Best Furniture Ever

Cleveland went abroad a little while ago, and this is a conversation we had when he first arrived (more or less):

Cleve: The hotel I'm staying at is "sustainable." The power comes from windmills and solar panels, and everything is set up to create less waste. What the website didn't mention is there are all these little signs all over the room and hotel that address you like the furniture is talking to you. For example the little table that I am typing on says this: "I am strong, smooth, and delicious: I'm made from recycled coffee cups. Which means I'm both kind to the planet and caffeinated. But please don't lick me. I'm already in a relationship with the chair."

We had a pretty good laugh, but I got worried when he repeated this one, the bathroom soap, which is in dispenser- like a public bathroom: "I last longer and love you better. Maybe you've flirted with those little bottles of hotel soap and shampoo? They soon run out on you. It is time that you had some personal care from a big reliable source. Baby, I can keep dispensing all through your stay and beyond."

Between being mistaken multiple times for a genuine European and his hotel room putting more effort into seducing him than I do, it was easy to wonder if he might never come back.

Rest assured, though reader- eventually he came home, and our reunion was full of smiles and hugs. I'll have to remember to get him one of these so he sticks out more:

Road Trip Day One Update

Trip thusfar has been reasonably uneventful- although my cab driver from work last night tried to have me critique his poetry, and my cab driver this morning got all philsophical about life being too short to be unhappy. Zen and the Art of Cab Driving?

I had three hours of sleep and managed to board the plane forgetting only my belt (actually, Mandy's, sorry) at security.

I always fantacize about working as a flight attendant, then I remember I'd have to like, save people if we crashed. I like critiquing business men's suits and briefcases and how fast they're walking, making eye contact with cute guys, people watching in general. I always wonder if I'm seeing people who are on their way to or from a funeral.

I fell asleep listening to the audiobook Rock On: An Office Power Ballad by Dan Kennedy, though I think that has less to do with the book, more with my lack of sleep. Then Grown Ups with Adam Sandler and an all-star supporting cast came on, and I'm not embarassed to say I laughed a lot. Good ol' family friendly slapstick.

Anyway, I write this entry because something terrible happened, actually. Worse than the time Darcy and I were getting drunk at the airport bar and almost missed our flight. Worse than the time I climbed over the sleeping man- I felt bad waking him so I sort of straddled him and made my way to the bathroom- he got a facefull of boob and when we landed he told me, "I didn't sleep a wink!" Worse
than a baby or a snorer or snakes...

I think someone pooped their pants. Or sharted. Really, it's so potent I want to gag. But I can't say anything, because you smelt it you dealt it. There's no way it's the toilet because the toilet is all the  way on the other side of the plane. Seriously, this is an airtight, pressurized cabin a.k.a. stale, stagnent air. I want to vomit.

Members Only: The Mile High Club

It seems like a great time to go on a cross-country roadtrip. Kate Digby Skinner and I were Skyping, and throwing around ideas for such a trip, and somehow, the subject of having sex on a plane came up, and I told her this story.

I tried to join the mile high club, once, sort of. On my way back from Paris last year, I had a connecting flight in Munich. I've flown with a boyfriend on one trip, we did not do it, and the rest of my limited time in the air has been alone. Darcy once had a party on a trans-continental flight with the crew and some of her friends in the back of a plane, and during a rowdy game of Never-Have-I-Ever half the staff admitted to doing it, which makes me really want to be a flight attendant.

It was overcast but bright, in Germany that day, and the terminal was very white. Very few of the signs were in English, and it's really ignorant of me to assume that everything will be in English everywhere. So I'm exhausted, ready to go home, almost out of money, with a long day and a long flight ahead of me. I was probably alternating reading a book and people watching, trying to decide who was American and who wasn't, which I was terrible at. David Sedaris had a really funny passage in Me Talk Pretty about identifying Americans by their clothing, but it didn't help. Just as I'm thinking about this, a man sat next to me, a few seats over, and starts talking. Really, I couldn't have cared less. He seemed like kind of a d-bag, bragging about how much he travels and how easy loud, obnoxious American tourists are to spot. (If I can't identify them, does that mean I am one? Like, if you don't know anyone like Michael Scott from the Office it means you ARE Michael Scott?) He's wearing jeans, sneakers, a ball cap, possibly lightweight North Face jacket. Oh, and a black longsleeve shirt, made of some kind of material that people buy if they are very physically active, or camp a lot... I only know that it dries fast and does something like wic the sweat from your body. Darcy was helping me pack for the canoe trip last year, and she said to bring fleece, polyester, or wool... Anything that will dry fast. That's when I realized all of my clothes are cotton- no excessive physical activity or die hard camping for this kid.

I digress. This guy tells me that he's not even sure that he's getting on the plane, because it's overbooked and the airline offered him $100 cash and a night in a hotel to stay in Munich for the night to go on standby. I'm thoroughly annoyed- why didn't Luftansa offer ME that deal? I had a really difficult time getting to Munich, and they owed me. If I had little interest in talking to this man to begin with, when I found this out, it was gone. He was only talking to me because I was alone, American, not fat and under 25- he striked me as the type of guy to have an oval sticker on his SUV. I have this way of acting like a raging bitch and causing people to not want to talk to me anymore, and that's what must've happened, because he got up and walked away.


Without a doubt, I'm judgemental. But as quickly as said judgement is made, I'm willing to change it. I get in line to board, they take my ticket and I'm in. It's a huge plane, and there are a lot of babies and it's taking a long time to get to my seat. I'm at a window, towards the back. When I finally get there, guess who is in the seat next to me. That guy.


"I swear I'm not following you," was my opening line. He smiles. I realize that this guy, Joe, and I are going to share an arm rest for the next six hours. We start talking, and as he's telling me about his travels (Germany for two weeks, drinking a lot of beer,) his job (nurse, but, people often mistake him for the doctor, which probably pisses off the actual doctor, royally,) where he lives, (Idaho,) his hobbies (volunteer smoke jumper, deer hunter, marathon runner, amateur photographer,) things we have in common, (the iPhone, taking planes from Munich.) He laughed at my jokes, I laughed at his. We had two poor quality meals together, he flirted with the stewardess and we got as many free drinks as we wanted- I even napped on his shoulder. It was like a six hour date, and the more time passed, the more attracted to him I became. His body was rock hard, and though I've been known as something of a chubby chaser over the years, this guy was hot... or the pressure in the cabin was low and I was delusional.

It was after I had to stop watching Marley and Me, the in-flight film we were both watching, (because I was going to start sobbing uncontrollably if I didn't take my headphones off immediately and stop watching,) that I started to consider how to make this mile-high club thing happen. Hey, I wasn't a virgin anymore, I could have sex with anyone I wanted to! The world was my oyster! I let my leg touch his leg and he didn't move. I brushed my body against his when I got up to use the bathroom an annoying amount of times, hoping he'd read my mind and follow me in. I'm good, but I'm not that good. But there was no condom, was there? Absolutely not going to risk it. There was no way to get kicked off the plane if we were caught, but would I have to pay a fine or something? We were the only two people in our row, but I was paranoid someone would hear me if I started talking about it.

To make a boring story shorter, we stayed together until the bitter end, through customs, through baggage claim at Logan, I said goodbye, and that's it. I texted him and said he was the handsomest guy I'll ever fly from Munich to Boston with, and we're now friends on Facebook, which is the new first base. I seriously regret nothing happening, but I'm prepared for next time, though, thanks to Kate's sweet Googling skills and this eHow article she found. My favorites are steps 6 and 7:

Having sex on an airplane is many people's fantasy. The idea of engaging in sexual activity high above the rest of the world is so exciting that it leads people to have sex in very uncomfortable situations, like tiny airplane bathrooms. If you want to join the mile high club, follow these steps.

 

Difficulty: Moderately Challenging

 

Instructions

1. Book a flight to anywhere you desire. If you want to have a better opportunity to have sex, take a red-eye flight--most of the passengers will be asleep and you will have more privacy.
2. Find an attractive person to have sex with, if you didn't bring a partner along. Choose someone who is traveling alone and try to negotiate a seat close by so you can invite him to join you in the bathroom.
3. Get up and head for the bathroom one at a time so you are less obvious. Go at a time when you are least likely to be disturbed such as during the in-flight entertainment.
4. Clean the toilet seat and cover it with a seat protector before you sit down to be extra cautious. It's safest to have sex while one partner sits on the toilet so you avoid injury if there is turbulence.
5. Finish quickly because other people may need to use the restroom. Be courteous to others and don't tie up the restroom for too long. Clean up all evidence of your adventure so you stay discreet.
6. Exit together and if anybody approaches you about having sex, deny it. Having sex on an airplane is illegal, so pretend that one of you got sick and the other was helping out.
7. Brag about having sex on an airplane to your friends. You have officially joined the mile high club and you deserve bragging rights.

Hey Chicago

Chicago was... exactly like taking a trip to a really great city to go to a fancy wedding with people you don't know and spending the rest of your time driving around in a full mini van with all of Josh's really loud, Jewish family. It was a great trip. Although I didn't see Oprah or John Cusack or Jeff Tweedy, I did see this crazy giant mirror bean thing. It's in this place called Millennium Park, which is home to a lot of really interesting and accessible art. In fact, it seemed like everywhere we turned there was art. From Frank Lloyd Wright to Picasso to the bean in the park, it was inspiring. But it also forced me to consider Portland, and how lackluster our public art is. I've always thought of Portland as arty, especially for it's size, and there is really no reason why there shouldn't be more public art. Note to self: look up Kevin Donahue's email.

Seeing as though I work in a non-profit that helps wheelchair bound people, it shouldn't have been too shocking to see there was a convention at the hotel of more than a hundred wheelchair confined people zooming and parking everywhere. However, my job is to answer the phone, not hang out with our clients, so I might not be as "PC" as I thought... I told all of my boyfriend's family that it's actually okay to call them "electric chairs" until I realized with horror that electric chairs preform capital punishment, and don't move you from point a to point b.

The majority of the weekend was spent in the minivan with four of Josh's closest relatives, his sister's boyfriend, and myself. It was a seven-passenger minivan. For some reason, every time we had to get in or out of the car, a timely enough process as it was, Josh's father insisted on opening the side doors with his remote control. Every time. Each time the car was in motion, no more than ninety seconds passed without Josh's mom exclaiming, "Look at that!" Which was innocent enough, aside from that no one except the people sitting on the same side of the van could see what she was looking at. I could only see the floor, ceiling, and guardrail from the opposite side. Everyone ooed and aaahed while I pretended not to hear. Everyone in the family, with the exception of maybe his sister, talks at an incredible volume. Additionally, we only ever vaguely knew where we were going. Josh and his father knew the area well enough not to have a map, but not well enough to miss turns and such. At the end of nearly an entire day bound to the backseat, Josh's sister finally pleads, "Mom, every time you say Look at that, Ryan dies a little inside."

The food was incredible. I had swordfish and spaghetti squash for the first time. There were a lot of free drinks, more drinks, frittatas, extremely phallic artichokes, and carrot cake. At a place Josh knew I'd love, which was like the Friendly Toast meets a carnival, I had the most delicious salad. It was delicious. A salad. Salads are not supposed to rock my world, but it kind of did. And it would be a shame to forget to mention my Chicago dog. Like the salad, it had a lot of vegetables. Which I'd rather just, save for the salad.

When I returned to work from my luxurious three-day weekend, there was bad news in the Men's Room. Someone had explosive diarrhea which splattered onto the rim of the bowl, meaning, the part that doesn't get flushed. And let me tell you, there is nothing funnier to try and talk about than someone else's uncontrollable bowel movements. Through the process of elimination, we figured out that it's probably one of the two new temps in the office. Firstly, this hasn't happened since the current staff line-up fell into place. And for the first time in months, there are men in the office. Which means it's got to be one of the two new men in the office. Most of the ladies have been using the Men's Room, due to lack of men. I know it was not any of us, because without asking, everyone offered their willingness to clean up after themselves if they had a poop explosion. My cleaning guy called today to tell us that he make a special trip last night to take care of business.

The Puppetmaster

Nearly every time I hear an artist explain their work, they're totally full of shit. This is probably because of my short art school stint where I basically paid the school thousands of dollars to listen to other student recite a lot of bullshit. Okay, but, since cynicism isn't really my thing, here's a fun video to watch:



I think everyone could use a little Dancy-Dance time. Also, I don't think I've ever been so attracted to Elijah Wood. When did he become a dancing indie rocker?

When perusing bookstores, videostores, and musicstores, I tend to get really overwhelmed, essentially trying to recall all of the times I've thought "hey, I should pick that up." On numerous occasions, I've walked into Videoport, and left after forty minutes of walking up and down the aisles thinking, "well, it's tough and triassic day, so I really should get a classic or an action, but I've been feeling like my foreign film library needs to be broadened, but what I really want is a Sex and the City, even though I shouldn't because I've seen every episode twelve times" and eventually leaving the store with nothing. Today at Borders was almost the same story. But I held out, waiting for some kind of sign... and it ended up being, "Children authors writing for Adults" which is where the Best of Roald Dahl was, and I'm intensely happy about my purchase.

Leaving for Chicago in T-minus five and a half hours. Maybe I'll get some sleep and hopefully I'll meet Oprah.

Hotels, Motels and Backseats

I have to go on a business trip this weekend. I'll spare you the details. My job has this policy in place that states you aren't allowed to commute more than two hours to an event and drive back the same day. It also has a policy in place that you can't stay in a motor inn, it has to be a hotel, with hallways. But it can't cost more than a hundred dollars. There are a lot of rules. While I'm packing for Labor Day weekend in scenic Bangor, I'll be thinking of the difference between motels and hotels.

Growing up, trips were few and far between. And therefore very exciting. Sleeping in a bed other than my own, in a place I'd never seen before was like the thrill of my ten year old life. Running down the long hallway, jumping on the bed, an ice machine and free breakfast, who could ask for anything more? But then, as an adult, I realized that there is something uncomfortable about the sterile-ness of hotel rooms. Everything is tucked in and wrapped up, and although I'd rather know that everything is clean and sanitary, I feel a little weird. I've stayed in more motels than hotels because it's more cost effective, but it also feels a little more like home. More friendly, the front desk has a cat, and a don't feel guilty if the room service sees my bottle of booze because they would do the same if they were me. I grew up in a house with wood paneling, so it sort of feels like home. So although it will be nice to have a bathroom with a mirror which will let me see 360 degrees of my naked body when I get out of the shower, and five different types of product for the shower, I really don't mind the cheap motel.

Which reminds me, the first time I stayed up all night was at Foxwoods Hotel and Casino. I was 16, didn't drink and couldn't gamble. There were four of us- two girls, two guys and two beds. It would've been very childish to insist on sharing a bed with my girl friend to avoid facing rejection of either of the boys, so I just decided to stay up all night. The hotel room at Foxwoods had the most powerful toilet I've ever seen in my life. It was like WOOSH!

The most momentous overnight of my life was not in either a motel or a hotel. It was that night the girls and I slept in the backseat of the car, on the side of the road, somewhere between Rhode Island and Connecticut, after seeing the most amazing Thursday show. I was underage, and my mom still doesn't know.

Meanwhile, look at the great website that I just found for this bed and breakfast in Montreal: http://www.lesimone.com/en/index.htm