Trumping First Class

We recently took the family to Atlantis in the Bahamas. We had a heck of deal on the room and airfare. We flew to Atlanta and then on to Nassau. Our gate in ATL was handy. It was directly across from a little Mexican cantina and there's just something about having a bloody Mary at 8:00 in the morning just because ya can...

Airports are fun for that, aren't they, I mean "whoa, look at me, I'm such a world traveler, I don't even know what time of the day it is or what time zone I'm even in, so drinking alcohol at this hour is perfectly acceptable." So, there we were, parents of two with two bloody Marys between us and the gate. Watching Matt Lauer and sipping vodka. So convenient. The gate's right there. We still have an hour. No, I'm not hungry. Wait. That's our gate right there, right?

I love it when a vacation is awesome even before you get there.

As I sat there sucking down my yummy Mary, er uh, bloody Mary, I noticed a cool looking, stylish little family like us on a good day if I actually put on makeup. The mom was rocking her Tory Burch bag and the dad was making his True Religions proud. I had a second of jealousy. They were in the FIRST CLASS red-carpet line. Our little family was flying on likely the cheapest fare Delta ever let Priceline pass on. We were decidedly NOT in first class.

The worst part about boarding an airplane has got to be that awkward creep through the first class cabin on your way to row 31, ya know when your slightly drunk and it's not even time for Rachel Ray?? The first-class people are trying not to look at the coach peeps and us coach peeps are trying to act like it's no big deal either. As I clumped my way through those endless first four rows, my children carrying the carryon AND my purse, I found it very helpful to use those seat backs like crutches. I saw that cute little first-class family there spread out like a slumber party, all comfy and first-classy and I wondered if it'd be worth it for an hour and a half trip to pay the premium. I was also thinking row 31 was a long damn way. And then I wondered if I packed the phone charger. And then I woke up in Nassau.

Arriving in Nassau refreshed and sober I had happily forgotten about Mr. and Mrs. First Class. We walked forever towards the inescapable purgatory of foreign customs. As we turned the final corner a room bigger than a basketball court was revealed and there must have seriously been 500 people crowded in like cattle toward a food trough.

We prepared to settle in, picked a line to commit to, and prepared ourselves for the duration. Then we heard our names broadcast clearly from the loud speakers. The command was "make yourself seen" and though I never feel shy about doing just that, all I could think was that we dropped our passports or they found the dinosaur dna I had smuggled into the country.

When our name was announced yet again, I did the 'ole flap and wave until one of the customs guys motioned us toward the front of the line. The very front of the center line. We couldn't believe it. Our family who lives there had some serious influence we supposed because we were immediately ushered through customs, right on to our waiting bags then directly into the car our family had sent for us.

It was a good time. Unbelievable. From the jetway to the Town Car in 15 minutes flat. And the best part...I couldn't help but notice Mr. and Mrs. First Class et al watching US in the special FIRST THROUGH CUSTOMS line.

Thank you Denay and Jesse. I don't know how you arranged that and I was already proud to be related to y'all, but this little brag-worthy trick takes the ice cream cake. Good thing I made it through with the dino dna hidden in that fossilized sap.

The LoSt LaUgH

My seven year old is pretty funny. She is very proud of herself when she plays a trick or makes up a joke. Tonight while she was eating her Freddy's fries, she held out her ketchup-stained napkin and said, "hey Mommy, I lost a tooth!" Predictably, I fell for it and said, "wow, lemme see it!" She responded, "I just told you I LOST it."

Ya, she got me, but I'll have the last laugh...I totally cleaned out her room today, threw away tons of stuff! Nanny-nanny-boo-boo!

"What's that honey?? Where's your giant, annoying, ridiculously loud vuvuzela horn? Hmmm, I dunno sweetie...maybe you LOST it!"

Obscene Jewelry Addiction

I've just returned from a cool trunk show at my favorite boutique, Adelante, where my talented friend My-Cherie Haley was showing some of her Shimmer and Bliss scarf collection. I bought the most electric pink, circa 1986, silk scarf EVER! I'm so inspired to be creative with all the different ways she was showing my friends and I to wear them. Rock on, My-Cherie, you're a "scarf star!" shimmerandbliss.com, FYI.

The other brand they were showing was Beth's Addiction, which is this hard core line of so groovy, jewelry and really fun BAD STUFF!! She takes vintage pieces of junk and fashions them into things like this "LOCA" pin here I picked up. The charm is from those old 60's charm bracelets, but she stamped my favorite word on it attached it to an old bow pin and WHAM, it's bad ass!!

The rest of her stuff though, is sooooooo naughty, like bracelets with "whore," "puta" and even "dick" on them! It's LOCA! My favorite was a pendant that simply said, "AND THE HORSE YOU RODE IN ON!" Check her out if that sort of thing blows your dress up, ya know...bethsaddiction.com

This one is an old medal with a "loser" charm on it. How cool is this! There was also one that simply said "drunk." A toss up between that and the LOSER I bought. I have to say I particularly appreciated the irony of the idea that a medal would be awarded for LOSERRRRR!!!

This concludes this style FYI, thank you for your support, PUTA!

Hurry Up And Wait

I hate to wait. We all have to wait though. I even wrote what I thought was a pretty good essay on waiting in line for my freshman composition class in college. I was so proud of my little paper, my first college writing assignment. My professor hated it, she gave me C, said she "couldn't relate"...really! Who can't relate to WAITING. Everybody waits. At the bank, in line at the movies, the grocery store...and at the doctor's office. (not in customs in The Bahama's, but that's another blog entry)

Yesterday, I tried a new doctor, one who's supposedly into all the buzz about bio-identical hormone replacement and some cutting edge new physical-therapy-meets-chiropractic approach called Airrosti. My appointment was at 1:00 pm, was supposed to take fifty minutes, and is thankfully less than five minutes away. Since I am a "new" patient and always early anyway, I got there at 12:45 to fill out the necessary paper work. From the get-go I knew I'd have to leave by 2:45 to pick up my kids at two different schools, plus I was picking up a friend's kid, so I couldn't be late...plenty 'O time...NOT.

I was called from the waiting room into that little purgatory place called the exam room fairly on time so I was totally powerless and entirely unsuspecting as I waited in my tiny cell with the fake oil painting of what looked to me like an elaborate weed, a weird exam table that was shaped like a pommel horse and a completely pristine issue of Southern Living, February 2010. I did tear out a super simple looking oven baked chicken spaghetti recipe. I hate that in-between time where we think, "I must be on deck, I'm not in the waiting room anymore." Yes you are. It's just smaller with no people to watch.

So, that's such a tricky little ploy doctors have. You think you're going in, but they're really just spreading around the wait. The doctor finally came in my room at 2:15. 2:15! More than an hour I've waited and now I'm talking a million miles an hour because I KNOW my time is short, but I desperately want the help for my back and my jacked-up hormonal situation. I talked so fast and she said all the right things that OUR time together was only fifteen minutes! Where's my fifty minute visit for my $25 co-pay??

The doctor ordered some blood-taking so she could establish a base-line for me before deciding what hormone therapy I should have so she left to get the phlebotomist. Never saw Doc again. If you're keeping up, it's 2:30 now and here's a piece of advice: NEVER tell the twenty-one year old child with the needles that you're really in a hurry.

Both arms, two technicians, at least seven needles, and twenty more precious minutes. Once the real phlebotomist got the single vile of my red stuff that they needed I tore out the door knowing I'd be late for the first school that lets out at 3:00.

I sped off the main street toward the first school and came to a screeching halt, for the pick-up line stretched almost three blocks...so, I WAITED. As I sat in my car, Sirius radio set to the E Street station of course, I began to feel the pain in my arms and noticed one of the bandages had actually bled through. Ouch. At least the pick-up line had me waiting long enough for my blood to coagulate. There is always a bright side, I suppose.

If you're worried about the other school, don't. Thankfully the release times are all staggered. I retrieved all my precious cargo and they all lived happily ever after.

One Crazy I Honk For No More (quoth the Raven)

So, I see some clinically crazy person removed their stupid blog from the internet. This person fancies herself as a brilliant writer, artist and general humanitarian and she wrote a whole bunch of bull shit about me on her ridiculously self-serving blog about a year ago. My family and I all read it and just rolled our eyes.

I'll admit it was really hard for a second not to comment on one about me in particular as it was actually pretty defamatory, but I'm so glad I never acknowledged it. When we parted ways...well, when I threatened to forward about fifteen emails to the new "love" in her life if she didn't leave my family and me alone, it was over on that day. Completely over. Her self-protection mode was activated and I never heard from her again, as expected, so she was left to spin the "story" however suited her latest persona and I never gave it a second thought.

I've never written about this, and I hate to even acknowledge it with too much of my valuable time generally spent doing fun things and not drudging up a painful past caused by a former prostitute, stripper, current druggie, uneducated, pathologically needy, and dishonest woman who threw her baby away....twice. Oh excuse me, that just came out.

NOTE TO SELF: the next time my amazing Mom goes out and finds my birth-mother for the first time and the birth-mother confides to such a turbulent, not to mention illegal and disgusting past early in our new "relationship," RUN AWAY.... You can't rescue someone like that or ever make the damage of their past go away. Please Self, you must listen to your gut next time and stop trying to help people! Even when they complain about how hard their circumstances are, turning them onto the joy of Botox or buying them high-end gifts won't miraculously change them into sober, sophisticated, honest and psychologically healthy individuals.

Over the couple of years since I explicitly told her "get the hell out of my life" however, a few (3) of her long time friends have secretly contacted me to lament of her annoying narcissism and constant need for validation. It's pretty funny I guess, so consequently they feel the need to forward me many of her needy posts from Facebook or tell me about some first grade-looking art she's put on the web. That's how I found out about her blog where she threw me under the bus. One of her very "best" friends from Northern California in particular, tells me everything and it's really twisted too, because I don't ask her, have never asked her, and will never ask her anything about this particular idiot, so the intel I receive randomly is purely entertaining or at the very most an interesting study in human behavior. It's like a train wreck, I guess, once you start watching you just can't look away...

It got me to thinking about psychological disorders though, so I looked this thing up about narcissistic personality disorder on the Mayo Clinic website and OMG, I gotta say it's spot on:

"Narcissistic personality disorder is a mental disorder in which people have an inflated sense of their own importance and a deep need for admiration. Those with narcissistic personalty disorder believe that they're superior to others and have a little regard for other people's feelings. But behind this mask of ultra-confidnece lies a fragile self-esteem, vulnerable to the slightest criticism."

Apparently, bi-polar is a nice companion for these people too. Fun. I really should have googled years ago. I could've saved my Mom and me a lot of stress, not to mention resources.

But alas, the load is lifted, a burden I carry no more. I've always explained how I still don't really know what I want to be when I grow up, but through my life I've been able to figure out the things I DON'T want to do via a sometimes tricky process of elimination. Rest assured, I have figured out that I DON'T want to be a birth-mother integration facilitator. Ever. Definitely not adding that title to the "seeking" category of the 'ole resume. Thankfully all that's left are the occasional entertaining snap shots of her needy posts and uninformed political and social rants. Thank you to her friends who shall remain nameless...Oh how I do love a good laugh.

Little Sister Simplicities

I just overheard my son ask my daughter if she'd "rather fall in hot lava or be pushed off a cliff?"

His little seven year old sister responded instantly, "how high is the cliff?"

One is the great pretender, with an imagination like a kaleidoscope and sound effects rivaling any summer blockbuster. The other is the arguer and the question-asker. Every time. She gets me.

Little sister is a score keeper too and she merges words like nobody's business. She was recently in a play where she was the youngest cast member by three years with six pages of lines. Within two days, she had every single line completely "rememberized" and delivered her lines perfectly on the day of the performance.

She doesn't like to be "interabrupted" by anyone when she's working on an important project like building a fort in her room or making lemonade.

Her big brother often makes her mad and she complained once that he was "annoring" her. Confused by the word, I asked whether her brother was annoying or ignoring her and she responded simply, "both mom, that's what I said."

I think I was annoring her at that point.

IQ Test

This is a photo my husband took of a table that my cousin borrowed. You see, my mom had gone to Louisiana for a family reunion and made arrangements to pick up a few things my cousin had borrowed while she lived here in Texas. There was a large corner table/desk in particular that I was really looking forward to getting back. After my cousin said my mom could swing by and pick it up, my mom asked if my cousin wouldn't mind "unscrewing the legs" and putting the "screws in a ziplock" so that the large table would more easily fit in my mom's giant car...

This small heap of wood is what my mom was handed...with one hand incidentally, since the top of this table is no more than a foot square.

So, at what point with instructions to unscrew the legs of a large table & save the screws in a ziplock, all for the purposes of fitting the table into a huge car, does a person of average intelligence realize any of the following?? A: these legs are not screwed on, and therefore probably not designed to be removed, B: this table would easily fit in a Smart Car as is, much less my mom's huge Cadillac, C: this is not the right table, or D: if the legs and center shelf are removed from this antique side table, it will will be completely and irrevocably destroyed.

The individual who mindlessly destroyed this table by forcibly ripping off ALL FOUR legs, as if one couldn't tell after struggling to rip off the first one that maybe they weren't designed to be removed, is clearly and indefensibly a bona fide idiot. Welcome to Jackson Parish, ladies and gentleman.

The Butter Knows

So, THIS is what the underside of the Parkay lid looked like when I opened it up. ("butter")



OK, maybe the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe would have made me more popular, but I'll take this very groovy SIGN OF THE TIMES. Let the good times roll...with butter, baby!