1.27.2009
1.18.2009
view from my mom's office
Thought this was interesting. These porta-potties are set up for the inauguration ceremony and other celebrations that are planned.
It will be interesting to see how the next four years unfold for our country.
It's a different world from Montana.
1.15.2009
my favorite word that isn’t a word
Am not. Have you ever thought about how nice it would be to have an easier word to say instead of the words “am not”? You know, something along the lines of a “didn’t” instead of a “did not” or “couldn’t” instead of “could not”. Well, have I got a word for you: amn’t. [pronounced em’nt].
When to use:
Say a coworker is asking you if you’re staying around for the holidays. You can respond with, “No, I amn’t.” (Unfortunately -- and I know this to be true from experience-- the coworker will look at you like you’re a five year old child. “Amn’t” isn’t a widely-accepted word. Yet.)
Apparently our parents thought our made-up word was so cute growing up, they didn’t bother to tell us it wasn’t real. And because of that, we proceeded to use the word in everyday conversation.
E.g. “Callie, are you going to share your toys?” “No, I amn’t.”
Sometimes when the word slips out of my mouth during conversations with intelligent people, I feel silly. Other times, I feel a pang of nostalgia and remember the good ol’ days when my parents thought our made up words were so cute, they didn’t correct us.
That would not happen today.
When to use:
Say a coworker is asking you if you’re staying around for the holidays. You can respond with, “No, I amn’t.” (Unfortunately -- and I know this to be true from experience-- the coworker will look at you like you’re a five year old child. “Amn’t” isn’t a widely-accepted word. Yet.)
Apparently our parents thought our made-up word was so cute growing up, they didn’t bother to tell us it wasn’t real. And because of that, we proceeded to use the word in everyday conversation.
E.g. “Callie, are you going to share your toys?” “No, I amn’t.”
Sometimes when the word slips out of my mouth during conversations with intelligent people, I feel silly. Other times, I feel a pang of nostalgia and remember the good ol’ days when my parents thought our made up words were so cute, they didn’t correct us.
That would not happen today.
1.09.2009
the time my husband tried to convince the airlines I was a threat…
In honor of my brother and sister’s traveling woes (a missed flight, a cancelled flight, and visits to six different cities on their quests to get to their homes), I’m going to share my most recent airport experience with you. Because it was a doosey.
Date: Saturday, January 3, 2009.
Time: Saga begins at 4:00 a.m.
Location: Bristow, VA and Ronald Reagan National Aiport, DC
The alarm went off at 4:00 a.m. This was my first inclination that the day might not be a great one. We packed our things and headed out to the Suburban. Mom and Dad drove us to the airport.
We arrive at the airport around 5:15. And it's already busy. Lovely.
We make our way through the AirTran line. We get up to the agent. I try to hand him our drivers licenses, and he won’t take them. “You have to use the screen in front of you,” he says. I respond, “But I don’t know my A+ number and I don’t have the credit card I used to make the reservations.” “It doesn’t matter. Do you have any credit card? Use that,” says the rigid agent. So, I dig through my purse to try and find my debit card. Mind you, he could have pulled up our tickets quite easily in the amount of time this whole ordeal took. We find the card and pull up our tickets.
Next it’s time to check luggage. Ryan goes first. He thinks his bag might be a few pounds over the 50 pound limit. It’s four pounds over. So we put my bag up. It’s one pound underweight. We transfer a sweatshirt from Ryan’s bag to my bag, and then put his two pairs of shoes in my small carry-on bag. Meanwhile, the agent, who I’ve grown to dislike, says, “Ma’am, you’re bag is oversized.” “Huh?” I say. “Well, 62 inches is regular size. Your bag is 63 inches,” he says, with (I kid you not) tape measure in hand. I say, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” “That will be $39.” I mutter some not-so-nice words under my breath and ask for a comment card. After paying $39. It really was ridiculous. Don’t fly AirTran.
So, once we’re checked in and our bags are gone, we head to security. Which was another mess. We finally get everything up on the belt and walk through the metal detectors. I clear with no problem. Then a TSA agent says, “Ma’am, is this your bag?” It was my bag, and he informs me they need to check it. I couldn’t think of anything that I would have packed that could be a weapon and am confused, but we move over to the screening area. He opens the bag and digs around a little bit. He then pulls out one of Ryan’s boots. (You know, the ones we had to put in my carry-on because his bag was four pounds overweight?) And out of Ryan’s boot he pulls a big old knife that my dad gave Ryan as a Christmas present.
Crap.
So, long story short, they didn’t arrest me and we FedEx’ed the knife to ourselves. (We still haven’t received it, now that I think about it.) We arrived to our home in Mpls a mere nine hours later, and I think I’ve nearly recovered from the emotional trauma. Nearly.
I still ask Ryan why he tried to frame me, though.
Date: Saturday, January 3, 2009.
Time: Saga begins at 4:00 a.m.
Location: Bristow, VA and Ronald Reagan National Aiport, DC
The alarm went off at 4:00 a.m. This was my first inclination that the day might not be a great one. We packed our things and headed out to the Suburban. Mom and Dad drove us to the airport.
We arrive at the airport around 5:15. And it's already busy. Lovely.
We make our way through the AirTran line. We get up to the agent. I try to hand him our drivers licenses, and he won’t take them. “You have to use the screen in front of you,” he says. I respond, “But I don’t know my A+ number and I don’t have the credit card I used to make the reservations.” “It doesn’t matter. Do you have any credit card? Use that,” says the rigid agent. So, I dig through my purse to try and find my debit card. Mind you, he could have pulled up our tickets quite easily in the amount of time this whole ordeal took. We find the card and pull up our tickets.
Next it’s time to check luggage. Ryan goes first. He thinks his bag might be a few pounds over the 50 pound limit. It’s four pounds over. So we put my bag up. It’s one pound underweight. We transfer a sweatshirt from Ryan’s bag to my bag, and then put his two pairs of shoes in my small carry-on bag. Meanwhile, the agent, who I’ve grown to dislike, says, “Ma’am, you’re bag is oversized.” “Huh?” I say. “Well, 62 inches is regular size. Your bag is 63 inches,” he says, with (I kid you not) tape measure in hand. I say, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” “That will be $39.” I mutter some not-so-nice words under my breath and ask for a comment card. After paying $39. It really was ridiculous. Don’t fly AirTran.
So, once we’re checked in and our bags are gone, we head to security. Which was another mess. We finally get everything up on the belt and walk through the metal detectors. I clear with no problem. Then a TSA agent says, “Ma’am, is this your bag?” It was my bag, and he informs me they need to check it. I couldn’t think of anything that I would have packed that could be a weapon and am confused, but we move over to the screening area. He opens the bag and digs around a little bit. He then pulls out one of Ryan’s boots. (You know, the ones we had to put in my carry-on because his bag was four pounds overweight?) And out of Ryan’s boot he pulls a big old knife that my dad gave Ryan as a Christmas present.
Crap.
So, long story short, they didn’t arrest me and we FedEx’ed the knife to ourselves. (We still haven’t received it, now that I think about it.) We arrived to our home in Mpls a mere nine hours later, and I think I’ve nearly recovered from the emotional trauma. Nearly.
I still ask Ryan why he tried to frame me, though.
1.07.2009
it's happened before...
I love Brian Regan. The man is hilarious.
And who hasn't had this happen to them?
1.04.2009
when you just want to say what's on your mind...
I'm sassy. It's true. Ask anyone. Get me fired up about something, and I will give you retort after retort until the cows come home.
But when I'm at work, I bite my tongue. Actually, I bite my tongue most of the time. I try to keep my sass in the can -- most people don't react favorably to it. It tends to make them defensive. In the song "Portions of Foxes" by Rilo Kiley, she says, "There's blood on my mouth 'cause I've been biting my tongue all week..." and I can certainly identify.
While in the Atlanta airport, however, the sassy gate attendant said something I could never say (while on the job!).
Here's the scenario:
A plane arrives and it's late. The gate attendant is busy trying to get travelers where they need to go. A frantic young man gets off the plane, looks around bewilderedly, and then approaches the gate attendant. "Um, I'm just wondering if I'm going to be able to make it to concourse E to catch my flight in 15 minutes," he says.
And the gate attendant, who's always supposed to be the calming, directive, helpful sort, replies with, "I don't know, but you sure ain't gonna get there any quicker by standing here talkin' to me!"
The look on the young man's face was really quite indescribable, but I'll do my best. He sort of smiled, looked quickly again for help, realized she was serious, and then took off at a sprint to try and catch his plane.
I felt bad for him, but thanked the gate attendant for a good laugh.
** John, this wasn't nearly as funny as the finish I gave it yesterday. I just can't for the life of me remember what it was.
But when I'm at work, I bite my tongue. Actually, I bite my tongue most of the time. I try to keep my sass in the can -- most people don't react favorably to it. It tends to make them defensive. In the song "Portions of Foxes" by Rilo Kiley, she says, "There's blood on my mouth 'cause I've been biting my tongue all week..." and I can certainly identify.
While in the Atlanta airport, however, the sassy gate attendant said something I could never say (while on the job!).
Here's the scenario:
A plane arrives and it's late. The gate attendant is busy trying to get travelers where they need to go. A frantic young man gets off the plane, looks around bewilderedly, and then approaches the gate attendant. "Um, I'm just wondering if I'm going to be able to make it to concourse E to catch my flight in 15 minutes," he says.
And the gate attendant, who's always supposed to be the calming, directive, helpful sort, replies with, "I don't know, but you sure ain't gonna get there any quicker by standing here talkin' to me!"
The look on the young man's face was really quite indescribable, but I'll do my best. He sort of smiled, looked quickly again for help, realized she was serious, and then took off at a sprint to try and catch his plane.
I felt bad for him, but thanked the gate attendant for a good laugh.
** John, this wasn't nearly as funny as the finish I gave it yesterday. I just can't for the life of me remember what it was.