NANCE DON’T READ THAT, IT’S A SEXUAL INNUENDO!)
I understand that Michael Jackson didn’t have much of a childhood, that he was the performing seal who brought in the money that let mommy and daddy live in the manner to which they wanted to become accustomed, but the man is in his 40s now. At what point do you cease wailing and moaning the absence of a part of your life that didn’t go the way you wanted, and just move the fuck on?
Despite his creepiness, when he says “I don’t see sexual beings when I look at children”, I kind of believe him. But maybe I’m just naive.
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So our flights went just fine yesterday – on time and everything. Our flight from Huntsville to Cincinnati (I have the hardest time spelling that city name) was only about half full, but our flight from Cincinnati to Maine was packed. There was a woman who looked like, I swear to you, a model – perfect figure, perfect hair, perfectly stylish dressed (or so she appeared to my admittedly non-stylish eyes). They had four kids, all under the age of four. None of them were twins. They cracked me up because the father was wandering along with the second-youngest child (an adorable blond boy) in a stroller, and the mother had the baby in a front carrier, had a second stroller piled high with coats and bags, and herding the two little girls along. But she did it as easily as if she’d been doing it all her life, and she was completely calm the entire time. She did have crazy eyes, though. Who could blame her?
The Portland airport drives me fucking nuts, because it’s way too small, at least the baggage claim area, for the kind of traffic that goes through there. The spud and I were standing as close to the carousel as we could, but the crowd was packed about ten people deep all the damn way around, when I heard them page my last name and the spud’s.
Despite a more than one-hour layover in Cincinnati, our luggage did not make the flight to Portland. The guy took down descriptions of our bags (even though they knew exactly where they were) and gave me a claim number.
“If you don’t hear from us by late afternoon, call this number.”
The problem was that when I DID try calling, the fucking number was BUSY. Fuckers. I finally got through and got the not-so-illuminating message that our bags were in transit to Portland and if I didn’t hear from them within four hours, to call back.
But when I didn’t hear from them in four hours and tried calling back, I couldn’t get through, despite redialing about 45 times. I realized there was a url on the “Baggage Information” ticket the baggage claim guy (and THERE is a job I wouldn’t want, believe you me!) gave me. I went online, entered the claim number and my last name, and found that my luggage had been turned over to the bag delivery service. And that it would be delivered between 10 pm and 2 am.
You can imagine the language that spewed forth. I’d been a dumbass and packed both my and the spud’s thyroid medication along with my contact stuff and glasses, and basically every stitch of winter-type clothing that I own.
At 11, the baggage delivery place called. “Do you want me to deliver late tonight,” the woman asked. “Or early tomorrow morning?” Fuck tomorrow morning – I wanted my stuff as soon as possible! She told me she had some bags to deliver in Biddeford and then she’d head this way, so it would probably be about 1:30. Erg. I said that was fine and then settled down on the couch to flip channels. I flipped between
Ellen,
Sleepless in Seattle, and
Runaway Bride. I heard a car door slam at 12:30, and when I looked out into the driveway, there was a small woman struggling with my big-ass bags.
I slept like a rock last night, believe you me.
Brian made breakfast for the spud and I. He’s quite a little chef – we had turkey bacon, scrambled eggs, and waffles. I think he’s cleaning up the kitchen now. He’ll make some woman a wonderful husband some day if he keeps THAT up.
We’re going to the movies today and going to visit my grandmother, who is down to 91 pounds. Basically, the poor woman is just fading away. She’s made it clear to various and sundry family members that she’s ready to go, but the pacemaker in her heart keeps going and going and dragging her along for the ride.
Maine in the winter is cold, have I mentioned?
* * *
I sent an email to
Nance and
Jane last night:
Hi from Maine!
My parents bought themselves a karaoke machine for Christmas. Right now my mother is singing “My Eyes Adored You”. Earlier, she sang “You Light up My Life.”
Naturally I immediately thought of you two.
I haven’t sung anything yet, since my voice should not be unleashed upon an innocent world, but I don’t know how long I can resist the siren call of “Man, I Feel Like a Woman.”
I hope your new year brings you less pain than mine is sure to bring me.
Happy New Year! 🙂
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My god, dial-up sucks. I’m also not fond of Netscape. It’s trips to Maine where I’m stuck with both that makes me really appreciate my own computer and cable access, yes indeedy.
* * *
(Just so you know, these pictures were taken with the new camera while I was still in Alabama. I believe they were all taken by Fred, photographer extraordinaire.)
Tubby leaps for the camera.
Tubby. Cute, yet bitchy.
Tubby, begging. I’m sure he thought Fred had food or something.]]>