Looking out for me

I just booked a flight from Mumbai to Delhi on the internet. That may have been a trifle hasty on my part. I’ve been emailing a travel agent and I wanted to see if I could get a better price by searching the airlines myself. This particular flight was showing up as 500 rupees for the both of us, which if my monetary conversion website is correct, is $12.67.

Thinking I might as well try to book this one flight, I started filling in my info on the page. I don’t recall if there was a confirmation page before I completed the sale, but I found myself looking at a receipt and ticket number. The ticket was in fact 500 rupees, but the taxes were 4000 rupees!

What the hell? Have I been ripped off before I even get to India? Perhaps, but this grand total of about $128 is still less than what the travel agent quoted me.

I printed out the receipt and my cell phone rang. It was an automated message from my credit card, fretting about some unusual charges. Could I confirm the $128 charge to Air Deccan, and the $62 charge at Fred Meyer and the $30 at the gas station…Um, that domestic Indian airfare was legit, but I suspect fraud at my neighborhood Fred Meyer and the gas station at the end of my block.

Seriously, though. That call came within minutes. They got some kind of system in place. I better call them before our trip in April to prepare them for more unusual charges in Kathmandu and Dharamsala.

How long has this been going on?

Isis and I are alone for the next 24 hours plus. Rob is doing some mixed martial arts something-or-other in San Jose.

I’m not scared. Just this second my ferocious guard dog leaped into action, barking her shrill head off, setting off the ultrasonic anti-bark device I installed by the library window for this very purpose, because someone somewhere on our block shut a car door.

Good doggie.

I’m in my “office,” also known as my mother’s bedroom, when, over the sound of Roomba in the other room, mowing Isis’ fur from every square inch of the house, I hear voices. The kind of faint voices you hear when you live in an apartment, and you hear a conversation through the wall. Except I share walls with no one. Could it be a conversation on the street? Did I leave the TV on?

Or possibly, has the ancient clock radio in this room, which didn’t seem to work as a wake-up system when I tested it last summer, turned itself on at a very low volume, making me wonder whether it’s actually been turning on every night at 10 p.m., and spooking me just a little?

(I’ll end the suspense. It was that last one.)

Just about right

The last few days, I’ve been relating a little too much to the subject of the report I’ve been editing:

Many salmon populations are severely depressed.

I thought Omega 3’s were supposed to be good for that.

Today, I worked through my little to-do list, and was just thinking to myself that I’d run out of things to do and probably no one was going to call me back today anyway, when the boss called.

“Don’t you think you should get out of there a little early today?” he asked.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.

Just like when I was in film school

I saw two movies yesterday. At two different theatres.

27 Dresses
I went by myself and sat in a solo seat at the very back of the theatre. It was so crowded I overheard an old lady say, in response to the observation that there were no two seats together, “Let’s just take single seats.”

And two other ladies sat next to me in chairs that were actually brought in from the lobby. Weird.

I loved it. What can you say about a movie that you went to see primarily because you’re looking forward to seeing the montage of bridesmaid dresses…and as you’re watching the montage, you feel bad for the actors, because really, what a silly little device the costume montage is, and yet, you’d have been disappointed not to see it…?

Let’s hear it for cute James Marsden, for finally graduating past the role of The Guy You Don’t Want the Chick to End Up With. (See: X-Men, Notebook, Superman Returns, Enchanted…) And I don’t watch Grey’s Anatomy, but I liked that Katherine Heigl when she played an alien on Roswell.

So, I walk out of the theatre, my heart swelling like it does when you see a silly romantic comedy, and I’m thinking about a time when this movie would have made me think longingly, “Golly gee, why can’t I find a cute guy like that?” And there’s a message on my cell phone from my cute guy, who wants to know if I’ll go see Cloverfield with him after he gets off work.

Sure, I’ll even pick up the tickets on my way home.

Cloverfield
I appreciated everything that this movie intended to do, and in fact accomplished. The idea is that a video camera was recovered after some kind of apocalyptic event, and this is the footage that was on it. Quite believable performances in an unbelievable scenario by a group of non-stars. (Oh, but hey, that’s the lesbian from Mean Girls. I knew I recognized her.)

I didn’t even mind that there was no explanation for what the monster was and where it came from, because a few possibilities were suggested. Rob had a similar reaction to mine after Aliens V. Predator: Requiem (in which I wanted to see a diagram of the life cycle of an alien, because where did the little creepy crawly ones that lay eggs in your stomach come from, again?): “What were the things falling off the monster? Was there more than one?”

I dunno. But they were good-looking monsters, in that I totally believed they existed. At first sight of a massive tail, I thought we were dealing with a giant lizard (see masthead above), but it had a head like an I Am Legend vampire/zombie and had front legs that sometimes looked like really long arms…and it was angry.

Oh, Canada

We have confirmed the Taxi Zone signage on 800 block Granville Street. Please be advised your ticket will be withdrawn and we will refund your payment. Please send me your original Buster’s Towing receipt and we will also refund your impound charges. Be sure to include your current mailing address.

We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused.

I still would like to know who authorized/ordered the tow, and how many other people were “inconvenienced” on that night or any other by rogue towings.

But mostly, I feel absolutely vindicated. I knew I was right! “No parking between 8 p.m. and 4 a.m., Friday through Monday” clearly means that I can park there from 6 p.m.-11 p.m. on Monday evening.

…wonder if I can get them to reimburse my $10 (Canadian, so that’s like $50 American) taxi ride to the impound lot.

Harry Potter and the Defective Moving Walkway

I finally got to starting the last Harry Potter book this weekend. After managing to resist the hype and remain spoiler-free when it came out last summer, I borrowed Rob’s dad’s hardcover copy and it sat around until Friday when I decided to pick it up.

I knew that it would suck me in once I started, and yet, it never seemed like a good time to start. I sure wasn’t taking it to Disney World with me last September, or on the plane with me to California in October or December. (I’ve had Algebra textbooks that were more portable) Weekends at home that I could have spent reading, I spent painting my house instead.

So, I’m about halfway through and wish I could spend today on my couch reading more. Even though it’s really not looking good for Harry. (Don’t tell me!)

Also this weekend, I bought a treadmill via Craigslist for the dog. That’s right. For the dog. From a man with a rather Rowlingesque name. I’m misspelling it, in case he googles himself, and who doesn’t: Sirius Kronk.

Although he got the treadmill from a garage sale and the manufacturer doesn’t make it anymore, $100 seemed like a good deal for the thing, which I tested out and looked to be in excellent condition.

At home, we lured Isis onto it, and she trotted along with trepidation at about 1 mph. I was positively giddy about this transaction. Until this morning, when the thing kept stalling after 2 minutes at 2 mph with the dog on it. It doesn’t seem to do that when a human is on it, although it might, since I didn’t actually walk on it for more than 2 minutes.

It seems, from my google research, that the problem could be that it needs a new belt, which would cost $150. I explain this much to Rob, who says, “Please, just call the guy and tell him you’re more than happy to bring it back and see what he says.”

I don’t care what he says, it’s going to inconvenience me (and Rob too, since I can’t put the thing back in the truck by myself). Unless he says, “Oh, let me just refund some of your money. I’ll mail it to you. What’s your address?”

While Rob wants my $100 back, I’d rather just have a broken treadmill in my garage.

And I absolutely have to mention that we already have a treadmill, but Rob didn’t want to share it with the dog and have it get all scratched by her talons and coated in her fur. Besides, the ultimate goal is to have them run side-by-side on their treadmills, like Will Smith and his dog in I am Legend.

Update (1/16): I remembered that while Rob is a talker, I am a writer, so I e-mailed Sirius Kronk. He said he’d give me my money back. Then I finished Harry Potter. Felt sufficiently confused about a couple of plot points that I looked them up on Yahoo answers. Amazing how easy it is to find answers to such questions as “How did so-and-so become the master of the wand?” and “How did so-and-so get the sword?” Much easier than flipping through actual pages to find them.

Happy New Year and all that

So I was watching a Top Model Marathon yesterday while painting my kitchen. Watched more commercials than I probably did in the whole of 2007, because I was actually watching live TV.

Lots of commercials for ab-toning workouts. Specifically. Like the advertising folks figure everyone in the world will be feeling fat and looking for the answer to washboard abs. Not me, of course, I got my Bender Ball for Christmas. It’s a little disappointing though, because the accompanying DVD does not have the production quality of the infomercial. I’m sure they shot a low-budg workout video and made the infomercial way later.

Also, the trainer does not have washboard abs herself and does not have the charisma of, oh, say, the Yoga Booty Ballet ladies. The exercises are good, but after every set, she’s all like, “Wow, I’m sure feeling that? Are you feeling that?” Fortunately there’s an option to watch the video without listening to the instructions.

And oh, yeah, it’s the end of the world as we know it, when what we have to look forward to this television season is Rock of Love 2, Scott Baio is 46 and Pregnant and My Fair Brady: Maybe Baby?

Boxing Day

And Rob still hasn’t opened any presents. He gave me one of mine Thursday before I left. I opened all of mine from my mom, etc., on Christmas Eve. I was supposed to get home last night in time to open presents with Rob here.

Nightmare air travel stories are so trite, aren’t they?

To attempt to sum up: My flight from Burbank was mega-delayed, so the airline shuttled passengers to LAX for a flight that would get in only an hour later than the scheduled arrival time. This is not the first time this has happened to me, and wouldn’t even be worth mentioning (except in a phone conversation to my mother on the way to LAX, so she’d know what airplane I was on, should anything dire happen).

However, the twist here is that the lady at the counter who rebooked me asked if I wanted to share a taxi with the dotty lady standing beside me. I said sure. They gave me the taxi voucher. I went to retrieve my 50-pound suitcase and Dotty (let’s call her) went to the ladies room. She was supposed to meet me at the ticket counter, but did not arrive in what I deemed to be a reasonable amount of time.

So you know what I did? I ditched her! Not before I walked back in the direction of the gate and glanced in the ladies room, of course, but time was of the essence here. I had no idea how long it was going to take to check my bag and get through security at LAX.

I felt bad about it until I saw Dotty on the plane, and then averted my eyes. What’s the harm? She made it. No idea how much it cost her in stress and tears, but whatever, she made the flight.

Alas, karma is a bitch.

Upon arrival in my home port, I again retrieved 50-pound suitcase, went to the courtesy shuttle curb and called the place where I had parked my car. And called and called and called. It rang and rang and rang. I called Rob, who found an 800 number, called it, yelled at the jerkhole who decided to stop answering the front desk phone at 8 p.m. on Christmas, and summoned the shuttle.

For some reason, even though I kept my zen all day, passing through security lines, getting rerouted, being told to wait at the wrong luggage carousel (They always do this! Why do they post one carousel number only to change it at the last minute? Why not wait til the luggage is coming out, folks?) … through all that, I’m Susie Seasoned Traveler. But standing for 40 minutes on the curb, with my hands freezing, so eager to get home to Rob and the dog, was more than I could take.

Fortunately, I had a two-hour drive to regain my calm. About 10 miles from our house, the rain turned white and coated the freeway. Snow on Christmas night! Could anything be more beautiful? It came at my windshield like stars in the windshield of the Millenium Falcon in warp speed.

I had to slow down substantially, but even this I enjoyed. I wondered why Rob hadn’t mentioned that it was snowing when I talked to him 87 times from the curb at the aiport. Maybe it hadn’t started yet.

Or maybe it never did, because about a mile from our house, it was raining again. There was still a fair amount of snow and ice on my car though, so I planned to show that to Rob when he came outside to carry in my 50-pound suitcase.

Which I’m sure he would have done if he were awake.

At least Isis was happy to see me.

Think I’ll go bake some cookies, light some candles and turn on some Christmas music so it’s festive around here when Rob gets home from work.