A VOLVO REVOLT

A VOLVO REVOLT

With cautionary trepidation, I illegally crossed the double-yellow line today to pass a Volvo. This is not the first time for that risky maneuver. It's like a tic or a superstition – I cannot be behind a Volvo.

Warning: If you drive a Volvo, or you are a fan of Volvo's, this blog may be dangerous to your sensibilities, and I recommend you stop here and visit another day. (If you're a friend of mine, and you drive a Volvo, you're exempt – this diatribe doesn't apply to you – you're already my friend and I excuse your one known foible.)

It all started long ago – so long ago, I don't even remember how or when. What I do remember is that most times when a random idiot driver cut in front of me, or worse yet, a moronic, decidedly unfit driver apparently lost recall of where the gas pedal is located, causing me to slam on my brakes, I took notice of a recurring common denominator. Volvo. Always a Volvo.

When a huge back-up appeared for seemingly no congruent reason, I'd glide by in the left lane, and approaching the front of the mess, yep, you guessed already! A Volvo … in front of the pack, slowing down the masses of more mild-mannered drivers, oblivious to what I had already discerned – Volvo drivers choose Volvo, because they know they can't drive. And they've heard Volvo's are built like a tank (true) and will protect them from the rest of us, who actually understand the rules of the road and stifle our fears while maintaining full use of our brains.

After endless encounters with these 'tank' tormenters, which by the way, are mostly unattractive vehicles as well, I developed the odd idiosyncrasy of simply avoiding them. Pass, move over, let another car in between, whatever it takes – just don't follow a Volvo. Before too long, it became an instinctual habit, like hand washing, except it was my dirty little superstitious silly secret.

Years passed. I successfully avoided hundreds of Volvo varmints. Until, that is, one day, stuck in multiple lanes of horrid Christmas shopper traffic, I felt ill. Scary sick. I wanted to pull over, off the road, but no one would let me. I signaled. I waved. I pleaded with my best 'please help me' facial cues, but Christmas has a way of bringing out the worst in jolly jerks stuck in traffic.

My body unsympathetic to my plight, found a way to curtail the conundrum. I passed out. Fainted while driving, with my foot firm on the gas. And smacked into the vehicle in front of me. A Volvo.

Apparently, I spun my wheels against that car until smoke and smell of burning tires brought people running to my car, banging on windows to rouse me from my public pass-out routine. A fire engine and ambulance blared sirens to get to me. Dazed and disoriented, it dawned on me I'd hit a Volvo.

Maybe my lifetime revolt and avoidance was in preparation for just this moment, and I failed my own premonition.

The real kicker is health insurance, namely Blue Cross and Blue Shield. They had taken my money forever in timely paid premiums with no claims, because, generally, I enjoy good health, despite my odd beliefs about one particular brand of vehicle.

After this accident, I had to go to the hospital to find out why I fainted, incurring a small bill and I made the appropriate claim.

Unbelievably, Blue Cross denied my claim (and I denied paying premiums any longer) stating 'driving unconscious is NOT an emergency'.

Ah ha! That explains Volvo drivers. And I still won't follow a Volvo.

 

 

 



 

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

 



 

 

 



Psychic Cycle

PSYCHIC CYCLE

Only like a bicycle in the sense that it goes around and around, the psychic cycle swirls between us and all around us whether we are aware or not. It is the matrix of the universe which rises up to meet us and all our thoughts caught in the maze.

Did you ever hear the phone ring and guess who it is before you answer? Sure. It happens to all of us. Or think of someone you haven't heard from in awhile and then hear from them out of the blue? Not coincidence. Or have an unwarranted fear follow you around for days, and then it happens … we create what we fear. Another reason fear is advisably frowned upon.

Endless stories of guardian angel appearances or supposed synchronicity jam our collective consciousness. To pray for someone is to love them. The power of prayer is not to be overlooked, even if you are not a believer. Because it is not always a religious endeavor – rather, a spiritual signal with all the power of an electrical current racing through the macrocosm of all there is – an ethereal message that matters. That's why when groups, or cities, or whole countries profess prayer for whatever person or cause, it is often reported to have an effect. Prayer can be felt, rather than be expressed, because the feelings fall below language. We don't always understand what we know to be true.

I don't want to get all GOD on you, yet the analogy is there. God talks to crazy people (I vouch for this), or others of professed religious fervor, but basically, God uses messengers to talk to the masses, whether priests, rabbis, ministers, or common conduits, because a Higher Power is just that – Power. Too powerful to communicate directly. So an intermediary is used and useful.

Imagine electricity. If it was not harnessed and delivered to us via poles and wires and outlets that are regulated, well, then, it would be as devastating as lightning. Poof! You're toast. A goner. We couldn't take the intensity of direct access, therefore a conduit is necessary to protect us while keeping us within the reach of that power. Yet, we control it. Access, intensity, location, all of it. Where you plug in is up to you.

And it is the same with psychic cycles. Whether you call it intuition, prescience, clairvoyance, however you name it does not matter. The Law of Attraction, what you reap is what you sow, what goes around comes around, etc. It's all true and man has been musing on the subject since time began, at least since the Burning Bush beckoned Moses, right?

Last week, I awoke in the middle of the night, with the beautiful sound of the ocean outside my beach-front condo. I could not lull myself back to sleep. Thoughts of Marcus crept in, first stealthily, then steady and strong and would not subside. Marcus … Marcus … Marcus … Why hadn't I heard from him in so long? Would I ever hear from him again? I love him so much and I miss him, and we used to stay in touch or see each other all the time, and now it's been too long and where is he? Marcus … as I finally drifted back to sleep.

When I got up later that morning, what do you know? Yep, an email had come from Marcus, who lives in England. These sorts of things happen to me all the time, so I laughed with relief and wrote back to him. Bragging about my psychic skills, you know, how I conjured up his thoughts of me and all that. He wrote back again telling me how brilliant and amazing because HE had been thinking about me all day the day before, deciding he must write or call. Ah, so it was Marcus that started the psychic sequence, not me. Do you hear that, ego? It was Marcus! Who thought of you, who signaled you to think of him, who woke you in the middle of the night – not the other way around. I love this! The psychic sequence.

So much better than the phone ringing and knowing who it will be.

 

 

 



Writing is HARD!

WRITING IS HARD!

I guess if writing were easy, everyone would do it. Sometimes it is. The 'flow' happens and one can muse magically for hours. Even long minutes are noted and appreciated. Then there are the serious parts, the ones laden with emotion, or poignant memory, that stick us on stuck. Stuck. Stuck Stuck!

I've read so many books on how others do it, that my head swirls with the do's, the don'ts, and the never's. Along with the always', the should's, and the maybe's...that the keys are within, the words come down, not to be pulled up, as Julia Cameron eloquently elaborates...

She's right. Of course. The words are there. Just not when I ask them to be. They come in the middle of the night – causing me to fumble in darkness to scribble what I won't decipher in the mornings light. They come while I'm driving, causing me to swerve over to the side of a barren road to make a quick jot, that I will not remember the context of when I go to transcribe it into my book. I carry a little notebook for when someone says something, or I see something, or read something that urges me to make a note, because that, that right there and then sounds so good! Watching television, I hear all the right phrases spoken or think of just the right segue for where I'm stuck. Worst is while I'm exercising or walking...the best, brightest ideas flow like syrup in perfect sweetness and sanity, only to be quickly vanished when I finally make it home to notate my minds brilliance.

If you're a writer too, then this is all familiar and frustrating for you as well. Trying too hard, trying to say it all just right, and on command, at a specified time or interval, trying to hone the craft while keeping grammar and structure on target – well, it's all too much. Because writing is hard.

It's not supposed to be perfect, I know. The 're-writing' is where the real work is. The original is just a draft. The trouble is the draft is full of holes, like the draft of air that's puffing through the room right now, but not directly at me, where it should be, in the intensity of a southern summer heat.

A big project, like a book, stays on one's mind constantly. Through sleep, through chores, through grocery lines, through conversations, through every thought about everything. It's maddening! Maybe it gets easier by book number 200? I don't know – I'll have to ask Nora Roberts about that one.

Or maybe the attendant on the psyche ward I end up on will have a pre-printed handout on this very subject. With wide enough margins for me to make notes, of course. The diagnosis will be simply stated - “Writers Block. Mandatory Medication”.

Just Another Lori Story.

O.C.D. - Obsessive Confirmation Disorder

O.C.D. - OBSESSIVE CONFIRMATION DISORDER

I know...I know. You thought it meant 'obsessive compulsive disorder'. Perhaps in some cases, that is true, but for me, it's a confirmation concern.

When did all this confirming become necessary? All you doctors and appointment people and technicians and agencies and teachers and random appointments and yes, even you friends that think it necessary to confirm every pre-appointed appointment, STOP IT! Stop it right now! Especially annoying, over the top convulsively bothersome is the confirmation call to confirm the confirmation! Even the term “phone tag” is enough to create an explosive mental miasma sending me immediately into an urgent need for chocolate or an unscheduled and unnecessary food binge or other distraction such as deleting you from my callback schedule for at least a year.

Let's methodically run through this to see if I understand the dilemma of modern time...

I call a dentist, for example. I make an appointment. I notate the appointment on my calendar. The appointment I made, and dental assistant agreed to. It was I that initiated the appointment in the first place. Then, at a duly inconvenient time, sometime before the scheduled appointment, someone in the dental office calls me to remind me of an appointment that I originally asked for. And now, would I please call and confirm that I received this confirmation? WHAT? Are you people conspiratorially crazy? Or, are you just joshing me? And NO, I will not call you to confirm that I confirmed an appointment with you in the first place.

What's going on in this world? We don't talk to each other – we text. We don't know how to have real conversations, but we know how to confirm confirmations? All day long, everywhere, people are calling to check and recheck that they are checked for a check-in. You just know the space aliens are avoiding us for none other than this very reason. They would never be able to confirm a precise landing in a place so indecisively scheduled.

When I was growing up, somewhere between caveman times and modern mayhem, we had phones (only available in the color black, thank you) with long twirling cords that attached to walls! We didn't have caller ID. We didn't avoid the phone. We raced, and beat each other up to answer a phone ringing. And we actually talked. (Some of us, endlessly – even under bedsheets with flashlights). And oddly, we showed up for our appointments without any notification at all. The 'confirmation call' did not exist.

Flash forward to today – our phones are attached to us...somewhere! In our pockets, our purses, it's right there, on us! Yet, we do not answer a ringing phone anymore. We fear actual human voice and having to actually respond. Hence, the need later to confirm the confirm.

What's the alternative? Well, you could be like my cousin who bought a nice, shiny, new calendar, and when I flipped it open to snoop – well, it was notably empty. Nada. Nothing written anywhere. The intention to record dates and appointments apparently replaced by the much appreciated, yeah, you guessed it, confirm call. A lot of people like that they never have to be responsible to remember anything anymore, that someone will call to remind them what they are doing and when. The trouble is, I'm caught up in that dismal and dumb loop, and I operate differently. I'm different, that's for sure.

How am I supposed to take any call seriously? As soon as I hear, “This is Dr. So and So, I delete. Because I do not need a confirm. So if Dr. So and So is actually calling to tell me I am dying, I will die without knowing and apparently without confirming my own death. Because if you don't all stop calling me to confirm what I already know, then I'm confirming that my obit will read: She died of an overwhelming attempt to confirm the ludicrousness of Obsessive Confirmation Disorder. Confirmed.

Just Another Lori Story

THE SOUL OF SAM

Sam died 14 years ago … this week. I still miss him and think of him often. He was a loving, devoted companion and not hearing his cheery “Good Morning”, sometimes leaves a noticeable empty spot in the sleepy song of sunrise.

The day Sam died I knew something was different the minute I came downstairs and saw him sitting precariously in the dark, his head lilting oddly to one side, as if it was too heavy for him to hold up anymore. His eyes were scrunched closed and he was breathing irregularly. Afraid to touch him and disturb his reverie, I just stood by his side and whispered my love. I told him that if he needed to go, that it was okay, that I would understand and I didn't want him to be in pain anymore. He'd had trouble standing for awhile and had fallen down over and over. Heartbreaking to witness. We both knew something was terribly wrong. He never complained, just struggled to get up and push on, no doubt afraid to leave me alone or to cause commotion.

Life with Sam was beautiful. Always happy, often whistling, he talked a lot, even during my favorite television shows, and mimicked me or actors or anyone he ever heard, if the voice appealed to his ears. Everyday included an “I love you”, or “give me a kiss”, or any of a number of his adorable affectionate sayings. When I'd write, he'd playfully try to grab my pen. When I ate cereal, he'd ask “What'cha eating?”, even though he could clearly see into my bowl. Even his annoyances made me laugh in their cuteness. Sam didn't ask for much, just companionship and love. A perfect partner.

As he got arthritis in his legs, I made adjustments around the house for his comfort. Age creeps up slowly, then suddenly for us all. The accompanying frailty is inevitable. Nevertheless, it is difficult to witness. Sam slept more and more and moved with caution, obviously fearful to slip and fall yet again.

Our connection was notable in the soul-to-soul communication. We didn't need to talk to understand each other. It was evident in his eyes what he wanted and he always looked directly into mine. Unusual in its depth, I always marveled at this soul level spirit to spirit knowing, this wonderful and amazing exchange of two beings that needed, depended, and truly recognized each other in unconditional love. Everyone wants this – few are lucky enough to experience it. Sam taught me so much. He was a rare bird.

I said goodbye that fateful morning, and went off about my day. I don't know exactly how I knew, but when I returned and opened the door, sure enough, there he was...dead. Gone. I wailed aloud. And for a long time. Gut wrenching pain. Tinged with guilt that I hadn't stayed home that day. But maybe he waited for me to leave before he himself left. I don't know. Incoherent thoughts plague such moments. No matter – Sam had died. No more pain for him. And he knew I loved him. That was all that was important.

I tenderly and lovingly buried him in a special spot in my backyard. A place in the shade where pretty flowers bloom with a patch of spearmint each spring. A place where I could stand and remember the joy Sam brought to me for 13 years.

Yes, Sam was a rare bird. Of a different feather, as the saying goes. Didn't I mention that? A parakeet. A store bought wonder. Because he talked. And most parakeets don't do that. And he lived 13 years. Most parakeets don't do that either. But Sam was a happy bird. He didn't want to leave. 

Sam taught me the valuable lesson about souls. That ALL living things have a soul. That communication is not unique to people. That love is possible wherever there is life, and spirit, and the will to bond with another – even between species.

I miss the soul of Sam. His essence remains within my heart, a heart he touched endlessly. I still listen to tapes I made of his rambling chatter, so I would not forget what he sounded like. I still ring his little bell that he obsessively clanged everyday.

And 'somewhere over the rainbow...' Sam-bird flies.

                                                                   

FIRED. QUIT. NEITHER.

FIRED. QUIT. NEITHER.

I'm a list keeper. There are lots of us. But I go way beyond the 'to do' list...way, way beyond. I keep lists about so many things, there are lists of the lists. It is a life-long affliction of 'I don't want to forget'. Why? I don't know. Hmmm, maybe I need a list of the reasons I keep lists...

I haven't shared this with too many people for fear of being found out as the nutcase I already know I am...but a few intimates have discovered my penchant for recording data, and the one list that always garners laughs and scrutinizing attention is my 'jobs' list.

You see, I have had a record employment history. I think that this is what started the whole list thing way back when. I couldn't possibly remember all the work history, so I started writing it all down. Then I wondered why I couldn't keep a job? What was it about me that kept me interviewing for the next and the next and the next job, but never satisfied once I got the gig? Ah...maybe the list. I wanted to fill it.

I am the world's best 'interview' – always making a wonderful first impression. I get hired. Then, I get fired. Or, I quit. Or, neither.

What's “neither”? Well, let's say the job is temporary. (Of course, for me, they all were) Or maybe the company merges, or ceases to exist, or relocates, or...well, you get the idea. It's just over. Neither fired, nor quitting – it's just a 'neither'. At least that's how I started recording it on my columnar-style list.

Early on, my record was about 3 weeks. I noticed a pattern (one of the advantages to keeping a list), and after about 3 weeks, I'd feel the itch to move on. Boredom, exasperation, crappy bosses, a whole host of 'I'm just not cut out for this job' syndrome.

You're probably wondering how many jobs can a person have? More than 1000. And no, you did not read that wrong. 1000+.

This explains my illustrious personality and my knowledge base about just about everything on earth – except for being a doctor or a lawyer, I've pretty much done it all. Name a field or a profession, and yep...I've been there. For 3 weeks. Or less.

I was a fabulous candidate for a temp service! I did everything from an 'Ebola pickup' at someone's house, to security work – just for a day, or temporary. That's what I liked about it – that it was TEMPORARY! I worked for Manpower for a long time – more than my customary 3 weeks, because we both had the same idea of how long a job should last.

Also, as an actress and then a casting director – it's just intrinsic to these positions that you show up, do the job, and then it's over! I was perfectly suited to this kind of work.

But it's the 1 day jobs that I remember as the most outrageous circumstances. They're the ones that garner the most comments and laughs with those special few that have actually seen the list.

Take for example, the day I drove a taxi cab in Pittburgh. Peoples Cab Co. There, I named them! My job was to drive disabled and retarded kids to school. Easy, right? Except the cab they gave me had no brakes! When I hit the brake pedal, not much happened and I was scared out of my mind with mentally disabled passengers! I frantically careened and slid my way around the city for that 1 day. Quit!

Or the day I was an exotic dancer. Okay...it really started with a wet T-shirt contest, which was a no-brainer, because, well, if you knew me you'd know why I easily won THAT contest! But, when they offered me the job, there was no mention of having to take ALL my clothes off. Quit!

What about my day as a bridal consultant? For a bridal store in a mall. Nope. Not suited for the high maintenance 'bride-to-be' and all that hanging up yet another dress. Quit!

Too many waitress and cocktail jobs to even count. Quit. Quit. Quit.

Me...as a mall security officer? Now, this one did last a couple weeks...I think I liked the uniform and the false sense of authority. But finally, it was the polyester that got me. And in all the wrong places. Quit. (Though I do have fond and fading memories of that utility belt with all those useless gadgets).

Too many jobs where I got 'involved' (the polite way of putting it) with the bosses. Fired. Fired. Quit.

Bank teller. Seven banks. Three states. Robbed twice. Enough said. (Not a big fan of guns pointed at me). Maybe I Quit – but maybe this should go under 'Neither'.

Advertising sales. One day – Quit. Secret shopper. I liked this one. Several months. Quit. (Too much paperwork). Avon representative? Yep. Quit. I was my own biggest customer...no income. Dry Cleaners – clerk at department store – cashier – not me, sorry...Quit. Quit. Quit.

So, what worked, you wonder?

I was a movie theater manager for more than 3 years! Wow – a record! Hey, I was the boss – what's not to like? Eventually, they merged with a giant national company and I was fired. Just my luck, right?

I taught ice skating and piano lessons for a long time. I liked the creative aspect, I guess. Neither. (Just sort of wore down or out)

What's that saying?...'A jack of all trades and a master at none?'...or something like that? I don't know – I like to think I know a little about a lot of things. I've traveled all over the globe as a special interest lecturer on cruise ships and my background certainly enabled me to hold the interest of varied audiences on various subjects. I know a lot of stuff about a lot of stuff.

Oh, did I forget about my stand up comedy attempts? Yep. Did that too. Sometimes, I was actually good at it. Neither.

My list goes on and on for pages and pages. When I review it from time to time, I remember each scenario, each boss, each catastrophe that led to being Fired, or Quit, or Neither, but I'll bet you can't say you ever made $146 just to go pick up an Ebola dog food sample at someone's house, can you? Neither.

Just Another Lori Story...

A BIRTHDAY LETTER TO LACEY

Dear Lacey,

Tomorrow you will be 15 years old.  Where did the years go? 

As the daughter of my favorite cousin, you are my favorite 2nd cousin.  (Shared sweet spot with your brother, of course).

You were born so beautiful, that we all thought you had to belong to somebody else.  Amazingly, you get more beautiful each year, so now we are certain you were delivered to the wrong family.  But, no one noticed thus far, so after careful consideration, we've agreed to just keep quiet and keep you.

Not that you're perfect...oh, no...not by a long shot.  You ruined several sets of furniture as a baby, pretending not to like milk.  You wailed and skillfully mastered drama skills way before you could say "drama".  You learned to give that look, yeah, you know the one, because you somehow knew before the rest of us that 'Facetime' was coming and you'd need a memorable mugshot to message with.  And you knew just when to wipe a chocolate ice cream bar down the front of my white T-shirt, that day at the flea market, KNOWING my OCD would mean halting that particular excursion and go where you wanted to go.  You were 7 years old. 

I forgive you all of these childhood crimes - except maybe the ice cream thing. 

Now, at 15, you're so tall and elegant and polished and make us all so proud.  And you play tennis and do well in school and have a wonderful sense of style.  And that Hair!  You're even a nice person, kind, considerate and generous.  See?...you are not really related to 'us', are you? 

So, here's what I'd like you to remember from your year #15...that to forget is sometimes better than to remember.  That good enough is just that - good enough.  The tenacity outweighs talent.  That being interested is far more important than being interesting.  And that it's nice to be important, but it's much more important to be nice.

To enjoy your youth, try the best you can to banish self doubt (you'll have loads of time for that in your 30's), to smile, because it's true about the 'lines that stick in your face', and to look people in the eye when you speak to them.  (Which for you is extra critical, because you want people to see your eyes and wonder of their beauty!) 

And DO speak to people.  In this day of machines and technology, it is a lost art and I think those who know how to communicate will be the leaders and the loved ones of our future. 

Lucky you, Lacey, for you are a loved, a dearly loved girl of the present.  This is my present to you.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LACEY!   

With love from your cousin,
Lori

MY DAY AS A BAG LADY

MY DAY AS A BAG LADY

 



 

Before I was a lecturer on cruise ships, as a special interest speaker, I was a casting director and before that, I was an actress and before that, I was a drama queen...which led me to acting and then to casting and then, well, back up that spiral.  After disembarking from a Royal Caribbean cruise in Baltimore, I came full circle back to drama queen when my flight home to Atlanta was canceled, stranding me in the Baltimore airport for 12 hours.

 

There is no worse airport to be stranded in than Baltimore, which consists of one pitiful concourse with two pitiful restauants (if you want to call them restaurants), and two bathrooms, one of which was 'closed for repair' the day I got stuck there. 

 

Well, there is Gibraltar (as in the rock of), which has no airport really...just a door leading to a step, leading directly onto a plane, whereby you take off on a teeny runway, over a teeny roadway, immediately over the Mediterranean sea.  Gibraltar take-offs are frightful!  If a pilot overshoots this particular 'runway', passengers are immediately swimming with the fishes.  Otherwise, Gibraltar is a perfectly interesting destination - especially the wild apes roaming the island relieving distracted tourists from cameras, purses, and other valuables.

 

But back to Baltimore...

 

The Delta attendant said a 'mechanical failure' canceled the flight and the next one was 12 hours away.  That they were interested in my 'safety' and she was sorry.  Apparently, they were uninterested in my sanity - because there is nothing to DO in the Baltimore airport. 

 

I faked kindness and patience, unlike the other passengers ganging up on her in irate hollers of protest, even though I was seriously annoyed and bored and hungry and worried any inappropriate outburst from me would land me in a Baltimore jail, which may have been a step up from the Baltimore airport, but I was unwilling to test this theory. 

 

This same lady granted me two 'meal vouchers', not that there was any place to get a good 'meal'.  I relinquished at the first snack venue and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  Later, I sprung for a crabcake, since we were in Baltimore, but the crabcake had those stupid red peppers in it, which cooks add for color unconcerned by the fact that red peppers ruin the taste of most everything else. 

 

Otherwise, I walked up and down that little concourse.  I toyed with my computer as long as I could stand the poor light and seating availability.  I looked around in the one little news stand.  No news.

 

Then I saw it.  A stranded cart against a wall - empty - all mine, and I didn't even have to pay the $1.50 to spring it loose from one of those cart carousels.

 

Enter the drama queen.  I decided to pretend, just an exercise in acting form, if you will, that I was a bag lady - that was my motivation, as they say, and try to distract myself from my mounting anxiety.  I'll just push this little cart around, and act as if, and see what transpires.  This way, I won't have to keep dragging my luggage and my little bags up and down the concourse, but could wheel everything around with me, and just explore. 

 

I pushed this little cart back and forth and collected little things to add into it (new understanding of how people amass odds and ends into their carts we see on streets everywhere...), an abandoned toy here, a straw there, flotsam left behind by people unwittingly participating in my bag lady experiment.  I perfected the hunch over, necessary to convince onlookers I was indeed personifying the airport weird woman.  Gloomily I lurched up and down, people stared, I noticed them staring, mothers pulled their children closer as I passed, people may have wondered, but they dared not wander into my path.

 

At the gate for Atlanta, the crowd waited, sour, and sometimes scolding Delta employees, but I just kept passing by the mass.  I did notice one man, quiet, gorgeous, a soldier in uniform standing off by himself with patience and a different attitude than my fellow passengers.  Tall and blonde and young and leaning with a prideful and knowing assurance that whatever delay he needed to endure would be nothing compared to serving his country on a desert battlefield.  At least that is what I thought he was thinking as I noticed him with each stroll by the crowd.

 

He saw me too.  I noticed him looking at me.  With compassion, sympathy, and perhaps just a tad fearful that I might come too close and infect him with my mental maladaptive behavior.  He just watched.  Me, and all the goings on around him.  Didn't leave the gate.  Didn't sit down.  On guard, he was.

 

Needing more imagination to stimulate me through the boring, long hours, I dreamed of how nice it would be if at the conclusion of this horrible adventure, I would somehow end up seated next to this handsome soldier on our plane out of Baltimore.  But that would be unlikely - there were more than 200 people - it was just a secret dream wish - you know, one of those God tests we're not supposed to give. 

 

Keep strutting on, I told myself.  Eventually, weary from the concourse corridor, I actually stretched out on a bench for the 'bag lady nap' - you know, where you clutch your valuables under you, and sleep in public.  Feeling certifiably nuts, I really fell asleep.  No one tried to take my stuff.  No one wanted anything to do with me.  My ploy worked. 

 

So this is what it's like to be a bag lady, I thought, when I woke and went for that terrible crabcake.  Rubbing my eyes, I wheeled my cart away, glaring at the surprised passengers around the terminal who no doubt thought I'd laid down to die. 

 

Finally, FINALLY, the announcement came that the flight to Atlanta had arrived and would be boarding soon.  I stood one last time in the endless line for the one working bathroom, and when I caught sight of myself in the mirror, my long and ludicrous day appeared more visible on my long, sad face than I had anticipated.  Just get me home already, I pleaded with that bag lady in the mirror.  But I made it through the whole day, with nothing to do, except imagine what it's like with nothing to do.

 

The Delta agent bumped me to first class because I'd been so nice, code for a threat to humanity and possibly needing special attention. 

 

Boarding first, I sank into the cush seat with the extra legroom and the flight attendant quickly offered me warm chocolate chip cookies and drinks and baskets of goodies.  I just closed my eyes, weary and ready to imagine climbing into my waiting warm waterbed at home.  I made it, I thought.  It was an adventure.  And I survived.

 

I thought I heard a voice say "Excuse me", but I guessed it was a row behind me and didn't open my eyes to look.  "EXCUSE ME PLEASE", came the same voice again, and I opened my eyes and looked up and there he was...that soldier.  The very blonde one from the concourse.  No way! Our eyes met and both of us had that Oh God expression - mine was Oh, God, you heard me!  You actually granted my silly wish and are seating this man next to me?  His expression seemed to say, Oh, God, not the 'bag lady' - haven't I endured enough for my country?

 

 He climbed over me to his seat by the window, the flight attendant hurried to offer him edibles as well, and then we got to talking and never stopped all the way to Atlanta.  One of those intimate and instant affinity meetings you hear about on airplanes.  His name was Michael, he'd been deployed for a long time, and he had a lot of interesting stories to tell.  Once we got talking, he realized I had more to push around than that little cart, and we laughed and shared lots of life stories in those couple hours. 

 

Michael said he comes to Atlanta often, and we exchanged phone numbers, even as I 'sensed' we'd never talk again - but lucky me, I got to sit next to the soldier on the delayed airplane back from Baltimore. 

 

And I survived my day as a baglady.  I know I'll not need that skill again, even as I know the drama queen will most certainly make another appearance in another form.  Until then, she's ruling her kingdom on a fantasy flight somewhere next to a soldier named 'Michael'.