I was planning to write a recap of the week, since I'm brain dead from indulging my Southern Woman side's insistence upon waking me up at 4.00am to watch the royal wedding. What can I say? I had to see the dress. And as soon as I woke from a nap, I had to see the cakes. Somewhat untraditional I might be, but by gods, you give me a wedding and I am all over it like white on rice and butter on biscuits. So, yes, the dress, the cakes, and Prince Harry in uniform - oh, my!
Where was I?
Recap. Right - I don't see it happening, as nothing went down worth recapping. Well, there was one thing: I walked in to tidy up Didgeridoo Boy's bathroom on Wednesday, and noticed that the faucet on his sink was knocked askew. Judging from the force it took to get it un-askewed, I can't imagine what might have knocked it out of line, and I'm not one hundred percent certain I want to know. That sink is known to behave as if possessed.
And then there was yesterday's jot into the creepily surreal. That was entertaining, but best not over thought. I did, however, think of the one thing that was lacking. This song:
That would have put the cherry on top.
So, upward (hopefully), and onward. I'm still catching up from having been incapacitated, and I have a sick, toothachey husband on my hands. See you all Monday!
I am trying to compose an entry while looking for remedies for toothache pain for Didgeridoo Boy, while listening to a variety of music that ranges from Digital Underground to Mazzy Star to video game soundtracks. He has not slept. Right now we are listening to Ride and discussing the drummer's technique while scrying for signs of a Stone Roses reunion. Every now and again, he will play a YouTube video of a donkey braying, and without thinking, I will proclaim that I absolutely have to have a donkey.
Frankly, this is as.....something. Ah - here we go: It's as surrealistically creepy-ish as a poser hipster representative of the WE BUY HOUSES brigade becoming a motivational speaker might be. Maybe.
I am still Foot Foot, I am a still cat, and I am more damned mad. Things have been changed. That woman and the silly man moved things. They put things in places where nothing had been before, and then that damned, prancing fool of a dog managed to get her dish back.
I had very nearly claimed that dish as my own, and had her afraid to eat out of it. I had her worked right into stealing food from from the silly man, even. But then that woman took her dish back to the bedroom when she noticed the dog tiptoeing around when she wanted to eat, and she ate. And then she saw me watching while the dog ate, so I was found out.
Now every damned time that dog eats, that woman is there. I ran up and popped the dog to remind her of the new arrangement, and that woman chased me out of the room, hissing. As if. And she even got the precious prancing dog fool the SPECIAL food to get her over being afraid of her dish.
Last night, I tried again to assert my control in a more subtle fashion, stalking and watching that infernal canine when she tried to eat. This worked, and we all seemed happy. The silly man was even lured into helping me. Every time the dog would go to her dish, he would trick her into making her think she would have a bite of his dinner. This enabled me to get a strong hold on my territory and thoroughly confounded that prancing fool of a dog. But, as she tends to do, that woman pitched a fit and took the dish back to the bedroom again.
So I went back to the bedroom and pretended to nap upon the dog's bed, in a spot that just happened to be very close to the dish. And the dog sat on the bed, staring at me in complete affirmation of my victory. That woman was up there with her, trying to convince her to go and eat her supper, but she wouldn't move. Perhaps she's not so dimwitted, the dog. But then, that woman hopped off the bed, got the dish, and did this. Just look at this:
Yes she certainly did put the damned dog dish on the bed, and the dog snuggled right up next to her and ate. As the dog ate, that woman encouraged her, and kept a watchful eye on me. I stopped pretending to nap, and am afraid I did nothing to conceal my outrage at her repeated failure to understand the futility of these pathetic stabs at reasserting some kind of dominance.
Would you like to know what I did in return? I halfway killed a bug for that woman to find this morning, right in the path of where she walks when she wakes up, and I threw up right next to the dog's current favorite toy. After these things were discovered I spent a little while walking around in a way to clearly exude dominance, taking occasional breaks to sit down and yowl. I think they know now. Yes, I think they damned well know, and that I will go and enjoy a bit of dog food.
Didgeridoo Boy and I pretty much have each other figured out by now - we had known each other for a while before our sudden (and somewhat tumultuous) connection, and over time, we have learned that there are certain triggers towards positive and negative responses that are best held deep within our psyches. Every relationship has its own collection of laws and regulations that the participants learn to follow through unspoken agreement, testy exchange (what my mom refers to as a "lively discussion"), or full-on screeching tempest. And once clarified, these things are usually adhered to in the name of maintaining peace and order.
For instance, Didge understands that we do not stride through the house playing imaginary drums (or guitars) while holding a cigarette. Doing so results in flying embers that land on the carpet, sending me into hellkitten dervish mode. He knows that he is not to pretend any of my belongings are his tail (not giving details), as I will react the same way - especially if it has been done, and the evidence thereof has been placed three feet from my head, several times over the course of an afternoon. (That was a bad day, one that resulted in me smacking him with a bag of spinach that exploded all over our living room.) He knows that, should he ever do them again, there are certain things that I will broadcast through this blog or tell my parents.
In turn, there are things I know that it's best I not do. Didgeridoo Boy's jeans are not to be folded, they are to be on the floor where he can see them. That's just the rule. His belt, too, is best left on the floor (if it's not in the jeans) - and both of these things are to be in the place on the floor where he thinks they should be. I allow Didge's papasan to sit smack dab front and center of the sofa so he can be king of the television unless company is coming, because he grows incredibly frustrated if it is moved. If he puts the remote on the entertainment center, that's cool, but if I do things can become a little dramatic.
Of course, some things are never completely clear-cut. Didge's set presents much more confusion than mine. Do you see a pattern? Read through them again. (Waiting.) It's all about things being moved - or not. Much like the items being moved, or not, the parameters of this set of rules are prone to shift; some days, for instance, it is okay if I put his shoes in the closet. Other days, not so much. Some days, it's okay if I put his keys in the dish I gave him to put them in so he can find them and not blame me for moving them when he has evidently plopped them in the flipping ether, and on other days, this is not what needs to happen. The same rule applies (or not?) for his wallet, sunglasses, and hat. But sometimes Didge moves things on his own, losing them, and then I am blamed for not putting them in the exact place I have been trying to put them all along. And when it comes to all of these things, he and I have not-so-silently agreed to just have the damned grey areas already.
To simplify, my set revolves around not destroying the house or doing things that are downright nasty and potentially unsanitary. His set revolves around not moving things, or moving them, depending. Depending on what, I don't know, and the knowledge of not knowing is what it is. But in mulling this over while I've been sick, and through deciding to put myself through writing an explanation, something beautifully centripetal to our marriage has surfaced, and that is the irony in my thinking Didgeridoo Boy is a simple guy, while he considers me a thoroughly complicated little princess. Clarity is a beautiful thing, no?
Remember the sinus headache I mentioned? It's not really gone. I've drifted into a kind of numbness, during which I deluded myself into thinking I was well enough to run an errand and jot downtown to visit a friend with Didgeridoo Boy yesterday. Um - no. Coming home and having some soup signaled being served a wee dram of hell.
But in the midst of it, I had one of *those* marital educational moments:
You know you're good and properly sick when your darling, precious Puck of a husband strides into the living room, takes one look at you bundled up on the couch, bends down a bit, *stares* right into your face, and asks, "What the hell happened to you?"
Should I mention here that Didge has an intense dislike for that song?
Before I go any further, the damned canopy fell again - only this this time with absolutely no help whatsoever. Just POOF, it was down. So now it's folded up on a table in the bedroom, waiting for me to find the super glue that will make quite sure it stays, and properly, until I can get someone over here who has a drill powerful enough to go through whatever the devil the hard thing in the ceiling is I can't get the screw-in hook into.
Now back to yesterday - what happened? I was balled up in bed most of the day with a sinus headache, and didn't realize how out of it I was until I woke up very late this morning feeling as though I'd dreamed the past twenty four hours. I know I talked to my mom, and I have a bad feeling it was important. I know Didgeridoo Boy had a job interview that went very well. I watched three installments of Ken Burns: The Civil War. I think. I woke up to the sound of rain this morning, had trouble recognizing it as such, and then couldn't sort out what day it is for a good bit.
Now, if my ears would only pop and stop ringing, I would get on with what's promising to be a very busy Friday. Have a little wake-the-hell-up music while I sort out my to-do's and call my mom to find out just what I talked to her about.
This weekend marked the most mundane-yet-strange yet of any since the arrival of Didgeridoo Boy in September 2009. Mundane because all we really did was kick Casa Didgeridoo into shape, strange because of the assortment of occurrences that could only be described as "damnedest things". You know, as in, "Well, isn't that the damndest thing?" In keeping with the random nature of these things, here is a list, which isn't sorted according to any kind of logic or order.
I had inspiration and a full-on "Ooo! Oooo!" fit, after which I ran out of the bedroom to collect something that turned out to be in there anyway. As this happened, I left Mom and Didgeridoo Boy struggling to support the headboard the items I was searching for were supposed to fix. The items did not fix the headboard.
If you go to Lowes for lightbulbs, telling the helpful salesperson how the bulb is shaped (pointy) and the size of the base (little) while you gauge the approximate size with your thumb and index finger while explaining to your mother that the one you're describing is the bulb for the chicken lamp, NOT the lava lamp, might not be the best approach.
Just a little bit of order: Speaking of the lava light, Didgeridoo Boy shouted, "Hacienda!", and began to dance with it Saturday night.
The greatest thing ever for getting things out from behind a huge entertainment center, a hanging basket hook on a broom handle:
Same stools? Same box. Not same stools:
So! Yes! Monday brunch cocktails, anyone? I think a pitcher-sized mimosa sounds lovely.
Well, it's not satisfaction all around at Casa Didgeridoo. Change puts some individuals through the wringer - we all have our comfort zones, and some are embedded more firmly in theirs than others. It's a security thing. Also, for some, those boundaries can extend out beyond the confines of a favorite spot or behavior pattern - well beyond. Sometimes, the whole house is a comfort zone, and moving one single solitary thing results in unwarranted attacks and howls of an immensely forlorn nature.
I am not being the least bit sarcastic. Foot Foot Kittycat is not liking this recent, great push towards improving our environs. She hates it when I do even the lightest housework, and will pout for hours over runs of laundry. Why sprucing up our kitchen hacked her off to such a degree yesterday morning I have no idea - her reaction surpassed above and beyond. I was treated to bouts of plaintive meowing, for which I could identify no cause. She dashed about, trying to trip me mid-zip, and would go back to acting as if she'd come to in the midst of an apocalypse. Finally she just gave up, ran off, and hid.
I didn't know where she was until I vacuumed the dining room. And I never actually saw her, I only saw the white of her, along with a large, grey blur that turned out to be Didgeridoo Boy. I was vacuuming away at the opposite end of the room, and peripherally caught sight of a tall grey mass that seemed to be holding something white while swaying back and forth. I assumed it was Didge indulging in antics meant to distract me from my mission. I was wrong. I turned off the vacuum, and looked over. Didge, in shock, asked if I saw "that". "What?" I asked. "Foot Foot. On me. She just....attached herself to my stomach and arms, like, out of nowhere."
He said he'd approached the door to the dining room, and found Foot Foot sitting there. Just sitting, as though she wasn't going to let him through. He asked her what was going on, and she jumped on him - and stuck. They had quite the little dance, Didge and Foot Foot, back and forth in the passageway between the living and dining rooms. He walked and swayed around trying to get her loose, finally detaching her on the dining room side and sending her sailing into the living room. Naturally, the cat was nowhere to be found for quite a while afterward.
And so the day progressed. We worked on the house, cleaned the yard, had dinner, discovered Foot Foot had been shut in the linen closet (again), and otherwise had a normal evening. Didgeridoo Boy walked outside to retrieve a beverage he left while we were doing yard work, and came back in to find Foot Foot in his chair. He picked her up and sat her on his "crap stand" (a folding table he puts his stuff on). When Didge sat down, Foot Foot jumped off the stand and into his lap, settled in a bit, and dug her claws in as thoroughly as she could.
Have you ever seen a tall, lanky man fight a cat in his lap in a papasan chair - from behind? It's pretty amusing. Didge's legs shot straight up, as did his elbows, while his head bobbled from side to side very, very quickly. "FOOT FOOT HOT DAMMIT! JEEZ! WHAT THE HELL HAS GOTTEN INTO OWWW! OWW!" The papasan shook on its stand, a basket of chaos. "HOT toe mighty. FOOT F..." And an innocent-looking little calico cat hopped down to the floor, shook her head, and began to wash her face. Didge stood up, looked at me, and said, "Damn."
And yesterday was only the beginning. It's going to be a hell of a weekend, I think.
If you improve one thing, you must improve others. And if you even think of improving those other things, your home improvement scope must, by cosmic law, broaden so that you think of several other things. And then you must make a list, a timeline, and attach a sheet of motivational statements and quite possibly even a vision board to keep yourself motivated through what you have decided to take on.
At least that's how it is with me. By Saturday, this house will by gods look like I live here. That's all I'm saying. And before too long, the new paint colors selected from the chips I'm going to pick out tomorrow will be on the walls, slipcovers will be in place, and we will never, ever speak of this home looking like a wreck again. Ever.
I will not break my promise to Didge of putting a KISS shower curtain in the downstairs bath, the one that guests use, regardless of the fact that they might think Gene is going to stomp upon them (or Ace kick them) while they're in a somewhat vulnerable position. Nor will I go back on my word of all of this work NEVER resulting in a "museum house", where I complain about trash being chucked into trash cans I've just emptied or have towels that no one is allowed to even look at. The "Christmas" lights stay, the toys stay, and it will still smell of Nag Champa.
(I have to clarify those things because Didge is really worried I'm going to improve this place to an unlivable state.)
So. There. I've declared it, planned it, and invited family members over on Sunday for a small pre-birthday gig for Didge to solidify it. I've also employed, at long last, the help of my mom - - who will not let me stop until this is done. There is no turning back. Getting in our way would not be prudent at this juncture.
Fingers crossed that I don't hurt myself and wind up bedridden.
In addition to tormenting me with foul sounds from the 80's, Didgeridoo Boy employed a new tactic in his arsenal of means to find things going his way over the past week or so. Point blank: I wait on this guy pretty much hand and foot. It's just how I am, and I'm more than willing to do so - - to a point. But there comes a point when one can hear the buzz and be burned by the light of a great neon sign that's just been turned on by the cosmos, one that reads, "THIS MAN HAS BEEN SPOILED TOO FAR!" The section that reads, "SPOILED TOO FAR" would be flashing.
Behold:
That is from Tuesday afternoon of last week. I prepared his lunch once he agreed to help my stepdad clean up after Monday night's storm.
On Thursday, I came in from the Masters sunburned and tired, but happy. He was sitting in his chair playing a video game, and when I went to take a shower, asked me when I would be "preparing the crackers and the cheeses". I told him he could do it himself. An hour later, he still hadn't done it, and was showing his ass in such fine fashion while saying he was starving that I got up and did it for him - dunce that I am. Later, he told me he and Totsi the Dog thought it was so funny that I'd prepared "slices" of cheese that were about two inches thick and all crooked.
Here's what he did Sunday, while I was trying to watch a very exciting final round of the Masters:
Yes, he created the event "Annalisa Cooks Dinner" on Facebook and invited me to it. Note our witty exchange and the time of it. That's when I changed my response from "not attending" to "attending" and agreed to cook for him. I didn't budge until the winning putt. In true Didgeridoo Boy fashion, however, he made most of that hour and a half a little bit of hell and denied the entire time that he was doing anything. I finally got a camping chair and put it right in front of the television after cussing him out.
His "thing" through all of this? "I'm all weak. I don't feel like fixing something to eat." Monday, he said he'd "miraculously recovered".
Didgeridoo Boy was born with a radar-like sense of what most annoys those around him. It takes him no time whatsoever to figure out what will most likely send someone into a borderline-homicidal rage, and mere nanoseconds more to figure out the best application of the chosen irritant. It's a sick form of genius that, once expressed, will carry on for hours. And hours. Sometimes days, even, resulting in my wholehearted belief in the powers of Hylands Calms tablets.
Perhaps Masters Week had him feeling nostalgic. Maybe it brought back memories of high school spring break, for Didge flashed back to the 80's, and somehow managed to hone in on one of my least favorite memories of the era:
No offense to Aretha Franklin or anyone else involved with the creation of that song, but I really don't like it one damned bit. And I don't now what inspired my beloved to choose that particular song to bother me with last week, but bother me he did. Once he'd realized how bothered I was by it, he put it on my Facebook wall *and* treated me to a nearly continuous loop of it. The next morning, as I was getting ready to head to the Masters, he stood outside my bathroom door playing it at top volume on his laptop. As I was leaving the tournament, I called to let him know I was on the way home. He asked if I had checked my messages.
Don't worry. I'm not going to treat you to another video of my hand holding my phone while it plays one of Didge's voicemails. I can't. I deleted the thing in a fit of touchscreen-poking rage. Just know that it was *that song*, and that the moment of me reacting to it was strong enough that my mother thought I had a touch of sunstroke. I tapped the screen of my phone several times to make sure it was utterly and completely gone. Mom looked at me as if I'd finally taken a happy dive into the deep end. I explained things to her as best I could, and she asked how often "these things" happened, if Didge was ever serious, or if he ever stopped teasing.
"He usually stops when I break out in hives", I replied.
My house is a disaster. I'm not talking about a piece of lint on the carpet in the hall or a basket of laundry that's screaming, "FOLD ME!" - - I am talking full-on disaster. And all I did was decide to take yesterday off doing anything heavily domestic so I could watch the Masters. Writing about it isn't cleaning it, and I need to clean it before Didgeridoo Boy wakes and begins to wreak havoc.
Watch. The moment I write that I'll be back tomorrow, and get up to start working, he will wake up and derail my plans. I can feel it.
Okay. The Masters is in full swing (no pun), I'm in Augusta, Georgia, and I attend the tournament. I also take part in the general Augusta way of being that goes down this week - this, for us, is the official arrival of spring. It's time for yard work and getting everything set for summer. There are also cocktail sessions to consider, researching sunburn remedies (for the light is bright at Camellia, where Mom and I prefer to sit), and getting all sorts of things ready for Sunday, the last day of play, when being glued to Masters coverage is my norm (I'm not getting out there in person in the middle of that).
I am in hyper mode, and have lots to do. House stuff today, back to the tournament tomorrow, and getting a snack array ready for Sunday. What am I making? All sorts of party goodness to be washed down with sangria and beer. What will I be wearing? Something sunburn friendly. Who am I rooting for? Alvaro Quiros, I think (because I am an unabashed female chauvinist), although it would be cool to see one of the older past champions get it. What does Didgeridoo Boy think of all this? Not a whole lot, to be honest. But that's fine, because he does enjoy snacks and beverages.
So enjoy your weekend! I plan to enjoy the blazes out of mine.
Hello. If we haven't met, I am Totsi the Dog, resident canine of Casa Didgeridoo. I like to offer my thoughts on things that might improve the quality of your life, but last month I took leave of that and addressed my kittysister Foot Foot directly. Apologies, once again, for allowing my temper to speak for me. I have been reciting affirmations to help me maintain my control and rise above such behavior. I remind myself that I am a good and loving dog, and noble. I am. I really am. And, like last month, today I was going to tell you how important routine is in daily life, and how a little routine might enhance yours some, but instead I think I would like to address how important it is to find a pleasurable activity to boost your spirits.
Now, as some of you may know, I love to dance. Before I have my supper, I remove one kibble from my bowl and dance with it. If given a treat, I will dance. If I find something interesting, I will dance. Sometimes I just dance for the joy of dancing. If my daddy would have given me the cheeses and crackers with the yummy summer sausages yesterday, I would have danced, for I have always danced. And the cheeses and the crackers with the yummy summer sausages make me dance with a little extra bounce and enthusiasm, and I found my day lacking from not being inspired. Dancing means so much to me that I even tell people to dance some at the end of every monthly column. And you know what? My daddy has taken that advice and taken up dancing for himself. I am so pleased. But he doesn't dance the way I do.
My daddy has discovered the disco style of dancing. Every night, our home is filled with the rhythms of so many wonderful disco artists. And Daddy? Oh, how my daddy can dance. Mommy tells him to be careful, but he doesn't. He just dances. Sometimes he tries to dance just like this man:
I think it's good that my daddy has a goal, and not having the inspiration yesterday to give my dancing my all helped me realize that perhaps I need to encourage my daddy that much more by telling all of you about his new interest and how much potential I think he has. I cheer him on while he bounces across the living room on his knees like that man my daddy so wants to be like. Mommy wants to take him to that Walmart place for some knee pads because he has hurt himself, but he will not have it. I guess that means my daddy is what some people call a purist, and that he believes in his art. I hope so. To encourage him, because I think it is important to give encouragement since I am a noble and loving dog (I am), I have given Daddy the disco name of Boogiebritches and tell him frequently to put on his boogie shoes. I think it is important that I remind him often, in my loving and noble manner, that he should be dancing. My daddy really was born to be a dancer, I think. Just like I am a good and noble dog, and loving. I am.
I hope you are as happy for my daddy, Boogiebritches, as I am. My happiness inspired me to make a picture of my daddy as that man he admires so much. It's not perfect, but it is an honest attempt by a good and noble dog. And loving. I am a good, noble, and loving dog, and I made this just for my daddy, Boogiebritches:
I'm really late posting today due to cleaning up after a hell of a storm blew threw our area. You can get the gist of it here.
Didgeridoo Boy burst into the bedroom and woke me at 2.30am telling me I had to go to the bathroom. This confused me greatly, but he explained that he had just witnessed a tornado scoot up the road we live on. I complied, Totsi the Dog in tow, while he ran around the house trying to find the Foot Foot Kitty, who was hiding from the surreal, high-pitched roaring of the storm. He gave up on hiding in the bathroom, and started explaining what he had seen - while talking to a friend in Tennessee online, conditions had gone from completely calm to extremely high winds with pelting rain and trees bowing in different directions in a horrifyingly low pattern. A large crape myrtle in our back yard flattened itself onto the deck, but made it, while a series of pine trees along the sides of the road twisted and snapped like mad.
Once the worst had blown over, Didge walked up to the entrance of our neighborhood and talked to some of the response personnel on hand. Power lines were snapped into sections, with one somehow managing to wind itself around a tree. He asked how bad everything was overall, and one of them told him things were "pretty f___ed up". After that, he and I watched what was happening in the road off our deck.
Our power came back on by 11.00am, so we got off really easy in that department. No damage save a freaking ton of limbs, twigs, and doo dad blossom things from the oak trees that were embedded all along our front steps and anywhere else they could work their way in. Didge went to help my stepdad clean up the mess in the yard at my parents' place while I cleaned up everything here - - I can highly recommend stomping limbs to K.C. and the Sunshine Band being blasted through an iPod.
Friday, I brought home what was to have fueled today's blog entry. I was certain my un-plan would work, and that I'd have a greatly funny story to tell all of you about an adventure in the living room of Casa Didgeridoo. I say un-plan because I introduced a couple of things into our environment that simply by merit of their being in a place are supposed to stir something up. They are the kinds of things that you bring in, place in a visible location, and allow to initiate a process into going down as if by magic.
But nothing happened. The two Airlift Stools with Chrome Finish are still in their boxes, packed flatter than I have ever seen two barstools packed. Originally I was going to have these things assembled for Didgeridoo Boy as a surprise. Upon peering inside one of the boxes, I found a piece of cardboard with screws and bolts attached, noticed that the backs of the stools are squeezed *just so* against the seats, realized that a little lever was going to have to be put in place so the stool would move gracefully up and down as its description implies, and put the piece of cardboard back in the box. They're very like puzzles, these two barstools. Didge loves a puzzle. And he might benefit from assembling them, I realized. Imagine the sense of accomplishment, and the pride he would feel in being able to tell friends, "I put those together!"
Saturday, Didge peeked into the box I had opened, and took out the same little piece of cardboard. I told him I thought he might enjoy putting them together, and he cocked up one eyebrow and smirked. "Mom has that electric screwdriver thingy", I said, "so I thought I would borrow that for you to use." He smirked harder and held the piece of cardboard with all the screws and bolts up to my face. Funny, I had missed that set of allen wrenches, as well as the fact that the tops of the screws indicate one must use those and nothing else. He put it all back in the box and said, "That's a Sunday project. I'll do those tomorrow when we get back from the grocery store and all that."
After we returned from the grocery store (and all that) yesterday, we stared at the boxes containing the to-be-assembled barstools off and on. I never said anything. Didge never said anything. By about 6.30pm we were both very pointedly, but casually, ignoring them. When Didge sacked out on the couch, I decided to have a documentary fest via the instant view offerings at Netflix, and moseyed back to the bedroom. It was a beautiful moment of agreement.
So - they're still where I put them on Friday, with one box opened and that ominous piece of cardboard tucked just so between the future back and the seat in a deliberate way that indicates intention to put them together later. Other than writing about it, I am avoiding the subject and kind of hoping Didge avoids it as well - at least for today. And maybe tomorrow. We'll see if it comes up while we're outside grilling tonight's dinner, or on one of the outings we've been mysteriously compelled to take.
I've been out "running errands" (shopping) with Mom all morning, and on our last stop we found ourselves stone cold lost in a parking lot, wheeling a shopping cart that was about to topple over due to the weight of two boxed-up bar stools. I say "we" - the cart was Mom's project. I was carrying a bag of random gatherings that was hell bent on taking off the fingers on my right hand. In a state of complete confusion, just KNOWING we were parked by a tree (of which there aren't many), we walked in circles while swearing at the wind and debating locations. When we finally stopped circling to get our bearings, I had a flashback. "Mom!", I said. "It's Honolulu Airport 2002 revisited." She said, "Ohhhhh, God.....", and went back to looking for the car.
What do I mean by "Honolulu Airport 2002 revisited"? A disaster, that's what I mean. Well, almost. It felt like a disaster while it was happening. Mom and I semi-frequent Hawaii - we have timeshares on the Big Island, and every year or so we go visit them. On this particular sojourn, we had a layover in Los Angeles, and just enough time upon hitting the ground on Oahu to make our connector flight to the Big Island. That flight, incidentally, was the last flight headed down there for the evening, but we felt certain everything would be okay. The plan was to deplane (I know, I know, go ahead and say it because I am) and get to our connector gate as quickly as possible.
Have you heard of headwinds? Those can slow a plane down. And although I was somewhat familiar with the concept, I had no idea that strong headwinds could lengthen our flight from Los Angeles to Honolulu by an hour and a half. This left us with fifteen or twenty minutes to catch our connector flight, but we weren't worried - - until we started checking through things as we are prone to do when we are bored. In checking through things, we noticed that the kind person behind the counter alllllllll the way back at our starting point (Savannah, Georgia) had only checked our bags through to Honolulu - - not Kona. (Bless her heart.) This was a problem. There would be no time to collect our bags, but we had to collect our bags. But we didn't have time. We sat in stunned silence and had a collective shit fit.
We wound up making it into Honolulu a little earlier than predicted, but still late. Got our bags, and took leave of our senses. We had to find the check in for Hawaiian Airlines, but that took a while, and involved two instances of jogging in full circles rolling our suitcases along behind us in front of VERY amused airport personnel. I tried to get Mom to stop and ask for help, but she knew where she was going. She knew. This was not time to test her. She finally asked a nice man who pointed just over our heads (he was tall) to a very long line. However, since we were so pressed for time, he took us to the front of the line, explained things, and got us checked in early. Things seemed okay.
Naturally, our gate was all the way at the end of a concourse, spurring an apex of the bizarre into happening. Mom took a purposeful, ladylike jog right straight down the middle, torso completely upright, purse tucked just so under one of her arms which were bent into jaunty right angles, not getting one element of her ensemble out of place. In perfect, poised little steps, her feet hardly leaving the floor, she went from one end of the concourse to the other in a perfectly straight line. I was shocked into standing and watching, as the last time I had seen that happen I was three years old and hell bent on a getaway. She didn't notice that I hadn't been with her the whole time until I finally caught up with her at the gate...
...which featured a queue of bored souls looking at us like we were straight from Mars. Our flight was late. The plane wasn't even there yet. We secured a place in the line, and I made a beverage run, after which we straightened our hair and makeup while pretending none of the past several minutes had happened. And then off we jetted to Kona. The end.
So now you know the kind of random things that pop into my mind so I can fully disassociate from having to find a car while it feels like my fingers are being cut off. And while recalling all of that, this little gem of a video came to mind:
Only that's really not so random, now that I think about it.
