Shenanigans

Remember being a kid?  Now that it's summer, maybe my son will.
The last time Dominic was written up on a disciplinary slip in elementary school-
*sigh*

Picture this:  three adolescent boys walking together.

Boy on right:  "Right ball".
Boy on left:  "Left ball".
Boy on right:  "There's a penis between us".
All three boys laugh.

I remember in third grade, all the boys ever did on recess was try to knee or punch each other in the balls.  I was barely amused, because I didn't really understand it.  Now I have a son, and I get it.  It's a right of passage.  It's part of growing up.  A necessary part of growing up.

I remember when recess was linked to words like shenanigans, tomfoolery, and immaturity.

I've said it before... my best memories from childhood happened when I was doing something I probably wasn't supposed to.  All children do this.  This is autonomy, children finding their way in the world without their parents.  Children trying out mature language and ideals.  Children getting an inappropriate education about intimate subjects from their stupid friends.  Shock and awe being silly and funny, making these scary subjects easier to handle.

On the playground in sixth grade, my girls and I talked about love, sex, and our periods.  (Not that any of experienced any of these-- but we had all types of discussions preparing us for them).  When I think back to these conversations, they were laughable.  But...they prepared me for the grown up world.  They prepared me for the intimate relationships I would have during puberty with other girls, becoming women.  They gave me a chance to speak frankly without the audience of parents, health books, and human growth and development films.

Granted... my son was stupid enough to take the role of "right ball" within earshot of a recess duty.  (They call the recess staff recess duties.  Duty.  Heehee.  Gets me every time).

So to Dominic and all the other gross, stupid boys out there- have fun.  Be disgusting.  We expect it of you.  Just look over your shoulder and check your audience now and then, ya jack wagons!

Happy 29th birthday to me- well, give or take a decade

So here is the short story to sum up this year's birthday.

Let me start by stating that I don't love birthdays.  At least, not my own.  I'm not really sure why, but I have been like this most my life.  I'm beyond thrilled to decorate, celebrate, or jump out of a cake for YOUR birthday.  Something about my own birthday, however, seems to paralyze me.

I'm not concerned about growing older.  I don't look that old, and I've truly never acted my age.  Age is just a number.  Except for when I'm entering a bar, it never really comes up.  *Special shout out to the nice boys that still card me in bars, by the way*

So... apparently I'm so old that I couldn't renew my driver's license online.  I had to actually go into DMV to renew it.  DMV seems to question my ability to see with these ancient eyes.

I take my number and sit in the chair.  The same discolored, metal leg chair in every DMV in America.  No one is in a good mood.  A poster on the wall announces that the personnel at DMV strive to make every customer happy.  Ya, right.

When my number is finally called... almost an hour later... I look for counter #9.  I can see counters 1-8 lined up in a row.  I can see 11 and 12 on the other side of two unlabeled counters.  Is it just me?  Am I imagining the logic that the unlabeled ones would be, um, 9 and 10?

I wait, patiently, at the alleged #9 counter.  And... I was wrong.  #9 is actually the same counter, at the front of the room, where I got my original number.

I trek over to the correct counter to see that they have actually moved to the next customer.  Catching the eye of the power hungry nazi friendly assistant, I wave my number towards him.

"Ooooh.  I called you, but you never came."

I explain that I couldn't find the counter.  After some very deliberate searching through the computer system, he declares that he can still help me.  I'm still in the system.

Just to be clear-- if you couldn't find my arbitrary number in the computer system designed to call customers in order, I would have to what... start over?

I am instructed to read a line of letters.  Then I announce the four colors I see in the vision do-hickey.  Then I'm done.  Thank goodness they made me come in.  Clearly I'm not senile based on that forty five seconds of testing.

"Are you still on 17th street?"  Yes.
"Do you still want to be an organ and tissue donor?"  Yes.
"Do you still weigh 120 lbs?"
After a slight hesitation, I answer, "sure."

This is where my fabulous beginning to this birthday begins.  I will be able to tell this story for years to come.  The kindly man cocks his head to the side and asks me, "really?"

Ya.  Happy birthday to me.

Poetic license

I recently subbed in a fifth grade excel class.  Fun class full of active learning and kids that actually want a challenge.  They had the perfect, quirky teacher for that.  On each of their desks was a small paper adhered to the corner.  Each had a photo of the child, and the words written beside it "poetic license."

I need one of these. 

Blogs are an interesting form of communication.  They are an edited diary, to almost be read aloud.  Herein lies the difficulty.  Do I follow the rules of speech or writing?

I am fully aware that it's frowned upon to start a sentence with a conjunction.  But, sometimes it's just needed.  Would I write a paper like this?  Of course not.  Would I include an incomplete sentence like 'of course not'?  Of course not.

Sentences shouldn't end with a preposition.  Really and very are truly not interchangeable.  Ginormous isn't a word.  

But then, misuse of grammar damages my credibility as a writer.  Well, for some of you.  Those of you that text me incoherent sentences that look like a license plate, you're probably safe.

So I need to use some forms of grammar correctly?  Capitals, subject predicate, parallel construction?  Me and I.  Well and good.

Then I notice the glazed over look you have when I start going all APA and MLA on ya.

I let my ear decide.  My blog, when read in my head, sounds like someone on open mic night.  It sounds like a storyteller reliving the experience before you.  It sounds like a sarcastic person revealing a punchline.

Sure, that's just in my head.  But, if a conjunction, fragment, and misused adjective make it sound like that to you, then I've done my job.

Thank you, I'll be here all week.

Musical chairs

Walked into Junior Achievement "Biztown" training today with a few school parent friends.  We were among the first there. They guided us to (enter clever name for meeting room B) the sign in table.  Lots of large, round tables dot the room.

Right there, the decision must be made.  Who do I plan to be?

Many times in college I was roasted by friends for being the front and center girl.  Let me clarify.  I sat in the very center of the front row.  First I got out the appropriate notebook and my reliable pen.  Water bottle.  Glasses case.  Highlighter.  Sticky notes.  All lined up.  I should have just sprung for the pocket protector.

Many times the professor would actually utter the words, "... anyone besides Sam that would like to chime in?"

Ya.  I'm that girl.

Then one summer, I was in graduate school, entering a classroom for the first day of class.  Oh, I had my arsenal of school supplies.  I spotted my friend Mary in the back of the class. 

Hmm.  This might be fun.

It is a social convention that generally the seat you take the first day will remain the approximate area you land from that point on.

So I sat in the back with Mary.  She was so funny, with a dry wit.  She didn't stack her supplies at a 45 degree angle like I did.  She didn't even have a highlighter with her.

I spent the rest of the term listening and learning, but quietly, with a sarcastic flare.  I did use those sticky notes-- to write amusing comments back and forth with Mary.  I didn't offer much to the dialogue.  I did the work.  I got an A.  But I did so in the back of the room.  I didn't get roasted because I was doing all the roasting.

Years later, with my big girl pants on, I stand, surveying the room.  I've relaxed a lot since my school days.  I've even realized that I don't have to get an A.

So...I sat in the back corner.  I didn't share any questions or answers.  In general group answering, I muttered.  I took pictures of my coffee cup and played words with friends on my phone.

And you know what?  It really didn't matter.

Times... they are a changin'

Things that make me realize just how old I am.
(and believe me, it crept right up on me!)

10.  My children are better than me at all technology things.
9.  I don't get carded anymore.  Once in awhile a nice young man may ask for my ID, but you can tell he thinks he's doing a good deed.
8.  People have started referring to me as ma'm.  Not honey, not sugar, ma'm.  I can't win on this one.  I'm either a sex object or old.
7.  I get excited when I receive a gift that is an appliance.
6.  I find it interesting to watch birds.  Also, any type of small mammal... rabbits, squirrels, any cute little Snow White sort of thing that comes to my yard.  sigh.
5.  I no longer know the names of the cool drinks or trendy food.  I remember when getting a sex on the beach well drink was scadalous.  Believe me... they've gotten way dirtier.  And why does everyone young eat sushi?
4.  Some of the current music actually does sound like noise to me.  When  I tell my kids one of their songs is a remake, they look rather horrified.
3.  I am no longer appealing in a bar, unless it's a 40+ crowd.  Or if I'm standing near a young person, and I overhear someone say "your mom is pretty."  Grrrr.
2.  I start sentences with 'when I was a kid...'.  All.  The.  Time.

1.  I still use the word awesome.

;-)

I used to have the cutest little non-smart phone.  It was bright pink with little embossed daisies.  Now that I've switched over to the smart phone I could never go back.  There are a few features, however, that this new phone is lacking.

Don't get me wrong, the smart phone is great.  My own little full functioning barbie sized computer.

But it doesn't have the devil face.  I really need the devil face.

Many of you are rolling your eyes, thinking that's just the software.  Uh huh, got that.  I can't get what I want loaded onto my phone.  Just that simple.  Different phones, different companies, and I'm stuck with the strange and limited alien expressions.

Sure, I've got the most used- smile and smile/wink.  I have the occasionally used sad, tear, and tongue sticking out.  But I don't have the devil.

By nature, I am a fairly sarcastic person.  Even at inappropriate times.  Therefore, I desperately need the fitting emoticons/smilies.

I don't have the smiling devil.  Clearly he was my go to for any facetious or mocking comment.  I miss him.

I also don't have the wink/smiling devil.  While less used than the traditional devil, he was pivotal to designate if I'm being sarcastic or using an innuendo.

Ahh... and smile with the uplifted eyebrows?  There was no sarcasm for this guy.  No innuendo.  He was truly giving the face that says, "ya wanna??"  Date nights will never be the same with the eyebrow guy.

Sure I can be confused, an angel, or have my foot in my mouth.  It's just not the same.  Oh-- and what the heck is with money mouth.  I'm so old I don't even know when to use that one.

Here comes the sun

It has been a long and dreary winter, both literally and figuratively.  I have felt that down to my bones, literally and figuratively.

Then a small hint of spring pops up...

Only to be blown away by... more snow?

When Spring finally appears... ahhh, that's when I remember the allergies!

Many, many sneezy allergies...

But then something happens...

The sun, after a mysteriously long absence, shows itself.
And seeing the sun, even in fleeting moments, is enough to make me happy.

100 things you probably don't want to know about me for my 100th post

1. I am an only child.
2. I am married to an only child.
3. I still call L.A. home.
4. I am a terrible swimmer.
5. I have considered becoming a vegetarian throughout my life. I usually just pick around the meat.
6. I’ve had the same best friend for over 26 years.
7. My bf and I have tiny matching tattoos. They are little daisy doodles. People have tried to rub it off thinking I drew it in pen.
8. I still read the comics in the Sunday paper. My favorite? Get Fuzzy. Cat/dog, Republican/Democrat. How is that not funny??
9. I got hit by a car when I was a kid. Driven by a teacher at our high school.
10. I lost part of my pinkie toe in a bicycle accident. 
11. I’ve been to Disneyland too many times to count.
12. My first name is Carolyn, but I’ve had it changed to just the letter C. When I tell people my name is C. Samantha, they often write Camantha.
13. I am scared of scorpions. Reason that Traci and I always meet somewhere… uh, Arizona? No thanks.
14. I have a pen name ready to use if I ever need it. I cannot share it- that would defeat the purpose.
15. I’ve never left North America.
16. I don’t really care that I’ve never left North America.
17. The most common mistaken name I get called is Amy.
18. I like to dance in the kitchen.
19. I started college as a geology major. Apparently I wasn’t good at it.
20. My favorite color is green, and has been my whole life.
21. I write children’s stories.
22. My favorite pet was my golden lab, Babe.
23. I remember every word of the preamble to the constitution.
24. I like football.
25. I hand out stickers to children. Mostly at school… I’m not some weirdo.
26. I have to sleep on the left side of the bed.
27. In a hotel, I can’t sleep near the window, and it even trumps the sleeping on the left side of the bed.
28. I got stitches three times. Head, toe, chin.
29. I think fashion is a waste of time and money.
30. I drink tea every day. I prefer Darjeeling tea.
31. I don’t correct people when the mispronounce my last name. They often say Persinger with a soft g, like Salinger.
32. I really don’t care if people mispronounce my last name.
33. I have never skied.
34. I am fascinated with D.B. Cooper. It’s actually Dan Cooper. I’m that big a fan.
35. My favorite childhood books were Lloyd Alexander’s Book of Three series.
36. I love beans. Any kind. Any way.
37. I play solitaire way too often.
38. My children weren’t named after anyone. Dominic has the middle name William from my maiden last name, Williams. Ripley was going to be Ripley Jordyn… but turned out to just need her own name.
39. I lived in San Fernando valley as a kid-- valley girl!
40. I love the beach. When people ask country or city-- I’m beach!
41. I love listening to Paul Simon. I gave birth to my daughter with Paul Simon in the background.
42. I won a writing contest in the Columbian as a kid.
43. I have taken naps with my guinea pigs.
44. I know all the lines in It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown. You owe me restitution!!
45. I spray painted my name on rocks near my college town. (It was totally a graffiti rock, so it’s not super bad of me)
46. My favorite food group is vegetables.
47. I can’t own a car that isn’t black, silver, or gray.
48. I talk to anyone, anywhere.
49. I can be really lazy.
50. I lived down the street from Fantasy Island’s Tattoo when I was a kid.
51. I read poetry. I’ve been known to write it, too.
52. In college, I was politely asked to leave sorority rush after one day. Long story. Chalk it up to my non-conformity.
53. My family on my mom’s side are Masons.
54. I can’t curl my tongue. (It’s a genetic thing!)
55. I have attached ear lobes. (Also genetic-- look it up!)
56. I’ve let my kids eat all the chocolate in their advent calendars on the first day of December.
57. My favorite part of the newspaper is the community section titled “what’s up with that?”
58. I have ridden in the back of a police car. (I was actually getting a ride to the hospital, but it makes me sound kinda bad ass, right?)
59. I dislike writing stupid in texts. U no wht I mean?
60. I love roller coasters. Favorite is Tatsu. Or X2. Or Alpengeist. Or Millennium Force.
61. I mean I really love roller coasters!
62. My favorite cartoon as a kid was the Smurfs. Every time there is a blue moon, I bring them up.
63. I can’t roller skate. Simply horrible at it.
64. I have a memory like an elephant.
65. I green clean my house.
66. I compost.
67. I’m really good at math.
68. I have a degree from Washington State University.
69. I have a degree from Portland State University.
70. I love knee socks.
71. I collect crushed pennies. People bring them back from vacations for me. Especially kids.
72. I like to stop at brown history markers on the side of the road, despite my families protest.
73. I love dams.  My dad gave me a photo book of dams, and my kids call it my dam book.
74. I love lighthouses.
75. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t know the names of all the kids at the school where I sub.
76. I do not go to church.
77. I have tried out just about every religion.
78. I love nachos. Or anything that resembles nachos.
79. I think everything tastes better with chili. Especially nachos.
80. I bake great cookies. Seriously. You wouldn’t believe how good they are.
81. I try not to read novels too often… they distract me too much and I don’t get enough sleep.
82. I remember all the states and capitols. Except Michigan. Don’t know why.
83. I have regrets.
84. I would not get in a time machine.  Not a mulligan issue, I'm claustrophobic.
85. I had scoliosis as a child.
86. I got in a fight that resulted in me splitting my chin open.
87. That fight was with a guy. He was a football player at WSU. That totally makes me look bad ass! Or crazy.
88. My favorite movie is Remember the Titans.
89. I love to organize.
90. Although I have a memory like an elephant and am great at math, I cannot remember phone numbers.
91. I never go anywhere without lip gloss. Petroleum free, please.
92. I have gnomes in my house. Statues… not real ones
93. I am equally terrible at all sports.
94. I am an extremely loyal friend.
95. Confrontations kill me!
96. My favorite band is Green Day.
97. I love Mexican food. Even beyond nachos…
98. I don’t fall asleep quickly.
99. Safe to say I probably have not seen the t.v. show or movie you are talking about. I’m really bad at that.

100. But I do love the History channel. (Inner geek coming out)

Credit union security

I really do appreciate the vast effort companies are showing to help fight the battle of identity theft, and other assorted felonies that take away our money.

However, it's almost getting silly.

I called IQ credit union for the final payment amount on a car.  I always pay a little over, so I needed the balance.

Thrilled to actually be talking to a live person, I sacrifice my super secret account number.  I give my name and address.  Last four digits of my social security number.

The conversation actually turns...um, conversational.

No more rehearsed lines. 

"Umm.... let's see.... hang on a sec...
I need to ask you some questions to verify your account ownership."

*Long pause, faint tapping on keyboard.

"What is the make and model of the car connected with this loan."

I answer the car type.

"I need to know the model, too."

I don't know the model!  I search through the paperwork and provide a sufficient answer.

"What year did you take out this loan?"

Answer with guesstimation that must have pleased her.

"Which branch did you originally take this loan from?"

"Um... we bought it at Dick Hannah.  They arranged the loan,"  I answer.

"Great answer!  That was a trick question!"

Seriously? 

"What other services do you have at IQ credit union?"

This was actually kind of a trick question, too.  We have savings there, but no checking.  Fourth hurdle passed!

"Can you give me a cell number associated with this account."

I answer the fifth and final question, and pass with flying colors. 
Now I proceed to give my address, AGAIN.
Then my loan account number, AGAIN.

Finally I get the balance for the car payment.  $167.

So just to be clear... I had to go through all of that so a crook didn't what?  Pay off my car??

4th quarter

The first NBA game I attended was with my doting boyfriend/future husband.  He took me to see the Suns play in Portland because he knew I was such a huge KJ fan.  Don't judge, I still stand behind this. 

Great game.  Went into overtime.  The electricity in the crowd was overwhelming.  Barely a person in their seat, club-type music thumping the arena, kiss cams in mass numbers.

Like so many anticipated occasions, overtime was over in a blink.  And we were left with the thrill of.... a second overtime?

Wow.  Sportscenter would be loving this.

We cheered and screamed and high fived...

Um.  Still a tie?  A third overtime?

Life is a lot like basketball.  In that first quarter, we are fresh, shiny, and new.  Ready to take on the world.  Motivation high.  Invincible.

Second quarter.  Reflection time and we still feel pretty good.  Sure, we've made some mistakes and learned from them.  This is a good time to size up our competition and make solid plans.

Third quarter.  After we rest a bit, we feel like our energy is dwindling, but the expectations are that we will play like the seasoned veterens that we are.

Fourth quarter.  I'm tired.  I just want to win this game and go home.  And, oh, the desperate realization that some of our beloved teammates have already fouled out puts incredible pressure and saddness around us.

Overtime?   Our fans are happy to see this, but we're losing our drive.  More team members are fouling out, and frankly the team is just not in good enough shape to pull it together.

When the game went into it's fourth overtime-- that's right, not a typo...  We kinda got, uh, bored.  At this point, I don't really care who wins.  My thoat hurts, my beer buzz is gone, and I just want to sit in a soft chair.  I dream of getting the heck out of this place and home in my bed to sleep.

News in the morning covered the amazing 4 overtimes.  Followed by Willard Scott announcing over 100 birthdays.  Aren't these the same thing?

Go out with a whimper, not a bang?  No thanks.  I don't want quadruple overtime.  I don't want to be on the morning show for living a century.

Funny thing, don't even remember who won the game.

There's no place like gnome

In the midst of my blues, a funny little thing made me smile.  Well, laugh.  Actually, I almost peed my pants.

I have a garden gnome named Gus that I received several years ago.  Love him.  Since then, I have been blessed with occasional gnome gifts from friends and family.  They are strewn and hidden around my house.  Recently, a friend came to visit and one of them came up missing.

Tonight, I received photos from this friend.  Evidence of them whooping it up in a city far away.

Thanks to my friend for the smile.

New year, New you

I've been thinking this week about new year's resolutions.  I never make them.  The timing makes no sense to me.  If we are supposed to use a brand new year to start fresh, then why do they put all the good football games on right after new year?  Clearly I will not be exercising and watching my diet during that first week!

I'm also confused what these resolutions are supposed to be.  Do I want to be healthier or happier?  I could swear off sugar, carbs, and caffeine to protect the health of my heart, or I could decide to make a truce with my body image and enjoy life.  I could pick the balance... but I'm already doing that.

So what makes a good resolution?

I already spend lots of time with my family, and I don't smoke.  I know I'll exercise more when the warmer weather comes.  Diet?  I love my tachos, but I eat sensibly.  I'm not in debt, I don't drink too much, and I enjoy life.  Organize?  Please.  Already the queen.

I think resolutions are great for people that are unhappy.  For the rest of us though?

I have my vices...

It always comes back to the chocolicious torte.

10 Reasons not to like Thanksgiving

10.  The food is weird, Victorian English stuff.
9.  There is perfectly good football on tv.
8.  The food induced coma right before the biggest shopping day.
7.  Insanely busy travel, combined with unpredictable weather.
6.  Unless you're white, why would you like it?

5.  Biggest declaration between the have and have-nots.
4.  Too many volunteers on one day, not enough the other 364 days of the year.

3.  Someone always gets too drunk.
2.  Someone always gets too bitchy.

1.  The gluttony of Americans.

Utility rope, and other fine jewelry

So apparently, once again, I am behind the times.  Newest trend I have discovered:  paracord bracelets.  A bracelet fashioned from nylon parachute cord that can be used as both an accessory and utility rope.

I totally dig this.  Remember that I am the same person that gave emergency ration kits as Christmas presents.  Merry Christmas!  Hope you never need this!

I'm also the same person who wears magnetic jewelry (insert eye roll here) and believes accessories should have a purpose.  No fear-- this is not my next purchase.  Totally sexy on a guy, in a rugged way, but clearly the look would push my boundaries of looking like a dike tomboy.

You never know what life will bring.  Hang on to that paracord and see where it takes you.

Thankful

Since everyone else is doing it....
Today is November 2nd.    Election day.  I am thankful to live in a democratic nation, where elections have us buzzing and excited and stressed on the edge of our seats.  I am thankful for freedom of speech.  I am thankful to dream big dreams.

the reality of reality

January, 2009
Reality shows. Hmmm. I’ve never really understood the popularity of them. They seem drawn out and boring- even the cliffhangers are just, sort of, real. I enjoy a good scripted laugh or cry. I enjoy the audacity of stupendous things. When the reality show drama happens, it’s just too believable. Of course it is-- it’s real (barring the obvious editing and camera angle, of course) After stewing about it for awhile, though, I realize this actually happened to someone. If these things happened to my friends, I’d be showing up on their doorsteps with ice cream and Kleenex. Where are the reality shows shoulders? Are they in the many blogs, with unknown authors, ridiculing and demeaning them? Is it their own mother, whom they call, while all of America watches the tearful call? And what about the fact that as spectators, we WANT these bad things to happen. To real people? Seriously? Clearly happiness and calm do no make for good TV. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish my Harry Potter book before Desperate Housewives comes on.

Peace Prize Outrage

December 2009

Perusing face book, I find endless comments concerning Barack Obama receiving the Nobel peace prize. Why do people speak out with such fierce cries over what is basically a good thing? I say hooray for peace. Hooray for pushing global boundaries that exist to hurt. Hooray for recognizing that politics and money are not the same thing. Hooray for finally defeating the ideals we received in elementary school that the most popular should win instead of the smartest, bravest, or gentlest. Hooray for disbelieving that “they don’t count because…” is a suitable way to live. Because they are poor? Wear a veil? Are hungry, homeless, illiterate, gay, mentally ill, or surviving abuse? Because they are a woman?  This is a large world, and instant peace is not attainable. Perhaps the belief that breaking social, political, religious, and racial barriers doesn’t seem worthy of a prize. I believe that the momentum is enough.

Curse of the SI Swimsuit edition

I've never understood why Sports Illustrated releases their swimsuit edition simultaniously with Valentine's Day?  

In the past, my excellent husband always scoffed at this ridiculous-nothing-to-do-with-sports edition.  I watched his loving gesture of throwing it directly from mail box to recycling bin.  (See-- he even loved the earth). 

Four years ago, yes- I actually remember  when it started, he didn't recycle it.  He thumbed through it.  Stay with me, the curse begins here.

The NBA All Star game that year promised to be wild-- It was in Vegas!  The glitz soon disappeared as statements like, "...advised to stay indoors," and "...fatal shooting," gained attention.

The following year, New Orleans hosted the game.  Enter Chris' friend and co-worker Zach.  Days before leaving, my husband not only perused the magazine, but my 7 year old son did, too.  This is like soft porn for a first grader!  Zach ended up with severe food posioning.  Couldn't leave the hotel room for days.

Last year, after the magazine came, my husband got sick.  Those of you who know Chris probably realize he NEVER GETS SICK.  He spent last year in Phoenix high on flu meds the whole time.

This week, the SI swimsuit edition came in the mail.  I commented that the girl on the front was toppless and holding the swimsuit.  My husband replied, "she had a swimsuit."  He then tucked the magazine into his luggage for "something to read" in Dallas.

He arrived in Salt Lake with a cancelled connecting flight.  NO flights into Dallas.  Snow was settling on the city, as were thousands of NBA related people.  He begged a flight to Houston, where he could rent a car and drive to Dallas.  "It's just like driving to Seattle," he assured me.  Yeah-- if Seattle was in Canada, and the road looked like a ghost town-- with a blizzard.  Ahh-- and the missing luggage.  Where was his luggage- on a flight to Dallas.  Picture him asking the gleeful ticket agent why his frickin' bags could get a flight to Dallas, and he couldn't. 

Almost 5 miserable hours later, driving 40 MPH on the highway, dodging trucks kicking up snow on his mini suv, he arrived in Dallas.  Quick check in, followed by a simple phone call.  His luggage was in...HOUSTON.

Why didn't you start a missing luggage process in Houston?

Houston told me it was in Dallas.

You have to fill out the paperwork in person at the Houston airport.

I'm not driving back to Houston.

We'll let you fill out the paperwork in Dallas, but it has to be done in person at the airport.  (Any of you ever been to the Dallas/Fortworth airport?)
Bless my tired husband for taking a town car to and from, instead of his already exhausted rental.

Fine-- your luggage will be on a flight at 10 tomorrow morning.
(Okay, I'm sure it wasn't that easy, but this story is getting long).

So Chris slept in the clothes he wore since 4 a.m. on his flight, and his drive.  He brushed his teeth with his finger.  He called the next morning to check the status.

We have no record of you requesting the bag.

Seriously?  Is this a taping for a Saturday Night Live sketch?

So my poor husband is wearing THE SAME CLOTHES to meet with fellow sports marketing people, and many others-- players, coaches, agents, media?
A suit would have looked nicer than the hoodie and sweats.  He skipped the ESPN party last night-- due to looking fugly.

Luckily, his luggage is supposed to be on a flight into Dallas this evening.  Oh, but the bag will not make the 7 p.m. shuttle.  You don't need it before 10 tonight, do you?  He is heading to the airport to personally pull his luggage off the carousel.  His last statement to the airline agent-- It better be there or I'm going to hunt you down. 

Ahh, the curse.  Hope you enjoy reading your SI swimsuit edition, honey!  Well, if you ever get your luggage, that is.