Eating At Airports

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After a wonderful visit with my family, I'm back home in NC.  I'll post pictures of my visit just as soon as my brother-in-law (AHEM!) e-mails them to me.  I know you're all dying to see Aunt Di-Di in action. 

Thought of a blog entry on the plane ride home.  I was on an itty-bitty United charter flight which was a problem for anyone over 5'7" as that's about what the ceiling topped out at.  The flight attendant came back with the drink cart.  "May I get you anything?" she asked.

"Coffee, black, please," I answered.

She gave me my coffee and a bag of spicy mixed nuts and pretzels. I tore open the bag and started chomping.  And it was then that the topic for today's blog entry occurred to me.  I had the frightening realization that I will eat anything a flight attendant hands to me.  No questions asked.

Let's think about this.  If I were at the store, I would never buy this spicy nuts and pretzel mix.  Too many calories, I'm not overly fond of salty foods, etc.  Even at a party, I would pass it by for the same reasons.  But hand it to me in a semi-claustrophobic encased metal environment and I'm all about the spicy nuts and pretzels.

Odd eating habits don't just extend to on-the-airplane eating, either.  I consider eating in an airport terminal a caloric free-for-all.  I stopped at a Starbucks this morning inside the airport before my flight and along with my decaf, skim-milk latte,  ordered up a king-size apple fritter.  Now, I would never  order the fritter in my day-to-day life.  But I didn't even blink an eye at the airport.  I needed breakfast, the fritter was there, end of story. 

For some reason, I seem to think foods eaten in an airport don't count.  Like I think the Universe should see that I'm stuck in a huge, gritty, dirty, loud place with crying babies and way too many people trying not to look smug and self-important as they talk into headset phones and therefore the Universe should balance the equation by not having any food I eat in this yucky place "count."

At least, I'm hoping that's how it works.  'Cause that was a really good fritter.

I Am Aunt Di-Di

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I'm in Chicago, visiting my mom, sister, brother-in-law, and my too-adorable for words 2 1/2 year-old nephew, Jake.  I haven't seen Jake in over a year and he was hesitant when I came in the door, clinging a bit to my sister's shoulder.  That quickly went away as we went into the living room and he pulled out every one of his toys to show me.  After deciding I was worthy, I quickly became the "go to" person for Jake.  Dinner need putting on the table? Aunt Di-Di had to do it.  A toy to be played with? Aunt Di-Di must play.  Book to be read?  Only if it's read by Aunt Di-Di.  I admit, I totally loved the attention.  It makes you feel special to be wanted by a two year old.

Special that is, until it came time to check the diaper.  "Jake, did you go potty?" asked my sister.  "C'mere and let me see."

"No!  Aunt Di-Di," came the reply.

All my relatives--who have a mean streak to them--burst out laughing.  My gag instinct where poop is involved is well known among family.  But Jake stood in front of me and turned around and was patiently waiting (amid snickers from everyone) so I pulled his pants out, took a quick peek, tried not to faint, and said, "Yup, you're dirty."

"Aunt Di-Di do it," said Jake, meaning he wanted me to change his diaper.  (More laughter from the mean relatives).

But that's where Aunt Di-Di had to draw the line.  I managed to stay in the room, but couldn't really go near the bed where my sister, rolling her eyes at me, changed him.

I'm staying at my mom's, and the next morning my sister called me and said, "We made pancakes and Jake saved one for Aunt Di-Di."  I reported this to my mom who said, "What about a pancake for Ba?" (He insists on calling my mom "Ba."  We have no idea why.  But when he calls for her he yells, "Ba!  Ba!") "You've been replaced," I smugly informed her.

Last night I read him a story in bed as he cuddled next to me, then he sang "You are my sunshine" which is the song he sings before bed, then he said his prayers and went to sleep.  He is just too precious for words.

I still don't want one of my own, but I love being "Aunt Di-Di."

"We're One of the Lucky Ones."

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One of the women in my 6 AM yoga class is an Art Collector/Distributor.  She furnishes art to buildings, corporations and designers.  She has strong connections to several artists in Moldova, which is northeast of Romania and is one of the poorest nations in Europe.  She said she spoke to a woman there yesterday who said they were having a particularly harsh winter.  But, the woman added, "We're one of the lucky families.  We have heat."

Sentences like that put things in perspective, or at least allow a glimpse of how narrow a perspective we walk around with most days.  I'm spitting nails over my bathroom renovations being dragged out while this woman is thankful her family has heat. 

It's easy to take for granted how much we have to be grateful for.   And yet, while I'm embarrassed for the moment over how much energy I'm wasting on what is the trivial matter of a bathroom renovation, I also know perfectly well I'll be back to bitching and obsessing by early next week if the work isn't being done.  Why is that, do you suppose? Does it really take tragedy to make us grateful for what we had before the tragedy?  I hope not.  I like to think I'm capable of learning without being knocked flat in the head with it.

I've been telling Blair that something is going on for me lesson-wise with the Universe.   I have been embroiled in battles over the last 2 weeks with contractors, shop owners, and others over treatment I've received that I think is unfair or unacceptable.  And I've been nice, been nice, been nice, then reached my breaking point and gone in swinging.  I won't bore you with the details of why I didn't receive treatment appropriate to the situations.  I don't think the lesson is in whether I'm right or wrong in how I should have been treated.  The lesson is in how I respond when I don't get the reaction I want.

And yet, I'm not going to be a dishtowel and hang out while people walk over me and miss deadlines.  But I'm missing something, somewhere, about bringing balance to these situations.  It's just too big a coincidence that all these things are happening together in such a short time span and, although different situations, all strongly mirror one another.

I told Blair last night I'm so tired of being angry and harping on people. But stuff doesn't seem to get done unless I do that.  Certainly there are some control issues in there for me.  I still think I know best and if everyone would just act like I do and be on time and follow-up and accept responsibility everything would run a heck of a lot smoother. I'm not even going to try to work on the "My way is best mentality" because I don't have the lavish amount of time and money for therapy it would take to break that one.  But I would like to work on not letting myself tip over emotionally into anger and disgust when situations aren't handled the way I would prefer.   There's got to be a better way.

Here's hoping I find it.