November 20, 2007 | Filed under: I'm a Dork

I bit it today.

On second thought, that’s not really accurate.

Despite it being a crazy busy day, I dashed to Chipotle for lunch, because the proceeds from today’s sales go to the Sacramento Food Bank. I support anti-hunger causes — I’m running in the food bank’s race on Thursday — and besides, does anyone really need an excuse to go to Chipotle? I didn’t think so.

So I hop out of the car and somewhere along the fifteen feet between my car door and the restaurant door, I forget how to walk. Look, I’ve tripped and fallen a number of times in my life, and even though I try to keep such events to a minimum, I must admit that I’m almost accustomed to them. This, however, was nothing short of an all-out face-plant, reminiscent of a wide receiver laying out to catch a pass in the end zone, arms and legs extended, torso parallel to the ground. (Like so.)

I’ll give you a minute to stop laughing.

Best I can tell, the heel of one shoe got caught on the cuff of my other pant leg. Next thing I know, I’m catching a pass from Brett Favre. Only, truth be told, I dropped my car keys on impact and they went skidding another foot across the brick sidewalk in front of me. I also lost a shoe and my sunglasses in the transaction. You just can’t teach these moves.

(As a woman, I feel I am entirely within my rights to blame these things on the shoes. Deep down, though, I know it’s rarely the shoes’ fault.)

It must have looked spectacularly bad, because the two guys enjoying their burritos on the patio were REALLY concerned about my well-being. They didn’t laugh; they gasped, “Are you OK?” Oh yeah, I’m fine. “No, really, ARE YOU OK?” Must’ve been all that time I spent in football practice, fellas, because, really, I’m good.

I looked down to inspect my clothing, fully expecting my silk shirt to be ripped, probably somewhere exceedingly inopportune. Surprisingly, the shirt was intact. We can, however, add one pair of Ann Taylor glen plaid suit pants to my donation total today, along with a knee, the palm of my right hand and that last remaining shred of dignity that I just discarded there on the sidewalk. I hope everyone appreciates my sacrifice.

November 12, 2007 | Filed under: I'm a Dork

But they needn’t worry; I think I’ve found her.

My last day in Prague I dubbed Souvenir Day. Knowing that I was traveling to other cities, then returning to Prague, I held off on purchasing too much stuff the first week in Prague, as I’d just have to drag it around with me for the next week. I picked up a few things in Plzen and Vienna and Bratislava, but anything I wanted from Prague was going to wait. Monday was my shopping day, and I’m sure the good folks at MasterCard were huddled around someone’s computer screen playing drinking games and chanting, “Go, go, go, go!” as they watched me rack up the purchases.

One particularly pricey stop was a jewelry store where I bargained hard for a whole collection of stuff but couldn’t get the saleslady to come all the way down to $500. (We started around $825, list price.) Eh, fine. I caved on those last $50 and called it a day. There were two other jewelry purchases, too, and by the end of the day I had one long, rectangular box and three small jewelry boxes, wrapped in shiny metallic mylar-like paper.

I debated about where to pack all this jewelry — in my checked luggage, for the airline to lose or pilfer while inspecting my suitcase for explosives, or on me? The long, thin box I stuck in my checked luggage (a) because it fit well in the space and (b) because it was just a gold chain — not terribly expensive and easy to replace if anything happened to it. The rest I kept out for my carry-on luggage, because I trust myself more than I trust the airlines.

* * * * *

My carry-on bag does not zip shut and it was a wee bit overflowing (one too many oddly shaped souvenirs) and it was raining in Prague the morning I left and I had too much stuff to carry (seriously, THREE BAGS, plus my suitcase. That? Is too much to maneuver on public transportation.) and I just felt a little bit … scattered. Which is not a feeling Ms. Control Freak Herself is particularly familiar or comfortable with.

* * * * *

I boarded my plane in Frankfurt, which was to bring me all the way across the Atlantic, back to the States. Despite having a lovely aisle seat, I was in the very last row, about which I was not that enthused, but I decided that it meant I probably wouldn’t have anyone next to me, which would make sleeping even easier. Sure enough, in the stretch of four seats, it was just me and the guy on the other aisle, with two empty seats between us. Sweet.

The overhead bins on these transatlantic flights are so much roomier than domestic flights, and in some ways easier to access. However, I am still a mere 5′ 2″ and in order to grab a Newsweek for the guy in my row to read, I stood on my seat to peer into the overhead bin and retrieve it from my bag. As I sat down, I realized what an uncouth thing that was I’d just done and chastized myself, “Katherine Anne. You are twenty-eight years old. Let’s please act like a lady. Nobody else on this plane is standing on their seat to get something from the overhead bin.”

* * * * *

We landed. It was not the greatest landing ever. The actual touchdown was fine, but the 45 minutes before that had not been fun.

“I’m surprised you slept through all that turbulence,” the guy in my row said. I didn’t correct him, but I hadn’t been sleeping. I was sitting, motionless, with my eyes closed, because having them open was making me sick to my stomach.

I grabbed my bag from the overhead bin, shoving some stuff back inside that had shifted during flight. I thought about inspecting the bin more thoroughly (and I had plenty of time, as I waited for everyone else to get off the plane) but I wasn’t going to climb up on my seat again.

* * * * *

I waited in line for Customs. I waited to pick up my luggage. I waited in a long line for a taxi. It took me twice as long to leave the airport as I’d anticipated, and now I was feeling the pinch to be ready for dinner on time. Because, yes, I am the kind of idiot who makes dinner plans for the night she gets back into town after two weeks in Europe.

I had packed accordingly, putting at the top of my suitcase the items I’d want for getting ready. From my carry-on I grabbed the Ziploc bag I had stuck miscellaneous small items in (toothbrush, various chargers, sleeping mask) and tossed that on the bathroom counter, too. Into the shower I jumped, then did the rest of the beautifying as quickly as possible.

* * * * *

I debated about what jewelry to wear. Of course it would be great to wear the new stuff, but I’d have to dig it out of my luggage. Oh, why not?

I looked in my carry-on for the shiny, mylar-wrapped packages. No jewelry. Hmmm, maybe in my backpack? I thought I decided not to put the jewelry in there, but let’s look. Nope, not there. Back to the carry-on. Still no jewelry. Magazines and papers and a box with other souvenirs in it, but no jewelry. WTF??? I checked my jewelry case, which I didn’t recall putting anything new in, but I was running out of ideas. No, not there either, just the few things I’d taken with me to Europe.

At this point, I’m panicking. They’re small packages. They could easily have fallen out of my bag somewhere. Somewhere like … the overhead bin.

OH MY FUCKING GOD, YOU LEFT $600 WORTH OF BRAND NEW JEWELRY ON THE PLANE, YOU IDIOT.

I dug through all my luggage again. In my backpack I found the long, thin box with the gold chain in it. The gold chain on which the pendant I cannot currently locate was supposed to go. I cursed and thew the box across the room. Some good that chain does me now.

“Must. Call. The. Airline,” my brain says. I agree, though I have little hope that anyone would turn in what so obviously looks like expensive goods. Lufthansa’s phone number isn’t on my boarding pass. Nor is it in the damn Yellow Pages, at which point I nearly threw the phone book through a window.

Lori locates an 800 number for me. I call it and get another number for lost-and-found at the airport. Nobody turned anything in. (Shocking.) Is there a form I can fill out? No, only for missing luggage. (Not for idiots like you who leave things on the plane.) The best advice she has is that I call the Frankfurt lost-and-found and have them check the plane when it lands there tomorrow morning. I call Frankfurt. The recording tells me the office is closed. (Really? It’s like 1 AM there, why is no one available to take my call?)

I make a mental note to call Frankfurt first thing in the morning, right after I finish publicly flogging myself for being, seriously, the world’s biggest idiot. Someone who obviously is not responsible enough and does not deserve nice jewelry anyway, and it’s not even about the money so much as the fact that (a) some of the jewelry was intended as gifts and (b) this is entirely, 100% my fault. Because I am a moron. Beyond all comprehension.

* * * * *

I get up the next morning, thinking “Must call Frankfurt,” stumble into the bathroom, continuing to curse myself for being such an ass, whereupon I see this:

All three of the shiny mylar-wrapped jewelry boxes, safely tucked into the Ziploc bag so they wouldn’t fall out somewhere, staring at me from the bathroom counter where I’d chucked the bag the night before.

FUCKING IDIOT.

November 2, 2007 | Filed under: I'm a Dork, It's Called "Having a Life." You Should Try It.

Before shoving all of your clothes in the washing machine, as the hostel front desk girl waits for you to do so so she can do all the settings on the machine, find out from her what the status of a dryer is, as opposed to, say, an outdoor clothesline. Otherwise, you may regret tossing in all of your dirty clothes, including the jeans you intended to wear tomorrow. And the only pajamas you packed.

October 15, 2007 | Filed under: I'm a Dork

What does it say about me that the item I’m most likely to forget to pack is underwear?

Two-and-a-half-day conference, three four outfits, two pairs of shoes, innumerable beauty products, and yet, only the underwear I was wearing when I left the house.

That is not going to cut it when I pack for Prague.

September 18, 2007 | Filed under: I'm a Dork

I stopped at Trader Joe’s tonight on my way home to grab a couple staple items for the week. As I strolled past a shelf, a pre-cooked, vacuum-sealed package of palak paneer nearly jumped into my basket and I knew I had to have it. In that instant, I was suddenly craving the comforting warmth of Indian food and even had to circle back through the bakery section to pick up some naan. Feeling satisfied, I headed to the checkout.

And then I stopped and asked myself what sort of parallel universe I was living in — me, a former Midwesterner who is undeniably in the running for whitest white girl ever. Palak paneer as comfort food? Naan? WTH? Growing up, I knew nothing of Indian food and the only Indians I was familiar with were the Cree and the Sioux and the Blackfoot and the Iroquois. And yes, Emily, we called them Indians, which today sounds as shocking and antiquated as when those ancient filmstrips and documentaries on Martin Luther King, Jr. we watched at school referred to their subjects as “Negroes.”

Sure, I still crave classic American comfort foods like homemade macaroni and cheese and this hamburger and mashed potato casserole that my mom probably hasn’t made since I was nine, but Indian ranks high on my list of comfort foods. And Ethiopian. Oh god, I may have to schedule a night during which to gorge myself at Meskerem the next time I’m in DC, because I don’t think I’ve had Ethiopian since Liz and I sat Indian-style ahem, cross-legged in the grass in her backyard and stuffed ourselves full of it … in May. Of 2005. I am way overdue.

* * * * *

My new life insurance company (I know. I’ll pause here to let that wave of jealousy pass.) dispatched a medical examiner/nurse type person named Edward to my house the other day. (At least I hope he’s had some kind of medical training — there were needles involved.) Edward and I had spoken on the phone and it was obvious that he had not been born in the U.S. My guess is somewhere in the Middle East — maybe India! (OK, I know India is not exactly the Middle East, but it is possible that Edward is Indian. I didn’t get his last name, so my ability to narrow down his country of origin is limited.) There’s nothing wrong with not being a native English speaker, though I did wonder what sort of challenge that would present for all the medical paperwork we had to go through.

After a series of questions about my medical history (high blood pressure? heart disease? diabetes? psychiatric treatment? no, no, no, no but maybe I should look into it) I laughed and said, “No. All healthy.” And he explained to me that, in his country, nobody would say “healthy as a horse,” as it would be considered rude to compare a man to a horse. Good point, I thought. Then I wondered if it was equally rude to compare a woman to a horse, or just a man, but resisted the urge to ask.

Later in the information-gathering, Edward asked me, “And you are having? … your time of? … the womanly? …” and I tell you what, I could not help him out, as I had no earthly idea what he was asking, until he got to “…menstruation? Today?” Ohhhhh, that.

Sorry, Edward. I hope it’s not terribly rude in your country to have to openly discuss with women their, uh, special time. (Gag, barf, wretch, I hate that stupid euphemism. Special, indeed.)

* * * * *

There’s a new taqueria in my neighborhood, with a menu that reads like all the other taquerias in the area and a yellow and red sign out front, like all the other taquerias in the area. I grabbed take-out from there a couple of weeks ago. An older man was bouncing from behind the counter to back in the kitchen, giving directions to the staff in low tones and bringing food out to customers at their tables — the manager? the owner? Something like that.

While waiting for my food, he looked at me, I smiled at him, but we didn’t exchange words. Based on his age, apparent position in the business and general lack of customer interaction, I figured he didn’t speak much English. Imagine my surprise, then, when he brought out my food and I handed him my plastic number, saying quietly, “Diez,” and he handed me the bag, saying in unaccented American dialect, “Here you go, sweetheart.”