And the answer?
Not to bee. Especially if you ask the…bee.
Happy Halloween to all!
And to all a GOOD NIGHT!
Hey! Speaking of fun facts, here’s a fun fact for ya: Hubby and I met TWENTY-FIVE years ago today at a Halloween party! Fun, right?!
He was dressed as a guy wearing a sombrero, a mask and frayed yellow pants. I was dressed as a sorority-girl-who-had-just-come-from-a-rush-function-looking-for-a-free-beer. (Not much to either costume, I think we can all agree!) A word to the wise here – if someone who has just rescued you from a spilled beer on your super cute 80’s sweater asks you up to their fraternity room to show you their Colorado driver’s license. You should totally go. It may be true love.
Thank you for 25 BOOOOtiful years together, Masked-Man!!!
But speaking of Halloween…what’s everyone giving out this year?? I asked my kids the other day to weigh in on the decision, and my son declares that we’re gonna give out chips. Because we always give out chips!
Uh, ok. What alternate universe have I been living in where I remember what I was wearing 25 years ago, but I don’t remember what I’ve given out for Halloween for the last few years?!?
Even though methinks someone just has a hankerin’ for chips, I’m gonna go with it. Chips it is. And I don’t want to hear a single word about it. Because if I do, you’ll get a spider ring and count yourself lucky to live another day.
And really, in the scheme of things, chips aren’t the WORST thing you’ve ever gotten in your Halloween bag, right?
One time a guy made me do a TRICK (who does THAT nowadays?? But I suppose it’s within the rules of the game since it is TRICK-or-treat after all.) As my reward, I got raisins. RAISINS!!! In that little box with the happy lady on the front. I hate raisins. And that happy lady.
And you know what my mother used to give out? Cans of soda. And when those ran out, she would give out toothbrushes. Or did she START with toothbrushes and then switch to sodas? I can’t remember. And no, she wasn’t a dentist. Just a lady living at the end of a long stone driveway whose house was about two acres away from everyone else’s house. To this day I remain surprised that no one ever plugged a Generic Shoprite Cola through our front window.
And to make Halloween even more fun, my mom would send us out trick-or-treating right after we got home from school. Which pretty much guaranteed we were everyone’s first trick-or-treater of the day. Which meant they were all ill-prepared to receive us (maybe THAT explains the box of raisins?!?). And that’s only if they were even home.
In Mom’s defense, I will say that there were no sidewalks in the ‘hood, and we had to go over the river and through the woods to get any candy or spy Grandmother’s cap. So it’s best to do all of that in the daylight, I suppose.
But it’s a heck of a lot of work. For very minimal return. So when all the trudging around with raisins in your candy sack was over, a soda was just the pick-me-up you needed. Before you brushed your teeth and went to bed.
But chips would have been good too!
Did you hear about that university teaching assistant who meant to email her students the answer to a math problem? Instead, she accidentally sent nude pictures of herself.
Heavens. To. Betsy! How do you accidentally DO something like that?!? Hey! Teaching Assistant? Note to self – don’t save the nudie pics under a similar file name as the math answers: MathAnswers102513 vs. MathAnswersandnudiepics102513. What were you thinking?!?
Ugh. But who hasn’t accidentally sent something cringe-worthy a time or two by email?! (No, not nudie pics per se, I’m talking more along the lines of sending an email ranting about someone TO that very same someone. Oopsie.)
But Nude Pics Gate reminds me of all of the fun I used to have at work. Back when I had a job. (No, I don’t have another one yet, but thanks for bringing it up stink eye stink eye.)
Wait…what?!? Nude Pics Gate reminds me of work? How so, exactly??
Don’t worry, don’t worry. No nude pics were sent. EVER. But there was porn…on purpose.
At this point my mother is having an absolute apoplectic fit. Can’t you just feel the waves of disapproval coming all the way from Virginia?!?
Settle down, Sparky. Read on.
Back when I had a job (again, no – not YET…STINK EYE, STINK EYE) I used to work with a bunch of software developers, computer geeks and computer-geeks-turned-software-salesmen. These were the guys wearing Birkenstocks, gym shorts and ratty t-shirts to work, playing Golf Frisbee on the “quad” at lunch, throwing sharpened pencils into the ceiling tiles at midnight. Periodically, their geeky hi-jinx infiltrated the entire office. For example, one of them had a Nerf machine gun, and whenever they heard someone coming around the corner of their office, they would unload a round of Nerf suction cup pellets on their visitor. Or one of them might get the brilliant idea to ‘penny’ co-workers into their office. Hardy-har-har, right?
Well, it may or may not have been after the penny-ing. And I may or may not have been one of the coworkers penny’d into her office, when I enlisted the help of tech support to send the penny-er an ‘innocuous’ email FROM tech support.
When the penny-er opened the email about important computer upgrades, there was a script that ran in the background which turned the computer volume all-the-way-up and a voice blasted out, “Hey Everyone! I’m lookin’ at PORN over here!!!” followed by maniacal laughter.
Like meerkats, the other co-workers popped their heads up and poked their noses out of their office in the direction of the ‘porn watcher’ who appeared sheepishly from around the corner, laughing. The tips of his sticky-out ears were very, very red.
After Red Ears made a general announcement of, “You got me!” directed to no one in particular, everyone disappeared back into their offices. Then, from up and down the hallway you heard…Hey!…Hey Everyone!….Hey!…Hey!….I’m lookin’ at PORN over here!!!…Hey!…HA, HA, HA…
Of course, it wasn’t REALLY porn. Just a loud voice SHOUTING about porn. Yes, there’s a difference. And I never DID get that email forwarded to me, but I never DID get penny-d into my office again.
Not that I HAVE an office anymore, but thanks for bringing it up. Stink eye, stink eye.
You know what today is? National Mammography Day! Well, actually, nope. That was LAST Friday. (It’s always the 3rd Friday in October, doncha know?) Today was PERSONAL Mammography Day. For me.
Why is it always sooooo hushed when you walk into the Mammography Center? Is it because we all know what we’re there for? Everything has already been said…so now, no one needs to say ANYTHING??
Not wanting to disturb the peace, I just sidle in and give the front desk my name, whereupon they hand me my paperwork. Which I review, only to find they have me down for 23 live births.
Uhm…no thank you?
But since there’s no talking, I just cross it out and put the correct number down and find myself thinking that perhaps someone needs to tell the man-to-my-left-on-the-phone that there’s no talking. The one man in the whole waiting room, God bless him, and even though he’s hiding his mouth behind his hand, we can still hear him. Because…no one else is talking. But him. Talking.
And to my right? They’re churning through the check-in process pretty quickly, with Chair # 2 gettin’ a good deal of biz.
Eventually they call my name. Winner, winner, chicken dinner – Chair #2! And I sit in my prison-visiting-hours-window and explain to the in-take counselor that “someone” spilled coffee on my mammography paperwork yesterday, but here it is anyway. We have ourselves a chuckle about that AND the 23 kids. (Nope. Just 2. But it DOES seems like 23 sometimes, heh-heh-heh.)
All is in order, and my in-take counselor invites me to go through “the double doors” at the end of the hall where all the magic happens. (She says “double doors” like it’s a totally inappropriate euphemism for Double-D’s, but that might just be my interpretation.) Shelly’s waiting for me on the other side and POPS OUT to ask if I’m wearing deodorant. “Well, hello to you too, Shelly. And No, no I don’t have deodorant on and I’m startin’ to skunk up the joint so let’s get this party started.”
‘Gettin the party started’ entails me going into a voting-booth-with-a-door to dress for success, after which I join the rest of my waiting room sisters to form a Star Trek commune-from-the-future whose directive is to re-populate the world wearing totally normal clothes from the waist-down and the neck up, bifurcated by a pink, waist-length hospital gown (open in the front, please!).
In this get-up, I don’t think anyone’s gonna take us up on our “planet is dying and we need to make a new race of people” offer because we all look like we’ve got Super Droopy Syndrome going on. I’m one of those with a moderate-to-severe case o’ the droops, so I’m not commenting here – other than to say that having 23 kids takes its toll on your body!
And it’s soooo quiet in HERE too, as we all glide about performing our commune duties in total silence. My duty is to make coffee for myself. French Vanilla! Num, num, num. Maybe I’ll stay ALLLLL day and drink my way even as the water trickles endlessly somewhere and the fish swim round and round in the big tank. The music is on so low that I can barely hear it. Perhaps it’s just a memory of the music of Quincy Jones from before I joined the commune? Love her, love her, love her, one hundred ways, yeah. You better love her today. Find one hundred ways…
Catherine finally comes for me and as I dutifully follow – wearing jeans tucked into jaunty two-tone riding boots, a pink shortie-kimono (size double-wide and extra-droopy, thankyouverymuch) topped off with a cute, chunky necklace (Hey! Hey! Eyes up here!!) – another memory of the music from my pre-commune days starts up…But for now, we’ll go on living separate lives! (Phil? Mr. Collins? Is that you?! Remember all the fun we had together? When we were both young and…perky?? Those were good times, weren’t they?!)
Catherine and I chat for a bit and get the requisite 23-kids-joke out of the way. By the time we get down to business, I haven’t quite finished my cup of coffee, and I find I’m vaguely disappointed about that.
You know what else I’m disappointed about? That I didn’t take Hubby up on his offer this morning to give me a ‘pre-screening’ (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). At least HIS hands were warm. Catherine’s hands are FREEZING as she’s touching me all over the private bits I keep under my pink double-wide. But all those years as a Poseable Barbie have paid off and I’m finally, FINALLY standing in just the right way, according to Catherine (no, no, feet FACING the machine, but head to the side). I’m barely breathing and can only see what’s going on ‘down there’ out of the corner of my eye. And what I CAN see? Looks like a startlingly white puddle of spilled milk that’s spreading out further and further underneath the plexiglass the more Catherine turns her dial. Good thing they give you that hand-grip-thingie on the side of the machine! It must be the modern medical equivalent to biting on a bullet for the pain!!
I’m in the middle of wondering why someone with cold hands would wanna spend all day graphing mammos when Catherine asks if I’m going back to work after this.
Really? Really?!? Even HERE I’m not safe from that dreaded question?? “No. I’m a stay at home mom. Having 23 kids makes it hard to hold down a job. Heh, heh, heh. But thanks for bringing it up!” stink eye, stink eye
As I’m getting changed afterwards I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It looks like I’ve been beaten about the neck and chest. Which in a way, I have been. Those red marks are from all that pinchin’, squishin’…Lovin’, touchin’, SQUEEZIN’ eachother… Whaaaat? Steve Perry and Journey?? You’re here TOO??!
Ok…True Confession Time. Right here. Right now.
[Note: if you currently think of me as a funny friend who has a few quirks which make me interesting – then rock on wit’ yer bad self. If however, you feel I am completely off my rocker and have been for some time, then DO NOT read this blog. Because it will just confirm for you that not only am I off my rocker, but that I’ve been off my rocker for so long it’s now broken and dusty and has been placed on the curb for trash pick-up.]
I walk the dog past an open field. Which I’m worried may contain a dead body. (Come ON! I can’t be the only one who worries that at some point in their life they’ll accidentally see a dead body in an open field. COME. ON!!!)
I walk past this field so frequently, that I’ve developed a “what to do in case I see a dead body” protocol. It goes like this:
I like to think of this all as ‘being prepared’. If you like to think of the body-in-the-open-field fear as ‘being crazy’ (I’m talking to you here, off-her-broken-and-dusty rocker contingent), then I won’t even TELL YOU what I fear might be in all those black garbage bags on the side of the road. Nope. Not gonna do it.
To those who think of me as a funny-friend-with-a-few-quirks? Call me. We’ll talk.
I feel like there’s always a grizzled backwoodsman in my life. He’s off-screen, but constantly saying to me, “Ok, Varmint, I wanna see you DANCE!” as he shoots his olde tyme revolver at my feet. Pew! Pew! Tappity, tap, tap. [That’s me dancing a frantic jig to avoid his bullets.]
Why do I feel this way? I present to you Exhibit A: Exactly one, single, solitary hour of my morning today. From 7 a.m. to 8 a.m. One. Single. Hour.
Sonny and I had just gotten back from his cat-sitting duty. He’s allergic to cats by the way. So I ONLY let him take this job because Sissy was going to be doing most of it. ‘Cept Sissy is sick with some extremely painful 3-day stomach bug (which I will VERY SOON be getting. Lookin’ forward to it.) So, since Sissy is out of the picture, I now have cat sitting duty and Sonny just comes along as the “familiar face” so the cat doesn’t hiss at me. All I can say about that is: I’m not getting paid NEARLY enough to deal with nasty cat food while Sonny looks on. But please, please, please don’t tell the Unemployment Office any of this. Pew! Pew! Tappity, tap, tap.
So Sonny is sitting at the kitchen table, I’ve made him breakfast and just packed his lunch. (Pew! Pew!) I’ve also packed a lunch for Sissy who, I realize, will not actually be eating again today. Instead, she’s sitting slumped in a chair with her puke bucket. She’s taken to carrying it around on her hip like an in-need-of-constant-attention baby.
Nor will she be going to school, which means I’ll have to teach her more math-that-she’s-missing. (And you KNOW how I feel about math. Tappity, tap, tap.)
And I’m showing the kids a video of the dog that I took at 1:30 this morning. He’d been acting like HE had the stomach bug, mewling and groaning, until I let him out of his cage. At which point he SHOT out the back door like I had just opened the ironing board behind him. And he proceeded to RIP out mouthfuls of grass, chew them frantically and swallow them. (What? It’s 1:30 in the morning! This is soooo crazy I have to take a video. And don’t tell me YOU’RE getting the stomach bug too, Teddy, in some sort of reverse swine-flu-for-dogs-which-you-caught-from-your-human.) Pew, pew! Tappity, tap, tap.
Teddy was so set on grazing that he alluded capture for a full 15 minutes until I tricked him into the house with the complete lie of going for a ride in the car. It’s 2 a.m.! Of course we’re not going for a ride in the car! But I did catch it all on tape so I had to show the kiddies what I’d been up to while they slept.
It’s at this point in the re-telling of my midnight adventure that I hear the sprinklers start up.
Whaaaat? That CAN’T be the sprinklers because I personally turned them OFF when we had all that rain last month. And they never got turned on again. Pew! Pew! But just in case we’re now starring in a show where the house turns… against us, I checked anyway. Sure enough, OFF. Like I say, they’ve been OFF for over 4 weeks. So how did they just now turn ON?!? I frantically call Hubby (who’s on a business trip, natch, to ask what to do. Uh…turn them off. I did that, I did that already!!! Uh…unplug them. Oh, ok.) Tappity. Tap. Tap.
The possessed sprinkler then made us late, so Sonny and I SHOT out the door to school like someone just opened an ironing board behind us. Pew! Pew! Before we’re even out of the driveway, I start getting video messages from Sissy asking when I’m gonna be back because her stomach is KILLING her. (I wanna see you DANCE, Varmint!)
20 minutes and 3 videos later, I burst back through the door and she’s sitting on the couch watching t.v. Huh?
“Ok, Sweetheart! We’re gonna get this under control already! I’m pretty sure your stomach is hurting because you don’t have anything in it. How about a banana? Even if you just force yourself to eat half, that would help.”
So she quietly submits to the plan and nibbles on ½ a banana. When she’s done, she leans over her fussy baby and throws up ALLLL of the banana she’s just eaten. She remarks, “Yeah, Mom. That banana really helped.”
Yes, it did, didn’t it? In fact, Barkeep: Bananas for ALLLLL my friends! Especially the grizzled backwoodsman with the firearm. Pew! Pew! Tappity, tap, tap…
Step 1: Go to a Halloween party where the host’s son has been throwing up since 2 a.m. that day. Dress as a witch (and then joke that you came as yourself – heh, heh, heh). Your husband should dress as Walter White from Breaking Bad. No one will know him or his character – until they look him up on the internet and then think he looks EXACTLY like Walter White, complete with porkpie hat. (As a side note: if a pork pie looks like THAT? I’m glad I never ate one.) But actually…your costume makes no-never-mind. What you REALLY should do is avoid the sick boy when he makes an appearance without a costume and a bad case of bed-head. Forget to tell your children to avoid the sick boy.
Step 2: When your daughter develops stomach bug symptoms very early the following morning, do all you can to comfort her while avoiding touching anything she has touched. As a precautionary measure, thoroughly wash your hands up to the elbows every time you’re within breathing distance of her. Lysol all surfaces upstairs-and-downstairs for good measure.
Step 3: Set sick daughter on the couch after the first throw-up bout to watch some cartoons. Multitask the heck out of the morning. If you’re up that early, you may as well make it count: make yourself oodles of coffee, sort through mail, look up recipes and craft projects, clean out kitchen drawers and so on and so forth. In general, organize everyone’s life while swigging hot joe.
Step 4: When you get tired of all the moaning and groaning from the couch about how she’d like to throw up because that would make her feel better – but she doesn’t WANT to throw up because she hates it – make the sick daughter some peppermint tea to “force the issue.”
Step 5: Present sick daughter with peppermint tea, and when the first few sips have stayed down for 5 minutes, present her with her mug for a few more sips. When she is done, do NOT place the mug on the table by the couch because the dog will knock it off and spill it everywhere. Instead, place the mug on the kitchen table.
Step 6: Congratulate yourself on outsmarting the dumb-dumb posse all while organizing everyone’s life AND the kitchen drawers to boot! Take several big gulps of your coffee. Then wonder why your coffee tastes like…PEPPERMINT TEA!!!!
Step 7: Gaaack! gaaaaAAAACKKKKKK!!! Gaaaackity gack from GACK town! GAAAAAAACCCCCCKKKKK!!!! Stomach bug – here I come! WHEEEEeeeeeeeeeee!!!
And also? Dumb-Dumb Posse…UNITE!
You know what’s totally wack? That my A.P.* biology lab partner senior year of highschool ended up MARRYING our A.P.* biology teacher.
Wacky, no?? Not only is that against some rule somewhere…but we ALL (including my lab partner) thought our teacher was SUCH a NERD. Especially when he would talk about the poinsettia growing operation he had in the basement of his landlord’s house. Or when he brought in that huge bumblebee-on-a-leash which he flew around the classroom. (Dork!) So why end up MARRYING the guy?!?
You know what ELSE is totally wack? The fact that I went into college with a declared Biology major. But then switched to Management and French majors after my run-in with Chemistry.
Huh? What’s Chemistry got to do with anything?! In my college, most Biology majors ended up DOUBLE majoring in Chemistry, that’s how many Chemistry classes were required as part of the Biology major. So when I got a ‘D’ in Frosh Chemistry (yes a ‘D’ and you can’t POSSIBLY be any more surprised or displeased about that grade than my Chemical Engineer father who yelled down the phone line, “WHAT…don’t you UNDERSTAND…about CHEMISTRY?!??!” when he found out about the grade. So you others? You others can just SHUT IT! It’s all already been said. And for the record, the answer to Dad’s question is: anything. I don’t understand ANYTHING. Not a single thing. About Chemistry.)
Which brings us to our FINAL wack thing. Given my history with Chemistry (well…and math – unless chemistry and math are actually the same thing? Which they could be. Given my history.), I’m now trying to make limoncello (an Italian lemon-flavored liquor) out of lemon rinds and grain alcohol and sugar-water. (Neighbors & Friends: please act surprised and pleased if you receive limoncello from me as a Christmas gift.)
I had to phone-a-friend (my Chemical Engineer Dad) for some help figuring out how much sugar-water to add to the grain alcohol to make it palatable. Here’s the response I got:
It’s not clear to me as to exactly how much of the 190 proof starting material you have. Is it 750 ml? If it is 750 ml, you are starting with 3.2 cups. (946.6 ml = 1.0 qt) and (1 qt = 4 cups). Therefore 1 cup = 946.6/4 = 236.6 ml. If you are starting with 750 ml then 750/236.6 = 3.2 cups. Plugging the 3.2 cups into the calculator, 95 for starting alcohol, and 35 for final says that you should add 5.5 cups of syrup. Another way of thinking about it is if you start with 3.2 cups of 95 proof, roughly you should wind up with about 9 cups of 35 proof. (You are cutting it to about a third of the proof you started with so you should wind up with about three times the amount you started with. ( 3.2 + 5.5=about 9)) Tell me how much of the starting material of 190 proof you have and I will double-check the calculations. Incidentally I checked the vodka (and gin) in the cupboard and they are 80 proof. But for a liquour 70 proof should be fine.
Here’s what I read:
Math, math and more math. And now let’s mention things that will give you a flashback to that ‘D’ in college Chemistry. I won’t directly mention the number of molecules in a mole – or ANYTHING about Avogadro’s constant – but I will allude to it. Finally, we’ll throw in some more math. Why were you never good at math? Or chemistry?? We always let you live another day, so you must have had something going for you. But your mad math and chemistry skillz? Terrible. Just terrible.
His in Christ, Dad
Uh…ok. And for an extra credit homework assignment, I had to figure out how much STARTING material of sugar AND water I needed in order to END UP with 5.5 cups of sugar-water. (Math alert! Math alert!!) Also? Does water boiling at a lower temperature here in Colorado have anything to do with anything?? (Chemistry! CHEMISTRY!!! Abort mission! ABORT MISSION!!!)
But no. I can’t let 750 mls (or 3.2 cups) of God-given grain alcohol go to waste. So I soldiered on, despite the hitch in my math-and-chemistry giddyup.
So again, Friends and Neighbors? Prepare to be AMAAAAZED come Christmas-time!
*A. P. stands for Advanced Placement. You gotta be pretty dedicated to your field-of-interest to be taking these college-level courses in highschool. Come to think of it…I also took A.P. French classes – AND took that placement test that allowed me to skip all of those College Freshmen French classes – which put me so far ahead of the curve I was able to major in French. So screw Chemistry. Maybe FRENCH was the plan all along. Now why won’t someone hire me already? I have a Bachelor’s degree in FRENCH, for Heaven’s sake!!! Put THAT in your pipette and titrate it!
I opened a portal to Hell the other day. This caused the dog to shoot out the open sliding glass door like a bullet. It was a full-bore, every-man-for-himself cartoon move. He may have even galloped in place for a few seconds before he got enough traction to BLAST out the door with the unspoken words spilling out of the air behind him: Get me OWDAAA heeeeeeeeere!!!!
Now, how exactly did I open this portal?! Well, truth be told – it wasn’t actually a portal; It was just the ironing board. This must have been the first time I used it since the dog came to live with us in March. [Hello? You know I can see you through the computer, right?! And you know I can see you counting the months on your fingers. So I’ll just go ahead and do it for you: March, April, May, June, July, August, September, and October. Yep. That’s 8 months. Is that unusual that I haven’t gotten the ironing board out in 8 months? In my own defense, all I can say is that I had a roommate in college who ironed her SHEETS and I’ve been rebelling ever since.]
You know who else went all cartoon-y on my a$$ with the “8 months since I’ve gotten out the ironing board” shtick? The kids with their, “Where did you get THAT? Where did that COME FROM?!”
Really? REALLY?? They’re gonna claim THEY’VE never seen it EITHER? Come on! That’s just ridiculous!! I KNOW the kids have seen the ironing board before. Who CARES if they last saw it before they had memories, right? In fact, it’s totally justifiable that my “It’s an IRONING board…and it’s been in the laundry room the ENTIRE time we’ve LIVED here!” response was a bit sharp.
But because it’s been cooped up for (at least) 8 months, it was especially… squeeeEEEEEEEAAAKKKKKKkkyyyyyyyy. Total Haunted House squeeeEEEEEEEAAAKKKKKKkkyyyyyyyy. So you can see how it was mistaken as a portal to Hell. Especially when you don’t spare a backward glance at where the squeak is coming from as you’re shooting out of your scaredy-cat cannon.
Now, if you asked the scaredy-cat…er…dog, he’d tell you I’ve opened up many, many portals to Hell. If you asked me, I’d tell you I use the mixer, vacuum cleaner and hairdryer much more frequently than the ironing board. So you think he would have gotten over it and grown up already. Get used to the Hell portals whydoncha?!?
But no. All the portals have the same effect. They require that the dog thoroughly saturate the immediate vicinity with pee, then get doggone for 2 or 3 hours – skulking around the backyard (rustle, rustle, rustle….nope, I can still see you behind that tree…rustle, rustle, rustle…Nope, I can still see you behind that bush) and gradually creeping closer and closer to the house to determine when/if the coast is clear. Side note: a treat usually helps him gain clarity on clear coast time.
Except? Except lately, the dog hasn’t been spraying pee everywhere before he shoots out of his cannon.
Maybe he IS growing up after all?!? Better bladder control is ALWAYS a sign of maturity, right? Well…until it peaks and then you find yourself on the DOWNSLOPE of bladder control. But that’s a whole ‘nother show, Folks. For a whole ‘nother day. In the meantime, thanks for stoppin’ by.
Goin’ to the airport is always so enjoyable, don’t you agree?
Before I leave home, I always make sure I have three cups of coffee and absolutely no food. I find this cranks up the fun level exponentially. And is a great idea.
Ok. Scratch that. It’s actually a bad, baaaaaad idea – which is exactly what I thought to myself halfway to the airport when I came to a full stop in construction. I thought it again when I got to the entrance of east long-term parking only to have the entrance sign start flashing “FULL!” Whaaaaat?? What the frickety frickety frick frick?!? I have to PEE, People! And I’m starting to get the shakes!!
Then I thought it a third time after I drove around WEST long-term parking for a HALF HOUR looking for the one spot left in the whole kingdom. I thought it a fourth and FINAL time as I ran for another FIFTEEN minutes from long-term parking to the terminal. Gang Way! Shakey McGee has to peeeeeeeee!!!
My thighs were quaking and sweat was pouring down my back by the time I got to the…er…stall, but all’s well that ends well. Now, not another PEEp heh heh heh out of me about that.
What I REALLY wanted to mention about the enjoyable airport experience are the lines.
First off, there was the security line with a dog walking up and down sniffing everyone’s bags. What’s he gonna find, exactly? Stowaways?? Or in our heart-of-hearts are we all hoping he finds something more exciting?! I’m sure I’m not the only one surreptitiously looking around trying to peg the drug-runner-about-to-get-his-throat-ripped-out-by-a-beagle. My money was on the twenty something grunge queen who actually RECOILED from the beagle. But the beagle didn’t do anything. So no cause for alarm, I suppose.
In addition to the grunge queen, there were a couple of other gems in line with me. Behind me was a teen in tears whose nana was assuring her that it was an old phone anyway. And that losing it was just good practice for when she goes to Italy. (Huh? Good practice how?! For crying in ITALIAN??)
And in front of me? A frazzled mother with twin one year olds in a side-by-side stroller. The TSA agent informed her that her license had expired. The frazzled mom just started to laugh. And laugh. And LAUGH long after I had skirted past her. (I remember those days, Sweetheart. It does get better. In the meantime, check with the beagle. He may have something to help you out.)
And when you’re done with the security line, you get to stand in the Southwest boarding line. I find that this rounds out the good time.
B52 was my boarding position. And all I have to say here is: Hop in my Chrysler. It’s as big as a whaaaaale! And it’s about to set saillllll…Love shack, baby, love shack! (Love Shack released September 1989 by the B-52’s on their album “Cosmic Thing”.)
And once again, I’ve proven that there IS an 80’s song for every moment in life – even for that moment when you’re standing in the Southwest boarding line with a bunch of fools who know absolutely NUTHIN’ about numerical order. You would think Southwest was asking them to line up by HEIGHT or birth-month for the love. Sign says, ‘Stay away, FOOLS’ ‘Cause love rules at the LO-uh-uh-VE SHACK!…