Thank You for Flying Me

I'm not a business flyer. I associate airports with holidays, school breaks, and naps. I don't have long legs, children, or a large carryon. I've flown internationally one time and one time only, I fly from the Salt Lake to the St. Louis airport almost exclusively, and I rank a tight.comfortable on the scale of relative poverty. Because of these combined, I almost always fly Southwest. And my trips are almost always the same:

After treating myself to airport sushi, I make my way back to whatever distant wing of the airport where they keep bovine, spare parts, and the Southwest gates. It's like home. Just not the kind of home you show new friends. (There's a reason Southwest tickets cost $12.75 and let you check whatever oversized garbage you and a dolly can carry out of the house.)

But even still, I always try to look nice for a SW flight. Because I want them to know I appreciate them. And also because your chances of flying with a high school junior varsity lacrosse team are very good. And what the best friend of the skies lacks in TVs and seat belts, it makes up for with jokes and fun carpet. And if I were 30% more inclined to carry cash, and 70% less involved with JV lacrosse at the moment, I might actually go tip each and every flight attendant on board.

Franzonomics

I like to go to dollar stores every now and then just to check out what's in there. I don't like the thought of dropping 11 dollars on olive oil when there could be a Dollar Tree somewhere distributing the same bottle, and I grossly overpay just because I didn't know or didn't remember. I like to know what's what. So a periodic revisit is the only way I can stay on top of the value of the American dollar. It's kind of like how my basis of U.S. capital knowledge relies so heavily on how frequently my friends and I quiz each other about them. Which usually relies solely on how frequently we take long hikes with nothing to talk about. Which is why hikers always win final Jeopardy. Always. And why I can never remember the capital of North Dakota in February.

So yesterday I'm taking inventory at Dollar Tree: great kitchen supplies, sub-par wrapping paper, mystery paper-grab bags that still call to me like the sirens of Titan, etc., and I don't see anything I need more than I want to wait in a line with no conveyor belt, so I leave and go to a real store.

At the real store, I fall right into the dollar-goggle trap and can't shed the idea that everything for sale is a dollar. Product quality goes up; price mentality remains at Washington. Wait a second. The only thing that saved me from buying everything in sight was being so stoked to have solved the economic crisis in a mere Monday evening. I checked my Supermarket Sweep mentality and came up with this equation: more dollar-store exposure = more real-store purchases = better economy. Dollar stores on every street corner! I call it the Dollar Tree stimulus package. I'm working on the name.

CMoS

I frequent the Chicago Manual of Style fairly often at work.

Today, under section 5.191 (you know the one), I came across this quote that they actually were hilarious enough to include in their official, peer-reviewed guidance on "Beginning a Sentence with a Conjunction." It comes from Charles Allen Lloyd, “Next to the groundless notion that it is incorrect to end an English sentence with a preposition, perhaps the most wide-spread of the many false beliefs about the use of our language is the equally groundless notion that it is incorrect to begin one with ‘but’ or ‘and.’ As in the case of the superstition about the prepositional ending, no textbook supports it, but apparently about half of our teachers of English go out of their way to handicap their pupils by inculcating it. One cannot help wondering whether those who teach such a monstrous doctrine ever read any English themselves.”

Well ok then.

I just love the keywords, “groundless notion,” “handicap,” and “monstrous” because Charles is berating me and not only do I deserve it, but I want his approval now more than ever. Take notes teacher roommates. The abuse cycle is the only way to educate.

Burgled!

Yesterday, sometime between 9 a.m., and 4 p.m. (or as I see it: Sometime between oatmeal o’clcok and pre-dinner grapefruit o’clock), our house was broken into. Viotlated. Robbed. Smashed. Wrecked. BLED ON. Panty raided.

My roommates’ laptop, laptop, and camera were stolen, and my laptop and tv had been taken. My underwear was strewn all across my floor, and at first I was flattered. But then after some heavy detective reasoning, and after finding an ugly earring on my floor, I deduced that the little pilferer in my room had been a tiny female. And then I just felt judged.

But then I felt flattered again when I heard Kristine describe my untouched and unscathed bike as being worth $2,000. I didn’t correct her. It is a beautiful bike.

My only fear from this experience is that I have become so critical of our thieves for being so sloppy (an earring?? Blood on my bed?? Come on, O.J.!) that I’ve given far too much thought on how to do it right. And no good can come of that.

But just for the record, I’d at least have a trademark. And that trademark would be stealing all the pencils in the house. And all those pencils would be kept in an unlocked safe in my house to confuse future burglars. And none of this would be disclosed on a public blog.

Touched by an Angel

To say I'm a poor driver is an understatement. To suggest my license poses a threat to humanity is a little more like it.

It's been about four months since my last fender-bender, so this quarter's run-in was due and came this morning around 9:00 a.m. I told my brother Gentzy about the wreck as soon as I got in to work. Without missing a beat he said, "Consistency is good. Predictability is comforting."

After slamming into the back of the Honda on State Street (100 percent my fault), three things shot out of my purse:

1. Lip gloss
2. Mascara
3. My cell phone

Great. Now I'm 16. I didn't even know that stuff was in there. (Lie.)

After hiding my teen-bop contraband, I cautiously got out of the car, waiting for the verbal spanking of a lifetime. I saw the driver turn around in his seat and check on a little person in the back.

Great. Now I'm a baby-killer.

The man got out of his car, waring a jean shirt, classic Levi's, hair down to his waist and a giant, "don't worry be happy" smile. This angel, brought to me on a cloud of denim and patchouli, not only assured me several times that no harm had been done, but patiently waited for me to find my policy number while his gorgeous, biracial (great. Now I'm racist) three-year-old bounced in and out of the car, no car seat to be seen.

We exchanged information, and as I drove away, I saw him raise an arm out of the corner of my eye.

Great. The middle finger.

Nope. A giant, nice-to-meet you wave. And then he floated away. Back to God.

As for his policy number? Well Gentzy and I have our suspicions of it actually being the date of the Apocalypse,slipped to me as a warning. But you'll have to wait for 2012: The Squeakual to find out for sure.

Not Since Roe v. Wade

My roommates and I moved into a new house.

We love it.

There's only about two things gross about the house: a smashed/dead fly stuck to our blinds in the kitchen, and a used Tasmanian devil band-aid on the basement stairs. The band-aid was left when the bona fide pervert who delivered our washer and dryer tumbled down the stairs with the dryer crushing him from behind. He only left us with three things: an overall sense of insecurity, a beautiful mental image he illustrated me of how he and I would die together once we were married, and that band-aid.

Anyway, there's a pretty steep wager about which will last longer: the fly or the taz. band-aid, and to be honest my money has got to be on the band-aid because that might have been the closest thing to an engagement ring I'll ever get and to believe it is going to be swept away in a matter of months, well that's just both unromantic and pessimistic, and I am anything but either.

S is for Chick*

Today I went to the DMV to secure my spot among the mighty fine league of Utah drivers. When I first moved here I thought my Idaho plates gave me an excuse for being such a poor driver. Then I realized it gave Utah an excuse to resent me even more. Plus it was bad PR for Idaho. And I felt bad about that. I encountered my first problem with the bearded woman at the desk after asking for new plates.

Do you have a title?

-What's that.

Ok... do you have registration?

-Is this it?

That's an advertisment

-Is this it?

That's a police warning... Do you have a full name?

-Margaret Augusta Franz

...data entry... Would you like Centennial or Life Elevated plates?

-Life elevated please! Never skied a day in my life.

I think it was the Augusta that got her in the end. Here's to hoping that Utah fellowship brings me better luck and more love on the road.

* Title of the blog comes from my friend Chris Jones who said this the first time he saw my Toyota S.