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An Exercise from my writing class.  I needed a way to express the end of my skydiving career.  Fear not, I’ll be back to story telling in no time.  Until then…enjoy something a little different.

She mentioned she wasn’t feeling well as we exited the brown line train. She inquired “how much further to our destination?” I pointed to the mural in sight. “It’s across the street from that mural, do you see it”? She said no, and quite indignantly as well. Hummm. While standing between a restaurant and a music institute, I continued to try and explain where the colored brick wall… It no longer mattered. I heard the sound of thick liquid hitting the sidewalk next to me. Yikes, it was noon. High noon, in the old west, just about time to have a gun fight. In France, just about time for lunch on the Seine. In ancient Greece, just in time to find no shadow on the sundial. We had most definitely gone out the night before, but general consensus dictates that what happened on the street about a half a day later should take place just as one is passing out for the night (as it did for me), or just as you wake after the binge. We consumed vodka all night until meeting friends at a dive bar. So, it is questionable if these events were a result of too much vodka, or the pernicious light beers purchased to close down the night. We will never know.

She, Christene, was up for the weekend to party and generally release the stress life can sometimes deliver to your front door. Christene and I played soccer together in college (over 10 years ago- spring chickens we are not), and hadn’t seen each other in a couple of years. Many things had changed in those years and clearly we had ‘beaucoup’ about which to chat. She had a year of seniority over me, along with a foot in height. In the sports clinic we were referred to as Mutt and Jeff, as I stand 4’11”. Her beauty is a lovely mix of her father’s Vietnamese length, and her mother’s Texas American strength. She was lethal on the field, and she knew from day one she was going to be a physical therapist, which she is today.

I figured one public deposit of ruminate on the street would be enough. Laughing, I checked to see if anyone had seen what just happened, and yes, there was a guy paying for parking just ten feet away. He did not seem to take any notice. Therefore, I assumed we were in the clear. A few more steps and a second batch was set free to the universe (no more chai lattes for this one). I feel I need to add that I was, in fact, unusually dressed up for a Saturday. We were on our way to my dojo, but we had plans for the whole afternoon. Being cute was on my list. I was sporting my long black jacket from VS, but my actual outfit was a juxtaposition of camo-pants and a pink tuxedo top. The belt and shoes were what brought it all together, as they were both a girly pink. Little did I know, that outfit would be reworked less than an hour later. Christene turned to tell me something, but before any words could be formed her upper digestive tract enacted its other plans: an enormous amount of projectile vomit found its way all over my side. She had 359 degrees in which to launch her demons, but her eyes had locked on me, and that was all she wrote. Her height enabled the eruption to cover me from my shoulders down to my heels. Even with her hands in front of her face, copious amounts of vomit passed between her fingers (she was no goal keeper). The gentleman feet away had little-to-no expression, other than a need to exit stage left, which he did promptly. I was walking in circles, laughing and questioning, “how the &*^% did this just happen”? True composure would not be found until much later that day, but at the time I had quickly realized we needed help. We were something of a hot mess.

I removed my jacket, folded it inside out, and handed it to Christene. “This thing is yours until we drop it off at the cleaners.” In the cold, standing on the street, I called our friend Bridget to come rescue us, as I was not about to board the train with a silent companion stinking the compartment up with disgorge. “I need you to come and get us, Christene just puked on me!”, I was able to force out somewhere in between crying and laughing. Bridget, quite concerned because she was not totally understanding the situation, told me she was on her way once everything was clear. Moments later I received a text message from Bridget informing me that it would be a few more minutes, as first she had to update her facebook status.

It read: “Just got the most unique phone call al year to date” Bridget, can you come pick me up from the train station? I just got puked on…”

During my first visit to Romania I found a number of things to be true: Vampires were born within the borders of the country, and Romanian is a romantic language that sounds quite French (though I bet you thought it sounded more Russian). The countryside is both stunning and rustic (the concept of peasantry is still very much alive). The capital city, Bucharest, is full of history, both before the Roman Empire and within my own cognisant memory. The city is in a constant state of growth from dawn to dusk, and at some point during the eighties an American animal activist won over city officials with the idea that instead of ‘putting-down’ the overwhelming amount of stray dogs in the city, those dogs should be free to run wild, forming packs packs along the way. The aforementioned factors make Bucharest both noisy and difficult to navigate from time to time.

I have issues with repetitive sounds. AT the top of my list: tapping, whistling, babies crying, hammering, beeping and ringing tones all reach different levels of paralytic sensations within my psyche. I’ve had outbursts in meetings, as well as completely ceasing to complete my point waiting for the tapping pen to rest quietly out of reach of the little drummer boy in control. The construction workers across the street from my parents’ flat quickly became my Kryptonite. How long is the standard work day in Romania? From my experience it is from sun up to sun down. Is there another way to insert a nail like object into planks of wood that doesn’t make a ton of noise? Are these men trying to hammer at different rhythms on purpose, or does it just say something about who he is? The off-beat sounds were accompanied by barking dogs hoping to snatch up food either dropped or dished out near the work area or by wealthy neighbors. Without question this reinforced my drive to see the city sites, have coffee at local cafes, and go for walks in the huge park within the city center. The walks especially have a place in my heart just as do the construction men.

One fine afternoon my mom and I headed out for a peaceful jaunt to the lake in order to enjoy the tranquility so close to the city’s ‘white noise symphony.’ While out we stopped for a beer at a restaurant with a patio that overlooked the lake. We chatted about all the things moms and daughters hash out; particularly when the two live on different continents. The sun was unrelenting that afternoon as we made our way back to the house. We worked on sorting out what delicious goods we were going to make for dinner, all the while making our way down a side street back to the house. A pack of large, mangy, homeless dogs were circling around the driveway of a neighbor who quite regularly, to the dislike of his entire neighborhood, fed these feral animals. Perhaps our lack of fear was from the beer, fatigue from our walk, our wanting not to be late, or even the estranged thought process that, as humans, we are at the top of the intelligence/food chain. Whatever the cause for our actions, the result was the same. We continued down our path, and as we closed in on the dogs my mom drew closer to me and began to provide two very clear instructions: 1. Do not make eye contact. 2. Do not run. Locked arm in arm we marched toward our enemy. With four dogs visible we were confident we could pass through with little trouble. But much like a flank attack, so often used in older tactics of warfare, dogs were continuously coming out from behind a wall. Five, six, seven, eight they circled us and barked to let us know we had been had, and quite aggressively I might add! Ambushed! Following the instructions given, I tried to keep mom moving slowly forward, but she lost her cool at K9 seven. Her index finger came out like that of any good mom when disciplining small children. She began to parcel out orders to each of the victors, not aware that her rank on the chain had just dropped, or that we were clearly out numbered. Her voice went from firm to scared and then to shouting, but the finger was out there to be chomped. Did I mention that she was also trying to stare down each of these dog (each of whom would never make it to Madison Square Garden’s best in show)? We could hardly take a step forward. My heart was racing and I joined in the shrieking for help. In the kindest of gestures, finally my mom instructed me to run and save myself. I didn’t want to leave her behind. We’ve already addressed my selfishness, but leave my mom behind? I don’t think so. The fiasco we were creating, both the four legged and two legged, grabbed the attention of even the noisy construction workers I had hours earlier damned.

The energy built to the point of breaking. Mom pushed me forward and with that shove came a final wish, “SAVE YOURSELF!” I was off at a dead sprint toward the construction men. With me followed a good three dogs, but I slowed and turned because I couldn’t believe what I had done. My flight reaction had kicked in. However, we were not the only ones who noticed the climax of the standoff. The construction workers also recognized that the moment was about to turn nasty. The men came running toward us; their yelling and the smashing of shovels on the street causing enough distraction for me to reposition my arms around my mom and pull her out of the circle with me. The men continued to run after the dogs until we were safely on the steps of our building. We stood there arm in arm for a minute or two before finding the composure to enter. My heart was jumping out of my chest for the next hour it seemed, and when recounting the story for my father I’m certain my blood pressure raised a few points. The three of us do laugh about the story now, but at the time it was traumatic, so much that my father walked a case of beer down the construction men as a thank you for saving the women of his family.

Hammer away boys, hammer away. You’re okay in my book…provided I am surrounded by mangy dogs (so close).

Koolie was often heard shouting ‘Yes-ss’ this, and ‘Yes-ss’ that in both situations of joy and frustration. What a clever, yet nonsensical word. I thought to myself “no one word can have that many meanings”. Now, I’ve found when you are around someone long enough you begin to adopt his mannerisms and repetitive phrases. This was one that I took on as my own. Believing it to be ‘Yes’ that had a little extra spice it required multiple ‘S’s’ to truly convey the message or feelings stirred by such an event.

In the prime of our living together, we planned to spend Christmas with his family in South Africa. We booked the tickets about five months in advance; many phone calls over seas went back and forth to determine the best dates and holiday plans. I had only spoken to his sister and mother on rare occasions, but couldn’t wait to finally spend time with his loved ones. Clearly the next step in the level of our committed relationship… meeting the family. Once in the country, many hugs were passed around, and everyone was so wonderful. Their native language was Afrikaans, a dutch dialect, but they spoke English when I was in the room, whether I was a part of the conversation or not. His father engaged me in parroting his words trying to teach me words throughout the holiday (nothing better than rolling your ‘R’s’ in a car for 15 hours!). Near the end of the vacation I was speaking in phrases. It must have been the children’s books I was reading trying to teach myself the language of the man I loved. His family was great, and I wanted them to accept me and love me as well. We all know how the first impression frames a person for the rest of their life.

Throughout the vacation we visited an ostrich farm (I rode on the back of one, thank you very much), drove past a herd of Spring Buck, hiked a trail with Baboons, swam in shark infested waters (all we saw were dolphins), rock climbed cliffs along the shore of the beaches, watched Southern Right Wales migrate to the warm Indian Ocean, bartered for trinkets at road side markets, and countless other smaller but no less impressive daily sights and adventures. However, it was Christmas dinner that has left a colossal impression in my mind, so many years later. It was a quiet morning, and not all that warm. Koolie’s mom was working away in the kitchen, and refusing to let me help, I went back to reading my book. When it was time to take our seats at the table I could hardly believe the spread. Everything eaten was grown within 25 miles of our location. The food overwhelmed my olfactory senses, and I was brought to a state of delight. I began stating, and with confidence I’ll add, “Yes-ss look at this food!” “Yes-ss, this looks and smells amazing!” I was promptly kicked from under the table. Kicked so hard, in fact, I had to grab the seat to keep from falling. “Why did you kick me”? I whispered, as to not enlighten anyone of the pain I was currently in, and unknowing the reason for such a punishment at such a moment. “Why are you cussing at the table, Christmas dinner no less?” Koolie quietly demanded to know. “What are you talking about? I’m just noting how great this meal is about to be, and how wonderful it all looks.” He took a deep breath and said, “Lisa, Jesus (pronounced ‘Yes-ss’) means Jesus in my language.”

Mortified! Realizing that I had just been seated at Christmas dinner affirming, “Jesus, this food looks great!” His family went about their business as though I hadn’t used profanity of the worst kind moments before. Why had I never asked what the ‘BEEP’ that word meant in all those years! My ankle throbbed throughout the delicious feast laid out for a king.

In true teenage angst, I often thought I had some kind of terminal illness, or that I had lost all rationality from time to time. Both my hormones learning how to release themselves, and having enough autonomy to experience new situations with others going through the same thing lead to many adventures and in retrospect dangerous situations. Insanity might be subjective; however, there certainly were times where my control was limited and my thoughts and actions were unpredictable. In hindsight I was just trying for two things: stability and confidence in myself. While being acutely aware that I did not fit the mold of most teens (case and point/point and case: I was about 14 years old, chatting on the phone with a friend of mine. She decided it was time to end the call and go on to do other things and said “okay, I’ll talk to you soon,” I replied ‘okay,’ then sat by the phone waiting for her to call back. I waited about 30 minutes then called her, asked her why she hadn’t rang? She was clearly as confused as I was at that point. I had an inside conversation with myself about missing that, and then from that point forward watched others’ behavior to try and pick up the norms). Also, I was in the pure hunt for attention. What better way to bring my senior classmates out of the daily obsession with “who was and was not at last week’s party” than sporting a homemade Straight Jacket to school?

One of my few school friends (oh please don’t feel bad for me, it was totally by choice) Katie came over to the house and we pitched the brilliant, I mean ludicrous, idea to my mom. Yes, somehow I convinced another living human being that making straight jackets from scratch was a great idea. Oddly, I have been able to swing Katie to do a couple of idiotic activities over the years, but being as this is where it started, its not hard to believe we found ourselves in Scotland dancing a jig on a bar table, while quoting ‘everything happens for a reason’. Really? Yup, except that phrase does not hold true for me anymore (I’m running away with my thoughts here…let’s bring this back to focus…wait are you helping or just along for the ride? The ride? Good… I do prefer it when people know their place ). Katie and I located a number of old belts about the house, we figured each jacket would need a total of three: two for the arms and one that would appear to pass between the legs. My Mom was attempting to be a road block in the beginning, saying things like: “Those are good belts Lisa!” , “What do you need this for?” And, “I don’t know how long to make the arms.”

Once my Mom was on board properly we were able to channel her talents to assist with our creation. We were even able to find a light canvas material (be it an off white, almost cream). My mind was able to accept this short coming on color as my Mom would not volunteer the extra cost for the pure white canvas. Since she was the financial backer of this project, cream was better than nothing. We modified a causal top pattern and like Edward Scissor Hands created a thing of beauty that was a little different for the average on-looker. As I sewed the belt buckles to the back of the shirt and the tips of the belt to the ends of the long pointy sleeves the more certifiably insane and delightfully perfect my jacket of the ‘straight’ kind became. I made a slight modification to my sleeves so that my jacket was functional. I made two slits in the fabric at the wrist (any irony there?) so that I could slip my hands out to perform ‘normal’ tasks that required hands. This was necessary because clearly I would be wearing this new item often and needed to be able to take notes at school and drive the car.

Working all weekend, by Sunday afternoon we had a finished product. Katie went home with her ‘crazy shirt’ with the agreement that we would both wear them to school the next morning. Finally a friend who was not influenced by peer pressure, and just quirky enough to dabble in crazy with me. My family sat down to eat Sunday supper together. A small but powerful argument began about my weekend’s work. “Lisa, you cannot wear this to school,” my mom told me with confidence. I’m quite certain she had the support of my father. Seeing that this two-on-one situation was not looking like one I was going to be victorious in, I quieted my voice and commenced to formulate a plan that would allow me to do what I wanted without parental knowledge. That plan evolved into folding the jacket in my backpack so that once dropped off at school I could pull it out and put it on (I know, genius). I’m sure my parents never thought I might do that. Besides, it was only a year ago when I had my mom hem a NASA astronaut blue jumpsuit and wore that school, so I thought my boundaries of ‘off the wall’ ideas were widened; however, I think for my parents, and perhaps rightfully, a homemade straight jacket was outside of the area given to me.

I spotted Katie from across the open entrance of the school. In my groovy new top with miss-matched belt buckles I noticed that she was not wearing hers. A pit in the bottom of my stomach began to grow. Suddenly being an individual did not seem as much fun, as cool, or as interesting as it had appeared when knowing that Katie was along for this crazy train approach (and thus not really being an individual, which is a fact I have only realized of at this moment). I wanted to know what was going on…not really in a panic, but in more of an ‘I’ve been let down’ sense. (Really, let down? Who let whom down? Clearly, Katie was the carrier of more social awareness). Similarly to when a ‘group think’ event occurs, and the group doesn’t want the ‘event’ to get out; they all agree to take it to the grave. What that really means is “who ever tells first has dibs on framing the story.” Or in this case, not ‘commit’ to the plan.

A wide berth was given to me in the halls that day, and the subsequent days to follow. First period was full of all the looks and whispers, everything for which I was hoping. Jokes and cracks were flying from all corners of the class. Oh how they thought they were taking the upper hand of my lunatic canvas top, but they were reacting just as I had planned. I owned the room; my brain was hot, and my hands were tucked inside the length of the sleeves with a light covering of sweat. Class was finally brought to order as our teacher came into the room, and any further plans of attention were dashed. The focal point was no longer mine and would not be returned again until lunch.

So, am I weird? Sure, without question, provided your perspective is one that doesn’t often take you to the edge of social discovery. At the end of the school day my energy was low, and my need for a nap was beyond compare, so much that I forgot to remove the item I had been forbade the night before. My mom must have known as she didn’t have much to say aside from a knowing ‘how was your day’?

What I don’t think the creator of the moon lighting couch considered was the chance that a couple of tweenies would fold the bed around themselves and try returning the couch to its day time appearance with a human tucked within its multi-seating guts.

Sarah, a friend of mine, was over visiting one afternoon- most likely for a sleepover. We were hanging out in the loft above our two car garage in Nova Scotia. I cannot remember the specifics of the inaugural attempt of this daring adventure. Sarah was taller than me, but not by too much- and that’s a feat because I’m 4’11”. She had blonde curly hair and a chin that came to a lovely point. She was a horse lover and over time owned a number of them as well as competing in equestrian events all over the province. Her are a few random Sarah memories: I remember her climbing through pipes for new homes and trying to teach my dog to be a raccoon hunting dog (Where the Red Ferns Grow had a major impact on us for a time). Though unsuccessful I don’t blame her, our dog didn’t come even when you called her.

We thought it out and brainstormed a couple of different positions that might work for this submersion into the darkness. We also had to figure out who was going to go first, and being that I had come up with the brilliant idea I would be the test dummy. We did a test-run by stuffing a number of pillows into the bed to validate that it was possible to fit. However, being that the pillows never screamed out in pain we ultimately determined that one of us was going to have to experience this phenomenon first hand. “If only we had a monkey, or maybe we could squeeze Sam in just to see.” Sam, our family dog, was a black coc-a-poo weighing in at 30lbs. Therefore, his size was not relevant to my survival within the cocoon of the sofa.

Sarah lifted the end of the bed up to a 90 degree angle. I then climbed onto the bed and scooted up to the crease she had created. There was no laughter and little talking. This was serious. Very serious. I then placed my shoulders as flat to the bed as possible, and bent both of my knees in what might have looked like a running position. We didn’t want to risk any over-lapping body parts so I had both knees in contact with the bed. There was however, a limit to how bent my knees could be or how close to a right angle my hips could lay. In our expert opinion the metal bar that folds over the bed could break your leg quite easily. My eyes were facing in parallel to the bed that was not folded up. I was ready, and with sweaty palms I was covered by the end of the bed. Then slowly lifted and dropped into the inner guts of the couch. All the while Sarah was checking in with me wanting to know my status of health. I was in the hollows of the belly of the couch. Though I was frozen in place and could neither move a limb nor turn my head in the blackest dark I had ever experienced, we began to laugh. It was difficult to breath, which instigated my shouts to be removed from my prison. Sarah quickly converted the couch back into its open welcoming bed shape, and I took a deep breath of fresh air. We were elated with joy! I was under for less than 2 minutes but I felt so liberated and excited. We were laughing with such exuberance that I lost my breath all over again. My mom even checked in to make sure we were okay, as in, not up to any trouble.

As any good scientist knows, verifiable results must be easily reproduced. As a result, it was now Sarah’s turn to experience being paralyzed inside the sofa bed. She unlike myself added a stipulation to this daring action. “Please stop if I say I’m scared. If I don’t want to go all the way in, pull me out.” I agreed, but only because she would not get on the bed otherwise, and I really wanted to see what it looked like from the eagle’s eye perspective. As a trusted friend Sarah replicated the same ‘complicated’ position. I, with a bubble of laughter on the verge of over coming my composure, folded the bottom of the bed over my partner inside. I too, like Sarah, checked in with the guinea pig. I was at the tipping point, just before the bed would slip into the gallows when I heard a voice of fear and panic. “Please stop, please let me out!” shouted Sarah, in almost a plea. But the forces of knowing combined with the maturity level of a 13 year old had me push the bed in the rest of the way. Returning the sofa to its day time sitting and entertaining state. I replaced the cushions as though family hugs and waves of goodbye had just taken place, and last minute clean up was required before the new week commenced. The major difference was my friend was within the couch, and screaming to be let out. She began to demand to be removed, and I finally consented, all the while laughing as she cried out in increased hysteria. I pushed the cushions aside and grabbed hold of the bar to pull her out. But with my short stature and loss of strength due to my giggling, all focus was lost. The bed repetitively jammed at the same pivot where Sarah first cried out. After a few failed attempts I realized my friend was panicked and I was unable to pull her out. I gathered my thoughts and gave it the old ‘school girl’ try. Out popped the bed, and Sarah along with it. She was disheveled and upset, and let’s be honest, who won’t be? I said I would stop, and I didn’t. After failing to stop I then repetitively tried to pull the bed out and it kept jamming. For all she knew she was going to be resting inside the sofa for the next twenty minutes to a life time.

With a little practice we improved our technique, and even tried other people’s hide-a-beds. We began sharing our story at school, and a number of the kids did not believe it possible. As a result, Sarah and I thought it best to video the procedure. My family did not have the proper equipment to record these daring events, so Sarah brought over her family’s 10lb video recorder with a blank VHS. We once again had to think this out. How would we document this amazing feat! “Well, we should record the position and the folding part, but we’ll turn off the camera when I’m inside because you are not going to see me anyway.” Yup, turn off the camera. That is what our conclusion came to. So, this is how it appeared when watching footage on TV. In other words, it was never documented.

Lisa: Hi everybody, we are going to show you what it looks like to be folded up into a hide-a-bed. You’ll want to lie down like so on the bed (at which point I am demonstrating the position). You’ll need a friend to complete the rest of the task.
Sarah: Yeah, a real friend that will listen to you.
Lisa: Correct. Okay, we are going to shut down the camera now and complete our work. See ya after.
BLACK OUT
Sarah in real life folded me inside the couch and pulled me out
FADE IN
Lisa: (Sitting on the bed) And that is all there is to it!

This particular trip we were in Texas for a number of matches and Bridget, the freshman, had gone out to dinner with her family. Bridget was a beautiful blonde Texan. She stood about 5’10′ and had lovely breasts that no man could miss. She carried herself knowing that she was the prize that she was (and continues to be). She was smart and tough as nails on the field, which frankly, contributed to my disliking her. Missy and I returned to our second floor extending-living apartment hotel room and had frozen dinners. These meals were provided as punishment for our poor play earlier that night. We both showered without a hitch, not to mention using all the full size towels. Missy fell asleep quickly and I was not far behind when I was woken by knocks at the door. Bridget had returned to take her rightful spot on the other side of the bed that I had made warm. She tippie-toed to the bathroom to have a shower before calling it a night… rules remember?

I heard the water come on, while I rolled over attempting to find that same comfortable spot on my side of the bed. I shut out the light. Then there was a distinct change in the sound of the water. Was she taking a bath? Who bathes in hotels? Especially one like this? Moments later the smallest voice called out for help. “Lisa, can you help me”? I rose to check out the situation. It did not sound like a ‘can you scrub my back for me’ cry (which I’m not familiar with either but I feel as though I could discern between the two). Leisurely I made my way to toward the sounds of rushing water. My eyes jumped open when the horizontal trajectory of water shooting straight out of wall toward the back of the tub was revealed. Burning hot water spraying everywhere. The source of the deluge was coming from what was once the hot water knob. The handle was in Bridget’s right hand. She was using a hand towel to cover up her ‘good bits,’ but was otherwise completely naked and clearly not comfortable with being so. The hand towel was doing little good, other than keeping her left hand from aiding in returning the tap to its rightful place on the wall.

Jumping into action, we had to stop the rushing water! How did this happen? I asked through my own laughter. Her reply was a mixture of “does it really matter now”, and “I couldn’t tell which way was off”. The next thing she knew she was holding the handle in her hand and Niagara Falls found its way to Texas. I took the knob from her and started trying to force the handle back into the grooves. The only water finding its way into the tub was as a result of it smashing into the wall running parallel with the faucet. I found that this wasn’t a very effective way to fill the tub as a majority of the water was flowing on to the floor just on the other side of the bath. The power behind the water was too much to over come; not to mention the scolding sensation during each attempt. The burning sensation made me think my skin was going to peal back off my bones. Finally after we both had tried a number of fruitless times to return the handle to its rightful place I called the game and said, “I think we are going to need some help.” I went into the room, still no movement from Missy, and proceeded to call our coach, after curfew no less. No answer. Called our assistant coach, again no answer. Hummmmm, perhaps we should try the trainer? In retrospect, what was she going to do, tape it like an ankle? Finally, and most likely the brightest idea we had had all night, we called the front desk. The water was so loud it was hard to hear him, and also speak at a level that wold not disturb the slumber of our roommate. Who new driving water in a confined space would be so deafening? I explained to the front desk guy what was taking place in our unit. He seemed rather disinterested and said that it would be really expensive to bring a plumber out at this hour. He followed that statement up with reassuring comments that the plumber would be out first thing in the morning. I pleaded with him to come out and see the room and then make that judgment call. We have Niagara Falls in our Room! But he remained firm. At that point I put the phone down and Bridget and I began laughing at the situation. The room was beginning to feel like a sauna due to the volume of hot water being pumped into the room. We pulled the door closed, which did little for the sound, but it made us feel better. We made our way to the bed.

We woke to a soggy floor and a rain forest feel in the air. The carpet from the bathroom to half way out into the room was water logged. Missy, who missed all the action, was confused and slightly disgusted by the state of affairs. We all managed to prep for breakfast next to the falls. We needed a sign that stated “slicker and galoshes beyond this point” when brushing our teeth. As promised, a plumber arrived at our door first thing in the morning as we were heading out to team breakfast. Three twists of his wrench the bathroom was silenced, Niagara Falls returned to the boarder of Canada and the US. However, the hotel faced costs that easily could have been prevented. The room below us was also flooded and would need to be completely renovated.

Perhaps my point is being missed. Picture this: four women in their fifties, playing mahjong and talking about their female parts; going on about the pains of aging. Having any trouble? No, i didn’t think so. Put any two women in the same room and before long they WILL talk about what is currently out of ‘homeostasis’ with their body. It’s considered bonding in woman world, discussing the intimate parts and drugs your doctor recommends. Now substitute guys, and you have ‘urinating too frequently’ commercials; except it doesn’t seem right. Aside from my father talking to his brother, I’ve never heard him discuss his health with anyone, let alone celebrate the new prescription he is taking with his buddies. How manly is sharing your daily legal drug intake? Or better yet, the need to constantly have to make a pit stop?

Followed up with… why, if you had a condition that made you have to visit the commode often would you drink large volumes of water? All the commercials have these gentlemen in hand with large water bottles. Even Eco-friendly refillable containers in some cases. Yes, prop designer, I noticed…trying to win over a few ‘green’ older guys, I kind of like it! Bravo you, just that the writer missed it on the whole … it doesn’t really exist…this gathering of sleek suave silver seniors. If you want to reach your demographic place four well preserved women in their fifties talking. One mentions how much happier her husband is now that he is on the pee-less pill. Then all the other hens in the room want to know the name of it because their husbands wake up in the middle of the night to visit the ‘john’. Now you have a commercial! The nagging to go to the doctor is off and running. How many of you grew up with Doctor Mom? Well, my mom didn’t go to medical school, but aside from being a road side detective she also has her MD. People ultimately cave to her medical advice (and quite often she is correct). I know she is not the only one out there with a similar life degree. These are the ladies bringing their husbands to doctor’s offices for the drug that ‘dries up your liquid by-products.’

Airports, Oh traveling, people who don’t have motor memory skills with regards to parking at their local airport, find moving about the country fun, and exciting! Waking up in one part of the country and having a night cap in a new time zone, it’s just darling. But, and this is a big butt (oops, an extra ‘T’ on the end…I’ll go with it…as in some cases, it is correct) those who travel regularly, and not for fun, usually adopt one of two attitudes when travel gets tough. This I think has to do greatly with how much you enjoy your life at large.

The first group, Fly-ist Maximus, tends to push their way through lines with a sense of entitlement; even when the exodus of said particular terminal is on time…you’ve seen him, the guy who stands next to the gate agent waiting even though he has a seat AND gold status with said airline. Self crowned, when issues arise waving his saber, which only he can see, approaches the gate agents, yelling; complaining to anyone who will listen. They help fire up the chants of injustice due to the late departure. This group, oh my, they hate the airport, and nonetheless they just won’t give it up. Perhaps home is worse than the road…

Everyone has a great story of how bad things were at airport XYZ…it just takes one time to scar travelers…
Was it weather that cancelled this flight?
Because if its weather you don’t have to give me a refund?
Oh, the other connections are over-sold?
My my, what will I do? Stay in a crap hotel?
Then bus it back here in the morning?
Classic!

There are many careers I would not like to pursue; however, at the top of my list (at least, today) is and airline gate agent. So little control, and yet they have to bear the brunt of the pain. I’m guessing a late arrival and subsequently late departure is just as much a headache for them as it is to travelers. They have lives outside the terminal as well, and surely they would like to live them. Yes, gate agents have more information than we do; however, like travelers no control…this certainly isn’t happening

“Gate agent to tower, over”
“Tower here, over.”
“Yes, I’m going to need flight 437 on the ground in the next five minutes, got it”?
“Totally, sorry…not sure what we were thinking up here…lots going on, but 437 is on its way in, with priority, over”
“Thank you, Gate A34 over and out.”

The second group, The Pacifists, makes back- up plans via whatever means are available, and rest. Knowing a long night is on the horizon, its key to conserve energy. Its as if they took survival training in a different aspect of their life and have the smarts to overlap it to travel. Fluids (non-acholic, I know…its quite shocking, but its true) and cell phone chargers are key to making it out alive.

Rest assured you as a passenger are no more important to the airlines than the checked baggage under the plane.