Mom and I were at Sam's Club, the wholesale warehouse she goes to in Arizona, instead of Costco. When we walked in, I was immediately mesmerized by big screen televisions on display, and wandered over to watch them, compare them and, if no one was looking, maybe even lick one of them.

I stood there for a bit, until my bladder told me, "Hey, yo, remember me? I'm still small," and I needed to find a toliet sooner than later.

After sooner was done, and later had come, I wandered back to the televisions and, more importantly, the electronics and photo processing part of the store. Mom wasn't there, so I wandered around a little more, looking for her.

When it became clear I wasn't going to find her quickly, and I had no clue where she would be, I decided to walk out to the car. She wouldn't leave without the car (couldn't?), so that was where I'd meet her.

I started walking out the door I had come in through 15 minutes before. A guy was standing next to the door, the one who had looked at Mom's club card as we came in the store. After I had passed him, and was halfway between the store exit and the carts exit 15 feet away, he asked me "Do you want to go outside?"

I turned vaguely in his direction as I continued walking out the doors, and answered, "Yes."

He responded quickly, and more loudly, "You can't go out these doors."

Slightly confused, and still concentrating on getting to the car, I replied, "Okay," as I stepped outside the second door.

"You have to go outside the other doors if you want to leave!" he called after me.

Standing outside, I turned to look at him. "Uh...." was all I could manage at that point.

"Thank you!" he called, in a not very pleased tone.

At that point I finally realized what had happened. Now, I can understand the club stores not wanting people to exit the wrong doors, to leave bag and cart checking to the Trained Professionals™. And I can understand the guy's annoyance, in retrospect. But, come on! Don't ask me, "Do you want to go outside?" if you're trying to 1. get my attention and 2. ask me to use a different door. I mean, hello? Yes, I want to go outside. Why else would I be walking out the door?

Had to show Mom how well my new camera worked. She enjoyed the demo as much as I did.

When flipping through the pictures on my camera, Mom asked me why I took a random picture of some weird wall mounted thing. "I mean, I know you're strange, but even this is beyond your usual," she seemed to be saying.

Well, in the Phoenix airport, in one of the bathrooms (the women's bathroom on the South side, Lower level, East end of Terminal 4, to be exact), there's a new fixture on the wall.

It is for a ...

(drum roll please)

... Dyson hand dryer.

A Dyson Airblade to be specfic:

Now, as someone who tries to be environmentally conscious and green all the time, I have to admit that using paper towels in public restrooms is my failing. I'll use the hand dryer if there are no towels, but I'm really more likely to pull out a toliet seat cover and use that to dry my hands than I am to use the hand dryer. They're retarded annoying things that do little to dry my hands and more to increase the temperature of my hands so that the bacteria still on them can multiply in a now warm, moist environment.

However!

Goodness, do we love our Dyson vacuum cleaner. Kris and I have been been known to fight over who gets to use it to vacuum the floor, as it's just so cool to see how much crap the thing picks up. But I thought my floor was clean! Nope. Run the Dyson over it and see just how not-clean it was!

Combine this love for our Dyson and my surprise at the Dyson Airblade and, well, you have one very, very curious girl.

I read the description picture.

I stuck my hands in.

I pulled them out slowly, as instructed.

Holy crap! They're dry! In less than 10 seconds! In less than the time it would take me to find the paper towel dispenser, walk to it (praying my bags don't fall over or dump onto the floor), crank out a towel of good length, tear it off, dry my hands and, full of guilt, toss the now damp towel, I have dry hands.

Guilt free!

What a deal.

Dyson, we love you even more now.

Why the retarded angle on the description picture? Because when I take a picture straight on, you can see me in the shot. How embarrassing!

I flew out to Phoenix this morning to spend today and tomorrow with Mom. When I checked in online yesterday, I knew something was up when my boarding pass said A45 on it. The A, sure, that was familiar, but the 45, aw, crap.

When I arrived, I saw the posts. Instead of the three roped off sections, there were two dials at the front of the lines with A, B, and C on the sides of the spinning dial. In the waiting area were poles with number segments on it: 1-5, 6-10, 11-15, 16-20, etc.

Turns out, the 45 was my place in the A group.

Once I realized how the boarding process was going to work (group A, numbers 1-30 line up and board while everyone sits and waits, then numbers 31-60 line up an board while groups B and C wait, etc.), I sat and waited for the second group to be called.

What I wasn't sure on with the new boarding procedures was if the people in the groups of 5 were supposed to board in order 31-32-33-34-35, or however they lined up 32-35-34-31-33. There was no indication on the poles, on the markers or by the line-up announcements. I figured I would just line up at the back of my 41-45 group, as I was 45 and that seemed fair.

Well, fair until some large annoying woman came up and pushed her way through the line. She bullied her way up the A groups to stand directly in front of me, blocking my easy stand-up-poof-I'm-in-line seat from the lines.

Admittedly, she angered me [off].

I decided I didn't care if I was supposed to be in the back of the 41-45 group. The guy at the gate didn't say one way or another, and I didn't want to be behind annoying woman when she spent who knows how long choosing among the hundred open seats. I know what seat I want, no one else seems to like the seat, it works for me, so don't make me wait to get there.

So, when the line started moving, and annoying woman shifted away from me, I stood up, walked to line behind number 40, and boarded the plane, four people in front of annoying woman.

Sure, I managed to board easily, but she managed the last laugh.

She sat directly in front of me on the plane. Annoying woman all the way to Phoenix.

Sigh.

I'm not sure how I feel about these new boarding procedures. It seems to work well with the new "pay extra for premium cattlecar seating" pay structure they have on the website. It also seems to address the mad rush to be first in line that seems to happen when the gate boarding announcement happens. It might even address concerns about people placing their luggage in line to save their places in line (Kris hates it when I do this). I'll reserve judgement for now, though. I'm not sure I like it. I'll know after I've flown a few times.

Annie is a smart dog. I would argue too smart, certainly for her own good. She can do the usual smart-dog tricks like open various doors by pushing them open, or bump them to swing open. She can also pull a door if there's food on the other side of the door. Food: Annie's biggest motivator.

Annie can, and has, opened up peanut butter jars. She recognizes the jar, most likely by smell, and is always hovering around when I'm spreading peanut butter on my bananas or apples. She opened the jar once by putting both front paws around the jar, hands-like, and hooking her teeth on the ridges of the lid. She then twisted the lid off, turning it bit by bit.

Once I recognized what she'd done, I couldn't help but wonder just what kind of demon dog we had. I mean, other than a really smart demon dog.

A really smart demon dog with hands.