Category Archives: Travel

Planes, trains and automobiles

October 28, 2010 · 8:28 am

Empty phrases

Last spring, I wrote a couple of blog posts on useless words. One was on phrases that mean nothing in which I referenced a list of 10 Annoying Phrases That Serve No Purpose. The other was on verbal pauses, you know, words like, “you know” and “like.” Based on comments I received, I learned that some people have emotional or habitual attachments to certain phrases or verbal patterns and don’t share my opinion that, while some expressions may be clever upon their arrival on the language scene, it eventually becomes time to move on from them.

At the risk stepping out on another flimsy limb, I’d like to add two more to the list.

The first happens to occupy second place on the list of 10 Annoying Phrases That Serve No Purpose: “at the end of the day.”

I first took notice of “at the end of the day” in 1991. I was working with a Harvard-educated consultant who used it in just the perfect context:  when all is said and done, when everything else has been taken into consideration. I noted how descriptive—and original—it sounded. I may have even picked it up and used it a few times. Not too long after that, I heard about an industry executive from the Gulf Coast region who, when testifying on Capitol Hill, used the phrase to sum up his testimony. He had the creativity to follow it up with something even more descriptive:  “At the end of the day, when the gumbo boils down . . .”

Almost 20 years later, I believe “at the end of the day” has become stale and overused. It has lost its punch. Unless, of course, it is followed by a clever colloquialism.

The second phrase, while innocuous enough, has come to be spoken without thought. Still, it precedes a great preponderance of sentences these days. “You know what?” Pay attention and you will really begin to notice. Again, there’s technically nothing wrong with it, but it is way overused. “You know what? I am going to have eggs over easy.”

These two sayings hit me in the face yesterday morning as I watched former JetBlue flight attendant Steven Slater being interviewed on the major morning news programs—NBC’s Today, ABC’s Good Morning America and CBS’ The Early Show. 

As a refresher, Slater was the airline employee who had a colossal meltdown on a flight from Pittsburgh to New York, cursed out a plane full of passengers over the intercom and, when the plane landed at JFK, grabbed two beers, popped open the emergency exit door and slid down the escape ramp. He parted ways with JetBlue and pled guilty to two criminal charges.

In three network interviews, he told his side of the story, using “at the end of the day” and “you know what?” collectively at least 10 times. My favorite, though, was on GMA, when he was asked how his notoriety has affected him. He said, “At the end of the day, I still put my pants on one leg at a time.”

Don’t people usually take their pants off at the end of the day? Maybe he was referring to his PJs, in which he probably spends a lot of time these days.

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October 23, 2010 · 8:34 am

Poor girl’s pâté

I am stuck in town this weekend, which means, once again, I will be missing the annual Shelby, North Carolina, Fall Festival and Livermush Expo. Another year I won’t be crowned Livermush Queen.

Livermush is indigenous to the South and specifically to Western North Carolina. Lest you assume it is the same as scrapple, allow me to point out the distinctions. Both are composed of pig liver, head parts and cornmeal, commonly seasoned with pepper and sage and fried with grease in a skillet until crisp. By definition, livermush must contain liver; scrapple may but doesn’t have to. Scrapple originated in Pennsylvania.

The first time I tasted scrapple was on a camping trip with my aunt and uncle. Oh, how I loved that first crunch, then the  mush.  Mmmm-mm.

My husband was born and reared in Shelby. I was interested to learn of the first Fall Festival and Livermush Expo in 1987. I think they crowned a Livermush Queen in those days, but that rite now appears absent from the Expo. I remember telling my in-laws how cool I thought it was that Shelby had a livermush festival, noting that I was a big fan of the stuff. My mother-in-law was horrified. Apparently not everyone in Shelby enjoys livermush. I believe she said only “those of poor breeding” have a taste for such things. I further embarrassed myself—and her—when I ordered it at breakfast once. I feel bad about that.

My husband’s parents have since passed away. We rarely visit Shelby but for the occasional funeral or Shelby High reunion. But before I die, I hope to attend this momentous event. I’d visit all the exhibits, taste one of Mack’s famous livermush sandwiches, sample the delicacy on a stick, maybe sip some sweet tea.

Yep, that’s another one for the bucket list. I suspect I’ll be going alone.

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October 20, 2010 · 8:25 am

Pants on fire

When we were kids, there was a popular category of insults that went something like: “When they gave out brains, you thought they said trains, and you said, ‘Give me a slow one.’” Or “When they gave out noses, you thought they said roses, and you said ‘Give me a big red one.’”

The turn of events following Sunday’s fender bender on the Beltway has brought out my inner 12-year-old and, to the jackwagon who hit us, I say, “When they gave out morals, you thought they said quarrels and you said, ‘I don’t want any.’” I know that’s supremely lame, but I couldn’t think of any rhymes for conscience, ethics or integrity.

Here are a few more details pertaining to the accident and then I’ll give you the upshot.

After smacking into our car, Mr. White Cadillac Driver pulled over to an outer lane of the busy bridge where he hit us. He got out of his car, came up to ours and said, “I’m sorry about that. I was trying to change lanes and thought someone was going to let me in but they didn’t and I hit your car” and then provided his insurance and contact information. Because he admitted fault and our blocking a lane was a safety hazard, we opted not to call the police. He mentioned the brand new Cadillac belonged to his wife, who was not in the car.

After we got home, we called Mr. Cadillac Driver’s insurance company and ours and reported the accident.

The next day, after I blogged about what was simply “an inconvenience,” we learned that he reported to his insurance company that the accident was not his fault. The company denied our claim.

Now I suspect perhaps Mrs. Cadillac had something to do with this, but I have no proof. (But can’t we all just picture that conversation?)

Now while the two insurance companies duke it out, it is going to cost $2,500 and up to three weeks to have my car repaired. But here’s what sticks in my craw. He abandoned his conscience and lied. (I am reminded of the O’Jays’ song, “Backstabbers.”  “They smile in your face…”)

I recently received a message from a reader, bemoaning the apparent cultural trend toward claiming innocence, even when guilty, until caught. Paris “the-cocaine-in-my-purse-isn’t-mine” Hilton is a recent example.

In the case of Mr. Cadillac, I’d like to think either conscience or first instinct prompted him to admit fault and apologize. Then, for whatever, reason—absence of witnesses, change of heart, sticker shock, an angry wife—he changed his story. And now, like Miss Hilton, he is out to see how far he will get.

While I believe people are fundamentally good, my experience with the ethically challenged is that, once they have told a lie, they begin to believe it. Conscience no longer plays a role. Delusion and entitlement take over.

I’m not sure which hurts worse, $2,500 worth of dings and dents or a swift, sharp stab in the back.

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October 18, 2010 · 8:12 am

Purgatorio over the Potomac

If you’re a regular blogger, you may have noticed that, just when you think there can’t possibly anything left to write about, material happens.

It’s odd that yesterday, as with last Sunday, blog fodder presented itself on my way from church. Some might say this is reason not to go to church. My husband argued that today’s little happening is reason to never go to Virginia. He hates Virginia. Even more so, he hates Tyson’s Corner, Virginia.

Long story short, we had to run an errand in Tyson’s Corner after church. The latest round of infernal traffic redesigns would qualify the Tyson’s area as the Ninth of Dante’s Circles of Hell, which is Treachery.

We thought we would make it home with our sanity (and the important item we purchased) when, halfway home, a very large, brand new Cadillac smacked into our car on the Capital Beltway, right in the middle of the American Legion Bridge. Fender benders happen all the time; but the Beltway, which everyone and his brother takes to the Redskins’ FedEx Field, is not the place you want to block a lane of traffic on a Sunday afternoon, especially midway across the Potomac River. I dare say, a few of the motorists who were none too pleased with the delay could use a little churching themselves.

No one was hurt, except my beloved red Nissan, so the event amounts to little more than an inconvenience. But my husband spent Sunday afternoon dealing with insurance companies, which he might equate to both the First Circle of Hell (Limbo) and the Fifth (Wrath and Sullenness) wrapped into one.

One day we’ll look back on this as Divine Comedy.

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October 11, 2010 · 7:16 am

10-10-70

Yesterday was much ado about 10-10-10. There were more weddings than usual and probably some induced births, scheduled to take advantage of the memorable binary date.

On our way to church, my husband and I were listening to a rerun of a Casey Kasem’s Top 40 Countdown on satellite radio. The date flashing across the car radio screen was 10-10-70. We commented on each song and what we remembered about it. On 10-10-70, my husband had begun his senior year of college. I was in fifth grade.

All of a sudden, I remembered exactly what I was doing on 10-10-70. I have included here a page from my diary on that date 40 years ago.

I was on vacation in Rome with my parents and grandparents—my mother’s parents, Nanny and Grandaddy, and my father’s widowed mother, Nana Marie. Nana Marie was my roommate on the trip.

The diary page tells the short version of the story and this blog really doesn’t lend itself to a much longer version. But it happened like this. Rome was the third and final city of our European trip and we had arrived by train from Zürich late the night before. The six of us did some sightseeing in the morning. My mother, her mother and I went back to the hotel to rest, while my father, his mother and my grandfather walked over to look at the Vatican, a sight Nana Marie had waited her whole Catholic life to see.

Later that afternoon, my father and grandfather returned to the hotel, looking grim. They broke the news that, after they turned the corner at St. Peter’s Square, my grandmother looked up at the Vatican in awe, quoted a verse from her childhood catechism book and collapsed. Minutes after arriving at the hospital by ambulance, she died. She was 52 days away from her 60th birthday.

October 10th isn’t an anniversary I observe regularly; just when I happen to remember it. Thanks to Casey Kasem and Sirius XM, I saw the reminder in bright red numerals. 10-10-70.

I dedicate this blog post to Marie Elizabeth Perry Ruslander and all who loved her, with the Gospel words that may have been her last. Matthew 16:18, “And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”

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September 29, 2010 · 8:21 am

Catch a wave?

It has been said that it’s the little things that bring happiness into our lives. Not to make this a glass-half-empty conversation, but isn’t it also the little things that drive us up the wall or at least make us shake our heads in perplexity?

I took a three-day road trip recently and noticed the striking disappearance of a little thing. So simple, but now, so gone.

I am talking about the thank-you wave.

Granted, I tend to overdo it. When someone is kind enough to let me cut over, I flail my hand back and forth for a good long time, just so the driver knows how grateful I am.

I also happen to be pretty darn generous with drivers who wish to cut in front of me—unless, of course, it’s some doofus who has flown down the shoulder and suddenly wants VIP treatment. But usually I allow one car. If each of us practiced this, traffic might just keep moving smoothly.

In the 500 miles I put in on the road last week, I’d say I let more than a dozen drivers slip into my lane ahead of me, just to be nice.

Not one thank-you wave came my way, in 500 miles.

What happened to this simple gesture of thanks? What made it extinct?

Others have noticed, I know, because mine isn’t the only commentary out there about it. I agree wholeheartedly with one woman who commented, “Let’s not let this gesture go the way of the R.S.V.P. or be piled on to the ‘that’s ol’ fashioned’ etiquette junk heap.” Another person started a blog entitled Thank-you Wave, in January 2009, but the blog is empty, in which case the wave has literally disappeared.

Part of me wants to be mature and not sweat the small stuff, while the other part wants to explode into a George Costanza-esque tirade and shout, “We’re LIVING in a SOCIETY…”

I’m sorry to be complaining so much this week. I don’t know what else to do, except perhaps keep on over-waving. And letting people in. And continuing to look for the best in my fellow motorists. Except that jerk riding the shoulder.

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September 17, 2010 · 8:36 am

What’s your sign?

Pardon me, but I have a lot of questions today.

Do you have any bumper stickers or magnets on your car? Perhaps an emblem of your favorite sports team, your child’s school or your alma mater? An American flag? Or one of those trendy oval black-and-white, initialed stickers from your favorite vacation spot? Or do you prefer to wear your political beliefs on your bumper?

I’m just glad we live in a country where we’re free to express ourselves without persecution. I appreciate the price we pay for these freedoms. I am happy to be living in the United States and consider myself patriotic.

But you wouldn’t know it from some reactions I get to the one embellishment I have on my car. 

It’s a peace symbol.

My husband has a theory that I was stopped and treated rudely by that North Carolina trooper back in April because my peace sign provoked him. Since then I have noticed dirty looks from strangers. Then recently someone very close to me made a comment implying that my magnet was unpatriotic—that it runs counter to supporting our troops.

Am I being naïve or do some people actually consider the peace sign offensive? Is peace not something we all desire for our nation and our world? Or do some Americans perceive it as symbol of military surrender or un-Americanism?

I placed this magnet on my car for two reasons.

First, it was made by a company that promotes positive images in communities and schools and donates part of its proceeds to world hunger relief. With the bumper sticker sphere becoming so mean spirited these days, I thought a nice, happy, peace-ful image would be a refreshing change.

Second, if I had one simple message to convey from my rear bumper, it would be “peace.” Inner peace, world peace, peace within families. Peace on earth, good will toward men.

My peace sign is not intended to make a political statement.

Do I wish our country were not at war? Yes. Do the parents of our fallen wish for peace? I don’t know. I’d like to think so. Do I wish there were peace in the Middle East and in the Sudan and in Congo? Very much so. Do I display my peace sign as a message that the United States should wave the white flag all over the world? Heavens, no.

Are there patriotic Americans who do not wish for peace? I am starting to wonder.

For now, until someone beats me up over it, or convinces me how it is offensive, I’ll leave my little magnet right where it is.

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September 15, 2010 · 5:27 am

Loopy lyrics

In 1991, my husband, our toddler and I rented a beach cottage in Kill Devil Hills, N.C. It’s the same cottage we still get almost every summer.

Over the years, the owners have upgraded the cottage with assorted amenities but, in 1991, it was pretty rustic. No dishwasher, no microwave, no air conditioning. Worst of all, no TV. There was, however, a cassette tape player.

When we arrived with our two-and-a-half-year-old, we thought the absence of a television would be a plus. That is, until we realized we had one cassette tape. For the whole week.

It was Wee Sing Silly Songs. The three of us must have played that tape—and sung along, with hand motions—20 times or more that week. Got to know all the silly songs by heart.

Who can forget the classic “John Brown’s Baby?” Or as our son sang it, “John’s brown baby.” He had a cold upon his chest, and they rubbed it with camphorated oil.

Oh, what did Delaware, boys? What did Delaware? She wore her New Jersey, boys. She wore her New Jersey.

Good times.

I know that, in years to come, when we are in The Home, drooling in the corner and unable to remember our own names, we’ll still remember the lyrics of the great children’s songs. I’ll have to be sure my son has a copy of “Silly Songs,” in whatever format it will be then, to play for me when I’m old.

My brothers and I grew up on Irish drinking songs and versions of children’s songs that weren’t yet scrubbed of their political incorrectness. Didn’t we all? 

I went to the animal fair, the birds and beasts were there
(we thought it was bees)
The big baboon, by the light of the moon, was combing his auburn hair.
The monkey he got drunk. He fell on the elephant’s trunk.
The elephant sneezed and fell on his knees,
And what became of the monk? 

Then there were the songs we learned on the playground, such as “Miss Lucy Had a Steamboat.” We thought we were so cool because the lyrics allowed us to curse without cursing. 

Or this:

Tra la la boom di-ay, there was no school today.
Our teacher passed away; she died of tooth decay.
We threw her in the bay; she scared the fish away.
And when we pulled her out, she smelled like sauerkraut!

What songs comprised the soundtrack of your childhood?

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September 13, 2010 · 7:55 am

The great outdoors

Every year, as the crispness of autumn begins to creep around the bend, my husband’s thoughts turn to camping.

He goes several times a year with friends and loves it. He even cooks. I used to go occasionally, and our friends always went out of their way to make sure I had a pleasant time. But honestly, camping isn’t my idea of vacation time well spent. For one thing, all that sitting around gives me the jitters. And did you ever try to go shopping in a campground store?

It’s cliché to say that my idea of camping is a Holiday Inn, but I will say that comfort and cleanliness rank fairly high.

I do appreciate that camping is a valid low-cost vacation option, especially in this economic climate.

It seems that another popular way Americans save money is by taking a—pardon the portmanteau—staycation. You know, it’s where you take time off from work but don’t leave town. Instead, you might lie by the pool or visit attractions near your home.

I opened the Travel section of The Washington Post yesterday and learned of yet another increasingly popular, affordable—and portmanteau-named—getaway option. This one might just bring my husband and me a little closer to agreement, and fit within our budget at the same time.

The Post called it “glamping.” The article takes readers to so-called adventure resorts that offer relief from cumbersome equipment and flimsy tents, as well as clean, comfy beds, natural scenery and, in some cases, amenities galore. One place apparently has lockable French doors, which I want if the storied Son of Ratman is still on the loose.

Just imagine, you’ll enjoy the aroma of a crackling campfire without splinters. And roll over in your sleep without hitting a tree root or falling off your cot.

I wonder how the shopping is.

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September 2, 2010 · 8:57 am

Mind your manners

This may not come as much of a surprise, but I am kind of an etiquette geek.

I defer to conventions and rules established so long ago that, in modern times, they might seem outmoded.

While some rules of etiquette might seem superfluous, in my mind, most are in place for much the same reason Emily Post or Miss Manners might argue—that they preserve civilized co-existence with our fellow humans. My words, not theirs, but you get the gist.

One realm in which greater awareness of etiquette is sorely needed is air travel. A quick Internet search revealed more than a dozen sites addressing air travel etiquette, so people and institutions are definitely spreading the word.

Mostly these sites address the obvious:  don’t kick the seat in front of you, don’t throw trash on the floor of the plane, don’t try and repack your suitcase before hefting it into the overhead bin while 75 passengers wait in the aisle behind you.

As a seasoned business traveler, I do not intend to be a snob; in fact, I go out of my way to be helpful to those who aren’t so accustomed.

However, I do believe just a few simple acts of civility would ease an already tense process; or at least keep us from wanting to mutilate each other with the tweezers that eluded security.

  1. Please dress appropriately. Whether in the gate area or a cramped coach cabin, we can’t avoid extreme closeness. So we should not be forced to look at the bare-fleshed, hairy legs or the unpedicured toes of strangers. Ladies and gentlemen alike, when you sit down, your shorts ride up. Most of us were brought up to dress for travel; I’d wear white gloves if I could find them to fit my freakishly large hands. Please save the shorts and flip-flops for your beach destination.
  2. Walk as you would drive, on the right side of the concourse. If you feel the need to stop cold, please pull off to the side. You wouldn’t stop your car in the middle of the freeway without pulling over to the shoulder. The pedestrian behind you, trying to make it from Gate A2 to Gate E58 in 10 minutes’ time, may rear-end you right in the knees.
  3. Do you really need to bring your bed pillow? I understand if you have a small pillow for your orthopedic need or a support cushion around your neck. People have told me they take their own pillows when they travel because they don’t trust the cleanliness of hotel pillows. So now when you get to your hotel, your pillow will be encrusted in airplane cooties.  Plus, it makes you look like a goofball.
  4. The universal armrest rule:  the one on the right is yours.
  5. If you notice someone sleeping during the boarding announcements, please tap her on the shoulder.

Please note:  Word Nymph is currently combining business with pleasure. Her pleasure accommodations have technological limitations that may inhibit timely blogging. Perhaps there’s a local Panera.

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