Actually, I came across that last night, but had far too many other irons in the fire to open a window here.

But I laughed out loud to myself anyway. When I got to the part about passengers being charged for each piece of luggage sitting in their closet, I almost spit out my tea.

Because I have a baggage problem. Bags and bags of bags, stuffed inside other bags, zipped into cases, and then put inside bigger bags.

But since I don't check bags, the airlines don't make any extra money on me for that. And since I fly Delta 98% of the time, they would let me check up to three bags for free.

If I checked bags. But I don't. Thanks to wool, UnderArmour, and business casual, I can fit 10 days of clothes and shoes into one 22" wheeled suitcase.

Everything else goes in the backpack.

Just in case you were curious.

Speaking of the backpack, it's sitting on the chair next to the table awaiting it's turn to be packed. I've got a couple of hours before I have to be out the door. I go from here to Detroit, to Nagoya, to Guam, arriving at about one in the morning local time Monday.

The trips back and forth to the west coast were obviously just warm up laps.

Not that I haven't made trips like this before. And longer ones at that. The flight to Japan is less than 14 hours. New York to Johannesburg was 17 and a half hours one leg.

In other news I think I have decided on the size, shape, structure, color, and approximate location of the next tattoo. Subject to change without notice, of course.

So anyway, I was appreciating satire last night, and had the TV on. There was a movie called The Wedding Date. (No surprise I have not seen it before.) The lady and her date are meeting for the first time on an airplane, and the flight attendant says in a sultry voice, "well hello 3B."

I travel too much to not repeatedly ponder my seatmates. Generally the pondring is proportionate to the length of the flight, and includes a destination multiplier.

Although there have been one or two times when the math totally didn't add up.

I was on a short flight from Lansing, Michigan to Chicago. When I got on the plane, I looked down the rows to find my seatmate already seated. I'll just say he was cute, and move on. Because he was also charming, and friendly, and, like me, had some time to spare in Chicago, so we went and had drinks. (Ask me if I like Southern Comfort and 7-Up.)

It's nice when it happens. But more often than not, I don't talk to people when I travel. I used to. When I was young and naive.

Remind me to tell you about this one trip to New Orleans. No time now. Time to get in the shower and pack my (two) bags.

This year finished up way too busy for my tastes, with far too many west coast trips. So when they were finally done, I skidded to a halt for the two weeks left in the year.

Well, mentally anyway. For a bit. I had shopping and wrapping and decorating to do. Somehow it got done.

Then I had a house to clean to host Shea and eight of her friends for a birthday ice skating party and sleepover.

(I stayed in the den of the garage for most of the night. I was called upon for food preparation and turning on the DVD player, but otherwise they did a fine job amusing themselves, as I suspected they would.)

They also actually slept, which I did not think they would. Shea said they ran out of things to do, which I find hysterical. But it was pretty funny to walk through the house to the coffee pot the next morning through all the bodies and blankets.

On Christmas Eve at my parent's house, my niece was sitting at the kitchen table, with many of us standing around her. She says to me, "hey Aunt Angie, I was online the other night and I saw the dancer you have on your tattoo on a Dave Matthews album."

"Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo," I said back to her.

My sister later told the story of the towel that my Mom would put over Dave's picture when she came to my house. (That was after I put the picture on the wall. When it was sitting on the piano, she would turn it over, or turn it around. Also very funny. But I tell her that until I have one of me and Dave to replace the one of just Dave, it's staying put.)

It's been a good year. A busy year. With many stories to tell, and too little time that wasn't spoken for by higher priorities.

Soon come.

I've turned on Matchbox 20 (Mad Season) for the occasion.

***

Origins unknown, but put in a Word file by me in January, 2000.

A vacationing businessman was strolling by a pier in a small coastal Mexican village when a tiny fishing boat with a single fisherman docked. In the bottom of the boat were two large yellow fin tuna. The businessman complimented the Mexican on the quality of his catch and asked why he didn’t catch more.

This is enough to support my family.

How do you spend the rest of your time?

I sleep late, play with my children, take siesta with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar con mis amigos.

I’m a Harvard MBA and I can help you. Spend more time fishing. With the extra money, buy larger boats. Sell directly to the processor. Eventually you can open your own cannery. You can move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually New York City where you can run your expanding enterprise.

How long will this take?

Fifteen to twenty years.

And then what, senor?

That’s the best part. When the time is right, you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public. You’d make millions.

Millions, senor? And then what?

Then you could retire, and move to a small fishing village where you could sleep late, play with your kids, take siesta with your wife, and stroll into town in the evenings to sip wine and play guitar with your amigos…

***

50 FUN THINGS TO DO AT WAL-MART

Ride those little electronic cars at the front of the store.

Set all the alarm clocks to go off at ten-minute intervals throughout the day.

Start playing Calvinball; see how many people you can get to join in.

Sample all the spray air fresheners in the auto department.

Challenge other customers to duels with tubes of gift wrap.

Leave cryptic messages on the typewriters.

Re-dress the mannequins as you see fit.

When there are people behind you, walk REALLY SLOW, especially in narrow aisles.

Walk up to an employee and tell him in an official tone, “I think we've got a Code 3 in Housewares," and see what happens.

Tune all the radios to a polka station; then turn them all off and turn the volumes to "10".

Play with the automatic doors.

Walk up to complete strangers and say, "Hi! I haven't seen you in so long!..." See if they play along.

While walking through the clothing department, ask yourself loud enough for all to hear, "Who BUYS this crap, anyway?"

Repeat Number 14 in the jewelry department.

Ride a display bicycle through the store; claim you're taking it for a "test drive."

Follow people through the aisles, always staying about five feet away. Continue to do this until they leave the department.

Play soccer with a group of friends, using the entire store as your playing field.

As the cashier runs your purchases over the scanner, look mesmerized and say, "Wow. Magic!"

Put M&M's on layaway.

Move "Caution: Wet Floor" signs to carpeted areas.

Set up a tent in the camping department; tell others you'll only invite them in if they bring pillows from Bed and Bath.

Test the fishing rods and see what you can "catch" from the other aisles.

Ask other customers if they have any Grey Poupon.

Drape a blanket around your shoulders and run around saying, "I'm Batman. Come, Robin-to the Batcave!"

TP as much of the store as possible.

Randomly throw things over into neighboring aisles.

Play with the calculators so that they all spell "hello" upside down.

When someone asks if you need help, begin to cry and ask, "Why won't you people just leave me alone?"

When two or three people are walking ahead of you, run between them yelling, "Red Rover!"

Make up nonsense products and ask employees if there are any in stock in the back.

Take up an entire aisle in Toys by setting up a full scale battlefield
with G.I. Joes vs. the X-Men.

Take bets on the battle described above.

Nonchalantly "test" the brushes and combs in Cosmetics.

While handling guns in the hunting department, suddenly ask the clerk if he knows where the anti-depressants are. Act as spastic as possible.

Hold indoor shopping cart races.

Dart around suspiciously while humming the theme from "Mission: Impossible."

Attempt to fit into very large gym bags.

Attempt to fit others into very large gym bags.

Say things like, "Would you be so kind as to direct me to your Twinkies?"

Set up a "Valet Parking" sign in front of the store.

Two words: "Marco Polo."

Leave Cheerios in Lawn and Garden, pillows in the pet food aisle, etc.

"Re-alphabetize" the CD's in Electronics.

In the auto department, practice your "Madonna" look with various funnels.

When someone steps away from their cart to look at something, quickly make off with it without saying a word.

Relax in the patio furniture until you get kicked out.

When an announcement comes over the loudspeaker, assume the fetal position and scream, "No, no! It's those voices again!"

Pay off layaways fifty cents at a time.

Drag a lounge chair on display over to the magazines and relax. If the store has a food court, buy a soft drink; explain that you don't get out much, and ask if they can put a little umbrella in it.

*BONUS* Attempt all of the above during the same visit.

Prior to yesterday, I had never cleaned gutters before. Yesterday I did. Now I can say I've done it.

It was a piece of cake. But note to self, next time don't wear Birkenstocks up on the roof. Wear the foundry boots, as my brother called them. A few weeks ago there was a family intervention at my house prior to the new siding and gutters. The work in the yard required sturdy footwear. And I own no footwear sturdier than my steel-toed boots. Which happen to also be quite comfortable.

My brother sees them and says to me, "where in the world did you get foundry boots."

"Uh, the foundry," I say.

So I cleaned the gutters with nothing more than rubber-gloved-topped-by-leather-gloved hands. My brother came behind me with the gutter guards. My mom was on the ground handing the guards to my brother and holding the ladder for him. (And, I suspect, worrying the whole time whether I was going to fall off the roof.)

(I did not.)

So I've cleaned gutters. The fact that I did it upon arriving home after a red-eye flight from San Francisco, sans nap in my own bed, speaks volumes to my intestinal fortitude.

Or possibly just to the jet lag. (Seems more likely when I factor in that I had Shea back Jalepeno into the garage when we got home yesterday.)

Earlier today I tried to take a nap but was too tired. Instead, I had a lucid dream about being at the piano in the middle of Atlanta's E concourse, playing Master of the House from Les Miserables. (I do not know how to play it, but my hands were moving around as if they did.)

Which is part of the fun of lucid dreams. Perpetual motion. Not very restful, however. So I got up. And have been laughing at my kid since then.

A few minutes ago she was in the kitchen and opened the pantry. Thanks to a trip to the grocery store yesterday, there was actually something in there.

I suggested an apple, which I then cut up for her, and said, "and perhaps a vegetable or something."

She says, "what is this vegetable you speak of..."

(Baby carrots, in case you are curious.)

She took a trip through Growthsburg again in the past few weeks. (Or her dad is stretching her on a rack.) Either way she seems to be warming to her height, and to the strong possibility that there are inches yet to grow.

I don't recall whether I mentioned that my third tattoo has been postponed until January. (All in all a good thing, because I don't need any more sky miles this year.)

The flight attendant on the plane from the west coast asked me whether I had any trouble sleeping on a plane. I said no. I also gave her permission to poke me if I started snoring. (I took a flight about a year and a half ago from somewhere in Europe (I do know for sure it was Germany, London, or Amsterdam) to South Africa. Once we reached 10,000 feet I put my seat back, covered up from head to toe, and slept for eight hours straight. Woke up when we were over Harare.

Nope, no trouble sleeping on planes.

Now I'm reminded of what happened after the conversation with the flight attendant. A guy seated two rows behind me, who had just come from the bathroom, asked her what she did with the little black pouch he had put in his seat pocket.

She shook her head and said she didn't do anything with it.

He said, "come on now, I know you did. It was there when I went to the bathroom, and now it's not."

Another flight attendant was standing nearby and she asked him if he lost something.

He said he didn't lose it, he knew one of them had taken it, and ha ha, and now they needed to give it back.

They both assured him that they didn't touch it. (At first I thought he was just joking with them. But he started to get perturbed.)

He accused them again of taking his little black pouch. And they both again tried to tell him that they would not have touched his stuff.

He just kept on repeating "come on now, give it back." I was afraid an air marshal was going to be in our very near future when one of the ladies said, "there's something under the seat in front of you..."

The man looked down, and his little black pouch had fallen to the floor.

I had been watching him intently anyway, and as soon as he made eye contact with me, I raised my eyebrows. And waited. And kept looking at him until he apologized. Then I kept looking. The second apology actually sounded sincere.

And once again, ladies and gentlemen, I listened to more than my fair share of folks say how the flight they had just taken was the worst ever. And that they weren't going to fly (insert airline) ever again.

One of them tried to engage me in conversation with that opening line. I smiled slightly, shrugged my shoulders. Said I take four flights a week on Delta and rarely have any problems.

Maybe I should wear a "Se Habla Good Karma" button or something.

Oh well. Have resisted urge to reread this, thus avoiding possibility that I would backspace the jetlagged musings. Will hit post, and hope for the best.

Monday, the answer was no, it's not too early.

Tuesday I managed to stay awake until almost 7:00 PM local time.

Last night I made it until almost 7:30 PM.

Tonight, the hotel I'm staying at is having some sort of event. When I checked in on Sunday (well, early Monday morning - my plane landed after midnight) in my key pack was a parking permit for tonight. One of the folks in my class (also staying at this hotel) was asking during lunch one day if anyone knew what this "event" was.

The answer was a pretty funny one - they called it "Grab a Grandma."

It seems the hotel hosts a party type thing that attracts folks of a certain age, who come here for free booze and to hook up with other folks of a certain age.

My room happens to be on the first floor, and I have a patio outside that overlooks the pool area where said festivities are scheduled to start in about an hour.

Which is 7:00 PM local time.

You can do the math.

I walked out onto the balcony last night, looked down onto the highway, and saw a tow truck, an SUV, and a police vehicle stopped on the outside lane - (no shoulder) tow truck in front, disabled vehicle in the middle, and cop car at the end.

There was a single flare on the ground about two car lengths behind the police car.

Once the tow truck had pulled away, I watched the cop walk back to his car. I asked myself what he was going to do about the flare - not considering for a moment that the answer was going to be "just leave it there and let it go out by itself."

But that is precisely what the officer did.

Did I mention the flare was in an active traffic lane, not the shoulder? Did I mention it was night? Did I mention I'm in Houston?

So the cop pulls away.

And almost immediately cars begin to react to the flare in the road. Some apparently don't see it until the last minute then swerve to avoid it. Some people slam on their brakes. Some just cruise into the next lane at a high rate of speed, causing the other three lanes of traffic to react.

I would have to look on my camera for the time stamps, but that flare burned for 10 minutes. Five or so minutes into watching it there were three cars that came within inches of a three-car pileup. I saw it coming, heard the squealing rubber, and just braced myself for the sound of metal crunching. Fortunately the driver at the back stopped just in the nick of time.

Surely there is a procedure for putting a flare on the road during a traffic stop. One would think there would be a procedure for putting the flare out.

And if there is, someone should tell Barney Fife.

In other news, folks are still finding pondring because they are Googling short interval control.

(Here's a hint - you will see better SIC numbers if you stop Googling shit at work and spend your time on your to do list.)

I also get a lot of links from a web site about rare words. It would seem that my spelling of pondring is mainstream-er than I thought, while at the same time being rare in some way.

Delightfully appropriate description of pondring, I think.

For your reading pleasure, interesting facts about Dave's song Halloween.

I had two on-time, first class flights home today, two stellar crews, spent my time between flights in Atlanta having Qdoba vegetarian nachos, listening to the woman play the baby grand in the E concourse, and having a delightful conversation in Spanish with Diego, a 18-month old little boy who was standing on the other side of the countertop table where I was eating.

Diego was on his way to London, but seemed way more interested in the straw he was chewing on.

After I ate, I strolled back to the B concourse, talked to my brother, my mom, and left a message for my sister; and wandered to my gate.

(For Halloween today I was dressed as a hopeful Cubs fan.)

At the gate, a man approached me and said, "ah, the Cubs fan I almost knocked over in the E concourse."

Seemed to me I would have remembered almost being knocked over. Maybe not. Tough to say. So I said what came to my mind.

"Huh?"

He made his claim again and then proceeded to launch into a lengthy story about his experiences with the Chicago Cubs.

Without taking a breath it seems, he then told me all about his work, and told me he was on a project from hell.

Then proceeded to describe, in detail, the hell.

The Delta agent called him to the podium, and when he got back he announced to me that the agent had told him to wait to board because he may be upgraded.

Then he just kept on talking. Meanwhile he starts digging in his bag and hands me a business card.

It didn't do much to answer my unspoken question of "who the hell are you?"

Fortunately they called for boarding not long after that, so I excused myself from the one-sided conversation and got on the plane.

Wheels down less than an hour later. No bags checked, Jalepeno at the front of the garage, and no traffic on the highway.

Home.

I turned on the computer and checked my email. Happy to see there were just a couple of new ones, and nothing that needed attention today.

So I shut that down, then went and browsed pondring's stats page.

It's been a busy October. And when I bothered to look to the column on the right, I see its possible pondring will reach 100,000 hits here by the end of the year.

Huh.

That's kind of cool.

And it's also kind of funny, because I don't know who the hell you guys are, either.

Well, that's not entirely true. I think I could now name over 10 of you.

The rest, who's to say.

Happy Halloween, either way.

Thanks boys. See you next year.

I was delayed a couple of hours out of St. Louis; missed my connection home, and so had a lengthy wait for the last boat out of Atlanta.

It happens.

It also happens that I didn't have my noise cancelling headphones on me. This means I eavesdropped.

Really, I'm not sure it is considered eavesdropping if the folks are talking so loud it's impossible NOT to hear them. I'd head out to dictionary.com but believe the definition to be incidental to the story.

One loud lady had missed her connection and been rebooked on a flight that was supposed to leave at 10:30 PM out of B11.

When they called for boarding at B11, she got in line, and then was denied boarding. She was told she wasn't on THAT flight.

She then started demanding answers from the gate agent and was going to stand there until she got them.

(Not the best strategy.)

(The simple sign the woman had overlooked was the flight number. They were boarding one flight, she was on another. The time, gate, and destination were coincidental, and a result of backed-up flights.)

She said that she had to throw away a two-dollar cup of Starbucks coffee at her departure airport because "customs" wouldn't let her bring it on the plane. She said she couldn't understand why the airlines didn't allow a hot beverage on the plane.

(Since she was coming from El Paso, I did the math lightening fast in my head and figured that she was simply unaware that one couldn't take drinks through security. The leap she made to that meaning one couldn't take hot beverages on a plane was congruent with the rest of her logic.)

(But it didn't make it any less cringe-inducing to hear.)

She continued.

Since the rental car counter at her destination (by now I know it's the same as my destination) obviously would close at midnight, she didn't know how she was going to get where she needed to be.

(In reality, the rental car places stay open until the last flight comes in.)

When the woman finally hangs up the phone, she tries to engage me and another woman seated nearby in conversation by saying she's going to write a letter to Delta.

I don't bite. The other lady does.

They loudly banter their frustrations. And woe at their delays. And angst at the agents unable to increase visibility to greater than quarter of a mile and thus get them home on time.

I smile and pretend I don't understand English.

Then see two pilots sitting a few seats away. One of them looks like a famous actor. I picked up my bag and walked over to him and smiled and said excuse me and asked him if people tell him all the time he looks like anyone in particular.

"Yes."

I smiled again, said I thought so, begged forgiveness for interrupting, and started to walk away.

"Wait," he says. "Who?"

Half hour later, we're still chatting. In English. He's a million miles away, conversationally speaking, from the two women across the way.

(To mention male, and really attractive could possibly be redundant.)

He saw my new tattoo, commented on it, then showed me one of his, which involved pulling aside his shirt collar, so I showed him my first one, which also involved pulling aside my shirt collar, thus causing him to ask what it means, I tell him it's October in Japanese, he says he always wanted something like that but was afraid he'd walk out with something that was really offensive, and not know it.

"I took a dictionary with me."

"Smart woman."

The conversation led to him telling me he was 43 years old, and my telling him I'm 41.

He said I look amazing for 41.

It was all I could do to not quote Austin Powers out loud. (Your stock is rising number one.)

The man was funny, gregarious, and upbeat.

Libra wins. He balanced the previous half hour.

He had to get to work, and I needed to get to my gate.

Where there is one harried gate agent, and a not-yet-opened flight.

I take a seat and wait. And watch. And listen.

To the guy standing behind me saying it's all bullshit.

And to the two guys in line at the podium who missed their connections and demand to know if they will have seats on this flight.

Mary the gate agent tells them they need to go to customer service to get boarding passes. The flight isn't open yet and she can't help them.

They think it's bullshit now too. But they do go off and get their boarding passes. Their places in line are now taken by a single woman who has also missed her connection and is demanding to know whether she has a seat on this flight.

Mary tells her the same thing, but the woman doesn't take her advice. Instead she storms around the gate area also claiming bullshit.

And pretty soon here comes the lady from earlier in the evening.

And the two angry men come back with boarding passes and loudly try to convince the single woman storming around the gate area to really, go down to customer service, they will give her a boarding pass.

The guy standing right behind me tries to engage me in conversation by saying he doesn't understand why they cleared standbys on the previous flight and he didn't get a seat.

I smiled and shrugged slightly.

(Because they probably had, as the sign says, more current day travel interruptions, a higher ticket value, or higher priority status.)

He turns to the guy to his left and that guy bites. They both bitch until the boarding door opens. Neither of them know where their checked baggage is. They both had been told it may not make it on this flight.

Libra steps in, I get upgraded, and sit beside a man content to quietly sip his double scotch on the rocks.

When we finally land home, I claimed my bag, and heard the man that had been bitching beside me in the gate area say he KNEW that his bag had made the earlier flight and again questioned why he himself, did not.

I pondered out loud that perhaps his bag has a better attitude than he did. The man didn't hear me, but the lady grabbing her luggage right beside me laughed and said, "no kidding." (The man had bitched loudly the entire flight home.)

***

I am absolutely loving my new tattoo.

***

I met two men this week that had been in accidents severe enough they needed facial reconstructive surgery.

***

One of the students in my class this week, a former teacher himself, said he had never seen someone with such passion for their work who could keep such consistent intensity and pace for eight or more hours a day for an entire week.

(Earlier he had asked me whether I was exhausted at the end of the day. I said nope.)

***

So, Fenway. Game four of the series, second home game. When everything aligned, I sent a message to my cousin who lives outside of Boston. I'd buy the tickets if he'd go with me.

Well, duh.

So we went.

Time of my life.

(I'll mention this because it was a first for me. While waiting near the park for my cousin, a stranger asked me whether I was American Indian.)

(People routinely guess Italian, and then less specifically Asian.)

So my cousin arrives.

Funny enough, he's wearing his red Minnesota Twins ball cap, and I'm wearing my red Minnesota sweatshirt.

There wasn't a question that we were going to stop for a beer before the game. The question was where, and he gave me my choice - hopping and loud, or empty and quiet.

Empty and quiet.

He knows just the place.

So we walk a short way to a beautiful old building, go inside, get Shipyard Pumpkin beer (very good, I might add), then go through the bar, through a heavy wooden door and out onto a beautiful private patio. Including us, there were two people out there.

It was empty and quiet. And an utterly beautiful night, weather-wise, in Boston.

We talked and drank and then walked to the ball park. Where, seated behind the pesky pole, we talked and drank some more.

(Of course it was an awesome thing to pass through the turnstile. I put my arm through my cousins's arm and he capably steered me through the crowds as I watched, not at all, where I was going and instead read every sign and looked at every brick and kiosk and face and shirt and thing I could take in.)

(Including where the bathroom was.)

(We put a substantial hurt on the city's supply of Guinness.)

(My cousin has his company's car service on speed dial, so I was chauffeured back to my hotel before they drove him home.)

(My rental car spent the night in Boston and was none the worse for wear when I picked it up the next day.)

***

I regularly read dooce.

Doing so recently reminded me why I don't feel compelled to deal with comments here on pondring.

To be offhand (as opposed to Off hand, which if you look up are two different things) it's because I really don't care what people would write.

To the good, or to the bad, your opinions are yours and you are entitled to them. Thanks if you like it, go some place else if you don't.

It's not hard.

***

So a friend I met some years ago, but haven't heard from in a while recently joined some social networking site. I received an email, not from him, but on his behalf from the site saying that he had put me on a list and I had to click a button or he would think I didn't want to be his friend.

A day or two later I got a reminder email from the site saying I still had not clicked. And my friend "was waiting."

Another day or two later I got another reminder email.

Torass.

***

They were the perfect size, comfortable, seemed durable, and they were red.

Only after I bought them did I look up the brand.

They are Doc Martens.

The first word I saw in the the first link I found was the word "subculture." I read on. Apparently Doc Martens are popular with the skinheads.

Oh well. I like them, and I don't care what anyone else thinks.

So I wore the shoes to the next family gathering. My sister and I were in my car driving, and I told her that I read after I bought the shoes that apparently they are popular with the skinheads.

"And pimps. And rappers," she added helpfully.

Later that day sitting around with the family, my sister and I were relaying our conversation.

My sister said, "give it a couple of months, and the nerds will be wearing them too."

Shea laughed so hard I thought she was going to spit something out her nose.

My sister claims she meant it as a compliment.

I've been called lots of things, but I don't remember anyone ever calling me a nerd.

But I laughed too.

Cause I suppose I am the nerd of the family. (Peferable, methinks, to being pimp, rapper, or skinhead.)

But the only one with red shoes.

(And yes I did, in fact, get baseball tickets while in Boston. Me and my red shoes got to see the Red Sox play. At Fenway. In the postseason.)

Sometimes karma pops them.

(It has to. I'm a Libra.)

Chicago, I will be hopeful for you once again, next year.

Meanwhile, Hank and I are looking forward to an exciting rest of the post season.

I did. A new tattoo. Tattoo two.

My firedancer. With her newly-tattooed red aura which will go away. And that’s okay.

I went in to the shop on Sunday. An odd little man behind the counter got some basic information from me, and then asked me which artist I wanted.

I said, “I looked on your website, and any of them would be overqualified for what I want, and it’s okay if they laugh at me.”

After a few moments, I was introduced to an artist, whose name I did not catch due to the very high volume of the rock music playing. He was busy with someone else, but stopped for a moment to see the little picture I brought with me, and give me an estimate.

The odd little man got a deposit from me, and made an appointment for Monday at 12:30.

I will admit that the artist scared me ever so slightly. But he seemed to do good work.

When I got there yesterday, I went to use the bathroom, and noticed him in his room spraying down everything. I then noticed that the bathroom was cleaner than pretty much any other one I’ve ever seen, and the checklists on the walls were up to date.

Better 5S than most businesses I’ve seen, too. (I know they have to. Technically, there are lots of places that have to and yet, don’t.)

And the artist, turned out to be named Buck, was a teddy bear.

He had printed a template and held it out to me once I got settled in.

I held out the same template, modified to suit the style of me.

I wanted smooth lines. I wanted her ass smaller. And her arms to look less like stumps. More symmetrical. And no ribs showing. Solid black. I did leave her right arm ever so slightly spooky.

So he suggested he make the tracing directly from my drawing. I said cool.

When Buck had the outline cut out, he placed it on the very center of my forearm. Which was a different place than I had said I wanted a day earlier.

Then I was surprised to find I had a preference to NOT have it centered. He moved it up, and moved it down, and I decided on up.

Oh, how very much it felt like he was slicing into my arm with a large sharp knife. I was sure if I looked, that I would see my right forearm flayed, firedancer flap of skin flapping in the wind, so to speak.

And yet, I looked. Glanced, really. And didn’t see any blood. I think he was barely done with her foot.

I admitted to Buck I’m a bit of a woos, so he capably held my arm down after that.

Once it was way past too late to change her location, he told me that the further up the forearm one goes toward the elbow, the more painful it is.

I said had he told me that at the beginning, she’d be a lot lower on my arm.

He said he never mentions pain to someone.

I thought that sounded like a really good strategy.

So as it turned out, it’s a different size, different color, and in a totally different place than Sunday's tattoo would have been.

Pondring anything does that, you know.
Sometimes it conjures better.

Now if I can just get Dave to autograph her with a 41.

Now would be a good time.

Hello, October.

It's only three days old and it's already been delightful.

Yum.

For the first time (I think ever but I'll have to check my notes) I will be working in a city that has a team in the postseason. I may not actually make it to the game, but the fact that there is the potential to do so alone is exciting.

I remain hopeful for Chicago.

After an on-time, direct flight to Houston last weekend, I found my name on the rental car board, got my space number, and walked to it. I saw the car in the space, figured there was a mistake, walked back to the board, rechecked the number, it hadn't changed, and walked back to the car, put my stuff in it, and drove it away.

It was a brand-new mustang with Sirius satellite radio. Ergo, Coffeehouse and Dave and Maroon 5 for days.

Last night I reversed the trip, and boarded the plane in Houston. I took my aisle seat. As the plane filled up, a group of three ladies boarded. One of them was next to me in the window seat. She was an elderly lady, and while she in no way looked fragile, I offered to move to the window if she wanted the aisle seat.

She did.

When she sat down she asked me if the airplane had a bathroom on it. I said yes, and told her it was in the back. She said she preferred the aisle because it made it easier for her to get to the bathroom. I said it was no problem, that I actually was going to nap, and sitting next to the window suited me better.

Well, I didn't nap at all.

Mary Edith was 77 years old. She had lost her husband three years, almost to the day, earlier. She was travelling with two of her girlfriends on buddy passes because one of her friends' sons-in-law (?) is a pilot.

Mary Edith was known to her friends back home (Iowa) as Edith, but when she and her husband moved to California she began to go by Mary. I called her Mary Edith because that was what she seemed to prefer.

She has four children, seven grandchildren, one of whom, a grandson, also does something with computers, and lives in Washington state. She has three great grandchildren, and three more on the way - one set of twins, girls, and another one of as yet undetermined sex.

She wanted to name one of her daughters Jolene, but her Dad didn't like the name, so she deferred to him. And has always regretted doing so. She hoped one of her twin great granddaughters would have Jolene in her name.

(I got to hoping so too.)

Mary Edith had a wicked sense of humor. I don't have the focus at the moment to tell the whole story about the priest and the weapons, but I will give you the punch line.

I said, "so we asked the priest whether he preferred a .38 or a .22."

Mary Edith said, "if you didn't know the story, that could be taken the wrong way."

She paused, then added, "is that her waist size or her bust size?"

She then mentioned Sarah Palin.

And I told her I really paid no attention to politics, and it was really one of those three things I wouldn't discuss anyway.

She got the hint and we went on to other things.

She asked me if I go to church. I gave her the short answer, no.

Mary Edith wasn't so willing to let that one go. I didn't take any offense at it at all, I just said gently to her that religion was there with politics for me. One of the things about me I simply don't defend to anyone.

She went on for a bit longer. I give her credit for persistence, but eventually I did say to her, "Mary Edith, you're going to have to find another topic of conversation."

Then she got the hint, and we went on to other things.

What she packed. Why she packed it. How she packed it. And whether it was gate checked, or regular checked baggage.

Gatlinburg. The beaches of North Carolina. The Phillipines, Greenville, and Guam.

She still wears her wedding ring, and still has pictures of her husband in her bedroom. She misses him. They were married for 54 years.

At some point Mary Edith asked me where I thought we were, geographically. I took a look out the window, and in that brief moment, Mary Edith leaned across the aisle and struck up a conversation with the young lady in 1A. (Three seats across.)

Very soon, Mary Edith was introducing me to Keeke. Keeke was her real name, it had a familial origin and she liked her name now but didn't while she was younger.

Keeke had recently moved to Houson, had graduated from college five months ago, and worked with very small kids in a very large church in Houston. She was going to visit her family for the weekend.

Keeke was without power for only 24 hours after Ike, and without water for three days. She knew she was one of the very lucky ones.

When we landed and got off the plane, Mary Edith forget to wait for her gate-checked bag. As we walked up the jetway she wondered whether she should go back for it, or whether her girlfriends, who were at the back of the plane, would see it and get it for her.

I suggested that we wait up in the terminal, and if they didn't bring her bag, I would go down and get it for her.

So while we were standing there saying that, a man from the flight said that her friends down the jetway had seen Mary Edith's bag sitting there, discussed the possibility that she had forgotten it, and were bringing it to her.

Mary Edith introduced me to her two friends. Mary Edith told them that when she got on the plane I had said I was going to nap. Julia said to me, "I bet you didn't get any sleep at all."

She said that everywhere they go they have to pull Mary Edith away from conversations with people.

I was not surprised in the least.

Nor was I surprised we landed early.

October just has that way about it.

In other yesterday news, I made the decision on what and where for my new tattoos. I'm getting two, although just one in October. I'm going to put off the third one until December when I go to Guam.

Just because I can.

And I haven't even mentioned October's best news thus far.

I have 11 days at home centered around my birthday.

And I STILL haven't mentioned October's best news thus far.

And don't intend to. It's mine.

Happy birthday to me.