Airport Red Rover

My sister has been emailing me all week torturous messages from her travels in Los Angeles, courtesy of her Blackberry.

I keep getting ones like, "Sitting in a tank top in Santa Monica on the beach—it is so sunny here!" or "Just saw the girl from 'Bend it Like Beckham' while touring the Warner Brothers Studio!" or "Heading to a big party for our cousin, can't wait to meet Jimmy Kimmel and Sara Silverman to ask them why Ben Affleck isn't at the party!"

My personal favorite included a funny deformed photo of herself which I'm assuming was captured in the wiggly fun house mirrors at Ripley's Believe it Or Not Museum where she said, "Had some time to myself so I stopped into a Beverly Hills Salon and got some work done."

It was frightening. I barely recognized her pretty little face. I urged her to come home before she ended up looking like a bad rendition of an Orange County Housewife. Which, in itself, is a bad rendition of a normal American middle aged woman, if you ask me.

And, the final email featured her sitting patiently in the LAX cell phone waiting area for her boss' plane to land. She and I both agree that the cell phone waiting lots are a genius idea—a very simple solution to a really annoying problem. See how this comes back to commuting? Patience, people, patience.

In Atlanta, my hometown and arguably the busiest airport in the country, when you're flying in, you must either have an uncanny sense of timing or ESP in order to meet your party outside the arrivals gates at just the exact moment when they choose to drive by, or you have to have them park somewhere near the airport, which can only be described as the 'hood, only to wait for your "I've just landed!" call to get them moving. Otherwise, the driver tries to deploy a stealth operation designed to stall along the arrivals gate, idling in the lane while the Atlanta Police yell at you, scream obscenities and threaten tickets, fines, or promise to steal your first born.

The cell phone waiting lot allows you to avoid all of that, and to wait for your party, but in a civilized, uniformed and efficient manner. Atlanta Hartsfield and O'Hare airports, get on that, wouldja?

Lauren claims that at the LAX lot, all the cars starting up and leaving her one by one made her feel like she was playing a giant cosmic game of Red Rover, and she was the fat, sweaty, scary and overly tall kid of whom everyone was afraid.

She's not, for the record.

But, if I wasn't a tiny bit afraid of her, I'd be posting the fun house mirror photo for you all to see.

Manipulative Mama Part Deux

Wow! That post generated quite the discussion (see below), so I figured I'd do the follow-up, especially since the crazy girl (we're calling her Tammy) is still on the loose. In a not-so-secret part of my brain, I hope she happens upon this blog and recognizes her own deceitful and psychotic actions for what they are.

You know, deceitful and psychotic.

This is the latest email back to my friend Carey:

"Gosh, Carey! I hope you're not upset with me. I didn't mean it as a mean joke. It was a great marketing ploy and 100% effective. Everyone I emailed either returned the email or called me. This weekend I've spoken to about 50 or 60 people who I haven't heard from in quite some time and I think that's great so please don't be upset with me. If you prefer, I will take you off my mailing list and I won't be offended. By no means do I want any negativity from this. Truthfully, everyone got a huge kick out of it."

My favorite part is that she has talked to 50 or 60 "friends" this weekend that have called her in the wake of her "big news." So, clearly this person has a large network of people who would care enough to call her to congratulate her should a life-changing event like pregnancy occur to her.

I think that proves that there are plenty of people to form an intervention circle around her. Why isn't anyone calling her out on this!??

Uh, hi, Tammy? This is Reality calling. Get a grip!

Manipulative Mama

My friend Carey just came into my office to tell me a weird story. And weird it is.

She met a girl, let's call her Tammy, at a social event last summer. They hit it off, and have kept in touch, but mostly by way of Tammy sending out newsletters and emails regarding her work, which happens to be real estate.

Tammy sent Carey an email out of the blue this week and it requested Carey's mailing address. It said, "Please send me your address...I'm pregnant and want to send you the announcement!"

Carey obliged, and sent the required polite "Congratulations" email back to Tammy. It must be noted that Tammy is a single woman in her late 30s that was not in a relationship. I won't judge, and clearly the woman was excited about her impending motherhood, so good for her. They are barely friends - acquaintences at the very most, so it was a bit odd, but we'll let that go. People get excited about their own news.

It was only after Carey received the email back from Tammy that said, "Thanks for sending me your address, and for the well wishes. I was only joking - don't hate me for it. But, it did get my phone ringing and filled up my inbox!"

I have a serious problem with this conniving tactic. The woman is an independent sales person, and building a database is a huge part of her success. But to use a personal ploy, comprised of a huge lie, is so underhanded, so manipulating, and frankly, so tacky, that I couldn't help but react with my jaw agape. Carey felt the same way.

I told her to throw that Mama from the train.

And We Weren't Even Poor

We got talking at work today, during one of our free lunch learning meetings, about how funny lunch meat is. Either you love it or you hate it. Some like only certain meats, and others won't touch the stuff.

That led us to the conversation about what we took for school bagged lunches growing up.

I, for one, wasn't a fan of sandwiches, even when my Mom tried lovingly to recreate a "Subway sandwich" by putting ham and cheese and the fixins—including oil and vinegar—on a hoagie. I wasn't fooled. Then she tried the toasted approach. Not gonna do it. I wasn't even a huge supporter or PB&Js, the childhood staple, or cheese sandwiches, which given the chatter today, were a crowd pleaser.

So, inevitably, I ate a bagel with cream cheese (plain, not toasted) every day from 6th grade through 12th grade. Some girl at work ate a ketchup sandwich, some guy liked cream cheese and jelly on Wonder Bread, another guy devoured peanut butter and bananas, and there were a few honey-lovers in the mix.

Overall, the lunch sandwich discussion was funny.

And then I dropped the bomb that my Mom used to grill us SPAM sandwiches, on toasted bread. Yes, SPAM. The room got silent. I dropped my head in shame. Then decided to own my SPAM-loving history.

I remember liking them! The smell filled the house, and I can still recall helping my mom with the rolling-back metal lid with the little key, which I found totally cool.

The best part is this—as an adult I am totally and completely grossed out by the concept of processed or congealed meat—like bologna. I even heard that at the factory, bologna is in a tube of liquid meat, and then someone puts the pimentos in there by HAND. That is so gross I can't even comment. Another chat on this subject of mystery meat revealed that in Greek restaurants, the gyros are made from that congealed/processed form of meat that is often lamb, or pork, or a little of both. GROSS.

However, I'm known to eat a great Kosher hot dog at the ballpark during the summer, so what's the difference, right? No one knows quite what is in a hot dog, and it is a close cousin to bologna anyway. I'm fooling myself by adding the grilled onions. And, the 5 draft beers. That usually does the trick.

Frankly, the only SPAM in my life now comes into my inbox, offering me a larger penius, Viagra, or some other totally useful product such as those.

Especially for a woman.