Survey Says....

My airline wants to know how a recent flight I took went.  One question on the survey asked: "What emotion best describes how you felt when your trip ended?" My  options were: "Delighted; Appreciated; Pleased; Content; Relieved; Indifferent; Disappointed; Hurried; Frustrated; Neglected; Angered; or Other (please specify)."

Note the conspicuous absence of  "All of the Above," as a choice. 

A single, one-word answer wasn't easy for someone who brings a multi-dimensional emotional state to the table. When this particular flight ended I felt:

Delighted - I was on my way to hang out with two of my favorite people!

Appreciated  - Talk about the "friendly skies." We passengers gratuitously smiled at one another, loudly but warmly forgiving any accidental trespasses. Flying to a city located in the Southeast or Midwest usually involves a whole different caliber of personalities. 

Pleased - At one point, I looked down at my rings, which led to glancing down at the rest of what I wore. I really hit it out of the ballpark with the ensemble I'd thrown on that morning. Five stars. 

Content - Understatement, understatement, understatement. 

Relieved - Still couldn't believe I didn't end up missing this flight, given how late I'd woken up and the amount of unexpected cross-town traffic. 

Indifferent - "What was with the pilot first announcing the local temperature in Celsius degrees, before slowly translating it into Fahrenheit? " I thought, before eventually shrugging it off and thinking, "Whatever," as I continued checking myself out.  

Disappointed - We landed 15 minutes too soon for my liking. I didn't get to finish another chapter of my book.

Hurried - When I first looked up after gathering all of my stuff on the way out, I was the last passenger in the cabin. Everyone else seemed long gone. 

Frustrated - This plane was too small to haul my second carry-on item into the cabin with me, so I had to pass it over to a baggage handler on the jetbridge. On one of the last flights I took, a flight attendant-in-training told me about the opening minutes of one of the last flights she took - the door to the baggage compartment under the plane hadn't been properly locked, and the pilot turned around to head back to the airport, once he realized that passengers' luggage had been falling out of the plane and into the ocean. 

Neglected - Another round of seltzer would have been nice.  

Angered - Of course, the second-least-likable passenger sat in my row. She cut in front of me, no acknowledgment, after we both stood up to stretch and head out.

But since I could select only one answer, I chose "Other" and specified Hungry.

A Special Sentencing Proceeding

I love a good competition. Or even a bad one. Spelling bees, backyard bocce ball matches, staring contests. I’m competitive with other people and competitive with myself, competitive but not cutthroat, competitive because the alternative feels too much like treading water when I’d rather swim.

Here’s a healthy competition we’re all eligible for. (And, by “all,” I mean anyone able to follow along with these letters and words. I don’t want to see any self-righteous, “Well, you know, not all of us are eligible. Not everyone in this world knows how to read - just the lucky ones….” notes in my inbox.) A new literary journal, Easy Street, is holding a sentence contest. Have you ever written, spoken, or thought of a specific set of words, about an idea, that kind of impressed you? About 7 years ago, I took somewhat of a shine to a sentence, a question really, I wrote in my journal:

What’s more deflating than ultimately having no choice but to conclude that someone you’d initially deemed very special is actually no different from pretty much everybody else?

I wowed only myself with this one. Of the 11 or so people I repeated it to, 10 mutely projected, “Is this about me?” looks. One straight-up rolled his eyes.

But I can come up with others. So can you. We have until the end of this month.

Take Your Hat Off

Who remembers this scene from The Sopranos?

People keep doing this to me (currently re: my nice warm, pink, winter hat) and it’s infuriating. A swanky restaurant? I'll automatically take it off in there. But when I’m sitting down at the DMV? I’m cold. And haven’t combed my hair. Someone seated a couple of tables over asked me to take it off at a deli earlier today. She suggested it nicely, so I did as she asked. “I like your earrings,” she followed up, and we became fast friends, discussing our birthdays/zodiac signs, boy troubles, the endless struggle of deciding whether our favorite color is purple or pink. She offered me some of her chips and told me I’m funny. We made tentative plans to get together again sometime soon, but since she’s 6 years old, we had to run them by her mean grandmother first.

“Aren’t you hot? Aren’t you cold? Shouldn’t you be wearing more? Shouldn’t you be wearing less? Why are you wearing long sleeves? Why are you going sleeveless? You dress too warmly. You don’t dress warmly enough.”

When it comes to hats, coats, sweaters - taking them off, leaving them on - consider leaving women alone. I’ve never heard anyone approach and ask the men wearing 3-piece suits in 95-degree heat whether they’re too hot; or interrogate the ones parading down the sidewalks in shorts in 40-degree weather about being too cold. If you’re “getting hot [or cold] just looking at” me, please turn the other way.

The Sopranos clip has nothing to do with temperature or sexism. But I love it too much to leave it out, and wish YouTube/Blogger had allowed me to upload the extended version. 

Stay with Me, and I’ll Show You a Good Time

It’s time to just come out and say it: I'm so good of a hostess (a skill I picked up after years of observing my mother in action) I sometimes wish I could have the opportunity of being a guest in my home. 

What’s the best part about hosting out-of-town guests you haven’t seen in awhile? The extensive catching up in person stuff? Not really. The biggest bonus is having an excuse to venture into touristy territories you don’t normally have the time, energy, or poor judgment for.

At certain times and in certain places, people have asked me what they should see or do if they have one day in New York. I used to be like, “I don’t know, it all depends on what you’re into. Maybe Times Square and Central Park? Try roaming the streets, and taking it all in.” Now I’ll tell them to take the A or C train into Brooklyn, get off at High Street and stroll into Manhattan across the Brooklyn Bridge, before walking over to the 9/11 Museum and Memorial. Such a rewarding way to spend an afternoon.

A little more than a year ago, I interviewed for a job, I didn’t get, at this 9/11 compound. The brilliantly designed outdoor Memorial was up, but the museum wasn’t open to the public yet. Today was the first time I’ve walked through the finished product, and I encourage any of the commentators comparing this week’s crazy terrorist attacks in Paris to what happened on September 11th to swing by this compound the next time they’re in town as well, since their sense of proportion seems a wee bit off.

Easy, Quickie, Last-Minute Gift Ideas for the Randoms in Your Life

It’s crunch time. I’m only halfway done with my holiday shopping, and don’t particularly care. These are all just items and objects. This is the luxurious kind of stress.

Shopping for my friends and family is no problem. I know exactly how to satisfy their needs and tastes. However, most of us have people in our regular lives we’re not close to, but have that obligation to buy holiday gifts for. Constant-contact co-workers, lovely neighbors, great new acquaintances, etc. These are the types who used to be responsible for my worst retail angst. Cologne? Lotion? Gloves? Xanax? A decorative basket filled with tangerines and Triscuits? How the hell do I know what they could use, when the only talking we do is small?  

Many years ago, it all became clear to me. Chocolate or wine. If I teach you anything, let it be: when in doubt, gift chocolate or wine.

Neither are unhealthy, neither are as impersonal as a gift card, you never need to pay more than $25 for either, and - most importantly – you get the peace of mind that neither will go unused. Even if it turns out the people you give the chocolate or wine to don’t eat chocolate or drink wine, they’re sure to know at least one person who does who they can re-gift it to (while making themselves look good in the process). You don’t have to worry about your money going to waste.

One holiday season, my first NYC boss at my first NYC job got me an Armani Exchange scarf. “That’s a little extravagant,” I thought, “We ain’t tight. But, so what, he’s rich and I do so much for him.”

He left the tags on. That scarf came off the A/X clearance rack, after getting marked down about 5 times before a final price of something like $21. The following year, he got me this:

Each holiday season, I gave him a bottle of shiraz or syrah. His face lit up every time he opened the bag, lifted up, and studied his spoils.

OK, Now I’ll Admit It – Having a Bad Thyroid Sucks

My childhood/teenage asthma often led to an annual bout of bronchitis that kept me out of school for two weeks, mostly because I milked it for all it was worth. Nobody could lower her head in agony, or sabotage a thermometer reading, like me.

“But you’re not wheezing anymore,” someone would insist.

“Purely due to your catching me at a good time,” I answered weakly but firmly, fluttering my eyes. “All I need is one more day. What does it matter if I miss a Friday?”

Friday was usually a big day on Days of Our Lives. After two weeks of catching it promptly at its air time, not far from my beloved grandmother, I dreaded having to slum back to settling for the recorded version.

In college, I caught one virus, which didn’t last more than 72 hours. In my early twenties, I once lost my voice for another 72 hours or so. Sickness- and symptoms-wise, that was pretty much it for the rest of my twenties. Aside from dental visits, I rarely bothered to book check-ups because I didn’t need them. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I started having “symptoms” that turned out to be a thyroid condition I didn’t take too seriously.

I went through a major health scare last month. Something much worse than a thyroid problem. I netted about 35 hours of sleep in 3 weeks, just based on all the anxiety. My symptoms’ worst-case scenario was that bad. Some words of advice - never obsessively Google your weird symptoms and come to an airtight self-diagnosis. The hyper-Googling will quickly convince you it’s the worst-case scenario; and the specialist you frantically schedule an appointment with will most likely look at you like you’re nuts. I didn’t mind that latter bit.

Last week, all the test results (have you ever had a 7:30 a.m. trans-vaginal ultrasound, before a long day of work?) for the worst-case scenario came back negative. The great kind of negative. The only tests that came back positive (the not-great kind of positive) were re: my thyroid levels, which I’d thought I had under control via nutrition and exercise, but now it’s back to the endocrinologist I go, for the first time in years. Never in my life have I had so many doctor’s appointments in a one-month interval.

“All I want for Christmas is my health,” I said, 3 weeks ago. “Nothing more than a continuation of this annoying but manageable thyroid thing.”

And I got it! Until the grand dame of a head cold I came down with, earlier today.  

No Mug Shot, Just Mug Shame

Although I rarely remember it’s there, when you walk into one grocery store in my neighborhood, the first thing you might notice is the Shoplifters Wall of Shame. Floor managers take a picture of every thief they catch, print out a black-and-white copy of that picture, and hang it above a towering stack of red shopping baskets. In each photo, the shoplifters hold up the item(s) they tried making off with. Many of them smile pretty for the camera.

“How could someone do that? I’ve never stolen anything,” I’ve thought, shaking my head.  I mean, dammit, one time I was the only visitor at a tiny museum in England, where nobody manned the front desk that sold postcards for the equivalent of twenty-five cents. I took a postcard, leaving behind that twenty-five-cent equivalent, along with a note detailing how honorable I had been.

It’s so easy to forget that I actually have stolen something. It’s so easy to block that night out. Ten years ago. A beer mug from a local beer garden. I was blindingly drunk when I stuffed it into my oversized handbag, after the guy I was out with not only suggested but encouraged it, as a way to avenge the epic fight I’d gotten into with a bartender who accused me of underpaying him when I hadn’t. I found that mug in the back of a cabinet earlier this year and now keep it at the edge of my desk, as a writing-utensils holder, as a reminder. In 2015, I’m giving it back. That’s my New Year’s Resolution. That way it’s simply something I’ve borrowed, like an overdue library book.

Meanwhile, I recently went to the grocery store, picked up a red basket, and happened to glance at the Shoplifters Wall of Shame for the first time in months. The first photo I saw was of the security guard I blogged about a couple of months ago, holding up the same bottle of wine he once tried handing over to me in my office.