Spam, Anyone?

I have a strange habit of cruising through the junk in the email "Spam" box before I delete everything. I figure, if I don't, that one message from a long-lost, wealthy, nieceless-except-ME, message could just sneak in there. And, boy, would THAT be a lost opportunity.

So, today, the "opportunities" I passed up by directing the messages away from my Inbox were unique, somewhat varied, and, in many a case, disturbing.

A third of my spam messages assured me I could conquer my erectile dysfunction. In case that didn't happen, and I needed to get to sleep without first getting some good, old-fashioned loving, one kind person sent a message to sell me sleep medication.

Three people, who I'm confident are pharmacists, promised to send anti-depressants. Should come in handy if those ED meds don't work.

And, in case my weight is in question and that might be causing me angst, three people guarantee to hop me up on pills to "burn that weight off".

Emery Molina, Moises Koenig, and Marquis Aguilar all wanted to invite me to a party.*

I've been offered positions in Medical Billing**, a job that I can do on "autopilot" that pays $500 for 60 minutes***, and a CAREER in criminal justice. Once my business skyrockets, I also have a contact for business phones.

I was told not to "pay retail", six times offered a "unique 80% off"****, and given the chance to join a buying club. All with the assurance from another message that I can buy knowing that my identity is protected.

I can get $250,000 in life insurance to go with my free, no obligation trip to Cancun after I've learned everything I need to know to remodel my home and checked my credit score.

But, perhaps, my favorite message of all was from the unassuming MaryLynn. She promised jets. Private jets. That could help me fly on my "own time".

The rest of her email address? Home Toy Store.

Yes, readers. Spam is just as disgusting as it's always been and always will be.


*I bet they are serving shots of Jagermiester laced with Viagra.

**Twice, in fact. That MUST BE a hot career of the future.

***I can think of a job like that, too. But, I'm a married woman with morals.

****Off of what? I have NO clue.

Birthday Awesomeness

I will rarely plug any business or product on this blog because I just don't think you need that junk in your life, but I do have to give a GREAT BIG shout out to my flying friends at Southwest for this little bit of awesome greatness we experienced on our trip out to CA:

On our flight out, it was one little guy's eighth birthday day. We were basically spending the entire day in airports, rental car lines, and driving to hotels, so there wasn't much time for actual celebrating.

As a neurotic Mom who thrives on celebration of events, none of this was sitting right with me. We should have been throwing a party or blowing out candles or stuffing ourselves full of cakey deliciousness, not salivating over bags of peanuts that wouldn't fill up a small gnat.

So I took action. Starting with the lovely woman who gave us our boarding passes, I started telling everyone who was wearing Southwest garb or who LOOKED like they could have possibly worked for the airline at anytime in their life that it was my son's eighth birthday.

I struck gold while waiting for the ticket agent to come up that thingy that attaches the building to the plane* because the pilot decided to check the passenger load.** He was very kind when I asked if he would announce son's birthday over the speakers mid-flight. He said he be delighted to do this but that I should let the flight attendant know so his pilot brain wouldn't forget.***

The gold rush continued when we boarded the plane and the flight attendant already knew about the birthday boy and immediately whisked all three Nowell kids into the cockpit! The two younger guys were lifted into pilot's seats and the oldest took over as king of "Don't touch that". The pictures I managed to get show the crazy amount of excitement in the boy's eyes. And touchy-feely-OOPSY-hands.

About 3/4 of the way through the flight, we heard birthday wishes over the speaker system and the flight attendant presented our boy with a gift. No, not plastic pilot wings or a deck of cards. PEANUTS!!! And not just a few packages, but the big plastic bag they hoist on board to feed about half the passengers. A BIG HUGE bunch of peanuts.****

In a couple of days we are going to have a proper eighth birthday party here at the house. On New Year's Eve. With eleven boys.***** No matter how much energy I put into that celebration, I don't think I'll be able to top the "party" Southwest threw last weekend.

Southwest? You had me at "Hello".



*Technical definition eludes me here. You get my point, I hope.

**Completely full plane plus one dog. Yes, a dog. Southwest has found a way to bilk $75/one-way out of over-attached dog and cat owners who feel bad about leaving kitty/fido in the kennel WHERE THEY BELONG WHEN HUMANS GO ON VACATION.

***Apparently, multi-tasking isn't in this dude's DNA. But, if you saw the cockpit, you, like me, would get really worried about this. There are like ten-thousand buttons and levers and cup holders in there. What if he accidentally hit the "eject" button trying to announce birthday wishes and ended up parachuting into Des Moines?

****Mike was channeling the entire family when he announced "If I never see another honey-roasted peanut in my life I'll be happy."

*****Please call 911 if there isn't a post on January second.

Airline Trips

When I was a wee-bit younger, somewhere around 3rd or 4th grade, my parents took me and my brother on a trip to Disneyworld.

Since Michigan and Florida aren't exactly spitting distance from one another, we flew. It was a trip of firsts: first time on a plane, first time "cutting class"*, and the first time my brother experienced flight sickness and I learned about "barf bags".

Since that time, much in the airline industry has changed. One of the biggest changes is the clientele.

Thanks to competition, one can afford to jump a plane with only three weeks notice**. And it seems many people have embraced this concept and are using it with gusto.

Mike reminded me tonight, post-flight, of his "favorite" reasons for flying these days. I took the ball and ran with it, like a cat on fire.

So, for your entertainment, I present...

THE NOWELL LIST OF THINGS WE PRAY WON'T HAPPEN WHEN WE BOARD A FLIGHT

1. Being seated next to someone who reeks. It doesn't matter of what. Cigarettes, cologne, alcohol, day-old Jewish sandwich, or hand sanitizer.

If you stink like something, we don't want to be within 50 feet o' your gnarly ass.

2. Finding body parts oozing over the arm rest.

If you can't control your body, I WILL. I carry duct tape, jerkoid, so keep your stuff within the confines of your own friggin' seat.

3. Hearing hacking that sounds like a kid with croup.

If you are so sick you sound sick, you really shouldn't be 30,000 feet above the Earth, in a tube of tin with recirculated air. Do you think your germs are better than my immune system? Well, I DON'T WANT TO FIND OUT ON MY VACATION.

4. Discovering the middle seat is occupied by someone who needs you to "coach" them through landing or take-off.

I actually read a story not so long ago about a 30-something Father who panic-screamed like a teenage girl going up and coming back down. To his Wife, I ask "Does he have balls in those tidy whities?"

Please, people. Get over your fear the old-fashioned way and take a tequila shot at the TGIFriday's BEFORE you get on the plane.

5. Learning your in-flight, next door neighbor, feels the need to evangelize you, even though you are wearing a Twyla Paris concert T-shirt, a ithicus ring, and a diamond-encrusted cross around your neck.

You should join the screaming banshee at Friday's and take a shot beforehand.

6. Winning the "last seat on the plane" lottery and having the dude who looks like a human pincushion, with Hepatitis C issues, plop down next to you.

Response to the flight attendant when asked about anything to eat or drink? "No. Thank you. But, I'll take an industrial-size-vat of germicide and a face mask, please."

7. Finding the person next to the window making a small collection of "little bottles" and reaching for the barf bag.

Drunks should stay on terra firma. That sense of comfort you feel in your own bathroom when you hang your head over the toilet and let 'er rip? Non-existent on a plane. Plus, what's that blue stuff at the bottom of the airplane commode? Do you really want to stick your head in there to find out? EEEEWW.


Of course, we're off to California in a few weeks and I guarantee there will be a story or two coming from those plane rides.

Shoot, with ONE kid you have a great chance of a funny story. But with THREE? The stories practically write themselves.

Happy Flying.


*Not to worry: I had a packet of duplicated copies of "homework" I remember completing on the plane. Never too much edumacation.

**Just without any actual baggage. Unless you count the emotional baggage you carry on board from that time your Great-Grandmother actually said to you, in your first meeting in a couple of years, "My! You've gotten fat." Bitty.

Cookies

Yesterday, I became part of the first human Oreo.

I think the only thing that might have made this more uncomfortable would have been to be twisted apart, exposing my innards, and eaten, bite-by-bite, fully awake and alive. And, the presentation of a ginormous glass of milk into my nightmare of a plane flight.

I arrived at the airport more than an hour before my plane was to lift off* and tried to check in at the computer kiosk. This little piece o' work spit out a pseudo-boarding pass that indicated it couldn't do jack for me and that I'd have to go to the gate to get a REAL pass to get on the plane.

By the time I removed my shoes, unpacked all my bomb making equipment**, showed my license, took off my jacket, and practically showed the guards my panties, I was so far back in line that the desk attendant had to create a 27th letter to describe my position in the boarding queue.

When I finally set foot on the plane, the flight attendant was making cracks about those of us (losers) in the aisle who, if we saw an open seat, should consider it ours, because it was a completely full flight. Oh JOY!

Being the rebel I am, I decided to ignore the PA announcement and head as far back in the plane as humanly possible. I would have happily sat on the toilet if it had had a seatbelt, to avoid the middle seat. No dice. Toilet was occupied. Darn.

However, toward the back of the plane was one last middle seat. Between two business-looking men, both wearing suits. Thankfully, my seat even came with spare overhead storage. I plopped down, mission accomplished.

Then the wierdest thing happened. It seems that these two gentlemen where traveling together. And they were both Chatty-Cathy's. I guess I had become transparent, because they didn't even seem to realize I had sat down. They thought it would be cool to talk around the ghost-of-a-person between them: ME.

The entire time this is playing out I'm thinking "If you two would like to sit together, I'll gladly take the window seat. Really. Unless the two of you are afraid you might get COOTIES or be tagged GAY by sitting too close to each other."

Thankfully, brain was moving, mouth was not.

My new seat buddies were talking about updated accounting and tax laws. I don't think there is a yawn big enough to describe the insomnia-producing effect of such a conversation. I decided my best defense was to lie still, close my eyes, and pray they'd both be rendered dumb. It was my best possum defense.

Sadly, neither guy was rendered speechless.

Instead, the dude on my left, who unfolded and stood to his 6'7" height at the end of the flight, took my "sleep" position as a chance to splay his legs all up in my business. He also felt completely chivalrous and relaxed his right elbow on our shared arm rest, crowding my arm completely into my chair.

So, here I am, scrunched from the left by Andre the Giant, while his sidekick, Mr. CPA, yaks in my right ear, all while I fake sleep. And continue to pray. To no avail.

That's when I realized I was a human Oreo. The best part of the cookie. I was such a sliver of a person, crowded into my seat, arms plastered to my side, legs straight ahead, that I even resembled the frosting middle.

I guess it could have been worse.

I'm just not sure how.





*Since I rarely travel alone these days, I COULD point fingers at others who like to arrive five minutes before flights then get into verbal punching matches about getting on the plane. Not the way I care to start a va-ca, but whatever floats your boat....

**Liquid foundation, perfume, and hairspray, when mixed together, might make a hell of a molotov cocktail. I just have no clue how to actually make this happen.

Car Safety

Today I heard that a new state law is in effect: EVERYONE in the car, regardless of seat location, must wear a seat belt. My first reaction was to wonder how people in Texas are going to install seat belts in the beds of trucks. Then I wondered if the wonder twins, Doug and Tex, were going to need some sort of special doggy-belt and doggy-seat.*

This law also got me waxing nostalgic. It effectively puts the final coffin nails in the last chapter of "Unsafe Car Riding Practices"**, which was a freely distributed tome during my childhood. I remember being free to move about the cabin in the 70's, all whilst inhaling unfiltered cigarette smoke. Those were the days when the captain NEVER turned on the "Fasten Seat belt" or "No Smoking" signs.

I remember, vividly, the game between my father, brother and me that would occur on car trips. Of course, it was FUN for me and my brother. My Father, however, should have had fourteen coronaries for every road adventure, because, for him, this would have been an appropriate response to being slowly tortured to death on the way to our family vacations in our 1970's-era, solid heavy metal, death trap of a car. It went like this:

Dad: "Quiet down back there."
Mom: "I don't see where we are on the map." (We were perpetually lost in my childhood.)
Dad (pointing to somewhere in Illinois though we were currently in Michigan): "We're there."
Mom: "But that's Illinois."

This little banter would go on for awhile before Dad pulled over to the side of the road, took the map from Mom, figured out where we were and where we were going, then gave the map BACK to Mom.

Poor Mom. She was hopelessly map-illiterate for all of my childhood. And Dad was a "half-full" kind of map relinquisher, who figured "THIS trip she'll get the hang of it."***

Now, in the back seat, we still hadn't quieted down. And we were like monkeys in an invisible cage, bounded by the front seat, back doors, and the rear windshield. We'd bounce around, scream, throw things, and paint an invisible line on the back seat whenever we got tired of each other. Then we'd announce "Don't go over that line." Of course, the other did, and that brought screams of "MAAAAHHHHHMMMMOOOOMMMM. She crossed the line."****

Dad (irritated voice): "I thought I told you to quiet down?!"
Kids, bouncing: "OK"*****.
Dad: "I'm serious."
Kids: no response. Still bouncing. Now hitting.
Dad: "DON'T MAKE ME PULL THIS CAR OVER."
Kids: still no response. Bouncing, hitting, and screaming now.
Dad: "I'VE HAD IT!"

Upon hearing that phrase, kids would scatter, because we knew what was next. An arm, much like the tentacle of the giant squid in "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea", was about to makes its way over the front seat, searching for whatever prey it could get its suckers on. It's entire purpose: to get us to SHUT THE HECK UP.

To paint the picture a little more vividly, Dad is six foot four. He wears a size 15 shoe. His arms are LONG. So you knew certain death was about to visit you if you didn't move QUICKLY.

Whoever was lucky enough to get the back windshield ledge and play dead was out of reach. But the poor sucker who hit the floor or backed into the seat was just completely at the mercy of the Gods. You could flatten like a pancake and that hand might still hit you smack dab in the face. Sometimes, if you didn't breathe, that helped, because you weren't giving any indication of location to the tentacled-one.

Usually the car would quiet down after this little game. Then, undoubtedly, one of us would ask "Where are we?" Mom, map in hand, had not a clue but, I imagine, a raging headache. Dad, still winded from the giant squid imitation, was too irritated to respond.

So then the questioning would hit nails-on-a-chalkboard level, with the inevitable "Are we there yet?"

Now, in all my years as a parent, in retort to this annoying question, I have wanted to say, in an oh-so-patient voice, with the look of an angel on my face, "Children, if we were THERE, we wouldn't be HERE. Since we are HERE, we can't possibly be THERE. Once we get THERE, we won't be HERE anymore. So, in the HERE and NOW, please shut your mouth until we get THERE."

Back to the 70's: there were always the complaints of I'm hungry, thirsty, bored, tired, and the happiest one, "I'm going to throw-up." That would be my younger brother, who had the unfortunate habit of getting car sick. Back in the day, since I had yet to experience my own kids with very sensitive gag reflexes, the thought of being a possible vomit victim was horrendous, unfathomable, and downright proposterous. This greatly increased the chances of my parents hearing the "Are we there yet?" line of questioning, as I wanted to get away from barf boy as quickly as humanly possible.

Through all the road trips we took as a family, none of us ever said anything that sent anybody else to a psychiatrist. I'd like to think we had fun while getting on each other's nerves, the way most Americans who vacationed via car did in the 70's and 80's.

Today I thank goodness for airplanes. They make getting THERE pretty quick. Nobody has to rely on map-reading skills, wrong turns are almost non-existent, and, goshdarnit, it's just fun to look out the window at our beautiful country.

Best of all, an airplane is a smoke-free environment, where I can simply sit back, seat belt firmly fastened, have a drink and relax.

Because I KNOW giant squids don't exist at 30,000 feet.


*If PETA has anything to do with it, this will be law next month.

**Not a real book, just a title that encompasses the attitude of the 70's: "I wonder what these things are doing in here?" (sound of seatbelt hitting floor of car.)

***Fast forward 35 years and they are now in possession of a GPS. I'd like to thank the inventor for saving my parents from killing each other during some random road trip. I'm executor of the will and I don't have time to deal with all the paperwork a double-homicide would induce.

****Notice I used a feminine pronoun here. This could have easily been "he". My brother was just as much at fault as I was.

*****This response was a blantant lie. We filtered out anything from the front seat of the car, besides the music coming from the "state-of-the-art" AM/FM, 8-track player.