Waxing Philosophical

As I approach the end of my dissertation, I'm forced to confront the reality of the academic job search. I know there are plenty of people out there who believe that I have made a career of purposely avoiding permanent employment. They probably believe this because I've said as much. But, as I approach the midpoint of my life and still live in an apartment, the thought of gainful stable employment does not seem so nauseating.

So, I'm jumping through hoops. I'm writing cover letters where I humbly brag about my accomplishments and magically turn shortcomings into "areas for improvement." I'm also preparing a teaching philosophy, where I explain what I believe about teaching and why. A friend of mine and I have decided that this is an exercise in proving you can sound like a complete tool. So far, I'm failing miserably (something I am particularly proud of.) As I stare at the blank computer screen, all I can think is: "I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way. Show them all the beauty they possess inside, give them a sense of pride to make it easier. Let the children's laughter remind us how it used to be." I just don't think this is helpful.

Luckily, I'm not left to my own devices. Like in any profession, there are plenty of people who stick their noses firmly in the conceptual treebark of teaching and learning and then offer advice to the rest of us who actually teach and learn. Because I've hit a brick wall, I turned to some of these experts for guidance.

Many experts pose "helpful questions." These include:

• What are your objectives?
• What methods do you use?
• How do you assess and evaluate your effectiveness?
• Why is teaching important to you?

All fine questions. All questions that I should be able to answer. Should be able to answer. So far, all I hear is Whitney Houston, which really only answers the last question.

So, I dug a little further. I am a researcher, after all. If I just keep digging, I'll eventually find the answer. I printed some advice from a university website. They cite AF Grasha, who suggests using metaphors to describe your teaching philosophy. For example, you could compare teaching to being a:

• Coach
• Gardener
• Director of a play
• General leading troops into battle
• Midwife
• Swiss army knife
• Evangelist
• Rabbi
• Entertainer
• Choreographer
• Tour bus driver with passengers who keep their window curtain closed

I'm sorely tempted to compare my teaching style to midwifery. Something like: "I put the class at ease, reminding them that this a natural process that students have gone through for centuries. As they begin to experience the pains of learning, I offer gentle and soothing encouragement until finally, a beautiful new paper is delivered. After cleaning the muck off the paper, I then evaluate it, offering advice on how to do better the next time."

I won't even attempt the swiss army knife or tour bus driver. I just don't think that would be a good use of my time. After all, I have a Whitney Houston song that I need to exercise from my memory.

Superbaby

Over lunch, I read the baby announcements in the local paper. Seems Mr. & Mrs. Wong named their newborn son Kalel Jorel. The paper noted that the baby was born in a local hospital, but who knows, maybe his little rocket ship crashed on the Wong's farm, then the baby lifted Mr. Wong's truck with one hand.

It's just Wong, Wong on so many levels. If nothing else, this is the most convincing evidence that soul mates exist. Think about it: I can see one person thinking that name is a good idea, but 2 people agreeing that it's a good idea? What are the odds?

Maybe the namer won some sort of bet - the kind of bet that leaves a little baby scarred for life. I'm thinking of getting some kryptonite and taking it by their house as a baby gift. Hope the baby likes REM and 3 Doors Down, because he's never going to get through an entire day without some smartass singing "Superman" or "Kryptonite."

Little Jackass at the Gym

Today, I went to the gym. As I expected, it was quiet. It's a beautiful fall Saturday and as if that's not enough to keep everyone out of the gym, it's also Georgia-Florida game day. All around town, the fans who didn't make the pilgrimage to Jacksonville crowded into grocery stores to buy chips, dip, beer and other game day accoutrements. So, the gym was quiet.

I walked around the enormous bulldog and made my way to the back of the gym. Words can't express how happy I was to see only 2 other women on the elliptical machines, and neither were anywhere near my favorite machine in the back row. I climbed aboard, revved up the iPod, turned on the Kentucky-Mississippi State game and started pedaling.

As I reached the 10 minute mark, I noticed a short young man getting on to a machine down the row. By this time, the other women had finished their work-outs and moved on. He and I were the only ones on the machines. At about the 17 minute mark, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. The little boy was hooking his headphones to the machine right next to mine. I didn't even try to hide the "you've got to be shitting me" look on my face. Twenty-nine empty machines and he chooses the one right next to me. I entertained the thought of moving, but then firmed up my resolve to stay right where I was. This little jackass was not going to chase me away.

I managed to tune him out until he got out his cell phone. I watched with some amusement as he contorted himself to brace the phone between his ear and shoulder while still hanging on to the arm bars. Oh yeah, he was getting a really good workout. When his whiny little voice interfered with my music, I made no effort to hide the clear annoyance etched on my face. I reached for my iPod and very obviously adjusted the volume. I silently wished that I could control the gym's PA system, so I could force the little jackass to listen to my music - I believe I was listening to 70s Elvis at the time. Then, I spent some time trying to figure out if there was some way that I could stink and sweat in his general direction. I momentarily considered flinging my sopping hair, but decorum got the better of me.

I finished my hour on the machine and dismounted on his side. By this time, he'd put down the phone and moved on to another surefire way to annoy everyone. He laughed out loud, amused by the misfortunes of two ne'er do wells on "Cops." With quiet dignity, I wiped off my machine and turned to leave. With quiet dignity, I released some compressed air in his general direction. With quiet dignity, I smiled and kept walking.

Fleeing Celebrities!

I hate CNN. I think the entire network is made up of mongers: fear, gossip, anything but the truth. Anderson Cooper, "The Silver Surfer of Cable News," is their only saving grace. When I go to the gym in the middle of the afternoon, I inevitably turn the TV to the Crap News Network just to have something to look at. I listen to my iPod while pictures flash in front of my eyes. Today, the California fires monopolized coverage. Finally, CNN could turn their glaring, prying spotlight away from Britney Spears and report on something that actually is real news. Wildfires raging across acres and acres of beautiful mountains, racing to the sea like the 49ers of old. "California Burning" CNN uncreatively dubbed their coverage.

As in any disaster, there are many angles to the story. There's the government angle, so today we saw Arnold and GW, both patting each other on the back and stating the obvious. According to the CNN headline, Bush said, "It's a sad situation." Now that's leadership, folks. I don't care what you say.

Then, there's the human interest angle, so reporters and their trusty sidekick camera operators follow the hapless as they return to the burned shells that used to be their mountain homes. On ABC News, Charlie Gibson even helped a woman pack up her valuables so she could take them with her, while the cameraman filmed the entire time. Way to pitch in, Charlie. Way to be a cold-hearted bastard, cameraman.

CNN took it one step further and had a reporter cover his own evacuation. No, I'm not speaking "bathroom-wise." This fellow had to leave his home. According to the headline, he didn't lose his home, but some of his friends did. I suppose he'll be interviewing them next. "So, how does it feel to lose your home? You know I didn't lose mine, right?" I have to say that if I was this jackass's wife, I'd have some pointed comments about his bid for a Pulitzer by plastering the airwaves with our family trauma.

But - today, CNN found the angle we've all been waiting for: the celebrity angle. According to the crawl, "Celebrities are among the many fleeing the California fires." But, wait, that's not the end of the story. No, "for more details, go to cnn.com/entertainment." When the end of the crawl crawled across the screen, I laughed out loud. Apparently, watching "average" folks flee a fire is heartbreaking, but when it's a celebrity, it's entertainment. I immediately got a mental image of a bunch of celebrities racing down a hillside while Ryan Seacrest chases after them, demanding to know who designed their "fire fleeing" attire.

Mark my words: If the fire gets anywhere near Britney Spears's house, these reporters will have the perfect storm.

Newspaper Ads

Let me start by saying that I am not in the market for a dog. That said, I read through the ads for pets in today's paper. It's a very slow day.

I came across these gems:

Beagle puppies, AKC registered, 6 wks old, male and female, parents onsite, good for hunting or pets!
[So, if you want to hunt some beagles, these people can set you right up.]

Cocker spaniel AKC, beautiful puppies, home raised with children.
[Too bad, I prefer my puppies cave-raised with wolves.]

Great Dane, AKC, female puppy, 5 mths old, Last of Liter.
[I really don't have anything more to add.]

Great Pyrenees puppies, 4 months old, male and female purebred, excellent as pet or guardian, gentle with children, raised with goat herd.
[Sound of Music, anyone? Ladee-o'deladee-o'delow]

Miniature schnauzer puppies, AKC, black and silver, this breed does not shed fur.
[What does it shed? Pounds? Chocolate?]

[Then, in the tradition of blending names to designate a new breed, as in Bennifer and Brangelina, we have the following:]

Shitzupoos, CKC registered, all shots and wormed.

[I 've decided that I can't own one of these dogs, because I'm not nearly mature enough to say the breed name out loud without chuckling like Beevis and/or Butthead.]

Again, it's a very slow, gray day.

AT&T: The Furry Caterpillar

In my blog entries, I make a conscious effort to avoid specific identifiers. I do this for two reasons: to protect the innocent and to protect myself from the inevitable lawsuits. In a litigious society, one can never be too careful.

Today, I'm breaking my own rule. Why? Because the offending party earned it. They worked hard for it. They deserve it. Who are they? Stand up and take a bow - AT&T Mobility, formerly Cingular, formerly AT&T Wireless, formerly BellSouth Mobility. I know, because I've been with these jokers through each metamorphosis. Even when I tried to escape by switching from Cingular to AT&T, Cingular bought AT&T and I was assimilated back into the collective. With each metamorphosis, I hope that a butterfly will replace the furry caterpillar. Each time, I get another furry caterpillar.

When I moved, I made every effort to erase all traces of my existence in the northeastern postindustrial wasteland, including changing my cell phone number. Somehow, this triggered a "new customer" alert at AT&T. Before I could learn my new number, I started getting all kinds of crap marketing offers, trying to sell me another phone line, another phone, more minutes, and a big chocolate cheesecake. (OK, I made up that last one.)

In the midst of marketpalooza, I learned that AT&T decided that I needed roadside assistance coverage, to the tune of $2.99/month. The slick brochure announcing this service informed me that I had to call the marketing firm in charge of the promotion to avoid being charged for a service that I never asked for in the first place. Well, after weeks of dealing with cable companies, phone companies, banks, tag offices, and leasing offices, I'd had it. I called aforementioned marketing firm. After being on hold for 10 minutes, I told the unfortunate jackass who answered the phone precisely where he could put his unsolicited roadside assistance. In fact, I think I offered my AAA service, if he needed assistance finding the exact location that I specified. I explained that this marketing strategy forced me to waste my valuable time on something I didn't want or need. I'm not sure he enjoyed the irony of his impatience quite as much as I did.

Fast forward to today: I got out the checkbook and the accumulated bills and performed the monthly ritual that we all know so well. Yes, I'm a dinosaur and I still write checks, lick envelopes, and affix stamps. As I detached the payment stub from my AT&T Mobility bill, I noticed a charge for roadside assistance. $2.99. Big as day. On my bill.

Calmly, I reached for my cell phone and called the furry caterpillar. Calmly, I waded through the automated options, never hearing, "If we are erroneously charging you for a service that you specifically declined three months ago, please press *" When a real person finally answered the phone, I explained the situation. I believe I said, "I seem to recall speaking with your marketing firm about this service and telling them that I wasn't interested, since I already pay for AAA. Apparently, you didn't get the message, even though you are a communications company." Without explanation, the woman on the other end of the phone offered to remove the charge from my bill and to credit my account for the previous months.

Word to the wise - if you use AT&T Mobility, always check your bill carefully. Always open and read junk mail to make sure they won't automatically charge you for something that you didn't ask for. Like I said, it's just another furry caterpillar.

The tracks of her tires

It's taken a very long time, but Britney Spears has finally gained my respect. Seems Ms. Spears was leaving a doctor's office last week when the ever-present paparazzi sprang from hell and surrounded her car. Somehow, the car lurched forward. Maybe she meant to press the brake pedal, maybe not. Maybe she made a conscious decision to introduce her car to the photographers, or maybe her subconscious simply decided that enough was enough. We'll probably never know. But, what we do know is that Brit's tire rolled over a photographer's foot, leaving a track across his pristine white sock. That's right, the fellow was wearing white socks with sandals. From all accounts, he walked away without apparent injury, except to his pride.

I don't think he's pressing charges, since his crime of fashion clearly outweighs Britney's minor infraction. Score one for Britney, though I bet that sock is already fetching some hefty bids on eBay.

Feminine Again

This week, I received an unsolicited publication in my mailbox. It came addressed to a previous occupant and rather than forward the publication, I brought it to my apartment. It's called Jezebel, a magazine about "Atlanta luxury living." I had no idea there was luxury living in Atlanta, much less an entire magazine devoted to it. So, with some interest, I flipped through the pages.

According to the magazine's tag line, it covers "homes, cars, fashion, celebs, travel, and culture." All the things that you'd expect in luxurious living. I glanced at pictures of the 20 most eligible men and women in Atlanta (lots of white teeth and big boobs), I learned about the newly renovated Rays on the River, and I read through all the upcoming events that I wasn't planning to attend. None of these features came as a surprise.

What did come as a bit of a surprise was an ad for "Vaginal Rejuvenation and Cosmetic Surgery." I wondered where this fit in "luxury living." The ad offered to help me "feel feminine again" and to "enhance the appearance of [my] female genital area to its more youthful state." I could accomplish this through the miracle of some really unpleasant-sounding surgical procedures. Now, not only do I have to worry about the rapidly aging parts of me that are regularly visible to the general public, I also have to think about the cosmetic appearance of my nether-regions? Fan-damn-tastic.

The ad raised questions that I can honestly say that I've never considered. For example, "Do you have feelings of embarrassment about the appearance of your genitalia?" Well, no, but now I wonder if I should. Who would I ask, other than these doctors? I mean, seriously, that's a tough question to ask someone. I'm not even sure how you'd lead into it. "So, speaking of the drought, do you think my genitalia are funny looking?" See what I mean.

But, the good Doctors Miklos and Moore (more what? ha ha ha) will solve all my "south of the border" troubles. They offer such things as vaginal rejuvenation. I didn't even know it was burned out. And, in what has to be the worst euphemism of all time, they'll fix vaginal relaxation, a condition usually caused by childbirth. Admittedly, I haven't given birth to any children, but from what I understand, it's anything but relaxing. And, honestly, I think after something like that, my vagina would have every reason to take it easy for a while. Wonder what they would do to tense it back up. Give it a really hard test? Make it go on a blind date? Force it to navigate through Friday afternoon rush hour traffic?

Among many other procedures, the good doctors can enhance my g-spot. Finally, something that sounds interesting. The most puzzling procedure is something called uterine suspension. Suspended where? How? And why? Did it throw spitballs in the cafeteria? Did it pull someone's hair? Oh, and they also offer uterine preservation - so all your future generations can marvel at your uterus, I suppose. As your children's children's children walk down memory lane, looking at old photographs, school awards, and sports trophies, they can also gaze upon your uterus, perfectly preserved in its "youthful state."

If you want more information about all of this, check out http://www.anewvagina.com/. No, I'm not making that up. If this is what it takes to live in the lap of luxury, I'll stay right where I am.

Chili and Popsicles

Yesterday, I made my weekly pilgrimage to the local grocery store. After a week of barely cooking, I decided to make a big pot of chili and some cornbread for dinner. In the process, I learned that my favorite chili recipe did not make the trip from the northeastern post-industrial wasteland. Somehow, the cookbook with the chili recipe disappeared with the cookbook containing the favorite spaghetti sauce recipe. I'm not sure how this happened, but I hope they are very happy together.

Finding a good chili recipe is particularly challenging for someone who doesn't like beans or peppers. A lot of recipes call for a lot of beans and lots of green pepper. Vegetarian chili is right out, because those recipes usually call for multiple bean variations - black beans, kidney beans, chili beans, Jack's jumping beans. All little balls of rot, in my humble opinion. I prefer a few beans, no peppers and lots of meat and tomatoes in my chili. I've tried omitting the beans all together, but the chili doesn't thicken up like it's supposed to. So, I put half of the required beans in, then pick them out as I eat the chili. Yes, it's insane, but I don't care. We all have our "things" that make us unique individuals. This is mine. Well, one of mine.

As I collected the necessary ingredients at the grocery store, I turned down the canned vegetable aisle. There, in front of the beans, was a scruffy looking fellow with a backpack. He had long, unkempt hair and a mustache and beard, and seemed particularly interested in the beans. He didn't have a shopping cart, and wasn't carrying any groceries, unless he put them in his backpack. And, here's where it gets weird: he was eating a popsicle. By the time I came upon him, he was halfway through his snack. He stayed in front of the beans long enough to finish the popsicle, then he threw away the stick and moved on.

See, we all have our "things." Apparently, his is eating popsicles while looking at canned beans. My "bean avoidance" seems less crazy in comparison.

Democrat Losers

Let's hear it for the Democrat losers! Al Gore now joins Jimmy Carter as the second southern Democrat who failed in his attempt to move into (or stay in, in Carter's case) 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue only to win the Nobel Peace Prize. Top that, Republican losers! Bet Florida doesn't sting quite as bad for ole Al today.

Personally, I hope Al stays out of the race for the White House. I think he'd make one hell of a Secretary of Energy in the HR Clinton White House. If anyone disagrees with him, he can just hold up his Nobel Prize and say, "When you have one of these, we'll talk." I think he's entitled to be snide.

So, good for you, Al. Way to come back from way, way down and show all of us that good guys can finish first.

Now, I can turn my energies to convincing HR Clinton that the unmarried are people, too and as tax-paying, voting people, we deserve tax breaks and health insurance just like all them married people and their kids.

Boycott Charmin

Last night, I'd settled in to watch "Two and a Half Men." Yes, I know it's mindless, and yes, I know that most of the jokes are crass and rude. I still think it's funny. One word: Ducky. Anyone who has seen Pretty in Pink knows what I'm talking about.

I made it to the first commercial break and prepared to channel surf when I heard the Hallelujah Chorus. I decided to see which multinational, money-grubbing, capitalist corporation decided to defame Handel's masterpiece. I expected a ridicuously early Christmas commercial. What I got were 2 animated bears, one red and one blue, running down a beach. Apparently, the bears needed to find a stairmaster, because their flabby backsides bounced up and down with each step. I think it was supposed to be cute. It wasn't, not while I was listening to the Hallelujah Chorus.

The bears broke into smiles of relief as they spied their destination - 2 port-a-pots, one red and one blue. They ran over, threw open the doors, and reached a state of ecstasy as they discovered entire packages of Charmin inside. Rather than actually use the port-a-pots, they danced on the beach, caressing the Charmin. The Hallelujah Chorus continued.

I sat with mouth agape. Then, I started saying, "Oh my God!" and found that I couldn't stop. For a full minute, I continued to express my utter disbelief. This had to be the most egregious misuse of sacred music in the history of egregious misuses of sacred music. Yes, the Hallelujah Chorus is a song of celebration, but it's not about Mary and Joseph finding a port-a-pot at the end of their long journey to Bethlehem. And, yes, Mary did ride on an ass to Bethlehem. So I suppose in a roundabout way, the Hallelujah Chorus is about an ass, but it's not about Mary's fat ass. There are actual other words in the Hallelujah Chorus, none of which relate to port-a-pots, toilet paper, or animated bears. For example, Handel wrote, "For the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth." Not, "For the Lord God Omnipotent gave us a port-a-pot." Not to mention, "And He shall reign forever and ever." Again, not, "And we shall wipe with the softest, most absorbant tissue forever and ever." Wrong on so many levels.

I called a friend to tell her of the travesty I'd just witnessed. She confirmed that the Charmin bears, the "shit bears" as she called them, were neither cute nor effective sales mascots. She was already one step ahead of me, having boycotted Charmin after the commercial where little bits of animated toilet paper get stuck to an animated bear's animated ass. (I have not seen that one, by the way. Not watching TV has its advantages.)

This is a perfect example of the devious nature of animation. When things are animated, we're supposed to automatically think they're cute, even if they're defaming sacred music by associating it with a necessary, yet disgusting, everyday activity. I don't care if there are fat red and blue bears running down a beach, I don't want to think about wiping my ass when I hear the Hallelujah Chorus. Is nothing sacred anymore?

Don't even get me started on the feminine product commercial where 2 women prepare for a surprise party by crouching behind a couch. When the birthday girl walks in, they jump up and yell, "Surprise!" while the voice-over announcer says something like, "Don't you wish you could count on your feminine protection all the time?" Eww.

Or the commercial for some bladder control medication, where some unsuspecting , weak bladdered woman walks into a surprise party at work and apparently doesn't lose control of her bodily functions. This remarkable achievement prompts one of her co-workers to remark, "You look fantastic!"

Lesson here: Don't have surprise parties because they may result in unintended and disgusting outcomes. And don't use animation and sacred music to thinly veil a disgusting topic. I'll admit that Charmin's advertising company has a tough task. They're not selling candy or coffee, after all. But, c'mon, they are selling a product that is absolutely necessary and I believe would sell itself, with or without advertising.

One last thing: Whatever happened to Mr. Whipple? OK, he was a little creepy because he hung out in supermarkets squeezing toilet paper, but no more creepy than 2 fat animated bears running toward port-a-pots on the beach.

Wrong Wood

Last week, I went to the 90-minute yoga class. I was tired and hadn't eaten a snack so it was a very long class. And, some masochist in the front of the room suggested that we work on arms and upper body strength. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I have the upper body strength of a kangaroo and my arms dangle like limp spaghetti; however, I don't go to yoga so I can torture myself. I was not having much fun.

At the end, we did relaxation exercises. I know that I'm supposed to try to achieve some sort of meditative (or vegetative) state; but, being a good Type A personality, I use this time to plan the next day. So, while the instructor said, "Inhale deeply, then extend your exhalations to twice as long as the inhale," I thought, "So, tomorrow, I'll write the next section in chapter 4. Maybe I'll start with Ed Wood heading to the Highlander Folk School." I stopped and thought, "No, wait, Ed Wood isn't right. It was Jim Wood." I almost laughed out loud at the thought of Johnny Depp as cross-dressing Ed Wood, showing up at Highlander to talk about citizenship schools. Johnny/Ed would sit across from Myles Horton, enthusiastically waving his arms while saying, "So, we'll start schools everywhere. And there will be monsters and all the teachers will be cross-dressers. It'll be great!"

Then, I decided that I'd get Tim Burton to direct the film version of my dissertation.

Plane trips

I'm happy to report that I made it to the Windy City and back again. Had you checked in with me on Friday morning, I'm not sure I would have predicted success. I had just pulled out of my apartment complex when the cell phone rang. It was my good friends at American Airlines, letting me know that my flight had been cancelled. I turned the car around and went back into my apartment.

Although they originally rebooked me on an evening flight, the helpful customer service agent (you read right, a helpful customer service agent at an airline) rebooked me on a flight that left 2 hours after my original flight. So, I sat around, ate some lunch, and headed out.

Got to the airport without any problems, checked in, and made it through security without anyone pushing me from behind. I hate that! It takes time to go through security. Deal with it. I think that I manage to get all of the required items out of suitcases and backpacks and into plastic bins with minimal upheaval. I wear shoes that slip on and off. I'm even patient with the infrequent flyers who don't have the routine down, as long as those people are in front of me. I'm not patient with the jackass behind me who decides I'm not going fast enough, or that I only need one plastic bin, and puts his or her plastic bin right up against mine and starts disrobing. I especially hate when they force my bin onto the moving conveyor before I'm done filling it. I can't stand those people - even if it's a little old lady who's never flown before and is completely freaked out in security. Back up, take a breath, and wait until I'm done.

But I digress. I get to the gate and as expected, there's a gate change. I don't mind gate changes because it usually means that my plane approacheth and they need somewhere to put it. We all marched to the next gate and boarded without any glitches.

I sat on the aisle. I prefer the window, but at least I wasn't in the middle. A big guy sat in the middle and complained that he had a first class ticket, but the desk agent uncermoniously bumped him into coach. He explained that he had "over 200,000 miles with the airline and this is how they treat him." I felt like saying, "Buddy, welcome to the real world." But I didn't. Instead, I prayed for the high sign when we could turn on our portable electronic devices so I could drown out the inane conversation between this fellow and the young woman next to him. Something about sales, shipping, outsourcing, Chicago suburbs, commuting, blah, blah, blah. His voice blended in with the airplane hum, but hers could cut through lead. iPod, take me away!

As we approached O'Hare, the pilot came on to let us know that emergency vehicles were assembling to meet our plane. No, we hadn't won some contest and no, we weren't entered in a parade, seems we had "mechanical difficulties." He shared that the difficulties forced us to fly "lower and slower" than usual, which explained why our hour and a half flight was approaching two hours. According to the pilot, he decided not to tell us anything in transit because it was not "an emergency." But, as we approached, something happened that made it an emergency. He assured us that the flight attendants would have more information.

Well, if they had more information, they didn't share it. We all anxiously awaited touchdown, sure that the landing gear would fail and we'd skitter off the runway like a stone skipping across water. Without any information, everyone became an expert. The fellow next to me started explaining the ins and outs of removing the exit doors while the woman in the window seat, who flies all the time, got all excited and said, "Wouldn't it be cool if they had to use the foam?" Yeah, that would be cool, but not as cool as punching her in the face. Then, as you'd expect in these situations, strangers began sharing stories of wind shear, forced landings, smoke smells, and any number of other scary events on flights past. I didn't find it particularly comforting to learn that everyone around me had a story, as if they attracted problems.

In an attempt to drown out the chorus of "I almost died when...", I started thinking, "I wonder how I'll get my suitcase off the plane if we have to slide down the inflatable rafts to get out. I'm sure they won't let me take my suitcase with me. Will they get the luggage and bring it to the terminal? How long will that take?" It's funny where your brain goes when you don't have enough information to make informed judgements.

We landed and all went as it should have. As the pilot predicted, emergency vehicles lined the runway. On this day, we were happy they weren't needed. From there, I got a cab to my friends' house. He was either a new cabbie or a directionally-challenged cabbie, or both, because he had no clue where he was going. He kept calling his friends to guide him to the address.

Luckily, I'd been there before, so I knew we weren't way off course. As we got close, I told him to let me out at the corner, rather than circle the block again. I tried to pay with a credit card and he said he couldn't take the card, even though he assured me I could pay with credit before we left the airport. I said I was $5 short, and he said, "It's close enough. It's your lucky day." And upon reflection, I suppose it was.