While he was growing up and defining himself, I still got to cook him dinner at night and yell at him for leaving his dirty socks in the living room.

This is different. This is my little girl, the second of the two to “leave the nest” and begin Step 2. And this time I was left home alone.

We hugged. A lot. And we said goodbye. A lot. And then she walked off back to her dorm and I started the car to begin driving home.

And I cried. A lot. I don’t mean I sniffled here and there on the way home – I bawled, I sobbed, I went through a handful of Kleenex at 75 mph on the interstate. I stopped the tears and popped in to see my parents – and the tears started up again. They had subsided by the time I left and I made the remaining drive tear-free – but at dinner when I was asked, “How did it go?” I could feel the tears threatening again.

There was some sadness in those tears, sure, but it wasn’t a sadness that I hoped I could stop. It was the sadness that comes with the end or the change of anything you’ve known for a while – I’ll always be mom, always, and I’ll always be there with the Band-Aids at the ready, armed with bug spray and antibiotic ointment for those cuts and scrapes – but now they’re both well on their way to creating their own adventures, writing their own stories and living their own lives. It’s an amazing, beautiful, fabulous, sad time.

The kids now, at ages 18 and 21, at Kimberly's high school graduation in May

The kids now, at ages 18 and 21, at Kimberly’s high school graduation in May

The tears have long since stopped – I think I gave myself the one day and part of the next – but I am far from being “well-adjusted into the empty nest.” Now comes the random silliness: I still find myself moving quietly in the morning as I get ready for work so as not to wake the sleeping Kimberly. Twice I’ve started writing text messages asking her to do some random chore at home – stopping once I’ve realized she’s not there. I’ve even caught myself thinking I’ll just put off unloading the dishwasher and ask her to do it – then realizing I’ll be without clean dishes long before she gets home to put them away. I’ve been eternally guilty of asking Justin to help take the dogs out, regardless of the fact that he moved out 18 months ago. Of course, his apartment is just a few feet from mine, so it’s easier to forget – although there are stretches that I don’t see him for several days, despite the fact that our cars are in the same small parking lot.

There’s a part of my brain that is still holding on to the idea that this new living arrangement is temporary – that they’re just out at camp and will be home later. But I know this is my – our – new reality, and I truly am happy for them. And for me, because now I get a ringside seat to all of their adventures.

 

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July 16, 2013 · 7:00 pm

More on the misadventures of traveling with teens

I came to the realization long ago that I am a magnet for mishaps. I’ve been locked in a public restroom, tricked into running into a men’s restroom at a sports arena, forced to stand outside for hours while my new (to me) house was aired out after a natural gas leak and have survived countless embarrassing events that would send most normal people into hiding.

You learn to roll with the punches and develop the ability to laugh at yourself early on.

One DirectionThat humor kept me going during my most recent travel adventures with two teenaged girls, my daughter Kimberly, 17, and my niece Emily, 16.

I should have known a year ago that this weekend would turn disastrous when my daughter first purchased the two tickets to a One Direction (it’s a boy band) concert in Tinley Park. The concert locale is four hours from our home, near Chicago, but Kimberly at the time had a friend who lived in a neighboring town and the two planned to go together. The plan was that Kimberly would drive to the friend’s house, and her parents would take care of getting them to  the concert. Easy Peasy.

Then, as sometimes happens with teen girls still forming friendships, relationship disaster struck and the two stopped talking. Suddenly Kimberly (who fortunately was the one who purchased both tickets) was left to find someone to go to the concert with – and I was looking at a weekend or overnight trip to the Chicago area.

Kimberly asked her cousin Emily – the two have been close since they were little – and we made arrangements for Emily to get to our house the day before the concert and we’d leave the next morning for Chicago. Our hotel had been booked and was five miles from the concert venue. Check-in was set for 3 p.m., gates to the concert opened at 5:30. We figured we’d get in early enough to do a little shopping in another suburb, check in a little after 4, the girls could get ready and we’d head out. Easy Peasy.

*Tip: “Easy Peasy” apparently means “nothing goes as planned.” It’s recommended you never use this phrase if you’re looking for a smooth event.

We got to Oak Brook in plenty of time, did a little shopping, had a late lunch and headed for the hotel. We arrived at the front desk at 4:25 – and were greeted by 35 teens and their parents sitting in the lobby, looking exasperated. There were girls rolling their eyes, boys playing video games and five mothers swarming the front desk. The clerk looked more than a little frazzled.

Apparently there were no rooms ready. None. The hotel had sold out and for some reason the cleaning staff just … did nothing. Ninety minutes after we were supposed to be able to check in and just one hour before gates opened and no one had a room. Tempers were, in a word, flaring.

We were eventually offered a double room on the smoking floor (it’s Illinois – they still have such things) and, to the girls’ disappointment, I took it. The room smelled of stale smoke and I went out and bought several room fresheners, but we had a room. The girls got ready and we headed out.

20130715_030648It took us 45 minutes to go the five miles to the amphitheater. I’d forgotten how much I hated concert traffic – and this traffic was made even worse by the fact that the venue was on a rural two-lane highway with a single two-way entrance. I got the girls dropped off at 5:45, plenty of time to go stalk the buses and take in the atmosphere.

As I was leaving I was given a slip with directions for pickup. Because of the limited gate area, they required that all vehicles be in the parking lot by 9:15 – just 15 minutes after One Direction took the stage. I got there at 9:10 and the girls came out at 11. Did I mention it was still 84 degrees and I hadn’t packed a water bottle?

The traffic getting out of the arena was worse than getting in and it was close to 12:30 before we were on the road out of the parking area. After stopping for food for the girls – neither of them wanted to pay arena prices for food – we were back in the hotel by 12:45, and we all finally turned in at about 1:30 a.m.

Sleep was short-lived, however, as the hotel’s fire alarms started going off at 3 a.m. We’d find out later that someone pulled the alarm (which is what I had guessed) but the hotel still needed to be evacuated and the fire department needed to be called.

It’s funny, the things you think about when you know you’re going to be standing with a group of strangers outside in the middle of the night. I didn’t brush my teeth or brush my hair, or even put shoes on, but I did put on a bra and change out of my pajamas and grab my purse and phone.

Within minutes we were surrounded by two fire trucks, a ladder truck and a paramedic unit. You know, just in case.

It became obvious there was no real emergency when fire fighters ignored – or actually blocked – a hydrant located just 30 yards from the front door and some of them came out to take their big jackets off.

20130715_032211-1More than a half-hour into our outdoor adventure another thing became obvious: the only thing keeping any of us from getting back to our rooms and nestled into our beds was the alarm – and that apparently none of the firefighters or hotel personnel knew how to shut it off. It was another 40 minutes – and three trips outside to their trucks and toolboxes by the firefighters – before the alarm stopped buzzing and the doors opened wide.

By 4:15 a.m. we were back in our room. I’m guessing by 4:15:30 we were all asleep.

On the positive side, our hotel offered a free continental breakfast. The downside was that it ended at 9 a.m. on weekdays – and thanks to our middle-of-the-night goings-on, we didn’t wake up until 9:30. So much for breakfast.

It was an eventful weekend, but the girls had a good time and it was definitely something to remember. Hotels.com is refunding half my hotel cost because of the snafu at check-in, and I took today off to recover from the 9+ hours on the road driving my niece to my sister-in-law and then doubling back to come home.

I’m just glad I learned to laugh.

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The misadventures of a woman traveling with teenagers …

20130715_030648Boy, do I have a doozy of a story to tell today.

Right now I’m in a Chicago suburb – Matteson – after taking my 17-year-old daughter and 16-year-old niece to a One Direction concert (I was only the driver). The last 18 hours have been eventful, to say the least, and while I’d love to post the story now, we still have a 5.5-hour drive to Altoona and then another 90-minute drive back to Iowa City before day’s end – and God only knows what will add to our adventure.

Stay tuned …

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July 15, 2013 · 4:10 pm
June 24, 2013 · 6:05 pm

How the lost art of communication ruined my sandwich

I’m not much of a bread eater. When I buy a loaf of bread it usually languishes on my counter until I eventually throw half of it either in the garbage or out for the birds. I’m more likely to order a chicken breast or a wrap than I am a sandwich, and when grilling brats outside I generally opt for them to go bunless.

That said, every now and then I do get a craving for a really good sandwich on fresh bread. Milio’s is a favorite spot because their sub bread – white and wheat (although I always go wheat)  – is just the right amount of fresh and chewy and yumminess. Every now and then I go to Jimmy SammichJohn’s because I’ve always thought they were the same thing. My favorite sandwich at either place is the roasted turkey with avocado, cucumber, lettuce and tomato – at Milio’s I go inside and get it on a sub, but at Jimmy John’s I always end up with a regular sandwich on regular (although yummy) wheat bread.

Today was one of those sandwich-craving days and because of a scaredy cat dog who kept me up all night during the storms, I didn’t leave for work until almost lunchtime. Trying to be smart, I planned to go through the Jimmy John’s drive-thru but specifically ask for a sub.

Should have been easy, right? Here’s how the conversation went:

Me: I’d like a Number 4 please, but can I get that on a sub?

Worker: A sub? Sure, we can do that.

Me: I’d like it on a wheat one, if that’s possible?

Worker: Wheat? Sure. Is that all?

Me: That’s it.

In the two seconds it takes me to drive from the ordering tower to the window, I’m already thinking about how good that sub is going to be. It’s been a while since I’ve had one, and the bread craving is going wild.

I get to the window, I pay for my sub and I’m handed … a sandwich. The one you see in the photo.

Me: I asked for a sub.

Worker: That’s wheat.

Me: Right. I asked for a wheat sub. This is a sandwich.

Worker: But it’s wheat.

Me: But it’s a sandwich. I asked for a wheat sub.

Worker: We don’t have wheat subs.

I stare at him. I want to argue. I want to say how nice it would have been for him to have told me that when I asked if a wheat sub was possible. I want to throw my sandwich at his perplexed little face and ask for a sub.

Finally, I realize I’m staring and I mutter a small, “Whatever. Thanks,” and drive off, knowing the story he’s telling is about some crazy cranky old lady who doesn’t know the difference between a wheat sandwich and a sub.

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