I'm in Pennsylvania this week. Again.
Pennsylvania is why you didn't hear from me last week. I'm in the mountainous northeast section of the state, and I'm in a bit of a technological black hole. My cell signal is shaky at best, and the only hope for internet access during the work day is a 5 minute shot on the client's computer.
Pennsylvania is also why I missed Debbie's big book signing last Friday night. Right now, I'm a little bitter towards Pennsylvania, and trying to decide if this bitterness is justified.
It's probably not.
It's not the state's fault that I was requested to attend a client meeting 2 hours south of (read: 2 hours further from the way I should have been driving later that night) the client site. In the interest of professionalism, I will only note a few general points of interest about the meeting.
1) I was the only female in attendance.
2) I was also the only person under the age of 45.
3) The two principals of the meeting repeatedly referred to me as "young lady", and once as "the minority".
I will leave you to draw your own conclusions.
I can see how you might think that the meeting was the highlight of the trip, but I assure you, it was only a prelude to the special fun I had on my way back from the meeting..
You see, there's this highway. A two-lane highway through the mountains, a heavy trucking route along the eastern corridor of the state, that happened to be the route I needed to take to and from this client meeting.
Being a highway through the mountains, it's the sort of roadway that doesn't have much of a shoulder - the road ends, there's a narrow shoulder, and then there's a wall of concrete/granite/rock, perhaps a steep incline rooted with tall weeds and brambles.
Being a two-lane, heavy trucking route, there are many large 18-wheelers careening though the narrow passes, without a lot of room to maneuver.
Enter me, my little Rav4 and a pothole.
I heard it happen, though I wasn't sure what I hit until later, it only took a minute for the characteristic FWAP-FWAP-FWAP to start. I pulled over and assessed the situation. My tire was flat. There were huge trucks driving 80 miles an hour about 2 feet from the driver's side of my car. There was a steep incline of the tall weeds and brambles variety on the passenger side of my car. I came close to having a bit of a cry, but fear beat out frustration and I decided that fleeing would be a better course of action than crying.
After climbing the steep incline to safety, a feat that would have been difficult in hiking gear, let alone an Ann Taylor suit and kitten heels, I began making a series of phone calls that ultimately resulted in a very nice and incredibly brave man coming to my tire. I watched from my perch on the steep weedy incline with a mixture of disbelief and terror, feeling fairly sure that at any moment the smiling tow-truck guy would become the crushed and bloody tow-truck guy. Fortunately, amazingly and with about 2 feet of working room, he changed my tire and drove off in one piece.
It was quite a day.
Now I'm back in Pennsylvania, and I probably shouldn't be resentful towards the state in its entirety for what happened last week, nor be bitter towards it because I had to come back this week. But I still am, a least a little bit. Sorry Pennsylvania.