Martinis in the desert on a school night
I am writing this, a few martinis in, from a hotel room in Phoenix. Like, Arizona. But I guess that is obvious.
I am supposed to, at this minute, be in Seattle. In bed.
(There are cactuses here! Or cacti, rather. The desert is a very scary place. Not to be confused with dessert, which is my favorite.)
Don't know if you saw it in the news, but D.C. basically turned into a giant underwater city this weekend. Which was perfectly timed, as I was there for work. Did you ever see Waterworld? Yeah, me either. But I feel like it must have been like D.C. There was so much rain it actually caused buses to float, cars to die, trains to cancel and planes to be grounded.
Mine was one of these planes.
But I didn't realize it until after schlepping my shit back and forth in the Dulles airport, nearly screaming at a couple America West employees, being frisked in security after standing in a half-mile long line, and then standing in a Subway line, where a woman who spoke no english made sandwiches as slow as humanly possible. And not only did she put each bit of shredded lettuce on the sandwiches one at an excruciating time, the sandwiches ended up all messy and sloppy and falling all over the place. I almost jumped over the counter at her.
Only after all this, (while in 88 degree weather in torrential downpoar and wearing heels, which I'd spent the weekend in, standing on the cement floor of a trade show), did I recieve the details of my delayed flight, which caused me to miss my connection in Phoenix, which caused me to sweat even more in my suit, possibly cripple myself in my heels, stand in yet another line, and then be told I'd be staying over in Phoenix until the next available flight, which is tomorrow.
So now I'm at the Hilton, and I've cancelled tomorrow's meetings, and I've changed out of the goddamn suit, and am now in a jean skirt and a tank top and flip flops like a local. And it's just fine. Fine fine fine. Sheryl Crow fine. Soon to be Jimmy Buffet fine. And then, maybe later, if someone gives me a stick and a smoke, John Daly fine.
Oh yes, I've been to the bar.
And I'm going back.
Cheers!
2 comments:
Ah, John Daly fine is the finest kind of fine. I know there's a super-slim chance that you'll say yes to this, but have you ever happened to catch the show "Daly Planet" on the Golf Channel? I know, I watch entirely too much TV. But it's amazing--the cameras just follow him around as he does all this shit; the episode I saw, he was attempting to hit a ball across Victoria Falls or something. He didn't do it, but he tried like 20 times. And he's always smoking a cig, always.
YES! I don't have the golf channel (because I live alone and am cheap, so I only pay for "basic" cable which means the 5 free channels and then about 15 public access channels broadcasting UW lectures, local political debates and infomercials), but I did catch part of it at my godfathers house -- all I remember is that Terrence Howard was talking to Daly's son and the kid was more or less terrified -- I don't think he said one thing. And Daly was having his blonde moment. That guy really is priceless. I wish I'd seen the Falls one... I bet not making it was hysterical. He had to be totally pissed.
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