Freesia Lane » Travel

Movie Review: Midnight in Paris

Christine — Mon, 23 May 2011 14:47:17 +0000

Woody Allen: Genius writer, director, and actor—or narcissistic distorter of reality? Both, would be my answer, and Midnight in Paris leans toward the genius side of him. The dialog, the cinematography, the casting, and the characters will all remind you of someone in your own life—or sadly, possibly yourself. It’s a trip all right, and one worth taking.

I think Woody Allen inserts the narrator (usually himself) into his films better than any writer in film today. You find yourself watching him even when other characters are speaking, so you hear the words of the other characters and you see the narrator’s reaction, which gives you the point of view Allen wants you to see. It’s all about him. When he used to play the narrator himself, you could really “feel” Woody’s genius and his insanity. His face is an open book.

But now that Woody is getting older, he has found the perfect stand-in for his younger self in Owen Wilson. Wilson has great timing. You can see the words on his face, and you can sense his discomfort and his loneliness. Until I saw this movie I was not a fan of Owen Wilson (OK, I was a little bit of a fan in Marley and Me), but I love him in this role.

What also really hit home is how Woody Allen’s character never fits in anywhere. He doesn’t fit in with his future in-laws, he doesn’t fit in with the literary set of 1920s Paris, and he doesn’t fit in with Hollywood, even though he’s considered a success there. This made me realize that in all his films his character is a part of the scenery of life, but never in the middle of it, or really a part of it. And why should this surprise me? Woody Allen doesn’t fit in anywhere either—certainly not in Hollywood. He travels the world alone, and somehow he is not the worse for it, or at least not in his films.

I also realized that the plot in Midnight in Paris is sort of irrelevant, which is true with most of Woody’s films. He takes a slice of any time in his life and adds undercurrents of absurdity, humor, and dare I say, the strengths and weaknesses we all have? He is not about the results, but rather the journey. In other directors’ films you wonder halfway through how they will end, but in Allen’s films, the ending is obvious from the very beginning, and the ride is what matters.

Setting has never been so relevant in a Woody Allen film as it is in Midnight in Paris. The Parisian setting is everything, and I think it’s the first time I’ve seen that from him. Allen clearly loves Paris, and though I spent considerable time there when I was married to a Frenchman, I never saw it the way he does. It’s sort of an added benefit: come see Midnight in Paris and also get a magnificent tour of Paris’ cobblestone streets. France should use segments of this movie in their “Come See Paris” ads, if they do them.

Sometimes I don’t like Woody Allen’s films. Sometimes I find them silly or unbelievable. Sometimes I like a part of the film and not the rest of it, as in Annie Hall. Sometimes I don’t want to go because I’m still mad at him for seducing his stepdaughter, regardless of her age. But maybe the new me, non-judgemental and filled with forgiveness, is open to really enjoying Woody’s gifts in Midnight in Paris. I really liked this movie. It made me like Paris again, it made me want to learn more about the literary peeps he inserted into the film, and it made me appreciate once again that there truly is a difference between great films and commercial films that bring in a lot of money.

Laser Lights and Airplanes

Christine — Thu, 09 Dec 2010 14:45:32 +0000

I hate to fly. I am deathly afraid of flying.

When I was married and flew to Europe one or more times a month with daughter Sarah’s fabulous dad, I had trouble taking advantage of the opportunities that were mine for fear of the flight there or back. I fly a lot now, and I use drugs to make it happen. But you wouldn’t want to have a meeting with me upon my arrival. On second thought, you might, because you could get anything you wanted. I’m out of it.

I remember once flying with the ex on a flight from Geneva to New York. It was perfect. No turbulence, but I was sitting next to the now-ex, shaking. He was working; his papers were strewn around and on my side of the seat, which is probably one of the reasons I had to divorce him. (I have issues.) Anyway, he looked over at me, slowly put all his papers away, took my hand and gently said, “Ok. let’s fix this. Just what are you afraid of?”

“We are all going to die,” I replied with certainty.

He paused, reached down for his briefcase and said, “I can’t help you.”

Fear of flying is bad enough on its own, but the risk of terrorism adds some stress (although I never worry about that part of it, which in itself shows the absurdity of my fear). Fear of flying, I’m convinced, is caused by having to put your life in a stranger’s hands. So, with the terrorism thing, I’m sure that I could overpower the terrorists—all five of them single-handedly—and recover control of the plane for the pilots. Yes, yes, I know, I know. Ridiculous. But so is my fear of the safest form of transportation out there.

I always check out the pilots. I’m usually the first one in the waiting area and often see them boarding. I check them out, make sure they look like they can walk a straight line, and I chat with the flight attendants and see if they have flown with them in the past.

But I digress. I saw on the news this morning that pilots are aborting landings because people on the ground are shooting laser beams at airplanes landing and taking off, and these lasers blind the pilot. Are you kidding me? Do you really need to do this? Don’t I have enough things to worry about when we are taking off? I have to watch the take-off to make sure the plane gets its wheels off the ground before running out of runway. I have to listen for sounds that are not working for me. I have to check the flaps and make sure they are fully out. I have to look around for birds and alert the proper peeps if I feel they are about to run into us. I have to watch the flight attendants’ faces to see if they pause in any way. I do not have time to bring binoculars in and check for laser shooters miles away. This is the final insult.

Stop it. All of you idiots, just stop it. I mean it. I’m flying again in early January, which gives you almost a month to get rid of the lasers, or use them for your Powerpoint presentations, but I’m so not kidding. Finished. You are all to put them away and I don’t want to hear of it again. End of story. Have a nice day.

Pat Downs

Christine — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 10:26:21 +0000

It was the talk of the week. Do you think being patted down when going through security at the airport is or is not an invasion of your civil liberties? To be honest, I don’t understand the question.

Ten percent of America’s working population is out of work. We are fighting so many wars that I can’t even think about it without great sadness. We have 50,000 troops in South Korea, a tiny little country that shouldn’t have anything more than American tourists buying bamboo at the airport. We rank 18th out of 36th in industrial nations in the world in the education of our children. We have an obesity problem in our country that means our children will not live as long as we will, and we owe so much money to China that I feel as if we will have turn over the next generation’s first born if we aren’t careful. But, let’s face it, they probably wouldn’t want them. And, what brings my country to a collective roar of outrage? Virtual strip-searches at airports. Please tell me you are kidding me.

I was patted down the last time I went through security at LAX a month or so ago. I never questioned whether it violated anything. It took a minute or so, and then I was on my way to my flight. Did I love it? Nope. Did I question it? Not for a minute.

My friend Cathryn just returned from India, where she said she was patted down by Indian military women before she went into the Taj Mahal and other tourist places. She suggested that we have military personnel do it like India does. I wish we had enough military personnel to put them at airports. Oh yeah, they are doing their third and fourth tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, with unfortunate consequences for their mental health, so we don’t have the personnel. Why aren’t you people screaming about that? What is wrong with this picture?

Israel has offered to help us train our peeps at airports, and I definitely think we should do that. Apparently, they ask questions of people going through security, rather than searching them personally, and based on how people respond they know whether to be concerned or not. That makes sense to me.

I was talking to a friend about the whole thing, and she said something that made me laugh. She said she was way too vain to blow herself up in protest of something. It made me wonder why we don’t have people blowing themselves up in our country? There was the lady who called 911 in a rage after McDonald’s wouldn’t refund her the cost of her hamburger when she didn’t like it. She might have been a recruit.

Here is my bottom line: I thank the US of A for fighting back and not changing the way we live in this country, no matter what the cost.

Las Vegas

Christine — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 13:31:54 +0000

I’m back. Thanks to those of you who called, emailed and asked me on the street where I’d gone. Two weeks off was great.

Now, let’s get back to business.

I went to Las Vegas last week. I’d never been. I was attending Catersource’s trade show (giving a speech on social media) and stayed at the Paris Hotel. Let’s start there. It wasn’t until day two that someone explained to me that you were supposed to feel as if you were in Paris while there. Are you kidding me? I’ve been to Paris maybe a hundred times. (Sarah’s dad is French and we were there more often than I’d like to remember.) Never once did I feel like I was in Paris while I was in the hotel. Nope, not once. Driving up, the Eiffel Tower mock up should have been a clue, but I didn’t notice it amidst all the “stuff” around.

I’m an ADD girl. Vegas is like watching Fantasia (the movie, not the singer) while vacuuming, listening to your iPod and having a conversation with two three-year-old toddlers. My head was spinning the whole time. I was exhausted, but what I couldn’t figure out was why whenever I was on the first floor of the hotel I got a boost of adrenalin and seemed to be energized. A co-worker explained to me that they pump oxygen into the lobby to keep you awake so you will keep gambling long after you should be in bed. Oxygen is my new diet coke. I might be seen walking around with an oxygen tank and that ugly nose thing moving forward. It was great. I love oxygen. If a company wanted to start pumping more oxygen in the atmosphere, I would buy the stock.

Cabs in Vegas don’t take credit cards, just cash. I thought that was odd. But then I thought maybe they are afraid the credit cards are maxed out and they won’t get paid unless you give them cash. I didn’t gamble, but I guess if you did gamble all your money away, you would have trouble coming up with cash to get a cab to the airport. I looked on the side of the road on the way to the airport to see if there were people walking their way to their flights but didn’t see anyone. I think all cabs should take credit cards like they do in the fabulous New York City.

I was with people from my office and noticed that Barry Manilow was playing at our hotel. I love Barry Manilow and have seen him in concert more times than I should admit. I sent an email to everyone asking if they wanted me to get tickets. I didn’t hear back from anyone, so I assumed no one got my message which happens at my office. So, I sent another one. Here is a sampling of the replies I received after asking them to please respond one way or another. “Is it time for you to retire?” “Not so much. Not even if you offer me a promotion.” “Sorry, thought it was your sick sense of humor.” And, so it went. I am not a bitter person and really think that even if you haven’t the acquired Barry taste, there is no need to be mean about it, but that’s just me. Needless to say, we didn’t see Barry.

I will never go to Las Vegas again. I don’t get it. I did wonder if astronauts can see it from space, lighting up the earth. I think they probably can. The electricity there could probably serve the entire continent of Africa, but I might be exaggerating. If you love Vegas, as I’m told some do, I am sorry if I offended you.

Taking things from the Hotel Room Service Tray

Christine — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 14:29:06 +0000

Now that I’m in Caleefornia and near my dear frugal friend, I’ve tried to become more frugal myself. I’m not sure if it’s because of her enthusiasm for frugality, or that this is also the direction our country is taking in general. Either way, I’m trying.

I was on a business trip the last few days and stayed at the fabulous Ritz in San Francisco. We were doing business with them and they comped the room (just in case your first thought is that the Ritz is certainly not on the frugal list). Coincidentally, the Ritz is full of things to take home to be frugal.

Here is a list of what I brought home.

Everything from the bathroom including Q-tips, the shampoo and conditioner, all bars of soap (I opened one and used it both at the sink and in the shower so there were two bars to bring home), two plastic laundry bags from the closet (not sure what they are good for, but whatever), the shoeshine cloth, and (drum roll) seven bottles from the room service cart including three jars of orange marmalade (should I mention I hate marmalade?), one little jar of mayo, one jar of dijon mustard, two jars of strawberry jam (love that and wished I could have used it on my whole wheat toast but I didn’t think an open bottle would be ok to keep without refrigerating so I ate it dry), two bottles of catsup, and last but not least, the shower cap. They had 8 (not kidding) washcloths in the bathroom and I’m sure they wouldn’t have missed one, but I considered that crossing the line to thief, so I didn’t take it.

I was stoked, what a haul. It felt like Christmas.

Then I started to feel guilty. Is that stealing? What do you think the housekeeping department thought of me? Do healthy people do this? Then I started to worry that the bottles wouldn’t get past security. What if security opened my bag after all the bottles went through X-ray and everyone behind me saw that I was a stealer of bottles off the room service tray, and they would think to themelves “Are you kidding me? Who is that awful woman?” And what if stolen bottles from hotels means you get strip searched? Then I realized I better not look nervous or they will pull me over anyway. I was exhausted and guilt ridden by the time I got through security. I actually considered dropping it all off at a homeless shelter in Los Angeles. I’m not kidding. I got a grip and realized that the mind is one sick puppy when you let it go wild.

I unpacked it all when I got home. I think my refrigerator looks really cute with all kinds of little bottles in the door. And, I can’t wait until I have company and can bring them out and put them on the table. Fun. It might have all been worth it.

So, I’m a new frugal girl and proud of it. I’m considering picking up sugar packets at restaurants in the future. Is toilet paper out of bathrooms stealing if there is another roll right there and you aren’t leaving the stall with no toilet paper? Ok, I think it is but I’m clueless as to the fine line between frugal girl and robber. I am going to check with Cheap C and figure it out.

Vivien, My GPS Friend and Confidante

Christine — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 14:09:26 +0000

LA is a sprawling group of small towns connected by strip malls and occasionally tall buildings. While there are some clear east and west roads, generally anywhere you want to go calls for twists and turns off and on small roads and delta like convergences. I can’t help but wonder what people did before GPS systems were in their cars. Really, I would not have been able to maneuver without it.

I named my GPS Vivien after Vivien in Pretty Woman long before I moved to fabulous sunny LA. I didn’t have much of a relationship with her before the move. I used her occasionally when I was in the woods of the Hamptons, or figuring out a way off the Long Island Expressway when it was too crowded to stay on it.

I started to wonder about GPS history last night on the way home from exhausting Vivien with a number of entries. Here is what I learned.

Radio-based navigation systems were developed in the early twentieth century, and were used in World War II. As this technology advanced, both ships and airplanes used ground-based radio-navigation systems. The disadvantage of using a system that uses ground generated radio waves, is that a choice has to made between a high-frequency system that is accurate, but does not cover a wide area, and a low-frequency system that covers a wide area, but is not very accurate.

When Sputnik was launched into space by Russia on October 4th, 1957 it became known that “artificial stars” could be used for navigation. The evening after the launch researchers of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology determined the orbit of the Russian satellite by noting that the Sputnik’s radio signal increased as it approached and decreased as it left. So the fact that a satellite’s position could be tracked from the ground was the first step in recognizing that a subject’s whereabouts on the ground could be determined using radio signals from the satellite.

The U.S. Navy experimented with satellite navigation. In the mid-sixties there was the Transit System that was developed for submarines carrying Polaris nuclear missiles. This system has six satellites that circled the earth in polar orbits. In measuring the Doppler shift of the radio signals the submarines could locate its position within fifteen minutes.

The Global Positioning System, now commonly known GPSwas designed and built and is operated and maintained by the U.S. Department of Defense. It used to be known as the Navstar Global Positioning System and was first brainstormed at the Pentagon in 1973 as they were looking for a satellite system that was error-proof. In 1978 the first operational GPS satellite was launched. By the mid-1990s the system was fully operational with 24 satellites.

Who knew Vivien had such a rich history? My peeps came over on the Mayflower but we had no use to society the way Vivien’s ancestors have clearly had. Go Vivien!

Vivien and I chat. I don’t go anywhere in LA without Vivien being in action, and since I’m still relatively new and don’t have tons of people to chat with on my cell phone on the way home because of the New York time difference, I talk to Vivien.

“Look at this traffic, Viv. Should we get off and try another route?”

“Vivien, I thought you meant the right lane, not the middle lane. Yikes! (I really don’t say Yikes to Vivien, but I’m always trying to appear more ladylike in my blog and so I tone down some of my dialog.)

Vivien and I are like that stupid ball Tom Hanks had a relationship with in that movie where he was really strange and almost got an academy award for it. I can now see how it happens.

If you have a GPS, name her. Talk to her. There is nothing like a passive voice in your life never judging you but always showing you the correct path. It really is an incredible thing. You can count on your GPS to also be at the same level of tonal presentation, always right with directions for any place you need to go. You can say you need quiet time, push a button and she becomes a map and keeps her mouth shut. That’s why she’s a woman. (Just kidding.)

Anyway, I pay homage to Vivien today, not just because she’s Vivien but also because I didn’t have any other inspiration to write about. That’s the thing about Vivien, she doesn’t mind being used and then shut off.

Pet Airways

Christine — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 13:45:23 +0000

Luke, the soon to be Pet Jet Traveler

I’m sure you are all as sick as I am with my move to LA, but I have to write about it once more. My dog, Luke, the fabulous Luke Merser, is heading to LA with me. He’s a little larger than a lap dog, however, and flying in the cabin is not an option. He’s fifteen years old, and I just know that putting him below in the cargo hold would not be pretty on the other side.

My friends all had opinions.

“Give him to me. I love Luke.” It still never ceases to amaze me that I look like the kind of person who would give her dog away. It galls me.

“You have to drive cross country with him. It’s the only way. Pack up the car and head west. It will take you a week, but he’ll be better off.” Hmmm. Not so much.

So a friend of mine who just moved to Chicago said, “Go on Pet Jet.” Pet Jet? You are kidding right? Like Net Jet, which my rich ex husband uses all the time? I had visions of Luke sitting upright while being served snacks as his jet flies by my commercial jet over the country.

Luke's Plane

I checked it out. Pet Airways. Yep, Luke is flying in this cool plane to LA and instead of a flight attendant (I miss the term stewardess), he’s got a vet checking his pulse every five minutes. It’s not every five minutes, but I’m going to pretend that it is for my own peace of mind. Let’s face it, they probably won’t check him unless he looks catatonic.

His flight and mine cost about the same, but he also needs other things to bring along for the ride. He needs a portable water bowl, a large crate (I opted for the expanded flight seat version; extra money but at least he can stand up in his crate), some toys, a bed and treats. Sounds like Jet Blue. Don’t you have to bring your own pillow on Jet Blue?

They have their own terminal, and you can sit with your pet in the terminal until they call his flight. Doesn’t that just crack you up? My friend is taking him and I can picture her sitting and chatting with him while they wait for them to call his flight. “Luke Merser, we are ready for boarding. Please remember all your personal belongings and thanks for flying Pet Airways.”

I spoke to someone on the phone just to be sure they sounded legit. She was really nice and made me believe that she would fly her dog on this plane. Then I noticed that she had an accent. While I haven’t a prejudiced bone in my body, it occurred to me that most of customer service is in India these days, so I felt the need to trip her up if I could. I wish I were a different kind of trusting person, but I’m not and have tried to celebrate other qualities that I have and not focus on those that I don’t. How to broach the subject? Hmm. Be subtle Christine.

“So, have you ever been to Bombay? Were you born there?”

Pause. “Excuse me?”

“Well, we are talking about travel, and I’ve never been to Bombay and wondered if you had.”

“Well, no I haven’t. I live in Los Angeles and haven’t been to Europe although I hope to go.”

Alrighty then. I immediately felt guilty, and quickly thanked her for her help.

I got Luke’s confirmation in my email box and it looks just like my Delta confirmation.

So, Luke Merser is flying Pet Airways to LA, and I will pick him up when he gets there. I wonder if they will give him little wings like I got on my first flight when I was eight.

I’m Moving to Los Angeles

Christine — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 10:00:00 +0000

Am I kidding me? I am moving from my beloved New York City to Los Angeles in two weeks. I need to write it one more time. I am moving to Los Angeles in two week’s time.

I was there for the first time two weeks ago on business. “There sure is a lot of concrete in Los Angeles,” thought I while driving to my hotel from the airport. “How do people live here without any seasons?” Next thing I knew, my company made me an offer I can’t refuse and voila, I’m moving to Los Angeles.

It’s not just the pavement and perfect weather. But might I mention without reprisal that when it never rains you never get to rid yourself of the sadness that builds up during perfect weather? A sad movie. A sad book. Someone’s sad story. All those things build up in me and when the weather’s bad, I hole up at home and cry for a few hours and love the feeling afterward that has to be like Catholic confession. I will miss bad weather. Sigh.

I have friends in Los Angeles. My dear friends Victor and Cathryn are in Los Angeles and they have a pool which would be nice to swim in. Ok, that’s a plus. I think some of my high school friends are in Los Angeles and I haven’t seen them in forty years. I’m sure we still have plenty in common.

I was the largest and most saggy-faced person in Los Angeles last week. I found myself running into chairs at other tables in restaurants. I finally figured out that they can get more tables in their restaurants in Los Angeles because they have only very thin people who don’t take up as much space as they do in New York City.

A friend and his wife were meeting me for brunch.

“Come over, see the house and we’ll walk to this great restaurant in Venice to have brunch.”

“Sounds great,” said foolish me. “How far is the restaurant?”

“It’s not far at all. Two miles. We do it all the time, and it’s a lovely walk.”

“Do you have any idea who you are talking to? I’m not walking two miles to eat some bean sprouts with a touch of lemon peel thrown on top, and then back again. Are you high? Do they have burgers in Venice?”

Needless to say, I drove from their house to the restaurant and my friend drove with me while his wife walked and left earlier than us. But not as early as I would have left if I were walking. Gads, these are not my people!

But I have an open mind about it all, don’t you think?

Then I woke up to the news that the fires are raging eleven miles from downtown Los Angeles, and I kept thinking, “What city was it that was burning way back when? Oh yeah, I remember. Atlanta was burned to the ground during the civil war. Great.” I talked to a friend from there later today. He said you just have to stay away from North Los Angeles and you needn’t worry about the fires. Well, I do worry about fires burning in cities that have no way out. Just like I would worry about water levels if I lived in New Orleans. Let’s not even start on the earthquakes.

They apparently have great sports teams in Los Angeles. That’s a good thing. They have good teams in New York City as well, though, and I haven’t been to a sporting event in ten years. Nonetheless, I could learn to love tall people throwing balls in baskets just above their heads and then running and trying to do it again. It could happen.

I need to face facts. I’m moving to a city in a state whose governor can’t pronounce and is more bankrupt now than Enron. The Housewives of Orange County are nowhere near as cool as the Housewives of New York City (you take pride in whatever you can when you come from New York). And, to top it off, they don’t have lilac bushes.

I think I’ll be fine. Good decision. Good decision.

Visiting My Friend Howard Johnson

Christine — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 12:14:24 +0000

So, a friend from work was chatting with me about my trip to Boston last week to get my daughter settled in her apartment in Cambridge, where she is going to law school. If I were a braggart, I would say she is going to Harvard Law School, but I’m not like that. Anyway, I mentioned to him that I needed a hotel and was lamenting the high cost for a room. He immediately said, “Are you kidding? Priceline, idiot, Priceline.” He walked me through the process and I got the Cambridge Marriott for $100 a night. Amazing. It’s $249 a night if you just call. I thought to myself that I am so happy being the Obama Mini Me that cares about spending money wisely and how fortunate I am to have friends at the office.

After moving her in during the week, I decided to go to the Cape for the weekend and see my family. I’m a freak with weird hours and hate staying with people, so I called my biz partner, Debbie, and asked her to do the Priceline buy again. I was on the phone while she was doing it.

“Ok, type in four-star hotels in Hyannis and see what they show. Then they will tell us the average price for those hotels and my friend, Mike, from the office said just divide it in half and we will get a great room. It worked in Boston.”

“There are no four-star hotels in Hyannis.”

“Ok, try three-star hotels.”

“Hmmm, not so much.”

“Ok, what stars do they have?”

“Well, they have one-star hotels. And, the average cost is $130 a room.”

“Ok, bid $75 and let’s see where I’m staying.”

“Alrighty then. Looks like it’s jimmies, not sprinkles.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You, partner mine, are staying at the Yarmouth Howard Johnson. I remember ice cream from Ho Jo’s and they call sprinkle toppings jimmies, not sprinkles.”

“Whatever. I’m sure that’s great, right?”

” I don’t know, Christine, I’m not sure you are a Howard Johnson girl, but go for it.”

I drove in after a long day on the road and finishing up things, and I was stunned. Everyone parks their cars outside the rooms, and they were all sitting outside their rooms on plastic chairs that they clearly brought with them. They were drinking beer from coolers sitting next to the chairs. I checked in, drove to the space right in front of my room (which is quite convenient) and went into the room. I then started plotting how I can get Michael, my friend who introduced me to Priceline, fired.

The sheets had been slept in. The TV was black, white and red. You cannot call it color. There is a film over everything, and I decided I surely should not take my shoes off until getting into bed. I decided to stick it out and went to Kmart and bought sheets and a comforter. I bought wipes and cleaned off everything. It’s only two days, but a girl has standards. As I was walking to the checkout, I saw plastic chairs. “Ok, Christine, embrace the new experience. Join the crowd.” I bought a cool red plastic chair and a small cooler.

This afternoon, after returning from a lovely afternoon with Aunt Nancy, I sat out front of the building on my plastic chair for a really long time. No one talked to me. They talked to each other and they didn’t talk to me. I tried to look cool and interested, but nothing. Finally I started up a conversation with someone about my car make, and he asked me how I found Howard Johnson. I told him Priceline. Turns out he’s only paying $60 a night and he just drove in without a reservation. I just said, “See you later,” and headed back to my room. I’m going to leave the plastic chair in the room tomorrow when I leave.

Here is the thing. I’m not a snob. I fit in most places. I like all kinds of people. That said, when I travel I like a clean room where the remnants of those before me are not my roommates during my stay.

I think Priceline is probably fine when you can use the star function, but not so good when you don’t.

Proof of Life for Luke

Christine — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 10:00:44 +0000

I have the most amazing dog, Luke. People actually say to me, “If you don’t want your dog anymore, I’ll take him.” Aside from wondering what about me looks like I might be the kind of person who doesn’t want her dog anymore, I try and recognize that it’s a compliment to Luke, rather than an insult directed at me.

I’m heading off on vacation this week and am always in the quandary of what to do with Luke. The last time I left him at Doggy Day Care, he ate his thigh and they didn’t take care of it, and when I got back we ended up in big doggy do do. My sister has three dogs, one of which she rescued from New Orleans. That dog doesn’t like people (any wonder?), but supposedly is fine with new dogs.

I asked her if she would take Luke and she was thrilled. I do have to confess that she has a dog of mine from many years ago, Emma. Emma is a Sheltie, and she needs to herd. She used to bark and bark around us until we all stood in a clump in the middle of the room. This became very irritating; the truth is we didn’t like Emma. I brought a Dog Psychologist in (Yes, I’m aware that means I have issues, not the friggin’ dog) who said that Emma’s only problem was that she thought her name was Emma No, not Emma. We got the picture.

We woke up one morning and there was a note on the kitchen counter which read, “I have gone to live with Aunt Leslie because she likes me and you don’t. Love, Emma No” We were all fine with that. While the truth hurts, looking it in the eye can save you.

So, I put Luke in the car yesterday to head to my sisters. He was all excited, looking out the window, panting. The guilt started. He’s fifteen years old, deaf and maybe it’s too much to ask him to hang with three other dogs. What if my sister gets impatient with him? What if her dogs gang up on him and she takes their side? I swear, I was a mess. I hate this thing called guilt.

We get there and he’s already in heaven. Her yard is much larger than mine and it’s like Fort Knox. The gate has three entry locks, and there is no way he’s getting out. His tail is wagging away, and I’m feeling much better.

“Did you bring his dog food?”

“No, I figured you have three dogs. Can’t he eat what they eat?”

“They each eat their own food based on their personal needs. Are you kidding me? You didn’t bring him any food? Emma eats Eukanuba for joint health, and this one eats such and such.” I’m starting to get anxious which is very par for the course when I’m with family.

“Well, no, I didn’t. When I used to drop Sarah off at a friend’s house for a sleep over, she ate what they were eating. I figured Luke could do the same thing.”

“Well, he can’t. You need to come back with his food before you leave.”

I start to feel like the worst dog owner in the land. No wonder people ask me if I want to give up my dog. I’m driving home thinking it’s best to give Luke to her permanently. Or, maybe I should review those that have asked for him to see what’s the best fit. He looked so happy running around her large yard. I start to get defensive and look for something else to focus on.

Something she said started to gnaw (get it, gnaw?) at me. “I told my friend Barbara that if anything ever happened to Luke while he is here, I would have to leave town.” I call her on my cell.

“Would you mind sending me a proof of life picture every day while I’m gone, so I know Lukie is ok?”

“What?!”

“You know, take a picture of him with the front page of that day’s The New York Times – or maybe in your case the NY Post – in front of him? Just so I know he is ok.”

“You are sick, very very sick.” And, she hangs up on me.

A few hours later, her niece Saneya calls and leaves the following voice mail.

“Luke is fine and he is having a lot of fun here. He was with me by the pool, and now he is at the Vineyard and everyone is coming over and saying he is very cute and what kind of dog is he. Call us right away.”

Call right away? What does that mean. I call back and everything is supposedly fine. But, how am I really supposed to know?

I am leaving tomorrow on my vacation, which I’m very much looking forward to. I do want to relax and not worry about anything, which is certainly doable. Lukie is fine, I’ll bring presents for everyone, and I’m grateful to my sister for rescuing her dog from New Orleans and me from yet another opportunity for craziness. Do I wish she’s send the proof of life? Yep, but I’ll get over it.