Flyer - 6/30/10

It’s 10:00am the morning of our departure date, and we’re rushing around like headed hens (I prefer hens that way) finalizing the packing, loading, and basic grooming so we can get the heck to the airport. Actually, I’m getting ahead of myself.
It’s 10:00pm the night before our departure date, and I have just given my son his antibiotic for his 4th ear infection of the year. We are getting all the clothes washed and dishes done. Bug stands in the living room, and begins vomiting. Husband grabs him and rushes him to the bathroom as Bug is heaving, leaving a trail of half-digested – nevermind, I’ll just say grossness – behind. Apparently Bug is allergic to this antibiotic, as well as amoxicillin. Go figure. It is also late Friday night, which means the following day is Saturday, and quite a busy Saturday at that, so too late for me to call in and attempt to get a replacement medicine. Go figure. While Husband is tending to Bug in the bathroom, I immediately arm myself with paper towels, hot water, and disinfectant and begin cleaning up the mess. It’s not an easy job, and only adds to the delay in the getting-ready-to-go schedule. Having done the best I can, I sprinkle baking soda over it to keep our home from smelling terrible when we get back, and we go to bed.
Cut to 10:30 the following morning. Packed and car loaded up, we head to the airport. Husband’s flight (to another state, on business) leaves just after mine and Bug’s, so Bug rides with Husband to the airport. I’m following Husband’s truck. This is embarrassing, because I have lived and driven in my city for 15 years. I know my way around. What I don’t know is whether I need to turn left or right at a particular interchange to head south to the airport. It’s right; I am in the left lane. Naturally. So I miss my turn. The only place to turn around at this point is a mile down the road.
I call Husband, “I saw you in the left lane, so I got in the left lane, and I didn’t see you get in the right lane so I missed the turn.” I don’t add, “If I’m failing this spectacularly without the hyperactive preschooler with me, how on Earth am I going to pull this off?” And I breathe deeply the rest of the way to the airport.
Weeks ago I had the brilliant idea of attaching the car seat to the top of my rolling suitcase instead of purchasing a luggage roller for it. I even practiced at home, and was pleased with the results. Now that I am parked 20 miles from the terminal (okay, not even one mile, but still really, really, really, extremely very far away – almost as far away as one can park and still be charged $8.00 a day for parking) realize that I was not fully packed when I attempted this, nor did I have my enormous backpack on. I am having a difficult time. I am stopping often, and unable to keep up with Husband and Bug. Husband offers to help, but I won’t have his help coming back, I remind him, and need to do this myself, thank you anyway, I love you, too. I am sweaty and the car seat is banging against my arm, sure to leave a bruise. I switch suitcase-dragging arms often. I take a corner too quickly and the suitcase and car seat fall over. Not even five minutes into this trip, I have sworn to purchase a luggage cart for the ride home.
I check in with a live human, who is wonderfully cheerful to me despite my wonderfully un-cheerful demeanor. Our seats? Side-by-side. Score! Onward to security.
For a small airport, the line is long. When our turn arrives, I ask if there’s a slow line, because we’re going to be a while. “That’s okay,” the TSA agent assures me.
I have forgotten what to do between my last flight one year ago and today. I have lost Husband since checking in, and now Bug and I are about to take our shoes off and get X-rayed. The shoes go into a bin and through the machine. "Uh, I'm not sure how to do this," I gesture to the car seat/rolling suitcase combo. I am told I have to detach them from each other. Sigh. "Ma'am, you'll have to put your wallet in a bin here," I'm instructed, not having realized I was even still clutching it in my sweaty little hand. "Ma'am, his toy will have to be put in a bin as well," I'm further instructed, not having imagined I would have to pry Bug's best friend Scratchy Puppy from his sweaty little hands. Luckily he doesn't protest too much about parting with Puppy. He does protest about walking through the metal detector. I have to carry him through. On the other side, after passing the extra screening our medicine requires, and being reunited with our disjointed stuff I sit Bug down in a small chair and attempt to re-pack. Bug disappears. "Bug!" I shriek. "I'm right here," says a small voice in a chair of his own choosing. "Don't move!" I sternly command, "I have to get our stuff, then we'll get on the airplane." My attempt to be cheerful there may be mitigated by my clenched teeth; I cannot be certain.
At this point, it has been an hour or two since the application of my antiperspirant, to which I must give a failing grade. Come on, Degree, don't you have a "Too-heavy-suitcase-and-hyperactive-preschooler-going-through-post-9/11-airport-security-Mom" formula? What are you paying your researchers for?
Security screening over with, I begin to relax. Plenty of time before the flight. After a few minutes, Husband joins us. We eat brunch. The stress is lifting for the moment.
Next we head to our gate. I seat Bug and I at the end of a row of chairs, across from a single gentleman working on his laptop. The gentleman promptly moves. I imagine he didn't want to sit next to a bouncing preschooler and his sweaty, crazy-eyed, shrill-voiced mother, and I can't be offended. Within a few seconds of our arrival, Bug pushes the car seat/rolling suitcase monstrosity over. It lands directly onto the seat Single Gentleman had just abandoned. If I had the presence of mind, I would have asked Apparently Psychic Single Gentleman to tell me if my Partylite investments will ever pay off, but I do not. Our flight is delayed, and Husband's is not; he has to leave us to catch his plane. The stress has settled back in. Bug is stressed as well, and not afraid to let me know. He will not sit still. He wants this, he wants that, he DOES NOT WANT the other. Where is Daddy? He wants Daddy. Is Daddy coming back? He will not be comforted. He loses a toy.
When it is time to board, I do not make it to the line fast enough to board early to get the car seat installed. It takes forever to install the thing. I am still quite sweaty from physical exertion, stress, and the embarrassment of holding up the passengers behind me. Bug is not excited about the flight, as I had anticipated. I try in earnest, but am unable to prevent him from repeatedly kicking the seat in front of him. Deja vu: He does not want to sit in his car seat. He wants this, he wants that, he DOES NOT WANT the other. Where is Daddy? He needs to potty only at the end of the 2-hour flight, just as the "Fasten Seatbelt" signs are lighting.
I wait for everyone else to deplane before I even attempt to. As I watch the bruises form on my arms in all their purple glory, I promise myself I will travel lighter - and buy a damn carrier for the car seat! - next time. I promise myself that unless I absolutely have to, there won't be a next time. As my sweat glands will attest, flying is most definitely not something I am cut out for.

Advice columnist - 6/23/10

I have a kind face. It’s a curse. While shopping at a thrift store, about to try on some clothes, a woman pops out of an adjacent dressing room, contorting herself to view the pants she’s wearing and asks, “Are these okay?” Because I have made the mistake of answering someone who is actually talking to a Bluetooth headset before, I hesitated. She looked directly at me. “Um, yeah, they’re nice pants,” or something else generically approving was my reply. The pants were actually a handful of sizes too small for her. Did she really expect honesty from a complete stranger? Since I was a complete stranger, not likely to ever see her again, should I have given it to her? Moments later, she did it again. “Those pants are better than the others,” I honestly replied, in all honesty being perfectly honest this time. They were still too small.
Having a kind face - an approachable, even inviting face – is as much a curse for the people who approach me as for myself, because I will be nice. I can’t help it. My mother tells me all the time that I’m too nice. I’ve learned that I simply believe it to be better, when a stranger approaches my kind, trustworthy face, not to betray that trust with hostility or suspicion. Obviously a woman who will ask a stranger’s opinion of her appearance needs the reassurance; what does it cost me to provide it to her? A strange man who approaches me in a grocery store parking lot to ask me on a date while I’m wearing my most unflattering sweater and with my 5th-grader in tow - here I’m assuming he wasn’t doing this as part of some joke or dare - is choosing a very non-threatening target for a reason; I could be silently suspicious of him later, but at the moment there was no reason to insert sarcasm or acidity when I informed him of my marital status, and as he slinked back to his car muttering, “Yeah, I should have known,” I believed I had made the right choice. Besides, I read Miss Manners; I know even when asserting yourself you should remain considerate of others' fragile feelings. 
Perhaps that's it: I missed my calling. Perhaps this is the face of an advice columnist, the photograph of whom, showing the slightest of smiles, is placed to the left of the warm, comforting answers to the readers' dilemmas. The unfair advantage being allotted the time to ponder my answers before they're dispensed, as opposed to needing to come up with a better answer than, "Uh," when asked if these towels match this shower curtain. I am doubtful, though, seeing as how I'm already amazed at what a fellow human will ask a complete stranger; I'm not sure I would be willing to volunteer to have these queries thrust upon me. Better leave it to the professionals.

Travel Agent - 6/16/10

I'm going to be traveling with my three-year-old this summer - just me and my three-year-old. I am terrified. Imagine the Tasmanian Devil, of Looney Tunes fame. Now imagine him as a child, when he had even more energy. Now imagine trying to hold him on a leash, pulling a rolling suitcase behind you, a backpack weighing you down, and a car seat in the other hand. Did you notice that in this scenario you need three hands? For added fun, the Tasmanian Devil will have to be somehow persuaded to wait patiently while you have his medications screened. Just an extra challenge that you know will make you feel even more accomplished as you sit on the airplane, mocha in hand, having quite comfortably made first boarding call.
Then I wake up to the cold realization that the trip remains weeks away, and remember to add floss to my packing list. Also, the flight has yet to be booked.
The only travel arrangements I have ever made have been for myself alone, and luckily I require only one seat. So after choosing a flight that arrived at a decent time of day, had the website not asked me to choose seating, I may never have considered that our seats might be separate. But there I was, staring at the two remaining available seats, several rows apart. Crap. I can just imagine myself in row 19, sipping my coffee, reading my new book, while in row 27 some innocent businesswoman by-sitter has to pause perfecting her financial charts and graphs every twenty seconds to pick up the car my son vroomed right off the tray. Next flight, then.
Only the next flight didn't give me seating options whatsoever. I called the airline. No guarantees. Really? He's three. How can they not seat me with him (see above scenario with frustrated businesswoman)? Next flight: arrives late at night. Sigh. I vent all this frustration to Husband.
"They can't not seat you with him. How could they put him with strangers? Lawsuuuuuit!" he reassures me, "Besides, the flight attendants will ask people to move, and they will. Someone will." So I imagine myself, on a flight alone, being faced with the choice of giving up my window seat, or being seated next to the Tasmanian Devil. Who needs a window seat anyway? So, comforted by Husband, the no-guaranteed-seat flight it is. I'll just take the airline rep's advice and get to check-in extra early to sort this out. These arrangements were such a headache, and I'm still a bit uneasy about it. Sure, passengers may move to accommodate us, but happily? Unlikely. I think most passengers are stressed out enough trying to get to their destination that playing musical cramped-airline-chairs isn't going to add cheer anyone up. Hopefully that won't be necessary. Perhaps what is necessary is to leave these arrangements to a professional travel agent next time. If for some reason my seat isn't adjacent to my son's, I won't stress. Hey, the seats were purchased by a pro. He must know what he's doing. How you doing back there, frustrated businesswoman? Heheheheheheh.

Um.

My vacation in June really set me back, and this blog has been as neglected as an original XBox.  I'll be trying to make up for this over the next couple of weeks. I'm going to add what should have been the original post date to the title. Here we go.

Fashion Expert

My daughter wants to be a fashion designer. She loves buying clothes, wearing clothes, accessorizing her clothes. I support her a thousand percent. I just don't know where she got her love of fashion, because it's not in my DNA. For most of my life I just wore anything comfortable, no matter how ill-fitting and unflattering. I'm still a jeans-and-t-shirt gal 99% of the time (although living in a cold climate, those t-shirts are usually covered by a sweater, a hoodie, and a coat), and sometimes I wonder if I embarrass her. She has tried to tell me before that I need new clothes, so it's a sound theory that I do.
Right now I am working toward fitting back into my cute shorts. I just bought them last summer, when I could fit into single-digit-sized pants. The last few months haven't gone so smoothly, weight wise. My willpower hovers between non existent and I-wish-I-was-pregnant-only-so-I-could-justify-this-binge-right-now. The end of one meal is just the beginning of a countdown to the next (yeah...it doesn't sound healthy to me, either). In the meantime, shop for fitting shorts I must!
Clothes shopping is always a challenge. I'm petite but not skinny, so when confronted with my body type, designers - well scratch that, I don't think clothing designers have ever been confronted with my body type. I picture Vera Wang with her sketchpad, being presented with my measurements, and the room quickly filling up with smoke as her brain overheats trying to process how to flatter my frame using only fabrics which have already been invented. "Five foot one? But not a size 0? How..." an assistant quickly hands her a paper bag to breathe into, "And full-busted? It's not possible! It's against the laws of nature, physics, and Chanel!" 
This is probably completely unfair of me, picking on Vera Wang, about whom I know nothing except her name and the fact that she designs clothing - oh, and has guest-judged on Project Runway. Still, you don't see me in any of her dresses, do ya? Well, no, you're right, I really don't wear dresses if I can help it. Right again, I don't really have the money for designer- WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON?!
Getting back to my original point, before I pissed off Vera Wang (that is, if either of you reading this are friends with Vera Wang) - clothes tend not to fit me correctly. I happy dance in the fitting room whenever a pair of jeans labeled "petite" isn't too long. I then have to try not to pee those pants if they are also a single digit in size. Shirts...well, are another matter. I have to buy up in size due to my (ahem) chest circumference, then they're too long and/or become shapeless on my frame. When that doesn't happen, you guessed it, more happy dancing. Stacy London and Clinton Kelly tell nearly all of their makeoverees that clothes can be tailored, which may be something the experts have time to do, but in my experience it's just easier to whine about clothes not fitting straight off the hanger. Know which clothes tend to always fit correctly off the hanger? Jeans and T-shirts. Fashion Expert: No. Comfortably dressed: H-E-double-hockey-sticks Yeah.

Feng Shui Consultant

Husband and I whisked ourselves out of town (30 whole minutes from the house!) for our anniversary this year. We talk about it every year, this is one of only two years we've done it. Another thing we often talk about is building our dream home. I've sketched floor plans, he's tried to talk me into purchasing expensive software so he can show me his ideas - in 3D! I have a basic idea of what I want at this point. I'm not sure houses don't already exist with all the features I want, so I've kept my mind open to pre-owned houses as well. Not to mention my love for quirky old homes in our city's oldest district. We even owned one when we first got married, but the repairs outgrew our budget, and we had to sell it. So when I saw that the B&B where we stayed was an 1892 Victorian with a turret, I was in love. When I discovered that part of our room was in the turret, I squealed like a tween with delight. It wasn't just part of our room, it was behind a wall, the low-roofed hall access like a secret passage. And within the turret: a reading niche, with chairs and lamps. Utopia.
Naturally, I concluded that my quirky house MUST have a turret. The turret must be in my bedroom and contain a reader's recluse, just like this one. So I began sketching. And abandoning, and sketching anew. Repeat. I couldn't seem to grasp how the design would work in real life. I even found myself abandoning the house sketch I've had in mind for months to get the turret to work. This will be where I read my novels, read my magazines, play sudoku, write poetry, update my blog, hide from the kids! I tried to sleep. I couldn't. It had to work!
Eventually I concluded that the turret would have to be only upstairs; I couldn't find a use for it downstairs. Is that possible? I have no idea. But that's what I want. I don't care if it's unreasonable or even unfeasible. I want a round room sanctuary. Why round? For the awesomeness. I have no doubt a feng shui consultant would say the same thing.

Scriptwriter

So...Lost. Right? Sigh. I really enjoyed the first season. After that it was more of an obligation; I was too invested not to watch the mysteries unravel. Then they didn't unravel. They just rolled away, out of view and (the writers hoped) out of mind. A coworker, Beer, and I discuss this show almost daily. I said a few weeks ago that there was no way the show could be concluded to my satisfaction.
"At this point, everyone could die and I'd be okay with it," I said.
"Really? You'd be okay if everyone just died? Interesting," Beer replies. Beer is an incubator, not at all reactionary. A typical response from him on Lost theory is "Oh...I hadn't thought of that." followed by silence, as he thinks of that. If there is a downside to Beer's introspection, it is that he lets me talk waaay too much. I digress.
I was right, though - everyone did die. Not the way I thought they might, but they did. I wasn't okay with it, though. Let me just point out that I would have been okay with it, if more plot lines had been solved. It might also have helped if Sayid had ended up with the actual love of his life, Nadia. But that's just the smallest fly in this very contaminated ointment.
See, I didn't want the island to be this mystical, unexplained gold light. Just write in a geologist character to tell Jack and Hurley that it's because of the very high level of minerals Y and Z that the island has this crazy electromagnetism. Tell Locke and Desmond that pressing the button every 108 minutes released a synthetic compound created by Darma to counteract this effect so it would be contained to the island itself and not, you know, cause airplanes to crash and shit.
I conclude that the island was indeed real - and I have read on multiple websites that the majority of Lost finale watchers do, too - because as dear old dad said, "the most important time of your life was spent with these people." I guess surviving a plane crash would have quite a profound effect on shaping the rest of my life as well, and if there were other people with me I wouldn't be likely to forget their names if I ran into them at Target. "Sun! Right. Didn't we work together at the mall? Duh! The Oceanic crash, how silly of me. How's your husband Jim?"
Since the first flashback I have believed that without the mythology, without Others and Jacob and mysticism, Lost would be an interesting show. Get the survivors off the damn island and back to real life to resolve the frayed ends of existence they left dangling before the crash. They could do that with or without each other, but it would be great to see Locke show up at his dad's front door, sans wheelchair. Sayid torn between mourning for Shannon and searching for Nadia. Jin and Sun on the run from her father. Hurley, swept up in his newfound fame, cheats on Libby. Claire and Jack discover their relationship, Claire decides to stay in the States, and we watch as she struggles to make ends meet. Sawyer keeps being intense and brooding. I don't care, really, just put him in a scene now and then for me to ogle.* Jack and Kate - Fuck Kate, Jack,she is seriously too messed up. You are a leader! Get over her conflicted ass already! *Ahem* Sorry.
All this isn't to say that I wasn't entertained by the Others. I loved Juliet and her back story. I'm just saying the show never had to go that far and it would still ave been a good show. But, since you had to get all mystical...
Just tell us what the light is. Show us the first guardian of the island. Show us the 4-toed inhabitants. Let us see the kids that the Others whisked back home discovering their new found abilities to hear dead people, like Miles. Show us Hurley bringing people to the island once he's in charge, or stopping people from reaching the light - by kicking some ass.
Another thing - I wanted to see Claire reunited with Aaron, though I suppose I understand that the writers needed the shot of the plane flying over just before Jack closed his eyes. It seemed to me, though, that they were building up to it and we never saw the payoff.
Everyone could have ended up the same in the end (dead), but I found it...lazy to go out this way. And don't try to tell me I'm the lazy one for not using my imagination to conclude for myself what these remaining mysteries are. I don't want to use my imagination when I watch TV. I reserve my imagination for unillustrated books and conjuring a world where my son no longer pees in his pants. Of course, I'm not a professional scriptwriter, so tell me: how hard was it to come up with this ending really, on a scale of petting your cat to petting your ego? Be honest.

*Husband, you did not read this sentence.