She handed my membership card back after punching my number into the computer. "I see you have a list," she said, picking it up off the counter and heading to the file cabinets. She returned with a stack of maps and placed them on the counter with a sense of finality.
"I'd like tour books for them too."
"All of them?" she asked incredulously.
"Yes."
Why is it that people who work at AAA are so baffled when you want tour books for all of the states you want maps for? I may not spend a lot of time in most, but I'm still gonna need places to stay. It's becoming my increasingly informed opinion that people who work at AAA don't actually take road trips, at least none that involve more than a day's drive.
"Looks like you're taking 70," she stated authoritatively. Actually, I hadn't decided on 70 or 80 and that's why I was getting all the books: to see what there is to do or see along the possible routes.
She turned a corner of the L-shaped counter and beckoned me to follow. "I'm not lugging them all over there." In my early life of professional filmmaking, much emphasis was placed on completing tasks with minimal effort to conserve energy; this was something I could appreciate, so I stepped over.
"And you're packing them up," she continued, dumping a stack of little plastic AAA bags on the counter. OK. No need to get snotty, I see your wrist brace. I didn't mind even though I believed her attitude had less to do with the brace and more to do with what she considered an absurd request.
I started putting them in bags but stopped so I could check them against my list, so I wouldn't have to come back. She had missed three or four states, and I sent her back to get some maps she'd missed as well. The missing maps were a little surprising to me since she'd had the list in hand when she got those but whatever.
"Is that it?" she asked wearily.
I finished going through my list. "Yes, thanks."
NEXT>>>
tags: AAA, travel, road+trip
29 July 2006
A beginning is a very delicate time
As I ponder how to start my travelogue- the first story is already scrawled out to fair completion somewhere- I find myself wondering what background is necessary for it to make sense. Every beginning has a precursor, but in this case that precursor could easily lead back a year or even several, more than I care to contend with at the moment.
I should go find what I've already written. Maybe I already set it up well.
Ok, I'm back, and let me just say that I'm amazed it was in the first notebook I pulled out of the stack as a possibility. I think I can make it work within the confines of that tale though I could reveal the pertinent background as part of events that preceded that. Hmm, where to begin.
UPDATE: Taking advantage of pieces I've already written seems like a good thing to do, so here we go.
One year ago at TTaT: Where is my big, blonde Swede?
tag: writing
I should go find what I've already written. Maybe I already set it up well.
Ok, I'm back, and let me just say that I'm amazed it was in the first notebook I pulled out of the stack as a possibility. I think I can make it work within the confines of that tale though I could reveal the pertinent background as part of events that preceded that. Hmm, where to begin.
UPDATE: Taking advantage of pieces I've already written seems like a good thing to do, so here we go.
One year ago at TTaT: Where is my big, blonde Swede?
tag: writing
28 July 2006
In mind
Maybe it's lame to write about what I'm thinking about writing about, but I'm hoping it'll make me feel a bit more committed to undertaking the project. So... if I can get a bit sparked up, I'm going to retrace one of my cross-country trips.
I've driven it a few times, and it's during these trips that I've most wished I had a laptop. During the courses of the trips, I often feel like writing, jot down notes for later thinking I'll write it up post-trip, but I never get to it. It's like I missed a window of inspiration specific to those experiences. Nonetheless, I want to take a crack at it.
The hardest part will be deciphering all the notes I took while driving; since I kept my eyes on the road, they're even messier than my usual handwriting. Anyway, if all the writing falls apart, at least there are copious pictures to make up the difference.
If this is something you'd like to read/see, don't let me off the hook.
One year ago at TTaT: Exhaust
tags: writing, inspiration
I've driven it a few times, and it's during these trips that I've most wished I had a laptop. During the courses of the trips, I often feel like writing, jot down notes for later thinking I'll write it up post-trip, but I never get to it. It's like I missed a window of inspiration specific to those experiences. Nonetheless, I want to take a crack at it.
The hardest part will be deciphering all the notes I took while driving; since I kept my eyes on the road, they're even messier than my usual handwriting. Anyway, if all the writing falls apart, at least there are copious pictures to make up the difference.
If this is something you'd like to read/see, don't let me off the hook.
One year ago at TTaT: Exhaust
tags: writing, inspiration
26 July 2006
This could've been my first post
I wrote this piece not long before I started TTaT, but it wasn't the tone I wanted to set and I wasn't ready to share it then. There have been other times I considered posting it, but the desire to do so was prompted by anger seeking a convenient passive-aggressive outlet. Today, I just feel like posting some substantive writing.
Today, it almost feels like fiction.
"Don't end your sentence with a preposition," she sniped.
"Hunh?"
"Your grandmother would say it's between the A and the T."
I was still confused. I'd just walked through the kitchen and poked my head into the dining room to see if there were dishes and utensils on the table; this was the longest interchange we'd had in a week. I tried again: "I was just seeing where we're at with dinner." Immediately I recognized my faux-pas: Mom was making dinner, I was breezing in at the last minute. "Where you're at with dinner," I backtracked. It still didn't sound right, using the word "at." I inhaled deeply and gave it a final attempt, "I was just seeing how dinner's progressing." Mom kept stirring something on the stove, her back to me. She must be feeling better, I thought to myself.
At first she felt cold at night, not quite sick, just very cold. Customarily, we ate dinner and conversed together; now as soon as she was done, she cleared her plate and left, a deliberate leaving, not wanting our company. I leaned my warm teacup against my cheek as Dad finished eating, and then the two of us cleared the dishes.
The first few mornings, I asked with concern how she was feeling, but after a few dismissive "all rights," I was reluctant to ask. When a few days had passed, I received a vehement "fine" and wondered if my presence bothered her.
She took to fixing herself oatmeal, taking her cup of tea without its saucer, and sitting in her recliner in the living room while Dad and I ate in the dining room. We passed dishes and exchanged a few quiet comments while she sat a few feet away watching the tv on mute or low volume: there was no doorway, just a wide opening of wall between the two rooms; she was watching The Weather Channel.
Days passed with different meals, but the same dining configuration. Nothing we could say was right so we didn't say much at all. She seemed best pleased by our absence, so Dad came with me to Target almost an hour away. We made a day of it catching a matinee and then eating out. On the ride over, we talked about her, he and I; it was seasonal, he said. I told him that I hoped it wasn't because I was still at home; it had been some months and I'd yet to find a job that would pay enough so I could move out. Don't ever think that, he said, I went through the same thing last year at this time, and you weren't living with us then.
The same thing was depression, and I recognized the symptoms well; it was the triggers that continued to baffle me; they bore no resemblance to mine that I could see. No deaths that I knew of near these dates, no tragic family events, but then those weren't triggers for me either. An imbalance of body chemistry most likely. A simple equation should suffice: add x, y, z to counteract a, b, c; but of course science is far from absolute when it comes to the mind, and mental illness sounds far too much like a defect instead of a health issue for her to be willing to seek treatment.
When I was little, my mom told me a story from her childhood about boys throwing snakes on girls to make them cry. She didn't. She let the snake slither off her, and the boys didn't bother her anymore. The lesson I was probably supposed to learn was about dealing with boys, but what I always think of is that she didn't cry, she was tough. Even more probably, it was just a story she told to pass some time, but I think of it now when she bursts into tears unexpectedly, shooing my gaze away from her face with her hand saying, "Ignore this."
A couple of weeks ago the tears were always near the surface. On a few separate occasions (too many my fault), unintentionally insensitive comments led her to turn and walk away in an attempt to hide her welling tears; she was as frustrated as we were that she was taking everything so personally.
Her erratic behavior strikes me deeply, an awful premonition of my genetic future: depression-prone body chemistry short-circuiting my self control, my reason, my self-esteem. Quick to emotional hurt, tears, and blame, responses I despise in myself magnified by her into the self I dread most becoming.
Another week passed and then there she was again, sitting through all of dinner with us. Dad and I carefully avoided the addictive narcotic of being right: we endeavored to show interest without provoking debate of any kind. The next day, she skipped dinner (her sinuses were bothering her and she didn't feel like going out), but when Dad and I returned home, she called my name, told me to change the channel to 37, to CNN, to look at shots of the Basilica while they covered the viewing of the deceased pope. After a while, I joined her downstairs, told her what I'd seen, and watched some more coverage with her while she discussed columns, floor patterns, fabrics, and designs with an enthusiasm I hadn't heard in weeks. I was careful not to contradict her, to seem sufficiently interested, and to curb my unrelated yawns. The emotional lurches subsided and balance returned to our house dynamic.
One year ago at TTaT: Daiquiri lost
tags: mood+swings, depression, family+dynamics
Today, it almost feels like fiction.
"Don't end your sentence with a preposition," she sniped.
"Hunh?"
"Your grandmother would say it's between the A and the T."
I was still confused. I'd just walked through the kitchen and poked my head into the dining room to see if there were dishes and utensils on the table; this was the longest interchange we'd had in a week. I tried again: "I was just seeing where we're at with dinner." Immediately I recognized my faux-pas: Mom was making dinner, I was breezing in at the last minute. "Where you're at with dinner," I backtracked. It still didn't sound right, using the word "at." I inhaled deeply and gave it a final attempt, "I was just seeing how dinner's progressing." Mom kept stirring something on the stove, her back to me. She must be feeling better, I thought to myself.
At first she felt cold at night, not quite sick, just very cold. Customarily, we ate dinner and conversed together; now as soon as she was done, she cleared her plate and left, a deliberate leaving, not wanting our company. I leaned my warm teacup against my cheek as Dad finished eating, and then the two of us cleared the dishes.
The first few mornings, I asked with concern how she was feeling, but after a few dismissive "all rights," I was reluctant to ask. When a few days had passed, I received a vehement "fine" and wondered if my presence bothered her.
She took to fixing herself oatmeal, taking her cup of tea without its saucer, and sitting in her recliner in the living room while Dad and I ate in the dining room. We passed dishes and exchanged a few quiet comments while she sat a few feet away watching the tv on mute or low volume: there was no doorway, just a wide opening of wall between the two rooms; she was watching The Weather Channel.
Days passed with different meals, but the same dining configuration. Nothing we could say was right so we didn't say much at all. She seemed best pleased by our absence, so Dad came with me to Target almost an hour away. We made a day of it catching a matinee and then eating out. On the ride over, we talked about her, he and I; it was seasonal, he said. I told him that I hoped it wasn't because I was still at home; it had been some months and I'd yet to find a job that would pay enough so I could move out. Don't ever think that, he said, I went through the same thing last year at this time, and you weren't living with us then.
The same thing was depression, and I recognized the symptoms well; it was the triggers that continued to baffle me; they bore no resemblance to mine that I could see. No deaths that I knew of near these dates, no tragic family events, but then those weren't triggers for me either. An imbalance of body chemistry most likely. A simple equation should suffice: add x, y, z to counteract a, b, c; but of course science is far from absolute when it comes to the mind, and mental illness sounds far too much like a defect instead of a health issue for her to be willing to seek treatment.
When I was little, my mom told me a story from her childhood about boys throwing snakes on girls to make them cry. She didn't. She let the snake slither off her, and the boys didn't bother her anymore. The lesson I was probably supposed to learn was about dealing with boys, but what I always think of is that she didn't cry, she was tough. Even more probably, it was just a story she told to pass some time, but I think of it now when she bursts into tears unexpectedly, shooing my gaze away from her face with her hand saying, "Ignore this."
A couple of weeks ago the tears were always near the surface. On a few separate occasions (too many my fault), unintentionally insensitive comments led her to turn and walk away in an attempt to hide her welling tears; she was as frustrated as we were that she was taking everything so personally.
Her erratic behavior strikes me deeply, an awful premonition of my genetic future: depression-prone body chemistry short-circuiting my self control, my reason, my self-esteem. Quick to emotional hurt, tears, and blame, responses I despise in myself magnified by her into the self I dread most becoming.
Another week passed and then there she was again, sitting through all of dinner with us. Dad and I carefully avoided the addictive narcotic of being right: we endeavored to show interest without provoking debate of any kind. The next day, she skipped dinner (her sinuses were bothering her and she didn't feel like going out), but when Dad and I returned home, she called my name, told me to change the channel to 37, to CNN, to look at shots of the Basilica while they covered the viewing of the deceased pope. After a while, I joined her downstairs, told her what I'd seen, and watched some more coverage with her while she discussed columns, floor patterns, fabrics, and designs with an enthusiasm I hadn't heard in weeks. I was careful not to contradict her, to seem sufficiently interested, and to curb my unrelated yawns. The emotional lurches subsided and balance returned to our house dynamic.
One year ago at TTaT: Daiquiri lost
tags: mood+swings, depression, family+dynamics
22 July 2006
Two no's
It hardly seems fair. Yesterday, in addition to the wedding invite I received a couple days earlier, I received another for a party the night before and brunch the day after that requires another RSVP, this time by phone or email.
As I've said before, you shouldn't have to attend the wedding of someone to whom you were once engaged. Especially when your invite doesn't include a "plus one" option, and the only people you'll know at the wedding are the bride and groom and your ex's parents. That's just not a recipe for good times.
tags: etiquette, wedding+invitations
As I've said before, you shouldn't have to attend the wedding of someone to whom you were once engaged. Especially when your invite doesn't include a "plus one" option, and the only people you'll know at the wedding are the bride and groom and your ex's parents. That's just not a recipe for good times.
tags: etiquette, wedding+invitations
Summer of birthdays
21 July 2006
Paradise lost
Elegant buildings lie in ruins. The heady scent of gardenias gives way to the acrid stench of bombed-out oil installations. And everywhere terrified people are scrambling to get out of a city that seems tragically doomed to chaos and destruction. As Beirut - 'the Paris of the East' - is defiled yet again, Robert Fisk, a resident for 30 years, asks: how much more punishment can it take?
Paradise Lost, it's an elegy for Beirut written by Robert Fisk. A beautiful piece of writing.
Also check out the site where the article's posted in full: Lebanon Rising if you're interested in the perspectives of some Lebanese on what's going on there now.
Upyernoz regularly follows events in the Middle East and has had some very good posts of late. This one, in particular, includes a letter from people about to leave Lebanon that I think is well worth reading.
One year ago at TTaT: Casuistry, a word for our times (as much today as a year ago)
tags: Lebanon, elegy+for+Beirut, Robert+Fisk
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