Meet Flat Shannon

Who is that good looking chick in the picture? Why, it's Flat Shannon. (I am the one behind her). Flat Shannon was sent to my friend Bernie by her niece, Shannon (you probably didn't need me to tell you that). Shannon is in second grade in Texas. Her teacher had the class draw pictures of themselves and then send the picture to someone who would take the picture to various locales write the kids a letter about all the interesting things the flat version of them saw. The person was also asked to take pictures.

I was very flattered when Bernie asked if she could take a picture of me and my books with flat Shannon so she could write her niece about the "famous" (I love my friends) author Flat Shannon had her picture taken with.

Aside from our visit, Flat Shannon also saw Old Salem in Winston-Salem, Battleground Military Park, and the Woolworth's Sit-in Museum where the first sit-in was held in downtown Greensboro on February 1, 1960.

So "hi" to Flat and real Shannon. And happy travels...

All That & A Bag of Chips

• 2 sets winter pajamas
• 3 pair jogging shorts
• 2 pair jogging pants
• 3 sweatshirts
• 2 long-sleeved t-shirts
• 5 regular t-shirts
• 1 running jacket
• 6 headbands
• 1 flannel hat
• 8 pair socks
• 4 bras
• 5 pair underwear
• 1 pair jeans
• 2 belts
• 3 sweaters
• 1 swimsuit
• 4 packs of GU
• 1 pair running shoes
• chapstick, contact solution, straight iron, birth control pills, lipgloss, hairdryer, Advil, books, laptop, umbrella, pens, business cards, cell phone, cash

Lock 'n load, baby. This runner is ready to roll.

Warm Beer, Fat Farms, & Working Vacations

My best friend Trisha called the other day to say that she unexpectedly had some free time in late January, and what did I think of the idea of taking a quick 4-day vacation together? "Somewhere warm," she said.

We aren't looking to spend a ton of money, so we tossed around the idea of Florida. "Hey, we could be ugly girls with cheap beer again," she said, referring to an event from our junior year in college where 5 of us piled into a station wagon and road-tripped to Florida for spring break.

Upon arriving we were tired, gritty, and make-upless but nevertheless grabbed a six-pack and strolled the beach. Guys waved at us from distant hotel windows. "If only they were up close, they'd see we're ugly girls with cheap beer (Milwaukee's Beast)," we laughed. Because you can laugh at those things when you're 20 with taunt skin. Even at our worst, we were still pretty darned cute.

"Time changes things," I reminded Trisha. "Now we'll be ugly women with a sad taste in choice of alcoholic beverages and that's just nowhere near as fun."

We talked about taking the high road and spending time on a working vacation, maybe repairing hiking trails in the Florida woodlands or going west and working at a dude ranch. But then I opened my mouth and the conversation took a sharp nosedive.

"Oh hey," I exclaimed, "we ought to go to one of those spas where they teach you to cook gourmet meals or--" and now I really got excited, "--you go there and work out and come home 7 pounds thinner."

"That's called a fat farm, dearest," said Trisha. "And I'm in."

Here's the kicker. Fat farms (or "luxury spa experiences" as the brochures prefer to tout them) are damned expensive. If I had that much money to spend on losing the weight I'd just hire a personal chef to cook healthy meals for me to begin with. And it's not that either of us are fat. But the idea of leaving the house and returning a size smaller holds a universal appeal. Which made it that much more of a bummer that we couldn't partake.

"I can't believe we can't afford the fat farm," moaned Trisha over the phone.

"What's happened to us?" I asked. "Since when did we grow old enough to a) want to spend our vacation losing weight and b) be bummed out that we can't make that happen?"

"I wonder if I have any Milwaukee's Beast in the fridge?" said Trish.

So we're still looking. Mexico is a forerunner at the moment, although I'm holding out hopes for a last minute spa/hiking/biking/yoga/pilates/swimming/skiing resort deal.  I'm not too worried about it. As Trisha said, we could hole up in a Motel 6 in the middle of Kentucky and have a good time.

That's what best friends are for.    

Of All The Stupid Things I've Done...

"Schmuck," I muttered to myself as I sat on the bench outside the San Francisco airport in the dark at 4:45 AM Sunday morning. No one was around to hear me which was fine, as I was addressing myself.

Of all the stupid things I 've done in life--and there are a few--this ranks up there as one of the goodies.  I had a 6:30 flight out of San Francisco to return home after my conference. The hotel shuttle didn't run that early so I had them call me a cab.  Feeling very metropolitan (we don't have cabs in NC--we just hitch rides on tractors), I tipped my cab driver, grabbed the handle of my just-under-50-pound suitcase and sauntered into the airport.  I parked my bag in front of a self-checkin kiosk, reached into my bag and...shit!

I'd left my wallet in the cab. The wallet including my money, every credit card I own, and that all important driver's license that would allow me on the plane. 

Ever have those moments of pure panic where you just become completely immobilized? I experienced that, then came to and burst into a run for the door. It had been about 4 minutes since the cab dropped me off and I knew there was no way he was still out there, but I had to try. I flew through the door and wild-eyed examined the drop-off area. Nope. Gone. I turned to a luggage check-in guy and shrilled "I left my wallet in the cab!"

"Wow," said the guy. "Try downstairs and see if they can call the cab company for you."

Okay. Now I had a plan. Downstairs. Call cab. I ran up to the nearest uniformed person, a young woman standing outside a luggage x-ray machine. "I-left-my-wallet-in-a-cab-and-the-guy-upstairs-said-someone-here-could-call -the-cab-company-for-me,"  I babbled.

"Que?" she said.

Rational thought started to kick in. I grabbed my cell and called the hotel. "We know the driver," they said. "That's Amad. Hold on and we'll connect you."

I got Amad on the phone and explained my wallet was in his backseat and please come back to the airport. He said he'd be there in 15 minutes.  Thank you, God, I silently intoned and went upstairs to wait for him. I held out for 20 minutes before I called him again.

"Hi Amad, this is Dena. I just wanted to let you know I'm waiting in the drop-off area like we agreed."

"Yes, yes. I am coming to you. I promise."

"Oh, I know. I was just, um, checking."

Another 15 minutes goes by. How on earth did he get that far from the airport in so short a time? But he finally pulls up and he's in a bigger panic than me when he hands me my wallet. I try to hand him a tip but he waves me away. "Please, please. Check to see everything is there."

I glance inside the wallet. "It's here. Thank you so much for--"

"No! Please check carefully that everything is there." He's very upset.

I do an inventory and everything appears fine. Only then does he accept my tip. I finally make my way inside, obtain my boarding pass and collapse in the waiting area.

And THIS is why I arrive at airports two hours early. You just never know when you'll hit traffic, an airport delay or--if you're me--do something incredibly stupid.

But life is a matter of perspective. I called Blair while I was outside waiting for Amad to show up. "Guess what I did?" I asked, then told him the story. "So you're having a bad day?" he sympathized.

I thought about it. Although my heart was only just returning to its normal beating pattern, I was okay. I was getting my wallet back and I had enough time to make my flight. I'd been extremely fortunate the hotel had been able to help me as quickly as they did and that I had a cab driver willing to return.

"I actually have to say I'm having a pretty good day," I said. "I got lucky."

Here's hoping each of you has a lucky day as well.