The only baggage you can bring...

...left me behind?

My suitcase -- along with Christmas goodies for my fam and Li'l A -- is now safe and sound in Houston. Yet, I'm still in the Washington, D.C. area.

Sure, I've had many travel misfortunes over the years, but this is a first.

It could have been worse. The scene at National ("I refuse to call it Reagan") Airport yesterday was a contained chaos. The holiday season, along with the aftermath of Snowpocalypse 2009 challenged even the most seasoned travelers, like myself.

In the midst of the madness, I bonded with my fellow strandees. We were cracking jokes and making snide remarks at the appropriate moments. But when the agent called our names to discuss our situation, I remarked, "This is like a reality TV show. We're all 'friends' now, but once it comes down to who will be on board the flight, there are no alliances!"

"I'm not here to make friends," joked a cute, bespectacled Indian guy.

I then absentmindedly waited behind a camera crew from CNN, thinking they were on line at a security checkpoint. Nope, they were simply waiting around to film the next traveler meltdown.

It happened right when the Continental agent proceeded to book me on a flight for December 24. Three whole days later. I picked up my cell phone to calm my mom down, when an impatient old man started yelling at the ticket agent. I didn't realize I was waiting to fly to Haiti.

"And this is why all airline personnel drink!" my kind Continental agent announced to the masses afterward.

* * *

"Your luggage made it to Houston, and you didn't?" Lisa questioned. "Isn't that a security breach?"

Good point. Ever since 2001, this isn't supposed to happen -- passenger and luggage are either on a flight together, or off it together.

I honestly thought it was a breach too and once joked that since my luggage had made the flight, they couldn’t leave without me. Not so any more. All stored baggage is X-rayed, so they feel free to send it on ahead of you...or, if you’re unlucky, somewhere else.

So, as it stands, I will cruise into the Lone Star State Santa-style right on Christmas Eve. My suitcase will welcome me with open arms. The family better have some milk (spiked with Kahlua) and cookies waiting for me when I arrive.

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

I've had a major mail screw-up over the past couple of weeks. I ashamedly admit that it took me a lot longer than usual to memorize my Alexandria mailing address, but I figure I'll be living here for a while. I'll get it eventually -- along with the mail.

Then, last night, a neighbor asked me which unit I lived in. He knew I lived on the 16th floor, which I sarcastically label "the penthouse."

"1600," I responded, absentmindedly.

"Ah, like Barack's home?"

I can't believe I didn't make that connection myself. My studio in "the penthouse" might not be the White House, but my crib is pretty cozy and powerful, too.

Go On. Be A Cheetah.

Another lifetime ago, I often wrote about Tiger Woods. However, it wasn't for his golf prowess or his personal indiscretions -- but to communicate about his advertising campaign internally for Accenture.

Every time I was in an airport over the past several years, I was often reminded about that period in my career ... and not necessarily in a good way.

In light of the scandal, Accenture took swift action as a "high-perfomer" and laid off Tiger from its global brand.

As I delve into the news coverage about Tiger's diminishing impact on advertising, I now realize I failed at that job big time. Nobody knows what Accenture's purpose is.

This is courtesy of the New York Times:

Since most consumers have no idea what a company like Accenture does, Mr. Woods became the human face of the corporation and a means to extol the corporate virtues of performance and risk-taking.

And here are some comments from the peanut gallery about Accenture dropping Tiger:

--> In reply to Another One Bites the Dust: Accenture Drops Tiger Woods Sponsorship I honestly had no clue what Accenture was, let alone that Tiger was a pitchman for them.

--> i didn't know what Accenture did either and after skimming the wsj article, realize they are even more useless than their fake-word name implies. Who knew that consulting firms had to advertise their, um, wares.

--> I didn't either! And I went to their website now and I still don't know what they do.

What good is a photograph of you?

These days, I am greeted at work by the following smiling faces:



They finally installed the official presidential portraits at the branch of the federal government I work for -- it only took 11 months, but hey. I'm now accustomed to the bureaucratic delays, and the snail's pace around here.

It might sound strange, but these portraits provides me a sense of comfort. It also brings me back to the day when I interned at another government institution 12 long years ago, and I was welcomed every day by this man:

Yes, the choice of a black and white portrait was deliberate, as that phase in my life seems like it happened in the Ice Ages. I was so idealistic and full of hope then.

I was a political junkie for years. I was warned that the second I moved to Washington, that would change in a heartbeat. Sure enough, it has.

I walk by the political book section at Borders these days, and cringe. It's a shame, because these demigods were once the people I aspired to meet. Politicians were my ultimate celebrity sightings, not Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt.

Perhaps one day the spark will return. The fact I got excited by the Obama and Biden portraits when they were unveiled restored my faith somewhat.

The Texas Way?

After hundreds of miles driving along the Gulf Coast bayou, I was ready for a change of scenery. All throughout Mississippi and Louisiana, my mom was itching to stop at a casino, while Spuds yearned for yet another soggy McDonald's french fry. I just wanted some sign of civilization.


Well, I should be careful for what I ask for...

So, what exactly is the Texas Way? I was tempted to ask the Southern gentlemen behind the counter at the Texas Welcome Center, but he became all surly toward me when he found out I lived in the Washington, D.C. metro area. Apparently, Dubya's disdain toward the nation's capital pervades most of its state's inhabitants.

Texas is nicknamed the Lone Star State to signify Texas as an independent republic and as a reminder of the state's struggle for independence from Mexico in the 1800s. It seems like threat of secession is always a popular war cry in these parts -- remember the crazy ramblings from Gov. Rick Perry earlier this year that Texas should secede from the United States? Uh, don't let the door hit you on the arse.


Or is the Texas Way a harsh reminder that it was once a proud card-carrying member of the Confederate States? After all, these ladies still refer to the Civil War as the "War Between the States."


According to Megan, the word Tejas is actually an ancient Sanskrit word that means "the brilliant light of God." So, I suppose Houston was the appropriate place to conclude my Gulf Coast journey -- after all, it's also known as a Sun Belt city.

McDrama at a Louisiana McDonald's

Scene: McDonald's, somewhere off I-12 in the Baton Rouge, La. vicinity.

Customer in front of me: "Hi, y'all. I'd like a cup of tea with seven Splendas."

I couldn't help but smirk aloud. Seven Splendas? Now, I know in this part of the country, "sweet tea" is a popular beverage, but this is ridiculous.

Ten minutes later, I'm still waiting on line. My New York impatience is getting the better of me, but I try to stifle it. What's the hurry? The only thing that lays ahead of me is countless miles cruising along the Bayou toward Tejas. After all, when in Rome, right? Or more appropriately, when in Baton Rouge...

Besides, this is real Americana, right?

Irate customer: "Can I speak to a manager? It's FREEZING in here!"

I was a little taken aback by her anger. Sure, it was a bit nippy inside, but we weren't trapped in a tundra.

"They probably can't do anything about the air from here," a woman with a long, gray ponytail mumbled to no one in particular. Since I have incredible eavesdropping skills and an insatiable curiosity, I decide to take the bait.

"Why not?"

"Because if this place is like Wal-Mart, the air is controlled by Arkansas."

"Really?" I questioned. "So, the air conditioning at Wal-Mart is controlled by the company's headquarters, no matter where you are in the country?"

"That's right," she said in a thick Southern drawl, with a kind smile.

The irate customer was chilled -- in the worst way possible. She was screaming at the manager to pipe down the air conditioner, while he shrugged helplessly.

"I hope you don't think all Southerners are like her," Wal-Mart woman said to me. "We're usually quite welcoming."

"Oh, I know. I live in DC now. It's much different from New York, where I'm from," I respond.

"DC is not the South!" she said, with a hearty chuckle. (sidebar: Well, I guess that finally resolves the Southern debate I've had with my friends the past year.)

Finally, I receive the breakfast I ordered nearly a half hour ago. An iced coffee and fruit salad for me, an Egg McMuffin for mom and a hash brown for Spuds.

"God bless ya!" My new Louisianan friend bid me farewell.

Suffering from I-10itis with Spuds

It seems like every time I hit the road for a cross-country adventure, Spuds is my co-pilot.

My parrot can now check off about 18 states on his/her "Where I've Been" map. (sidebar: We call Spuds a "he," but we're pretty certain he is a she after 20+ years. That certainly explains his wild mood swings.) He was convinced he was retiring in Orlando, FL. I don't think he expected a move across the Gulf Coast in his twilight years, hence the pissed-off expression above.

But to my surprise, Spuds was pretty chilled cruising this time around. He was pretty entertained by the white trash in the Florida Panhandle, while somewhat bored by the scenery of the Redneck Riviera. He rang his bell with glee when we crossed the Florida/Alabama border.


Somewhere in Mississippi, we cruised past this O.J. Ford Bronco-esque vehicle. My faith in the Dirrrty South was restored.

However, Spuds got a bit restless once the sun set somewhere in Louisiana. It was one of the most gorgeous sunsets I've ever seen -- pictures don't do it justice. He was a bit perturbed by the darkness, so my mom and I decided to make a pit stop in Baton Rouge. Little did we know the hotel eerily resembled the hotel Javier Bardem frequented in No Country for Old Men.

Spuds had a shit fit in the hotel. I guess my chatter about Bardem's bowl cut gave both he and my mom the willies. After munching on some cold and pretty salty McDonald's French fries, Spuds succumbed to the motion sickness, and finally fell asleep.