She ordered a plain hamburger, no bun, no cheese, with a pickle on the side. I glanced at the greasy chicken strips and fries, steaming in front of me, and felt instantly self-conscious. She smiled at me politely, but her arms, at her sides, were rigid, telling. Her watery blue eyes were judging when they scanned over my lip ring and tattooed skin. The mint-colored cashmere sweater hung on her tiny, strong body like a throw-lazily flung over the side of a worn chair. Expensive, but without much thought. Her dry hands shook slightly, and I instantly softened. She was nervous. She was more scared of me than I was of her. I knew then that she was fiercely devoted to her son, and didn’t want to let him go to just anyone. I would have to prove I wasn’t just anyone.
I look back on that first meeting with my ex’s mom with fondness…and regret, because that tiny woman, sitting so resolutely, in a sticky vinyl booth, in Chili’s, would be a woman I’d love intensely and detest vehemently, I just didn’t know it yet. At that time, I merely regarded her as a necessary evil. Someone I’d have to be polite to at holiday gatherings and during awkward phone conversations.
She stayed up far past her bedtime to greet us. Her hair was matted to one side of her head, but her eyes were awake, alert. She had a skip in her step as she brought plate and bowl after plate and bowl of delicious dips, cookies, chips, and huge, plump grapes, and meats and cheeses to the table. She wanted to know everything. How was our trip over? How was school going? Along with the many questions asked and answered, were the ones unspoken: Who are you? Are you the right one for my only child?
In no time at all, visiting Elko and her, grew to be my most cherished moments. Over time, we grew to be friends, comrades, having one very important thing in common: loving the same man. The way she treated me, you would think I were the Queen of England. She regarded me as her only child’s true love and she saw me as beautiful, strong, intelligent, someone with so much potential. Her faith in me is the one driving force that contributed to my present success. Had she not been there, rooting for me, I don’t know where I’d be.
Tears filled my eyes as I drove the dusty highway further and further from my family, my friends, my life. As the miles grew longer from all that I had left, the only thing that kept my foot on the gas was her. Her warm, comfortable, shabby love. It would be okay when I saw her.
Sure enough, she was there, bouncing out to greet us, arms open, eyes smiling. Her boy was home. Her favorite girl was with him. It was the happiest of days. Only briefly did she question her decision to welcome her son and his girlfriend into her home. Of course, that was when her son hauled a refrigerator-sized box filled with shoes into her humble abode.
The almost four years that I lived in Elko were some of the most life-altering, ugly, inspiring, beautiful, and memorable years I’ll ever have. Some days I wanted to drive off, in my beat-up Saturn, back home. Some days, ‘home’ was where she made fried chicken and biscuits, and always had a bowl of fresh fruit waiting.
Every first day, every accomplishment, and many times “just because”, she had flowers waiting. Cards praising my hard work, with gift cards for dinner or new clothes were a common show of love and pride. She kept me going. She was my biggest fan, always cheering me on. Always.
We laughed. We had engaging debates long into the night. We enjoyed discussing her son, my hopes and dreams, and the future. But…we also didn’t care much for each other some days. I think she had no clue what to do with a girly-girl, and I didn’t know how to relate to someone who wore tennis shoes with a skirt. We were polar opposites in so many ways.
Many of the days I endured living in her home were spent positively hating her. She wouldn’t buy a swamp cooler, so I was hot all summer. She was cheap, so I spent the winters freezing, wearing a ski mask inside, so my nose wouldn’t snap right off. She didn’t understand why it was necessary to take 20 minute showers or why I had so many clothes to wash. She didn’t use her dishwasher, so my hands got pruney. She was a pain in the ass. I was a pain in the ass. I was the biggest ass. I hang my head in shame over my ungratefulness, still.
Only when I thought I would lose her, did I realize the error of my ways. There are not enough days left in her life, nor mine to pay her back. To thank her. To have her.
When I drove that dusty highway away from Elko, this time, tears streamed down my face. I was leaving home. I never said ‘goodbye’ to her, too scared that she took his side, that she would reject me. I was also embarrassed, terrified I would cry, or look weak in front of her. So, I just left.
Relationship heartbreak is one thing, but nothing prepares you for the loss of family you grew to love. Nothing.
About a month after leaving Elko, a 7 year relationship, and my second mother, I received a package in the mail from her. It answered all of the questions I still had. Did she remember me? Did she still love me? Had I lost her too?
No. She was still there. She still loved me. I left, but she never did.
We never spoke of what happened, only of the future. Whenever I was at my wits end, frustrated with the teaching job search, she was there to vent to. Her belief in me was unwavering. She didn’t think I would succeed, she knew. She knows.
Anyone who has ever loved a significant other, knows it comes and it goes. Stronger and more meaningful are the relationships you build, unknowingly, while you think nothing is more sacred than the love you feel for your partner. Who is there forever are the people who loved you, quietly, in the background.
Two years after leaving Elko, we finally met while she was on a school trip in Reno.
Her thin gray curls shone like a beacon in the sun. I knew it was her. The familiar gait, the pantyhose and tennis shoes, the open smile, the light in her eyes.
She was there. She will always be there. So will I, repaying her with my love. How else can I show her how much she means to me?
Tag: blogging
Rant #4,352
What is blogging? I mean, seriously? What is it? I want someone to tell me. Someone of blogging authority (is there someone out there who could claim that title?) please stand up and enlighten me.
When I first began blogging years ago, it was not the thing to do. Not everyone and their brother did it, and thus, no one outside of my Facebook friends list knew I even existed. This was OK. I actually just wanted to write. It worked.
Now, in this land of “LOOK AT ME”, blogging seems to be just another outlet for people who want to make a poorly constructed status update about what they ate for breakfast. Your bagel sandwich was beautifully photographed, but what kind of art are you trying to make? What are you trying to say? If it’s that you eat the most important meal of the day, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not the only who does that. Also, everyone photographs their food, so…
One of my main promises to myself, before I began blogging again, was that I wouldn’t get too hung up on the “likes”. I only wanted this blog to be about my passion: writing. I didn’t want to be a “like whore”. I have completely done the opposite.
I’ve taken a brief hiatus due to this and my subsequent lack of inspiration.
I read and follow so many beautiful, funny, and thought-provoking blogs that get maybe 5 likes, because one has to take the time out to actually read it. I know, in this instant-gratification-world, that’s A LOT to ask. Most people want a meme and a quick, poorly syntactically put-together blurb and it’s time to wipe.
We all like funny memes, and quick, witty blurbs, I am the most guilty of this, but I look for those quick laughs on Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest.
We also all like to feel “liked”, looked up to, and admired, but does the high you feel when you get likes on your blog post outshine real-life accomplishments or recognition? Does it mean more? If it does, what does that mean? I feel good when people like my posts because it makes me wonder if what I’m putting out there means something to someone else. It’s like putting feelers out there for fellow life. But. But, sometimes I feel that attention-whore part of me start creeping. She starts creeping.
Is it all for the “likes”? Do you blog because you have natural talent? Do you do it for the attention? Why?
Further…
When I log onto WordPress, I want something to read. I want some meat. Some grit. I also want to write something meaningful to me. Something I spent time on. Something I mulled over. Something I spell-checked, because it was that important.
Among all of the MEH out there is actual talent. I am glad that I have found some of these people and their blog posts that I devour like fluffy white cupcakes. They are so good.
This world is getting more stupid by the second and part of my proof is the current world of online writing-blogging. It has become flooded with Facebook status updates and Instagram posts. Very, very few people on WordPress actually write and take the time to edit and revise.
As a teacher, writer, and some-what intelligent person, I’m ashamed and scared of the world we are creating.
End rant.
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Ranch Day- A Repost
I’ve been thinking about good ol’ Elko a lot recently. The memories I have of my years spent in BFE are of a simpler, back-to-basics time. I’m surprised no one ever caught me churning butter and/or mending socks. Whenever I feel exhausted and overwhelmed from running the rat race that is life, I think back to when I fell into a cattle guard, or the time jack rabbits chewed through important wires in my engine, and then sat atop my poor vehicle in triumph (those bastards knew exactly what they were doing). I am simultaneously homesick and relieved by my memories of E-Town.
As a city girl trying to make it in a cow town, I obviously had to make massive adjustments to my lifestyle. I also had some pretty good-make that hilarious-country experiences. One of my favorite stories of my ineptness, when it came to anything outside, involved a cow giving birth. To those of you who grew up on farms or ranches (or just anyone with a general knowledge of the world), you likely know what that’s like. I had no clue, and feeling shocked is putting it mildly.
Without further ado, Ranch Day…
Good Lord. Why did no one feel the need to tell me that a calf comes out of its mother’s bottom, in a disgusting bloody bubble? Oh, maybe because who talks about cows giving birth? Who has actually seen a cow give birth? Well, apparently everyone in Elko; with the exception of me.
I recently went to a local ranch as part of Agriculture in the Classroom. I bundled myself up nice and good-looking very much like Paul Bunyan’s sister, and boarded the school bus, eager to see my first ranch. The hat I wore was…well, I looked ranch chic, let’s just put it that way. Of course, the day our outdoor field trip was scheduled for was bloody cold, wet, and horribly muddy. FYI: not.fond.of.mud.
We were welcomed by the nicest, coolest, toughest broads I have ever met in my life. These women can wrangle an ornery bull to the ground, to castrate it, and then cook their men a full course meal. They welcomed us, a group of strangers, into their home. I was blown away by their kindness, toughness, and spunk. They were a real class act.
To get back to the beginning here…we were all sitting, eating, and from outside we hear a horrible wail. The Ranch Women excitedly tell us that one of the cows is about to give birth. They point out the window, and sure enough, there, not 20 yards away, is a really pissed-off looking cow. She was going around in circles, backwards and frontwards. She would awkwardly sit and then stand and then sit again. THEN…out of nowhere, literally, like WHOA, a bloody bubble starts coming out of her ass. I was shocked and appalled! I said out loud, “Wait, what, WHOA!” Everyone laughed and one woman stroked my arm lovingly and said, “We have a newbie here!” I could barely get my bearings. Now, I do not profess to be an anatomy whiz, but I have always been confident that mammals have things called uteruses. From these, babies are born. Why then, was this cow pushing her newborn out of her backdoor? I asked this aloud of course, because I am missing a filter, and I because I was truly mystified (horrified?). One of the women in our group looked at me and said, “Honey, she is not giving birth out of her asshole; that is where her vajayjay is!” Doh! I darn sure will never make THAT mistake again.
Lesson learned here is: not all mammals give birth like sweating, grunting, swearing women on their backside, with legs in air. Some birth standing, out in the freezing cold mud, and from their asshole (“woman parts”). I think all women should count themselves lucky they are not cows. You should also count yourself lucky if you have never seen a cow give birth. I need to go hose myself off, shower twice and bleach my eyes…
Additional lesson learned: Basic biology is obviously not my strong suit. Upon asking non-ranch friends, I’ve discovered that I’m literally the only person who didn’t know that cows give birth from what appears to be their bum. That, or people are just messing with me. In that case, eff all of you.
Kidding aside, what a learning experience! “Ranch Day” is a day that I will never forget as long as I decide to recall one of the most horrifying events ever witnessed.
*”Ranch Day” has been reposted from my retired blog, www.bigcitybetty.wordpress.com. All work is mine. I did revise and update the original posted piece.
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Teacher Breath
Today I was reminded why I never wanted to be that teacher who nurses their coffee all day. COFFEE BREATH STANKS.
I distinctly remember every single teacher who would lean over me, praising my hard work, with their breath from burning garbage hell. I always wondered how they couldn’t tell their breath was peeling varnish off the desk tops, but I could? If I can smell your breath from a foot away, how can you not smell that God-awful air coming out directly under your nose? How??
Stank Breath Unawareness (SBU) is a very real phenomenon, and 99% of the cases involve teachers. It’s true.
Today, I was pulling students to the kidney table to assess their phonics knowledge. Every time they got a letter sound or vowel pattern wrong, I would say it correctly for them and then ask them to say the sound with me.
After overly emphasizing the ‘aw’ vowel pattern for *Sally, she had a very pained look on her face. My first thought when this look appears on my students’ faces is always, “Oh no! He/she is gonna blow chunks!”. Then my knee-jerk reaction is to recoil quickly while trying to play it cool, like, “I’m good-you’re good-it’s-all-good-I’m-not-at-all-terrified-of-bodily-fluids-not-at-all-I’m-just-gonna-stand-over-here”.
As I’m assessing the situation, I become distinctly aware that Sally is basically mirroring me. Exactly. She’s doing the exact same thing as me. She has a pained, grossed-out look on her face that’s she’s trying to disguise with a super-fake-it’s-all-good smile. What? Is it me??? What the hell…
Yeah. I have teacher breath.
Getting keys to your classroom, or welcoming your students on the first day of school is not when you first become a teacher. You become a teacher the day you disgust a student with your coffee breath. It’s only true.
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Frank
It’s funny how the littlest thing can trigger vivid, and super random memories. Obviously, this leads to the desire to write, because all writers must take advantage of inspiration wherever they can find it. We are resourceful like that.
Socks. Socks are what made me remember a really ridiculous incident in my past, involving my first boyfriend’s dad, a pair of knee high socks, and Frank.
We were sitting in a meeting, in a fellow teacher’s room, and I noticed she had old men’s socks on all the desks. What a super ingenious idea for white board erasers! I just hope they didn’t happen to be my dad’s old socks that found their way to the thrift stores. Now that he’s older, his feet have a certain funk about them. Subjecting children to his old socks would, quite possibly, be considered child abuse *shudders*.
I digress. Let me get back to my random story about socks, my ex’s dad, and Frank.
So, before I can even get into the interesting part, I have to let you know that my brother would steal all of our dad’s socks, because taking from Dad’s neat and tidy drawer was a lot easier than searching through the abyss that was my brother’s disgusting pit of a room.
Obviously, my dad grew very tired of never having socks to wear because his teenage son had decided that he’d help himself. So, my mom bought two big bags of socks, one for my dad and one for my brother. To eliminate the possibility of my brother stealing Dad’s socks, my mom wrote his name on them. All of them. In big, bold, capital letters. She got bored during the branding of my father’s socks, because she started writing random names, like, “Bob”, “Herb”, or…”Frank”.
She thought she was a genius, and quite hilarious too. My brother wouldn’t be caught dead at school with named socks, so all was calm in the world of Hanes for awhile (I’m not sure how my dad felt about wearing socks that said, “Herbert” on them, but it had to be better than having none at all!)
But, what they didn’t know, was that there was another sock thief in the house. I loved my dad’s socks, because it was all the rage to wear long white socks up to your knees. God knows why this was considered fashionable. At one time mullets had their day in the sun, so weird things do occur in the world of fashion.
The best part about this whole sock fiasco was that no one suspected me. No one. That was until I almost, single-handedly, caused the divorce of my boyfriend’s parents. Oops.
I spent a lot of time at my boyfriend’s house. His parents had a surprise, later in life, in the form of a bright-eyed baby girl, named Emma*. I loved her so much. I loved to feed her. Dress her. Smell her sweet curls. She was like the baby sister I never got. I’m fairly certain I didn’t date Joe Blow** for him, but so I could see his sister. I’m totally not sorry.
Well, because I practically lived at his house, I would frequently leave items or articles of clothing at his house. No, I wasn’t some ho bag, his sister loved to spit up on me. We were basically teen parents.
One afternoon, after hanging out in my boyfriend’s room, watching TV (really, we were), I decided to get some Pepsi. I bee bopped into the living room, and there was his big, scary dad sitting on the couch. I often did everything in my power to avoid this man. He looked almost exactly like Fred Flinstone, only he had the body of Arnold Schwarzenegger, in his heyday. He was scary.
As I passed him, with my head down, eyes averted, I happened to notice, from the corner of my eye, his socks. They were long, white, and almost went over his knees. They also said, “Frank”.
OMFG. He was wearing my socks. I was in full-on panic mode. He obviously didn’t notice he was wearing socks that named another man. Well, not yet.
As I passed him again, to get back to the room, I did everything in my power to not look at the socks. But, like a trainwreck, I couldn’t not look. I was gawking, staring, mouth gaped, as I walked by. He took notice of me, looked at me like I was mentally challenged, and then turned back to the TV.
Once safely back in the bedroom, my heart was pounding, but something was rising from deep inside. The sight of that bull-moose-of-a-man wearing my dad’s socks, named, “Frank” was too much. Also, my immature sense of humor starting getting the best of me. He doesn’t know. He’s sitting there, like a tool, with “Frank” on his foot. What a noob.
I lost it. I could not stop laughing. Obviously, he heard me, and put together my gawking, like 2 + 2, and all I hear is, “Wilma!!!!!!”
How does one explain to an incredibly irate man how his socks came to have another man’s name on them? Obviously, I had to jump in and explain the whole ridiculous story. I think, after that, he considered me mentally deranged, and that’s why he never uttered another syllable to me, unless forced.
At least he wasn’t into wearing women’s underwear. It could always be worse. That would have been so much worse.
*Not really her name
**Obviously, not his name
15 year-old glamour model. These are the actual socks from the story. Well, maybe they are. They could be, and that’s what makes this picture so amazing. That, and my eyebrows on fleek #didntowntweezers
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Love/Hate
I was nominated by the lovely, Carrots In My Carryon to participate in the Love-Hate Challenge. I am pretty freaking stoked to do this, because there are so many things I hate. Yup. Hate. This doesn’t make me a horrible person, it makes me particular and tasteful, just in case anyone was wondering. Also, hate is just a word to describe a particularly strong emotion. If anyone feels things too strongly, it’s this gal.
Don’t forget: I will be listing 10 things I love as well, so calm down.
I guess I’m supposed to list the rules before I begin my assault at all horrible things.
1. List 10 things you love
2. List 10 things you hate
3. Nominate others to do the same thing
Yay.
I will be starting with the things I hate, so I can end with sunshine and rainbows.
So, here we go…
1. I freaking hate, HATE repetitive throat clearing. It grates on my nerves and tests my patience. It also makes me wonder if the throat-clearer is doing it on purpose distinctly to annoy others. Why else would one need to clear their throat 80 times in 10 minutes?
2. I hate when a stranger burps in close proximity to me. On the airplane the other day, a dude sitting next to me belched and didn’t cover his mouth. I almost went ape shit all over him. I DO NOT want air, laced with your stomach contents, entering my nostrils, or any opening on my body. Cover it up or swallow your nasty face fart. Please and thank you.
3. I hate, detest being hot. It makes me sweaty. It makes me cranky. It makes me feel like poop. If I could walk around with a fan, constantly blowing cold air on me, I freaking would. I don’t even care how insane it would look. Quite unfairly, I always run hot. When most people are bundling up in their cardigans inside a movie theater, I am suffering from boob, and every other kind of crevice sweat you can imagine. I don’t even want to think about how monstrous I will behave when going through the “change” *shudders*.
4. I hate Walmart. I mean, who doesn’t, but I would win, hands down, for haterest of the haters. I am very proud to say, I have not been in a Walmart for a year. I could say it’s been a lot longer, if it weren’t for a certain friend who convinced me I’d find what I was looking for if I just broke down and went. She was right, but I hated every snotty-nosed-child-screaming-adult-pant-shitter-inept-employee-picking-their-ass second of it. It’s just a more peaceful world when Katie doesn’t have to frequent that hellhole, mmkay?
5. I hate people who pretend like they’re listening, but they’re mentally making their grocery list instead. Don’t ask me about my weekend, or upcoming plans if you have no intentions on really listening. If you don’t really care, that’s cool. I don’t really care for small talk either, if we are being honest. Let’s not waste each other’s time. Just don’t ask, if you aren’t really good at feigning interest. Some people can tell. Alright?
6. I hate the smell of latex. I’m gagging right now, as I type. Eckgrr…I hate that I have to choose between latex stanky hands and prune fingers when doing the dishes. Both are curses from the devil. Life really is unfair.
7. I hate polish sausage. Growing up with a Polish (oh, excuse me, Lithuanian) father, meant polish sausage at least once a week. I.cannot.stand.that.ish. Cannot. It’s made with fried potatoes and onions, which are otherwise quite tasty, but when cooked with the sausage, they taste like feet with a side of bad breath. I started hating polish sausage when after asking my dad what we were having for dinner once, he said, “Pig snouts”. I had JUST seen pig snouts at the grocery store and I thought he was serious. I had nightmares consisting of snout-less pigs dancing on potatoes that night and that was it for polish sausage and me.
8. I hate doing laundry. It’s the most depressing, endless chore, hands down. You can spend an almost entire day, one of your precious days off from work, doing mountains of laundry. Once the last sock has found its mate and the last wrinkled shirt is hung, you feel satisfaction for precisely 30 seconds. You then realize that you will be needing to do this arduous bullshit again in just a week’s time. Deflated is putting it mildly. Then, your boyfriend finds a pile of clothes hiding under the bed, and you wonder why you even try to be an adult. It’s too much work.
9. I hate autocorrect. With a fucking passion. 9 times out of 10 it’s so far from being right, it’d be laughable, if it weren’t for the fact I’ve been trying to type “irreversible” for 10 ducking minutes, to no avail. Smartphone, my ass! Shut!
10. I hate people who smoke right outside stores or places where other people need to walk. I make it a choice to not smoke and fill my body with toxins. When asshole in the Nascar jacket feels the need to smoke right next to the entrance to 7-11, I want to fart directly in his mouth and see how he likes it. I bet it wouldn’t be so enjoyable.
Now for the freakin sunshine and rainbows.
1. I love being pampered. I’m all about massages, pedicures, manicures and scalp treatments. If I could afford to get a massage and a pedicure every week, it would so be happening! If I could hire someone to give me a head massage every night, well, better start applying!
2. I love talking to myself. I don’t answer myself, so it’s OK. I’m not that loony. If I’m particularly stressed, I talk it out. It’s no biggie. Except when you get caught…years ago when I was living in BFE, I was driving home after a pretty craptastic day. I was going at it, in the car, calling out all the stupid people and things I had to put up with that day. I thought it had been a pretty successful chat. I got home, parked, and resumed my afternoon without thinking about my little tirade in the car again. Later that evening, a friend posted on my Facebook that she saw me driving home and, “You must have been listening to a really great song, you were singing and dancing like there was no tomorrow”. I bet that was a fucking sight. Now, I reserve any talking it out for home, when no one is home.
3. I love freaking sprinkles! LOVE THEM. Most normal people think they are disgusting and taste like chalk. I think they are the prettiest, tastiest, most lovely little morsels ever created. To me, the most beautiful sight to behold is a cupcake with light-as-air buttercream frosting bespeckled with rainbow sprinkles. Pure perfection.
4. I love being at home. I am an introvert at heart, so where I am happiest is in my fat pants, on my couch, with my Netflix. I love going out for lunch with friends, going shopping, lounging at the lake, but those things are really only fun because I know that after them, I get to go home and take my bra off.
5. I love getting new, feel-all-the-feels music and getting in my car and driving. For some reason, new music sounds best in the car. I turn it loud, roll the windows down, and let it go.
6. I love talking to my mom. She listens, like really listens. So many people, and i am guilty of it too, don’t listen to listen, but to respond. Most people don’t really listen, because they are waiting for their turn to speak, or they are thinking up what they want to say next. My mom is a rarity, in that she listens with not just her ears, but also her eyes and heart.
7. I love the shit out of watermelon. I can easily eat half a small watermelon in one sitting. They are sweet and so satisfying. I also don’t feel too guilty about horking out on an entire watermelon, because they are like 90% water. Right??
8. I love carbs. If I could subsist on bagels, pasta, cupcakes, belgian waffles, sticky rice, and fries, I totally would. I know I could survive on these tasty-as-shit carb bombs, so I guess I meant to say, if I could eat these things and not get more fat, I would be the happiest girl in the world.
9. I love clouds. Like, I am obsessed with them. I take pictures of clouds, on the daily, add filters, and the hashtag “cloudporn” like that annoying person we all try to ‘unfriend’ on Faceboob. I am sure no one looks at my cloud pictures like they are works of art. They are pictures of clouds with an unnatural tint to them, thanks to Instagram. They are nothing special to anyone else but me. I love them. They are my babies.
10. I love teaching, because kids are funny little things. They don’t mean to be funny, and that is precisely what makes them so damn funny. One of my favorite quotes from my students was from a 3rd grader I had last year. She loved to write and tried to use phrases she didn’t yet understand how to use properly. it was incredibly endearing. She was writing about something unbelievable that happened to her over the weekend and said, “Teacher, it was so crasy, it blew my mind off”. That is pretty crazy! There is truly a never dull day in the life of a teacher.
There you have it, folks, my top 10 loves and hates. Now, I nominate Cat in the Cactus because her and Carrots In My Carryon are my faves!
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Air Travel is Fun
Here I sit, at the Philadelphia airport, not a fucking happy camper. I would like someone to explain to me why the trip home is always so fucking merry…
*I’m warning any virgin ears now, I’ll probably be using ‘fuck’ a lot in this post.
My trip over was seamless, a breeze. There was barely any turbulence, I didn’t have to sit next to a smelly man with long fingernails, and it was just easy. Get on, get off, get on, get off-all on time.
I’m hoping my complaining now will create a situation whereby I was just overreacting and it actually won’t be as bad as I’m making it out to be in my head *knocks on cheap vinyl, sticky with soda and greasy fingertips, because there’s no wood in an airport*
It’s just that, I know how traveling by air usually goes. We all do. Unless you have been living off the grid, in a mole hill, you know.
Right now, my flight is delayed by an hour and 10 minutes. I have already been here for 2 hours and 15 minutes, because the drive into Philly is always full of standstill traffic. You never know if the drive will take an hour or 3, so best to be anal-retentive-early. So, here I sit.
Since I’ve already hit up the last-minute-oops-I-forgot-you-souvenir-shops. Since I’ve already had an overpriced lunch. Since I’ve already had a coffee, and a beer, and made 3 trips to the bathroom, I have time to recall and share my trip back from London.
It was every traveler’s worst nightmare with a why-do-I-even-travel-cherry on top.
The flights over to London, on my first-ever international flight went extremely well. It was full of excitement, anticipation, and wonder. The plane had screens in the back of every seat with music, movies, and a map showing our plane’s location. I took a picture of whatever was below us about halfway to London, and I got a picture of Greenland. It was cool as shit. We arrived at Heathrow stinky and tired, but elated to be starting our adventure.
The flight home? A whole different animal.
It started out fine. We breezed through check-in and security at Heathrow and boarded our plane on time. I was seated next to a nice, older English couple. My friend? The friend who had an entire row to himself until the last second, yet was an ass and wouldn’t let me sit next to him, got to sit next to a child who puked the whole way to Toronto. I still laugh at that quick, and concise delivery of karma.
When we got to Toronto, I had to poop so bad. I decided I’d just come right out and be crass and say it. I figured our layover of an hour would be enough to use the restroom, but instead we almost didn’t make our flight because customs was a fucking nightmare. I was uttering horrible things under my breath. I wanted to scream the mean things, but asshole friend suggested that I shouldn’t threaten death upon custom agents.
When we finally got on our plane, after last call, I got sandwiched between a man who smelled of feet and another man who had long, yellow fingernails, who hummed the.whole.fucking.plane.ride. I’m surprised I didn’t need my barf bag. It was horrible.
About 30 minutes outside of Denver, we were told there was a massive thunderstorm over Denver, so we were being rerouted to a landing strip in BFE Colorado. It was literally just a landing strip, seriously in need of weeding. The entire 2 hours we sat there, I went from fearing I would have to poo in an airplane with no AC and worrying we were going to miss our connecting flight from Denver. It was an OCD sufferer’s nightmare.
Finally, we got to take off. When we landed in Denver, we found out we didn’t miss our flight, as all flights were pushed back. It was a freaking miracle. I found the nearest bathroom and thought another miracle would happen. Nope.
I spent the entire last flight miserable.
We finally arrived home at 2 AM. All I wanted was my bag and sleep, but, of course, my bag didn’t arrive with our plane. Of-fucking-course.
I was still 4 hours from my home, so I got to wear my mom’s granny panties, until I got my bag back, and I didn’t even care.
That was the worst travel experience up to this point.
I’m currently sitting in the plane from my last connection in Chicago. We’ve been flying for maybe 15 minutes. I’m still sweating, breathing hard, coughing, and my nose is running down my greasy face. Why, you ask? My flight was boarding while I was still on the first plane. I ran, a la Home Alone from Gate 19 to Gate 5. I am sure I was a sight, in my gut flapping-asthmatic-face-wheezing glory. When I got to the gate, the door was closed and everyone was already boarded. I have never been late like that in my life. But I fucking made it. Hooray.
I have one more stop, but I don’t have to get off the plane. I can finally relax and order 8 alcoholic beverages.
Its events like these that make me wonder why I even try to travel by air. I guess it’s because you can’t just get in the car and drive to Europe, or take 3 weeks off so you can drive cross-country.
Le sigh.
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Instagram?
In an attempt to better connect with my readers and any future readers in the blog world, I’ve decided to create an Instagram account just for my blog. I didn’t think you guys wanted to see pictures of my dinner, or clouds and shit.
So, I’ve created @fattymccupcakes_blog just for my blog and followers.
If you have an Instagram and you are so inclined, follow me. Huzzah!
Pinterest, thank you for the endless memes that make me really question life. In answer to this question, I have no idea! Yikes…
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Travel Movements
Am I the only one who stresses about the bathroom situation at airports and in *gasp* airplanes?
Is it just me who plans, or tries to plan “movements” so as to avoid the flying germ coffin in the sky?
I positively detest using the airplane bathroom. I don’t think detest is a strong enough word. Loath? Does that emphasize my hate and horror enough? I think I’ll go with ‘detest’, it sounds more full of disgust.
What I despise about the bathroom is that it’s more like an entryway coat closet, in a home for small people, than a restroom.
It’s absolutely not a restroom, anyway. There is no resting once in its claustrophobic grip. Just to get your pants down, you practically have to molest all four walls, with every part of your body.
I’m the kind of person who prefers to have no part of my body touch any part of a bathroom. It’s a challenge. It’s an art form. I hover, I flush with my foot, I will kick the door down to get out. Anything to touch nothing.
Why are the bathrooms so fucking small? I mean, really? I could easily give up the snack station for a larger bathroom. Who needs shitty peanuts and the worst watered-down soda when you could use a bathroom that you don’t have to have sex with to use? I’m for a larger bathroom, hands down.
Right along with my fear of public bathrooms, be it a horrifying porta poop or a nasty shit box in the sky, I fear pooping in public. Period. I want to get in and out as fast as humanly possible. Diddle doddling around waiting for the deed to be done, is far, far too dangerous in a bathroom where someone else, a stranger, is also doing the deed right next to me. No thanks.
I can’t relax enough to poop when someone could possibly hear the dreaded ‘splash’. Nope. No way. I’m already feeling the anxiety coming on.
Call me a freak. Call me high maintenance. Call me what you will, but I can’t poop comfortably unless I have my In Touch, my Costco toilet paper, my room spray, and my personally cleaned toilet.
You can say vacations are a bitch in regards to the bathroom situation.
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Sister
It was just a usual Sunday evening, you know the kind…homemade spaghetti, repetitive arguments, and loving banter. Every Sunday evening, without fail, I would join my parents and brother for a family meal. It was tradition, and a necessity (I always had tons of laundry to do).
On this ordinary Sunday, 7 years ago, the phone rang. I was lounging on the couch, not wanting to move, for fear I would explode from the copious amounts of carbs consumed. My brother was sneaking a cigarette on the back porch. My parents were having their after dinner guilt cigarette in the garage. The call went to the machine. Out of nowhere, a voice.
Dad, pick up. I know you’re there. Dad…
I sat up stick straight. Surely it was a mistake, a wrong number? But, something felt familiar about that voice. It was my voice. How many times had I called my parents and left the same exact message?
My brother came around the corner from the living room, and just stared at me. I stared back.
In a trance, we walked together to the garage. We just stared at our parents. They knew. They knew we knew.
Well, here we go, they said.
Here we go.
From then on, my life was drastically altered. On that lazy, regular, nothing-special-Sunday, I found out that I had two sisters. Sisters.
I don’t want to get into the why’s and how’s of the happenstance that one who had yearned for the connection of a sister all her life, in fact, had sisters all along, yet didn’t find out until the ripe old age of 25. I will say that my dad was married before my mother and he had two daughters. The divorce from his first wife was not pretty and thus, you have two seperate families, existing a continent apart from each other.
How can a mother tell her daughter that she has sisters, sisters she will likely never meet due to the circumstances surrounding their father’s estrangement? Especially when that daughter really wanted a sister named Summer and she cried as if the world were ending when she found out her new sibling was a brother, named Jarrett (does that make me a bad person?)
I never connected with the sister who called looking for our dad, but through her, I found Tracy.
How can I express how I felt during the hours, days, months after first speaking to the sister I always wanted, until that humid day in Philadephia when I first laid eyes on her? I don’t think I have the literary ability, or its impossible to articulate into words the emotion felt when you finally find your kindred spirit.
We spoke every day. Our conversations were filled with questions, so many questions.
What is your favorite food? What kind of music do you like? What is your favorite color? Who are you? Who have you been all these years I didn’t know you?
Despite never being raised together, Tracy and I share likenesses that are uncanny. Despite the fact she’s 16 years older than me, we are like long-lost twins. I could go into every way we are the same, but it may not mean the same to you as it does to us.
I was sweating profusely and didn’t sleep a wink during the entire red eye to Philadelphia. Meeting someone for the first time is always scary, but to meet your sister for the first time? Maddeningly nerve-wracking. Doubts plagued my thoughts.
What if we don’t get along? What if it’s awkward? What if…
The second I laid eyes on her, a sense of knowing crept though my veins.
Why of course, there you are.
I knew her. She was my sister. Never having met her, yet she was always there, being my sister. Through every lost tooth, knee scrape, broken heart, she’s always been there.
