why i hated today, and frontier airlines in particular

1.) My flight was at 6:00am.

2.) I didn't sleep at all. Not one wink.

3.) I arranged a cab pickup for 4:45am. At 4:30, Grandpa got up, offering to drive me to the airport. Which was ridiculously sweet.

So I called the cab company. Canceled my pickup. And seconds later, my cell phone rings and it's the cab driver calling me from his car demanding to know "WHY DID YOU CANCEL THE CAB and YOU TELL ME NOW! and DON'T YOU KNOW I WASTED GAS MONEY DRIVING TO YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD and I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR EXCUSES and BY THE WAY I'M STILL IN YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD."

Fuh-reaky.

4.) Unnerved, I keep an eye out for said driver who was, clearly, in the neighborhood. And within mere moments, I see a man, lunging from his car and running aggressively toward our front door with something rather big and bulky in his arms. A bomb? A BOMB! He hurls it from his arms and it lands with a thud just outside the front door.

And always one to keep my cool, I take action equivalent of shrieking, "Ohhhh 82-year-old Grandpa.....! Scary Taxi Man is about to kill us- SEE YA!" and I bolt for the back of the house.

One of my banner moments. But, I come back. And gingerly open the front door to find...

the Sunday paper.

5.) So we get in the car to go to the airport. And are keenly aware of every taxi cab in the vicinity... stalking, lying in wait to ambush us.

And then, red and blue flashing lights. "Have you been drinking, sir?" and "Did you know you are driving without your headlights?"

Grandpa, at this point, is wishing he'd stayed in bed, and wasn't so nice and thoughtful. And none too soon, he kicks my troublesome butt to the curb at SeaTac.

Where...

6.) I heave and battle to unload my two just-shy-of-50lbs-each bags, brimming with not less than 25 books and 75 CD's retrieved from the Twisp house. Mostly mountaineering books, mind you, for a CERTAIN SOMEONE.

Not normally one to hire wheels, I head straight for the cart rentals, where I discover they cost four dollars. FOUR DOLLARS! Hmph! I wrangle one 50lb bag onto my back and somehow attach the other to leftover appendages.

7.) I check in. My first bag, as expected, is $15. But my second bag, for no reason other than it's number two, is $25. And I say, out loud, I hate you, Frontier Airlines.

8.) I bypass Tully's and Seattle's Best Coffee, hoping to find sleep on the flight, and stumble to my gate where I drop in exhausted relief into my (middle) seat only to discover three - THUH-REE - small children occupying the seats directly in front of me. An infant. A two-year old. And a five-year-old. And I mutter, with a bit more venom than before, I hate you Frontier Airlines.

9.) But I do sleep, in between tantrums, fits, and infant-clogged ears. And turbulence. Which I hate infinitely more than $4 carts.

10.) I move in a sleep-deprived daze to baggage claim and see people, at 9am, eating the strangest things for breakfast. Thai food. Fried chicken. Popcorn. I feel a little queasy.

11.) Carts in Colorado, it turns out, are also $4. I lug my crap a really. long. way. to the shuttle bus, which will take me to my car.

12.) But my car was not parked by me, and I guess I didn't pay close enough attention to where in the GIANT lot the car would be. So we drive around. And around. And look. And look. And much later, find said car. At which point, my hatred is no longer limited to Frontier Airlines. It knows no bounds.

13.) I settle into the car. Relief. I'm almost home. Sleep is imminent. But first, I have to pay for parking. Where I discover two new things. The daily rate has increased from $6/day to $10/day AND a day, to DIA, is 22 hours. And this, combined with everything else, is just too much.

I look at the attendant and say, through gritted teeth,

NOOOO...one day is TWENTY FOUR HOURS.

And the attendant says, I'm sorry, ma'am. But you'll see on your receipt that at DIA one day is 22 hours.

And I say, Well that's WRONG. Everyone knows ONE DAY is 24 hours.

And I peel off feeling vindicated and oddly profound...wise even. Because while I can't always control sleepless nights, threatening cab drivers, accusing police officers, unreasonably expensive carts, $25 bag fees, screaming kids and bouncing planes, or heavy bags and misplaced cars, I can set the record straight on what a day is. It's 24 hours.

This, I can take on.

really. but.

Dear Grandpa,

Thanks for letting me stay in your guest room. The bed was really comfy. The pillows were satisfyingly fluffy. The night lite made me feel safe.

You are a good host. And yet,

I do have one humble request...

I don't want to seem ungrateful. Because, you know, I am grateful. For a place to crash. For you being all laid back about my friends invading your house, en masse. And for you just being your plain old darn agreeable self.

Really.

But,

CAN YOU REMOVE FROM THE GUEST ROOM THE CLANGING CACOPHONOUS CLOCK THAT CHIMES AND CLUCKS AND SQUAWKS EVERY BLASTED HOUR - ON THE HALF HOUR AND THE HOUR - ALL. NIGHT. LONG.?

Please.

























Respectfully and with gobs of grateful love,

Your granddaughter, who is, somewhat sleepless in Seattle.

P.S. I love you.

market-ing

So the other day we overslept.

The plan was to be up by 4:30am, drive 3.5 hours, and catch the boat to Stehekin.

But, we went to bed at 1:30am. This, after two nights of pitifully little sleep.

I did get up at 4:30. I know this, not because I remember it, but because later I discovered my alarm clock in an entirely different part of the room. Weird.

When we woke up at 8:15 our boat was setting sail, 3.5 hours away.

Bummer.

So Stehekin, for that day, was not in the cards.

Plan B? Pike Place Market.

While parking at the market, we had this exchange:

Me: "Um, looks like a really small parking space- you sure about this one?"

Him (in a purposefully mega-machismo voice): "Don't worry, honey! I have BETTER than 20-20 vision!"

And our car crashes into the car in front of us.

Just GUESS how many times I've brought this up in the last 48 hours?

back to the here and now

to misty April drizzliness ...

to vexing mid-day traffic ...

... to illustrious coffee goodness
welcome ... home?

parking responsibility

I should have titled this post, "How I spent the night before moving."

Answer: not packing.

Lincoln Park is my little refuge now. I lose all sensibility toward unpacked boxes, job interviews, and an impending 10-week stint in a dusty guest bedroom.

Can you say avoidance?

What I really need right now is a mother. Someone to yell out the front door and tell me to GET INSIDE and take care of my responsibilities.

I wonder if I can hire my mom to boss me around for awhile.

avoiding 124th St

This is the final weekend before I move out of my house.

I know for sure I'm moving because yesterday I received mail addressed to the New Owner. I have mixed feelings about this letter. On the one hand, only a solid buyer would change his address before the house is legally his; on the other, must I be this in touch right now with the fact that my cute house will soon belong to someone else?

This avoidence, I think, is manifesting itself in my neglect of the last 10% push to get packed up and out of the house. This weekend I've done nothing. Well, not exactly nothing. Just nothing involving Pine Sol, packing tape, and heavy lifting.

I intended to hit it hard this weekend, to have everything all sealed up and perfect for when Court and Penske arrive this Thursday. But yesterday, with the best intentions for later-day-productivity, I went for a walk with Auntie P. We planned to walk for an hour but after such a long hiatus from 1:1 time we walked and talked... and talked and walked some more.

This is Auntie P and Uncle D. His name actually starts with a T but I use D because he's a dork which I say with the utmost admiration. I have found a kindred spirit in many a dork which is why this photo really disappoints me. I'm all about goofy photos and completely missed the memo on this one. It's a great shot of them though and if ever it seems I'm at all strange, well here you go. Genetics.


Anyway, after 2.5 hours of walking I was quite sore which didn't bode well for getting anything done this weekend.

Really that's an excuse though. It's been so nice this weekend that I've resisted the whole indoor routine and instead decided to putter around some of my favorite Seattle places. Lincoln Park ranks just about #1 on the list.

Lincoln Park has a bit of everything: woods, trails, beach, ferry boats. It's the sort of park that can be jammed full of people and still you feel secluded.

The C&P Coffee Company, also in West Seattle, is another great place. I inadvertently slighted them the other day when I wrote about independent coffeeshops having crappy coffee. This is not true of C&P. Their coffee rocks. And this little shop has funk that rivals any Seattle coffeehouse. It's an old 1907 Craftsman home that was originally a hunting lodge. The house has tons of old character and none of the modernizing and perfecting that wrecks such homes. This was my view on their back porch.

I love the Dutch door and the shutters off the kitchen. The sign above the door is pretty cool too. It says, "Never kick a fresh turd on a hot day." This is definitely not the sort of thing you're going to learn at Starbucks. But thanks to C&P now you know. Next time you are tempted, don't do it.

So go C&P. Not only do you have stellar coffee and a good vibe but you are also a true friend. I'm glad I spent the weekend with you instead of being productive at my own house.

loveliest of trees

I stopped in for a visit with my Grandpa this evening but ended up visiting longer with the Cherry Tree in his front yard. I'm not sure, given all our recent bouts with snow and cold, how these little buggers felt safe coming out of hiding but I'm sure glad they did. For once we actually had winter in Seattle which makes spring all that much more welcome.

Loveliest of trees

Poem by A.E. Housman

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride,
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom

Fifty springs are little room,

About the woodlands I will go

To see the cherry hung with snow.

confessions of a coffee shop infidel

I work from home. What this really means though, because I'm a miserable failure at actually working at home, is that I spend an embarrassing amount of time with my laptop at coffee shops.

Workday mornings go something like this: shower, dress, check email, eat tasteless healthy breakfast, feed dogs tasteless not-so-healthy breakfast, bound out the door.

And here my routine comes to a screeching halt. Picture me, sitting in my driveway, thumb tapping the steering wheel, wondering, which coffee shop today?

I live in Seattle. The options are truly endless. As much as possible I prefer to work from independent coffee shops. The advantages are numerous: The music is better. The people are weirder. WiFi is free. And a significant perk: no Starbucks chocolate donut to wage war with All. Day. Long.

Seems like an obvious choice, yes? Well, not so much. My great shame is that I'm addicted in the worst way to Starbucks coffee. I have wrestled with, been tormented over, have tried to overcome this addiction. I don't WANT to like Starbucks coffee better. No real coffee aficionado likes Starbucks best.

Now don't get me wrong. I love Starbucks 'the company'. I'm all about big business and capitalism. And I love how they've revolutionized two of my very favorite things: coffee and community. Without this coffee juggernaut the gazillion independent shops in Seattle and around the nation likely wouldn't exist. Starbucks gave birth to all these smaller coffee shops and like any good woman, I want to play with the babies. But my big dark secret that you now know is, I DON'T LIKE THE BABIES.

Or at least their coffee anyway.

The truth is, I have been a bit sheepish that my palette has cast such a decided vote in favor of Starbucks. Saying you like Starbucks better than, for example, Caffe Ladro, is like saying you live in Burien instead of West Seattle (and for the record I don't like saying that so much either.) But while I'm quite convinced that West Seattle is superior to Burien, I'm not so certain Starbucks deserves its bum rap. I like their coffee. No wait, let me rephrase that. I LOVE STARBUCKS COFFEE. It is, at least while Court is in Colorado, the best part of my day. (When we're together I perpetuate the ruse that he's better than coffee.)

Now that I'm out of the proverbial coffee closet, let me also say this. What is particularly bothersome to me is when these smaller shops start getting attitude. Take the slogan from Caffe Ladro for instance. "Caffe Ladro serves the finest espresso to Seattle's discriminating coffee drinkers." See, that just makes me mad. I spend way too much money on coffee to not be considered discriminating. I AM discriminating. I hate lots of coffee which can only mean that my coffee palette is superbly refined.

So here's how I've solved my dilemma. On most days when I finally stop tapping my thumb and leave my driveway, here's what I do. First, I go slummin' at Starbucks for my double short Americano. I drink it, savoring every last drop of ghetto goodness. And then I head across the street to Caffe Ladro where I work for the rest of the day. Around 2:00pm, I buy a cup of coffee from Ladro. And around 2:06pm I throw it away.

But hey, at least no one can say I don't play with the babies.

waiting

Yesterday I waited at 19 stoplights and 32 stop signs. I waited at two Starbucks for two double-short Americanos. I waited for the First Avenue Bridge to go up and down... two times. I waited in two construction zones. I waited 30 minutes for my Microsoft client to arrive for our meeting. I waited 45 minutes for my computer to update with Windows Vista SP2. I waited during 17 commercials for American Idol to return. I waited 2 minutes and 30 seconds for my popcorn. I waited six minutes in the rain for my dogs to do their outdoor duty.

Waiting. Sometimes we find ourselves stuck, anticipating something else... another destination, another activity, a brighter place somewhere else on the horizon. At this particular time of my life everyday really feels like one giant 'wait' for something else... I'm waiting for Friday when we will know the result of our home inspection... I'm waiting for April 15 when our house will close ... I'm waiting for my next visit to Colorado when we can complete our adoption paperwork... I'm waiting for June 25 when my Microsoft contract will be over and I can move to Colorado and be with my husband... I'm waiting for motivation to conquer that blasted Starbucks chocolate donut once and for all...

The recent tragic news of Natasha Richardson's death has caused me to reflect on all this waiting. I'm not a big follower of the Hollywood crowd but anytime someone dies doing something so seemingly innocuous it makes me catch my breath a little. That reminder, that we can be snuffed out in a matter of seconds, is such a bitter pill to swallow. I tend to live life feeling fairly immortal which is really rather foolish. Evaluating our own mortality, the fact that these bodies come with an expiration date, isn't fun. The reality is there nonetheless. Perhaps waiting at the First Avenue Bridge will be one of the last things I do. If such were the case and I knew it my attitude would surely be something other than grumbling and impatient fidgeting.

The idea of 'living intentionally' is trite and yet there's a worthy powerful message there. I may not have tomorrow. Am I who I want to be today? Am I doing what I want to do... today?

Ephesians 5:15-16 "Therefore be careful how you walk, not as unwise men but as wise, making the most of your time..."