Stairway to Haven

Since my return from Vegas, I wouldn't exactly say the hand I've been dealt has been a pleasant one.  As happens many a time when you belly up to the table of life, the cards aren't the ones you hoped for and there's no ace in the sleeve.  Instead, you have to toss your hand, nod to the dealer and cut your losses.

But losing my chips has left me a bit blue-deviled.  I'm not an inherent risk-taker, but when I decide to take one, the consequences of failure tend to hit me like blunt-force trauma.  I don't recover well.

A funny thing happened, though, this last losing hand.  Even as I bemoaned my losses at one table, I was racking up winnings elsewhere.  Other hands played suddenly came through like windfalls aplenty...and though my pockets in one moment seemed empty, the next they were filled with other treasures.  Proffered Kleenex.  Hugs.  YouTube hilarity and brownie breaks.

Centerpiece at The National

On Thursday, I found myself lunching at The National with friends. The air inside was cooled by the cinderblock exterior; the colors were soothing, muted, peaceful.  The food was exceptional; the company even more so.

I was feeling well and refreshed that evening as I sat across the desk from E and chatted about this and that.  Realizing the lateness of the hour, we both agreed to pack it in for the night.  Outside, the wind picked up and the rain, which had been falling steadily, began an earnest, violent downpour.  We lamented our umbrellalessness as we pushed out the office door into the second-story stairwell landing.

Through the windows, we could see a tableau: the Athens skyline against an eerie greenish-white sky split above by a malevolent looking black cloud, its edges curling and twisting like it might give birth to a tornado at any moment.  And just as we took in the scene, the power died; emergency lights cast bleak white light on the stairs, various sirens and alarms sounded through the building, and we headed for cover.

That's how E and me found ourselves huddled together under the concrete stairs while the wind howled and tore at the trees.  The rain pummeled the building.  And as we both looked up the radar on our iPhones and messaged homebases for advice on what to do, we concluded from the bright red doppler cells and the wisdom of our phone-a-friends to stay put.

Wall Stairs by Aaron Tang

It was dark under the stairs.  A bit musty and dirty.  From time to time, the voices of other inhabitants in the building would echo through the stairwell.  But E and me stayed put, our little legs stuck out in front of us so that the only thing visible to passersby were four well-shod feet.  But our voices - and more importantly our laughter - made it clear that we were there weathering the storm.

In 20 minutes - maybe 30 - the wind seemed to be more of a raspy rant and the rain dripped rather than dumped and E and me emerged from our stronghold as people under the stairs.  Outside, the eerie lighting remained, but the worst seemed to be over.  As we stood at the bottom of the stairs and conferred over whether it seemed safe for us to make a break for it, E said, "I'm glad you were still here."

"Me, too," I said.  "And from now on, we'll just think of this as our 'Stairway to Haven.'"  We laughed again, filling the empty stairwell with our cackling.

As I pulled away from the parking lot - E behind me, safely in her car - I thought of how lucky we were to have averted disaster.  And I realized, that, even though it doesn't always feel like it, I do have an ace up my sleeve...and that when the chips are down...when it seems like the only choice is to fold as a loser...that I've actually always got a trump card: that those dear ones who surround me will be there during the storm.  And though we may not come out winners, we'll at least hide under the stairs together until the worst of it passes.

A Luckless Longshot: How I Got to Vegas

"You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em.  Know when to walk away and know when to run." - Kenny Rogers, The Gambler

When I arrived at Dallas-Love Field just before 9 a.m. without having had a sip of morning coffee, my friend Halle assured me it would be fine - that a Starbucks awaited inside the terminal.  It was the first gamble I took that day - hedging my bets that everything would work out just fine.  Instead of a Starbucks, I found a 1960s-style lunch counter with a white plastic board above it with little press-on red plastic letters where I took my chances a cup of coffee that might've been brewed in preparation for President Kennedy's arrival.

And while I slugged coffee and tried to get internet set up, I took stock of my fellow passengers - two teenagers whose true love was evident in their matching Hollister hoodies and attempts to intertwine themselves on the ill-padded terminal chairs; a man I was quite sure was Wilford Brimley; and my kryptonite - a gaggle of small children playing tag.  By the 20th time they sailed dangerously close to me, I could feel myself getting ready to Hulk out on them, tweeting "Children in Terminal 31, please be advised that I do not like children. Consider yourself warned to steer clear of me. #itrip #eviloldlady." Instead, I stood to go to the restroom.  Perhaps my nerves were frayed from strong coffee and inconsiderate little people, but I found myself standing inside the men's room.  Oops.

Soon I received a text from my mother.  Wait, wait, wait.  A text.  From my mother?  This is a game-changer.  It was to inquire about the weather.  In Dallas, it was sunny and cool, but the airline, in its infinite wisdom, had chosen to route my significantly westbound flight to the east via Memphis.  Where a giant storm system was gathering.  Which would explain why our Memphis-originating flight landed at the airport right about the time that we were supposed to be departing.  And why we promptly loaded the plane, buckled in and prepared...to sit on the tarmac for an hour while the Memphis airport shut down to let the weather system pass.  As luck would have it, the rambunctious children were just across the aisle from me chowing down on foul-smelling Sour Cream and Onion Pringles.  I considered using the air sickness bag.

I was still (stupidly) optimistic at this point, imagining that the closed airport in Memphis meant that my connecting flight was also safely trapped on the tarmac awaiting me, my laptop and camera, and correctly routed checked bag.  But the odds were against me, and as we taxied to a stop at the terminal in Memphis, I checked the flight status of my connection to see that it was also taxiing on the runway...and off into the great blue sky without me.

Inside the ticket agents hustled us to these fancy machines that scanned our ticket barcode and spit out our fortune: "You will be making an unforeseen travel detour in Salt Lake City."  Because even though the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, going east and north to get west and south is the logical way to go.

And so I found myself having the second meal of the day in an airport.  This time a barbecue sandwich from Jim Neely's Interstate Barbecue which, though delicious, was a gigantic mess that I attempted to inhale while talking to my sister who kindly entertained me through dinner and wished me luck for the last (insert extremely sarcastic inflection on "last") leg of my travel.  That's what I told Mom when I called her to tell her we were boarding the plane on time and that this little eensy weensy snafu in my travel seemed to be over (insert eye roll indicating I realize how Pollyanna I am).

We did board the plane on time.  And once boarded, I sent the following tweet: "Sweet Lord, there is a small child in front of me on a 2.5 hour flight. #serenityprayer #arewethereyet."  Little did I know that by the time boarding ended, there would also be a small child behind me.  I took Dramamine.  Which may explain why I remained calm when the captain announced that the weather front driving the storms into Alabama and Georgia was causing high-speed winds that meant every plane had to take off from one runway.  (Insert 45 minute delay.) 

When I woke up somewhere over the Colorado Rockies, I checked the time and watched the minute hand creep toward my 9:40 p.m. departure time.  But the flight attendant with her almost hypnotically calm voice kept telling us that Salt Lake was aware of our connecting flights and would make adjustments accordingly.

What you find out when you arrive is that "adjustments" means sending the plane without you.  For the second time, I found myself grounded when I should've been skyward.  At 10 p.m. MDT, they were shutting that place down.  No more flights to Vegas or anywhere else. 

That's how I found myself at the ticket counter with William and Al, two gentlemen from Jackson, Mississippi who were also on my plane and also Vegas-bound.  William ostensibly had a speaking engagement the following morning - at a hooker convention, no less - that he simply could not miss.  He and Al were trying to make sense of the arrangements we were being offered: a stay in Salt Lake City and standby on the first flight of the day at 8:30.  Confirmation on a flight at 1:50.  And, oh, by the way, 18 passengers were on standby for 7 available seats.

I reached my limit.  Suddenly, I was Bear Grylls, Ash versus Vegas, and by God, I was going to make it to my destination.  While the terminal computers choked through flight schedules trying to find us better arrangements, I had out my iPhone charting the distance between Salt Lake and Vegas.  I figured with a rental car and a bag of beef jerky I could make it.  Six-and-a-half hours through unknown territory, but Bear would never shy away from such a challenge.  Even without the beef jerky, I probably could've made a passable meal from lint and stale french fries hidden under the rental car seats.  The chips were down, the stakes were high, and I was ready to place my bet.

I contemplated this new plan aloud to William and Al.  And to my mother, who I think I gave a near heart attack with my survivalist plan.  William asked the ticket agent about the road leading to Vegas, and she looked a bit concerned over my plan, but I wasn't.  I can handle a 10-to-4 drive through the mountains.  I will not be deterred by the "deer being down."  I'm going to VEGAS BABY.

William and Al, seeing my wild-eyed determination, sighed and shifted and then announced that if I were going through with it, they would go with me.  The woman at the counter said, "Are the three of you traveling together?"  And William replied, "Me and Al are.  Me and Ashley have been dating about 20 minutes."

But just as I gathered my bags and prepared to make a beeline for the Enterprise counter, William managed to finagle the number for Southwest.  And some woman, some angel of mercy, told him there was a 6:20 a.m. flight with 30 seats.  A part of me was relieved.  A part of me was disappointed - I was pretty jacked up for this insane roadtrip with my new friends William and Al and whatever supplies we could get at the closest 7-11.  My mother was 178 percent relieved.

I booked my ticket via phone while we waited for the shuttle bus to retrieve us from the airport, and William asked me questions to verify our compatibility - did I smoke?  Did I have a tattoo?  Seemingly, negative responses to these two questions sealed our relationship.  I was grateful for it, too, because there was one guy in the terminal who winked at me repeatedly until I gestured to William and Al in the baggage claim office and said, "I'm with them."

At the hotel, I tried not to look to critically at my lodgings as I arranged my bags and clothes for the next morning in the path of least resistance.  And then I laid down for a blessed 3 and a half hours.

When the phone rang in the Baymont Shores Inn at 4 a.m., I woke with a start, sat up in bed and wondered aloud in an alarmed voice, "Where am I?"  But there was no time to contemplate location.  I had 59 minutes before the shuttle would be pulling away from the hotel, and I had already reached my quota on missed connections.

The desk clerk called me at 4:57 as I was zipping my bag to tell me that the shuttle was leaving.  But I wobbled down the hallway like an overloaded pack mule and thrust my baggage into the hands of the shuttle driver who tried to convince me to wait 15 minutes for the next shuttle while I furiously shook my head no and squeezed into the van.  In the darkness, I heard William say, "I told him, 'We can't leave without Ashley.' I was going to kick his butt."  It pays to have friends, it seems, who understand in less than 24 hours that you're always late.

By the time I walked out to board my 6:20 flight, the sun was shining and a light breeze was blowing.  We took off and landed in what seemed the blink of an eye.  I slept as soon as I was safely strapped into an aircraft assured to get me to Las Vegas.

I landed at 6:35 a.m. PDT and found myself a taxi that I swear was driven by Shug Knight.  He drove me to the Luxor, a giant shiny black pyramid guarded by a replica of the sphinx on its front lawn.  I passed from the cool, bright early morning through the doors flanked by Anubis into cavernous darkness.  I blinked twice and looked up to see a bleary-eyed man drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette mid-lobby.  Welcome, I thought, to Vegas. 

And so I checked in and was told...to head to the 13th floor.  That sealed it.  Absolutely no gambling for me.  You gotta know when to walk away...and when to run.

Smashville

Early on in life, it was clear that I would not be known for grace.  By age 11, my sister nicknamed me "Smash" for the collection of bumps, bruises and scrapes that constantly marred my arms, shins and knees.  These injuries were of the sort one expects from a growing adolescent.  Problem is, I never outgrew them.

Something about traveling seems to inspire my gracelessness, and my latest business trip was no exception.  You may recall my 14-hour cross-country adventure or the time Captain Fail Pants went to Washington.  I kept the klutz alive with my recent jaunt to Nashville.

• The reserved rental car, advertised as a Chevy Impala, was a minivan, resulting in a confusing conversation about getting a car from another rental place in town and a cross-town drive to pick up said car.  So much for leaving on time.
• At 3:45, I tweeted, "Nashville-bound and stuck in maaajor traffic accident on 285 listening to Wheatus 'Teenage Dirtbag' and wishing I'd stopped for Combos."
• At 4:30: "Officially lost an hour on 285 and #sittingstill #swearingtomyself
• And at 5:15, when the standstill from the overturned tractor trailer blocking four lanes of traffic had stolen an hour and a half of my life: "This is the part where I start to lose it completely. Almost 2 hours lost. #iwillnotcry"
• I didn't cry.  I did eat two McDonald's cheeseburgers and an order of large fries, which fortified me until I arrived in Nashville, seven hours after departing from home.  
• The next morning, I discovered instead of shampoo, I had two shower gels, and so, I washed my hair with shower gel.
• The first pair of pantyhose I put on ran from top to toe.  But my awesome mother advised me to pack a second pair, just in case.  Mother knows best.  And knows that her daughter is a complete disaster most of the time.
• At the tradeshow set up, the literature stand was broken and the tradeshow floor was sweltering and I tried unsuccessfully for 10 minutes to get the TV working only to realize it wasn't plugged in.
• I finished the setup, stood back to admire my handiwork, sweating, and realized…that the materials that were urgently FedExed to my hotel so that I would have them for the tradeshow were, in fact, still at the hotel.
• At this point, a complete, swirling monsoon descended on Nashville.
• I forged across the street to the parking deck, holding my umbrella like a battle shield against the wind.
• In my hurry to get out of the rain, I tripped on the lip of the sidewalk and fell crushing my umbrella.  Literally broke it.  Bent the handle into a frown - which technically could've been a smile if turned the other way, but let's face it: that was a frown.
• Dude standing there says, "Are you okay?" and in total embarassment I popped to my feet and assured him I was fine.  Then I limped away, toting the ruined umbrella and cursing.
• Second pair of pantyhose? #totalled
• Both knees #totalled
• I pulled out of the parking space and came down the ramp...which was blocked by a paving machine.  I waited impatiently until one of the workers directed me around the mammoth piece of equipment.
• Turned the wrong way out of the parking deck and had to circle the block on one-way streets.
•  Drove back to my hotel, pulled into the turnabout, waved away the over-eager valet and ran inside, red-faced and sweating and asked for the package.  They asked for ID. I showed them my tradeshow badge like it was press credentials.
•  Back at the parking deck, I left the crumpled umbrella in the passenger seat and focused on getting across the street in one piece.
•  Inside, I stopped in the ladies' room, ditched my busted up hosiery, wiped the blood from my knees and took stock of my reflection - I looked like Gilda Radner working the Weekend Update desk.
•  Later that night, I tried to escape my luck with a nice dinner with my clients.  Instead, I got confused coming back from the restroom, and they caught me talking to myself - announcing that I'd taken a wrong turn - right beside our table.
•  And though the second morning went smoothly, by the end of the day, my high-heeled shoes had nearly crippled me.  Though I had planned to go back to the convention center to change clothes for the drive home, I couldn't bear the thought of another step.  Which is how I learned that desperation is changing clothes in a rental car on the fifth floor of the parking deck.
• Only later, closing in on midnight, exhausted from head to toe and fighting to stay awake, did I realize that desperation is really being willing to listen to "Candyshop" by 50 Cent on high volume.

And so, I arrived home, once again riddled with bruises and scrapes, with a dilapidated umbrella in the front seat and a new appreciation for gangsta rap.  And a host of reminders that Smash lives.

Why BuyLife is a Dead End

Ryan Seacrest, Alicia Keys and Kim Kardashian are dead.  And I'm not sad - I'm a bit disgusted.  I wrote a guest post for the Jackson Spalding Thinkstand on why this week's BuyLife.org promotion for World AIDS Day is a grave misstep.  Please enjoy this little bit of shameless self-promotion - unlike the celebrities mentioned, I won't make you pay $10 for it.

One of the 10 People from Heaven You Meet on Earth

On a dour gray day at the end of my first semester of college, I mounted the steps of the great white columned house of Berry's founder and pressed the doorbell.  Someone shouted for me to come in, and when I pushed open the door, I realized it was the large jovial man on the ladder who was disassembling an antique brass chandelier in the carpeted front hall.  He smiled and asked if he could help me.  I told him I was looking for Vesta Salmon in that tentative way of a green college freshman who isn't certain what she's just stumbled into.  "Kitchen," he answered.

In the kitchen - where I would spend almost as many hours during my college years as I did in my dorm room.  Where the white painted door was propped open, there was a long metal table where an army of college girls were seated with rags and toothbrushes and tubes of foul-smelling pink goop that they were applying to pieces of the antique chandelier I'd seen in the hall.  Among them, scrubbing and buffing with the best of them sat Vesta.  I don't know that I exactly remember that she said it, but I know she would've looked up, seen me standing there all lost and confused and said, "Whatchya need, hon?"

I needed a job to rescue me from the dreck of the college dining hall.  And ever since I'd seen a picture in the newspaper of a local girl who worked as a tour guide at Oak Hill and donned a beautiful hoopskirted dress, I'd wanted to be an Oak Hill girl, too.

The interview was brief; I don't remember if Vesta even asked me about my skills.  I would guess instead that she shrewdly assessed my puny spirit and decided somebody needed to look after this poor waify thing standing in front of her.  And by the grace of God, she decided that somebody would be her.

For the next three and a half years, I worked under the supervision of Vesta.  I dusted and vacuumed and scrubbed and polished every inch of that house.  I gave tours, dutifully telling the stories of the house and its owner.  I served lunches to potential donors and the college president.  Those were all the requirements of the job.

But more important than all that, I observed.  I observed Vesta in her provisions.  She cooked biscuits and hot tea for breakfast for the morning girls.  She made cornbread and big pots of vegetable soup when it was cold and blustery outside.  She made lunches for visitors and lemonade for the grounds crew.  When I was sick, she'd buy oranges and slice them for me to eat at lunch.  She fed my body.

She prayed for us all - including the poetry professor who dared give me a B on an assignment, assuring me that we just needed to pray for him.  (For the record, I ended up with an A in the class.)  She talked to us about her faith - one that she demonstrated in so many ways: by baking an endless number of lemon poundcakes (for which she is famous) for birthdays, anniversaries, sympathy and get well wishes; by inviting those without family to her home for Thanksgiving and Christmas; by being involved in all sorts of causes that helped others.  She was the essence of moral fiber.  I never knew her to say no when someone needed her.  She fed my spirit.

Having lost my biological grandparents at a young age, I was thirsty for her wisdom.  She offered guidance in such simple and sage ways.  She hugged me close and dried my tears on more than one occasion.  Going to work became my refuge in times of turmoil.  I could always count on Vesta for advice or support or encouragement or a hot cup of coffee and a hug.  She fed my heart.

She once met Martha Berry.  And her cooking was featured in the Atlanta Journal Constitution.  One of the professor's established a scholarship in her name.  Yet, she's always humble, always embodying the Berry mission - not to be ministered unto, but to minister.

I graduated from Berry almost 10 years ago, but Vesta and me have kept in touch through letters and cards and phone calls and the occasional visit to the alma mater.  I cherish the times I get a Vesta hug and get to hear her ask, "How are you doing, hon?" in that marvelous way that you can't wait to tell her and hope she's proud.

When I think about the lessons I learned in college, some of the most important ones were from Vesta.  She taught me so much about integrity and character and spiritual strength and just loving people so much that you can't stand but to do something to help them.  I know she's touched about as many lives as there are stars in the sky.  And I feel so lucky that mine is one of them.

Captain Fail Pants Goes to Washington

Traveling with me is like traveling with one of the three Stooges - or maybe all three wrapped into one prat-falling package.  Case in point: last week's trip to Washington, D.C. for a conference.

• We were greeted by the Head of the Conference who hugged me and asked how I was feeling.  How am I feeling??  And then it registered that she had me confused with the other woman of the same name who works on the account and is pregnant.  Oh, sweet fancy Moses.  She think I'm pregnant.  Do I look like I am with child?  
• After dinner, the waitress brings a rather sizable glass dish mounded with blue cotton candy.  One of my dinner companions has a few bites.  And then I proceeded to eat all of it.  All.  By.  Myself.  And no one stopped me.
• This lead to the mother of all stomachaches at roughly 2 a.m.  Like, fetal-position-whimpering-praying-to-God stomachache- a prayer in which I prayed that God would smite me for my gluttony.
• Tuesday I woke up very late with a very serious spun-sugar-over.
• Once dressed, I stood sideways and gazed upon myself in the full-length mirror for confirmation that I do not, in fact, look pregnant.
• At Tuesday's dinner, I vowed to be very good and not overeat.  Instead, I stood up to go to the bathroom, dragging the tablecloth with me, and turning over an entire glass of water.
• Later, I lost my cell phone - my precious 3-year-old Nokia flip phone with the busted front.  We were assisted in our search by the waitress whose attention was no doubt captured by me on my hands and knees with my head under the table in this very nice restaurant.  When she finally located the phone under the table, she told me she felt compelled to just leave it there, thereby deducting all the cool points I had in reserve.
• Wednesday morning, I'm wearing a dress.  Which reveals the lovely blue goose egg on my shin, origins of which remain unknown.  Perhaps from crawling around in the restaurant?
• I added to the attractiveness of my legs later while using industrial packing tape on a package and slipping the serrated edge against my knee.
• My dress nearly gave me a heart attack at the self check-in kiosk at the airport.  Because when I bent to retrieve my credit card from my bag, I realized that the two most crucial buttons were gaping wide open.  In the middle of the airport.  Classy.
• I thought I would be done with dress mishaps at this point - until I was also flagged by security for my "decorative belt loops."  Yeah, you have to watch out for synthetic bamboo.  It's a killer.
• Once seated on the plane, I took a deep breath and hoped for a quiet flight back to Georgia.  Instead, I got teeth-rattling turbulence on a flight that I decided to brave without Dramamine.  By the time we landed, I had a greasy oil slick in the bottom of my stomach that would've made BP look like amateurs.

It's no wonder nothing gets done in Washington.

Dear Tuesday:

While I'm certainly aware of the fact that you aren't Monday, you will have to act less like a Monday in order for me to view you in a more kindly manner. I found your behavior today to be a particular affront considering that I got up early (which I never do) and made it to work early (which I never do) - such an anomaly, in fact, that it caused one coworker to suggest the apocalypse was upon us. On a day such as this, when I clearly put my best foot forward, it was quite insulting for you to stick out your proverbial leg and trip me up so royally that I spent the rest of the day on my face.

For example, it would have been more considerate to not play fruit-basket-turnover with my DNS setting early this morning necessitating an hour-long call to tech support in order to allow me to connect to the internet. And if said call had not left me a mere 12 minutes to prepare for my 10 o'clock call. Furthermore, it added insult to injury to spend the better part of my afternoon dealing with yet another technical issue on behalf of a client. A technical issue, I might add, that is so far beyond my realm of technical aptitude that all it really did was deepen my curmudgeonly demeanor and distract me from eating lunch until 2 o'clock. At that point, Tuesday, you really could've taken pity on me. But instead, you brought me an emergency ad deadline, a rewrite request and a reminder that another ad deadline looms with the ad unfinished. Oh, and as I dashed out the door for my 5 o'clock appointment, it wasn't very keen of you to send that traffic jam and push my arrival time ten minutes late.

So, Tuesday, forgive me if I'm looking at you like you peed in my Wheaties. It kind of feels that way. And since you haven't let up on this not-so-comedy of errors, I'm going to go ahead and call the rest of the day a wash. And sternly demand that you keep your confounded hands off Wednesday.

Regards,
Ashley