Flashback

Dusk is just starting to settle her skirts as we wheel our bicycles out of the apartment.  It's still fairly warm out, so my tissue-thin, white-is-most-visible t-shirt is feeling quite comfortable- although I've strapped a fleece to the Zuri's carrier, just in case.

I let Nathan take point- it's true that I prefer to lead (in this as in most things) but trial-and-error has taught me that after dark it's wiser to fall back, because checking my six with him behind me invariably leads to me being blinded.  At least it gives me the fun of swinging my own headlight back and forth, back and forth across his form in a private game of Searchlight.  ("Are you having an epileptic fit back there?")

People are out in the streets shooting off firecrackers (as people do on the 4th) and I have to admit- it's more than a little nerve wracking.  The noise, the lights- the general drunkenness that means people don't necessarily recognize a cyclist as someone to look out for.  I'm stressing out a little, and I'm thinking about the men and women in the military who have to deal with said conditions on a daily basis- without the comforting knowledge that it's just firecrackers, and that if anyone gets hit it will more likely than not be an accident.  And not fatal.  How odd that we celebrate our independence by reconstructing the sounds and smells of war- by taming it, making it a pet whose claws we've gilded.

It's three miles down to the waterfront, and we find a grassy patch to park our bikes and our selves.  Our timing is impeccable: not five minutes later the show over the fort gets started.  Since we didn't pay to get in we get to experience the strange disconnect between flash and bang, and I find myself making a game of guessing what noise each display will make.

I ask Nathan what his favorites are, and he tells me that it's the ones that are mostly noise- just a big flash and a big bang.  Me?  I like the glittery ones- specifically the gold, although I never say no to purple.  The ones that seem to swim like minnows intrigue me, too- I've only seen them in recent years, and they always make me think of Gandalf, or maybe Hogwarts... they have a sort of life to them I'd not have though possible with mere gunpowder.

I watch explosion after explosion and I realize I'm a little bored.  It makes me sad: when did fireworks stop being a big deal?  Is this a natural part of growing up?  Or am I just spoiled?  Either way, when the finale comes (the real one- we thought it happened twice before it did) we don't waste much time hopping back on our bikes and cycling home.  There are fewer explosions now that it's nearing midnight, but definitely more drunks- and more belligerent drunks, at that.  Although I'm not afraid, exactly, I am grateful for the nimble speed of my aluminum steed, and for Nathan's imposing bulk beside me.

We cruise through quieter neighborhoods and talk in giddy terms about the house that will soon be ours.  I realize how happy I am in this moment, with this man, and I feel overwhelmed with gratitude for this life that we have found and made together.  And as we put our bikes to bed in our safe little apartment I think of the soldiers out in the darkness, who will never feel jaded about fiery night-time explosions, and I feel grateful for them, too- and I hope they too get to go home soon.

Acceptance

Well, they countered our offer, and we countered their counter... and they accepted!  Woo hoo!  I cannot begin to tell you how freaking excited I am.  Don't get me wrong- I'm trying to hold at least part of me in "let's see what the inspection says" skepticism, but mostly... I'm just freaking excited.  I've been rolling the phrase "our house" around on my tongue, and have found its taste to be surprisingly similar in both quality and satisfaction to the phrase "my husband".

(I always have thought getting a mortgage together was ever so much more of a commitment than marriage...)

Schrodinger's Accuracy

I'm sitting in the bathroom, watching the color creep up the stick, and I'm thinking to myself,

Right now, in this moment, it could go either way.  Right now, in this moment, it is both ways.

It may surprise you to discover that I'm not actually referring to whether or not I'm harboring a new life form within my womb.  No, what I'm pondering in this moment is a person's faith in the accuracy of at-home pregnancy tests.  And really, it all comes down to the result of said test. Or, to be stricly accurate, the desired result.

In this instance, the result is negative, and so my reaction is,

Pfft, these things are wrong all the time.

Of course, this is in direct opposition to the rush of overwhelming relief that flooded through me the first time I got a negative from such a test (I was a freshman in college, if that tells you anything about my mental state).  I tossed the stick away and set off about my life with a spring in my step and a whistle on my lips: in no way did I feel the urge to second-guess that single blue line.

Likewise, had it been a little blue plus sign I was staring at a few moments ago, I'd have taken it as Gospel Truth... but it wasn't, and so I remain skeptical.

(Which, let's face it, is preferable to being crushed.)

Not How I Imagined My Day Ending

I was expecting it to be a good day.

I got to sleep in a little, rolled in to work about half an hour later than I normally do (but still before opening, so I was fine), and then had enough work to keep me occupied (but not overwhelmed or annoyed) until the market closed at 1300.  I'd already arranged with my boss to shut things down at that point, so I flipped the sign to Closed, changed back into my cycling gear (yes, I'm now one of those people) and enjoyed the hell out of my ride home in the summer sun.


Nathan and I were scheduled to do three walk-throughs starting at 1400 (hence my having arranged a short day), so I got about half an hour of decompression time before it was back out the door once more.  The first house we looked at was shockingly appealing (especially at the price).  I'd been a little dubious about that one, but Nathan was adamant it had serious potential.  I'm so glad he was right!

The second house was the one I was really excited about- another little yellow house (are we seeing a trend here?  Perhaps...) that was suspiciously charming on the outside, and in the photos.  But we'd been burned before, so our hopes weren't super high as we drove over.

When our agent got out of the car he had a sheepish look on his face- turned out he'd left his Realtor key back at his office (I cannot judge- I got to work the other day and had to call Nathan to drive over and bring me my keys...).  I told him we didn't mind sitting on the porch while he ran back to get it, so that's what we did.  Well, after a while.  First I sat on the tree swing in the back, and then we sat on a little garden wall and imagined kids playing in the grass.  Then we sat on the back porch and enjoyed the cool breeze.  Then we moved to the front porch and sat on the bench there and decided we'd rather have a pair of rockers.  We were definitely falling in love with all the exterior aspects of the house (and I decided I wanted to be best friends with the current owners- they compost, and have a rain barrel, and a little veggie garden, and bicycles, and impeccable style as evidenced by the subtle red detailing about the windows) but again- trying not to get sucked in before we saw the interior.

Then our agent returned, key in hand, and we finally got to see the inside.

Love.  It is the most perfect, perfect house.  It is exactly what we were looking for.  Completely.  No compromises.  Beautifully updated and maintained- you can tell the people that live there genuinely love that house, and have taken care of it accordingly (so important).  It even smelled clean.  Actually clean, not just "I threw some pine-sol down about twenty minutes ago" clean; after doing as many walk-throughs as I now have, I cannot tell you how rare that is.

We went to look at the third house, but it was just for form's sake.  It was a decent place, but after seeing the Yellow House, nothing can compare.  I asked our Realtor if there were any offers on it- he said no, and I felt downright insulted on behalf of the house.

So we remedied the situation.

That's right, gentle readers: we made an offer on a house today.  So not at all what I had in mind when I woke up this morning.  And thus the day ends, not "good" as I had imagined, but rather "great".




(....and I struggle to balance optimism and non-attachment....)

Also Have Some Art

I must say, I cannot take credit for the linework: that was my Katie.  But I did do the colors... they're going to be part of a Spiderman mock-cover that's going to be a wedding gift for people we don't actually know.

Moochos Smoochos, I'm sure

Tiny and Adorable is a GO!

We do not know these people, but they're getting married.  Yay them!

And now it's so past my bedtime...

Second Generation Geek

I can't remember whether or not I've mentioned this on here before (the lack of tags suggests not) but I am a second-generation geek.  Demand ye evidence?  Know this, then: my parents were avid readers of fantasy and sci-fi; they bought a personal computer the nanosecond they were able to; they were fans of both the original and Star Trek and Star Wars; and by golly, they played first-edition D&D.

Now that you're aware of this, you will not, perhaps, be so shocked to discover that I, too, get my Role Play on (and have since I was about fifteen or so...  ah, Vampire...)  I  haven't been part of a game in about two years, but now that I'm back with my fellow nerds we're starting up a new one (set in Victorian London, no less), and I'm so stoked.  As such I've been character building, and I thought that I might toss that up here, seeing as how there's been a certain dearth of fiction, lately... so here you go, my cross-dresser's story in her/his own words...

***


I should have been born a boy. As first-born, it was my duty to be male, and therefore an heir- but I wasn't one, so I couldn't be the other. I was a carroty-girl, not even a beauty they might marry off, although my parents never seemed to hold that against me. Mother would say, "The blessed Virgin gives more wisely than we can understand," and kiss my freckled forehead. My little brother was born four years after me, and he came out dark and lovely like our Mother's people, so perhaps she was rewarded for her faith. Or perhaps not- she died two years later, and once she did Father disappeared.

Well no, not disappeared, not like he has now. But he stopped being around so much, save in letters. My brother and I were left to the nursemaid, and then the governess, and really to whichever of the help did not shoo us away. Father would come around about once or twice a year, and oh what lovely times those were! We fair worshipped him, and how could we not? A tall man, with hair more fiery than mine has turned out, very handsome, and always with gifts for us. But his eyes were haunted, and each time he returned home, it seemed less and less as though he belonged there with us, or even with the living.

My brother and I grew, as children do, and he remained dark and lovely- but also delicate. Some less charitable folk might say sickly. He’s an elegant young man, my brother, with far nicer manners than my own- he’s more suited to a life of books and ledgers, whereas I was made for a life under the sun and atop the waves.

Our lands are on an island in Galway County, tou see, and I’ve been on fishing and merchant vessels almost as long as I’ve been walking. Been chased off ‘em a fair deal, as well, but eventually the men gave up. Hard to say “no” to the Lord and Master’s daughter, isn’t it? Especially when she takes such a genuine interest, and has the skill to match. As such, I’m a fair hand with a boat, and I know quality goods from bad. And, truth be told, I can hold my own in a dockyard brawl- maybe not win ‘em all, but I made more than one ship’s boy think twice before coming back for more. My form might not be much for attracting a husband, but it serves me well enough for those things I’m actually interested in.

But Father. The last time we had word from him was nigh on three years ago- he sent us a small packet, “in case you should ever have need of my Club,” his letter said. The packet held two items- the first a letter of introduction to Blacks in London, and the second this strange medallion you see here. The first time I held it in my palm I swear it felt hot as a live coal- I almost dropped it! But then the moment passed, and my brother felt nothing out of the ordinary, so I put it from my mind.

We put the items away, but when a year passed, and no further word arrived, we began to worry. After two years we decided something must be done- thanks to our fleet of ships our lands managed to escape the worst of the Great Famine, but things were not comfortable by any means- and funds are dwindling. And so, after a bit of arguing, it was agreed that I’d assume my brother’s identity and travel to London to see if I couldn’t unearth what had become of Father. At which point my brother pointed out that my manners were not all they might be for a lady going to London, let alone a Lord, and so he spent six torturous months teaching me how to bow properly, amongst other things.

***

(And in case you were wondering, yes: having the father's club be "Blacks" is my little hat-tip to the Aubrey/Maturin books)

An Open Letter to Delta, Whom I Hate

In response to the laughable question, "How can we help?" on Delta's complaint form:

"You know what?  You can't help.  Or perhaps I should say, you WON'T help.  You never have in the past, and I don't know why you even bother to use that term on your website, or anywhere else in your literature.  Nor do I understand your insistence on using the phrase “customer care”, when it’s so obvious you DON’T.  I chose to stop VOLUNTARILY flying Delta over three years ago, in large part because of how bad your “customer service” had become (also because at least 25% of the time- and I’m being GENEROUS- you seem to be incapable of getting a flight to any given destination on schedule) but there are times when I, or my family members, MUST fly, and Delta is unfortunately the only option.  Such is the current scenario, wherein my husband, who had to go to the east coast for work, is currently stuck in Columbus, Georgia.  Now don't get me wrong- I understand that it's not your fault Atlanta closed due to weather.  I get that.  What I do NOT get is why, even though his flight was diverted and landed in Columbus FIRST, the other two flights that arrived AFTER him were gotten out of there before him (his flight is still trapped there, over three hours later).  Even more than that, I don't understand why you had over 100 people milling around the airport (with only ONE agent) for OVER AN HOUR before ANY sort of announcement was made.  Furthermore, I don't understand why, when a Delta agent FINALLY called my husband back after an hour, the man told him that his system was "locked up" and then HUNG UP ON HIM.  Weather happens, and you have no control over it- but the fact that you tolerate such unprofessional and callous behavior amongst your employees is INEXCUSABLE.

Would you like to hear more?

I expressed my displeasure via a post on FaceBook, and a friend responded by sharing her most recent experience (also from today).  She was flying in to New York from Tennessee: her travel time should have been three hours, according to her tickets, but it turned into eight.  First they sat on the runway for a long, inexplicable while, only to find out there was electric generator failure. So they taxied back to the tarmac and deplaned, waited on another plane, and once it arrived proceeded to wait on the crew. Finally she had the pleasure of circling three turbulent holding patterns.  Again- we understand that mechanical failures aren't REALLY your fault.  But the way you treat passengers while they wait IS.

Another story that was shared with me today was about Delta shafting my 70+ year old grandparents.  I did not hear this from them, of course; they’re too old school to complain about that sort of thing.  I heard this from my mother, who related to me that AFTER she had paid for FIRST CLASS TICKETS for her parents, you guys decided to bump them off their flight, and then pressure them to take coach seats on another flight.  The agent told them that if they took the coach then they'd be reimbursed the difference in price, and since my mother was the one who had paid they went ahead and took the coach seats (the promise of reimbursement is the ONLY reason they even mentioned this heinous treatment to my mother).  Well after three months of your "help", my mother finally gave up trying to get her money back.  And you know what?  It's not even about the money.  It's about the fact that you bullied a pair of senior citizens (one of whom is a WAR VETERAN, if that means anything to you) because YOU overbooked a flight, and then refused to take responsibility for it.  I guess it’s good to know that not even paying more can make you care about your customers.  At least you’re egalitarian in your abuse.

If you want to be the great company you USED to be twenty or more years ago, you need to re-evaluate the kinds of people you let work for you.  These bullies, cowards, and unfeeling louts are representing your brand, and they're doing it poorly.  People HATE your company.  The phrase “I’ve been Delta’d” is commonly understood amongst my social set to mean “I’ve been screwed over.”  Go ahead and google "I hate Delta" or "Delta sucks" or "Delta is evil".  Go on, do it- see how many hits you get.  Why?  Not because of weather delays, I assure you.  It's because of the way your employees are allowed treat people.  Maybe you should take some lessons from SouthWest or Chick-fil-A, two companies I NEVER hesitate to do business with: they treat people not just well but RIGHT.  They have their share of mistakes and delays as well, but they actually APOLOGIZE, and try to MAKE IT RIGHT.  They treat people like PEOPLE, and not like dumb sheep to be herded from one location to the next with kicks and scorn.  It's called taking responsibility for (and pride in) what you do, and maybe it's about time Delta remembered how to do that.

But you know what?  You probably stopped reading this about seven hundred words ago, and I'll probably just get a form letter response saying, "Delta apologizes for you unfortunate experience.  We hope to see you soon!" and that will be the end of it.  If there's still a human being reading this, prove me wrong.  Prove to me that Delta hires more than just bullies, thugs, and sociopaths.  Prove to me that SOMEONE in this company actually gives a damn at how much they’re hated.  I dare you."

EDIT: I got my auto-reply telling me they try to respond within seven business days.  We'll see.