16 Hours in Cincinnati

NOTE: Attempts to post this yesterday, in a timely fashion, were foiled by the weather. It was not to be, as the thunderstorms here in the Mitten caused some serious power outages.

Cincinnati is a LOT closer to Kentucky than I had originally thought. I guess my sense of geography is somewhat lacking. How did I find this out, then? Flying home from a wedding on Sunday (gag. lame. etc.) Fate dropped me in Cincinnati between Hartford and Detroit.

I suppose my first clue (other than the name Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky Airport) was at a gift shop after I landed. I had some time to kill between landing at 3:45 and departing at 6:55.

Making my purchase, the man behind the counter rattled off a question in what I could only assume was a foreign tongue. (My first guess was French--I am not making that up.) I stared at him, trying to make sense of the situation. It could not possibly be French. That was out of the question. Or was it? I noticed a large popcorn machine behind him, then retroactively deciphered the word popcorn. OH! Is he offering me popcorn? Answer him...it has officially been too long! You look like a jackass! Say something! "No, thank you." (Though to be honest, my period sounded a lot more like a question mark, since it was a shot in the dark.) It seemed to work, as he then gave me a total (I assume) and held his hand out to take my money. To be safe, I gave him a larger bill than I knew it would be, rather than risk counting out exact change. (Just imagine the chaos...)

Eventually I stumbled my way through ordering some lunch and found my gate. A11. Oh, Gate A11. If only I had known how intimately I would come to know you...

My flight to Detroit was scheduled for 6:55, and there was also a 5:00 flight leaving for Detroit from the same gate. Seeing me there, the man at the desk told me that for a fee, I could switch over. "No, thanks," I replied. "I don't mind waiting a couple hours."

STUPID STUPID STUPID. I am like the guy in that joke who ignores all the signs from God and is then absolutely shocked when he dies. (Foreshadowing, kids.)

The plane boarded and I settled in with my book. (Wit, by Margaret Edson, read it.) Twenty or so minutes later, people came in through Gate A11. I assumed they were a new plane until I recognized them. Storms in Detroit were keeping them from taking off. Two hours later, the first Detroit group left. That left the guy at the desk to deal with our flight. We learned we were waiting on our plane, which was landing from Detroit. So naturally, it was delayed! First estimate was a 9:00pm departure. We hung out and got to know each other while people took turns in line transferring to other flights--most of our plane was only connecting in Detroit. Departure time was pushed back to 9:30. I was told that there were about 9 of us still on the flight. (We hardcore nine.) If the flight got in after a certain time, the flight crew was due their 8 hours of sleep, so we were racing the clock. Because of this, the guy was going to get the passengers off that plane and "throw the nine of you on as quickly as possible." He was going to skip all the formalities of first class, executive platinum blah blah blah, and all that.

Then...at 9:30, the airline employee (who had been helping Gate A11 get to Detroit since around 4:30) left and came back. With bags of popcorn, which he passed out to those of us still sitting around. Ohhhh, no. Treats? That cannot be good.

The announcement came only moments later. "We really regret to inform you that the 6:55 flight to Detroit has been cancelled."

Popcorn: Innocent Movie Treat or Harbinger of Doom?

I must say, the employees of Northwest Airlines were very helpful. When I pitifully asked how I was getting home, they told me exactly what to do and gave me all the information I needed. So I picked up my bag, called the hotel, and moments later found myself in the lobby of the Cincinnati Airport Holiday Inn. The man behind the desk asked if I wanted two double beds or a king sized bed. "Yeahhh, it's just me, waiting for my flight." "Alright, we'll go with the king sized. You can roll around and it might make you feel better about your flight."

Behold the restorative powers of six pillows.

It did help, a little. But not enough to soften the blow of a 5am wake-up call so you can get your ass back to the airport and Ohio. (I learned in my room that the hotel is actually IN Kentucky, so that's how close they are. Just FYI.)

In the end, everything was fine. My bag arrived in Detroit when I did, no turbulence, and we left right on time...from Gate A11.

The friendly skies.

On a flight Sunday night, the blonde in front of me was ignoring the semi-attractive charming British man next to her, who simply wanted to chat. Meanwhile, my seatmate, the big cologne-wearing, loud cell phone-talker was snoring his way through our flight. Delightful.

There is absolutely no justice in this world.


However, one of the kindergarten teachers at work brought me this home-baked treat:

Yes, it is approximately the size of my own face. Score.

Freaking Weird.

Seriously, Mariah Carey and Nick Cannon?

Every Step You Take.

Confession time, kids. I am guilty of buddy stalking. (You know you all are too!) Every one of us has, either in the past or at this very moment, people on our buddy lists that aren't really our buddies. Be they a friend's ex, the guy your sister has her eye on, or that girl you despise with every fiber of your soul for she is a horrible person. (Guilty, guilty, and guilty but entirely shame-free.) Whatevs. They're occasionally people you've stopped speaking to (guilty). A lot of the time, they are people you have never spoken to, in any capacity. (Guilty again!)
There are a lot of reasons to keep up with this practice. When your BFF breaks up with a boyfriend, she deletes him from her life. But just in case he posts a particularly hideous picture or says something embarrassing, you're there to ride in like the Cavalry with the good news!
I'm trying to think of other humanitarian-sounding reasons for it, but really they're all just about gossip.

But you know something? I'm beginning to think stalking people on AIM (/Facebook/MySpace/etc) isn't really a good idea! Not because I feel bad or anything. Let's not lose our heads. It's handy information and you always want to keep an eye on anyone whose wedding you might have to attend one day.

So...a couple days ago someone signed onto my buddy list and I had no idea who it was. There was not even the slightest glimmer of recognition. I had nothing. It had to be a recent addition, since I had never seen it before. But that didn't really narrow it down. It's not like it's something you can ask people about! "Hey, are you into a guy with this screen name?" "Does your crazy ex girlfriend go by this name?" It just sounds bad! They're embarrassing phone calls to make! You obviously don't want to send the person an instant message! That would be even worse! Having to explain that you know them but you don't know them know them. Could they give you some personal information, please? No, I'm not a creepy stalker, but maybe you know a friend of mine? I just have your name because...she...needed...to use my computer for an AIM emergency?

See? Nothing really sounds good in that case. I finally succumbed to my curiosity and called my best friend. She was the most likely candidate. I left her a pitiful voicemail, full of self-loathe. And while she did come through with the information I needed (a horrible, creepy former suitor of hers) she also told me I was ridiculous. I think it was a loving gesture, but it's not out of the question to assume there was a small dose of serious concern in there.


But omigod you should read his away messages.

Important.

Some things are more important than bitching about the shortcomings of an entire gender. (But seriously, boys, shape the hell up.)

THIS WEEKEND. The American Cancer Society is holding their annual 24-hour Relay for Life in Dearborn. Check out the website! Do it.

Reasons you should attend if you are within driving distance of Dearborn, MI:

1. Hi, it's about the fight against cancer. I shouldn't need to list any other reasons.
2. There's always a theme going on around the track and some sort of on-stage entertainment. (Excuse me, toga hour? Yes please.)
3. I will be there for the full 24 hours. This means two things. First of all, you'd get to see my lovely face. Second of all, you could come bring me coffee and make my day. I love visitors.

In all seriousness, it's a great event. It goes from 10am Saturday (May 3rd) to 10am Sunday (May 4th). This year, it will be at the Ford Community and Performing Arts Center. (That's 15801 Michigan Ave in Dearborn if you're looking to google map.)


Because we can go back to complaining about men on Monday. (Or DURING Relay, if you come see me....hint hint.)

I gave him a pen.

Somewhere in this city, there is a 4th grader walking around with a broken heart...because of me. While normally this would be the sort of thing I'd thrive on, I actually feel a bit guilty. I know, I know...that's not me. But alas.

This kid is someone I worked with daily at the start of my job. An active child, he cannot sit for more than 30 seconds, give or take. His brain is running a million miles an hour. He's kind of a nightmare, but he makes me laugh. He initially loathed our time together, since my arrival to his classroom heralded 30 minutes of quiet work time either at the back table or in my room. And this child does not DO quiet work time. As time wore on, he would be looking toward the door at 2:40, waiting for me. He'd shout that I was late. He would jump up and get his stuff together when I arrived. So while he still denied it all, I know he enjoyed our time. He grew to love me. After a while, I began working at the after-school homework club. And my little friend was in my group, so we were seeing each other twice daily! A joy. Things were humming along nicely.

But things began deteriorating. I began working with a new student in his class. We saw each other less and less. We still had homework club, though. Until one fateful day when disaster struck. A reorganization. He was moved to a different group, while I took on a new troop of students.

Lloyd did not take it well. I was left feeling like I'd broken up with him, while he was just not ready for it. He was confused; he didn't understand why I'd abandoned him. And with no warning! I call him Lloyd because at that moment, he became my own personal Lloyd Dobler. He began shouting at me in the hallway. "TAKE ME BACK!" He was hiss it at me when I entered his classroom. "Take me back!" One day in the cafeteria, tending to my new homework flock, I heard my name in a stage whisper. I turned around and saw Lloyd looking my way. He motioned frantically, asking in whispers if he could come to my table. I began to wonder if I would open my office door and find him standing there, boombox overhead playing me Peter Gabriel songs. My little John Cusack was hurting.

He would ask if I could take him back, and one day, in a last-ditch effort to get him to sit the hell down and do some work, I said I would look into switching him into my group.

Well. That was a while back, and I am paying for it now. Last week we had some one-on-one time in my room, working on a comparison essay. But then...on Monday, he dropped the big guilt bomb. I pulled him to the back table to work.

"Are we going to your room today??"
"Nope, we're working here today."
"But didn't we get a lot of work done on Friday?"
"Yes, we did. But today we're staying here."
"Oh. When are you taking me into your group?"
"I can't." (I finally told him the truth.)
"But you promised!!"
"No, Lloyd, I never promised. I said maybe."
*Eyes big, with a serious face.* "You let me believe this whole time that you would take me back."

Oh my god. How can you not feel bad about that? You let me believe this whole time that you would take me back. Ouch. That stings.

I just hope he'll be ok. I'm sure he'll get over it. He's a tough kid.

Matchmaker?

Dear match.com,

What fresh new hell is this? YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING. I hope you still sleep well at night knowing that. I hope the guilt doesn't become some Poe-esque heart beating beneath the floorboards at your horrible office building, slowly driving you all mad. That'd be a shame.

Don't play dumb with me. You know exactly what I'm talking about here. "Sign up your friends at match.com." Really?? What the hell kind of game are you playing? As if being single isn't enough of a contact sport already. Fighting off blind date offers from well-intentioned mothers, aunts, friends, and (if you happen to be me) fathers. Convincing relatives at every family function that no, you're not past your prime, but that's a delightful turn of phrase. You all thought I'd have found a man by now? Thanks, that's...sweet. And God forbid any of them should find out you ENJOY being single. They hate that.
But now...oh, now. It's so much worse! And it's your fault.

Sign up your friends. Great. Wrapped for audiences in a wrapping paper of romance with ribbons of happiness, you seem to suggest that this is the greatest thing imaginable! Picture it: your own mother, heart set on only your happiness (and her greedy, selfish desire for grandchildren) can stop nagging you about finding a girlfriend! Instead, she'll take matters into her own hands! Perfect!
Or imagine this: your dear friends, tired of always putting '+1' on your wedding invitations, can find you a permanent wedding date! (And finally drag you into the Marital Bliss Club. Bitches.) Huzzah!

I have to wonder how this idea came to fruition. Was it a unanimous decision? Or were you strong-armed into it by a couple powerful people? It doesn't make any sense. I mean, how many people would really trust their parents to write their personal ads for them? Not gonna lie, I would not. I love them, but I hardly think we are looking for the same qualities in a man.

Mom, writing my personal ad: "Seeking gentleman who values parents and family. Willing to live close to my parents and crank out grandchildren like there is no tomorrow. Values education and does not utter curse words. Hoping for someone who can break me of my bad habits, including swearing and sassing my mother. Also, someone who will tell me that my impersonation of my father is neither accurate nor funny. Feel free to tell me how pretty I am when my hair is down and I am not wearing sweatpants. Tall, non-smoker, no tattoos or piercings preferred. Thanks for your time!"

Yeah. Surely she'd rope my Mr. Perfect with THAT. Match.com, I cannot believe that anyone in their right mind would think this is a good idea. I'm appalled. STAY AWAY FROM ME.

Solitarily yours,
Bitter Amanda