Maybe I'm the Only One Who Didn't Know This

Over the course of the weekend, my phone died - which means I had to go shopping yesterday for the THIRD phone of this contract period. Adding a lack of reliability to the fact that I can't even USE the damn thing in my own home, because of a crappy signal...I was not a happy camper when I approached Cingular's storefront yesterday. I knew from experience that I would be accosted by overly-eager sales people attempting to sign me up for service "bundles" of cell, internet and land phone offerings of various types. I also knew they wouldn't take "I'm not interested" for an answer. So, I started this whole process in a very bad mood.

As luck would have it, the sales freaks were busy annoying other customers. I had a mere 30-minute wait before I got to talk to a Cingular associate. I spent that time weighing the features and prices of the current crop of phones, and was resigned to buying a $250 model with far too many bells and whistles. The Cingular guy checked my account and said that in about three months I would be eligible for an "upgrade," which would require my extending my contract. I already knew I didn't want to do that, because of the impossible reception from my home. I had already accepted the fact that I would have to buy an expensive new phone and pray it lasted until the end of the contract.

This kid was incredibly honest. He advised me to go to Walmart and buy the "Go Phone" from Cingular for "about $25." Further, he said I could take the SIM card out of my broken phone and place it in the "Go Phone," and it would work just fine. Same number...same minutes...same everything. I wasn't keen on making another stop, or on fiddling with the guts of my phone. I asked whether he couldn't just sell me the "Go Phone" himself. He allowed as to how he could, but that it would cost me $45 in activation fees if I bought it from them. There would be NO activation fee if I bought it from Walmart. Talk about your no-brainers.

So, I drove to Walmart and bought the recommended phone. Eighteen bucks! That's all it cost me. And, lo! The SIM card slid right in and worked like a charm. The kid had advised me that all companies have similar phones - the "pay-as-you-go" variety. All you have to do is buy the same company's phone and swap the SIM card, and you're good to go. Who knew? I certainly didn't.

Oh...and on the way out of the store, the "Bundle Boys" did try to snag me, but I was too fast for them! Had to get to Walmart, doncha know...

We'll Never Run out of Cretins

Don't people teach their children to refrain from talking to strangers anymore? Maybe the fact that I'm an older woman causes me to not be perceived as a danger. I guess I'm not...but maybe I should work on my image.

I went camping this weekend. No big deal...just a quiet little getaway at a lake in Northern Mississippi. So, I started unloading my gear, and these two little skin-headed boys on bikes ride up, ditch their bikes and start peering into the trunk of my car.

"Whur's yer trailer? Or maybe you're just here to fish?" (That's pronounced "feee-ush.")

"I am here to camp, and I don't have a trailer. I have a tent."

"Whut's a tee-yunt?" What kind of kid does not know about tents? "Ya wont us to show ya thuh trail (tray-yul) to thuh lake?"

(I'm hearing banjos tuning in the background at this point.)

"No. I'm very busy right now. I think I hear your mother calling."

It worked! They took off for their campsite and stayed there the rest of the evening. Blessed solitude.

However, early the next morning, I was walking around, taking photos of various aspects of the campground, to be used in a report I plan to prepare for the online camping group of which I'm a member.

"Whutchya doin'? Walkin' 'round takin' pichurs?" The kid's a freaking genius!

"Yes, that's exactly what I am doing."

"Whatchur doin' THAT fer?" I ignored the question. He continued to follow me toward the bathroom/shower house.

"Y'ain't gonna get no pichurs in thay-er. N'less yur gonna USE it."

What the hell did he mean by THAT? I guess he figured I could either use it or "take a pichur." And why did he care, anyway?

Of course, they were waiting for me when I emerged from the shower room. I'm amazed they didn't join me!

"Why'd ya go in both of them rooms? Didya use both of 'em?"

I'm in full "Ignore" mode right now. It does no good.

"Y'ont me ta show ya thuh tray-ul to thuh lake?"

Ignore...ignore...ignore....

Finally, sensing that they were to get no further attention or interaction from me, they rode off on their bikes, comparing how badly each of them had hurt their "weenies" on their bikes' support bars. How does one win that contest?

This morning, as I was loading up, I nearly jumped out of my skin when a voice came up from behind....

"Whutchya doin?"

"I'm loading my car."

"Ya goin' home?"

"Yes."

"Whur do ya live?"

"Why do you need to know?" He ignored my question. I felt sure it would cause him to actually THINK, which would keep him busy for a few minutes. Not so.

"Ah live in Pottsboro. It's a long way away."

"That's nice. Do you play the banjo there?"

As I drove away, I watched in the rearview mirror while he scratched his bristly little head, trying to figure out what a banjo is, I'm sure.

Make that "bayun-joe."

First Class...All the Way

I just got back from a trip to LA to see The Girl From Texas. It was a great trip. Very relaxing. Lots of shopping and eating and girl stuff. We even did a little bit of the classic Hollywood touristy thing, even though both of us protested that we didn't care to do it. We did.

This trip led to an epiphany. My travel woes would cease to exist if I would just fly first class! I used frequent flier miles for this trip, and they wouldn't let me fly coach on the prime travel days I wanted. So, I shook loose the extra miles to go first class. And, boy! I never again want to go to the back of the bus...er, uh...plane.

First class is great. First class is...well, first class! They treat you like human beings. They feed you. They water you. They give you mixed nuts, all hot and toasty in their own little porcelain cups. Then, they bring you moist, hot towels with which to tidy up prior to bringing your meal tray. There are pillows and blankets right there at your seat. Just waiting for you. But the best part? Why, the other first class passengers, of course.

There are no screaming babies in first class. And nobody talks your ear off. Everybody in First Class is just quiet and polite and minds their own damn business. It's the way it SHOULD be. Nobody tries to impress their seat mate with tales of their last sales coup or their stable of toys. It's just...nice.

It will probably be five or six years before I accumulate enough miles for another first class ticket, as I just don't fly that much these days. But, this week's trip drove home a point that I've always known in my heart. I'm a FIRST CLASS BROAD!

The Whistling Hairdresser

When I take my seat on an airplane, I immediately begin to spin my cocoon. I have my books, my water, maybe a snack or two, a back support and a couple of pillows and a blanket. All I want to do is snuggle down, read and/or sleep. I don't want to meet you. I don't want to know about your job or your wife and kiddies or your political philosophy. I don't want to know diddly about you. Leave me the hell alone! People usually do. I obviously emit a clear "leave me alone" vibe.

It is apparent that a good number of people flying hither and yon are desperate for social contact. Poor things. They seem somehow compelled to foist themselves on their fellow passengers. One such needy soul shared my row on the last leg of my trip home this weekend. He was quite gregarious and talkative. The MOST unfortunate thing was that he had a slight speech impediment. I'll bet he doesn't even know he does this. He whistles. Every time he makes an "S" sound...he whistles. Oh so briefly...but rather sharply. Since he was talking loudly enough to "impress" all of us within a 20-foot radius, each whistle was like a stab to the heart.

Sitting between us was an attractive young lady named Sara. This guy had apparently attended one of those seminars where they teach you to use the person's name frequently in your conversation in order to "bond" with them. He did...he whistled "Sara" every chance he got. And he got a lot of chances, for he counseled her on practically every life passage facing her. To make matters worse, the guy is a hairdresser. And he is being treated for cancer. This means he's had quite a bit of sickness in his recent life. He was opening another salon, in spite of it all. Do you realize how many "S" sounds are hidden among all those topics?

Just as I wished for a "non-cell phone section" in the terminal, I dearly wish there was a "non-talking section" on planes. Or, in this case, a "non-whistling section."

Too Grumpy to Fly

My new job - well, I guess it's not all THAT "new," because I'm celebrating my first anniversary in 3 weeks - anyway, my new job doesn't afford me much of an opportunity to travel. Apparently, that's a good thing, because I have grown far too grumpy to fly.

I took a quick 3-day trip down to Houston this past weekend. This necessitated my waiting in several airports and traveling on several airplanes. With other people. That's the downside of air travel. Other people.

First rattle out of the box, I share space with Mr. Cell Phone. Actually...that's not his name. I'll tell you his name in a few minutes, because I do know it. So does everyone else within three departure gates of our flight. Anyway, what IS it about cell phones that makes people yell into them? And what IS it about some people who apparently save up all their calls so that they can make them while waiting for airplanes? I know in my heart it's just so that the rest of us poor schmucks will be fully aware of just how busy and important these people are. I am usually not particularly impressed, however.

There were weather delays this weekend, so there weren't many choices about where to sit whilst waiting for our plane to arrive at our gate. I was stuck sitting next to this guy. The important guy with the cell phone. I quickly realized we were all going to be "treated" to endless illustrations of how important this guy was, but after a bit, I saw the humor in it. You see...it was his name. A name, which he repeated on call after call. I'm sure it was spelled something like BEAUNKMEYER. But, the pronunciation was "BOINKmeyer." Yes...BOINKmeyer. The only way it would have been funnier was if his name had been "BoinkMEISTER." I tried to entertain my self by giggling every time the guy connected with his latest victim and announced that "Billy Bob Boinkmeyer" was calling. But, after a while, even that game lost its charm, and I began to long for that fantasy of fantasies....a "Non Cell Phone" section. Seeing that there was none, I did the only thing I could do, under the circumstances. I endlessly walked the length of the terminal like a bag lady.

Next installment...the Whistling Hair Dresser.

Crickets and Frogs and Stars...Oh, My!

My family thinks I'm nuts. Perhaps I am...but not for the reasons they think. You see...once again, I've got the camping bug. I....love....camping. I always have.

Some of my earliest, most pleasant memories revolve around camping. When our family was still relatively small, we would pack up and join aunts and uncles and grandparents at various lakes in Arkansas and Tennessee for a week-long adventure. My uncle had six girls. Getting together with them anywhere at any time was always a party! They always made these outings extra fun.

The adults would sleep in a big, ol' canvas tent. I guess there weren't any other types back then (we're talking OVER 50 years ago). We kept "stuff" like cooking gear and food in another tent. They would bring bales of hay which would be spread out on the ground. We kids would sleep on a tarp thrown over the hay. I can still smell the hay and see the stars filtered through the trees towering above me. I swear I never slept so well since.

My favorite photo of my grandmother is of her stirring a big pot over a campfire - with a huge smile on her face. She loved it! I got a lot of characteristics from my grandmother, and this is one of them. I spend a great deal of energy cooking while camping. Memories of campfires and picnic table banquets swirl in my head at these times.

I camped a little when I lived in Maryland, but my little tent had begun to be a strain on my aging back. I couldn't stand up in it, and the door was way low. Plus, I had a terrible time getting up from sleeping on the floor, even though I cushioned my bed with lots of mats and quilts and even an air mattress. The ground is the ground - no matter how you try to disguise it. Creaky old women are not meant to sleep on the ground!

So, when I moved to Tennessee a couple of years ago, I got rid of all my camping gear. Every last bit. I've been regretting it. This last week or two, I've intently been gathering the necessary equipment in anticipation of a flurry of camping activity later in the summer. I'm spending the Fourth with my sister, out in the boonies. Here's where the crazy part comes in. I'm taking all my gear and pitching my new, untried tent in her yard! I need to practice putting up the tent...plus I need to spend a whole night on my new cot - the solution to sleeping on the ground. (It makes for great naps in the living room, but that's all I can vouch for, so far.)

I am SO looking forward to sleeping with the cricket and frog lullaby tonight. Tomorrow morning I will arise before they do and put coffee on the campstove. (I drink tons more coffee when I'm camping than under normal circumstance.) Then, I'll quietly read my book until they start stirring. I'll whip up some breakfast burritos and hashbrowns with orange juice to greet them. At that point, I'll bet nobody says a thing about how "crazy" this is. It's hard to talk with a mouth full of hashbrowns!