All Or Nothing

Because The Gap Is Not Known For It's Inappropriate Clothing, You Know?

I am socially awkward and paranoid enough to feel as if someone, at every extended family gathering, dislikes me.

Wordgirl recently wrote a post about this very subject.  Granted, as families grow and change due to babies and toddlers and teenagers, I'm sure the dynamics become even more...errr....tricky.  So believe me when I say that I don't count myself unfortunate at all when it comes to weird or difficult family members.  Truly, my immediate family and my in-laws are all really fun, intelligent people with good personalities and are pretty easy to be around.  I'm a lucky girl.

However, I would have to say that the family member I look forward to seeing the least is my husband's uncle.  I know I should just get over my fear of him; I know that he means no ill-will towards me and probably thinks of me about as often as he does his semi-annual dentist appointment.  And yet?  I am afraid of him. 

The first time this uncle met me was at my brother-in-law's medical school graduation and he didn't hug me or shake my hand or even look me in the eye. I didn't understand why, especially since I had heard all sorts of stories about how this guy was fun and funny and great to be around.   We all took our seats for the graduation ceremony, and I proceeded to consider every possible reason the uncle didn't like me.  About 6 hours and 17,000 new-doctor-congratulatory-addresses later, the family was all standing around, saying goodbye. I had changed out of my Gap sundress into a t-shirt and jeans, and the uncle came up, looked me straight on, gave me a stiff hug, and informed me that he was "glad I had decided to put some clothes on". I was completely mortified.

Because really - it was a sundress!  From the Gap!  The GAP!

So how about you?  What extended family member do you worry about seeing the most and why?

Fashion Forward

Ahhh!  I just looked at the clock and it's 11:45pm.  Meaning, I have 15 minutes to get in my post for today.

Well, despite my inclination to just phone this one in, I am still going to frantically type out something of substance, something of interest, something really fabulous for you, my readers WHO NO LONGER COMMENT, to read.

You see, I am lucky.  I would certainly be one of those people who get writer's block, one of the unlucky ones who run out of material, especially since I have no children and therefore lose pages upon pages of funny little anecdotes.  However, as I said, I am lucky.

Because, my friends, I have Cody.

Here is the latest Cody story.  Last week, he got up as usual (which means he hit snooze on his alarm until he was very nearly late for work WHILE STILL IN BED), took a shower, got dressed, and sprinted out the door.  He then proceeded to see patients as normal, and even had the chance to welcome not one, but TWO brand new patients to his practice.  Which is great, right?  The new patients?  Yea, for new patients, and their brand new outlook on the wonders of chiropractic care.  And their brand new opinions of their chiropractor of choice!

Their chiropractor of choice, who happened to be wearing a sweater vest, inside out, and backwards.  With the tag gracing the very front of his collar, proudly proclaiming Perry Ellis, size large.

I would like to say that Cody realized this mistake himself.  I would really, really like to say that.  But the truth is, he would have happily gone all day, wearing his clothing inside-out and backwards, if not for his brother stopping in and asking,

"Dude. What are you doing?"

I guess that's what brothers are for.

God Bless Texas

After navigating around Hollyweird for the last three days I finally made it back to LAX for my return flight, this time prepared for the worst. 

My flight was at 7:15 am; I left my hotel (a mere 12 miles from the airport) at 4:30.  All I needed to do for my rental car return was fill 'er up, but I went ahead and washed the car (at least partially.  More on that later).  I knew that I shouldn't need to wait in all the flight check-in lines because I had self-checked in, but I stood in (count 'em) THREE supremely long, only-at-LAX lines just to make sure that my bags AND I were on the same flight. 

The really amazing thing about the whole experience is that as soon as my plane took off, as soon as we leveled out and the fasten seat-belt sign blinked off, (as soon as California was RID of me), everything improved dramatically.  The lady sitting next to me moved to sit by her husband in the row behind, leaving me with an entire three seats to myself.  I asked the stewardess for a blanket and after she brought it I stretched out vertically across the row, thought that perhaps I would request a pillow when the drink cart came by, and promptly fell asleep.  I didn't wake up until I heard the pilot announcing that we would be landing in the next 15 minutes.  It was like time-travel, with nap included.

After landing in Dallas, I easily found the baggage claim, retrieved my two suitcases, walked about 15 feet to the escalator that led directly to the correct shuttle stop, and waited a mere 5 minutes to be picked up by a polite, English-speaking driver who not only informed me of the service number I could call should I have any trouble with my car, but also loaded my suitcases into the back of my vehicle for me. 

It's nice to be home.

Oh, about the car.  Because California hadn't hated on me quite enough, I got in a wreck last night.  Yes, I was rear-ended by an illegal immigrant, one who had NO driver's license, NO insurance, and NO English-speaking skills.  He hit my rental car.  The one for which I begged, pleaded, and traded my soul to the devil.  The one which I (for the first time ever) chose NOT to insure.  Fabu!

Anyway, the reason I was washing said car was because in a quirky twist of fate, I was able to swerve out of the UNINSURED DRIVER'S way quickly enough to incur only a long, sweeping black mark on the car, rather than a full-on dent.  I was hoping (not really daring to believe) that perhaps if I scrubbed hard enough, chanted "I believe, I believe, I believe", and clapped my hands three times, the Car Fairy would appear and poof!  Fix the car! 

And you know what?  It totally worked.

And The Saga Continues

Sample conversation overheard at yesterday's market:

Wholesaler to customer:  So, where's your store?

Customer:  Oh, it's in Texas.

Wholesaler:  And how long have you had it?

Customer:  About 2 years.

Wholesaler (in a slightly prying tone):  Yeah....so how is it going?  Because, ummm.....

Customer (picking up on the nosiness):  Well, it's going fine, really, quite well, thanks for asking.

Wholesaler (condescendingly):  Ha, good!  It's just, you know, you're so...black.

Customer (taken aback):  Ergh....yes, yes I am.  Uh...yeah.

Wholesaler (chuckling pretentiously):  No, no, I think it's great, you know, doing the whole business thing when you're so black!  What a great story!  Do you find it difficult?

Customer (confused and somewhat offended):  Well, umm, not really, I guess.  I mean, yeah, sometimes it's hard, er, when people - well - what the hell are you talking about, anyway?

Wholesaler (patronizingly):  Oh, no worries, I think it's great, anyway, such a black person doing something so ambitious.  More of your type should do that.  Just keep working hard, and you'll figure it all out.

Customer (resignedly and with disdain):  Yeah.  Um.  Thanks.

Now, replace the word "black" with the word "young" and you'll get the gist of the sort of conversations I have to endure EVERY SINGLE MARKET.  Really, every time sales reps of any type meet me in person.  And they all not only think it's a perfectly acceptable way to behave, they also seem to find the whole idea amusing.  Amusing, as in how you grin and shake your head when your 4-year old niece presents you with a crayon picture of random scribbles and then explains how it's you, her, and a cow.  Amusing, as in "awww, how sweet, the kid's got a great imagination, huh?"

Ageism is alive and kicking, people.

Alone! Or, Don't Rent Cars From Midway Rental Agency

California doesn't like me this month. 

You see, I come out here fairly often.  In fact, upon closer examination of my frequent flier account, I come out here nearly every 6-8 weeks.  Just like a root-touch up!  I get a little card from the state of California, reminding me that hey, we haven't seen you in a while, isn't it time for your next appointment?

Usually, I would venture to guess, you don't even notice that I've gone.  I fly out here, do my business, and fly back home, normally in a couple of days, and normally without incident.  Certainly nothing postworthy.

Well, my friends, I have been here for a staggering 14 hours, and already it ranks as possibly the worst traveling experience I have had, to date.

Realize that when I say "worst traveling experience" I include the time I flew to El Salvador, had my plane delayed 8 hours in the Miami airport, and arrived at the San Salvador airport in the middle of the night, alone, armed only with the warnings I had received to "never be alone after sunset" and the knowledge that the bus I was supposed to take to the little port town of La Union had come and gone. 
And, did I mention, the bus only comes to San Salvador once a week?  Yeah, once a week, every Saturday, from 12-6, the bus sits at the airport and loads up passengers to take them out to La Union.  If you miss the bus, there's really no problem, unless you mind waiting AN ENTIRE WEEK to get to where you're meant to be.  What, you had something to do?  Oh well, we're Latin Americans, and you should probably reeeelaxx, anyway.  Which is true, we should, but a week?  With no hotel, and no money for one?  And a limited Spanish vocabulary?  Alone?  As an 18 year old gringa?

Anyway, all that was nothing compared to yesterday.
 
First - well, FIRST, I can't even think of what was first.  Basically, no one could take me to the airport, I missed my plane, my bags missed the other plane, I couldn't stay with either of my brothers or my brother's girlfriend (because apparently her roommate is so completely psychotic that she has drawn up a "house charter" which entails that no one, at any time, can spend the night at the house. Not even Mary's poor brother, who was recently traveling cross-country and had nowhere else to stay), so I had to book a hotel alone (which I hate and always makes me feel lonely and depressive). 

I reserved a rental car which was guaranteed to have a shuttle from the airport to the rental agency but actually did not, and after standing (alone!) outside LAX for around 45 minutes waiting for the Shuttle That Is Not, I finally discovered that hey, I have to take the Radisson Hotel shuttle, who would have guessed that a HOTEL SHUTTLE TAKES YOU TO A RENTAL CAR AGENCY??  And then I (alone again, are we seeing a theme) drag my two huge rolling bags and my laptop and my purse and myself down about 3 city blocks worth of sidewalk to the Hotel Shuttle Line, and wait another 20 minutes for the shuttle to arrive.  It finally does, and sensing my impending relief, the lovely state of California delivered me another swift kick in the gut as I found myself standing outside the Radisson Hotel, alone again, the shuttle having departed to the NEXT Radisson Hotel on the schedule, because hey!  We go to several Radisson Hotels, and it's up to you to determine which one houses the rental car agency!  That's the Radisson way. 

I wait another 15 minutes for the next shuttle to arrive, drag all my crap up the shuttle stairs again, and interrogate the driver as to where, exactly, this ubiquitous rental car agency is, exactly.  He assures me that it is the next stop, and I sigh, wait for my sign, and lug my bags etc. into another hotel (which, coincidentally, looks EXACTLY like the last hotel).  I find an employee who wonders if I would like to check in and when I inform him that no, all I want is my car, he gives me an exceedingly puzzled look. 
"Car?  Hmmm....where did you say you were getting a car from?"   
I am horrified as I explain that the rental car agency is supposed to be HERE, I was told it was INSIDE THE RADISSON, and he does that supremely annoying hotel employee thing of sighing, rolling his eyes, and saying "Oh, Midway, you were supposed to have a car reserved from Midway.  Yes, they have an office inside the hotel, but they close every evening at 7pm".  And then he shot me a look that clearly said I should have known all of that already, and that I had put him out by having him waste his time explaining. 

I remark that closing at 7pm doesn't seem quite reasonable, does it, given the fact that LOTS OF FLIGHTS ARRIVE AFTER 7PM, INCLUDING MINE.  A fact which I was required to enter into the Midway Rental Car system when I RESERVED MY CAR.  The hotel employee looks even more annoyed, and suggests that I might find it more convenient, next time, to reserve from a 24-hour agency?  And, after punching him 100 times in the face, I reply that yes, that would be more convenient, and you know what else would be convenient?  MIDWAY NOT ADVERTISING THAT THEY ARE A 24-HOUR AGENCY. 

I then proceed to get drawn into one of those horrible circular conversations where I ask him what he thinks I ought to do, and he gives me completely obvious suggestions that only rival their obviousness with their unhelpfulness.  After he tells me that really the only thing to do is to wait for yet another shuttle to take me BACK TO THE AIRPORT, I feel as if maybe, just maybe, this trip is not going to be a good one. 

I finally get back to the airport, albeit not anywhere near where the Rental Car Shuttles go, and have to drag my stuff, which is now feeling like 678 pounds or so, another several blocks or so, just so that I can end up EXACTLY WHERE I WAS WAITING OVER AN HOUR BEFORE. 

As you can imagine, I could go on.  And on.  But in the interest of, well, preventing me from committing a mortal sin, I will just sum the rest up.  I tried not one, not two, but THREE rental car agencies, all with the requisite shuttle ride to and from the airport included, until I found an agency with A) a car to rent and B) last-minute prices that only financially molested me, rather than going all the way with a full-blown monetary rape. 

After hearing my sad tale, the rental agency employee wondered if next time I might avoid all this trouble by just reserving a car at a 24-hour agency?  I left him crying on the floor, got my car, and arrived at my hotel a short while later, where I was promptly informed that it would cost me $19 dollars PER NIGHT to park, a fact that was conveniently left out in advertisement.  But why shouldn't it cost me over $60 bucks to leave my car on a tiny spot of asphalt while I sleep in a ROOM THAT I ALREADY PAID FOR?   Obviously! 

The poor hotel check-in man was terrified of me, I think, as I'm sure I was sporting the most pissed off, livid look possible on my tired and miserable face and probably looked like death warmed over.   He tried to check me in so quickly that he ended up having to call up to my room just as I was about to crawl into bed.  "I'm so sorry, ma'am," he said.  "I forgot to imprint your credit card.  I was trying to get you up to your room quickly so you could sleep...you just looked so....ummm..."
I cut him off there, saying that I would be down in a minute to give him the card, and not to worry about it.

And then?  I got stuck in the elevator.

Mystery: Solved!

Life has gone back to normal around here, and I didn't even have to implement my plan of going door to door under the guise of trick-or-treating and interrogating my neighbors about the red cup.  Also, I am no longer worried about random strangers entering my home and making drinks at will, or that I have suddenly started sleepwalking with an insatiable thirst for buttery OJ.

Since this was the first Halloween in the past 7 years that I have lived in a house (yea!) it was also the first time we really got to prepare for trick-or-treaters.  Cody picked up a monster bag of candy at the store, we had our carved jack-o-lanterns ready on the porch, and I even left work a pinch early just to make sure we got home in time for the little costumed kids of cuteness.  After about 30 minutes of nothing, I got worried that maybe we were the scorned house, the one that parents advise their children to avoid.  "Remember, honey, those are the people who didn't even feel it necessary to install a lawn until after they had lived here for several months.  Would you want candy from someone like that?  I didn't think so.  Yes, you are better than them!  Good for you."  However, by the end of the night we had a measly three pieces of candy left from the 10lb bag and were digging through our wallets for one dollar bills in case of emergency candy failure.  And the costumed cuteness, it was present and accounted for.  We had witches, a whole bunch of football players, the grim reaper twice, Dorothy, Toto, and the Cowardly Lion, two kids in fat suits, and a gambit of Lord of the Rings characters and random goblins.

But the jack-o-lanterns - they did not fare as well.  I have to admit that this was entirely my fault, because upon hearing that Cody had never carved a jack-o-lantern in his life, I got so excited about the endeavor that I dragged him to pick out pumpkins LAST FRIDAY.  As in, 11 days before Halloween.  Now that timeline could have worked, potentially, if we would have merely picked out but not carved our pumpkins 11 days before Halloween.  But, what would you guess that we did?

I insisted that we carve them rightthen.  And carve them we did.  I actually have pictures, and if I can locate my camera (which is as much of a mystery disappearer and reappearer as the red cup, really) then I will post them.  I carved an evil looking cat, and Cody, inspired by our pumpkin-surgery music of choice, carved a rock-star looking guy with his tongue sticking out.  About halfway through the carve I began to suspect that Cody had, in fact, carved pumpkins before, and by the end his Chris Cornell-o-lantern was so perfect that I knew it.  "You liar!  You had me so excited, thinking you were a jack-o-lantern virgin!  Now I feel so used!" He assured me that it really was his first time, which in turn led me to declare that it was my first time too.  Just to keep the romance alive, you know.

Anyway, because our pumpkins had been sitting, in all their feline and rocker glory, on the porch for over a week, by last night they were emanating a serious kind of funky smell.  At first I suggested that maybe it wasn't that bad, that the kids would all be wearing...masks!  And probably won't notice!  But then Cody had me walk up the driveway and sidewalk and note the exact location where my nostrils first felt accosted by the stench.  Since the location in question was determined to be just east of our across-the-street neighbors mailbox and just west of, say, Louisiana, we decided to dispose of the pumpkins, making the entire carving escapade a bit of a loss.

Unless I can find those pictures.