Everyday Articles

My last post was about the woes of driving in LA. So I feel sort of sheepish making my next post a travel-related one, but I’m going to go ahead and do it anyway.  

My husband and I had plans to fly to Chicago late on a Friday afternoon from JFK.  Without getting into too many details, we got to the airport 50 minutes ahead of time, but the kiosks told us to see an agent, and by the time we actually saw an agent we were too close to boarding and missed our flight.  We ended up cabbing over to LGA to go on standby, and finally got out hours later.  So end of the story:  we made it, the world continued to turn, and we all lived to tell the tale.  Hooray.

The most notable thing about this experience was how my approach changed from nuclear meltdown brink of despair “what is WRONG with you people?  Why can’t anyone HELP me?” at JFK to hakuna matata easy breezy “shucks if you have a standby seat, i’d love it” at LGA.  I think I’m a pretty polite person, and rarely do I snap or blame people for whatever is happening to me, but at JFK, I was irate.  I felt trapped and impatient watching the minutes go by as we waited in the longest line in history.  I repeatedly stomped my foot like a bull in a pen because no one cared that I was going to miss my flight.  And finally, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why one of the agents would rather spend 5 minutes re-taping his pen to his counter than help a new/desperate customer like me.  

By the time this particular agent called on us, he said we’d miss our flight and our only option was to fly at 6am the next day.  I found this to be unacceptable. I told him so, and while repeating “I know it’s not your fault” every once and awhile, every word that came out of my mouth was dripping with accusation.   It was absolutely this guy’s fault and goddammit he better find us a way outta here or I’ll…I’ll…I’ll tweet at American Airlines and tell them how HORRIBLE THEY ARE!!!

Yeah.  That didn’t work.  

After some shaky, argumentative minutes of barely suppressed rage, I finally accepted defeat, quieted down and focused on not crying.  I took those moments to pull myself together and watch him type away.  This guy wasn’t good at his job.  There was a language barrier thing, and he worked at a glacial pace.  But while I watched him, I started to think about his position.  He was extremely flustered, and had no doubt dealt with a few hundred self righteous and upset people all day.  Every one of us would scream at him for our travel woes, and all he could do was peck around on a computer from the late 90s and hope something opened up on a busy Friday in New York City.  

Sure, he wasn’t Mary Poppins to me, but it’s not like I’d been nice to him either.  When you deal with angry people all day, you probably become pretty angry yourself.  It’s a vicious cycle, and I was doing my part to keep the wheel turning by being another angry person in long line of angry people waiting to deal with this guy.

My eyes drifted to the pen and chain he’d been so carefully taping to his station a few minutes before.  His name was scribbled on the tape in a sort of childish script, and for some reason that made me sad.  This guy took precious minutes to tape that pen to the counter, and I could see why.  At least those would be a few minutes where someone didn’t scream at him for something that wasn’t his fault.

To be clear, I still cursed this guy’s name for another 24 hours, and I still don’t think he did his job well.  But I stopped being rude and upset right then.  He couldn’t change my plans, but he could do the next best thing: confirm me for a flight in the morning, and put me on standby at LGA.  Thank you for your help, sir.  Have a nice night.

On our way to LGA, I felt 10 lbs lighter.  Sure, I knew an ice cold beer was waiting for me at some godforsaken airport bar that was to be my home for the next few hours, but beyond that, I’d just decided to let the anger go and roll with the punches.  My husband had actually been saying this the whole time.  I just couldn’t hear him saying “it’s all going to work out” because torrents of rage-filled blood had been rushing through my ears and made me deaf to it.  

We got to a gate at LGA, and I stood mutely beside my charming, dimpled husband while he talked to the agent.  He didn’t shmooze, flirt, or ask for any favors.  He walked up and said hi, looked at the agent’s frazzled face and said “this day is crazy, huh?”  All he had to do was be nice.  And as the agent launched into a speech of everything that had gone wrong that day, we were able to commiserate, and share our horror story.  She took pity and gave us our chances for making it out that night, which as it turned out, were looking pretty good.

I threw down my debit card while we waited at the airport bar, and after only an hour, our names were called for standby.  Once we were both settled in our seats, I took stock in how much easier the whole process was once I’d decided to calm down, be nice, and just go with it.  Maybe I should’ve taken that approach from the start.  I ordered a glass of wine to celebrate, and only then realized I’d left my debit card at the airport bar.  I had to smile because this would’ve set me off any other time.  

Instead, I sipped my delicious vintage of airport wine and decided it was all going to work out.  It somehow always does.

Once again, long time - no post.  It’s been a crazy couple of weeks for travel…from our Mexico vacation to a girls trip in Vegas to a work trip in LA!  I already touched on Mexico in a previous post, I am legally obligated to keep my mouth shut about Vegas (what happens in Vegas…), but now that I’m back from LA, I think I’d like to write about something I noticed there. 

DRIVING SUCKS.

I have a lot of friends who’ve insisted that driving is “fun” or “calming” or some other word that isn’t in the same family as “sucks.”  Maybe I believed this when I was a newly minted driver, but now that the novelty of being able to go through a McDonald’s drive-thru whenever I want has worn off, I’m going to respectfully disagree.

Los Angeles is a different beast, I know, and perhaps I shouldn’t judge all driving on that city alone.  It’s filled with miles of concrete snaking over each other like some headless, endless millipede (can’t you tell I just LOVE IT?), and the lack of patience and understanding from fellow drivers is appalling.  And that’s coming from a New Yorker for God’s sake.  I thought we cornered the market on impatience.

I rented a car just to prove to myself that I hadn’t lost the ability to drive, and that I’m not afraid of getting behind the wheel anywhere other than my childhood neighborhood.   Based on my last driving moments in LA, I think I’ll check my pride and order a car service next time.

Quick story:

I’m driving from the hotel to LAX and running a little behind because - turns out - there’s crushing amounts of traffic at all hours of the day in LA.  I finally reach a blessedly open stretch of the 405.  There aren’t many cars around, I have a few miles until I exit..I’m feeling good. So good in fact, that I start to tentatively hum along with the radio.  Then I hear the quick blip of a siren directly to my left.  Oh hello, Mr. Motorcycle Cop.  He looks at me, and makes a sharp hand motion to the right.  Oh God.  I’m getting pulled over.  I glance in the rear view mirror and there are FIVE motorcycle cops flanking me.  Holy Jesus, I’m going to jail.  I start whimpering out loud “What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?” because I have no idea why I’m America’s Most Wanted and also, I don’t know how to pull over on a Freeway.  So with shaking hands, I indicate with my turn signal that I’ll be pulling off to the right.  I take the next exit…and… the cops don’t follow me.  They just keep on going along their merry way.

So now I’m shaking, confused, on some random off-ramp to God Knows Where, and my GPS is screaming RECALCULATING RECALCULATING RECALCULATING in time with my racing heart.  

Screw driving.

I still don’t know why the cop motioned to me.  Was I going too slow?  Did I get in the way of their fancy formation?  Do cops NORMALLY travel in Flying V formations?? I don’t know.  But I know that little detour made me dangerously late to my flight and pretty terrified to try driving in LA any time soon.

The only thing I had time to do at the airport before boarding was grab the first book I saw at Hudson News and dash through the only restaurant by my gate.  And wouldn’t you know, it was McDonald’s.  Thank God it wasn’t drive thru.

So it’s been awhile since I posted, and that’s because I was on a wonderful week-long vacation in Mexico.  Some relatives of mine gave us one of the best wedding presents ever in the form of their vacation home in Troncones, Mexico.  We were gifted the use of their beautiful villa for a week of our choosing, and wow, did it live up to the hype. 

Not only was the house beautiful and the town lovely, but the way of living in Troncones is so slow paced and easy going.  It was easy to relax into morning cups of coffee watching the surf and sunset cocktails walking down the beach.  

We went out surfing a few times, and our surf instructor -though easily a caricature of what a surfer dude should be - was a great teacher and very knowledgable about his craft.  When he took my husband out for his second lesson, I listened while he explained how you should choose your wave.  How you wait for the right one.  How you know when to get off.  I can’t pretend to understand most of it, since the best I did was stand up and ride a few in while flailing my arms out and screaming wildly,  but I thought it was a very poetic way to think about surfing. 

And as I watched him point out various waves as they came and went, it got me thinking about this weird period in my life right now, in most of my friends lives - really.  We’ve all been living with and leaning on each other here in New York for almost a decade now.  And even though a lot has happened in those years, it’s just now starting to feel accelerated.  People are getting married, having babies, moving careers, moving away… it’s like one wave of life keeps crashing onto the next and you just hope you hold on to some part of what feels “normal” before the next one comes.

And as my husband and I start to think about our future careers and family, I’ve noticed that the hardest part of those conversations has been when we talk about letting go of the wave we’ve been on.  Feeling young, fun and fabulous in New York City has been an amazing ride.  It’s one I doubt we’d ditch anytime soon - no matter where our careers or family life goes.  But it makes you think about when or if that day does come:  Will we be ready?

When we packed up the surfboards after the last lesson, our instructor was watching his wife as she surfed in the distance.  I squinted out at the waves and saw her catch one and pop up.  She rode for a few seconds, then swerved over the top of the crest and sunk down.  Our instructor shrugged and said “See how that wave was folding over right there?  It was ending, so she got off.”  

I kind of nodded at him like I understood, but for what I’d been thinking about, it felt kind of sad to hear it said that way.  Then I watched for a few more minutes as she waited for her next wave.  She spotted a big one, paddled out, and caught it perfectly.  I’m sure this wave was different, but from where I was standing, it looked like a pretty amazing ride.

There’ve been some really nice articles out there, all trying to express the grief and shock of losing a legendary talent like Whitney Houston.  I’ve devoured most of them, because like a lot of people, I have a sick fascination with the passing of an icon.  I’m one of the millions who flocks to itunes to give the artist one last #1 hit - even in death.  And like millions of others, I keep going back and watching old videos of her singing and feeling inexplicably sad.  

I recorded a karaoke track of “I Will Always Love You” once when I was 17.  My dad took me into a recording studio, and even though we were there to do a duet together, the guide track to “I Will Always Love You” was also available, so I gave it a go.   With those big headphones on and a mic in my face, I could hear that Bodyguard classic as clear as day.  Even though what came out was the sweet, light voice of a 17 year old white girl who sounds like she’s giving it her very best Dolly Pardon try, I was trying so hard to imitate Whitney.  How hilarious that I even thought that was possible!

Obviously she had a one and a million voice.  Obviously she had insane good looks.  But I think what I loved most about her style was that she seemed so effortless.  Even though I was dazzled by the dancecapades of 90s boy bands and Britney-era sex appeal, I always recognized that you didn’t need that crap if you were something truly extraordinary.  And I think Whitney was.

As much as I’ve enjoyed going back and watching her power ballads from The Bodyguard, or her bubble gum sweetness in “How Will I Know”, the video I keep going back to is the one of her singing the Star Spangled Banner in 1991.   Really talented people often screw this song up out of nerves or lack of preparation.  Really hideous celebrities sometimes butcher it on purpose (I’m lookin at you Roseanne).  But watching Whitney Houston perform it…It sounds like how it should sound.  No distractions, no decoys.  No shaky words or notes.  She’s all smiles and confidence as she nails it - one soaring note at a time.  Effortless.  

*I wrote this the Sunday after her death and forgot to post it - sorry it’s a little late now!

I’ve been told before that I belong in an earlier time.  You would think this means I am an old soul, or wise beyond my years, or something equally as impressive.  But really, when people say that to me, it’s just because they know I love when people dress up.

And according to my extremely professional and not-at-all-based-off movies research, the early to mid-1900s were pretty dressy times in this country.  Actually, I suppose that’s not true if you were dirt poor from the Great Depression, but even then, there are pictures of men waiting in line for food rations wearing hats.  Hats!!!  

Sigh.

I love looking at old pictures and seeing ladies in fitted skirts and pillbox hats.  I love the idea of men wearing suits to work every day, and tipping their hats when they greet someone.  Ok.  So maybe I just have an obsession with hats.

But in all honesty, I do think there is a certain level of civility that comes with being dressed up.  It shows you care about what you do and who you’re with.  When you look impressive, you are impressive.  That’s the idea.  And I’ve pretty much convinced myself that I got cheated out of these fashionable times because I’m a product of a different generation and a different work environment.

My generation came of age during the grunge era.  How am I supposed to have any respect for buttoned-up looks when my sense of style was cemented in baggy flannels and waffles shirts?  And look at my surroundings - this is New York City!  People wear trash bags and call it fashion!  And my job?  Please!  I’m in an edit room all day by myself.  My coworkers don’t even see me, let alone notice if I don’t wear a ballgown to work!

There are so many excuses.  But what’s really true, if I’m being honest,  is that I’m lazy.  I’m the bum who shows up to work every day wearing jeans and converse.  Even though I care about my job and the people I work with,  most of the time I only dress up if it’s an important occasion or if I have a big meeting.  I’ve just gotten lazy about looking nice because I can.

Despite my lack of effort thus far, I think this level of admission is a step in the right direction.  I really do want to (literally) change.  I talk the talk about how much I love and covet the bygone fashions of past generations, but it’s time for me to walk the walk.  And at least every once and awhile, I should walk the walk in a skirt.