This bed is all wrong.
This bed's not for me.
This bed has a bump
Where a hollow should be.
The sheets are wrong, too.
They're stiff and they're starchy,
And make my pajama pants
Crackly and sparkly.
The pillows are wrong --
I use only one.
The maniac making this bed
Used a ton!
There's two pillows here,
And two pillows there.
In case that's too little
There's even a spare!
The blanket's wrong, too.
It stops at my hips.
And, because of my snacks,
Smells like chocolate and chips.
The headboard's too short.
There's no footboard at all.
And I'm sure I can hear people
Out in the hall.
The clock ticks past midnight.
It tocks half past one.
By the time I start sleeping
It's time to be done.
Truth be it known
The room is just fine.
If a problem exists
It's entirely mine.
The mattress is comfy.
The pillows are fluffly.
The TV works well,
And the room isn't stuffy.
I prefer my own bed.
It's the best bed for me.
Because when I reach out
You're where you should be.
© 2015 Mark Feggeler
Showing posts with label business travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label business travel. Show all posts
Monday, January 26, 2015
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Up, Up and Away!
Checking in was easy.
I arrived at RDU Airport two hours early, fought no traffic on I-40, got a spot close to the elevators in the parking garage, and managed to switch from back-of-the-plane seats to 1C and 4C on my first and second flights, respectively. Security found no reason to detain me. I even had time to walk the terminal to compensate for the exercise I won't be getting over the next few days.
Then everything slipped sideways.
The diminutive woman working Gate D12 for US Airways announced all passengers connecting through Reagan International Airport in DC needed to rebook to different flights. Apparently, President Obama's State of the Union Address was expected to cause all kinds of delays. I don't pretend to understand why that should be the case. It's not as though the entire Congress intended to gather on Runway Three to watch the speech on a makeshift jumbotron at the airport. Still, we had to rebook our flights to connect through other cities, and I was lucky enough to be the first one in line.
Halfway through rebooking my flights, the phone rang at Gate D12. Turns out the State of the Union would not, in fact, cause any airport delays and we no longer needed to make any changes. Trouble was, both my flights had already been cancelled.
Instead of immediately reinstating my original itinerary, the vertically challenged gate attendant told me to stand aside while she boarded the rest of the passengers. When she called for Zone One to board, I approached and pointed out that I had been in Zone One before she cancelled my reservation. She huffed and begrudgingly made a half-hearted attempt to address the problem. After thirty seconds of not trying very hard, she handed me the now-defunct boarding pass for the connecting flight out of DC.
"Take this and get on the plane," she instructed. "I'll rebook your flight after everyone has boarded."
"What about my boarding pass for this flight?" I asked.
"You won't need that," she said.
With no ticket for the flight I was boarding and only a cancelled ticket for my connecting flight, I nestled uneasily into seat 1C on the flight from Raleigh to DC.
As I watched my fellow travelers make their way past me to their seats, I couldn't shake the nagging feeling I was destined to end up in a DC security holding room trying to explain how I'd managed to get on a flight without a ticket while TSA officials ran a background check and performed a cavity search. So, I asked for and received permission to return to the gate.
Good thing, too. Not only had the gate attendant not rebooked my flights, my checked bag was in the process of being rerouted to Charlotte. She tried to assure me she hadn't forgotten about me, in spite of the fact she was ready to close the gate and send us on our way. I should get back in my seat, she told me, and she would bring me my new boarding passes.
"No," I said. "I'll feel a lot more comfortable standing right here while you get me and my bag back on our original itinerary."
After some grumbling and a few forceful keystrokes, she had me rebooked. Her disgust with me turned to hatred when I pointed out that she had booked me for seat 16D instead of 4C on the connecting flight, but she quickly realized I wasn't budging until she made it right.
As I write this, I am comfortably reclined in seat 4C on my way from Reagan International Airport to Columbus, intently staring at the rolling sea of clouds washing over eastern Ohio below me. Let's just hope my bag isn't waiting for me in Charlotte.
© 2011 Mark Feggeler
Then everything slipped sideways.
The diminutive woman working Gate D12 for US Airways announced all passengers connecting through Reagan International Airport in DC needed to rebook to different flights. Apparently, President Obama's State of the Union Address was expected to cause all kinds of delays. I don't pretend to understand why that should be the case. It's not as though the entire Congress intended to gather on Runway Three to watch the speech on a makeshift jumbotron at the airport. Still, we had to rebook our flights to connect through other cities, and I was lucky enough to be the first one in line.
Halfway through rebooking my flights, the phone rang at Gate D12. Turns out the State of the Union would not, in fact, cause any airport delays and we no longer needed to make any changes. Trouble was, both my flights had already been cancelled.
Instead of immediately reinstating my original itinerary, the vertically challenged gate attendant told me to stand aside while she boarded the rest of the passengers. When she called for Zone One to board, I approached and pointed out that I had been in Zone One before she cancelled my reservation. She huffed and begrudgingly made a half-hearted attempt to address the problem. After thirty seconds of not trying very hard, she handed me the now-defunct boarding pass for the connecting flight out of DC.
"Take this and get on the plane," she instructed. "I'll rebook your flight after everyone has boarded."
"What about my boarding pass for this flight?" I asked.
"You won't need that," she said.
With no ticket for the flight I was boarding and only a cancelled ticket for my connecting flight, I nestled uneasily into seat 1C on the flight from Raleigh to DC.
As I watched my fellow travelers make their way past me to their seats, I couldn't shake the nagging feeling I was destined to end up in a DC security holding room trying to explain how I'd managed to get on a flight without a ticket while TSA officials ran a background check and performed a cavity search. So, I asked for and received permission to return to the gate.
Good thing, too. Not only had the gate attendant not rebooked my flights, my checked bag was in the process of being rerouted to Charlotte. She tried to assure me she hadn't forgotten about me, in spite of the fact she was ready to close the gate and send us on our way. I should get back in my seat, she told me, and she would bring me my new boarding passes.
"No," I said. "I'll feel a lot more comfortable standing right here while you get me and my bag back on our original itinerary."
After some grumbling and a few forceful keystrokes, she had me rebooked. Her disgust with me turned to hatred when I pointed out that she had booked me for seat 16D instead of 4C on the connecting flight, but she quickly realized I wasn't budging until she made it right.
As I write this, I am comfortably reclined in seat 4C on my way from Reagan International Airport to Columbus, intently staring at the rolling sea of clouds washing over eastern Ohio below me. Let's just hope my bag isn't waiting for me in Charlotte.
© 2011 Mark Feggeler
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Giddy Giggling Geese
Sometimes I get annoyed with the way our sons communicate.
In person, they're not bad. Typical kid issues arise from time to time, such as having to remind them to say hello to everyone in the room, or properly thank a person who gave them gifts. Maybe the German needs a little more prodding than his brother, but he eventually breaks free of his space cadet stupor and behaves appropriately.
It's the technology of the day that seems to rob these otherwise polite children of any sense of propriety and occasion. Granted, the boys are only 10, and 10-year-old boys are not world-reknowned for their conversational competence, but at some point you should be able to expect years worth of reminders to take root in their brains.
The Italian, who is never at a loss for words, finds it necessary for his lips to be touching the receiver during every phone call. The end result is a garbled cacophony of gutteral clatter. I now begin every telephone conversation with him by instructing him: "Take the phone out of your mouth."
At the opposite end of the spectrum is the German. Getting more than three consecutive words out of him at sufficient volume to be registered by human ears is a unique occurrence. During a recent business trip, he and I shared the shortest conversation I've ever had with another human being. My Lovely Wife handed him the phone and all the German said was:
"Hi, Daddy. You want to talk to Mommy?"
Their computer-enhanced communication skills are even more catastrophic. You would think the fact of being seen by the person on the other end of an iChat would keep the boys more focused on the conversation. After all, there that person is, on the computer, talking to us live via free video feed, one Apple computer to another. No such luck. As My Lovely Wife and I alternately shush and bark at them to be quiet, they bound around the room behind us like loose cannon members of some improvisational acrobatic troupe participating in an original performance of a production titled "Watch Me!"
When I'm traveling, I tend to find their lack of involvement in the conversation drives up my blood pressure. I often get little enjoyment from the exercise other than the obvious pleasure of hearing their voices.
That's why I was surprised at my reaction the other night when I called home from Orlando. First up was the Italian, who started in with his garbled mouth breathing before quickly gaving way to a fit of laughter. Turns out the German was giving him a foot massage -- why, I don't know -- and it tickled so much he simply could not control himself. It was clear, yet again, there would be no meaningful sharing of information, but I didn't mind.
There's something infectious about genuine, uncontrolled laughter that allows it to get into your brain and flip all kinds of switches. The first switch the Italian's laughter flipped was the "Get Over Yourself" switch, followed immediately by a quick trip to the "Lighten Up, Francis" and "Remember What It Was Like To Be a Kid" switches.
When the German took over the phone, the Italian took over the foot massaging, so then it was the German's turn to giggle like a maniac. I found myself chuckling along as if I were there with them in the thick of the tickle fight.
Tired from lack of sleep and mentally drained from delayed travel, corporate speeches, guest speakers and back-to-back breakout sessions, their laughter was more welcome than any number of words.
© 2011 Mark Feggeler
In person, they're not bad. Typical kid issues arise from time to time, such as having to remind them to say hello to everyone in the room, or properly thank a person who gave them gifts. Maybe the German needs a little more prodding than his brother, but he eventually breaks free of his space cadet stupor and behaves appropriately.
It's the technology of the day that seems to rob these otherwise polite children of any sense of propriety and occasion. Granted, the boys are only 10, and 10-year-old boys are not world-reknowned for their conversational competence, but at some point you should be able to expect years worth of reminders to take root in their brains.
The Italian, who is never at a loss for words, finds it necessary for his lips to be touching the receiver during every phone call. The end result is a garbled cacophony of gutteral clatter. I now begin every telephone conversation with him by instructing him: "Take the phone out of your mouth."
At the opposite end of the spectrum is the German. Getting more than three consecutive words out of him at sufficient volume to be registered by human ears is a unique occurrence. During a recent business trip, he and I shared the shortest conversation I've ever had with another human being. My Lovely Wife handed him the phone and all the German said was:
"Hi, Daddy. You want to talk to Mommy?"
When I'm traveling, I tend to find their lack of involvement in the conversation drives up my blood pressure. I often get little enjoyment from the exercise other than the obvious pleasure of hearing their voices.
That's why I was surprised at my reaction the other night when I called home from Orlando. First up was the Italian, who started in with his garbled mouth breathing before quickly gaving way to a fit of laughter. Turns out the German was giving him a foot massage -- why, I don't know -- and it tickled so much he simply could not control himself. It was clear, yet again, there would be no meaningful sharing of information, but I didn't mind.
There's something infectious about genuine, uncontrolled laughter that allows it to get into your brain and flip all kinds of switches. The first switch the Italian's laughter flipped was the "Get Over Yourself" switch, followed immediately by a quick trip to the "Lighten Up, Francis" and "Remember What It Was Like To Be a Kid" switches.
When the German took over the phone, the Italian took over the foot massaging, so then it was the German's turn to giggle like a maniac. I found myself chuckling along as if I were there with them in the thick of the tickle fight.
Tired from lack of sleep and mentally drained from delayed travel, corporate speeches, guest speakers and back-to-back breakout sessions, their laughter was more welcome than any number of words.
© 2011 Mark Feggeler
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