Jan 30, 2018 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
I just want to remind y’all, before reading this post, that I’m the Bohemian Hurricane. Do with that knowledge what you will, and read on:
So, y’all know I took a new job last summer, right? After years of sitting in an office, doing same-ol’-same-ol’ stuff day after day, my friends convinced to apply for an open position at the local newspaper. Now I’m rocking my own territory and going in and out of the office and car and meeting and greeting and creating and marketing and it. is. awesome.
And because I’m out of the office more often than not, and because it’s a big, windy [that’s wine-dee, as in go-here-there-and-everywhere, not win-dee, as in winnie-the-pooh-and-the-blustery-day], multi-hallwayed building, I was pretty pleased when my reporter friend found me at the break room vending machine and led me through the labyrinth to *gasp* another vending machine.
There. In the back. Past the printing press. Through the automated stackers. Beyond the double doors and to the left-left-right-left of what I thought was the end of the building. There I found my delight. Cheez-It crackers.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : That One Time Cheez-Its Made Me Lose My Way
So this is when I confess share my love for these salty, flavorful bites. Like, I will go to the store for just these little babies if I have to. I’m serious. They are delicious with mini marshmallows. Especially when those marshies are roasted. [HOME HACK: mini marshmallows + fondue fork + pocket lighter = yum/fun.]
It’s like a cheesy S’more (Hey. Don’t knock it til ya try it.)
Frankly, My Dear . . . : How I Roast Marshmallows (Don’t Try This at Home)
And last week, I was craving these like a Southerner eats grits in the mood for something simple, so I meandered back to where I thought the other vending machine was. [Did ya catch the “thought” part of this statement? That’s gonna be important, dontchaknow.] But I ended up in a supervisor’s office. Thankfully he’s a nice super, so he walked me [most of] the rest of the way, and pointed. “Through those doors. No, not those doors. Those doors.”
“Got it,” I nodded. Not getting it.
And this would have been a good time to already have had the crackers, or something, to leave a trail so I could get back easily.
Oh, you already know where this is going, right?
I find the room. The vending machine. The crackers. My heaven. And then I turn around to go back.
Now, I’m not a fan of doing the not-working thing. Even if it’s just five extra minutes away from my desk to grab my Cheez-It happiness. So, I’m feeling a little rushed. A little anxious. A little, oh-my-gosh-would-someone-just-put-up-a-sign-already stress.
The press wasn’t running at the moment. In fact, no one was there. The lights were off. Which makes heels click a little louder in the behemoth machinery room.
It felt a little a lot like those stalker movies you see. Or the part in a horror film when the girl is being followed by the monster in the red cape, only she doesn’t know she’s being followed by the monster in the red cape. And she’s wearing bright, there’s-no-way-to-camoflauge-this clothing.
And then I couldn’t remember if it was those doors, or those doors. Or maybe it was those doors. Because I was facing the opposite way when Super told me. So now, well, I just don’t know.
Wait. There’s a sign.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Do Not Enter
Yup. That’s a sign.
Okay. Not those doors. And apparently not those doors, either. So, it’s just those doors. Got it. Phew. I mean, if I was writing a murder mystery, I’d begin to think this could turn out quite badly for someone like me.
I thought maybe I should slip my shoes off and tread lightly, but then the floor might be covered with tiny staples or paper pieces. Last thing I want is a paper cut on my foot, right? Especially when I have to run fast to escape the red-caped nothingness that by now I’m sure is breathing down my back. [Dang, those things move quickly out of sight when I turn around!]
I’ve been away from my desk phone work for about six-point-eight minutes now. I wonder how long I have to be gone before they realize my purse and coffee cup are still there … without me?
“She never goes anywhere without her coffee cup.” “Do you think something’s happened to her?” “Nah. Think she’ll mind if I take her crackers? Oh, wait. She doesn’t have any today.” #businessasusual #thankyouverymuch
And then some day, soon I hope, they’ll find me. Cowered in a corner. Licking cheese cracker crumbs off my finger tips and laughing maniacally. Because whatever was chasing me didn’t get me. And I didn’t give up the Cheez-Its.
I made it back to my desk after another right-left-left-right turn fiasco. Then it was retrace-left-left-right-right. [Insert expletive here.] Retrace-retrace-right-right-left-right. [Murmur of appreciation.] [Uhm, maybe more like get-out-of-my-way-I’m-happy-dancing-like-I-won-the-lottery kind of utterance.]
Super: “You find them okay?”
Me [feeling much like Kevin, the bewildered Park Security Guard in The Village]: “Yeah. Sure. No problem.” Please don’t look at me. I rarely recover well from awkward.
Super [Not looking up, much like the older, wiser Security Guard in The Village]: “Good.”
I expected him to say “It’s a really easy gig, Kevin . . . Don’t cause me any troubles.” Thankfully, he didn’t.
So I went back into the woods, delivered the Cheez-Its to my desk, and tried to forget Those (Awkward Moments) We Don’t Speak Of.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : That One Time Cheez-Its Made Me Lose My Way
TWEET THIS: That One Time #Cheez-Its Made Me Lose My Way @RealMojo68 @cheezit
With a fondue fork and cheesy fingerprints,
Happy snacking.
~Molly Jo
And Frankly, My Dear . . . : That’s all she wrote!
May 16, 2015 |
It’s almost 1 a.m. Sunday morning. Well, my watch tells me it’s only 9:45 pm, but I’m in North Carolina now, so it’s three hours later. Which makes it thisclose to sunrise. Ok, not really. There’s still an opportunity to catch some zzz’s but I just can’t go to sleep without sharing what the last 24 — okay, 36 — hours have been like.
Having been blessed with a scholarship and a share in the travel expense, I’m — wait for it. No, I can’t quite get my head around it yet. But yes, it’s true.
I’m at Blue Ridge! The Blue Ridge. The Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference. It is, to my knowledge, the largest and best Christian Writers Conference in the nation. And I just happen to know a girl who knows a guy who knows a guy . . . you know how the story goes.
#BRMCWC
I’m a good writer striving to be great, but without those connections, I’d be asleep in my bed back in California right now. Instead, I’ve worked my way here by writing, winning, striving, and socializing.
Throughout this upcoming adventure, I hope to share with you grand stories of what I’m learning, who I’m meeting, and what you can do to get here next year.
But . . . it’s almost 1 a.m. And I’ve had a crazy 36-ish hours. So let me run down the build up of how we got here.
My writing mentor, Aaron Gansky, is on faculty for Blue Ridge. Some months ago, he, his wife (my good friend Naomi), and I got together and prayed. They really felt I should be here. I wasn’t so sure. I wanted to come, but I wasn’t sure I was ready. I wasn’t sure, if I was ready, how I would get here.
Flash forward through lots of prayers, hard work, scholarship applications . . . and here I am. Along with my good friend Beckie Lindsey (follow her blog here!).
The Three Writing Amigos. . . and a Photobombing Flight Attendant
Being the frugal person I am, I suggested we fly out of Vegas because it’s cheaper. It’s only a three hour drive, and hey, who doesn’t love a good coin toss now and then. Right? I was also hoping for perhaps a northward layover so I could at least lunch with my daughter and her new husband in Seattle.
Yeahhhh. . .
Aaron’s flight had to be booked first through the Conference. He asked, on my recommendation, to fly out of Vegas and they obliged. Unfortunately, the flightpath is directly east, not north.
That’s okay. I followed suit and booked the same flights and close seating, and reserved the same for Beckie. She was on vacation in Mexico and I had no way of getting in touch with her except a short email that gave her the reservation number and the message of “They can only hold it for 24 hours!”
Thankfully, she saw the message in time, and was able to also book the same flight and neighboring seats.
Now, you would think at this point things are going smoothly, right? Not so much. Because in our zeal to fly cheaper out of Vegas, two things happened: we realized that in order to get to the airport in time for a morning flight, we’d have to drive up the night before. That’s right. Drive. North. On the 15 Freeway. To Vegas. On a Friday night. Thank you, Molly. I’m sure that’s what they were saying. I’m just not sure it was in a tone I care to recall.
Then comes the problem of where do we stay? I thought perhaps we could drive up after midnight and sleep in the car for a few hours, but they didn’t approve. Something about neck cramps and crazy talk. So I shouted out to my friend Corrie who lives in Vegas and after twelve seconds she invited us to stay at her house, and she even promised lattes in the morning!
Compliments of Casa de Corrie <3
After trying for several attempts online to pre-check, I had to call US Airways, who transferred me back to American Airlines who said everything looks fine, I just need to actually check in at the airport instead of online.
No worries, because Beckie did, too. Apparently, they didn’t like that the ticket was reserved “Beckie” but her legal name is “Rebecca”. And Aaron? He checked in just fine and I can’t guarantee this, but I think he might have been rolling eyes at us women by now.
At the check in, I received one boarding pass. To Charlotte, NC. I asked, “Do I get my other boarding pass in Charlotte?” To which the clerk responded, “Oh, you’re going to Charlotte?”
Now you would think I would have had some red flags go up at this point, but the truth is, with the three of us all trying to check in and get our passes with three different clerks and verifying names and seats and checking baggage . . . I just went with it. He corrected my ticket and we were ready to go.
Beckie got her boarding pass. I got my ticket. Aaron got his headache. And away we went. Up the People Mover, to the tram, down a level, up an escalator, through the halls, to the plane. And we pre-checked our carry-on luggage, although kept our laptops with us personally. [NOTE TO SELF: Always, always ALWAYS keep your computer and phone chargers with your computer and phone. Always.]
At the pre-check, once again my carry-on was tagged to go only as far as Charlotte. Jim M. was the only helpful person in this entire fiasco so I promised him a shout out. He worked behind the counter taking care of “one problem at a time”. First, my carry-on pre-checked bag was properly tagged for Asheville. Second, my reservation was confirmed. And therein lay the problem. Somehow my connecting ticket from Charlotte to Asheville was errantly confirmed by the man downstairs for a flight I couldn’t possibly be on–a flight that left Charlotte at 4pm when I wouldn’t even arrive until 4:40.
Jim M. worked his computer magic and reset my reservation, with my original seating. Problem Number Two solved.
Then he told me the bad news is the checked bag, from Mr. Man Downstairs, was probably going to stop at Charlotte. He tried to key in the information, but the system had just had enough of me and would go no further.
What can you do? We boarded our flight and a short four hours later landed in Charlotte. Per Jim M’s instructions, I immediately rushed the boarding counter to explain they had to “stop that plane!” or at least make sure my baggage was forwarded to the proper address. The woman politely told me I was wrong, there was nothing she could do, but chances are my bag was properly identified and on the plane anyway.
Okay. Our stomachs were beginning to hurt almost as much as our heads at this time so we just went with it. I mean, my carry-ons have the most important items: laptop, wallet, conference/writing Binder, Captain America T-Shirt and two Magic The Gathering decks.
We ate at Whiskey River in Charlotte and had just enough time to stresslessly board the last leg from Charlotte to Asheville.
They’re called Dirty Tots . . . and they’re delicious!
You know where this is going, don’t you?
Of course, we arrived just fine, but my suitcase didn’t. So we (and by “we” I mean “me-but-they-had-to-follow-because-I’m-the-one-getting-the-rental-car”) started toward the Ticket Counter to make a claim only to find there were several others in the same situation. Before I could say anything, someone said, “Oh, you must have come from Charlotte.” And that someone was behind the counter. What does that tell you? [Don’t fly into Charlotte if it can be avoided.]
We find out my bag was napping in Charlotte, where they would give it a nice bed for the night and deliver to me within twenty-four hours. In the meantime, they reversed the $25 check-baggage fee, gave me a claim form, a $25 credit for the claim so I can at least buy pajamas, and a really nifty one-night-only toiletry bag.
U.S. Airways Awesome Complimentary Gift for Losing My Luggage
I’m tellin’ ya, I felt like a Superstar. NOT. [But I did get these awesome SuperHero PJ’s thanks to the bill I’m sending them!]
Marvel Avengers PJs. How could I not?
But enough was enough and we’re exhausted so we finish up there, get the rental car, and head out. The Ridgecrest Conference Center is about thirty miles from the airport. If you turn left.
Of course, we didn’t. We turned right. And about 45 minutes into our should-have-been-27-minutes drive, we realized we were lost. And by “we” I mean “Aaron-because-he-was-driving-and-it-was-his-GPS-that-did-us-in” kind of “we”.
Aaron’s dad, Alton Gansky, is co-director of this conference. His flight was scheduled to come in about three hours after ours.
I said “Wouldn’t it be funny if we arrive at Blue Ridge at the same time your folks do?”
And guess what happened?
The neat ending for me was getting a hug from Al because I’d not met him in person before today. . . er, yesterday. Last night. Whenever it was! He’s on the Firsts in Fiction podcast every Wednesday with Aaron, and we have the opportunity to talk writing a lot. But this was the first time in several years of knowing who he was, that I finally met him. And he hugged me.
I’m a huggy person. And so right then, it didn’t matter what kind of day it’s been. I’d arrived at Blue Ridge. We had our room key. I had my we’re-sorry-we-screwed-up-but-take-this-dollar-bag-for-your-humungous-inconvenience-toiletry bag, and a hug from Alton Gansky.
I have Nippers and my Harmon Bear, which smells like Lizzie cat.
But now it’s nearly 2 a.m., breakfast is in five hours, and I’m ready for bed.
And Frankly, My Dear . . . that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
“What’s the Word?” Wednesday: Aaron Gansky on Magic and Writing
But I’m not good enough to attend a Christian writers conference . . .
Following Fabian
Jan 11, 2012 |
It’s starting to become a serious joke in my family. I’m getting famous for getting lost on the Freeways of Southern California. I’ve sort of hinted at this here. But now that I’ve come clean about my latest adventure to my family, it’s time to share the story on the Blog for my public humiliation.
Last Thursday, my daughter and I headed down to Disneyland for one last hurrah before the end of winter break. Now, I’ve lived in SoCal for three decades. I’ve been driving to and from Disneyland almost just as long. It’s incredibly simple.
At least… it used to be…
I was feeling pretty confident last Thursday. After last month’s major car repairs and with a full tank of gas, I was secure in my transportation. We had a wonderful day. We met up with some friends. Rode some rides. Ate some dinner. Bought a souvenir. And then it was time to head home.
What you have to understand at this point, is the last two times I’ve driven home from Disneyland, I have at one point or another missed a turn and ended up misdirected. It even happened to my friend. I’m not the only one! But I’m pretty sure I’m the only one it happens to every time.
So this time, I looked very closely for the freeway signs. RIGHT LANE TURN ONLY. Awesome. I’ll turn right, get on the freeway, and make tracks for home. It’s also worth noting at this point, that my loving attentive daughter questioned this decision as she was aware we were on a different street than we usually first take out of the Park. She wasn’t as confident (or, as she says I was, “cocky”) about the route we were taking.
After a few minutes, I began to think I missed my first merge. I’m pretty sure I got on the wrong freeway. But it’s the 5-North, a very well known freeway, and I know I was in the general area so I didn’t worry. It was all part of my Daring to Be an Awesome Orange. Since it was, in fact, just a few hours earlier I chose to be an Orange, I honestly thought I was invincible.
Except that darned interchange that I was looking for never appeared. And I’m starting to remember that I don’t ever get directly on the 5-North straight out of the Park. There was supposed to be a different freeway first… wasn’t there? Maybe the 57 North? Maybe skip the I-5 altogether?
This thinking, and my driving, continued for another 15 – 20 minutes. I should turn around. I should head back. I should. But I didn’t. I was brave. And smart. And conquering. And invincible. (You just keep thinkin’ that, missy!)
So I kept driving.
And then I saw more freeway lanes. With more traffic. And taller buildings. With bigger billboards.
This is so not the way to the desert.
The buildings grew closer. The billboards grew neon lights in a foreign language.
I should definitely turn around now.
South is definitely where I want to head. If I can get on the 5-South, I’ll end up back near Disneyland and can easily, easily, find my way home from there, and only be about 45 minutes later than planned. I took what looked like a friendly exit off the I-5 and pulled into a gas station. I checked the GPS on my small cell phone screen. I had a vague idea where I was heading, but couldn’t make sense of the two-inch map I was looking at. With no small amount of vocal trembling, I asked directions to the I-5 South.
The ensuing language barrier led the conversation to be peppered with words like “What?” “Where?” “How far?” and more “uhmmm”‘s than I care to recall. Easy enough. I’ll get back on the 5-North and get off at the next exit.
This one was better. With a fake confident smile, I again asked my question. “You want to go west here then north.” (Heavy accent… I’m so not close to home…) I asked for left-or-right clarification. Please. I implored him: it’s dark outside and I don’t have celestial navigation. So please. Left. Or. Right. ??? “Yes.”
Ughh. I asked what street do I get on. That part was clear. So I got on the street and kept going. It should be here any minute now. Any minute… now… any. minute. NOW.
So not getting home in a timely manner.
Every time I thought I saw a stoplight and overpass indicating a potential on-ramp, it turned out to be just another street. Another dark, crowded, unknown street.
With no freeway entrance in sight I can’t even get back on the 5-North. Even though that was the wrong direction, at least it was (fairly) known territory. At this rate, I’ll end up at my brother’s house five hours north before I find my way back home.
I’m almost confident that although it felt like I had driven a good ten miles away from the freeway it probably was only inches, maybe a foot. Definitely not truly as bad as it felt. I was *gulp* almost confident of that.
Almost.
One more gas station. An ARCO. By this time, I had a pretty good idea of where I was. And the GPS confirmed it. But what does a two-inch cell phone screen map really know? Stupid piece of technology. Except it did show that I was just a mile away from a huge interchange. And when I say huge, I’m talking Paul Bunyun huge. There had to be a way to avoid that.
I walked to the clerk and meekly pleaded, “How do I get to the 5-South, please?”
He was wonderful. He was tender, and could tell I was lost, and offered compassion and directions. Good directions. He told me street names and distances and left-and-right navigation. And then he pointed behind me. “There is a tow truck driver. They know all the streets even better. Go ask him, he will help you.”
I looked. Into the shadows. Past the gas pumps where this incredibly large, full bodied-tattooed gangbanger looker of a guy stood smiling at me. He wore overalls with the name FABIAN stitched on them. His license plate was PEPE 13. 13! As if things couldn’t get any worse, let’s throw in a superstitious number, too. Well, I thought. I had a nice life…
I approached him with what little courage I had left, praying all the while with confidence that within 30 minutes I’ll know exactly where I am and be able to breathe better. But right now… ugh.
I explained that I was not only lost, but terribly lost and afraid of the upcoming freeway interchange. I asked for directions to get back toward Disneyland.
I was taken aback when his demeanor didn’t live up to his appearance. I guess that late at night, where I was, looking the way he looked, I expected someone rough. Vulgar. Difficult to understand and unwilling to help.
He was none of those. He immediately put me at ease with his attention, his smile, and his knowledge of safe streets.
But he’s a tow truck driver. He didn’t care where I came from. He wanted to get me to my destination. So when I explained that I’m looking for any safe freeway that will easily get me to the desert north of San Bernardino, he let out a slow, low whistle. Not kidding. Just like when someone gets bad news in a movie. And my already trembling legs bent a little more.
He said the only way back to the freeway was (in his words) “that really big joint freeway interchange just up the road.” I’d have to take this side road for a mile, get on the 5-North (again), find the 60-East, travel a bit to the 710-East then stay on there til I get to the 10-East. It sounded complicated.
And I was getting a bit dizzy from all that clean Los Angeles air.
I offered to pay him to tow me to the 710. Once I hit that, I knew my way. But freeway interchanges – huge freeway interchanges – in the dark? I think I’d rather not.
“Well,” he said. “First of all, relax. You’re fine. You’re out of the area -”
“I know,” I gulped.
“You’re not in the best part of town, but you’ll be fine. We’ll get you back on track in no time. You’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” I didn’t really know if I should believe him. I wondered if Daring to Be an Awesome Orange meant not ever showing fear, or just conquering it.
“Do you know where you are?” he sort of smiled, tilting his head. I don’t know why that comforted me, but it did.
“I have a general idea,” I said, holding up my worthless two-inch map.
“Yeah…” he nodded. Then said those words I was trying to avoid.
“You’re in East L.A.”
So he smiled again, reassured me again, and told me to follow him. We’ll stay in the slow lane. We’ll go slow in the slow lane. I don’t have to make any lane changes. Just follow him and he’ll get me where I need to get.
As soon as I agreed, he ushered me back into my car. “It’s not the worst neighborhood, but you don’t belong here.” I waited for his lead.
As promised, he led me carefully through the streets of East Los Angeles, onto the first freeway. It was then I noticed that his headlights were incredibly bright. They lit up the entire freeway sign. And then it dawned on me. He was using his Mag Flashlight from inside his cab to show me the signs so I knew where to go in case I lost him.
When we hit the second freeway interchange, it went just as smoothly. His MagLight lit up the sign. No cars got between us. There was no significantly merging traffic.
When we got to the 710 split, he took left and I took right. I turned my lights off and on twice in rapid appreciation and he lit up his siren lights for two seconds. In less than ten minutes, I was breathing easy back on the 10-East and I don’t know where he was.
It’s quite possible he was just an Angel in Disguise teaching me a lesson about appearances and trust with his Orange Lights.
Thank you Fabian, for guiding me home.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Nov 18, 2011 |
So last night was yet another venture into the otherworld known as Midnight Movie Premiere. That’s a story all its own.
We rode down with one group of friends to a movie theatre just over a half-hour away. We met up with another friend and decided to ride with her on the way back.
Poor Baylee! I think I kept intimidating her with my Back-Seat Driver impersonations: “Oh, Baylee, you’re a great driver, but please don’t tailgate.” (We were a good four car lengths behind any other vehicle.) “I hate driving in the fog, Baylee. I hate it!” (Visibility was at least a half mile or more, so we were fine.) After that, I did it to tease her just ‘cuz I could. “Baylee, you’re swerving.” “Baylee, look out.” “Baylee, do you want me to shut up now?”
Now, I’ve made this drive probably thousands of times over the last 20+ years. I went to University in that area. My brother used to live 3 miles away from the theatre. I can navigate these roads and the freeway without even thinking…
Unless I’ve been awake for more than 21 hours. Unless there’s a bit of fog and lot of conversation to distract me.
Get where I’m going with this? I navigated us about 20 minutes too far east. “It’s coming up. I know this road. We’re on the 210 East, so we’ll meet up with the 15 North any second now.” “Yup, any second now.” “Anyyy second noww…”
We realized we’d gone too far when we finally saw the sign proudly announcing we weren’t that far from Palm Springs. Uhm, yeah. I’ve navigated us wayyy too east. Time to backtrack.
Baylee good-naturedly made the U-turn and soon (soon is a relative term here, as we should have already been home by now) we found our way back to known territory heading north.
Baylee gave an audible sigh and said, “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Why?” I gasped. “You’re not the one who sent us so far off the beaten trek.”
“No, it’s not that,” she offered. “You’re fine. This has been a great drive. I love driving.”
“Then what??”
She sighed again just as we merged with the 15 North.
“Every time I make the drive home, other people get to head to Ontario down the Hill. I have to follow the signs leading to Barstow.”
