Trail of Crumbs

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It’s taken me a while to get around to writing this post. First, I needed to wait until my rage subsided.

That took longer than I thought it would.

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Standing in the stall of bathroom on the second floor of Nordstrom’s, I lost it.

I stood, sniffling, as women around me buzzed in and out of stalls, chatting with friends and helping children wash their hands. I tried to compose myself: it wasn’t working. I was holding back the tears, but only barely.

It was stupid, really, when I thought about it. We’d been in the Lego store in Aventura Mall in southern Florida. The friggin Lego store. Not exactly the place you’d imagine would be the site of spite and vitriol. We wandered around with my cousin’s kids, who were excitedly pointing out things that they liked. I pointed to something, and in the process, came within a foot of touching a fellow shopper – a well-dressed middle-aged woman. I did not, I would like to note, actually touch her. But I am sure I interacted with some molecules that later grazed her personal space, and for this, she was not happy.

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Last month, Rand and I flew to Boise for the weekend to visit some friends, and ended up attending their daughter’s school fundraiser with them.

I know. Glamorous, right?  I got to hobnob with Idaho’s elite and get outbid on art created by 6-year-olds. In all fairness, the event was lovely (Ballgowns. Tuxedos. IDAHO. Do not ask more of life.) and when we left, we found that whoever was working coat check had placed little tubes of expensive hand cream everyone’s pockets. They smelled wonderful and looked like something you’d find in the regular-priced section of Anthropologie (which is literally the fanciest place I can think of). I realized they were TSA-compliant (less than 3oz) and they’d easily fit in my toiletry bag, so I figured I’d take them home with me.

Damn it. I just realized that I now can't re-gift these to any of my friends who read the blog. Poop.

 

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Breaking Philip's number one rule.

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My friend Philip gave me a great piece of advice many years ago, around the time that he himself became a father.

The rule, simply, was this: do not take photos of children you do not know.

If you think about it, it’s rather genius. No one wants to be the creepy photographer, standing in the corner, snapping photos of children that aren’t theirs. No parent wants to have that awkward exchange with a stranger (and yet, I am told, they will have it. And if they do, you’d better listen).

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Before I launch full-force into my coverage of Boston (the city, not the band), I feel like I should mention the events of this past Sunday, which I bore witness to, and which made it to the local news here in Seattle.

Now, keep in mind, despite being a fairly notable city, Seattle isn’t exactly an exciting news town. Other things that have made it to the local news include: “Bald eagle saved by mouth-to-beak CPR” and “Washington woman in court for trying to sell baby to Taco Bell.” So the bar for a story being newsworthy is set kind of excruciating low in our neck of the woods, but since it happened right in front of us, and wigged me out substantially, I figured I’d talk about it.
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On our last trip back from Europe, we were unfortunate enough to discover the one thing that could make an Air France flight worse. And it is having to share a cabin with this guy:

Bastard.

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I’m referring to the one on the right, closest to the window. I realize that he doesn’t look that evil from this picture, but neither did that little kid from The Omen, and he was the son of Lucifer.

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Um, no. "Phishing" not "fishing."

I like to think that I possess a healthy dose of skepticism. I never truly bought into the whole “Santa” myth as a kid, though I totally pretended to in order to bond with a friend of mine (my commitment to the Catholic church also had similar origins). I have been known to call shenanigans on people when I don’t believe them – a process that involves, quite literally, me screaming “SHENANIGANS! I CALL SHENANIGANS!” with little regard to volume or social mores.

In short, I’d like to think that I’m not a complete and utter mark (well, mostly).

And yet, and yet, and yet …

On Friday, I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, having just returned from Germany the night before. After three lonely hours on my computer, relishing in the joy of being (I assume, at least) the first person in Seattle to see today’s Groupon offers, I received a chat from a friend of mine, who I shall call L, because really, girlfriend deserves some anonymity after the last few days.

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Okay, fine. I’m being a little melodramatic. But still. When it rains poop … um … make poop-ade? I suck at maxims, too, it seems. The point is, things are going less than optimally well in the Everywhereist-Fishkin household. Let’s recap:

  • Air France is operated by primates. And not even smart primates, like the ones on T.V. that smoke and can re-enact scenes from movies. No. Dumb primates.
  • Our landlord is a misleading jerk.
  • Apartments in Seattle are impossible to find and the stress is causing us to go all Mr. Hyde on one other. Rand said something to me that resulted in guilt so severe, tweeps were apologizing on his behalf. And in retaliation, I cut the crotches out of his boxers (he doesn’t know about that yet – SURPRISE, babe! HAPPY SUCKDAY!)

Sigh. Yes, things were not going well. Last night, Rand told me that he was pretty sure someone had put a hex on him. He told me this over the phone. He should have told me this in person, but, alas, he could not. Because he was stuck in Phoenix. And that gets us to the title of this post.

Lately, there has been a lot of craptacular stuff going on lately, and amidst all of that, I got to thinking about how Alaska Airlines was one of the few things that had not let us down recently (I mean, besides keeping us waiting for hours in San Diego a while back).

And then before I could blink, ALASKA WENT AND LET US DOWN. Rather, it let several thousand people down. And kept them there. Apparently Alaska’s computer system (which they use for their flight plans) failed yesterday morning. So no flight plans. And then, no flights (they canceled 140 of them). Rand was in the air during this time, flying from NOLA to Phoenix, where he would catch a connection to Seattle. And because he was in the air, he ended up being last in line to get rebooked.

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