Spring Cleaning

It hit me first thing yesterday morning, that urge to have a good clean-out. The "toothpick cleaning" urge doesn't strike very often, so I have to take full advantage of it when it does. By "toothpick cleaning" I mean the anal-retentive type that is so nit-picky that I break out toothpicks to clean all the little crevices in the kitchen, bathroom, and anywhere else little crevices tend to lurk.

I went crazy - totally rearranged my bedroom, as well as my book shelves (no, I didn't order the books by color). I went though I-don't-know-how-many Swiffer wipes (Bailey's a big, furry, shedding dog, doncha' know), paper towels and Windex, and polishing cloths. I even climbed out onto the fire escape to clean the outside part of the arch at the tops of my windows. Wow!

There's still major work to do in the kitchen and bathroom - when I say major, you must keep in mind the teeny size of both. And you can't really call what I have a kitchen, either. Anyway, not much more to go, and I'm feeling quite pleased with myself.

I love seeing my little apartment through new, spring-clean eyes. Since the past few weeks have been so chaotic and emotional at work, having my personal space clean and organized tamps down the other craziness and reminds me that I can control at least a bit of order in my own little rooms.

Plus, Lil Sis arrives Tuesday afternoon for a few days' visit, so I have an immediate reason to spring-clean. Here's hoping the cleaning-bug sticks with me a couple more days. Not only must I finish up here, I have to pack up my office tomorrow and Tuesday for a big move to 5th floor, as well.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a few more Swiffer wipes to kill.

A Canterbury Tale

News came down today from the powers-that-be that I have been tapped to attend the Lambeth Conference in July. For those non-Anglicans out there, every 10 years the Archbishop of Canterbury summons all the bishops of the Anglican Communion to England to, well, I don't know - eat, drink, and get to know each other.

Lambeth Conference isn't actually held at Lambeth Palace in London - the place is too small, apparently. So all the hub-bub takes place in Canterbury at University of Kent and that great whackin' cathedral. I haven't been to Canterbury since my first trip to England in 1971, so I'm really looking forward to it. I'm honored to be chosen. Very exciting stuff!

Lest you think I've been elevated to purple-shirt wearin' level (er, no), my assignment is to staff the Episcopal Church exhibit in the marketplace area. I suspect my main duty will be to dispense information and be adorably gracious. As only a Southern woman can be. Meet, greet, be sweet.

Oh, and a warning for Jo, Pete, Chris, Chux, et. al.: Get yerselves ready, pals! I hope to find a few days before or after my Canterbury pilgrimage to bother you. A meal and drinkies? What's on at Ottershaw Players in July?

Now where'd I put my Wife of Bath outfit?

The Incredible Shrinking Woman

OK. That's a slight exaggeration, but after 9 weeks, I've dropped 12.6 pounds. Not quite a stone, Jo, but I'm getting there.

I hesitate to mention this, since I figure it's the kiss o' death, and I'll start packin' on the pounds again. Fingers crossed, I can stick with it. My clothes sure are fitting a lot better, I tell you.

Now, go find something that weighs 12+ pounds and pick it up. Yep. That's how much dead-weight I've shed since the end of January. Woo-hoo!

Welcome, Happy Morning!

It was a glorious Easter service at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. I managed to get a pretty good seat, despite the crowds, and just soaked up the music and liturgy. Music was definitely the high point – the choir, the organ, and the two artists-in-residence, Paul Winter and Judy Collins.

Winter’s clarinet solos were warm and rich. The warm part was much-needed, as the temperature inside the cathedral was about 10 degrees cooler than the 30 degrees outside. Brrrr. Judy Collins looked a little frail, but her voice was strong as ever. She sang a solo, then lead us all in singing “Amazing Grace.” Yet another thing I can add to my resume: “Have sung ‘Amazing Grace’ with Judy Collins.”

The only down-side (beside the temperature of the cathedral) was all the incense. Sheesh! Just when the smoke would clear, the guy with the smokin’ purse would swing more my way. Cough-cough. I’m just not a bells-and-smells person, and I don’t come from a bells-and-smells parish. But my walk home after the service cleared all the incense out of my hair, clothes, and lungs.

It was more of a concert than a worship experience for me. I need my Atlanta family around me for that, at least at Easter and Christmas. But I’m very glad I rolled out of bed and made my way over the Cathedral this cold Easter morning.

Top 10 Bunny Countdown

To all the bunnies, rabbits, and hares out there that have made us laugh, cry, worry, fear: this one's for you. The countdown:

10. Bunny (Lake). Is missing. Carol Lynley is frantic and Laurence Olivier thinks she made up the whole thing. He was wrong. Great Otto Preminger film, by the way.

9. Hazel, our hero from Watership Down. We love Fiver, too (but not General Woundwort).

8. Rabbit (Angstrom) from the John Updike novel, Rabbit, Run (1960). And Rabbit Redux, etc.

7. Peter (Rabbit). Not to be confused with Peter Cottontail. This Peter is the invention of good ol' Beatrix Potter. He was naughty and not very bright. But he drove Mr. MacGregor ca-razy.

6. White (Rabbit)/March (Hare). These hallucinogenic bunnies from Alice in Wonderland are a) in a big hurry and b) mad. The big distinction, however, is that White Rabbit enjoyed fame as a Jefferson Airplane song, as well. Bet that drove March even madder.

5. Killer Rabbit (of Caerbannog). From Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Thank goodness for the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch.

4. Bugs (Bunny). I have a thing for sarcastic, dress-wearin', opera singin' wascally wabbits, don't you?

3. Brer (Rabbit). He loved his briar patch, but not that ol' tar baby. Thank you, Joel Chandler Harris.

2. Velveteen (Rabbit). Or how toys become real. Or how to make a grown man (or woman) cry. Boy, I love this book by Margery Williams.

1. Easter (Bunny). This is a blatant attempt to curry favor with the big furry guy, as he decides who to leave nice chocolate eggs for tonight while I'm fast asleep. If you're reading this, EasterB., I like all kinds of chocolate, jellybeans, and Peeps. And I've been a good girl all year. No. Wait. That's my story for Santa.

Yeah, I left off Roger, Flopsy/Mopsy/and Cottontail, and the boiling bunny from Fatal Attraction. They would've definitely made my Top 20 Countdown. Notice no mention of the Playboy kind of bunny.

Now bring on the chocolate, EasterB. Happy Easter, all!

Good Friday 2008: St. Bart's

One benefit of working for the church is that Good Friday and Easter Monday are holidays for us. So, yeah, I have four lovely days stretched out before me.

Lest I forget why I have those holidays, I opted to attend Good Friday services at St. Bartholomew's in midtown, since it offered the noon-3 service I'm used to at home. It was moving and beautiful. It's not Good Friday without the music - "Were You There?," "Ah holy Jesus, how hast thou offended?," and "Beneath the cross of Jesus." After the week I've had, it gave me a chance to settle down, pray, cry, and sing. Mozart's "Ave verum corpus" never fails to bring me to tears, and it didn't fail today.

Believe it or not, I'd never set foot in St. Bart's until today. I pass it all the time, of course, since I work in the 'hood. It's a big old beautiful Byzantine number - odd architecture for an Episcopal Church, but no complaints from here - all dark and tiley/stoney inside. They could do with some new pew cushions, though, I tell ya'. Mine was held together with duct tape, and it had next to no stuffing left. I believe if each St. Bart's family could "Adopt-a-Pew," and personally take care of the oiling, tightening, and cushioning of their adoptee, I b'lieve they could get the job done in no time. Or maybe it's cool to have patched-up-with-duct-tape cushions at such a toney house of worship.

Anyway, that's a minor complaint. It was a wonderful place of rest and refuge for me on this Good Friday. As for Easter, well, my plan (note: plan) is to go to The Cathedral (of St. John the Divine), since it's only a 15-20-minute walk from where I live. They'll pull out all the stops (literally) with the Bishop and choirs and artists-in-residence like Judy Collins and Paul Winter, so I'm thinkin' I need to experience Easter with the big boys (and girls) at least once.

Or, I'll sleep in. We'll see.

A blessed Good Friday to all. (And Liz, only 2 more days in Lent! I've stocked up on some primo chocolate for Sunday.)

Middle Child Syndrome can turn on you

I like things peaceful. I do not like conflict. I like for everyone to play nice. I do not like to upset people.

Now, I've been told that these are classic "middle child" characteristics, though, truth be told, I was a darn rowdy middle child. And damned proud of it. In fact both of us middle children - older bro David (God rest his soul) and me, the middle two of four - seemed to cause the most ruckus growing up. Be that as it may, while I like a good set-to now and then, I want it to be a friendly, fun set-to, nothing fraught with bad ju-ju.

Alas, this morning my middle child fears were realized here at work. As previously mentioned, we are in the throes of reorganization, and while the official line is that we are to keep doing our current jobs until April 1 and under no circumstances work on "new job" tasks, the fact is that I've been called upon several times in the past couple of months to "work ahead." This at the behest of the Powers-That-Be. Who am I to refuse, eh?

I've diligently done my current job throughout it all, while taking the new stuff home to work on at night or on weekends. Just to keep the peace. So, yeah, I've been working both ends of the system and burning the candle at both ends for quite a few weeks. I've done it because my current boss is not taking this reorganization thing very well. She's very, very touchy about it. So in my best middle child way, I've tiptoed around her and tried to keep any upper-level requests of me out of her sight range.

Bad move on my part.

She found out about one project from a 3rd party (and yeah, I should have told her, maybe, instead of trying to keep the peace), came into my office, closed the door, and went ballistic.

I really had no defense, except that my new bosses (and hers) had gone around her to pull me into these projects. That much was painfully obvious, of course, but I certainly didn't point it out to her. Yes, she has been demoted and somewhat sidelined in the new scheme of things, and she hasn't dealt with it very well (*understatement*). The fact that I didn't get (or need) her permission to do this stuff came across as salt in the wounds. Ouch. The term "back stabber" came out a couple of times.

I was in agony. I love and respect this woman, but I am angry with her at the way she's handled the changes that are taking place (yeah, my problem , I know). I want her to rise to the occasion, and she hasn't. And it's been going on for about 6 months. We're all tired. And frayed. I close my office door and turn up the tunes, or go to lunch with happy, positive friends to avoid dealing with the angst. It makes me sad. That conflict-thing, doncha' know. Ugh. I was crushed by the tongue-lashing. Still. I guess in an effort not to stab her in the back, I stabbed her in the back.

We settle into our new offices in a couple of weeks. Things should calm down then. At least I won't be in her sight-line, though I think we will be working in close proximity.

This "serving two masters" is a tricky thing for a middle kid. Growing up, we could've settled this with a good old fashioned pine cone battle. Sigh. Gin and tonics all round tonight, me thinks.

Tea beside the fire: Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Don the green, have a Guinness, and throw Darby O'Gill and the Little People into your DVD player - it's St. Patrick's Day!

New York is home to the biggest St. Patrick's Day parade in the world (no surprise, there), but due to a couple of ill-timed meetings today, I won't be able to sneak out and witness it. Maybe next year. Last year, I was in Africa, remember?

Enjoy the day! I leave you with this Irish blessing:

"May you always have walls for the winds,
A roof for the rain, tea beside the fire,
Laughter to cheer you, those you love near you,
And all your heart might desire."

Mmmmm. Tea beside the fire.

Of Palms, cranes, tornadoes. And a right good potato knish.

Pretty wild couple of days, eh? Tornadoes rip through downtown Atlanta. A whackin’ great construction cranes crashes to earth just a few blocks from where I work. And we’re heading into Holy Week. Is it that time of year already?

As far as I know, Atlanta family and friends made it though the whirlwinds just fine. At least, I know for a fact that Kate did. Haven’t heard from anyone else, but as they say, no news is good news. Good luck with the clean-up down there, guys. Downtown looks a real mess.

I spent yesterday boppin’ around the Lower East Side. Those poor folks in the tenements of old would be surprised at the rise in property values down there. Lots of cute, trendy shops and restaurants. I poked my head into Katz Deli – of When Harry Met Sally fame (you know The Scene) – but it was crowded and over-priced, so I poked my head back out and headed for a little hole in the wall shop called Yonah Schimmel’s Knishes to get in touch with my Jewish side. I mean that figuratively, since I don’t have a legitimate Jewish side (as far as I know). Old Yonah Schimmel’s was comfortingly crowded as well, but I found a spot at a back table and had a lovely knish and a cup of borscht. Yum. Good stuff.

Well, seems that while I was happily strolling around the LES and knishing, a huge construction crane was crashing down into buildings a few blocks from where I work on Second Avenue. I didn’t find out about that until I got home. Can’t imagine the damage if it had happened on a typical work day. Yikes! Four dead, several very serious injuries, and three missing.

A joyous, holy Palm Sunday to all. To me, the lesson of Palm Sunday is, man, how quickly a crowd can turn. One day, it’s all palms and Hosannas; then just a few days later, it’s Crucify! A good study in mob mentality, me thinks, through no one really preaches much about that. Still, a good lesson to keep in mind when folks are waving palms your way.

In spite of all the weekend wildness, it went by 'way too fast. Sigh.

"I can help the following customer"

Can that be right? Shouldn't it be, "I can help the next customer"?

Almost every customer service person in New York uses the word "following" to give the heads-up to the next person in line at the bank, deli, or Duane Reade. Every time I hear it, it grates on my nerves. Is it because I'm not used to that particular use of the word "following," or is it indeed wrong?

Though sometimes my posts don't reflect it, I do have a pretty good command of English grammar usage. Can someone let me know if I'm just being petty and that "I can help the following customer" is completely oakie-dokie? Or not.

Catching Up is Hard to Do

It's even harder than breaking up (tip o' the hat to Neil Sedaka).

Gee, where to start? How about the Cliffs Notes version:

Landed in Atlanta last Thursday and headed straight for The Colonnade for real fried chicken and collard greens. Yum!

Taste-tested various wedding cake flavors at three different wedding cake bakers. Lots of buttercream frosting, as well. For more about that experience, feel free to visit The MoBster Diaries.

More food indulgences, including steak, Mexican food, and Japanese food. While the food was great, the family, friends, and conversations were even better.

Got to see my niece and her adorable kids, Bryleigh and Jaxon. Such cutie pies!

Survived the "spring ahead" time change, and managed to make it to church on time to preach (yeah, I know) at the 8am and 11:00am services. Plus teach a Sunday School class. A big "mwah!" to the good folks at St. Mark's, Dalton, Georgia.

Only gained .2 lb. after all those enchilladas, fried chicken, and buttercream chow-downs.

OK, that's the quickie version.

On a different note: how stupid is Eliot Spitzer? Geez Louise! It always hits hardest those preachers and politicians who rant and rave about morality and "right," eh? Once you set yourself up as Mr. Moral Crusader, you don't go out and pay incomprehensible sums to high-priced call girls. Seems like a no-brainer to me. And that's why I try to avoid politicians (and preachers) who arrogantly set themselves up as the new messiahs of this or that. I feel extra sorry for his wife and daughters, though. Sheeesh!

OK. I think I'm sorta caught up now.

Celebrating a decade lost

Ten pounds. Finally. I've lost about half the weight of our typical Thanksgiving turkey. Jeans fit better. Blouses aren't so tight.

I'll try to maintain that progress as I travel to Atlanta today, but a couple of things are working against me regarding any hopes of weekend weight loss. For one, I fully intend to chow down on real fried chicken at The Colonnade. Portion sizes be damned. I'm going whole hog - chicken - on this one. New Yorkers are good at lots of things, but fried chicken ain't one of 'em. Not even Sylvia's in Harlem. So. Fried chicken is on the list - that's about 980 points, I reckon.

For two, Kate and I have a couple of appointments with wedding cake bakers tomorrow. It is my bounden duty as soon-to-be Mother of the Bride to test everything put before me. What kind of person would I be if I didn't make sure that our wedding guests have the most fabulous confection of buttery cake and gooey icing placed before them on The Day? The only thing I won't be able to test is anything involving chocolate, since I made a solemn pact with God and Liz about chocolate and Lent (a couple more weeks to go on that one). Wedding cakes? Bring 'em on!

Perhaps I can take off Monday and spend the day on a treadmill. Hm.

Blah-ging

Yawn. I'm in a blog slump. This happens to me when real life (vs. cyber-life) is swirling too fast for me to step back and reflect on it in any meaningful or humorous way.

I like using the blog to brain-dump whatever's niggling at me - from the profound (seldom) to the profane (yeah, that's it). But right now I'm wrapped up in the changes going on at work, and I don't have a lot of witty things to say about the experience. Well, OK, I do, but nothing I'd incrminate myself with by blogging about it.

Negotiating the workplace rapids has required my utmost attention. Lots of fine lines being walked, if you know what I mean. I love my job and look forward to the new organization. I'm just ready to get on with it. Alas, because a few other people aren't, everyone and everything around them gets sucked into a weirdly depressing vortex. I've been closing my office door and turning up the music to ward off the negative vibes.

Wow. This is already a "blahg." My blog-writing seems forced and uninteresting. If I'm bored with it, well, I can't imagine that everyone isn't bored, as well. I've been reduced to posting about borscht and pastrami. Please.

Maybe posting options will improve when I go to Atlanta and Dalton, Georgia, for the upcoming weekend. Believe it or not, I'm preaching - as in, standing in a pulpit and speaking - at St. Mark's Church, Dalton, on Sunday. That alone should be good for any number of chuckles next Monday, eh?

Till then, you have my permission to nod off . . .

Cold Borscht/Hot Pastrami

As much as I long for real, honest-to-goodness fried chicken and other delicacies of Southern cuisine, there are some fundamental New York eatin’s that I truly relish. Like cold borscht and hot pastrami sandwiches.

Last week I discovered Bloom’s Deli, corner of Lex and 40th, on my way to a doctor’s appointment. The beauty of living in a place where your feet are your main mode of transport is that you can make little sparkly findings like Bloom’s as you trudge from one place to the next. Anyway, after my appointment I nipped into the deli for lunch.
The day was cold, and so was the borsht. Cold and sweet and spicy and absolutely delicious. Craveably delicious. Tiny diced beets sat at the bottom of a sweet, thin broth. I passed on the sour cream dollop because, well, that just would’ve been gilding the lily, and needlessly wreck my diet. God bless the Lithuanian Jews for bringing this dish to Manhattan delis! Mmmmmm. I could become seriously addicted to the stuff.

So addicted, in fact, that when I came upon Bloom’s near the end of my midtown saunter yesterday, I had to go in for more. The borscht was excellent, of course. I expected nothing less. But I added a classic hot pastrami on rye to the mix. Hey. I’d been power-walking for an hour-and-a-half and needed nourishment.

Now, a New York sandwich is not built like a sandwich anywhere else. New York completely reverses the huge bun-little piece of meat version offered most places. New York sandwiches are mostly meat – 2 or 3 inches of meat – on regular-sized sliced bread (white, wheat, rye, pumpernickel, etc.). So my hot pastrami arrived stacked high. It was perfect. A little squirt of hot mustard made it more perfect. I had to take half the sandwich to-go, such was the size of the thing.

And did I mention the pickle bar? Another thing New Yorkers are proud of are their pickles. And rightfully so. A healthy variety spread before you – just take your pick. And lovely cole slaw (not the creamy, gooey kind).

Cold borscht. Hot pastrami. Pickles. Cole slaw. Hearty food for a late-winter’s day.

Proud Alum of Wassa Matta U

I have a hankering to indulge in a Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon-fest. I'm in serious need of a good dose of Mr. Peabody and Sherman, Fractured Fairy Tales, Boris and Natasha, and lines like: "Hey, Bullwinkle. We're in real trouble now!" "Oh, good, Rocky. I hate the artificial kind."

Ha. Ha-ha. Ha-ha-ha-ha.

The show, a brainchild of Jay Ward and Alex Anderson, was a kind of Borscht Belt-Cold War-cheap-animation-schtick combo that worked on many different levels. Rocky played the straight-man, er, squirrel and Bullwinkle, the loveable doofus. Boris, Natasha, Fearless Leader, and Mr. Big were the baddies you loved to hate. Mr. Peabody and Sherman told us the truth of history, thanks to the WABAC machine. Edward Everett Horton spun fairy tales with a little twist.

And didn't you love the cliff-hanger endings? An example courtesy of Wikipedia: "Be with us next time for 'Avalanche is Better Than None,' or 'Snow's Your Old Man.'" Great stuff, friends.

Raise a glass to the denizens of Frostbite Falls, Minnesota. Throw a couple of DVDs in the WABAC machine, don your Wassa Matta U sweatshirt, and prepare to catch on to all those jokes that went right over your 10-year-old little head back in the day.

Weren't we lucky kids? Rocky and Bullwinkle, plus Mad Magazine and "Twilight Zone." No wonder younger generations hate us. Hey! Wassa Matta U?

(Down another 1.4lb today, even after that 9-hour stint at LaGuardia last Thursday. Slow, but sure. Slow, but sure.)

Airline Ponderings

Three conundrums cross my mind whenever I travel by air. And not one of them involves luggage.

1. Why don't airlines have little bottles of water available for pickup as folks board a plane. The flight attendants pass them out later, anyway, and most of the time people get real thirsty between the time they board and whenever it suits the crew to offer beverage service. Bottled water in airports costs an arm and a leg, and often passengers don't have time to stop and buy something before boarding begins. So. Doesn't it make sense to have those water bottles that will be tossed around later available as people board? Face it. It would keep the natives quiet until the real beverage service started.

2. Does it save more time to board from back to front or front to back? I've always thought it was quicker to board back to front, but almost every plane I get on now does the front to back routine, holding up the process as a lengthy queue forms in the jet-way. I think Delta is the only airline still boarding back to front. Perhaps there's a good reason for this switcheroo. Can someone explain it to me?

3. In the airplane toilet, why is the default sink-plug mode stoppered instead of unstoppered? You have to push down a little lever to empty the sink of water. I see why the faucets automatically shut off, preventing a sink overflow. But doesn't it make sense to have the sink unstoppered for the same reason? The way the system works now, I need at least three hands to maneuver the faucet/sink-plug. Explain that one to me, too.

Obviously, I spend too much time on airplanes.

Guess God was trying to tell me something . . . .

Talk about a sure sign not to fly!

By the way, remember how I told the airline to just hold my bag in New York? Untrusting soul that I am (now), I double-checked in St. Louis before boarding my plane, and guess what? There it was. In St. Louis. Got in last night. I could've been wearing clean clothes today, if I'd known.

The good news is that both me and the bag got home to New York this afternoon.

As I sit in my humble Harlem apartment, refreshingly dressed in a clean t-shirt and flannel pj bottoms, a word of advice: Next time you're due to fly, be sure to look up into the sky to make sure God isn't trying to tell you something.

Get me outta here!

Talk about a trip fraught with disaster! When last I posted I was cooling my heels at La Guardia for 9 hours, hoping the evening flight to St. Louis would indeed take off. It did.

But my luggage didn't take off with it.

Got in to icy St. Louis around 10:30pm (central time; that's 11:30 real time), then waited patiently with the other passengers to get my bag and go. 'Cept it never came down the luggage shoot. Another women who was booked on my 12:55 flight found her bag piled up in a corner, so I was hopeful. But, no. Hoofed it to the baggage office, long line, even longer forms to fill out.

So I arrived at the hotel with no change of clothes (which I usually carry on with me), no Blackberry charger (which I usually carry on with me), no make-up (which I usually carry on with me). Well, you get the picture. Aaargh! Why I threw everything into my check-in bag, I'll never know. Massive brain-fart on my part, and I'm paying dearly.

I fluffed myself as good as I could yesterday morning, but I still looked like I'd been rode hard and put up wet. Called to check on my bag around midday, only to find out it was sitting in New York. "Shall we send it to you?" "NO! Hold it in New York - I'll get it when I return tomorrow."

So there you have it. I've been wearing the same clothes since Thursday morning (yes, I've been rinsing out the undies at night). As for the makeup and hair, well. Believe it or not, there is not a CVS or Walgreens within 5 miles of downtown St. Louis. How can that be? There are only office buildings, a few monuments, a couple of sports stadiums (stadia?), hotels, restaurants, and a Macy's. That's it. I trekked to Macy's to buy a new sweater, just to have a different look. Got mascara and eyeliner, as well. But the store had nothing in the way of velcro rollers or curling irons.

I return to New York - please God - this afternoon. I am ever hopeful that my bag is, indeed, waiting for me at La Guardia.

So let that be a lesson to you, kiddies. Always pack a change of clothes and your mascara. Now, get me outta' here!

Meet me in St. Louis. Just not right now.

Ah, those weather-related travel hang-ups. I'm due at a conference in St. Louis today, but since Lambert Field is a sheet of ice (so we've been told here at LaGuardia) all flights are cancelled until (fingers-crossed) 7:45 this evening. Got to LGA - my home-away-from-home - around 11:15 in plenty of time for my 12:55 flight. Then came the news. Flight cancelled. Next two flights cancelled. Most of us rebooked on the 7:45 flight.

There was never really any question about my going back home to wait for a few hours then coming back. I mean, they have my bag, and it would've taken all sorts of finagling to get it back. And by the time I paid $30 to taxi home, $30 to taxi back to the airport, re-checked the bag. Well, phooey! Might as well camp out at LaGuardia.

I'm in a nice cozy sports bar, table conveniently located next to an electrical outlet, answering emails, commenting on all y'all's blog-posts, drinking tea and Bloody Mary's. I can tough it out until 7pm-ish, when I suspect they'll tell us whether the flight is a "go" or not. If not, I'll slink back home and say "Fuggitabbatit" for the conference, since snow and ice are due here in NYC early tomorrow morning. A shame, really, since this is a great conference - "endowed parishes," so you can imagine the good eats and great workshops. Unsurpassed networking. Shoot. I'm hoping we're clear to go tonight.

Alas, I will miss one of the events I was most looking forward to - tonight's dinner and guided tour of the Arch. I've never been there and was really excited about travelling to the top of that thing. Double-shoot. With a couple of "damnits" thrown in. ***UPDATE*** Just talked to a friend at the conference who tells me that the trip to the Arch has been cancelled because of the icy weather. The group is eating at the hotel. So. Not missing anything much so far. It's almost 6:30pm and the word is that the flight will go out at 7:45. Here's hopin' . . . . I'm getting pretty sick of this LaGuardia terminal.

And another thing. Airport food is not conducive to WeightWatchers, though I'm doing my best. (Believe it or not, the Bloody Mary ain't so bad, point-wise.) Travel in general is hard on weight-watching - airport food, conference food, flight delays that just scream "Go get a hot-fudge sundae NOW!" I did manage to lose another pound over the past two weeks, even though I travelled South and was tempted with all manner of Southern goodies. It's all about portion-size, my friends. And walking. And water. Keep walking. Keep drinking water. Four more hours. Let's see how I do.

Another Bloody Mary's looking pretty good right now, though.

Happy Presidents Day

As I was leaving work Friday, someone said "Have a Happy Presidents Day!" And I replied, "Well, if I can think of a happy president, I'll do just that."

Do you think there's any such thing as a Happy President? Really?

I mean once the inauguration champagne wears off and the guy (it's always a guy, alas) struts (because anyone elected president will surely strut) into the Oval Office and finally gets his hands on all the secret documents and red phone codes, he must certainly cease to be completely happy from that day forward. Too much at stake. Anyone can see that, unless you're one of the complete bonehead presidents - and we've had our share - who doesn't understand the magnitude of the job.

George Washington understood the potential power-run-amok-ness of the position - saw it right away, in fact - and refused to be crowned emperor or serve more than eight years. But George never seemed to be a very happy guy, anyway, did he? Rumor has it, his teeth hurt. A great man, who could've grabbed a lot of power from the git-go, but didn't - still, not a "Happy President."

Adams? Jefferson? Madison? Monroe? Jackson? Van Buren? Buchanan? Any of those seem to fit the "Happy President" mold? Not from what history tells us. Just a bunch of grunts - some brilliant, some not so - doing their job.

Lincoln? Happy? Hardly. Maybe a wry chuckle now and then, but with a Civil War, a whacko wife, and a couple of dead sons, the words "Happy President" don't come to mind.

And let's face it. It was all downhill for Teddy Roosevelt after his mountain-top experience at San Juan Hill (pre-president).

Wilson? Stroked out, and no 14 Points ratification. Coolidge? Please. Just look at the photos of him, though that may have just been his pent-up New England style. Hoover?

FDR? Well, at least he put on a good show. I figure he lost a lot of his happiness once polio set in at mid-life. Still, with the Depression and WWII and mistresses coming and going, you couldn't call the guy carefree.

Eisenhower? Too military to be happy. Plus all those heart attacks. Kennedy? What do you think? Johnson? Nixon? And poor Carter - basically a happy man who got beaten down (or beat himself down, depending on whichever side you're on). None of the rest, from Reagan to Bush II, seem particularly, genuinely Happy Presidents, though Reagan, Clinton, and the Bush boys could fake it pretty convincingly at times.

It's just the nature of the job. A conundrum. If you're a truly Happy President, then you don't understand the hugeness of the job. And will thus become unhappy when the people turn on you. And they will. We will. Just give us a chance. So happiness is overrated in terms of the office of president. Work to do. Arms to twist. Treaties to sign. Photo-ops to smile through. Sleepless nights worrying about this thing or that. Dodging slings and arrows. Building a legacy.

I realize this post seems packed with cynicism, though I don't feel cynical about the office of the presidency. Honestly. Only, I did start to wonder about "Happy" and "Presidents," and history tells us that the two words don't seem to go together much.

Except when they're mentioned in terms of a 3-day weekend in February. And I, for one, am very "Happy" to have "Presidents" Day off.