The week I nearly lost my head, my cell phone and my identity

Everyone knows the saying, “You’d loose you’re head, if it wasn’t attached.” You say it to the scatterbrained person who locks their keys in their car, or misplaces their homework, or forgets where they put their glasses (often the same glasses that are on top of their head) – I am ashamed to say, this person is me.

Fortunately, my forgetfulness seems to come in waves. I will go months (okay, maybe not months, but definitely weeks) without forgetting/losing a single thing and then suddenly, within the span of one week, my life will become bedlam. This was the case back in March.

Case in point #1: It was spring break 07. The break kicked off with my 21st birthday, which my friends and I spent in Toronto. I know, I know, “Why go to Canada when you’re finally legal to drink in the U.S.?” You see, I was the first of the four of us to hit the big 2-1, therefore, Canada it was. We arrived in Toronto on my 21st birthday. Once at the hotel, I opened my presents – many of which were 21st birthday paraphernalia I could wear that night out – you know the typical “21 – buy me a drink!” crown and of course the “21 and ready for fun!” sash. I didn’t see myself wearing these obnoxious items in public unless completely intoxicated; however, I was forced to throw them in my purse just in case.

The first official bar we went to was about a 15 minute cab ride, which if I recall correctly had a hefty fee. We walked up to the hip Hemingway’s Pub and were greeted by the bouncer. Each of my 19 and 20 year old friends whipped out their only-legal-outside-of-the-U.S. driver’s licenses and made it in without a problem. I however began digging through my over-sized purse in search of my 100% legit license. After the beads of sweat began surfacing on my forehead, I finally looked up at the bouncer and kindly said, “It seems as if I forgot my ID, do you think I could get in anyways?” With zero sympathy the husky fellow replied, “No ID, no entry.” By this point my friends began hassling me with annoying comments like “How on earth did you forget your ID? It’s the one night you need it!” I politely explained to the bouncer that it was my 21st birthday, that I deserved to get into the bar, that we just drove hours and hours so that we could celebrate together and how if he didn’t let me in it would absolutely ruin my birthday. The man was stern and only replied with a half-hearted, “Sorry.” Suddenly, it dawned on me, I had a crown and sash that proved my age. I grabbed the items and shoved it in the man’s face. I exclaimed, “Why would I have these if I wasn’t 21?!?!” After just a little more coercing, the over-sized man finally let me into the pub to enjoy my birthday celebration.

Case in point #2: 3 days later we were back from Toronto. The second half of spring break was to be spent in Rhode Island and then in NYC with my best friend Krista. We were flying out of PGH at the crack of dawn for Providence to visit her sister. It had been awhile since I flew and I was really dreading the flight. We checked in, made it through security, grabbed some breakfast at Au Bon Pain and finally headed to the waiting area to prepare for departure. As each row began to be called I decided I just had to pee, but decided the teeny-tiny stalls on the plane just wouldn’t do. I told Krista to get in line while I quickly ran to the bathroom. I did my thing and was back in a flash. We boarded the plane, found our seats, buckled up and waited for take off. My palms were just starting to sweat when I realized I did not have my phone on me. I turned to Krista in hopes of having handed it to her at some point. She reminded me that I had it when we were sitting in the waiting area. It was then it dawned on me that I carried it to the bathroom and left it on the sink. I jumped to my feet and dashed down the aisle towards the front of the plane. I was stopped by a way-too-cheerful female flight attendant who asked me to find my seat. I snapped back, “I have to go to the bathroom!” She said, “Oh, miss, the lavatory is straight back behind you.” I exclaimed, “No! Not this bathroom, the bathroom inside the airport, I left my phone there!” She told me I could try asking the male flight attended at the head of the plane if there was still time. I ran to him just as he was making the final spin on the giant steering wheel that locks the door of the plane. He said it was too late. If I’d like, I could call the airport when we landed in Philly for our connection. Then he asked me to return to my seat.

Feeling defeated and more worked up than I would ever like to be again on an airplane, I headed back to my seat with my head hung low. Taking off, knowing my poor phone was just sitting in a cold, stainless steel bathroom really left a pain in the pit of my stomach.

We arrived in Philly where just those not continuing onto Providence were permitted to get off. The male flight attendant gave me instructions to get off the plane and at the end of the tunnel there would be a man waiting with the number for PGH Int’l Airport. I headed off the plane, made the call, was told no one could find my phone. I then attempted to head back onto the plane feeling defeated once again, but not first before getting grilled by some nasty airline attendant in the tunnel who wanted to see my ticket before letting me pass. After a little explanation I was back on the plane and off to 4 days in Rhode Island and NYC – completely phone-less.

Four days later, I had the surprise of a lifetime when I returned to PGH airport and decided just for the hell of it to look in the lost-and-found closet. Low and behold, my phone somehow, remarkably made it from the bathroom upstairs all the way down to the lost-and-found closet on the first floor near baggage claim. It was if I had my own personal airline attendant angel looking after me.

Case and point #3 (last one, I promise!): It was about one week later that I experienced the loss of all losses. Like just about every other college student in Western Pennsylvania, I was at Station Square on March, 17 celebrating good ole’ St. Patrick’s day. I had officially been 21 for a little over a week and was taking full advantage of it. The day was filled with silly shamrock antlers, t-shirts declaring any ounce of Irish-heritage, green-dyed beer and those obnoxious plastic blow horns. By 6 p.m. my friends and I were exhausted. We headed back to my boyfriend’s frat house at Pitt for a 3-hour long group nap. I awoke from the nap feeling slightly refreshed and ready to get the hell out of the cesspool that the frat house had become from the hardcore celebration. Before leaving, I checked my purse for my keys. Those I had. What I didn’t have, however, was my wallet. My wallet that had about $50, 2 credit cards, my driver’s license, my debit card, an endless supply of reward cards, my library card and drum-roll please…my social security card. Yes, yes, I know you are never supposed to carry it around, but, as you all know now, I was in Canada just one week earlier. I had it on me in case I encountered any problems at the border. So there I was feeling filthy, slightly-hung-over and terrified that as I sat there my identity was being stolen by some drunkard who stumbled upon my card in Station Square. I made the dreadful call to the parents who first lectured me about carrying such an important document around with me and was then instructed to cancel every credit card, followed by, go to the nearest police station and file a report.

After each instruction was completed, I was ready to drive home feeling defeat like I had never felt before. Before leaving, however, Eddie (my boyfriend) suggested we drive down to Station Square just to look around. I thought it would be a complete waste of time, but figured I didn’t have much else to lose. When we pulled up to the strip mall, I hoped out of the car and instructed him to just wait there. By this point it was midnight. The place had cleared out and looked like a disaster zone. The only place I could think to look was some dive bar I went in to order a rum and coke around 4 p.m. when I just couldn’t take beer anymore. I walked into the place that just hours before was filled wall-to-wall with a sea of green. By this point there were just a handful of people left. I surveyed the floor with no luck. I was just about to walk out when I figured I might as well ask the bar tender if anyone had turned my wallet in. She asked me my name and told me to hang on a sec. I watched her walk over to a tall filing cabinet and saw a beam of light, as if from Saint Patrick himself, shinning down on my wallet. She informed me that someone found it on the floor and turned it in. I feverishly checked the contents – everything was accounted for. It was truly a St. Patty’s day miracle!

Perhaps a moral to sum this all up…What I learned from these events was not that I am a complete scatterbrained mess; but, instead, that I am one lucky S.O.B. BUT, more importantly, what each of you should have learned is NEVER, EVER trust me to hang on to something for you…unless, that is, you don’t mind me misplacing it, or loosing it in a bathroom or dropping it on a bar floor:)

Gotta love those visuals.

Mr. Faneca in all his 6 foot 5, 307 pound glory.

So this one time...at Quiznos...

I made a complete fool of myself in front of Steeler's offensive guard, Alan Faneca.

First a little back round info eh?

While interning last fall at KDKA-TV, it was my job, every Tuesday to walk down to the parking garage and let Mr. Faneca in. He stopped by once a week for some Steeler wrap-up segment on the evening news. After 15 straight weeks of doing this, it had become pretty routine. Each week, I would answer the phone around 5:15 p.m. with my tagline, "KDKA, this is Caitlin," to which I received word that he had pulled in and was downstairs waiting. I would then leave my spot at the assignment desk to walk down the two flights of stairs to the basement. Once there, I would open the door to the garage and patiently wait for Mr. Faneca. Then, together, we would walk up the two flights of stairs, small talking about the cold weather, the warm weather, the fall weather and pretty much anything else weather-related. Yes, I know this does not make us friends, or even acquaintances. However, as I said, this little interaction went on for 15 weeks, so perhaps you can understand why I thought, just maybe, he would remember me when he walked into Quiznos that fateful Sunday back in May.

I had been working very part-time at the Quiznos in Wexford. I recall feeling slightly "out of it" that day; however, like the good worker bee I am, I stuck it out and made the people their sandwiches throughout my 5 hour shift that Sunday. It was nearing the end of my shift, when I, without looking up, rattled off my Quiznos tagline, "Welcome to Quiznos, is this for here or to go?" The response was deep and monotone - exactly what one would expect from a 6 foot 5 man weighing 307 pounds (I looked that up. I am not a stalker.) When I eventually did look up, the memories of walking up those 2 flights of stairs for 15 weeks straight flooded my brain. I played it cool as I prepared Mr. Faneca’s 4 toasty subs. My mind was racing with ways of casually bringing up our “past” together. I didn’t want it to come off as I was crazy-obsessed, but at the same time I saw no harm in nonchalantly mentioning how I was the girl who was in charge of letting him into the building at KDKA.

I had just about gotten the verbiage straight in my head, when, suddenly…completely out of the blue…without any warning whatsoever…I side-stepped onto a tomato, and as if I were a stunt double in an action flick was launched into the air, feet completely out from under me and came crashing down on my back in the middle of the messy prep aisle floor.

I can still recall, like it was yesterday, the look on Mr. Faneca’s face as he so effortlessly leaned over the display case and asked, “Umm…are you O.K.?” Like it was nothing, I hoped up, replied, “Oh yea, I’m just fine” and as if nothing ever happened went back to making his sub (chicken carbonara if I recall correctly.) It took only about a minute for both of us to realize that I was making his sandwich with the same latex gloves I had on when I wiped out. In the process of standing up they must have gotten some of the scraps of food from the floor on them, and now like a good worker bee I was using these contaminated gloves to prepare Mr. Faneca’s food. It was as if he knew what was happening, but didn’t want to say anything and risk traumatizing me anymore. Once aware of my food-prep faux pas, I quickly pulled the gloves off and said, “Oh, I’m sorry, let me start over.” He half-smiled and then must have decided it would be best for him to walk away, down to the other end of the counter to wait for his food – far, far from the crazy Quiznos girl with the scraps of food all over her back.

Once his food was done, he was outta there faster than I could begin re-contemplating how to bring up our KDKA days.

The worst part of it all was I am certain that he thought that I was just some crazy-obsessed Steeler fan who was star-struck and couldn’t hold my composure; when in reality, I just wanted to reminisce a bit about our days in the stairwell.

I thought I had it bad...

Although my security mishap was bad, it doesn't quite compare to what my dear Irish friend Seán went through last semester.

Please enjoy an entry from his always enjoyable blog:

http://ssully.blogspot.com/2007/03/sen-osullivan-enemy-of-state.html

Rusty screwdrivers and airports DO NOT mix.

As I mentioned a few entries ago, my trip to Germany started off without a hitch - that is, with the exception of a small security debacle while departing PGH airport.

Flying, as many know, can be a super stressful experience. There are all those damn rules about what you can and cannot bring on board. This is certainly true when it comes to flying internationally - make that internationally for a few weeks. There is so much to pack, such little space to pack it and then the whole stress of getting those packed bags checked.

The day we left for Germany, my brother and boyfriend dropped off my mom and me at the airport. We each had our fair share of belongings to worry about. On top of that, we were running slightly behind schedule - nothing unusual for my mom and me. A few minutes tardy is nothing out of the ordinary for either of us. However, those who fly know very well that those few minutes behind schedule can really add some stress to the whole process. On top of that, I was still convinced at this point that the thousands of dollars we paid (so last minute) for this impromptu study abroad experience, had all been stolen by the International office at RMU and never really used to pay for a trip at all.

Therefore, you can understand my excitement when I checked into the Delta (if I recall correctly) counter and heard the male customer service rep mutter those enchanting words, "You may place your bags on the scale, Ms. Krampe."

After completing my check-in, I began to calm down a bit knowing I had plenty of time to make it through security before my plane for JFK took off. One last thing needed to fall into place before I felt really good about the experience - my mom needed to check-in.

Up until this point, I had worked with the International Office to make all of my mom's trip arrangements. She joined the trip super last minute because we had lost a few students and were at risk of losing our discounted trip price. There were talks early on that she may not be able to get on our flight to JFK, but at the final meeting, one week before departing the U.S., I SWEAR I was told they were able to get her on our flight. (Granted, I had copies of all the flight confirmations, but I never took the time to make sure my mom's were identical to mine. I assumed, and you know what they say when you assume...)

Anyhow, there we were at the Delta counter. Everyone in the group had officially checked-in and were well on their way to the never-ending security line. The minute the check-in guy began asking my mom to spell her incredibly simple last name, I knew we were in trouble. It took a little bit of time, but eventually I whipped out the copies of the flight confirmations to shove in his face, when (to my surprise) he said, "Oh ma'am, your flight to JFK is not with us, it is with Jetblue. But, yikes, you better get moving."

Frazzled and convinced my mom wasn’t going to make it to Germany; we grabbed her bags, ran to the Jetblue counter, demanded cutsies and began the check-in process. I no time, we were headed down the elevator, peering in disbelief at the ridiculously long security line.

My mom had something like 10 minutes to make it to her flight. The line went surprisingly fast. I apologized for the mix up the whole way through until we got to the man who checks your ID and assigns you to a conveyer belt. At this point, we were briefly separated. I made it through the check-point with flying colors. I regret to say my mom was not so fortunate.

Luckily, I was on my way over to her when I saw her get flagged and pulled aside for an additional, manual inspection of her carry-on backpack. (FYI, the backpack she was using, although technically hers, I use all year to transport my laptop while at school. Also keep in mind, this was mid-May, meaning I had just recently moved out of my on-campus apartment to come home for the summer.)

I stood next to her as the unnecessarily, intimidating security man went through the backpack. If I recall correctly, she said to him something along the lines of, “This is odd. I fly all the time and nothing like this has ever happened.” To which the man replied, “Don’t worry ma’am, odds are it’s just your computer setting off the alarm.”

My mom and I began chatting about how much time she had left when suddenly we heard the stone-cold security man clear his throat and interrupt with a stern, “Excuse me.” Together we turned our heads to see the man holding up a 12-inch-long screwdriver. (Mind you, this was no ordinary screwdriver. No, this just happened to be the rustiest, dirtiest, oldest, most terrifying screwdriver you’ve ever seen. This screwdriver looked like it was used to kill someone 50 years ago and had since been buried away in a backyard somewhere.)

Now why this screwdriver was in the computer backpack isn’t completely clear to me. But, I’m thinking I must have used it at some point when moving into my apartment and had since stowed it away in one of the many (too many) zipper pockets in the bag.

Knowing my mom had no idea why it was in there and fearful she was going to be taken away in handcuffs, I cleared my throat to provide a logical explanation. By this point, the guard had called over back-up. They were all looking at my mom, asking her for an explanation as to why she would try to sneak such an odd item onto an airplane. She was speechless and could only reply with, “I have never seen that before. I have no idea why it’s in there.”

Luckily, I swooped in to save the day. “Gentlemen, I said. I am soo embarrassed. That screwdriver is mine. I had no idea it was in there when I leant my mom the backpack. Truly I am shocked. Please just throw it away.” They all looked at me for a moment, wondering whether or not it was all just a ploy. Hesitantly, without one word, the man handed my mom the infamous backpack and sent us on our way – not without first glaring hard and heavy into each of our eyes.

A few steps past security I turned to my mom to say, “YOU’RE WELCOME!” To which she replied with an even worse glare than the stone-cold security guy.

In case you couldn't picture it...

I was recently looking through my pictures and came across some photos taken in Germany. After about 3 minutes of some shoddy editing in good ole' PAINT, I came up with the following 3 photos - all meant to help you better visualize the crime scene detailed in my last entry. ENJOY :)

In case you are having difficulties reading my free-hand-pencil-PAINT-tool-writing, the left says "My Bed" and the right says "Comatose Brooke's Bed."

"The Phone"

"The Infamous Door (sans peep-hole)"

So this one time...in Germany...

I was delightfully enjoying my 2 week study abroad experience when something terrifying happened. Perhaps first a little background info to set the mood.

There I was in the far-off land of Dusseldorf, Germany. It was the last week of May, 07 and I had been abroad for about 1 week. So far, so good. Besides a little security set back I had encountered while flying out of PGH (oh, don't you worry I'll be sure to share that tale one day), things had gone surprisingly smoothly. Understand that when the group and I embarked on this little journey we knew very little about what the coming 2 weeks would hold - including where we were staying, where we would be having class, how we would be getting around, etc. - all things considered, things had gone perfectly. The hotel turned out to be just lovely, the classroom facility was way better than we had imagined and transportation in Dusseldorf is offered in ever type of imaginable form.

So there I was, in bed, channel-surfing through the 15 all-German-speaking channels we had. My roommate, Brooke, had long been asleep and I knew I would regret it in the morning if I didn't fall asleep soon too. Frustrated with the T.V., I turned it off leaving myself lying in a completely pitch-dark room (a situation that most who know me doesn’t accommodate my severe claustrophobia. Damn those German remotes and their lack of sleep-timer buttons!) Despite the suffocating dark, I managed to fall asleep. (Another fun fact about me - I sleep lighter than a feather.)

Hours must have passed before I slowly began coming out of REM sleep to the muffled sounds of pounding and scratching. It probably only took a matter of seconds before I was sitting up in bed, adrenaline pumping, reaching for my phone to see what time it was. 4:22 a.m. it read. I sprung out of bed confused and stumbled to the door. I flicked on the light. It was then I realized that the pounding and scratching was coming from the other side of my bedroom door. (Another fun fact - Brooke my roommate apparently does not share my light-as-a-feather-sleep quality.) Like most in this situation, I frantically began looking for the peep-hole on the door. To my surprise, NO PEEP-HOLE! (Damn those German doors with no peep-hole!) So I did the next best thing. I pounded back and yelled, "Yes? Hello?" Instantly the pounding stopped. Good news right? NO. After a long pause, the silence was interrupted by the terrifying screech of a key being dragged up and down the metal-platted door. (It still gives me chills just thinking about it.) It was about at this point I realized this wasn’t just the cleaning lady trying to get in for an early-morning tidy-up. It was also at this point that I lost all sense of cool, collected, composure and began frantically pounding on the door, yelling, "GO AWAY!!!" Between each pound and yell I would run over to Brooke's bed to yell at her "WAKE UP!!!" The louder my efforts got, the louder the unidentified person’s outside my door became. Finally, with no help from my comatose roommate, I ran to the phone and dialed 1 for the front desk. Just my luck, no answer. As I let it continue to ring, I would lay the phone down, run to the door, pound and kick a bit, yell a little more, return to the phone in hopes of an answer and repeat the pattern again.

By this point I had visions of terrorists running rampant through the hotel, capturing all of the guests. Perhaps the oddest thing throughout all the exchanges of physical abuse to the door, not a word was spoken by my 4 a.m. intruder. After giving up on the front desk, I quickly thought to call my mom's room. She too was traveling with our group and was on the other end of the building, same floor. To my delight she picked up after just 2 rings. Without hesitation I began rambling about what was happening and for her to get help and to avoid passing by my end of the hall on her way to the front desk. I later learned that in order to protect herself she strategically placed each one of her keys between each knuckle like a true street-fighter.

After hanging up with my mom and between additional kicks to the door, I tried the front desk one last time. On the first ring the barely-English-speaking-German-doorman answered. All I said was, "ROOM 305. COME QUICK!" Apparently the nice little German man took my plea seriously and began running up the 3 sets of stairs. Some where along the line, the nice little German doorman and my street-fighting mom ran into each other and instantaneously teamed-up to come to my aid.

Now the following details I personally did not experience, but was told in great detail all about. As the street-fighter and German doorman came charging down the hall to room 305 they were shocked to find, what was described to me as, "a scraggily-Jude Law-ish-looking drunk ass beating the crap out of my door." The heroic doorman grabbed the drunkard and without any problems was able to redirect him to his proper hotel room - room 405! I had been pressed-up against my door, attempting to listen to the hallway antics when my mom gently tapped on the door and said it was fine to open up now.

It wasn't until now that I began crying like a big-blubbering-baby. All my adrenaline had subsided and believe it or not Brooke was just waking from her unbelievably deep slumber. As we all sat on my bed and I began to calm down a bit, we could hear the nice little German doorman just above us putting the door-fighting lush to bed. (God damn those Germans and their love for alcohol!)