So, I'm sitting cramped in my little seat in the 26th row, letter F (the window) and on my mini screen I'm watching a prerecorded video going over the safety info. Then when it gets to the part where the flight attendant demonstrates use #2 of my dual purpose seat cushion, it dawns on me... I'm on a domestic flight! In the event of engine failure or an exposion, what exactly are the chances of the plane going down over a body of water, so big as to absorb the impact of a plane and leave all of us passengers floating safely around it? I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that the chances aren't that great. So basically if the plane were to go down, paramedics would find me lying dead embracing a seat cushion.
And then we come to another interesting safety feature. Oxygen masks. I'm thinking that limited oxygen is the least of my worries if something goes so horribly awry that cabin pressure is drastically altered. Considering that I can barely swim to the bottom of a pool in the "deep end", I can only imagine what would happen to my ears at 30,000 feet. But hey, Thank God for these oxygen masks!! Now I won't suffer from Hypoxia! Oh wait, but I'm bleeding from the ears... and plummeting to my imminent death.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
A Bugs Life
Evan, 9 and I, 11 stood armed with all of the cleaning supplies from under the kitchen sink, and stared down at the mess we'd made on the carpet of our parents' new house. Kerry Franklin was not going to appreciate this. Somewhere beneath the pile of Ajax, dishwashing liquid, 409 and Pinesol was a very clean, very dead arachnid. It wasn’t until we snapped out of our spider attacking trance that we'd realized the full implications of what we'd done.
"Mommy is going to kill us," I say.
"Yep," he agrees.
"Why didn't you just use a tissue?" My father asked later after our beating and grounding. Yes, we in foreign families get both.
Of course, a tissue. Why hadn't we thought of that? Well dad, we were saving the extreme methods for a last resort, you know, in case the chemical warfare wasn't effective.
A tissue. That would require touching the spider, though not directly, per se, close enough. You see, though our parents grew up in countries with flying roaches, tarantulas, lizards, etc., Evan and I did not, and were deathly afraid of anything that moved but didn't speak, bark, meow or moo. Our public enemy number one: bugs. And no bug was exempt. I can't speak for Evan, but I myself, don't even like butterflies. I did however thoroughly enjoy A Bugs Life, but as mentioned above, those bugs satisfied my speaking criteria.
We never really learned our lesson after that day, but we did learn to be more discrete. The vacuum became our best friend; however, if a bug happened to find itself on an easily cleanable surface, all methods became fair game.
******
When my brother announced that he was going to join the Peace Corps, and spend two years in Morocco, it came as quite the shock.
"Evan, you do realize that there are bugs in Morocco right? The kind of bugs that laugh at our bugs. The kind of bugs that inhale Raid to get high?"
He said he was well aware and was okay with it. Okay. Well God speed brother. And after our first few conversations, he'd had me convinced. He didn't mention anything about the bugs in Morocco and so I had no choice but to assume I was the last remaining shame to the Franklin clan doomed to fear bugs for the rest of my days. Until last week that was...
"I just spent the last hour and a half shooing roaches from my room," he said.
"Eww," I said. "That's disgusting."
"I get no sleep cause I spend the whole night with one eye open. I don't know what to do. It’s not like my wicker door acts as much of a fortress. They just crawl right back through the holes."
I shuddered, and noting the obvious distress in his voice, repressed the urge to say, I told you so. Roaches. Though I think spiders are considerably worse, and Evan would agree, roaches are still way up there on the list. This was what he signed up for so I guess he would have to just deal. Still roaches. I couldn't shake the image.
The next day I spoke with him again.
"How's it going?"
"Remember when I said I couldn't sleep because I was scared of the roaches?"
"Yeah?"
"Well now I'm a little more afraid of the animal that ran into my room at 3 am, ate one of the roaches and ran out."
I was silent for a moment. "That's unfortunate," I said.
"Very," he agreed.
"What was it?" I asked.
Hmm. I'd have to check and see what we had under the kitchen sink because I'm pretty sure a tissue was not going to suffice.
***********************************
"Mommy is going to kill us," I say.
"Yep," he agrees.
"Why didn't you just use a tissue?" My father asked later after our beating and grounding. Yes, we in foreign families get both.
Of course, a tissue. Why hadn't we thought of that? Well dad, we were saving the extreme methods for a last resort, you know, in case the chemical warfare wasn't effective.
A tissue. That would require touching the spider, though not directly, per se, close enough. You see, though our parents grew up in countries with flying roaches, tarantulas, lizards, etc., Evan and I did not, and were deathly afraid of anything that moved but didn't speak, bark, meow or moo. Our public enemy number one: bugs. And no bug was exempt. I can't speak for Evan, but I myself, don't even like butterflies. I did however thoroughly enjoy A Bugs Life, but as mentioned above, those bugs satisfied my speaking criteria.
We never really learned our lesson after that day, but we did learn to be more discrete. The vacuum became our best friend; however, if a bug happened to find itself on an easily cleanable surface, all methods became fair game.
******
When my brother announced that he was going to join the Peace Corps, and spend two years in Morocco, it came as quite the shock.
"Evan, you do realize that there are bugs in Morocco right? The kind of bugs that laugh at our bugs. The kind of bugs that inhale Raid to get high?"
He said he was well aware and was okay with it. Okay. Well God speed brother. And after our first few conversations, he'd had me convinced. He didn't mention anything about the bugs in Morocco and so I had no choice but to assume I was the last remaining shame to the Franklin clan doomed to fear bugs for the rest of my days. Until last week that was...
"I just spent the last hour and a half shooing roaches from my room," he said.
"Eww," I said. "That's disgusting."
"I get no sleep cause I spend the whole night with one eye open. I don't know what to do. It’s not like my wicker door acts as much of a fortress. They just crawl right back through the holes."
I shuddered, and noting the obvious distress in his voice, repressed the urge to say, I told you so. Roaches. Though I think spiders are considerably worse, and Evan would agree, roaches are still way up there on the list. This was what he signed up for so I guess he would have to just deal. Still roaches. I couldn't shake the image.
The next day I spoke with him again.
"How's it going?"
"Remember when I said I couldn't sleep because I was scared of the roaches?"
"Yeah?"
"Well now I'm a little more afraid of the animal that ran into my room at 3 am, ate one of the roaches and ran out."
I was silent for a moment. "That's unfortunate," I said.
"Very," he agreed.
"What was it?" I asked.
"I described it to someone and they said it sounded like a hedgehog."
Hmm. I'd have to check and see what we had under the kitchen sink because I'm pretty sure a tissue was not going to suffice.
***********************************
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
The Last Day of Classes...
The meaning of "The Last Day of Classes" has really taken new meaning over the years...
For eight years in fact, it was actually "the last day of class." Then we made the major transition from "class" to "classes" once we hit junior high. That was great. No longer were we forced to stare at the same face hour after hour of every day. We did however have one face that we had to stare at for a little longer, in "homeroom". Remember homeroom? Like home base. That conjures up an interesting image… What if in the middle of Ms. Simms’ science class I jumped up from my seat and sprinted out the door towards Mrs. Fraziers’ class, my beloved homeroom. Then if Mrs. Simms tried to take me back to class I would stand behind that invisible shield of protection, both feet planted firmly inside the classroom and just shake my head. “Sorry Mrs. Simms, I’m at homeroom now.” Chances are I wouldn’t do that though. Mrs. Frazier and I weren’t exactly on the up and up. She lived for giving me detention and I lived for goading her into giving me detention. That’s like playing a game of tag, where the home base was some kid standing ready to punch you in the face.
But I digress.
“The last day of classes.” From the moment it became classes, the last day of classes became associated with fun and frolic. First off, the last day of classes was usually a half day of classes, preceding often times by many half days. These final days were filled with movies, class field trips, and parties where you could eat and chat idly with classmates. Them were the days.
Now that I’m in business school, I find that the last day of class for each of my courses, is very different. Before starting business school I’d been out of school for five years. I didn’t realize that in all of the years I was in school, I’d actually been hardened to the world. I could spend 55 minutes a day with a teacher, five days a week, nine months a year, and at the end of that year say, “Bye, Have a nice summer!” and not once look back. In all of the years since leaving academia, if one could call K – 12 academia, I’ve only paid two visits to my old high school and one to my junior high. It was a little sad moving on from one teacher to the next, but nothing I couldn’t handle.
Now five years later, my fierce spirit crushed by the “real world”, I’d convinced myself that the people spent the most time with, I’d probably know for the rest of my life. I could finally let down my guard and invite people in. For six weeks, four hours a week I’d sit staring at my professor of [insert course name here], often times with interest, other times with feigned interest, sometimes with your average run-of-the-mill blank stare. During those short 6 weeks however, somehow a bond was formed. And on that last day, was actually sad. During the “it has been a pleasure teaching you” speech, I’d find myself actually fighting off the tears. Some professors have even gone into lengthy explanations of why they decided to pursue teaching… I’m talking really touching and heartfelt these last classes. The class length wasn’t shortened; there was no fanfare, no hullabaloo, just a standard two hour class and yet, that end speech at the end seemed to tie everything together.
In those final minutes of the class, I truly loved my professors. I had the utmost respect for them and really valued all of their hard work and their passion for their respective subjects. All of the reading, the quizzes, group work… it was suddenly all worth the struggle, knowing that I’d studied under such masters. A “half day” would have cheapened the whole experience. If anything I wish I’d had more time to learn from them and to grow.
And then in the midst of my adoration, as I am making the mental note to name my first child, next dog, or gold fish after this amazing person standing before me, I hear them utter those horrible words:
“See you at the final.”
And by the change in my demeanor you’d think I’d heard, “See you in hell.”
Oh the final… the dreaded final. I wish I could somehow bottle up my feelings just before the word “final” is muttered and send it to each professor. Just so they know. Because maybe then, they could derive some sense of satisfaction for a job well done. I certainly don’t give them that pleasure, at the end of a 3 hour final, or in the case of Decision Models a 24 hr take home final, when I walk up, hands trembling and clothes covered in eraser shavings, and hand in all I was able to learn (out of 6 weeks of material) in one night. At this point, I usually don’t even have the heart to look them in the eye, let alone the gall to tell them how much I really enjoyed their class. They would take one look at my grade on the final and see right through that lie. Or they would believe that I was one of few who truly enjoyed being made to feel stupid and inadequate, lived for it in fact.
I could do without all of the emotional turmoil. My message to my professors: On that last class, I’m all for the speeches, but so I don’t have to hang my head down in shame every time I see you for the duration of my academic life at Duke, please forego the final. Trust that you’ve taught me well, and let’s part ways on good terms.
****************
My message to my three favorite teachers from junior high and high school, Mrs. K, Mr. Quigley and Mrs. Fredricks – I wish there never was a “last day of classes” with you.
For eight years in fact, it was actually "the last day of class." Then we made the major transition from "class" to "classes" once we hit junior high. That was great. No longer were we forced to stare at the same face hour after hour of every day. We did however have one face that we had to stare at for a little longer, in "homeroom". Remember homeroom? Like home base. That conjures up an interesting image… What if in the middle of Ms. Simms’ science class I jumped up from my seat and sprinted out the door towards Mrs. Fraziers’ class, my beloved homeroom. Then if Mrs. Simms tried to take me back to class I would stand behind that invisible shield of protection, both feet planted firmly inside the classroom and just shake my head. “Sorry Mrs. Simms, I’m at homeroom now.” Chances are I wouldn’t do that though. Mrs. Frazier and I weren’t exactly on the up and up. She lived for giving me detention and I lived for goading her into giving me detention. That’s like playing a game of tag, where the home base was some kid standing ready to punch you in the face.
But I digress.
“The last day of classes.” From the moment it became classes, the last day of classes became associated with fun and frolic. First off, the last day of classes was usually a half day of classes, preceding often times by many half days. These final days were filled with movies, class field trips, and parties where you could eat and chat idly with classmates. Them were the days.
Now that I’m in business school, I find that the last day of class for each of my courses, is very different. Before starting business school I’d been out of school for five years. I didn’t realize that in all of the years I was in school, I’d actually been hardened to the world. I could spend 55 minutes a day with a teacher, five days a week, nine months a year, and at the end of that year say, “Bye, Have a nice summer!” and not once look back. In all of the years since leaving academia, if one could call K – 12 academia, I’ve only paid two visits to my old high school and one to my junior high. It was a little sad moving on from one teacher to the next, but nothing I couldn’t handle.
Now five years later, my fierce spirit crushed by the “real world”, I’d convinced myself that the people spent the most time with, I’d probably know for the rest of my life. I could finally let down my guard and invite people in. For six weeks, four hours a week I’d sit staring at my professor of [insert course name here], often times with interest, other times with feigned interest, sometimes with your average run-of-the-mill blank stare. During those short 6 weeks however, somehow a bond was formed. And on that last day, was actually sad. During the “it has been a pleasure teaching you” speech, I’d find myself actually fighting off the tears. Some professors have even gone into lengthy explanations of why they decided to pursue teaching… I’m talking really touching and heartfelt these last classes. The class length wasn’t shortened; there was no fanfare, no hullabaloo, just a standard two hour class and yet, that end speech at the end seemed to tie everything together.
In those final minutes of the class, I truly loved my professors. I had the utmost respect for them and really valued all of their hard work and their passion for their respective subjects. All of the reading, the quizzes, group work… it was suddenly all worth the struggle, knowing that I’d studied under such masters. A “half day” would have cheapened the whole experience. If anything I wish I’d had more time to learn from them and to grow.
And then in the midst of my adoration, as I am making the mental note to name my first child, next dog, or gold fish after this amazing person standing before me, I hear them utter those horrible words:
“See you at the final.”
And by the change in my demeanor you’d think I’d heard, “See you in hell.”
Oh the final… the dreaded final. I wish I could somehow bottle up my feelings just before the word “final” is muttered and send it to each professor. Just so they know. Because maybe then, they could derive some sense of satisfaction for a job well done. I certainly don’t give them that pleasure, at the end of a 3 hour final, or in the case of Decision Models a 24 hr take home final, when I walk up, hands trembling and clothes covered in eraser shavings, and hand in all I was able to learn (out of 6 weeks of material) in one night. At this point, I usually don’t even have the heart to look them in the eye, let alone the gall to tell them how much I really enjoyed their class. They would take one look at my grade on the final and see right through that lie. Or they would believe that I was one of few who truly enjoyed being made to feel stupid and inadequate, lived for it in fact.
I could do without all of the emotional turmoil. My message to my professors: On that last class, I’m all for the speeches, but so I don’t have to hang my head down in shame every time I see you for the duration of my academic life at Duke, please forego the final. Trust that you’ve taught me well, and let’s part ways on good terms.
****************
My message to my three favorite teachers from junior high and high school, Mrs. K, Mr. Quigley and Mrs. Fredricks – I wish there never was a “last day of classes” with you.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Welcome to Business School
"Hey Kara, do you want to be on the cheering squad to welcome the admits??"
Umm... No.
Standing in front of over a hundred strangers in a Blue and White t-shirt screaming and cheering... No problem. Standing in front of over a hundred strangers in a Blue and White t-shirt screaming and cheering at age 28... Absurd. So I passed on that and decided I would try my best to offset the cheesy welcome by showing the admits that some of us had indeed moved beyond the "glory days" of high school pep rallies.
We were given a list of the dos and don't for the weekend. Don't say anything about having to walk miles to get to school from the Green Lot, which as most of you may or may not know, is the neighboring city to Durham. Be positive about the workload, life in the "city" of Durham, and everything in general. Keep PDA to a minimum if you are part of the crew. The list went on. So, in an effort to obey the rules, I tried to strike up the right balance between maturity and fun loving. I talked about the rigorous academic curriculum, the life lessons one could expect to gain from working in teams, the many opportunities to develop leadership skills... I was also sure to mention that beyond the walls of the Fox Center, we really knew how to cut a rug, let our hair down, party hardy. I highlighted my 36 hour Campout experience, the 80's party, the Halloween party (still can't find my gloves), the dress like a Fuquan party, the Fuqua Fridays that we turned into Fuqua Saturdays. "We love to drink here at Fuqua," *chuckle chuckle* And I really thought I was doing a pretty good job of convincing the admits that Fuqua was a work hard, play hard environment, the right place for them.
At the end of our evening of wooing and wowing them at school, we decided it was time to show them a good time. The spot chosen: Shooters, a local joint here in Durham, with a mechanical bull, a dancing cage, and a whole lotta cheap liquor. This was my first time going to Shooters. Let me set the scene, Shooters is one of those spots where you walk in and immediately feel compelled to yell, "Let's do shots! Who wants to do shots?!" Not the Lemon Drop shots you'd normally do, in celebration of a co-workers birthday, just to prove to yourself, and everyone else in your business casual clad group that "you could still hang" with the best of them. No, this place brought you back to 21, when Adios' and Long Island Ice Teas were the drinks of choice, and where only one of three shots would do. Patron. Jager. Goldschläger. I was surrounded by a mass of my classmates, and future classmates, all of us rehashing our youth, licking salt from our filthy hands, slamming shots of tequila, and then shoving limes into our mouths, limes that were passed to us with the same hands that wiped down the bar, touched our money, and other things...
It seems trivial things such as rules and regulations fell to the wayside after a few drinks, and what was left, was pure and utter debauchery. In the entire 8 months I've been here, I have NEVER witnessed such a debacle. The ONE weekend we were asked to be on best behavior, the ONE weekend, and suddenly we choose to honor Joe Francis with our own Fuqua Gone Wild. It was glorious.
The next morning as we stood around awkwardly, waiting to greet the admits in our beer stained t-shirts, infused with cigarette smoke, our eyes red and glassy from dehydration, I thought, our high school pep rally days may have been behind us, but as for our undergrad days... we've got a long way to go. I smiled to myself as I watched the admits head in our direction, "Welcome to Business School."
Umm... No.
Standing in front of over a hundred strangers in a Blue and White t-shirt screaming and cheering... No problem. Standing in front of over a hundred strangers in a Blue and White t-shirt screaming and cheering at age 28... Absurd. So I passed on that and decided I would try my best to offset the cheesy welcome by showing the admits that some of us had indeed moved beyond the "glory days" of high school pep rallies.
We were given a list of the dos and don't for the weekend. Don't say anything about having to walk miles to get to school from the Green Lot, which as most of you may or may not know, is the neighboring city to Durham. Be positive about the workload, life in the "city" of Durham, and everything in general. Keep PDA to a minimum if you are part of the crew. The list went on. So, in an effort to obey the rules, I tried to strike up the right balance between maturity and fun loving. I talked about the rigorous academic curriculum, the life lessons one could expect to gain from working in teams, the many opportunities to develop leadership skills... I was also sure to mention that beyond the walls of the Fox Center, we really knew how to cut a rug, let our hair down, party hardy. I highlighted my 36 hour Campout experience, the 80's party, the Halloween party (still can't find my gloves), the dress like a Fuquan party, the Fuqua Fridays that we turned into Fuqua Saturdays. "We love to drink here at Fuqua," *chuckle chuckle* And I really thought I was doing a pretty good job of convincing the admits that Fuqua was a work hard, play hard environment, the right place for them.
At the end of our evening of wooing and wowing them at school, we decided it was time to show them a good time. The spot chosen: Shooters, a local joint here in Durham, with a mechanical bull, a dancing cage, and a whole lotta cheap liquor. This was my first time going to Shooters. Let me set the scene, Shooters is one of those spots where you walk in and immediately feel compelled to yell, "Let's do shots! Who wants to do shots?!" Not the Lemon Drop shots you'd normally do, in celebration of a co-workers birthday, just to prove to yourself, and everyone else in your business casual clad group that "you could still hang" with the best of them. No, this place brought you back to 21, when Adios' and Long Island Ice Teas were the drinks of choice, and where only one of three shots would do. Patron. Jager. Goldschläger. I was surrounded by a mass of my classmates, and future classmates, all of us rehashing our youth, licking salt from our filthy hands, slamming shots of tequila, and then shoving limes into our mouths, limes that were passed to us with the same hands that wiped down the bar, touched our money, and other things...
It seems trivial things such as rules and regulations fell to the wayside after a few drinks, and what was left, was pure and utter debauchery. In the entire 8 months I've been here, I have NEVER witnessed such a debacle. The ONE weekend we were asked to be on best behavior, the ONE weekend, and suddenly we choose to honor Joe Francis with our own Fuqua Gone Wild. It was glorious.
The next morning as we stood around awkwardly, waiting to greet the admits in our beer stained t-shirts, infused with cigarette smoke, our eyes red and glassy from dehydration, I thought, our high school pep rally days may have been behind us, but as for our undergrad days... we've got a long way to go. I smiled to myself as I watched the admits head in our direction, "Welcome to Business School."
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Spring Break Ruminations
Every once in a while, when you least expect it, you get a taste of your past... not in the nostalgic sense, like that bittersweet feeling you get when you visit your old high school or when you order a happy meal from the McDonalds menu; but a real taste, in its true form, unadulterated, and just as you remember it. Of course we all want to feel like over the months and years, we've grown and matured. I know I would like to think that I've moved on to bigger and better things, and yet sometimes I look back at my past and think, what was so wrong with the way I was? I was happy. At some point in time, before abandoning my life in LA in search of the promise of new beginnings, I was truly happy.After my trip home during Christmas, I was convinced that my life, as I'd known it no longer existed. It felt as if everyone had moved on, and that I had too. So I returned to Durham ready to accept that I would never again hand a tardy slip to my 1st period teacher, and that a happy meal, despite its name, did not have the ability to elevate my mood, nor was it by any stretch of the imagination a "meal".
And then Spring Break happened. The stars aligned and what resulted was strangely compatible blend of my new life and my old life.
Recapping from notable moments, and though there were many, these stand out the most:
Going to watch In Bruges and Juno *a must see* with my mom… I can’t remember the last time I watched a movie in the theater with my mom, mainly attributed to her contempt for the rise in movie ticket prices. She would refuse to go watch movies in the theater as she noted, "The script isn't going to change in transition from the theater to DVD."
Breakfast with Gloria at Ocean Diner... Quite possibly one of the most embarrassing experiences of my life, which I blame solely on my brother who in moment of drunken clarity at a college frat party, thought it would be a great idea to take a puppy home; a puppy he was ill-equipped to care for. Five years later I'm still paying for his mistake, this time with my dignity. As other dogs sat outside enjoying the sun and the people, my canis familiaris apparently accustomed to French dining laws, spent the better part of our meal wailing to be let in, and would not be silenced despite our repeated attempts as well as those of the pitying passersby. Needless to say, our meal was cut short. "Check please!"
Catching up with an old friend... There are people who you meet in life, who you'd be okay with never seeing again. And then are those who, though you'd probably be okay with never seeing again, you'd like to see again. My last night in LA, I ran into someone from my "I'd like to see again" list, and that was pretty nice, except for the fact that now I have that Moldy Peaches song stuck in my head. "Here is the church, and here is the steeple..."
During my spring break, I had a taste of my past, and what I realized was that some of the things I loved the most aren't quite ready for "past" status yet. Which is good, cause as the pile up tardy slips from my high school years will show, I'm in no hurry. :)
Monday, March 17, 2008
Traveling Woes
"Hurry up," my dad called out to me. "American always leaves on time!"
"I'm hurrying," I yell back as I frantically look around my bedroom, correction, the "guest room" for anything I may have left behind. Nothing. Could it be? After ten years of travelling solo, I was going to actually leave with everything I'd arrived with? I quickly looked on the right side of the closet, empty, then I quickly looked on the left side of the closet... Of course. I start tearing clothes off the the hangers. Do I really need that 70s style turqoise dress that looks like its been bedazzled by a four year old?? Game time decision was "yes". Why? I don't know, actually. I made a similar game time decision back in the summer of 04 at a thrift shop in San Diego by buying this dress but as I've never worn it, logic should have told me that my game time decisions, well they suck.
I gather up my clothes and run downstairs. The dryer! I drop the pile of clothes on the floor and run back upstairs. I pull out the partially dried clothes and run back downstairs. I pick up each suitcase, because in addition to my many other talents, I know how to mentally calculate the weight of luggage... right. My shoes bag is definitely below 50 lbs. I shove the odd clothes into my shoes and cosmetics bag, and zip it up. I will definitely be rewashing when I arrive back in Durham.
I arrive at the airport with 10 minutes to check in. When I finally reach a machine, I have a minute left. I quickly swipe my card and check in. My flight is delayed by 15 minutes. I note the flight gods are with me today. I receive my boarding pass, check my luggage and head off to the security line. "Ma'am, outside and to the right," a woman tells me. That's weird, I think. Why would I need to go outside and... down to the next terminal? I panic because suddenly that 15 minute buffer isn't looking like much of a buffer. After 30 minutes in the security line, a TSA rep pulls me out of the the line, and I try to ignore the judging faces and dirty looks as I make my way to the front. I put my bags on the security belt fully aware of my unbagged gels, liquids, aerosols and prayed for the best. My faith in TSA restored, I race to my gate unhassled.
And sat on the plane... for an hour.
I came to 3 conclusions during that hour:
1. I really should have taken a second helping of my mother's delicious steak, potatoes and eggs
2. I don't need to have my cell phone switched off on a grounded plane.
3. I was not going to make my connection in St. Louis. So, no dad, American Airlines, does not always leave on time.
In the hours to follow, my life would take a turn for the worst. What should have been only 7 or 8 hours of travel, turned into a day and a half, two hours spent trying to locate missing luggage and an overnight stay at the Crowne Plaza Hotel in St. Louis. I can now empathize with those poor castaways of the Minnow. The only brightside to this nightmare was that I made a new friend, Lisa. We enjoyed dinner at TGIF Fridays, and a much needed St. Patty's Day shot. The great conversation and my medium/well done burger with onion rings was a great distraction, and I don't think I could have picked a better unintentional travelling buddy.
Finally arrived at RDU, a worn down bitter version of my former self, who you might only recognize if you'd seen me the day before as I was still wearing the same clothes. After retrieving my luggage, Lisa and I parted ways, and I was left to do this last leg on my own. I sat in front of the carosels and waited patiently for my roommate to pick me up. I used my hour and a half to read for class I wasn't attending... Why? Dunno. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
When my roommate pulled up, I was overcome with a warm feeling and happy to see a familiar face. I didn't want to leave LA, but after spending the past day and a half in limbo, seeing my roomie made me feel at home. On the way back to Durham we weighed my options, go to class late, don't go to class. Thankfully she helped me rationalize the situation. Game time decision: Go home and sleep. I think to myself, I really could have used her in the summer of 04.
"I'm hurrying," I yell back as I frantically look around my bedroom, correction, the "guest room" for anything I may have left behind. Nothing. Could it be? After ten years of travelling solo, I was going to actually leave with everything I'd arrived with? I quickly looked on the right side of the closet, empty, then I quickly looked on the left side of the closet... Of course. I start tearing clothes off the the hangers. Do I really need that 70s style turqoise dress that looks like its been bedazzled by a four year old?? Game time decision was "yes". Why? I don't know, actually. I made a similar game time decision back in the summer of 04 at a thrift shop in San Diego by buying this dress but as I've never worn it, logic should have told me that my game time decisions, well they suck.
I gather up my clothes and run downstairs. The dryer! I drop the pile of clothes on the floor and run back upstairs. I pull out the partially dried clothes and run back downstairs. I pick up each suitcase, because in addition to my many other talents, I know how to mentally calculate the weight of luggage... right. My shoes bag is definitely below 50 lbs. I shove the odd clothes into my shoes and cosmetics bag, and zip it up. I will definitely be rewashing when I arrive back in Durham.
I arrive at the airport with 10 minutes to check in. When I finally reach a machine, I have a minute left. I quickly swipe my card and check in. My flight is delayed by 15 minutes. I note the flight gods are with me today. I receive my boarding pass, check my luggage and head off to the security line. "Ma'am, outside and to the right," a woman tells me. That's weird, I think. Why would I need to go outside and... down to the next terminal? I panic because suddenly that 15 minute buffer isn't looking like much of a buffer. After 30 minutes in the security line, a TSA rep pulls me out of the the line, and I try to ignore the judging faces and dirty looks as I make my way to the front. I put my bags on the security belt fully aware of my unbagged gels, liquids, aerosols and prayed for the best. My faith in TSA restored, I race to my gate unhassled.
And sat on the plane... for an hour.
I came to 3 conclusions during that hour:
1. I really should have taken a second helping of my mother's delicious steak, potatoes and eggs
2. I don't need to have my cell phone switched off on a grounded plane.
3. I was not going to make my connection in St. Louis. So, no dad, American Airlines, does not always leave on time.
In the hours to follow, my life would take a turn for the worst. What should have been only 7 or 8 hours of travel, turned into a day and a half, two hours spent trying to locate missing luggage and an overnight stay at the Crowne Plaza Hotel in St. Louis. I can now empathize with those poor castaways of the Minnow. The only brightside to this nightmare was that I made a new friend, Lisa. We enjoyed dinner at TGIF Fridays, and a much needed St. Patty's Day shot. The great conversation and my medium/well done burger with onion rings was a great distraction, and I don't think I could have picked a better unintentional travelling buddy.
Finally arrived at RDU, a worn down bitter version of my former self, who you might only recognize if you'd seen me the day before as I was still wearing the same clothes. After retrieving my luggage, Lisa and I parted ways, and I was left to do this last leg on my own. I sat in front of the carosels and waited patiently for my roommate to pick me up. I used my hour and a half to read for class I wasn't attending... Why? Dunno. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
When my roommate pulled up, I was overcome with a warm feeling and happy to see a familiar face. I didn't want to leave LA, but after spending the past day and a half in limbo, seeing my roomie made me feel at home. On the way back to Durham we weighed my options, go to class late, don't go to class. Thankfully she helped me rationalize the situation. Game time decision: Go home and sleep. I think to myself, I really could have used her in the summer of 04.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
There's a first for everything... or in this case a second
And so it begins... My first virtual diary. Not nearly as exciting as when I received my first real diary. I was 8, and like most kids my age, all I wanted to do was write... or was it that most kids wanted to play outside... I forget. Anyways, it was a hardcover red book, with Lucy from The Peanuts on the cover screaming GET OUT! To reinforce the message there was a little lock on the side that could only be opened with a key... or a hair pin, a nail file, a toothpick, shear force... At any rate, it was mine to write whatever I wished, as long as it didn't extend beyond the allotted 25 lines lest I run the risk of spilling over to the next date. But I was 8 and fairly limited by my third grade education, so that wasn't really a problem.
Ahh, to be free of constraints. So liberating.
The meaning of my blog title, Little's Law – this is to remind me to finish my book, Personalities and Me, my documented observations of the many different personalities I've met throughout my life. I'm using this blog to give me inspiration so that I can finally call it a completed work. Of course had I known I could’ve gotten away with only writing about five people, I could have saved myself some time. Mitch Albom apparently had the right idea.
Little's Law is the fundamental long-term relationship between Work-In-Process (WIP), throughput and flow time of a production system in steady state. For those of you who are familiar with Operations Management feel free to skip to the next paragraph… For the rest of you - this law is basically saying that I need to increase my flow time (write more) and decrease my WIP (edit out the unneeded parts) which will ultimately increase my throughput (finish the damn book already).
About me (stolen from my MySpace profile)… You know when you're in the car and you look over at the car next you and there's some kid just staring back at you? Not smiling, not frowning but staring? That really creeps me out. I like eating peanut butter and jelly on crackers… I don't buy the phrase, "Doesn't matter if you win or lose, but how you play the game." Yeah, cause I have SO many "how I played the game" awards on my mantle. I love Indie bands, until they become main-stream that is. Then I claim to have liked them back in the day, before they sold out… even if they'd only come out with one album. I love my foreign parents and how my mom thinks I'm studying at Duke's Fuck-wa school of business and how my dad says that my More Cowbell shirt reminds him of what they used to put around the cows' necks back home in Guyana. It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia is the funniest show in the universe. I can't understand why it takes me 2-3 tries to turn off a ceiling fan. I hate being proved wrong, but love learning new things. I believe they call that a catch 22. I actually own that book but have never read it. I think Indian dresses are the most beautiful in the world. I can't bring myself to become a true Blue Devil after spending four years convincing myself that "Real Women Wear Orange". Sometimes I wish I could fly, then I think about those dreams where I'm flying and I can't figure out how to land and so I just fall. Monopolova Vodka from Trader Joe's is right up there with Vox. Let no one tell you otherwise. I wish people realized that whispering is actually pretty damn loud. Though I love to give, I'd never go so far as to say that it is BETTER to give than to receive. That's just absurd. I love working with kids. I find their candor refreshing, though often times very insulting. There is never a dull moment with me and I love to laugh. Smiling's my favorite… but I love to give the occasional dirty glare, not so occasional when I’m behind the wheel of a car. I find that the phrase “Love me, Love my dog”, doesn’t quite apply to me as more people like her than they do me. And finally, I miss my Commodore 64, taking turns playing Frogger with my brother… trying to sabotage his game so that he would drown or get touched/eaten(?) by an alligator sooner.
And on that note, my brother Evan leaves for Morocco on Friday. He’s joining the Peace Corps and will be gone for 2+ years. I wish him all the best in the world, but I’m a little heartbroken because I feel like I’m losing my partner in crime. And now I have no one to blame when I’m at home. “What do you mean Gally couldn't have moved your car keys? Dogs rescue babies from burning buildings...” Yeah… this is almost as bad as when Evan learned to talk. But, my selfish needs aside, I know he’s going to have an amazing experience, make many life-long friends, and come back ready to conquer the world. Evan, I love you. You are my favorite person in the world. I hope you find your way, and I hope it leads you back home. We can play Frogger, and I’ll even let you have two turns in a row. Please keep in touch. ~ Kara
Me and my brother.... and Gally.
Ahh, to be free of constraints. So liberating.
The meaning of my blog title, Little's Law – this is to remind me to finish my book, Personalities and Me, my documented observations of the many different personalities I've met throughout my life. I'm using this blog to give me inspiration so that I can finally call it a completed work. Of course had I known I could’ve gotten away with only writing about five people, I could have saved myself some time. Mitch Albom apparently had the right idea.
Little's Law is the fundamental long-term relationship between Work-In-Process (WIP), throughput and flow time of a production system in steady state. For those of you who are familiar with Operations Management feel free to skip to the next paragraph… For the rest of you - this law is basically saying that I need to increase my flow time (write more) and decrease my WIP (edit out the unneeded parts) which will ultimately increase my throughput (finish the damn book already).
About me (stolen from my MySpace profile)… You know when you're in the car and you look over at the car next you and there's some kid just staring back at you? Not smiling, not frowning but staring? That really creeps me out. I like eating peanut butter and jelly on crackers… I don't buy the phrase, "Doesn't matter if you win or lose, but how you play the game." Yeah, cause I have SO many "how I played the game" awards on my mantle. I love Indie bands, until they become main-stream that is. Then I claim to have liked them back in the day, before they sold out… even if they'd only come out with one album. I love my foreign parents and how my mom thinks I'm studying at Duke's Fuck-wa school of business and how my dad says that my More Cowbell shirt reminds him of what they used to put around the cows' necks back home in Guyana. It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia is the funniest show in the universe. I can't understand why it takes me 2-3 tries to turn off a ceiling fan. I hate being proved wrong, but love learning new things. I believe they call that a catch 22. I actually own that book but have never read it. I think Indian dresses are the most beautiful in the world. I can't bring myself to become a true Blue Devil after spending four years convincing myself that "Real Women Wear Orange". Sometimes I wish I could fly, then I think about those dreams where I'm flying and I can't figure out how to land and so I just fall. Monopolova Vodka from Trader Joe's is right up there with Vox. Let no one tell you otherwise. I wish people realized that whispering is actually pretty damn loud. Though I love to give, I'd never go so far as to say that it is BETTER to give than to receive. That's just absurd. I love working with kids. I find their candor refreshing, though often times very insulting. There is never a dull moment with me and I love to laugh. Smiling's my favorite… but I love to give the occasional dirty glare, not so occasional when I’m behind the wheel of a car. I find that the phrase “Love me, Love my dog”, doesn’t quite apply to me as more people like her than they do me. And finally, I miss my Commodore 64, taking turns playing Frogger with my brother… trying to sabotage his game so that he would drown or get touched/eaten(?) by an alligator sooner.
And on that note, my brother Evan leaves for Morocco on Friday. He’s joining the Peace Corps and will be gone for 2+ years. I wish him all the best in the world, but I’m a little heartbroken because I feel like I’m losing my partner in crime. And now I have no one to blame when I’m at home. “What do you mean Gally couldn't have moved your car keys? Dogs rescue babies from burning buildings...” Yeah… this is almost as bad as when Evan learned to talk. But, my selfish needs aside, I know he’s going to have an amazing experience, make many life-long friends, and come back ready to conquer the world. Evan, I love you. You are my favorite person in the world. I hope you find your way, and I hope it leads you back home. We can play Frogger, and I’ll even let you have two turns in a row. Please keep in touch. ~ Kara
Me and my brother.... and Gally.
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