Give the gift of music

I wish I could take the credit for discovering this. I was in the car today, talking with a friend of mine who told me about this magical toy that even Santa's naughtiest elves won't make.

Initial reaction: Marketing GENIUS!

I bet Apple wishes they thought of this one. Their focus of being "user friendly" just got a whole new meaning. You won't find this in the Apple store (though I was tempted to ask just to see the reaction of the employees). But, just like genuine Apple products, even the accessories have accessories (or as the company calls them, acsexories).

So this is my gift to you. No, not the vibrator you sick little monkey - the gift of a good laugh.

Merry Christmas everyone.

You've been ... thunderstruck!

dodge•ball n. A game in which players on one team try to eliminate players on another by hitting them with an inflated ball.

As a general rule, the head is off-limits. Generally speaking. But as my devoted readers may realize by now, my luck is subpar lately (reference previous post). I've even been described as "accident prone" by a good friend.

Wednesday night is dodgeball night. I had a rough day at work last Wednesday, and I wasn't really "feelin' it" for dodgeball. Didn't bring my A game. But I got out there and did my best. I was a little miffed when in the second game, I got tagged in the upper thigh, leaving a hefty bruise. Not keen on bruising, but it comes with the territory.

That night, so did getting hit in the face. Head-on. I didn't even see it coming - not even time to flinch. I've never felt such pain. Honestly. Though I didn't leave my feet, I was certainly reeling. I sat down - laid down - and bawled like a little girl. Immediate reaction is to cover your face, which I did, and thought for sure when I pulled my hands back, there'd be blood. But there was none. I couldn't open my left eye, my face was on fire, and I had bit my tongue. Oh, and there was the embarrassment factor.

I had been doing relatively well that game, but made a terrible mistake. I took my eyes off the opposing team to retrieve a ball from behind me. I hadn't even finished turning back around when I was hit. Mind you, I was standing up. Now, I'm almost 6 feet tall, so to hit me in the face while standing up is just careless throwing. Granted, I don't blame the guy, but it was sloppy. And he pegged that shit. Some of these guys (my team included) have real cannon throws that, if not careful, could do real damage. Case in point.

I asked to go sit in the bleachers, so the game could go on (and so I didn't prolong the scene - I wanted to disappear). The ref asked a bunch of questions, to which I answered with varying nods, then promptly laid down on the cool metal bleachers with an ice pack on my eye. A few minutes later, I was able to blink and could swear someone had run a knife through my eye. Not good. After several failed attempts at flushing out my eye in the bathroom sink, I eventually drove myself home.

Cutting to the exciting stuff (for those reading, not for me), I ended up in St. Luke's ER with a corneal abrasion. Ooooh fun. All I can say is, God bless the person who developed Alcaine, the drops they put in your eyes to numb them. The nurse and doctor had no sense of humor, and failed to find it amusing that I simply asked for the bottle, then I'd go on my way. They also didn't find it funny when I asked how many patients they've seen with dodgeball injuries ... who were older than 12. Not even a chuckle. To hell with 'em.

You might think having an ornery doctor poke and prod your eyes, put a bunch of shit in them and ask a lot of questions (the SAME questions over and over) would be the worst part, but no. The tetanus shot was. When the nasty nurse told me I'd need one, that sealed the deal as the shittiest part of the trip. Not because I hate shots. I really don't care. It's two days after when you feel like someone slugged you in the damn arm. I figured, between my face hurting and my arm aching, I was going to feel like I lost a fight. I later asked the nurse why I needed the shot. I thought it was for metal-related injuries like stepping on a nail. She said it was for any dirty wound, and I hadn't had a tetanus shot since I was in 5th grade (I had stabbed myself with metal scissors. Metal = tetanus shot). I told her I never knew, and figured it was because no one explains to a 5th grade kid why they're getting a shot, just that they're getting one. Not even a grin. Bitch.

I ended up missing work the next day. Went to the Mayo Clinic (nice joint; highly recommended if you ever have to go) to see an ophthalmologist, luckily with a sense of humor. And so now I'm recovering. Drops, Aleve, drops, Aleve. I'm sick of both. I still have a headache. And my vision is all fuckered up. My left eye (which took the hit) is my good eye. It always compensated for how bad my right eye is. But now I can't see a damn thing with my glasses on - I see better with them off. It doesn't make any sense. I just hope it isn't permanent because I still saw best with my glasses. Right now, I'm just getting by.

But hey, this isn't going to spin off into a bitch session. The guy who hit me did apologize, and I've got no animosity toward him at all. It's not as though he thought, "I'm going to hit that chick RIGHT IN THE FACE! Yeah!" It wasn't intentional. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous about going back into the game. I'm still taking this Wednesday off.

One Night in Dulles

So I promised a few people I'd put this story in writing, and promised a few more it would make it onto the blog. It's a bit late, but I'm keeping my promise. It's a long one, so settle in.

The United Fiasco
So I didn't spend an entire night in Dulles, as the post name might imply, but it was quite a night.

To summarize the pre-story, a long-time friend of mine invited me to accompany him to a wedding for a friend of his, in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. For those of you who have never been there, it's a tourist-driven little town nestled in the Smoky Mountains. Granted, it's lovely, but a tourist trap nonetheless. This is where I was to spend a weekend.

This friend of mine purchased my plane tickets to get there. I was leaving Jax on Friday afternoon, with a 30-minute layover in Dulles, to eventually arrive in Knoxville (the nearest airport, and still 2 hours from Gatlinburg). My flight was scheduled to leave at 7:02 p.m. I arrive at the airport with plenty of time to spare, and roll up to the United counter to check my suitcase. As I'm walking up (keep in mind, no words were yet exchanged), the girl behind the counter looks at me and says, "Your flight is delayed." Um, okay. How does she know this? Not sure, but she tells me to go ahead with the self-check-in. I go through everything the screens asks for, then get to a screen that tells me what the girl did - my flight is delayed - but goes on to say this might affect my ability to make my connection, and asked if I would like to reschedule my flight. I told the girl, who in turn told me to ignore it and go through the rest of the check-in. When I let her know it kept kicking me back to the screen to reschedule my flight, she said she'd check my bag manually (translation: do her job), and to cancel out of the self-check-in. This was sign number one - don't go.

I check my bags in with her, smile and go on my way to the gates. [On a side note: I grabbed a Maple Frappuccino from Starbucks. Holy ... fucking ... shit. Get one. Get one NOW. It's the best ever - even better than my Frap of choice, Caramel.] I check my ticket and see it says A8. As I trek past all the other A's, I realize it's at the far end of the terminal. This means only one thing: a puddle-jumper. Commuter. Express. Whatever you want to call it, it sucks. So I plant myself in a little blue chair at the end of the terminal and realize I have a great view to watch the sunset. I call my friend to let him know I was running late, and not sure how much, but the plane wasn't there yet and it was well past the original 7:02 departure. I find out a few minutes later that it's due to arrive in Jacksonville at 7:45-ish. My connection was scheduled to depart Dulles at 9:13. A little plane like that can make up about 15 minutes in the air for a flight like this. Not good. This was sign number two - don't go.

It arrives at almost 8. I board the sardine can and find I'm in the back row, with my back to the shitter (back to the shitter = no reclining). During the time I had in the terminal to contemplate the meaning of life, I found myself people-watching and praying not to end up by certain ones. But I did. Lucky me, I ended up next to one who smelled of Limburger cheese and snored like a vacuum cleaner that had sucked up a piece of plastic. He spoke enough English to annoy me, before he passed out. There was terrible weather and lots of turbulence, but my flaming flight attendant assured me I would make my connection because this weather was 'surely' delaying the flights leaving Dulles as well. When we land, I think he's 'surely' going to let those of us with connecting flights off first, but I was wrong. And in the back of the damn plane. Not that it would have mattered - the plane to Knoxville had left 30 minutes ago.

So there I was, stranded in an airport I'd never been in, with no idea where to go, at 10:15 at night. It was like I was in a movie, standing befuddled in front of a massive board of arriving and departing flights, with mine gone. People are whizzing past in every direction and I have doors all around me and no idea which one to choose. And I'm alone. I've never, EVER missed a flight, much less been stranded in an unfamiliar airport, alone. Trust me, as a girl, this was scary shit. After finding an employee, they pointed me to a customer service line with about 30 other people in front of me. There was a line of phones along the wall, with a t.v. above indicating that anyone on my flight who missed a connection should pick up the phone to talk to a rep. Useless. One of those "For someone who speaks no English and couldn't give a shit, press one" types ... but here's the kicker: there were no keys. Just a handset. Brilliant. I move less than 10 feet in an hour and a half. When I do finally reach the front of the line, Ishmael #1 (and they will continue to be numbered) gets uppity with me. Tells me he has several more people to help, and I need to decide whether or not to return to Jax, or take my chances on a flight to Knoxville that I'm pretty sure will get me there too late to make the wedding. I tell him to put me on the plane to Knoxville. He assures me my luggage will be on that flight.

So now what? I have my cell phone with me, and though I remembered to pack everything I needed for once (so I thought), I forgot my charger. I called my mom, and during my frenzied call, realized I had another friend (whom I had seen just the weekend before) who lives just outside Dulles. I gave him a call, and he came to my rescue. Said he'd be there in about 30 minutes. So I had 30 minutes to try to get my bag. Why? Because first, I didn't trust Ishmael #1 and second, I wanted my shit. If I was stuck there overnight, I wanted my toothbrush, PJs and shit, dammit. After finding the luggage office in this dirty shithole-for-an-airport, I talked to Ishmael #2 who told me I could get it "sometime before 5 a.m. or after 6 a.m." At this point, it was going on 12:30 in the morning, and my friend was going to be there to pick me up at any moment. I told Ishmael #2 to forget it, but that I wanted to change my flight to Jacksonville, which he did. And to MAKE SURE my bag made it with me. "Oh yes! Yes ma'am!" He hands me a little pouch of toiletries for the night, a $15 voucher for some grub, and sends me on my way. I get some clam chowder (my first meal since noon) and meet up with my friend. Once back at his place, I call the number Ishmael #2 gave me to in order to reaffirm my luggage will be on my plane to Jax. Ishmael #3 tells me "Yep. It'll be there." before I can even finish my sentence. Then damn near hangs up on me. I end up crashing around 3 a.m.

My return flight to Jax leaves at 12:17 the next day (Saturday). With plenty of time, I wake up, brush my teeth with the schnazzy little toothbrush and toothpaste courtesy of United. My friend and I grab a bite to eat at McDonald's, and he drops me back off at the 1950s-throwback-to-the-space-race airport. Bear in mind, all I have is my purse and messenger bag as carry-on - no suitcase. I'm in line for security, and the woman at the beginning of the line looks at my license and boarding pass, and asks, "Any liquids?" Shit. Shit shitsky. "Nope." Yep. That nifty little package-o-love from United has liquids. Which I would have been happy to have put in my checked luggage - had I had it in the first place. I go through the scanner, keeping my mouth shut. Sure as shit, the guy pulls it out and tells me I can't have it. I just start laughing, then stop realizing I might get my ass arrested. I explain how I came to acquire such a package, and how I was unable to adhere to the TSA's rules about liquids because I at no point had possession of my suitcase, in turn having no chance to check it. Then the guy returned my laugh, explained how he felt horrible, but how he didn't care so much as "the man" cared. So I lost all my dandy doo-dads, but went on to catch my return flight home.

During all this, I keep getting calls from Orbitz (through which my friend had bought the tickets), with updates on delays and such. Since I changed flights, and Orbitz doesn't track that, I kept getting these phone calls but ignored them. I knew they no longer pertained to me and didn't want to waste the battery power.

I get on what I swear is the exact same plane to head home, and I was relatively pleased to be only halfway back, with a window seat. But my joy was short-lived. A couple, who I can only assume were flying stand-by, came down the aisle and asked the guy behind me if anyone was sitting beside him. They asked the same of me. We replied, "No." The wife/girlfriend/booty-call/biatch doesn't skip a beat and asks the guy if he's going to move. Oh, or does he want that seat. She was so rude. The guy explains that he had chosen the seat because it was the emergency aisle with extra legroom. She just stood there. Though I was waiting for a fight to ensue, he calmly stood up and sat down next to me. He was an armrest Nazi, even moreso than the first guy. His arm was practically in my lap. Large guy + bad mood + wretched mothball smell about him = a shitty ride home.

When we land at Jax, I wait on the plane, watching bag after bag come off. Not Jen's. I get off the plane and walk the 10 miles from the end of Terminal A to baggage claim (in the same outfit and heels as I was wearing to work on Friday). I wait at the carousel and watch all the bags go around and get picked up. Not Jen's. I walk down to United's baggage office (deja vu?) and inquire about where my FUCKING bag is. I hand my claim ticket the guy behind the counter, who asks where I was headed. After a good laugh, I tell him I was going to Knoxville. He then says (and I'm not making this shit up), "So you weren't headed to Tulsa?" Does 'Tulsa' sound like 'Knoxville'? Are they even in the same state? Is it even anywhere on my way from here to Knoxville? Idiot. He gives me the third 800 number I've had to call in less than 24 hours, and tells me I can track the progress of my bag that way, but that it should be back here ASAP and back to me, at my doorstep, by the next day. At this point, it's 2:30 in the afternoon, and I have hardly slept, haven't showered, eaten, cried or killed anyone. And I want to do all of the above. I take what feels like the longest walk back to my car and have a small breakdown before driving home.

Now that I'm in my car, and able to plug in my phone, I check my voicemail. The most notable: A call from Orbitz. The first leg of my return flight, from Knoxville to Dulles, was cancelled. It was a 6-something p.m. flight. I would have been trapped in Knoxville. I don't know anyone in Knoxville. Would've been bad news.

I get home and accomplish four of the five things I listed previously. I finally call the 800 number to see where my bag is. Yet another automated menu. What do I get? "We are unable to locate your luggage. We're sorry for any inconvenience this may cause ..." What? Check Tulsa. I'm sure it's there. I try three times to get through to a person, only to reach Ishmael's daughter. Unhelpful douche bag. I had to drag answers out of her. Apparently my bag was in Chicago. Lucky bag. It got to travel further than I did. It went from Jax to Charlotte to Knoxville (fucking figures) to Tulsa to Chicago and back to Jax. I got it back at 3 a.m. on Sunday, at my door.

This was the biggest waste of time. I left work early, lost a bit of time doing so, drove home (opposite direction as the airport) to take care of my dogs before I went, hauled ass to the airport, paid to park, and went through all the steps to get to ... Dulles. Fucking Dulles. I had to explain to Ishmael #4 (customer dis-service) that this whole thing was pointless, and I totally missed the wedding. Adding insult to injury, everyone I dealt with was rude, spoke poor English, and they lost my luggage. He offered me a $175 voucher. I said, "No, I want the whole damn thing refunded. This entire ordeal was a waste of my time." He then offered a $200 voucher for screwing up the travel, and a $100 voucher for screwing up my bag. Fine. That equals the cost of the ticket anyway - however he wants to justify it.


The moral? Well, there are several:

1. If there are enough signs that point to trouble, don't ignore them.
   
2. If you see a trend in the ethnicity of the people you're dealing with, and it's causing a problem, don't be ashamed to ask to speak to someone you can understand - especially if you're in the United States, and not the Middle East.
   
3. If you're getting screwed, at least get their phone number. Even if it is an 800 number.
   

I live in the coolest place EVER

This is why ...
I'm leaving for work this morning, and the gate to exit the development is open.
"Odd, it never stays open."
I drive through, and my car is surrounded by four employees for the place, each carrying trays of food and drinks. Orange juice, Starbucks coffee, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, granola bars, NutriGrain bars ... the works. They're all sporting huge smiles and saying, "It's Resident Appreciation Day! Would you like some doughnuts? Coffee? Juice? Take some for your coworkers!"
Fuck that ... I earned this. I pay the mortgage here.
One Krispy Kreme doughnut, a Starbucks coffee and a granola bar. Thank you.
I do feel appreciated.

Crikey, that 'urts!

Australia is in mourning over the death of Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin. He died yesterday at the age of 44 from a freak accident with a stingray. [Read the story, then come back.]

I'm a bit torn between feeling sorry for the guy and his family, and thinking "Damn. Didn't see that one coming!"

I mean, the guy was doing such amazing things. A conservationist through-and-through. Few people nowadays feel as passionate about something as Steve did. And fewer still actually take action and make a difference. And though most, if not all of us thought he'd surely see his demise in the mouth of a crocodile, it's not surprising that he died doing his job. I suppose it's more glorious than dying on the shitter or something.

So Discovery Channel is running a marathon of his stuff. I want that job ... the guy who digs through all the tapes and puts together an impromptu posthumous tribute to a celebrity. That's a feelgood job right there. It much be especially fun for a guy like Steve Irwin who has a metric shitload of shows, interviews, movie footage, outtakes, etc. I wonder if a job like that requires you to wear a pager. 'Cause you never know.

So yeah, I'm making light of a sad story. But it is sad. Hell, when I was at UCF, they used to have get-togethers at the Fiji house to drink and watch this guy's new episodes. Great entertainment value. And anyone watching him for the first time might think, "Is this guy for real? What the hell is he on?" But yes, he was for real in his demonstrative presence and insane antics. He was over the top.

And that passion was reflected in everything he did.

It's a sad day at Australia Zoo.