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*pokes LJ a few times, annoyed that nothing of remote interest is happening on the Flist*
Well...more technical support issues today, but then once we got everything working I went to plug in my natural keyboard and discovered...wrong connector. I, in my blind assumption that most of the peripheral technology for computers had gone USB, blithely tossed the keyboard into my cart and bought it at Fry's Electronics' in Burbank, a good thirty miles from here. Alas, it is some other kind of connector, and so to even do work today I had to go out and get a USB natural keyboard and worry about returning the other one later. *sigh*
But, I did get the keyboard, did manage to load up the programs, and everything is *knocks on wood* a go, now. So time to make a living!
However, just as I was about to start, going out the door, in fact, to get my keyboard my father and brother called to tell me they were on their way to LAX and to meet me at The Bridge (an entertainment complex off the 405 and close to the airport). I did, stepping very carefully, too, because while my waterproof Bass boots (they're more like hiking boots, but waterproof to the top of the boot) have deep treads in the sole, they can be slippery on very slick clay-like surfaces. The Bridge, for reasons known only to itself laid out their outside concrete with alternating designs of roughed-up concrete and then two-stride-wide bands of very smooth clay, or something. When wet, the smooth parts bead up and can be vaguely like walking on ice.
Which is a lot of set up, I know. And you won't hear much of a story about me slipping and falling on the poorly designed concrete easements. No, I slipped and fell on the outdoor escalator, where the whole experience was a lot more visible, painful, and humiliating.
I was coming back to the movie theater where we'd bought our tickets after having dinner. My father felt peckish on the way to the theater for some ice cream, but when I mentioned frozen bananas at Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, we detoured there. Since the movie was starting (or the previews, anyway) as we were heading to the lower floor, and since I've always felt vaguely ashamed of just standing on an escalator rather than using the opportunity to change floors faster by walking up or down the steps as it moves, I was walking down the rain-slicked metal stairs, one hand on each of the handrails.
I wasn't trotting, I was just walking along when I heard a sort of squeaky-sneaker sound, saw the world tip bizarrely, had time to realize that I was scrambling for purchase and that my legs had shot several steps down ahead of my body, which rather brutally deposited my butt on one of the sharp-ridged steps. The first thing I did was scramble to my feet, the second thing I did was call out that I was okay (my brother and dad were understandably concerned), the third thing I did was try to ignore the huge amount of laughter coming from the "up" escalator). I'm sure it must have looked sort of funny to see me go shooting down a few escalator stairs like little kids like to do on stairs, but I don't think it's well-bred to go into a screaming, knee-slapping laughing fit, either. It's one thing to chuckle to yourself, or cover your mouth if you see someone do something unintentionally funny, but when somebody embarrasses themselves, I don't think it's right to make a point of letting them know that you witnessed it.
Anyway, I was consoled by a caramel almond apple and that my butt didn't hurt enough to sit in a seat for Meet the Fockers, the only movie that was going to let out in time for my dad to make his plane. It was...amusing. I mean, I laughed at some things that happened, mostly Robert De Niro's pained grimacing and straight-man reactions to Ben Stiller's insane parents. I guess it was worth seeing, and enough small things happened to keep you laughing through a goodly portion of the film. But thinking about it now, a few hours later I can't say that there wasn't a whole lot of comedic substance. I doubt it would be very interesting a second time around. Empty calories, in other words.
It was sort of funny, too; my father and brother shot off at top-speed after the movie because my dad was a bit worried about getting to his plane on time, leaving me to walk back to my car in the parking garage alone. This was no big deal, as I obviously go out alone often and don't have male guardianship when I do. Still though, one would think that it would have been a nice gesture, I thought to myself as I moseyed along to my car. I had parked on a secret, almost basement level, easily finding a spot by defying the signs directing parking traffic in another direction. I was making the perimeter drive up to the exit gate, when I noticed a champagne Toyota Camry buzzing up one of the lanes I was about to drive by.
"What an asshole," I thought to myself, since I had indisputable right of way. I was driving straight, after all, and the Camry would have to turn left to get into my thoroughfare lane. In every situation, it was my right of way and his duty to wait for me to go by. Then I noticed as I started to pass the lane that the Camry was going to muscle his way into my lane, whether it was my right or not, whether or not, even, there was oncoming traffic from the other direction. So I threw on the brakes to avoid the (totally his fault) accident and let him in, only to see my brother's face plastered against the passenger window of the Camry, sticking his tongue out.
Then I imagined what might have happened if my father had been slightly farther back (because he would have tried to muscle in regardless), or if my wet, non-anti-lock brakes had stuck (I'd just driving through a puddle that had collected inside the garage). Almost as if it had happened, I went into hysterical peals of laughter at the image of me hitting the side of my dad's car and making my brother smack his face into the glass, and of my father having to come to terms with the fact that his overly aggressive, over-confident style of driving, the style of driving that my mother and I have been chiding him about for years, eventually came to a bad end, and at my hand, no less! Insult to injury, he's in an accident, and not only is he in the wrong, but his mostly car-illiterate daughter is in the right!
I almost wish circumstances had been such that this might have happened, because it would have made for an extremely amusing story, but that's the last thing my family can afford right now and so I'm glad prudence and caution won out in the end, on my side.
Hm...lots of work to get to...time to type for a bit, and then to bed!
Well...more technical support issues today, but then once we got everything working I went to plug in my natural keyboard and discovered...wrong connector. I, in my blind assumption that most of the peripheral technology for computers had gone USB, blithely tossed the keyboard into my cart and bought it at Fry's Electronics' in Burbank, a good thirty miles from here. Alas, it is some other kind of connector, and so to even do work today I had to go out and get a USB natural keyboard and worry about returning the other one later. *sigh*
But, I did get the keyboard, did manage to load up the programs, and everything is *knocks on wood* a go, now. So time to make a living!
However, just as I was about to start, going out the door, in fact, to get my keyboard my father and brother called to tell me they were on their way to LAX and to meet me at The Bridge (an entertainment complex off the 405 and close to the airport). I did, stepping very carefully, too, because while my waterproof Bass boots (they're more like hiking boots, but waterproof to the top of the boot) have deep treads in the sole, they can be slippery on very slick clay-like surfaces. The Bridge, for reasons known only to itself laid out their outside concrete with alternating designs of roughed-up concrete and then two-stride-wide bands of very smooth clay, or something. When wet, the smooth parts bead up and can be vaguely like walking on ice.
Which is a lot of set up, I know. And you won't hear much of a story about me slipping and falling on the poorly designed concrete easements. No, I slipped and fell on the outdoor escalator, where the whole experience was a lot more visible, painful, and humiliating.
I was coming back to the movie theater where we'd bought our tickets after having dinner. My father felt peckish on the way to the theater for some ice cream, but when I mentioned frozen bananas at Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, we detoured there. Since the movie was starting (or the previews, anyway) as we were heading to the lower floor, and since I've always felt vaguely ashamed of just standing on an escalator rather than using the opportunity to change floors faster by walking up or down the steps as it moves, I was walking down the rain-slicked metal stairs, one hand on each of the handrails.
I wasn't trotting, I was just walking along when I heard a sort of squeaky-sneaker sound, saw the world tip bizarrely, had time to realize that I was scrambling for purchase and that my legs had shot several steps down ahead of my body, which rather brutally deposited my butt on one of the sharp-ridged steps. The first thing I did was scramble to my feet, the second thing I did was call out that I was okay (my brother and dad were understandably concerned), the third thing I did was try to ignore the huge amount of laughter coming from the "up" escalator). I'm sure it must have looked sort of funny to see me go shooting down a few escalator stairs like little kids like to do on stairs, but I don't think it's well-bred to go into a screaming, knee-slapping laughing fit, either. It's one thing to chuckle to yourself, or cover your mouth if you see someone do something unintentionally funny, but when somebody embarrasses themselves, I don't think it's right to make a point of letting them know that you witnessed it.
Anyway, I was consoled by a caramel almond apple and that my butt didn't hurt enough to sit in a seat for Meet the Fockers, the only movie that was going to let out in time for my dad to make his plane. It was...amusing. I mean, I laughed at some things that happened, mostly Robert De Niro's pained grimacing and straight-man reactions to Ben Stiller's insane parents. I guess it was worth seeing, and enough small things happened to keep you laughing through a goodly portion of the film. But thinking about it now, a few hours later I can't say that there wasn't a whole lot of comedic substance. I doubt it would be very interesting a second time around. Empty calories, in other words.
It was sort of funny, too; my father and brother shot off at top-speed after the movie because my dad was a bit worried about getting to his plane on time, leaving me to walk back to my car in the parking garage alone. This was no big deal, as I obviously go out alone often and don't have male guardianship when I do. Still though, one would think that it would have been a nice gesture, I thought to myself as I moseyed along to my car. I had parked on a secret, almost basement level, easily finding a spot by defying the signs directing parking traffic in another direction. I was making the perimeter drive up to the exit gate, when I noticed a champagne Toyota Camry buzzing up one of the lanes I was about to drive by.
"What an asshole," I thought to myself, since I had indisputable right of way. I was driving straight, after all, and the Camry would have to turn left to get into my thoroughfare lane. In every situation, it was my right of way and his duty to wait for me to go by. Then I noticed as I started to pass the lane that the Camry was going to muscle his way into my lane, whether it was my right or not, whether or not, even, there was oncoming traffic from the other direction. So I threw on the brakes to avoid the (totally his fault) accident and let him in, only to see my brother's face plastered against the passenger window of the Camry, sticking his tongue out.
Then I imagined what might have happened if my father had been slightly farther back (because he would have tried to muscle in regardless), or if my wet, non-anti-lock brakes had stuck (I'd just driving through a puddle that had collected inside the garage). Almost as if it had happened, I went into hysterical peals of laughter at the image of me hitting the side of my dad's car and making my brother smack his face into the glass, and of my father having to come to terms with the fact that his overly aggressive, over-confident style of driving, the style of driving that my mother and I have been chiding him about for years, eventually came to a bad end, and at my hand, no less! Insult to injury, he's in an accident, and not only is he in the wrong, but his mostly car-illiterate daughter is in the right!
I almost wish circumstances had been such that this might have happened, because it would have made for an extremely amusing story, but that's the last thing my family can afford right now and so I'm glad prudence and caution won out in the end, on my side.
Hm...lots of work to get to...time to type for a bit, and then to bed!
