Allison Unfiltered

Cat's out of the bag...

...and when I left her last night, kid was alternating between brainmelt and jumping over the moon.

I'm taking this experience as proof that keeping secrets from offspring IS a good thing.

Kid gets her birthday present from Queen Alpo on Vimeo.

In which I become a softcore star for the TSA

25 minutes left before my plane takes off and there are fifty people in front of me at the security checkpoint.  I opt for the shortest line, not realizing until I am three away that my line was also the line closest to the infamous backscatter scanner. 

20 minutes left and I start shifting my weight, checking my pager, switching my bag from hand to hand.  I keep looking around to see if I can find a departure screen or a clock on the walls.

15 minutes in, the six-year-old kid in front of me is getting irritatingly cute, asking her mom if she has to take off her shoes, can she go through the x-ray machine instead of the doorway, all while swinging her suitcase in a wide arc that directly intersects with my shins.  My bag, laden with laptop, camera and books, suddenly weigh more than the nearly-oversize suitcase I just checked.  I bend over to loosen my shoelaces, change my mind and stand up.  After a few more seconds I bend over again and loosen them.

I am watching the backscatter machine with interest -- it looks like a giant glass tube in which creatures are inserted and experimented upon.  A man in khakis and godawful tasseled loafers and red socks (men always need help shoe shopping) enters and is instructed to stand with his feet on two parallel yellow marks and bend his elbows as if he is at gunpoint.  Two big metal bars on a vertical swing in a circle around him, and he steps out.  I raise my eyebrow. 

I've read the blogs ranting about TSA policies and the horror stories about colostomy bags upset and five-year-old boys forced to strip down in tears.  Stupid homophobic rants about possibly gay agents ogling businessmen's bodies; scary speculation about nubile women being inspected with more frequency than others.  On their respective trips home from school recently, my brother and sister had different screening stories.  Although young and good-looking, my brother is the scruffy, post-hippie type, 6'1", thin and tends toward the polite, close-lipped smile.  My sister is equally young and attractive with big brown eyes that invite you in.  A yoga teacher, she has been stopped more than once on the street by random strangers to be complimented on her beauty.  Guess which one was picked for the scanner?  Yeah.

The people in front of me in line deposit their cases on the x-ray belt and hesitate -- do they go in the machine or through the metal detector?  Bored TSA agents wave them past.

There is one TSA agent pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair to the front of our line.  I flew internationally once in a wheelchair, post 9/11.  It was a real hassle, and I experience a momentary pang of sympathy for her.  Then he whispers in her ear, one hand on her back, and points. 

It isn't until she pushes herself out of the chair and totters forward that I realize what is happening.  A little old lady, wheelchair-bound, has just been selected for nudie "we're just checking" pictures.  Unbelievable.  I stare, slack-jawed, and shake my head as she makes her slow, careful exit, eyes on the floor.  Then she's gone and I switch my bag to the other hand now, huffing and scanning the walls again.

I am really getting nervous about time -- I woke up late despite being excited about coming to Vermont and now am worried the trip I've been anticipating for months is about to become a hassle.

My turn now.  I put my bag and snowboots on the X-ray belt and head over to the metal detector line without hesitating like the dumbass people in front of me who held up the line.

The TSA agent, a pretty brunette, points at me and shakes her head.  Points at the giant test tube.  I suddenly have the feeling she's been looking at me for a while.  Shit.

I have no time to think.  I don't like the idea of these new "safety" practices, but dammit, I gotta get to Vermont!  No time for righteous social protest and demanding a pat-down on principle.

I step in the chamber, and a black guy in his 20s steps in next to me, mumbling stuff while looking forward.  I hold up my hand to stop him.  "I'm deaf."

He nods, smiles casually.  Points at the instruction sheet on the glass in front of me, and steps out.  The sheet is two sentences long, says to hold my hands up and bend my elbows.  There is a picture to demonstrate... just in case my comprehension falters.  I look at both text and image and obey. 

Whir-rumble.  This reminds me of getting an all-around X-ray at the dentist's office.  Even mid-whir, I'm scanning the instructions, trying to make sure I'm complying fully and seeming as non-terroristlike as possible. He beckons before I'm done re-reading, and points to a black pad on the floor on the other side of the chamber, gesturing towards stenciled yellow footprints in the middle.  I stand there, wondering what new screening procedure this is.  Around me, people are whizzing through metal detectors and rushing off to their gates.  I feel exposed, like someone else is back in line the way I was a few moments ago, watching me and mentally tsk-tsking.

I stare into the distance, trying to find gate D19.  I can only see up to D09.  I hope I don't have to run.  I am emphatically anti-airport running.  It's a philosophical stance from which I refuse to waver.

The TSA agent on my left, a pretty black young lady (why are they all so fricking young?  and when did I start thinking everyone around me was a child?!), waves for my attention, signs thank you, smiles.

I'm done.  And it took all of one minute.  Well, then.  That was surprisingly uncreepy.

I'm the last one on, but I do make my plane.  Without running.

"Roam if you want to/Roam around the world..."

Just when I didn't think I could love Seal Press any more than I already do, they come out with this: Karen Schaler's Travel Therapy (Amazon link here).  

Purrrfect!  Been suffering from some serious wanderlust lately, from wanting to go back to Vermont to India to the UK to the French countryside to rediscovering the beaches of the Caribbean.  Siiigh.  And even better, this book is geared towards women post-breakup or divorce, or seeking rejuvenation of a certain kind...

"With 101 unique destinations, Travel Therapy is geared toward helping readers refresh and find themselves, whether they’re dealing with a breakup or divorce, celebrating retirement, or looking to shake things up. Every chapter includes quizzes, travel tips, and extensively researched links to the best destination-specific websites to help you figure out the perfect destination for you. From daring destinations to soothing spa escapes, Travel Therapy is your road map to self-discovery, happiness, and success—whether it’s zip-lining in Belize, helping orphaned children in Africa, or beachcombing the Caribbean."

Like, somebody wipe the drool off my face already.  While I'm no jetsetter, I have been on my share of trips to destinations both exotic and quaint.  The thing that always totally makes the trip, though, is the company you keep.  There's a reason honeymoons are always such hyped trips, yo.

But what about when you travel alone?  I wouldn't know -- I've never had the chance.  But I envision revelations, a personal enlightenment of sorts.

And hey, as long as we're talking about travel... looky-look what I found (from here)!  A table of the most photographed landmarks in the world.  And of the top 7, I've been IN three.  Cooool... 

This is what a movie about telepathic people looks like.

Movie with Telepathic Actor from Queen Alpo on Vimeo.

It's now a quarter to 11, and my butt has been thoroughly flattened. I didn't plan it, but throughout that whole ride, I got up once. Scary.  I would have been pretty good in Anne Frank's annex, no?

By the time most of you elves read this, though, I'll be happily flitting around campus with fellow tale-weavers and eating scrambled tofu and turmeric like a genuine Vermont hippie.

DeafDC Crosspost: Family Visit Survival

Holiday Visit Survival Tips (or, How to Avoid Family Dog Syndrome) by Allison Kaftan
I know many of you are in the same boat as me and Chris right now -- we're in the midst of playing musical family houses, each of us following the partner into their respective family's houses and waiting until it's FINALLY time to go home. Whether you're exasperated by playing ...[keep reading]

More gluttony

Call me crazy, but I really want to do this.  

Find more info at www.infinitelightperu.com

(You may have to turn on the captions.  And the thingy says it's 10+ minutes, but from 7:30 on it's Shamanic chanting and nature noise.)

MAC should pay me 2% of profits. Seriously.

I've only lived in a dorm throughout my long and illustrious college career for one semester, so I'm not too surprised that my dorm survival skills are at a minimum.

Notheless, I must say: I am vewy pwoud of myself for using the resources immediately at hand and figuring out what to do about the lack of a mirror in the morning, especially since there are only two shared bathrooms for 13 people on my floor.

So that's what that hole is for!

Word to the wise:  When you're going away on a trip to a new school or some other new program, and the list of suggested things to pack includes little insignificant things like a 3-prong adapter, you might wanna pay attention.

40-year old dorms = murky smelling carpets, zero air conditioning, and only 2-prong outlets.  Hello, freshman year.  It's been a while since I saw you last.  You smell the same.

Seriously, who knew an 89-cent adapter could mean so much?  But it does.  It's like my Mac was trying to have sex with someone with the wrong anatomy.  Um, hon?  No means no. I have a headache.

But luckily people in Vermont are so nice I'm beginning to suspect they're all on drugs, which would explain a whole lot of things, and one of my terps loaned me an adapter. 

So now I'm in my room thinking about tongue-kissing the in-wall outlet because I can finally check my e-mail, read my blogs, and ummm...  Hey, what was that other thing I was supposed to do while I'm here in an MFA-creative writing program?

Oh yeah -- write.

More later.  I'm having fun, in a very magic mushroom, caffeinated to the toenails kind of way.  Seriously.  I think my armpit hairs are vibrating with the anticipation.  People here talk so slowly in the workshops and even though I am over the moon about being here I can't seem to stop myself from dashing out the door at workshop's end to write down notes and ideas for stories.

I could never have predicted that when I dropped out of a Ph.D program and risked banishing my family to a life of living in cardboard boxes, I could make myself so happy.  Go figure.

Are we there yet?

How about now?  Or... now?  Ooooor.... NOW?  Like, whoa, too fast!

Check us out - we went all trendy and replaced our cancer-causing Nalgene bottles with fancy-shmancy Swiss-made SIGG bottles.  Yeah, we felt kinda stupid finding out that made-in-USA Nalgene now makes their eco-friendly bottles without the carcinogen BPA, plus, now that I'm googling it, aluminum is associated with Alzheimers (But SIGG bottles have rubber liners!).  But, hey, now we look even cooler drinking our water.  Except for the constant condensation dripping off onto our clothes, that is.  Aren't we hip?!

P.S.  Road trips suck.  Trust me.  I know.  I've got the sore ass to prove it.

On a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha.
You can listen to the engine moaning out its one lone song
You can think about woman, or the girl you knew the night before,
But your thoughts will soon be wandering, the way they always do.
When your riding sixteen hours and theres nothing much to do
And you dont feel much like riding, you just wish the trip was through.
Say, here I am, on the road again. there I am, up on the stage.
Here I go, playing star again.
There I go, turn the page.

-Bob Seger

'Cause keeping your eyes on the road is too boring

Spotted during our "travels" this week:

Thought of our jeep-fan friend Amy when we saw the above tire cover.

Below: Hard evidence of CK-loss at the severe-to-profound level.  Averages out at about 100 decibels per tire.  For the less technically adept, that translates into: what my car would look like if I was a single and childless gal.

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Leah's current obsession is maps. 

Quite appropriately, we took her to the National Geographic Museum yesterday.  It actually turned into two field trips, since the metro has its own map as well, and she took it upon herself to be navigator: "Before, we had FIVE STOPS left, and...and... and now we just passed the zoo, so now we have four -- FOUR -- four stops left!  Were you watching me?  You're supposed to WATCH ME!  Okay?  OKAY?!  Okay.  Look, look, I'll show you again.  Now watch: One, two, threee..." 

She's such a smartass that she's designed her own map, which is quite magic.  Because this map correlates to any space in the world, no matter where we are.  On this map, you can navigate from our house to the metro, or from wherever we are on the Beltway to some place in distant southern Maryland, from her pillow to Fairyland, or from the dinner table to where the stuffed doggie is behind the bookshelves in her bedroom.

But in order for this map to work, it takes two people to operate it.  The first and most important is Miss Princess Explorer herself, who is the only one with the omniscient power to identify our starting point -- "The blue next to the black.  No, no, not the green, the BLUE!"

And then the second person, who could be just about any ol' schlump on the street, identified only through the powers of Her Royal and Beautiful and Smart Highness, is then charged with the imperially important imperative of identifying the endpoint.

What happens next is truly magic: Her Highness goes into a fit of gasps as she realizes how soon we will be there.   She waits until whatever vehicle we're traveling in has progressed at least one pinky-nail on her map (which translates into roughly five feet in Earth physic) to perform this wondrous feat of navigation again.

Because who knows where we'd be without her map?!   *gasps*  LOST!!!  Which means we need to stop for ice cream and regroup.  Because that's what adventurous explorers do.  And we know this because Dora the Explorer said so.

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This post has been inspired by awesome Kate's Quickie Post #1: Maps over at Arbofo.  Be sure to check out the links her commenters supply as well.  I especially like this name-those-countries game she linked to -- great for killing those "I really should get going but I'd rather do something else doldrums:"

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