Monthly Archives: December 2010

Really, Delta? Really?!?

So I’m still in Memphis, enjoying my time here with my in-laws, my dog, my 4 months old charge (his mother is in India, see past blogs), and the chilly white flurries that periodically snow globe the skies.  My second trip has been cut short by two days, but I’m trying to make the most of it.  I’ve eaten 27 oatmeal cookies, 2 bags of chocolate chips, 4 pieces of lemon icebox cake, and multiple handfuls of peppermint bark.  I may not be leaving Tennessee anytime soon, but by God I’m not starving.

About twenty minutes ago I logged into Delta (their phone switchboards are still turned off thankyouverymuch) and began the process of checking in.  I’m sure you can imagine my surprise when they asked me if I would like to ‘delay my trip and earn a free voucher to fly on Delta at another time?’

Really, Delta?  Really?!  I think I’d rather eat this here molasses and gingerbread cake until I barfed brown sugar then have to fly with you again.  Yeesh.  The nerve of some people…

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Delta, You’re Killing Me

And the Delta saga continues…

After everything we’ve been through (read yesterday’s blog), it now seems as if the karmic wheel has once again spun it’s colorful dial.  I have got to stop kicking old people and refusing to walk cute puppies across the steet. 

About two hours ago I was abruptly shaken from my holiday cheer with the startling news that my flight for tomorow has been cancelled.  When calling Delta to find out why, I was told by a very friendly recording that inclimate weather prevented anyone at every Delta location anywhere in the universe from answering the phone.  I was on my own.  Since there is no snow in Memphis and no snow in my second destination, I can only assume that every other place in the world except for these two is under water.  Goodbye world.  Goodbye old friends.  I am now the only living human on the planet…except for everyone else not working for Delta.

And so the last several hours have been spent on the phone trying to get myself and my 4 month old charge (his mother is in Cambodia) another ticket.  Which we have done.  At a considerable fee to us.  By calling another “partner” airline because Delta’s website isn’t showing any availability. 

I hate Delta.

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Nightmare On My Street…Ho Ho Ho?

Wednesday morning my husband, my dog, and my charge, the 4 month old King William whose mother is off somewhere in the Koreas (see past blogs for more information), set out to the airport to travel for the holidays.  We arrived at LAX by 11am and were checked in and ready to rumble by noon.  Our 12:30 flight to Memphis was delayed, but such is to be expected during the holiday travel season.  By 1:30 we were up in the air and by 2:30 we were making an emergency landing.  King William was not pleased.  I was not pleased.  Kiki Wonder, our four-legged family member was so not pleased she tried to find a parachute.  As far as we were concerned, a shattered windshield was not a good enough reason for us to schlep the 4 month old baby King off and on another airplane.

But then instead of us landing in say, Las Vegas, San Diego or some other major metropolitan airport, our pilots were directed to east Bubbabaloo where we were greeted by vacant gates and blowing tumbleweeds.  Air traffic – zero.  Empty planes – zero.  Helpful agents – zero.  Tearfully I explained, King William in my arms, that we had not packed enough milk for a four month old to be stuck in the 7th level of hell.  I asked for directions to the nearest store to purchase what we needed or permission to retrieve my luggage.  I also threw out getting on the next plane back to Los Angeles so we could try this all over again another day.  The helpful moustached man told me to go to Starbucks.  Apparently they sell milk at Starbucks and despite me explaining that infants don’t drink Starbucks milk, I was informed that that was my only option.  As far as he was concerned, the baby could drink that or nothing. 

Over the course of the next 9 hours we stood in line after line attempting to get out of our worst nightmare.  No one would help us, no would help the baby, and no one would help Kiki the Wonder Dog.  My husband and several older gentleman who were affronted, disgusted, and incredulous at how Delta (yes, I said it, DELTA) were treating the severity of our situation, went from person to cell phone call (1800-221-1212) to supervisor banging their heads on the wall…we could not get out of the damn airport!  There were no empty planes, no hotels that would accept dogs, and no alternative flights with availability.  It was like we were stuck in a horror movie.  Any minute there were going to be zombies coming out of the darkened gates to eat us.  In fact, the more I looked at the helpful moustached agent, the more I realized that he looked Freddy Krueger if Freddy has skin and a white mustache.

Finally, after 9 hours, Delta sent over a “new,” unbroken plane, which we reboarded.  I’m thinking they flew it in from New Delhi or Moscow.  Thank goodness we paid $1200 for our tickets.  For a penny less they might have tried to make us wait on a plane from someplace farther.

And so we were in Memphis by 3:30 in the morning.  Yay!  And then we found out that Delta had lost our luggage.  Boo.  No problem, no problem we were assured.  They could get us our bags by 9am.  I explained that I needed the baby’s supplies, clothing, pajamas, food, bottles.  Not to mention Kiki’s food.  Not to mention my belongings.  Not to mention all of our Christmas gifts.  No problem, no problem.  Deliriously, we climbed into bed and prayed that our bags would be waiting for us when we woke up.

And then 9am came and went.  By noon I headed out and purchased new clothes, toiletries, and dog food.  And cell phone chargers.  And a pair of knee-high black boots.  And mascara.  (there was no way I was waiting for my luggage with no mascara)

By 5pm, the holiday party in King Williams’ honor began and despite our missing bags, we had fun.  By 8pm, a drunk delivery man called and said he was on his way.  He got stuck at a condo he told us.  Doing crack?  Watching the game and drinking beers?  We didn’t ask.  By 9pm we opened the bags worriedly.  Our drunken delivery man had watched (rooted to the spot like a tree) as he opened his trunk and our bags tumbled to the cement with a thud.  By 9:30pm, I held back tears as I vacuumed up the shattered glass that filled both of our suitcases.  Bad news, our gifts were history.  Good news, we had our luggage.

And so today, we put on our newly washed clothing (there were glass shards in everything) and attempt to sooth our discombobulated charge who at only 4 months old, has no idea why his life has turned upside down.  And we drink egg nog.  And we apologize to our family for the lack of holiday gifts.  And we shake our heads at Delta.  Really?  Ho Ho Ho?

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I Need A Dollar

I just can’t stop listening to… I Need A Dollar by the amazing Aloe Blacc.  Heard that HBO took it for their opening song on a new TV show called ‘How To Make It In America.’  Of course HBO would get the jump on such an amazing tune.  They’re like the Sienna Miller of fashion over there.  Anyway, if you can name the influence of this song please let me know.  It reminds me of something and I’m going nuts over here playing ‘guess that tune.’

Here he is singing it live:

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The Case of the Tiny Masseur

A woman is a masseuse.  A man is a masseur.  What I had was a Lilliputian named Ryland.

Ryland told me he was from Thailand and that he was going to be my doctor of health.  At least that’s what I think he said.  (the accent was a bit hard to follow at times)  Ryland seemed like a cheery fellow tiny man and we began our session outdoors with a warm foot bath of rose petals.  Ryland asked me about my aches and pains and kept assuring me over and over again that he had “many woman client.”   As I looked around the fancy spa and saw that yes, most of the clientele there were women, I wondered why he kept telling me this.  Was it because he was gay?  Was it because he was so darn tiny?  I soon found out it was neither of the two…

Ryland’s second cousin must be a monkey and his first cousin the Marquis de Sade.  Granted he weighed about 90 pounds, but still, did he really need to jump up onto the table and twist me into knots?  Each time Ryland would get ready for some new attack ministration he would laugh maniacally, “This one hurt, yes?”  Yes. Yes. They all hurt.  Ryland also had no appreciation for my Puritanical sensibilities.  I’ve never had such a comprehensive torturing session.  “PRESSURE POINT!” he would scream and then slap my buttocks five times with his elbow.  “YOU SLEEP GOOD!”  he’d next scream, hauling my inert body up off of the table into a quivering bow.  I closed my eyes, stopped trying to grab onto the sheet, and counted the minutes.  Why oh why did I have to book the 90 minute massage?

Eventually Ryland dismounted the table with a beautiful double axis (perfect landing too) and bowed.  “You see.”  he said with a huge smile.  “You come back again.  You like Ryland.”  Trying hard not to roll my eyes, I assured him that I’d be back soon and hobbled off to die put on some clothes.  But you know what?  I just might.  I did sleep well and all the knots in my shoulders?  Gone.  The headache I’d had for a week…also gone.  Ryland from Thailand – a doctor of health.

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Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter

There’s a book by New York Times bestselling author, Seth Grahame-Smith titled (you guessed it), Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter.  I had my doubts, but by page 8, I was hooked.  Seth Grahame-Smith lives in Los Angeles according to the back blurb and I’d love more nothing than to meet him.  The book surprised me over and over again and I’m really quite smitten with the man.  I can’t wait to get my hands on his first novel, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, soon to be in a theater near you.  Lincoln unfortunately, won’t be hitting the public with its axe until 2012.

The thing about the book that really got me was how smart it was.  In order for me to know what’s truth and what’s fiction, I’m going to have to go out and get myself a biography of the man.  That’s how well Grahame-Smith weaves his tale.  It all seems true because much of it must be and then he just winds in the fiction like a slippery little snake.  With pictures, misguiding Abraham Lincoln speeches, and a faux journal that reads like truth, the book pulls a whopper over readers.  Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter???  Yes, I’d say so.

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