Road Trip

Pointy Toilet Paper

/ wvfurandroot / 5 Comments

I’ll finish the furnace story tomorrow, but right now I’m dwelling on the irony of the fact that last night I was home with no heat in the house. Tonight, I have heat at the house, but I’m in a Best Western in Charleston.

That’s how ridiculous my life is. Timing is everything in life and my timing needs work.

But here I am. And I must say I’m impressed. My frugal boss made the reservations and, while I wasn’t expecting Magic Fingers or mold in the bathroom, I also wasn’t expecting a king sized bed covered in pillows and pointy toilet paper.

The job before this job I did a fair amount of traveling. Between that and personal travel, I spent a fair amount of time in hotels and motels. My traveling days ended before the “luxury bed” was all the rage with the cool hoteliers. You know when trends start trickling down to Best Westerns in Charleston, WV, said trend has gotten pretty mainstream.

I rather like this pillow thing. I have a bunch of pillows on the beds at home as well as sinfully high-thread-count sheets and ambient lighting. These things make for a nice drifting-off-to-sleep experience. To find such a set up here is a nice change from floral or striped bedspreads that probably haven’t been cleaned as often as one would hope.

Pointy toilet paper has long puzzled me. Pray tell, what is the point? Some poor soul earns a meager living cleaning rooms and part of his or her job duties is to fold toilet paper. It’s ludicrous. But if such a thing is deemed a necessity and the bathroom has two toilet-paper-holders, shouldn’t the points be the same size and shape? The lack of symmetry here bothers me. This hotel loses 5 Martha Stewart points for this egregious act. I bet the maid did it on purpose. I would.

[Mmmmm. I just put on my nightgown and crawled into bed. The linens aren’t as wonderful as one would hope – but nice nonetheless; and the experience is so much better than last night’s shivering under a down which just couldn’t keep up with the cold. No down on this bed. Pity that.]

Of course, the coffee pot falls short of my requirements. With the trek down the hill carrying luggage, the travel pot had to stay at home. I’m offended by the Styrofoam cup. I’ve got pillows, pointy toilet paper, high-end soap with an ergonomic design, but a Styrofoam cup. Go figure. If I can’t have a real cup, can’t we do better than flimsy Styrofoam? It’s a travesty, I tell you. More Martha points lost.

There’s no room service, but the clerk says hot breakfast is served in the morning. I believe I’ll partake.

So, if this post reads oddly it’s because the double u key and the snake shaped keys won’t work.  I’ve had to manipulate spell check and control v to type this. 

Never a dull moment. Timing is everything in life. And now I must go to sleep. Big day tomorrow.

Bad cup or not, I’d like to vacation here for about a double-u-eek.  I really like the bed.  I do, I do.

Red Light Green Light

/ wvfurandroot / 6 Comments

What is it with people? I’m serious, folks – can someone explain the phenomenon of accelerating towards a red light? I just don’t get it.

I’m toodling along in my car. I see that the light ahead of me is red. I do not accelerate. I don’t assume that a light that’s just turned red is going to be green in 50 feet. And even if it had been red for awhile, I wouldn’t accelerate because there are too many stupid people out there who run red lights. [I’m entitled to say this as I was a stupid person once and did $6000 worth of damage to a car I’d yet to make the first payment on. I just didn’t see the damn light.]

As soon as I see a red light, I do not brake, but I do ease up on the accelerator. Besides just basic common sense (which as Twain said was neither), this method provides better fuel economy and brakes last far longer. I get more mileage out of brakes than anyone I know – and it’s not because I don’t ever use ‘em. It’s because I don’t do the foot switcheroo of racing to the stoplight only to slam on the brakes. At the appropriate time, I begin braking – a gentle process which does not send stuff flying off the seat of the car.

People, particularly those near the university, get annoyed with me. They pass me, race to the stoplight, slam on their brakes and at the next light, I who have had a serene stoplight experience, am still neck and neck with the Accelerator Asshole.

And it’s not just red lights. Something about the red, I think. The Matador and the Bull Syndrome, I call it. Red brake lights will provoke Accelerator Assholes too.

My Ex used to drive me crazy. We made a fair number of road trips, the most horrific of which was the annual pilgrimage to Milwaukee. There is no efficient way to get to Milwaukee from here without going through Chicago. As a matter of fact, going straight through Chicago is much less fraught with fear and anxiety attacks than is the by-pass around Chicago. Except for, roughly, the hours between 3 a.m. and 4 a.m., the entire population of Chicago is in separate cars on the interstate. By the time you factor in truckers, tourists, and poor lost souls, 25% of the US population is trying to get out of Chicago. Hell is rush hour in the Windy City – it’s 80 mph bumper to bumper.

There would be a sea of red brake lights. Hundreds of cars with their brake lights quite visibly engaged. The man I was married to for 20 years would speed up every time. I’d kick a hole in the passenger side floorboards trying to hit that imaginary brake some folks think exist on that side of the car and which I think a real one needs to be installed on any car I ride in.

I’d glare at him. He’d look at me and say, “What?” I’d tell him what. Every trip we did this. Every trip we had this conversation. Every trip I needed a valium by the time we were hauling suitcases out of the car.

I was once a brake light that someone slammed into. In the guy’s defense, I guess, his story was that he was distracted by a dog and didn’t notice the light had changed. Nonetheless, I’d been sitting at the stoplight by the post office long enough to pull out the envelopes I needed to mail. [And believe it or not, the guy admitted fault to me, the cops, and his co-workers – he was in a company truck – and nearly 3 years later we are no closer to settling this damn thing than we were in April of 2007. Do not ever get into a car accident with a Major Utility.]

Because I am not and never have been an Accelerator Asshole, I am alive.

In 1979, I slid on a patch of ice at a railroad crossing and slid into a moving train. As was my wont, when I saw the train warning lights, I had eased up on the gas and was beginning the gentle braking process. Had I been either accelerating or going fast enough to need to slam on the brakes, I would be dead. Serious.

The cop at the scene said to me, “I expected to have to scrape you out of this car with a spoon.” As it was, the train dragged me a bit, but the ice would slide me around so it was bump, drag, bounce, bump, drag, bounce until the train finally stopped. It was the longest 10 minutes of my life – yes, a moderately-fast-moving train takes that long to stop. I didn’t have a scratch on me although I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. The car was totaled.

For years, I couldn’t drive over train tracks without a supreme case of the heebie jeebies.

Today, I am preparing to stop at the red light by the train tracks near the university. Accelerator asshole behind me whips his car around mine and runs the light. It was not yellow, it was blazing red. Some testosterone ridden frat boy (is that redundant?) was not to be outdone, so he ran the light too and the two of them raced to the next light. Dueling Accelerator Assholes – just exactly what I want on my morning commute. Yeah, boy.

There is no justice. Had I pulled a stunt like that, my butt would be in jail or, at the very least, in traffic court.

Believe it or not, I do not have even the slightest tendency towards road rage. It’s pointless and does nothing but ruin my mood. When these things happen, I marvel at the stupidity and continue toodling along in my normal fashion. I do take great delight in sitting at a stoplight and smiling at the driver, who three stoplights back, got his panties all tangled up because I was driving “too slow” – I always want to say, “Well, darlin’, would you look at this – here we both are and yet. . .” But I don’t. Other people seem to have bad cases of road rage and, with my luck, Accelerator Asshole would shoot me or something.

So,w hat stupid thing do drivers do that gets you to wondering about the collective intelligence of humans?

The Land of Bad Dreams

/ wvfurandroot / 2 Comments
The giant kitty that decorates my uncle's yard.

bad dreams live in Michigan

Way back when, Chef Boy ‘R Mine had a nightmare. I slept through his screaming (I’m a sound sleeper), but  Ex O’Mine ran in at the very first of the blood-curdling scream. Soothing the child (he was and is a very good father), he told the boy that he’d chased the bad dream away back to the Land of Bad Dreams. The child asked where that was. Groggy and put on the spot, the ex said the first thing that popped into his head – “Michigan. Michigan is where bad dreams live.”

[Now. The boy was confused because I always told him the bad dreams were caused by using the wrong side of the pillow. We then made quite a to-do of turning the pillow over, smoothing it, and peeking under it to check for certain that we had the right side down.]

Michigan may have popped into the ex’s head because my parents were setting out in a couple of days to visit the extended family. When Child O’Mine heard later, he was appalled – he decidedly did not want his cherished grandparents near the Land of Bad Dreams. My father had to do a lot of fancy talking to ease the child’s mind.

Michigan has, forever since, been re-dubbed the Land of Bad Dreams notwithstanding the fact that almost all of my extended family live there.

The whole thing was doubly poignant (and kind of funny) because both parents had some horrendous childhood experiences in Michigan. The sweetness of my son’s concerns softened their bad dreams a bit.

Neither my son nor I have nightmares often. I do, however, have a recurring dream that’s eerie. I don’t wake scared – more puzzled. I’ve been having this dream since I was about 13. If memory serves, the first time was during my first menstrual period. [The women amongst us (and some of the men) know that menses can provoke all sorts of psycho-drama.]

Moody Blues

Moody Blues

I don’t have it often, but once a year or so, I will dream of the white house. In my dream, I’m wearing a long flowing nightgown – white- suitable for the cover of a romance novel. I’m in a shabby cottage. Everything is white. The linoleum is white, the walls, the appliances, the curtains, the doors, the woodwork and the fireplace mantle. The only thing not white is a poster hanging above the fireplace. The poster changes through the years. At 13, I think it was a Moody Blues album cover – In Search of the Lost Chord. Later, it was Mary Lou Retton. Most recently, it was Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

The dream never lasts long. I’m in the house. I waft from room to room. I always have a sense of puzzlement – of what I don’t know. The lack of furniture? The unrelenting white? The poster? The cracked and scarred linoleum?

The Pier

The Pier

After exploring the house, I open the front door to find that it leads directly to a pier – a very long pier.   There’s no porch or walkway to the pier.  The pier is the porch.  It’s gray and foggy outside. The sky and water are so gray it’s impossible to distinguish one from the other. The fog has settled in and the beige of the sand is completely obscured. I walk to the end of the pier for what seems miles. During the walk, I watch my bare feet carefully negotiate the pier.  The pier is ancient and splintering. 

At the end, I look into the water and notice sunlight dapples. I look up to find the fog has lifted and the sun has come out. I look to the left and I look to the right and for miles and miles all I see are identical houses with identical piers.

The dream always ends there.

I have analyzed this dream from every angle. Not a clue. If my psyche is trying to tell me something, it needs to start speaking a language I can understand.

I went to Michigan this week to attend my grandmother’s funeral.

rocks, sand, autumn leaves

rocks, sand, autumn leaves

We stayed in a charming motel on a lake – a delightful mom & pop place. I scoped out the scenery as soon as we checked in, but the purpose of the trip precluded my itch to grab the camera and go play.

This morning I woke up at dawn. Quickly slipping into jeans and a sweatshirt while grabbing the camera, I quietly opened the sliding glass doors and walked through the early morning drizzle and fog to the lake.

There was the pier.

the white pier

the white pier

In my dream, the pier had always been weathered, gray wood. I now know that was wrong.

The pier is white – in keeping with the house. I think my psyche didn’t know there were white piers.

I shivered.

I hurried to the pier. My sleepy self was convinced if I stood on that pier, I would understand.

I stood on the pier. I sat on the pier. I took off my shoes and put my feet in the freezing water. I let the rain sluice over my head. I watched the wind ripple on the water and enjoyed the scent of early morning pines.

beach rocks

beach rocks

I took photos. Dozens. I sat in a chair and stared at the pier, the lake, the trees, the falling leaves. I fell a little bit in love with Michigan.

I still don’t have a flippin’ clue what the dream is about. But I expect to have it tonight.

I still think the dream takes place on the Atlantic ocean, but a Land of Bad Dreams pier is going to change the tableau. Lord only knows what the poster will be tonight – I was admiring a Georgia O’Keefe at a bookstore today.

And all of this reminds me of one of my all-time favorite quotes: If little else, the brain is an educational toy. (Tom Robbins).

I need more time at this pier.  I think the red hammock will entice HMOkeefe.  (He likes hammocks.) 

red hammock at dawn

red hammock at dawn

And I did fall a tiny bit in love with Michigan – the Land of Bad Dreams – the memories of my childhood and the beauty of this morning’s scenery contributing. And that motel was just too charming.  Yes, I need to go back and spend more time on that pier. 

I have got to unlock this dream which I just know I will have tonight.