Dallas, We Have a Problem

Oh where, oh where has my suitcase-y gone,

Oh where, oh where can it be?

To be honest, at this very moment, I do not have a frickin' clue. When the travelling sages would tell the Baroness that she should take a toothbrush and clean underwear in her carryon, the Baroness would guffaw. Chortle. Mock. Judge (repeat as needed). What kind of crackpot bumpkin peasant would she be, carrying girly drawers in her purse? Gawd. And then it happened. 5 planes and 3 airlines later, I arrived at my destination, sans baggage. Well, there's that unresolved stuff with my father, but that in and of itself won't brush my teeth. Try as I might, I can in no way fashion pajamas out of my laptop. Although - I did craft a fabulous origami bra out of my Yoga Journal magazine.

What complete moron chose Savannah anyways? Oh yeah, that would be me. I'm sure it will be a lovely city to visit - at least according to the bang-up job the tourism bureau does on their website. It's just that right now, given all the crap I've dealt with to get here, it better be pret-ty farging amazing, with Targets resembling Neiman Marcus, and an easy-access Walgreens so I can replenish my non-existent toiletries. Paula Deen herself better be tappin' on my hotel door (y'all) to deliver my room service. Scratch that. Send one of her sons instead. Then everything will be even.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'm still thrilled beyond belief to be able to spend some girly time with my sister. Huge, huge, massive thanks to Mr. American Airlines ticket counter guy who pawned me off to Delta Airlines. A big warm embrace to Herb at Delta, who somehow got me on standby out of Dallas, to sweet Allen at the gate, who actually managed to get me on the plane, and to the pilots, who decided to take off from Dallas when the rest of the airport was shutting down from the snowstorm. This is a trip that was obviously meant to be, and through the effort of some fine individuals who spent most of yesterday being crapped on, I'm here and truly grateful to you all.

Some random thoughts I jotted down while on various planes yesterday:

1. In all the years I watched "Dallas" on tv, I never recall it snowing on Southfork. WTF? Did JR and Sue Ellen use all of their ill-gotten booty on some sort of biodome?

2. "Last Call" for boarding a plane surprisingly does not bring about the same emotions as "Last Call" at a bar.

3. An apology to all the seat-pee-ers at the airport - in a desperate toilet fly-by between planes, it became clear to me how some flushing may get overlooked (note here that I said it became clear. This in no way implicates me in said eww-ness). The odds are still astronomical that this happens so often that no matter when I fly, I'm in the stall immediately following the toilet seat tinklers. I still do not grant pardons to areas other than the airport - you know who you are.

4. If, for whatever reason, in some far-fetched skewed reality I were to be on "Amazing Race" - I would be a cryer. Or at the very least, a whiner. It's a fact I'm not too proud of, but there you have it. I'm so not cut out for guerilla travel. I'm in awe of you all who must zigzag back and forth across the country for business. You are made of strong mettle. I, on the other hand, am made of marshmallows and feathers and resemble a quavering house of cards.

5. One of the flight attendants reminds us that, "overhead space is shared space." Yeah, she's talking to you, Mr. Jerk in 10A, who spends 10 minutes trying to Tetris not only his 2 suitcases into the overhead bin, but I believe also a live chicken.

6. I notice that the food truck loading comestibles onto the place boast the logo "Pride in Quality". Hmm. When sir, exactly, were you last proud?

7. Where did I read that "keep hydrated" advice? In Style? New England Journal of Medicine?

This theory only works if you are in close proximity to one of the paltry few airplane lavoratories and have also slipped the flight attendant a 20 upon boarding that will maybe earn you VIP access. Young supermodels who can keep hydrated = bladder of a camel. Older, menopausal frumps - bladder capacity of a thimble. (Mental note - maybe a 100 instead. $20 may come across as cheap instead of desperate.)

* Note from the Baroness - I had to come back and format this post - for some reason, I couldn't get it to work on my laptop, and the non-justified paragraphs and clumped-together paragraphs were driving me mental.

Whoa, Snow and the Down Low on my M.O.

Like something out of a shiny, treacly Pretty Princess dream, the Baroness rubbed the pixie dust out of her eyes this morning to a world festooned with a liberal dosing of downy white snow.

However. Unlike something fairytale-esque and dream-like, this winterland vista begins the nightmarish dreaded Snow Day. For, in the Baroness' corner of the world, snow on the road sings its siren song only to naive new drivers and the categorically insane. Rain, we can handle. No problemo. Given hydroplaning conditions, we have imprinted on our DNA the instinct to drive with the skill of a stunt driver in a Volvo commercial. But snow? Ack.

Which means that unless I want to Ugg it anywhere, I am homebound. This should be appealing, non? This should mean that I can find amusing activities within the confines of the vonB homestead. Television? Seems like a viable option. A nap? Even better. The sad truth of the matter is that there is much busywork to be done within my little vonBloggenschtern principality. It was a quick mental review of my To-Do list that gave me a split-second glimpse into my modus opperandi.

I truly admire that select group of people who leap out of bed every morning, full of vim, vigor and dare I say, zealous fervor. (I fear. Yes I do. But more importantly, I admire). Alas, this is not me. I slink out from under the covers every morning, on autopilot from bedside to bathroom to the 1 square foot of sacred space in front of the magic elixir machine. Once I have fuelled up, I am then ready to face my responsibilities. Here's where the ToDo list epiphany comes into play - I realized today that my ToDo list should really be called my (I Don't Want) To Do list. This itemization outlines all of the activities I am actively putting off, but cannot shirk onto some poor unwitting family member. At the top of the list is the thing that I don't want to do, but given enough coffee and gentle (!) urging from the Baron, it may get done. At the bottom, the thing I don't want to do the most. Ever. Happily ever after. The end.

Yesterday, #1 was sitting down and getting all of my committee nonsense organized. As I oh-so-cleverly avoided it yesterday (and did nothing at all on the list), it still remained #1. Taking its place today is a new #1 - re-doing baseboards in Duke #1's bathroom. I am extemely averse to doing this, but I don't want to do this less than facing all that whacked-out paperwork. Pity the last poor item on the Baroness' never-ending, always metamorphasizing (I Don't Want) To Do list. This will be a legacy project - for my great great grandchildren.

I have no excuse not to forge ahead. I have the baseboards, the mitre saw, the special blade. But the Baroness prefers to regard herself* (see yesterday's post) as an "Intellectual Meditating D.I.Y.'er". Kind of a melange of artist and craftsman. I figure if I gather all the equipment I need, and then envision the project for say - oh I don't know, 3 months? - it will somehow magically get done. Because, you know, that's what meditation is all about. Magic. Mmm hmm.

I'm having another ephiphany. Right this very minute. I do believe that baseboards are about to sink down to #2, and paperwork to #3. I'm going for a drive.