Disturbing Things That I Used a Screwdriver To Accomplish Today

There's a problem with having a roommate for as long as I did. Or at least, there's a problem with having my particular roommate for that amount of time, and in combination with my particular personality. You see, she was seriously laid back. And I am seriously lazy. And neither of us ever wanted to step on the other's toes.

So you'd have situations where something -- a weird favor from some bridal shower one of us attended or a questionable bottle of wine received as a corporate gift at Christmas time -- would find its way into our apartment. And whoever would bring it in, would put it down ... somewhere. I can't speak for my roommate, but I, at least, would have every intention eventually to put it ... somewhere better. More appropriate. You know, away.

But on too many occasions, that never happened. And after awhile, whatever it was -- the strange angel ashtray, er, soapdish or the giant yellow vase with the artificial flower sticking out of it -- would become part of the decor. And eventually, some of the stuff hung around long enough that we didn't even remember who owned it anymore. So when Chris moved out, I inherited a lot of garbage that may or may not even have been mine in the first place.

Case in point: the arsenal of bottles of wine on my kitchen table. Which admittedly, have remained in my apartment even though Chris has been gone for more than a year. I don't know why I hadn't thrown them out. On the extraordinarily rare occasion that I drink wine, I'm certainly not going to grab something that's got a centimeter of dust on it off my kitchen table. So when I wandered into the kitchen earlier tonight and somehow got sidetracked into a 2-hour kitchen cleaning extravaganza, the ancient bottles of wine had tiny little targets on them, etched in the dust.

There were three of them. I extracted (what I thought was) the cork from the first bottle, upended it in the sink, and nothing came out. I actually thought for a moment that the wine must be so old and of such crap quality that it had solidified, just sitting there for so many years. But a closer inspection revealed that the cork had broken in half when I tried to take it out. I popped the bottom half into the bottle with the corkscrew, and dumped the wine into the sink. Second bottle, same thing happens. And again on the third bottle. Except this time, the bottom half of the cork won't come out. It's wedged deep in the bottleneck, beyond the reach of the corkscrew.

Enter screwdriver.

In hindsight, I don't know why I didn't grab a knife. Or the handle of a fork. I was, after all, in the kitchen. But whatever. I grab a screwdriver. And I'm poking at the cork with it, but the cork's not budging. I give it a little more elbow, and it's still not going anywhere. So I really start pushing the screwdriver into the cork with pretty much everything I've got ... and it's not moving ... until it *totally* gives way, forcing a geyser of disgusting ancient red wine high into the kitchen sky and all over me.

Which is when you learn about your priorities: Literally, there's red wine in my hair, and it's dripping from the tip of my nose. But is this my main concern? Absolutely not. First order of business was the white felt letters on the Notre Dame sweatshirt I had on. There were drops of wine all over them, and it would be terrible to have such a great sweatshirt come to such a tragic end. (I'm happy to report that I successfully dabbed the wine away.)

At any rate, all's well that ends well. The kitchen's clean. The wine's gone. My recycling bag looks like I had a raging wine party. But this was fun. I'm on a bit of cleaning kick right now (New Year's resolutions, you know?) so I look forward to further adventures. I've been thinking about cleaning out the cabinets beneath my sink, and my biggest fear is that I'll find something dead in the process. Cockroaches, most likely, but who knows in this wacky apartment? And at some point, some serious work needs to be done on the toilet. It will require a trip to The Home Depot, which in my world, has always been good for a few laughs. I'll be sure to report back!

Altitude: Sea Level Speed: Sitting down. Temperature: 74 degrees Fahrenheit (Originally Posted 2.26.08)

On the ground update …

So the last few hours of my flight. Yeah, never really got back to work. I found games – games! – on the little in-flight entertainment thingy, so I played some little game where I was a tiny penguin who had to find diamonds without having rocks fall on me or getting blown up by dynamite.

Also, I saw the California Speedway out the window of the plane. You know you watched too much NASCAR rain delay programming over the weekend when you find yourself looking out the window of your plane and actually recognizing the mountain you're seeing down below! Sure enough, there was the speedway right near the foot of the mountain, except it looked like a quarter mile track from up in the sky. Totally cleared out, too. Not a sign that NASCAR's two premier series had been racing there less than 24 hours ago.

Then we landed 45 minutes early (in what appeared to be a Howard Johnson circa 1979 – holy cow. You want to talk about a brown paisley carpet and an old hotel smell. Good lord. Even the hip, beautiful, young, wealthy people deplaning from my Virgin America flying nightclub couldn't help that place!) Then my luggage arrived to the baggage claim before I did. Then I walked out the door, and there was a line of cabs all waiting just for me. Seriously, not a single other person there. I got to the hotel at exactly the time my flight was supposed to touch down.

So now I'm at the Ritz Carlton in Marina del Rey, sitting on my bed (which is a good one -- we'll figure out this back thing yet!) with the sliding door wide open, and the marina to my immediate right, and snowy mountain tops off in the distance to my left. I'll tell you though, I've gained an immediate understanding of why so many rich people get so far out of touch with reality. I don't think I've ever been treated in my entire life as well as I've been treated in the last two hours. Fifteen people had welcomed me and offered to do things for me before I was ten feet in the door. Within two minutes, a member of the welcome committee had armed me with a really tasty orange-pomegranite drink of some kind. Some guy took my bag shortly after I entered the building and then magically reappeared with it pretty much as soon as I set foot in my room, and then he gave me a *tour* of the room and offered to go down the hall and get me ice. The room service guy brought me the remote control and spun the TV toward me in case I wanted to watch while I ate ...

So what I need to do is kick back and get over my guilt complex about being treated so nicely! Ugghhhhh!!! I got out of the non-profit world because I was tired of being poor, but this is like so-o-o far at the other end of the spectrum that I don't even know what to do with myself! It's nice though! And I'm enjoying it.

If only it weren't for these pesky meetings I've got to go to!

Altitude: 37,974 ft. Speed: 536 mph. Temperature: -49 degrees Fahrenheit (Originally Posted 2.28.08)

Greetings from somewhere over Missouri!

Things I've learned today:

1. It's apparently only 16 minutes from my apartment to JFK. There was no traffic, but still, I seriously thought it was like three times that.

2. The televisions in cabs? Yeah, no thanks. It's just a big advertisement for NBC with old news scrolling along the bottom. (It told me that Sprint Cup race was postponed, even though my boy Carl won it yesterday afternoon. It claimed the PATH was free today, even though that happened yesterday.) It also seemed a bit obsessed with violence, often of the nonsensical variety. By which I do not mean little old ladies getting mugged. I mean nonsensical quite literally. Like, "Robber attacks man with plan." Did the robber use a plan to attack a man? Or did the man who was attacked by the robber have a plan? Or was it just a typo? These are the things I thought about on the Van Wyck at 7a.m. this morning.

My Virgin America review:

1. We've all been to JFK before, and we all know it generally ain't pretty. It's like the Ellis Island of the generation that only boards boats for luxury purposes (unless they're going to Staten Island). There should be a sign over the entrance off the highway … "Give me your tired, your poor. Your fat, your sloppy, your questionably clean. Your loud and frequently ignorant." It could be one of those signs that's actually a bunch of signs along the highway, like that depressing poem in the hallway between the ACE and 123 trains at the Times Square Station, because you couldn't read all that tooling along at 70 mph.

Yeah well. If you want to escape all that, head to the Virgin America gate in the International Terminal. I don't know that I've ever seen a collection of so many generally young, generally very hip looking, and clearly very wealthy people gathered together anywhere, let alone at an airport. Given what I know of Sir Richard Branson, I'm assuming this was his goal here, and uh yeah, smashing success.

2. Well, except that there ain't a whole lot of people on this plane. Which is just fine by me. I've got the whole row to myself, and I've somehow managed to spread my crap out pretty well across the whole damn thing. I'm seriously going to have to start cleaning up after myself somewhere around Las Vegas just so that I'm sure I have my act together by the time we get to L.A. But yeah, not exactly the greatest thing from a business standpoint, all these empty seats. Unless this is just how it goes. Do people not fly to California in the morning? I don't think I've ever had to share my row any time I've flown to California before noon. Odd.

3. So here's what happened with this flight: Virgin America has it's own gate in the international terminal at JFK, and it appears that it only had two flights going anywhere this morning. The plane was already at the gate when I arrived excessively early (thanks to my 16 minute cab ride to JFK), so they took a "get on whenever the hell you want" approach to boarding us. Which meant that we were all very much ensconced when it was time to go – no flight attendants rushing about slamming overhead bins closed and generally stressing out the whole damn plane. Which was nice. We push back from the gate, we drive, like, rightoverthere, hang a left onto the runway, and take off without even stopping. Let me say that again in case you were breezing a little too quickly through this post. We push back, drive for a minute, hang a left, and take off without even stopping. At JFK. I'm used to being 25^th in line for take-off. Flight attendants handing out water because we've been sitting on the runway so darn long. I read that something like 70% of all the delayed flights in America can be tracked back to NYC's airports. But we took off without even stopping. I realize this isn't something that's necessarily tied to Virgin America, but I do think there's a benefit to being in the international terminal, and because of that, I will give Virgin America the credit.

3. This plane has mood lighting – purple lights along the ceiling and pink lights closer to the windows. It looks a bit like a club on Steinway Street (specifically, that club near the R train that's shaped like a camera), but it's okay I guess. And the little pointy thing at the end of the wing is painted like an American flag. I like that.

4. We could do better on the food offerings. I'm a little hungry, but neither the "Strawberry Fruit Leather" nor the $12 "Fruit and Cheese Plate" sound particularly appetizing. People complain about "airplane food" but I'd kind of give my left arm right now for a turkey sandwich on white bread with a squeezy pack of mayo. I *love* however that you can order drinks (even the free stuff – water and coffee and soda and juice) from your seat! This has got to be a nightmare for the flight attendants on a crowded flight, but when there's just the 20 of us hurtling through the sky, it's fantastic!

5. Entertainment offerings are okay. Not as many TV channels as Jet Blue, but the movie offerings are a nice option, and they even have Nikki Sixx's new video as an on-demand music video choice. Surprisingly, the song didn't sound that bad. The lyrics were *very* silly, and I'm sure the album is excruciatingly annoying. (According to the information provided with the video, it's a concept album called something like The Heroin Diaries. Puh-leeese.) But the song sounded good if you weren't really paying attention too much and/or if you didn't know that Nikki Sixx is a bombastic idiot. I also watched the video for Wyclef Jean's "The Sweetest Girl," which I still think is about strippers even though the video was about illegal immigrants.

6. And if the TV and movies and music isn't enough to keep you entertained, our pilot is hilarious. We had the worst turbulence I've ever experienced in my life at the beginning of this flight. It was starting to feel a little Almost Famous on this plane for awhile there. I was literally holding the window jamb at one point to help brace myself and prevent my head from slamming into the side of the plane. So we're tossing all over the place, and the pilot comes over the airwaves all calm like, "If ya'll can just hang on a little longer, we're going to descend back down to the smoother air where we were before. We got some news that it would be better up here, but clearly *that's* not the case." He said it all emphasized like that. Made me feel a little less like death might be imminent.

Synopsis: I didn't pay more to fly this airline, but I would. Even if I wasn't on the company's dime!

What's Ahead for Me Today:

Well, first another 2 hours in the air. We're somewhere between Denver and Albuquerque right now. I guess I'll eat the Power Bar I threw in my purse because the $9 steak sandwich sounds a little questionable. Maybe I'll sleep some? I only got 2.5 hours in the sack last night, but I'm completely wired right now. I really should do some more work, but that sounds less appealing than the $7 make-your-own-yogurt-parfait. Hmmm …

But yeah, then to the hotel. I'm hoping they have a good bed there so I can figure out whether the bed in my apartment is crap or whether my back is just crap. I'd believe either at this point in my life, and I tend to think that the truth of the matter is somewhere in the middle. Then a meeting from 4-5:30p.m. Then a cocktail reception at 7p.m. and then dinner with clients at 8p.m.. This day is just a little too long, I think!

Oh, and the Rockies are really beautiful from the air.

My Three Favorite American Idol Posts from the 2008 Season

American Idol Week 11 (Originally Posted 5.02.08)

So, American Idol. I'm watching you tonight because I heard Paula did something more stupid than usual, and the part of me that loves a gory car wreck is just dying to know what it is.

I've dedicated a lot of real estate in this blog to wondering how the hell this woman has a job. If I showed up to work in a ball gown that looks like it came from a store on Steinway, rocking some elbow-high fingerless gloves with giant fake rhinestone bracelets over them and a tiara perched upon on my head – all of this in addition to being completely high – I don't think they'd let me through the door. But that's just the daily grind for our girl Paula.

And I've wondered how they've allowed this to continue season after season. But perhaps there's a method to your madness, American Idol. You knew you lost me when you forced me to stop having my Michael Johns fantasies. Fantasies that I quite enjoyed having, mind you, and fantasies that I was not ready to give up. Mariah Carey week went unwatched and was unceremoniously deleted from my DVR to make room for NASCAR qualifying – qualifying! – from Talladega.

You knew you were in trouble, American Idol, so you reached to what I thought was the very bottom of your bag of dirty tricks and pulled out Andrew Friggin' Lloyd Webber, Greatest American Idol Guest Ever. "Well played," I thought. But then you went and booted the last person with any talent right out of the competition, and I said, "Enough, you stupid show!!!"

And I meant it. All the way up till Wednesday morning, when I woke to the morning radio show DJs saying Paula had *really* done it this time, and my split second reflex was to quick turn off the radio before I heard what she did because I just *had* to see it for myself. There's a method to your madness, American Idol, and I should have known it all along. Press play.

Ryan looks like he attempted to achieve the Brooklyn hipster look tonight – stupid skinny tie and faux-hawk – but with his unrelenting Seacrest-i-tude, he is not the man to pull it off. We won't discuss what Paula's wearing because she just looks insane. Simon, meanwhile, looks great from the neck up, but a bit overly Man-Cleave-y from the neck down. Has anyone conducted any kind of scientific study on whether Simon's shirts show increasingly more chest as each season trundles along? Good lord. I think I saw Gerardo at the gym wearing the same shirt Simon's got on tonight. Rico. Suuuaave.

Neil Diamond is the guest tonight, which is going to be ridiculous. Oh, this is no fun. The Idols are singing two songs tonight, but they're only going to be judged after the second one. Fortunately, before I can get too annoyed about this development, Jason Castro is sinking to new levels of pot headiness. He's practicing with Mr. Diamond, and he doesn't know the lyrics to his first song, so he looks down at his crib notes, but he's got the lyrics to his second song up there on piano. I was *hoping* that he was high enough that he'd start singing the words to the second song to the tune of the first song, but alas, 'twas not to be.

Jason Castro is a man with one set of girly legs on him. Jason Castro is also a man who has a future being the guy in the bar playing guitar. And I don't mean the guy we're all watching play guitar in the bar. I mean the guy who's kind of in the corner, playing guitar while everyone talks to their friends and pretends they don't have any singles when the tip jar gets passed around. He's a cute guy, but I honestly can't believe we're still watching him on this show.

I don't know what this song is that David Cook is singing, but I worked at a pool during the summers all through high school and college. It was in this really nice park, right on the banks of the Hudson River. And one summer they had a weekly concert series on like Thursday nights in the park right outside the pool. And you know, the bands were all comprised of these middle aged dudes whose wives decided to humor them by letting them play music in the divorced member of the band's basement once or twice a week. And everyone would come with their coolers and their sandwiches and their sodas, and they'd sit on blankets on the ground and watch these over-the-hill bands play these ridiculous songs, and toddlers and middle-aged women would dance along to the music, and all us lifeguards would sit in a pickup truck by the maintenance shed, drinking beers and feeling pretty certain that we lived in most mortifying town in America. So yeah. This song that David Cook's singing? It sounds like something I would have heard at one of these concerts.

Brooke White just asked Neil Diamond if he was "a hugger or a hand shaker" and that question has made me feel a bit homicidal. I doubt anybody in America is surprised that Brooke intends to play instruments on *both* her songs tonight. American Idol? Yeah, this letting-the-kids-play-instruments experiment you tried this year? Please don't bring it back. Oh God. Don't sing the song from Shrek, Brooke! And *really* don't sing it looking all wide-eyed and creepy the way you are right now! And ugh, with your head all pushed back so it looks like you've got 15 chins and no neck! And is she singing a register lower than she meant to?? Sweet lord! This is quite awful!

Ugh. I just wrote something about David Archuletta's sexual inexperience and the near rapture he appears to be experiencing in the presence of Neil Diamond, but I had to delete it because I seriously grossed myself out. You know. A lot of people are making me feel homicidal tonight, but I think the award for the most homicide-inducing of all goes to the violin chick in the sunglasses. At any rate, David Archuletta is singing Sweet Caroline, which is a song that I have hated ever since the summer of 1998, when I paid $80 to sit in the last row of Giants Stadium at what turned out to be about 45 minutes of U2 concert, 10 minutes of pre-encore down-time, 10 minutes of U2 making their way out of a giant lemon and back to the stage, and 5 minutes of The Edge singing karaoke to Sweet Caroline. Worst $80 I've ever spent in my life. And now I have a whole new reason to hate this song. And not just because it's David Archuletta singing it, but because he's singing the most ludicrous interpretation of the song I've ever heard. Kill me now. This Paula Abdul gaffe had better be pretty damn good.

Arrrrgggggghhhhhhhhhh!!! Oh God!!! ARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!! I paused my DVR to rant about how the "Sitting, Barefoot, on the Floor" move needs to be retired from American Idol forever. (Like seriously, they should hang a banner from the rafters of the American Idol theatre with Katherine McFee on it sitting in front of a rainbow, like they do in hockey rinks when they retire players' numbers.) And you're totally not going to believe this, but I swear to you that it's true – it paused the TV just as the camera was fading away from Syesha and onto the damned violin section of the band. So it's like a translucent barefoot, floor-sitting Syesha with a ghost of Sunglasses Violin Chick appearing from behind her shoulder. I can't handle it. All of this said, if friggin' Syesha had just stood up and put on a pair of shoes, she would have had the best performance of the night so far.

Anyhow. Thus closes the first round of songs. And apparently we're doing all the comments at the same time??? I thought we were still going to get two-for-one comments on each person after their second song. And oh lord, Paula. I was hoping for something ridiculous in a funny way, but that was ridiculous is a really kind of sad way. This said, I would *love* to see what she has written on that note pad. She was furiously flipping through it while Simon was giving his (spot on) review. Oh lord.

Okay, we're going to try to keep the rest of this review short … Jason Castro is channeling Enrique Iglesias and singing poorly. Randy panned him. Paula muttered something. Simon told him he lost his mojo. I agree with all of them. Even Paula.

David Cook irritates me with his smarmy rock posturing, but he knocked that power ballad out of the park.

Brook is next. Fortunately she took the best piece of advice that Neil Diamond offered all night. Most people weren't born and raised in New York City, but Brooke *really* was not born and raised in New York City. Ah shit. I just stepped on a Cheerio. Cheerios are the only food that splits apart at the atomic level when you step on them. Ugh. I'll clean it up later. And what the hell is Paula talking about now? Idol Gives Back? I need to rewind. "I think that what you just did … as opposed to the first song, I felt like … you did have fun, but it was right after American Idol Gives Back and there was that whole video with 'I'm a Believer' but this one you come back with this song …" WHAT??? Oh boy!

David Archuletta is now singing "America" and it is so gloriously horrendous that it may be my favorite American Idol performance ever. How did none of the judges pan him?? Simon, I am seriously disappointed in you!!!

Syesha closes this marathon of a show. The double song nights are really brutal when you hate everyone who's left. Jason Castro's future is playing guitar in O'Flaherty's on 46^th Street in Times Square, and Syesha's future is around the corner in one of the Broadway theatres. Good singer, but not a pop star.

Mercifully, this show has ended. I have no idea who's going home tonight. Not David Cook or David Archuletta. I'll go with Brooke because you've got to go with someone.

American Idol Week 10: Andrew Lloyd Webber a.k.a. Greatest American Idol Coach EVER (Originally Posted 4.23.08)

So as some of you know, I needed to take a few weeks away from American Idol. The "Idol Gives Back" Orgy of Self-Congratulation did not entice, and the booting of Michael Johns required protest. It crossed my mind that my angsty relationship with this season of American Idol might have come to a premature end. But you know my soft spots, American Idol, and you press them shamelessly. "Andrew Lloyd Webber makes absolutely zero sense as a theme," you said, "But he will reduce Siobhan to putty in our hands!" Then you laughed demonically because you knew you were right.

And you were right, American Idol. I can't not watch. I just can't. I need to know if David Cook will sing "The Rum Tum Tugger." The part of me that loves to hate David Archuletta has been hoping all day that he'll give us the kind of overly earnest rendition of "Jesus Christ Superstar" that will make me want to jump out my window. I don't remember which girls are left at this point, but someone's going to try "Memories," and someone's going to try "Don't Cry For Me Argentina," and I haven't the foggiest idea what Jason Castro will do, but I can't wait to find out. Yes American Idol, you have chosen well. I haven't been this excited for an episode in years, I don't think.

Let's fire up the DVR, shall we??

It's a star studded evening at American Idol: David Duchovny is in the crowd, and was that Kim Kardashian? (I seriously want to kill myself that the potential exists that I can pick Kim Kardashian out of a line-up. Oh crap. And now I'm probably going to get fired. I'm on my work laptop right now, and I plugged her name into Google because fortunately, I'm not familiar enough with her to know how to spell her name, but I completely forgot about that sex tape!!! Doh!!!) The Idol Gives Back special is just a memory, but the Orgy of Self-Congratulation continues on American Idol: Ryan just found out that the finale is going Green. Normally I like to hear that sort of thing, but on American Idol, it's just plain annoying.

To the judges … maybe I've been away too long (or hallucinating courtesy of the tetanus vaccine-induced haze I've been living in since last Thursday), but Paula's actually looking sober and very pretty tonight, and Simon's looking even hotter than usual, all twinkly eyed and mischievous! Oh God!!! They just brought the contestants, and Carly Smithson looks like she took a Bedazzler to her grandmother's couch, cut some armholes in it, and called it a dress. More on that later I'm sure, but for now, I'm going to sit back and enjoy the Andrew Lloyd Webber montage. (Heh. Ryan just called the Vegas set of Phantom of the Opera "Andrew Lloyd Webber's home turf." Yes. When I think Andrew Lloyd Webber, I think Vegas, for sure!)

We begin the performance part of the show with karma smacking Syesha Mercado square in the ass: She enters the song at the wrong place in the music, but that's what you get for being a bit of a patronizing bitch toward Andrew Lloyd Webber. Blech! The American Idol stylists have also launched another front in their global campaign against girls with curls, flattening Syesha's beautiful mop of bouncy curls into a bridesmaid up-do. At any rate, Syesha is singing "One Rock and Roll Too Many," and American Idol is annoying me by not saying what show it's from. Syesha's singing just okay, but she's being completely upstaged by the band leader who has nothing to do tonight since he doesn't know how to conduct an orchestra and has decided to entertain himself by dancing up a friggin' storm over on the side of the stage. Way to know your place, buddy. At any rate, the judges loved it, though Simon thinks Syesha's future is on the Great White Way, and Syesha said she's okay with that. Which is an odd comment to make when you're competing to be a pop star. But whatever, we won't over-think it too much.

Jason Castro is apparently back on the pre-show marijuana. I haven't seen the show in two weeks, so maybe he resumed this habit before tonight, but we're suffering from definite inability to form complete sentences during the interview with Ryan. Oh God. He's singing "Memories," and he just uttered the quote of the night: "I didn't know a cat was singin' it." Love. Ing. It. Okay. So I just watched the performance, and I paused the TV before the judges gave their reviews, and I'm going to pony up to actually kind of liking it! I mean, I hope he doesn't get kicked off this week, because if he has to go back to his buddies at wherever the hell he goes to college after that pansy ass performance, there's going to be a lot of grief in his future, but I thought it was nice. Sensitive. Whatever. Not a vocal masterpiece, but he sure pulled it off a lot better than I ever imagined. Let's see what the judges think! Yeah, they didn't like it. But whatever judges!!! I don't care! I did! These things said, Jason's got the defeated look of a kid who actually might not mind being sent home. I can understand that.

Brooke White is next, and she's the second singer in a row who hasn't a clue what her song is about. Do these kids not have internet access? Or a library card? Or even just someone they can ask for the back-story on the songs they're singing? Because, you know. Just for instance. I think Jason Castro would have liked to know that his song was sung by a cat. And not just any old cat, but an "ancient glamour pus." And Brooke, your character is dying. That's a key piece of information. She's not just in love, you see?

Hmm. Brooke blew the first line. Which was fine the first time she did it. But this is at least the second time, and I seem to recall it happening during the auditions too. I don't pretend to understand the stress these kids are under, but getting it done is part of what you signed up for, you know. At any rate. She sang it well. I was a little concerned in the beginning that she was taking a few too many cues from Debbie – ahem, excuse me! – Deborah Gibson's version of Eponine in Les Miserables (for those who never had the pleasure, Deborah took the "your character is dying" direction a little too literally), but Brooke breathed a bit more life into it as the song went along. Curious to see what the judges think … Pretty tepid review. But delivered nicely. You can tell the judges like her and want her to do well, and that's kind of nice in its own way.

Erg. David Archuletta is next. Does he wear the same outfit every week? He literally looks like he's on his way home from school picture day in eighth grade. Like, his Mom made him wear a tie, and now it's a little askew because he wore it all through recess, and he doesn't have a proper jacket because, you know, he's in eighth grade. WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS UP WITH ALL THE BOYS SINGING SONGS THAT WERE WRITTEN FOR WOMEN???? Like, this is kind of weird, right? I'm not the only one whose thinking this?? Right??? Ah, whatever. He sang the David Archuletta remix of "Think of Me" from Phantom of the Opera. It was earnest and David Archuletta-like and all. But he should have sung "Jesus Christ Superstar." I almost feel gypped.

Okay, Carly Smithson. She's no David Archuletta, but I'm glad I'm getting my "Jesus Christ Superstar." This night is all backwards for me. Men singing "Memories," and women singing "Jesus Christ Superstar." I think if you took the second paragraph of this post and tossed it into the air, it all might have landed just right! Well. As long as David Cook sings "The Rum Tum Tugger." Heh! But it just dawned on me that this means Carly Smithson is wearing grandma's bedazzled couch to sing "Jesus Christ Superstar?" An odd wardrobe choice there. But she sang well. I'm going to say something I haven't yet said about Carly: I actually liked that performance. And I found her likable singing it. And the judges did too. Hell, Randy even liked her outfit. You missed your chance David Archuletta.

Oh blah, David Cook. "The Music of the Night." I'm actually annoyed with myself that I didn't see that coming. If you blow this, it's because you should have sung "The Rum Tum Tugger" David Cook. You heard it hear first. Ah, whatever. Alright singing. Good job on hitting the high notes there. Well, oooof. At least up until that last note. What was that?? I don't know. I didn't feel like he "connected with the lyrics." In fact I thought it was boring. And that's really what it all comes down to. I'll stop talking now.

So who's going home? I sure don't know! I'm guessing either Syesha, Brooke, or Jason Castro, but I have no idea which one. I'm going to go with Syesha just to get something up on the board, but I won't at all be surprised if I'm wrong.

Week One: Results Show (Originally Posted 2.22.08)

Hoo-boy! I'm normally of the opinion that that AI results show absolutely *must* be watched on DVR so that the appropriate parts (i.e., all but about 4 minutes of the show) can be blown right through, but last night's episode may have been my favorite (in terns of sheer comedy) of the three episodes this week.

Unfortunately, my cable was all pixelated again for the group performance, so it was just too annoying to watch. It looked super humorous though. I always love watching the "rocker" types during these performances. Like that Aussie dude. From what I could see through the pixelation, he looked like he wanted to kill himself. (Which, IMO, is an appropriate emotion during an AI group performance.)

Next up, the first of the men goes. Ryan drops the ax well before any of us saw it coming, and Leif Garrett's head rolls. What's awesome though, is that dude looked like Richard Marx smashed into a Hasidic Jew, and the two magically fused. 90% of his hair says "Hold On To The Night" but he's got these spiral curls going down the side, and he's wearing a big black hat. Comedy.

We move over to the women. Car model chick is given the boot, and they've got her kitted out in a pair of white tights that makes her look like she weighs about 30 pounds more than she does. Good choice wardrobe people. Between Richard Marxstein's hair and the incredible fattening tights, the stylist side of this show is doing a bang up job!

THEN! Then we debut Paula Abdul's new video. Which was awesome. It was like a remake of Cold Hearted Snake, with a few corny 1980s special effects (a freeze frame Polaroid falling off the page, at one point there were little blue waves on the bottom of the screen) and Randy Jackson "playing" bass guitar. Paula's eyes are half shut through most of the video, and then at the very end, a picture of Ryan, Randy, Paula, and Simon pops up on the screen. This appears to be a part of the actual video. The whole thing was just hilarious.

Oh boy! Back to the cuts, it's time to let go of another girl. Ryan asks plus-size model and one of the blonds (I can't tell them apart) to join him at the center of the stage. Plus-size model has on what appears to be something a trendy 1960s girl might wear to a funeral, except it's two sizes too big and just doesn't look good. Considering she sang like complete crap the night before, it's no surprise she's gone.

Finally, Ryan brings Jacuzzi and Ellen Degeneres on stage. Suddenly plus-size model girl's outfit makes sense, because Ellen looks like his boyfriend just died in a fiery car wreck, and Jacuzzi looks like he's Ellen's best friend, but he was secretly in love with Ellen's boyfriend, and maybe he was even driving the car that killed the guy ... Dude seriously looked completely *distraught*. I'd heard the rumors that Jacuzzi was toast, so I was actually concerned for his health and safety. But he made it through, and we say goodbye to Ellen. Simon tells him that he should get a real job, because the singing thing just ain't gonna happen.

Seriously. Best results show ever!

Notre Dame Report: Air Force vs. ND 11.10.07 (Originally Post 11.15.07)

Well folks, the football game itself was one of the more spectacularly horrendous displays of sporting that I've ever seen in my life, but we still had a great time. Flew into Chicago Friday morning and was to South Bend, IN by 1p.m. We rented the same house that we rented last year, so that was great -- four bedrooms, three bathrooms, full kitchen. Cheaper and more fun and convenient than a hotel -- definitely the way to go!

Friday got a little sidetracked as my friend's fiance landed in the emergency room. He wasn't feeling well, so he stayed back at the house while we went to campus. Not feeling well turned into not able to breathe, and he ended up having to call an ambulance. So that was very scary, but fortunately, it doesn't seem that it was anything horrendous, and once that was determined, we put the wheels back on the weekend and headed to the store to buy tailgating supplies.

And then we began drinking, and it just devolved into one of those funniest nights ever sorts of things! I found sidewalk chalk, and we drew a giant handicapped parking spot in the driveway so our friends would know where to park when they got home from the hospital. Chris misheard the directions to the pizza place and thought it was located in "Danger Plaza." Just that kind of night. Once everyone arrived (Two friends had to work on Friday, so they didn't get to the house till after 10p.m.), we headed out to the bar in the hotel where we used to stay in the years before we started renting a house. Gipper's at the Days Inn on Rt. 31. It ain't pretty, but it's full of people like us who are just in town for the game, they play great music (by which I mean, like, Pour Some Sugar on Me), and comedy always ensues. According to my friend, I was the comedy this year. We're at the tailgate the next morning, and she's like, "I haven't seen you like that in a long time!" Which made me nervous at first, but she assured me that she was just talking about happy, storytelling, corralling-half-the-bar-to-play-PhotoHunt-with-me drunk. Which is a good kind of drunk, for sure!

So yeah. Up early the next morning and off to the tailgate. I was pretty proud that all nine of us from the house were out there by around 10:15a.m., with the rest of the crowd (there were about 20 of us total) arriving shortly thereafter. The tailgate was fun, but wow, you could sure feel the affects of the crappy football season on the atmosphere. I think the big Chicago-Indy-Cleveland contingent that normally makes it to multiple games per year had just stopped coming at that point, and it was only those of us who have had this trip on our books since June that made the game. Even the stadium had empty seats, which is something I've never seen in 14 seasons of going to football games there. It was really something. So I'll skip that part, and skip the game too because there ain't much to say about it other than that it was cold and the team was awful. Ugh!

Post-game, we walked back to our cars, and the bulk of us decided to go to the Linebacker Lounge, which is a Notre Dame institution (we ended probably 85% of our nights out senior year at the Backer) and was within walking distance of our car. Well sweet lord!!! We had so much friggin' fun there! A friend sent around her pictures from the evening, and I haven't seen a funnier pack of pictures since Spring Break 1998. Just complete drunken comedy. We made about 150 friends, and they cameo-ed in the majority of the pictures, and we just danced and sang and requested, like, 30 songs from the DJ. (All the hits: Livin' on a Prayer, more Pour Some Sugar on Me, Don't Stop Believing by Journey, Any Man of Mine by Shania Twain, Seven by Prince ... yep, this is *that* kind of bar -- big plastic glasses of Budweiser and complete comedy!) We were there for like 6 hours, and I could barely even talk the next day, my throat was so sore!

So yeah, really a great, great weekend! Good to see Chris again. They say that getting over a breakup takes a week for every month you were together. Chris and I lived together for 7.5 years, so yeah ... We should be able to say goodbye to one another without complete waterworks in what ... a little under two years?? Flew home Sunday afternoon and walked in the door 10 minutes before the Giants game started, so pretty much perfect there! Good times! Already can't wait till next year!

Bird Emergency (Originally Posted 7.12.07)

So I'm running down the street toward the park in my neighborhood last night, and up ahead, I see four police officers and maybe 20 people standing around in the middle of the street. I slow down and pop out my headphones ... but nobody's really saying or doing anything, and a lot of people are looking up. The Triborough Bridge is up ahead across the street, so I'm wondering if maybe there's a jumper ... But there doesn't seem to be any activity on the bridge, so I keep going.

Four miles later, I'm headed back home, and now there are about 10 police officers, several police cars (many with their lights on) and probably 100 people gathered on the same corner, still looking up. There's a bit more action this time, so I decide to hang around for a minute to see what's going on. Long story short, it turns out there's an injured red tail hawk in a tree on the corner.

Now. If this had been most anywhere else in the country, this wouldn't have been too big a deal. But this is New York, and not only is it New York, it's Queens. God bless my borough, but you kind of get the feeling a lot of these people don't get out too often. Like, they've probably been back to their home country a lot, but if they're in NYC, they don't get too far outside NYC. And God bless the cops in this town because they are wonderful and heroic and they do amazing things to keep us safe, but they have neither the equipment nor the know-how to capture wildlife.

Because this just devolved into one of the more humorous experiences I've ever had in this city. The people on the street were downright giddy. We had everyone from grandmas to teenagers on bikes to kids running around in the street, and people are calling the news -- actually discussing which newschannel would be the best to call. I heard a spirited debate behind me about whether Channel 11 or Channel 7 should be called to the scene.

And then there's the cops. We've got a guy on a ladder that's leaned against the tree. And he's got what I described to my roommate as a big metal finger on a stick. Like, the way you'd swipe your index finger under a parakeet to get him to hop aboard -- this was the big metal version of that. He's going after the bird with this thing, but the bird's not having any of it. He's hopping away further and further up the tree. So they decide to go the net route. Except the net is on a stick that's not long enough. So ladder cop passes the net back down, and all's quiet for awhile. I'm wondering what exactly is going on when another cop emerges from an *emergency management* truck with two nets, lashed together with electric tape to make a longer pole. Awesome!

So Ladder Cop's back poking at the bird, and the people are getting all riled up. Word on the street was that this had been going on for three hours, so this was some serious action. The bird falls down a few branches. People scream. Ladder Cop goes at the bird again, trying to scoop him into the net. People think he's got him. They begin to clap. But the bird's resisting, and he falls completely out of the tree.

At which point all the cops on the ground ... stand there. Seriously. It was quite hilarious. The bird starts trying to make a break for it. He's hopping toward the fence in the yard he fell into. People are screaming. The cops finally start moving. The bird hops up and over the fence and INTO A VERY BUSY STREET!!! And now he's running across the street with the cops in hot pursuit and all the people on the street close behind them. That nobody -- bird, cop, or pedestrian -- got run over in this whole ordeal is a rather significant miracle.

Unfortunately, after all this buildup, the end of the story isn't particularly interesting. The cops finally caught up with a bird, they threw a sheet over him, and then stuck him in a box. People cheered. The cop walked triumphantly back to the emergency management truck with his box 'o bird. People followed him across the street like he was the Pied Piper. And I don't really know what happened after that. I guess we all went back about our lives. But it's fun when you live in a city where you expect to see literally just about anything at any time of the day, to see something you didn't expect to see. It turns out there's a whole nest of red tail hawks in the park in my neighborhood. I'll have to check them out the next time I'm down there.

Blacked Out!!! (Originally Posted 1.25.07) (Originally, Orginally From an August 2003 Email)

So I've been cleaning out the personal folder on my computer at work, and it turns out a lot of writing has died here. So why not ressurrect some of the stuff that's worth preserving? This is an email I sent to someone immediately following the East Coast Black Out in August 2003. Bad times at the time, but good times in hindsight! ...

Yes, the Monday after The Blackout. I bet you think you're going to open your email to find some pages-long message from me about my powerless city. But you think wrong!!! My weekend consisted of one mission and one mission alone: Getting my bridesmaid dress-clad ass to Indianapolis by 2:30p.m. Saturday afternoon (with the implicit second mission of getting my cute little skirt-wearing ass back to NYC Sunday night). The story of that mission is the real story of this weekend.

Still, I guess any message from any one of the 50 million of us who lost power this weekend needs to involve some mention of the big event. My personal story's not that great. I was at work and everything shut down. Something about the way it happened felt like more than just your average power outage, and as I'm sure you'd imagine, it was a little scary there for awhile. Nobody could get through to anybody on their cell phones, which meant this was pretty widespread. Then bits and pieces of (what turned out to be incorrect) information started coming in, and it got a little scary for awhile. One of the good things, however, about working for an organization that's got a lot of energy experts kicking around is that they could figure out pretty quickly what had happened and how long it was going to take to fix. About 20 minutes after the lights went out, we got a call from one of our big energy guys in San Francisco, and he said the magic words – "It almost certainly wasn't terrorism" – and from there I'd be lying if I told you the whole thing wasn't kind of exhilarating. Different, and a little challenge, you know, a bit of the unknown, too.

So I started off on what was probably about a 5 mile walk home which I guess kind of sucked, but at the same time, it was so much fun, and one of those once-in-a-lifetime and only-in-New-York kinds of experiences that are the reason I love this city so much. Millions of people –literally – on the streets, parties in all the bars, just the most festive atmosphere. I'm sure it was a bewildering nightmare for anyone who wasn't from here or who lived outside the city and had no idea how they were going to get home, but for those of us who had a place to go, this was something that was eventually going to go away, so we might as well enjoy it for the unique possibilities it brings.

At any rate, it took me about two and a half hours to get home. I found our flashlight and went to the corner store to grab something to eat (We had a box of cereal, some M&Ms, milk, and a bunch of condiments when the lights went out.) and that was basically it. It was unbelievably hot, so I procrastinated a bit about going to bed, but finally put my head down about 1:30a.m. (Pretty lame, eh?! I wish I could have told you I was drunk and dancing to the bands that were playing on the streets, and sleeping in the park with hundreds of strangers, but alas, I was home. I was a little nervous about how I was going to get to the wedding I had to get to, and aware that even under the best of circumstances, I had a *very* long weekend ahead of me, so I took the responsible route.)

Alrighty!!!

Friday morning began with me in my pajamas in the pitch dark on the pay phone outside the corner store at 4:35a.m. talking to U.S. Air about the status of my 8:26a.m. flight. The automated service told me my flight was on time, which seemed impossible, but at the same time, the news said the airports were functioning, and I thought perhaps because I was among the first couple of flights to get out, things wouldn't be too backed up. Back up to my apartment and into what turned out to be an ice cold shower. I guess if I'd thought about it, it might have occurred to me that the power outage would mean no hot water, but it hadn't, so that was an unpleasant surprise. There was no way I could convince myself to get under that freezing water, so I took what amounted to a sponge bath, wetting a towel and then dabbing at myself with it. Lovely. Then out of the shower, beginning the process of trying to pack in the dark. Which was actually going along quite well till the lights came back on. Something about the return to normalcy made me realize how disorganized and tired and unprepared I was for this wedding.

But I managed to get all packed up by 6a.m. One more call to U.S. Air confirming that my flight was on time, and I'm on my way. It had crossed my mind that finding a cab might be an obstacle, but I hadn't realized just how difficult it would be. (Like the hot water situation, it never occurred to me that people wouldn't be able to pump gas without electricity.) I had no idea where the bus to LaGuardia stopped, and I had no idea if it was running, but I began to head in the direction I imagined it must be … I don't know … I was feeling myself sliding toward panic mode when a cab appeared on the streets, and I managed to snag it. (Confession: As I said, it had crossed my mind that finding a cab might be a problem. I kind of figured that if any were available, there would probably be four or five people trying to grab it. So I wore my little denim skirt and a cute little shirt. So there's me and two other guys standing on three different corners of the same intersection trying to flag down this cab. It was an unfair advantage, but I've never been above the damsel in distress routine.)

And we're off to the airport. By the time I got a cab, I'd walked halfway there (almost literally) so it was a quick shot. We pull into the Arrivals area, I get one leg out of the cab and look up to see a U.S. Air agent hovering over me. "Everything's cancelled till at least noon. I suggest you don't lose this cab because you might not get another one." I sputter some things, which elicits from him the Hindsight-is-20/20 piece of advice, "Today's going to be a mess. You're better off flying out tomorrow," and he hands me a piece of paper with the U.S. Air customer service number, which you can now find on the speed dial of my cell phone.

Chris woke up when she heard me come back into the apartment. I was completely in the dark about what one does when one's flight is cancelled, but she's in travel for a living, so she gets on the phone with U.S. Air and gets me onto the 5:30p.m. flight. Okay. I was going to miss all the Friday bridal luncheon and rehearsal dinner stuff, but I'd be there for the wedding, and that's what's most important.

A little later on that morning, I call my friend Mary. The 5:30 flight is the same flight that she and her husband were taking out to Indianapolis, so I called to let her know. While I'm on the phone, my friend Kristen beeps in with news that the flight that she and our friend Kathleen are on had been cancelled, and that she's trying to get herself onto the 4:30 flight. I put down the phone, and it rings again shortly. It's Kathleen. She's at the airport. She has no idea what's going on, but all hell's breaking loose at LaGuardia. It's hot as hell, there are people every, there's no power, so there's no information about what's going on … So I tell her that her flight's canceled and to get the hell out of there. Kristen's trying for the 4:30, so maybe she should too. Yikes.

The other NYC bridesmaid Veronica had already headed out to Indianapolis the day before. I call her up to break the news that she was going to have to go it alone at the Friday festivities, and to give her an update on the situation here in NYC. There's pain in her voice about my absence, but at this point, she's more concerned about her husband Mark, who is a very competent doctor here in NYC, but who apparently isn't much good with the more practical aspects of life. I hang up with her, and two minutes later, Mark calls. And, indeed, he's flipping out. Which struck me as hilarious, because I've always known Mark to be this totally together guy. He's still at work in downtown Manhattan, and he's got no idea how to get to the airport for his 8:40 flight, the hospital still hasn't gotten power so that had him jumpy, and he's got no money because all the ATMs are down. Most significantly, he's knows that Veronica knows that he's a bit of a spaz, and she has informed him that she'll be really disappointed – not upset or angry, but "disappointed" – if he doesn't make it to this wedding, so he's all stressed out. I don't even know what I told him, just that his flight was still more than 8 hours away, I think, and a lot could happen between now and then, so there's no point even really beginning to think about it at this point.

By now we're coming up on Chris's 1:30 flight. She was running around trying get her last minute stuff together, so I call U.S. Air to confirm her flight, and they tell me she's delayed a half hour "due to weather." So I take this as a good sign. The computers must be functioning, her plane must either be at the airport or right in the vicinity, planes must be getting out. Good. Chris is on her way. The phone rings 20 minutes later. "Buh-da-ba-bing. The following is a message for Christine Kelly. Press any button to listen." Huh. "We regret to inform you that your flight has been canceled due to weather." Weather. Is that what they're calling the blackout these days? I try to reach Chris but I can't get through … Finally she calls me, and the conversation was much like the one I'd had earlier with Kathleen. She's at LaGuardia, it looks like a refugee camp, they're handing out water because it's so hot, nobody knows what's going on … I pass along the news that her flight's been cancelled, tell her to get in a cab, and let her know that I'll try to get her onto another flight.

I call U.S. Air, and the agent tells me she's got one seat on the 5:30 and plenty on the 8:40. Huh. "I know this is a total crap shoot, but do you think there's any sense in going with the later one?" She tells me she really can't say. So I decide to go for the later one, and ask her to change my flight to the 8:40, as well. She says, "I didn't want to influence your decision in case it didn't work out, but I think that's a good decision." So I call Mary to tell her I'm on the 8:40 with Chris and Mark, and she and Pete might want to consider bumping their flights too. Chris walks in the door and fills me in a bit more on the situation at LaGuardia. Lines everywhere, nobody knows which line is for what, chaos reigning …

Phone rings and it's Mark. "I'm at the airport." It's now around 1:25, and his flight's not till 8:40. "You're *where*?!" "Somebody at the hospital was leaving, and she offered me a ride. I didn't know if I'd be able to get here later, so I figured I should take what I could get. But now that I'm here, I don't know what to do. There are lines everywhere. I'm on one. Veronica thinks I should check in now, but I don't know whether I should." So I ask him whether they're even checking people in at this point, and he says, "I have no idea. I can't see that far." So I tell him that Chris and I are now on the same flight with him, and that he should get in a cab and come to our apartment because who the hell knows what's going to happen.

Mark shows up about 45 minutes later, and he's *elated*. He figures Veronica can't get mad at him now. He's with us, so if none of us make it, she'll know it's not because of anything he did wrong. The power's on in Queens, so there's air conditioning!!! And we can get lunch!!! And the ATMs work!!! We even got him a new battery for his watch that had died weeks ago, but he hadn't had time to get it fixed. Back at the apartment, Mark passed out on the couch, Chris passed out in bed, and I took a decent shower with the hot water. All's well.

Till the phone rings.

Mary and Pete had hung in for that 5:30 flight, but it had been canceled, so they're on the 8:40 now too. Okay. Then the phone rings again. Kristen's and Kathleen's 4:30 had been canceled, and the airline they're on isn't heading to Indianapolis again till 9a.m. Saturday. Not good. At about 5p.m. our phone rings, "Bah-da-bah-bing!" Yup, the 8:40 has been canceled.

At this point, the chicks spring into motion ... Long story short, me, Chris, Mary, Pete, and Mark get ourselves on the only flights to Indianapolis that have seats before Sunday. The problem is that these flights are out of Westchester, and all our Metrocards combined will do nothing to get us to the car-only accessible airport. We concoct a plan to have Pete's cousin drive us to my parents' (who were out of town) house that night, and then take their car to the airport the next morning.

So Chris, Mark, and I hop in a cab to Mary and Pete's apartment on the West Side of Manhattan. We're three blocks away when we almost kill someone. Like I'm not even kidding. The cab driver actually had to pull over and calm down for a second before he could drive again. We were flying to make it through a traffic light, and a kid on a scooter shot right in front of us. The cabby slams on the breaks, we skid through the intersection, and come to a stop inches away from a parked car. Honestly. The next three blocks are uneventful (mercifully!), and we're at Mary's and Pete's apartment. Pete's cousin shows up, and off we go to my parents.

In the interest of keeping long stories short, some highlights of my parents' house:

1. We discover that, out of habit, my Dad had taken the keys to the car with him to Indiana. (They'd gone out there for the wedding, too.) But the neighbors have a key!!! I procure the key from neighbors, who I'd never met before, but found to be just a little too entertained by our tale of woe for my tastes.

2. I lose the house keys and, after a frantic search, discover them in my pocket.

3. I lose the car keys and, after a frantic search, discover them in my pocket.

4. We go out for food, and a grasshopper jumps on our table.

5. We get back to the house. I get everybody situated in a bed. By this time it was after midnight. Chris sets the alarm for 2:45a.m.. Yup, the plan was to leave at 4a.m. so we could make our 6:30 flight.

So back to the story, a quick nap later, I'm in the shower … and we're all standing there at 4a.m. looking somewhat dazed. We're all *completely* delirious at this point, and everybody's running on pure adrenalin. We think we'll be the only people at dinky White Plains airport, but were we ever wrong. I suppose there weren't necessarily a lot of people there in terms of numbers, but relative to the space and personnel and ability to move these people, it was out of control. The security line was about an hour long. I guess a lot of people figured they'd be able to walk up and right onto their plane so they got there 45 minutes early, and now they're on the security line *freaking out* that they're going to miss their flight. Security tells them that everybody on this line is trying to catch a flight so there's nothing they can do. At one point the police need to be brought in to calm the masses (yes, seriously)…

Amazingly, our flight didn't take off too late. However, this couldn't be without incident, of course. "Incident" being that I don't like to fly, and I was not happy to discover that our plane to our connection in Boston was this rinky dink 8-seater job with a pilot who announced that we could "sit wherever we wanted" and then proceeded to pull up the door to the plane with a rope and, it appeared, tie it down to keep the door closed. I'm not the nervous breakdown type, so I'm not sure what a nervous breakdown looks like, but I think I had one. Because I started bawling. Right there on the plane. I was tired and stressed out and my bridesmaid dress was all rolled up in a duffle bag, and now, it turns out, I'm about to die in a firey plane wreck.

Happily though, the flight was smooth like you wouldn't believe. We spent half the flight going up, and half the flight coming down. Then we *tore* around the airport in Boston for awhile. Like literally, I wasn't sick in the air, but I almost barfed once we got back down on the ground. This guy had to be going 60mph, hauling around curves, everyone's being thrown all over the plane. It was ridiculous!

Happily as well, it turns out we were departing from the same gate that we arrived at (on a bigger plane, thank God!). It's completely separate from all the other gates, and everything's totally calm down there. And that's when I finally began to feel like I might actually make it. We call Kristen and Kathleen to see how they're faring back at LaGuardia with their 9a.m. flight, and they're about to board. Things are looking up.

And indeed, we made it. We landed in Indiana around 11:00. I went straight to the Church (for some reason the girls were getting ready there) and arrived at 11:30, with a whole hour to spare before we were to begin taking pictures. All the time a girl needs to transform from a weary traveler to a blushing bridesmaid in a big black dress. So whatever. The wedding and reception were fine. They were actually probably pretty nice, but I was too delirious to remember much of it. The only thing I do remember is that I must have been allergic to something I ate because toward the end of the reception, my tongue swelled up and started hurting so badly that I could hardly talk … By the time the reception ended at midnight, I was done. Which sucks because I always *hate* the person that goes to bed. But I was that person. So I got a good night's sleep. Woke up to a regular-sized tongue. Went to brunch with everyone. Called U.S. Air and found out our flight was delayed 45 minutes … What else is new?

And we're off to the airport again. This time around it was just me, Chris, Mary, and Pete. We checked in, walked through security, I rustled up the last New York Times. They call our flights and it boards faster, I believe, than any flight in aviation history has ever boarded. The flight attendant does his little thing he's got to do, we pull away from the gate, zip around the airport, turn a corner, and we're off. Nice smooth take off. The pilot comes on and tells us we've got great wind, we're going to arrive early, it should be smooth all the way to New York. Small child is screaming in my ear, but I don't really care. I'm relieved and happy, and I've got my Sunday New York Times, and everything's right in the world again.

Until I realize we're doing an awful lot of turning for a flight that's going from Indianapolis to New York. Then the bat phone rings on the plane and the flight attendant (who was very gay) was having a very stereotypically gay reaction to bad news, and he confers for awhile with the pilots, and then the pilot comes on. "Uh, the power has gone out again at LaGuardia. We're going to have to go back to Indianapolis." I turn around to Chris, who was sitting behind me, and she's got tears pouring down her face. She'd hung strong all weekend, but she had to crack sometime! I'm trying to calm her down, but inside I'm dying thinking, "We've already been in the air for an hour, so not only are we going to go back to Indianapolis, but it's gonna take an hour to get there." Then I hear, "Please prepare for landing." Yup, turns out we never got more than ten minutes out of Indianapolis. We'd just been going around in big circles. So next thing you know we're on the ground again.

At this point, Veronica and Mark had arrived at the airport for their flight, which was scheduled for two hours after ours, and they meet us at our gate looking incredulous. Apparently they'd arrived to their gate to find their flight labeled, "Delayed." Mark inquired about what that meant, and they told him that there was a power outage, and the flight before there's was heading back to Indy. So there we all were again. And it's freaking FREEZING in the airport. Grown men are walking around with their arms inside their shirts to keep them warm. I was thinking about busting out the bridesmaid dress to wrap up my legs. Finally a woman came through handing out blankets. It was so ridiculous.

Two hours later, we get an announcement that we're going to begin boarding again. Back onto the plane. The flight attendant looks like he's going to die. The pilot comes out and talks to us, and you could tell he was in as much pain as we were. Turns out this was their last flight of the day. I liked that whole solidarity thing. Made me feel a little better. He tells us we're going to take off at 6:15, and we did. And again, we're off. We're up for a little while, and the pilot's back on the speaker, "This is where they made us turn around last time, so hopefully it's a good sign that we've past it with no problems."

And we're flying, but then we're gaining lots of altitude, and the turning starts again. Thunderstorms in New York. A half hour of going in circles goes on, and then the pilot's back. "Alrighty, we had some thunderstorms, but we're clear for LaGuardia now." And we're flying. The we're going up again, and this time we turned in the other direction, which almost made me vomit. (I guess the ol' stomach had gotten used to turning to the right.) Then the pilot comes out of the cockpit muttering his way down the aisle to the bathroom. I'd become buddies with the flight attendant, so I asked him for the scoop, and he confirmed that we were circling again … Ug.

But we finally made it. Beautiful descent up the east side of Manhattan on a clear night. We landed 6 and ½ hours late, but I didn't even care. We were home. I have no idea what happened to Mark and Veronica; and last we'd heard from Kristen & co., they were stuck sitting on their plane at their gate … Hopefully they're all home now too!!!

An Unusual Problem (Originally Posted 7.26.06)

Dear Notre Dame Class of '98 Class Secretary Bob Flannery,

So I was leaving my apartment building on Wednesday with the BF (a.k.a. NY Post Guy ... yes, Bob Flannery, we survived the whole "date with another woman featured in the 11th most widely circulated newspaper in the country" thing ... it was actually pretty hilarious) ... but yes. Gentleman that he is, he opened the front door of the building for me, and the door knob came off in his hand. Now don't get me wrong Bob Flannery, I don't for one second think that he broke it. I'm sure it was broken well before he laid hands on it, but this was the first time we noticed it.

So for the last bunch of days, every time I've opened the door, the door knob has come off in my hands, and every time, I've screwed it back on and then kind of finessed my way out the door. Not an ideal situation by any means, but it worked, you know what I mean Bob Flannery? But then I got home tonight. I was kind of shot from a long day at work and an even longer run in the park, and I wasn't really paying attention, so it wasn't till after the door closed completely that I noticed that the door knob was *gone*. Like, nowhere to be found.

Huh.

So I'm standing there in the vestibule of my building wondering if I'm going to be able to get the door back open. There's just this thin naked bolt sticking straight out at me. Not much to grab on to. (No, there's no sexual innuendo intended there. Get your mind out of the gutter Bob Flannery!) So I grab the bolt between my thumb and index finger and attempt to turn it, but yeah, it's not turning and the door's not going anywhere.

This is an unusual problem. Makes the whole bathroom ceiling mold situation seem like small potatoes. I start thinking about fires. Wouldn't it be ironic if a fire started in a location such that it blocked access to the fire escape but left the front door perfectly clear, only we couldn't get out because someone took the door knob?? Ugh! So would you believe I own a pair of plyers? Or is it "pliers"? I don't even know how to spell it, but I own it. I head up to my apartment, grab the plyers/pliers, go back down to the vestiblue and wrap 'em around the bolt, turn, and voila. The door is open. Good to know that at least we're not totally stuck in this place!

(In case you're wondering Bob Flannery, I then threw the deadbolt so the door couldn't close all the way. And I left a snarky note. I didn't mean for it to sound snarky, but it's hard not to sound snarky when you're asking people to do something that will enable you to leave your apartment building without having to bust out the toolbox.)

But what's especially funny about this is that this is not the first time we've gotten stuck in our building. We once actually got stuck in our apartment. The knob of our deadbolt came off in my roommate's hand one morning when she was leaving our apartment to go to work. Or trying to leave, I guess, because the deadbolt didn't go anywhere. You always know you're in trouble when you wake up to your roommate coming into your bedroom and saying, "Siobhanny??" in that high pitched voice that all my friends reserve only for times when we're in trouble. When I lived with The Rones, this noise always meant we'd overslept our morning dining hall duty. (Did you ever work in the dining hall Bob Flannery?? Pretty gross stuff, lemme tell you. I had what I believe was called the "back shift," cleaning food that people left on their trays into that little trough thing. Ah, memories.)

At any rate, yeah. We're locked in our apartment. And this is our own damn fault, but we didn't have our landlord's phone number. My roommate almost had to go out the fire escape to try to find the guy, but we decided first we'd call every D******* in the phone book. We didn't find our landlord, but we found someone who was related to him. My roommate was the one who got through to this guy, and the part of the conversation that I heard was *awesome*. "We're stuck in our apartment." "Yes." "The lock broke." "Yes." "We can't get out." ... "Yes." "We're stuck in our apartment."

Now, my landlord is this 80 bazillion year old guy from the Ukraine. He's like the guy from that Seinfeld episode. "I am from Ukraine. You not say Ukraine is weak." So clearly the only way to resolve this situation is to hack through the door with a screwdriver. Yes Bob Flannery, you read that right. All these Domers who write to you every quarter to tell you about their fabulous medical and legal educations, or their blessed nuptials to classmates, or their beautiful bouncing future Domers ... all those people would probably have called a locksmith. But for once just once people, let's use our brawn instead of our brain. Who needs a locksmith when you can just hack through the door with a sharp metal object? Put a little elbow in it. Work out some of that pent up aggression.

So this was like something out of a horror movie, this guy just pounding through the door, wood flying everywhere, metal bending ... Half the door was missing by the time he was done. But you know what, he got the job done, and my roommate got to work a lot earlier than she would have gotten there if we'd had to sit around waiting for a locksmith to get there. This all occurred back in the glory days when my work didn't give a crap when I showed up, so it didn't really matter to me one way or the other, but Chris likes to get to work on time. She's good like that.

So yeah, huh, Bob Flannery. There you were thinking the impending collapse of my bathroom ceiling was big stuff. Little did you know the full extent of the high end class that we've got going on in our little outer-borough, walk-up chalet.

Oh well, I've got to go. But one question for you, since we're really talking here, just you and me Bob Flannery. Did you know when you ran for Class Secretary that you'd be indentured to a lifetime of reporting on our classmates' lives not once, not twice, not thrice, but *fice* (is there a more entertaining word for "four" that I'm not thinking of??) annually? Always wondered that. Because if you didn't know ... oof. That had to be a lousy memo to receive!

Alright. Enough from me. 'Tis late, and I's tired. Till next time!

Toodles!
Siobhan