Traveling in Today’s World - Mama Said There’d be Days…

Growing up, my parents always taught the principles of “please,” “thank you” and simply being polite. Especially when it came to traveling. We traveled A LOT when I was growing up and thankfully, my folks never had to deal with traveling in today’s airline climate.

I just took a weekend trip where I had to fly out of town. And easy 2.5 hour flight up to Chicago and another one back. Before I go off on the people who tried, tested and tweaked my patience, there were some high points to the flights that helped balance out the insanity: The hilarious group of elderly women in the airport restaurant that kept us all in stitches with their humor; A lovely flight attendant on the flight up who purchased drinks for our row to honor the air force sergeant seated next to me; The couple on the flight back with the 3-month old baby who slept peacefully through the entire flight. There ARE nice strangers everywhere and it’s a shame that they are many times overshadowed by idiots.

Hmmm. Idiots. Mom would say I wasn’t being very polite. OK, I will try to highlight their antics in the most polite way possible, using please and thank you.

Please, Mr. Curbside Skycap – throw my suitcase over to the conveyor belt so as not to exert yourself in the 4-5 steps it takes to reach it. You missed? Well thank you for then flipping it like a giant block on the 2nd try so it rolled on all 4 corners before reaching the belt.

Thank you, Courtesy Shuttle for the Handicapped, for running over a little girl’s sweater in your race to the next gate. At least the little girl wasn’t wearing it.

Thank you, Father and 2 kids, for all standing at the end of the security scan conveyor belt and putting on your socks, your sneakers and your belts while the rest of us catch our belongings before they go past you. More thanks for not taking up space on the benches that are conveniently there for this purpose.

Thank you, holder of boarding pass A39, for pushing in front of me, holder of boarding pass A32. Please let me get out of your way.

Thank you, Gate Attendant, for letting him do it. Please ask your high school math teacher why you can’t count past 30.

Thank you, passenger behind me, with your i-Pod up so loud that even with earbuds I can tell you’re listening to Katy Perry. Please make an appointment with a doctor to check your hearing.

In conclusion, please allow me (see how I got that “please” in there, Mom?) to quote a popular country-western song: “Mama always told me that I should play nice, but she didn’t know you when she gave me that advice.” In this case, “you” know who you are, Southwest Airlines travelers.

Not a Selfie Fan

When I was on vacation in Europe in the last millennium, my friend asked me, “Why are you taking pictures of all these statues? Why don’t you ever want to be in the picture?” My answer: I hate having my photo taken. Getting a passport photo is as stressful to me as presenting in public or going on a first date.

Fast-forward to the current day, mobile society where most everyone LOVES to post photos of themselves…aka “Selfies.” I’ll be honest - this practice annoys me. It’s kind of self-absorbed. OK, not kind of. It is. And it can get you in trouble if you’re of the mind to experiment with more…uh…experimental… uh…arsty shots and scenes a la a Kardashian video. You know what I mean.

Obviously, my opinion is WAAAAY in the minority, given that everyone from Ellen to the President is snapping selfies. Given that that the term selfie was proclaimed 2013 Word of the Year by the Oxford English Dictionary. http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/selfie Given that when you Google, “How to take a Selfie,” there are over 73 million – yes, million – links that pop up.

So I am woefully outnumbered. I did however, take this photo while on a cruise this summer – I’m calling it my first selfie, but this friend contends that I’m simply photo-bombing her and that it isn’t my selfie because she took it.

Lastly, back to my friend and I in Europe oh those years ago: She also asked, “If you’re not in the photo, how will people know you’ve been here?”

Duh. I took the picture – you’ll just have to trust me.

The War on Weeds

Right now, one of the books I’m reading is a military action thriller – the tagline of which reads, “Beyond Special Forces Lies Our Last Line of Defense…” Well, the last line of defense in my yard between beautiful, blooming beds and an onslaught of unwanted weeds is me. Gentlewoman Farmer? Gardening Goddess?

I’m really more of a Yard Trooper. I have armed myself with weapons both mechanical and chemical. I think I’m much more militarily horticulturally advanced than the average homeowner, going beyond the standard trowel, spade and shears. I use my weed hog with cold precision. I spray Round-Up with accuracy matched only by SWAT Team snipers. I leave no root behind when pulling up weeds by hand… A regular “Jack Bauer of Le Jardin.”

And yet, week after week, the pesky, pesty plants return. Here are just a few of my “I-may-look-floral-but-I’m-a-yard-parasite” foes:

Dandelions – “Dandy?” I think not. Sure, let your kid make a wish and blow the adorable, puff-ball of a flower. Your unintended seed-spreading just caused me and my lower back an extra hour on my hands and knees trying to dislodge the entire weed by the root. I’ll send YOU my Advil bill.

Dallisgrass – I think dallisgrass is like gray hairs. If you pull one out, 5 more appear. Or at least that’s how it seems when you’re trying to eradicate it. The flowers look like little “hayseed sprigs” and they spread like wildfire. So if you see someone trying to look like a farmer with a sprig of the flower hanging out of his/her mouth, grab it by the flower end and proceed straight to the nearest trash can!

Crabgrass – This stuff is like rattan-quality rope material. Getting it by the original root is like finding a buried treasure. If macramé ever comes back into style, I can braid what I pull up and use it as decorative rope.

Clover – I swear I will scream if I purchase one more plant at a big box store and find clover in the plastic planting container. As if I didn’t have enough clover in the yard already – PLEASE include some as a gift with my purchase of hibiscus. And in all my years of gardening, I have yet to find the elusive 4-leaf variety – the weed world’s winning lotto ticket.

Morning Glory – I know, technically not a “weed.” But these plants are unabashed in their invasiveness. One season of “oh they’ll be so pretty” and the next moment their vines are choking your star jasmine like a WWF superstar.

For more info on weeds (REAL info, not just my rantings) here’s a shout-out to my college friend Randy, Houston’s Garden Guy: http://www.ktrh.com/pages/gardenline-broadleaf.html

Another great site for Weed ID: http://www.floridalawncare.org/101.html

Good luck and green gardens!

The Battle of the Crape Myrtle

Sounds like a war novel, huh? It WAS a war.

I hated this botanical bastard. I did not plant it. It came with my old house. “It’s just a tree,” you are thinking…“How hard can it be to remove?” This Crape Myrtle was unstoppable. It was an Energizer Bunny Bush on steroids. It was the Terminator of the tree world. It was like another season of “The Bachelor/Bachelorette.” It would NOT go away.

We first cut it down with a chainsaw. Then, we drilled hole in trunk and inserted tree-killer poison. We deprived it of sun and water. Like some alien monster whose severed parts regenerate into new beings, “suckers” (small offshoots) emerged. We sprayed “sucker stopper” on it to no avail. Yet the suckers continued to sprout and grow larger. Stronger. Mocking me.

So my head is hung in defeat. I surrendered. You won’t read about this war in a history book. Not even in a botany textbook. It was a war I fought valiantly and lost embarrassingly. A war in which I threw in my white sun hat (in lieu of the proverbial towel) in utter defeat. Ironically, the scientific classification for a crape myrtle is the genus “Lagerstroemia.” I say ironically because after all this, a beer sounded like a good idea.

And guess what…in my new house, there are two large crape myrtles welcoming you to my front door. And mocking me at the same time. I guess “if you can’t beat’em, join’em” applies to foliage too because like me, they’re staying.

She's Baaaaack!

For the very few of you who follow “Crafty Thoughts and Blonde Moments,” I’m back. I feel as though I should be in a confessional. “Forgive me, Blogspot, for I have been absent. It’s been over two years since my last post…”

I had slacked up on blogging my thoughts, rants, comments and observations in 2011. But then in June of 2012, my world completely changed. I lost my husband to an unexpected heart attack. It was a shock to be sure and the past 2 years have been a time of tears, transition, trepidation, toughness and turnaround for me (hey, I'm out of practice so I had to do some alliteration drills). It was difficult to post a blog topic because so much of my humor came from, was directed at or was shared with him. Thankfully, all the things “they” say are true: time heals, you are never given more than you can handle, you are tougher then you think, and so on. I will miss him very much, but with his sense of humor, he’ll want me to move on and blog on.

So I'm moving on. I packed up the animals, sold the house in the suburbs and moved back into the city. (Cue up the theme music from “The Jeffersons.”) I’m closer to friends. Closer to work. Meeting the neighbors and getting active with a Rodeo committee again. Between home selling and buying, packing and moving, a new dog and a quirky new urban neighborhood (new to me, most of the houses are from the 50's), there are lots of fun blog targets to keep me inspired. And eeeek…newly single again. The whole dating again topic should hold enough blog fodder to take me into the next year. Hell, the next decade.

Like I said, I’m back. I’ve spruced up my page and given it a facelift. More musings and mulling (and hopefully fewer alliteration drills) to come, my blog fans – all 2 of you.

Mother Nature's Anthrax

Ahhh…Spring is here. A time for growth and rebirth. For beautiful blooms and a palette of greenery right out of a Monet masterpiece. A time for Mother Nature to start fresh. And a time for Mother Nature to exercise her twisted sense of humor on all us allergy sufferers. You know what I’m talking about: POLLEN.

Forget volcanic fallout…forget acid rain…forget tear gas. Pollen is powerful. It causes almost two months of nose-clogging, eye-watering, throat-stripping plant dust that single-handedly keeps brands like Sudafed, Zyrtec and Claritin in the black. But zapping grown men into sniffling babies and keeping the drug manufacturers in quarterly bonuses isn’t Pollen’s only gift…

Let’s not forget the boon to car washing businesses. Owners of car washes all over the south are planning their Riviera vacations, thanks to the little gems of germination. Mr. Bubbles is sitting at the Captain’s Table because my vehicle looks like its wearing a yellow fur coat. But wait, there’s more…

Did your neighbor compliment you on your new yellow tablecloth? What? You don’t OWN a yellow tablecloth? That’s just our trusty Pollen, floating into an open window or door to make itself at home in your home and promote yet another industry: cleaning products and maid services. You’ll either have to hire a maid or you will be the maid, thanks to our friend Pollen.

So when Mother Nature sends you her annual terrorist package of Pollen, thank your lucky stars for antihistamines, central air conditioning, a strong vacuum and sealed garage. Maybe that’s why they call it “Allegra” – which means joyous – because you’re so darn happy to have some relief!

The MRI - Testing More Than My Health...

I have been blessed with very good health. Hospitals and procedures are not something to which I’m accustomed. In Fall of 2010, I was told by my doctor that I needed to get a chest/body MRI done. While I realize an MRI is a major procedure, it’s fairly commonplace. I had an MRI done on my foot once, so no biggie. I was worried more about what we would find versus the actual procedure. WOW. My worry was completely misdirected.

First, the doctor asks if I’m claustrophobic. Why, of course I’m not, I scoff. I’ve been in an underwater submarine to look at pretty fish and coral. I’ve hidden in closets for surprise parties. I’ve driven in very small cars. Piece of cake. Second, the doctor asks me if I’d like a sedative for the procedure. Certainly not, I proudly boast…it’s just an MRI. As I re-tell this story back at the office, several friends warned me that “you will need valium.” I write them off as weenies.

I arrive at the MRI facility and check in. The nurse outfits me (very painlessly, I should add) with my IV and asks if I am taking a sedative. Certainly not, I proudly boast…it’s just an MRI. Any normal person would see a pattern here. Not me. I’m escorted into the MRI room and I see the machine that sort of resembles a wine chiller on its side. So it’s got THAT going for it. I’m presented with my ear plugs, a cozy blanket and a plastic ball on a tube. “This is your panic button,” the technician explained. “If you are at all nervous, just squeeze the ball and we’ll pull you out.” I grasp it, but I think to myself, obviously I won’t need that….

WRONG.

Oh, don’t misunderstand. It all started out all right. I actually made it through about 14 minutes. But on Minute 15, the machine started closing in on me like a rolling kaleidoscope. As I clicked in, inch by inch, I started to lose sight of the white, tiled ceiling. Then, I attempted to keep up with the drum-rapping song that beat in my head. Oh wait – that’s not a song, it’s my heart beating faster than microwave popcorn! I can literally feel it in my chest, as my arms are crossed over my heart. I actually thought, “Well, it’s good that I look like I’m in a coffin, because I may just die.” Minute 15:30, I’m squeezing that rubber ball as if I could make it disintegrate and they start to pull me out. Minute 15:50, I’m out and they help me back to the waiting area to calm down.

At this point, I agree to the sedative. One problem: it’s only 1 milligram and my anxiety level is now at a gazillion milligrams. But I take it anyway, and being the oh-so-patient patient, I quiz the nurses, techs and my husband: “Is it working?!...What should I feel like?!?...Will I know when it kicks in?!?...Will I feel groggy?!?!...How long does this take?!” If you’d like to set my diatribe to music, I suggest using “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” as your music bed. I tried one more time, but to no avail.

Needless to say, my mission was scrubbed faster than the Space Shuttle getting yanked from Houston’s Johnson Space Center. I looked at my arm, where the nurse had so skillfully inserted the painless IV, only to find a coaster-sized, blue-red bruise around the insertion area where I had squeezed myself even harder than I had squeezed the panic ball.

So what did I learn from this? Well, I learned that an Open MRI is the way to go. I learned that Valium (20 mgs to be exact) is my friend. And I learned that I’ll probably never have a career as a Chilean Miner. In the end, all involved are healthy and happy (except maybe for that little panic ball – I WAS pretty abusive…).