In March of 2004, I decided to fly to Florida to visit my cousin. We’re just about the same age and we’d been built-in best friends since we could crash our walkers into one another while our parents drank beer on the patio. Her family had moved across the country on account of my uncle’s job transfer and I’d yet to visit her there.
The thing was, and there were some things, I had never flown before. And I had fourteen month old. That I was going to take with me. And I was eighteen without a friggin’ clue about anything.
WOO!
This is much like now though the difference is that now I know I don’t have a clue. No one told me when I was eighteen, “Uh, hey friend? Those little anecdotes about life in this society that one acquires through time and experience? YAIN’T GOT ANY.”
Kiddo looked about like this at the time. Do you just die? I die.
My mom’s best friend worked for an airline at the time so I purchased an inexpensive flight through her. There were going to be a couple hiccups but with prior knowledge and planning they would be no thang. The flight to Orlando would layover in Houston but I could stay on the plane and wait for everyone to re-board. (This was incorrect.) The flight home was a stand-by flight but it wasn’t even half way full so it would be a non-issue. (This was incorrect.)
My dad and my boyfriend delivered Kiddo and I (and my duffel bag, backpack, carseat and diaper bag) to the LAX labyrinth. It was a teensy tiny LOT overwhelming. I had kind of forgotten that I tended to get hysterical and anxious when I had to part with Josh (doth thee have some issues, Calamity?) and I became an inconsolable mess. Once inside, Josh was allowed to help me carry my baggage (as he’s done for almost a decade now, ho ho ho) until the security point where I took over and managed to maneuver one thousandy pounds plus a living, moving (adorable, chubby) being through the metal detectors and the like. Again: first time. I didn’t know I had to take my jacket and shoes off and was impatiently told to step aside and do so. In the process, I set Kiddo down and she promptly began crawling away from me. I was already exhausted, heart racing, hot and wanted someone to hold my hand. But I remained calm and collected NOT AT ALL.
Unlike most aspects of this trip, I had experienced a metal detector/baggage scanner situation once before. My mom and I went to court when I was but a wee unpregnant teen for a traffic ticket I’d received. We were sent back to the car three times. Giant novelty safety pins (why?), disposable cameras and Swiss army knives? Not allowed in court.
My belongings went onto the belt and the kid and I went through the archway o’ safety. My favorite black jacket never came off that conveyer belt, may it rest in peace. Onward to the boarding area, a kind gentleman chased me down to return the trail of items that were spilling out of my back pocket including cash and lipstick. Why, thank you, may I wipe mine and my toddler’s snot trails on your sleeve?
By the grace of something holy, we made it on that goddamn plane. But I could not stop crying. Despite my efforts at discretion, my seatmate asked if I would be alright and offered comforting platitudes. There would be nothing to worry about, she promised. She did this all the time. But being thousands of feet in the air was not a concern for me. It was being lost and confused and lonely and full to the brim with regret for trying to be a big girl and thinking I could just go across the country with my baby.
In Houston, we touched down and I was asked to exit the plane. I asked if I could just wait in my seat but there would be none of that. I stayed as close to the gate as I could, knowing that if I even looked away for a second it would disappear and I would be trapped in Texas forever and ever.
The plane nor the path to it disappeared on me. I took my seat with the angelic one-year-old and we set out for Orlando.
My cousin found me quickly in the airport when we landed. We waited for my checked baggage and it seemed that (one of) my worst nightmares had, of course, come true. I knew that I couldn’t trust my luggage all out of sight and tucked away under the plane. The carseat did not make it. It was hanging out in Houston, not being sat in by any adorable diapered butts.
We risked the drive to Cocoa Beach with Kiddo in my lap. When we arrived I swore off travel forever.
To be continued with: New Jersey, corn & pee!
Another college semester has begun. Another half-baby-step toward a degree. It feels like it’s been a while since I’ve been studious and collegiate and the like, having skipped out on the summer semester. (I didn’t cry about it this time.) I’m taking a cultural anthropology class to fulfill the last of my social science requirements.
Except that I almost wasn’t.
The class was full, they’re always fucking full, and I had to show up on the first day and beg to be let in. By beg, I mean show up knowing I was seventh on the waitlist and hope that exactly that many enrolled students didn’t show on the first day. Myself and about a dozen other hopefuls lined the wall in the classroom, eventually taking a seat on the hard floor. For over an hour we listened to this teacher that we might not see again. When he got into the attendance around the hour and a half mark, our eyes and ears perked. Only five students had missed that first day and were immediately replaced. But two people ahead of me on the wait list didn’t show up either and there it was. I was the final person allowed in the class and I could attend school for another semester.
One week down and I am absolutely fascinated with the subject.
Yesterday after work I hit the campus library to take advantage of the late hours and the available textbook for my class while I wait for mine in the mail. Though I’m not really, I feel a lot older than the other students there. Like I’m playing a part in a role I have no business being in. It’s hard to shake.
At the end of class on that first night, excited to have made the cut and even more excited to head home for the night, I was stopped by a girl looking to borrow a cell phone. For a second, I could only consider what a lot of untrusting people might consider, which was that she would run off with it. I handed it over anyway and got into a sprint position, fully prepared to chase her down and tackle her if necessary. She dialed a few numbers with no response and was looking a little more than worried. She told me she had no ride home. As it turned out she lived closer to my house than probably any other student on campus. I am not quite local to the school and the people in my area would probably attend a different, closer college over this one. Is it weird that I had no second thoughts about letting the little stranger into my car but almost wouldn’t let her touch my phone? We got to talking and introducing ourselves on the long drive back. She was barely older than I was when I was pregnant with Kiddo (see: YOUNG) and she was freshly knocked up as well. She grew up in the same area that I did and attended the same schools that I had.
IT WAS LITTLE ME.
It’s possible that I didn’t even drive her home, just dreamt about a meeting with my former self for the purpose of giving inspirational advice. Which, of course, I didn’t offer. It was the usual foul-mouthed blather on my part. One should expect nothing more and nothing less. And this explains why I am the way I am.
-CJ
With so much sadness, that Seattle trip never did pan out.
I declared my weight loss goal to the world three people listening and then I did not make it. Shocked, you are? The move completely uprooted my routine and I shouldn’t have allowed it to happen but I did. The stress and sadness and relief plus good dose of blood, sweat & tears that comes with a move from the city you’ve adjusted to after three years back to your hometown took precedence over the evening workouts and inspired more than a few not-so-healthy but oh-so-quick-and-delicious meals. I checked last night and found that I put back on two pounds, which is most definitely better than putting it all back on which I was pretty sure had happened. My brain does not allow for much hope. Ditto: optimism.
Josh and I picked up some gym passes at the nearby big name workout spot. It’s been about a week and we’ve logged a few sweaty hours. For now, and this may quickly pass, it seems like time flies at the gym. (It is note worthy that my brother pronounces it ‘the guy-m’ and that is how I find myself saying it as I type.) I was pushing for twenty minute workouts and then twenty-two and then twenty-seven, up to thirty when I would work out at home. I don’t know why they went up in those intervals, just roll with it. At the gym, an hour flies by so quickly, I almost don’t want to get off the treadmill because I’m so close to figuring out the puzzle on Wheel of Fortune. (The TV options are pretty dismal at the gym. I stick to podcasts until I see BEFORE & AFTER on the screen. It’s the best category.)
I recently upgraded from a fat little Verizon phone to my very first smart phone, courtesy of Ree, who will always have the latest of the greatest in phone technology. I must say that this thing is beyond smart. It is brilliant. I am so, so in love. (Before I even had a period on that sentence the thing froze in the middle of a text to my sister.) Okay, it’s not perfect but neither am I. And this little first generation Droid accepts me for who I am and doesn’t judge my application choices. What do I need to know about fun and useful apps? I found some snazzy photo ones that I like so far and I’m obsessed with Words With Friends. Which debuted on Facebook and inspired some word-happy dance moves all up in the living room. I got Calamity Mom playing too and posted this message on her wall:
‘Wall’ is a really stupid word for that space. May I suggest: table top.
-CJ
Yesterday at work I rolled up a fat set of blueprints; bear hugged them in an attempt to get a rubber band around the roll, and sliced a flap of finger skin wide open. I smeared blood on my jeans and later, my lunch of leftover meatloaf met the other leg. I was like a filthy, small child. Today I tore way too deep into a cuticle (horrible, horrible habit) and bled far too dramatically for such a small cut. I had to ask my boss for more Band-Aids but it seems I’ve already gone through both hers and my stash. Idle hands and shit.
The other day on my lunch break I was performing one of many awful, awful tasks that come with moving (returning my internet modem and various other part and pieces to Time Warner) I walked into an ongoing spat between a righteous customer and an employee who’d simply had more than enough. By the time I arrived they had escalated to a point of no return; the customer service gal going all street on this woman and the woman going all everything-is-your-geedee-fault on the gal. As I quietly (so as to continue eavesdropping) and politely (like a normal human) spoke to someone and signed off on my delivery, a very old woman walked up to my other side and started immediately berating another girl behind the counter. Her bill had INCREASED! AGAIN! And it was JUST RIDICULOUS! She tossed the offending bill across the counter, shaking her head.
It would be a very rare occurrence that the person in customer service had anything to do with what is pissing off one customer so badly. They are doing their job to collect their paycheck, must like the rest of us. They are not laughing manically behind your back and fucking with your account for giggles. Acting like a helpless victim with a horrible attitude is so far beyond acceptable, those irrationals deserve to have their bill increased or service shut off or whatever it is that got them all irate. We are a society above taking out our pain on the wait staff. They are human beings. Mistakes occur. So it goes.
It was really hard to watch and I do not for one second miss working in retail.
Do you know that Farmer’s Insurance jingle? We are Farmers. Bum buh bum bum bum bum! It makes want to stab things, people, myself through the cornea. Maybe because it has interrupted my happy time ska loop on Pandora ten too many times this afternoon. Maybe because it has a brain-grating tone and is slightly infuriating in its simple non-advertising. You tell me nothing with bum-buh-bums!
OH MY GOD ANOTHER COMMERICIAL OF THEIRS JUST CAME ON
It’s the weekend. Calamity OUT.
I locked the door behind me at 2B for the last time. Even if you put the packing aside, the process of moving is so, so awful. Changing the address on your bills, submitting a change of address to the post office, returning internet and cable equipment, letting your food supply dwindle down so as to not have to pack an ice chest that you left in your friend’s backyard anyway… Motherfather, I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. (I’d wish far worse, natch.) But it’s over, officially and totally. Kiddo and I are jam packed TO THE GILLS, SON (sorry, Joe Rogan’s lexicon makes its way into my own sometimes) in my parents’ spare bedroom. The men in our life (Josh, Furby and Mo) have temporarily relocated to Josh’s family’s house about an hour away. Absence is making us quite fond and the like but I would give up some seriously sacred shit to wake up next to him every morning again.
It’s all for the better. To get caught up and to get ahead. We were rocking the hand-me-down chic with pride for a while but it’s high time we bought ourselves some furnishings we love and are proud of. I was mentally and emotionally finished with 2B and wished it a good riddance on the last drive out of the alley. Though on that drive, I did tell Kiddo, “I’m kind of sad.” She offered with a heavy sigh, “I’m sad I don’t have any food.”
Some pretty kickass anecdotes to living at home again are hanging with the fam and enjoying my mom and dad’s cooking. They’re a damn fine bunch of people and I’m pretty thrilled to be related to them. I’ve missed my hometown so much. There’s already been a hefty poker tournament in the backyard, many a lap swam in their pool, a jog around the quarter mile track up the street and a hike at a local park. (I am not above squealing over a cotton-tailed bunny or seven, turns out.) All of my DVDs are packed and my TV requires a variety of boxes and/or cables to work. I don’t have the patience for that so I borrow a lot of their movies and read more than I used to, which is a huge perk in itself. Face down in a good read is when I’m most at peace, mostly because everything and everyone around me seizes to exist. I could get behind this whole no television lifestyle, though I do miss all my Showtime stories.
Last week, I made the final payment on a loan that has been hanging over my head for five or six years. There is so much relief in that statement. It’s gone. Over with. DONE-ZO. This calls for a celebration, yes?
-CJ
Filed under: music/podcasts
Lately I’ve been utilizing Pandora* to deafen the overwhelming silence that can come over my office during the work day. When I focus, I can hear only the hum of the air. Throughout the day, a train passes nearby. Eventually I won’t notice it.
(Quickly, in case you don’t know: Pandora is a free “radio station” that plays music similiar to any artist you plug into it.)
I have a few saved stations. Less Than Jake is what I’ll plug in when I’m energetic. Arcade Fire when I’m lethargic and tired. For most any mood or feeling though, I plug in Yeah Yeah Yeahs. They can do no wrong, in my book. My book is a huge YYY fan. Recently the song Help I’m Alive by Metric popped up on that channel. After a minute I recognized it nostalgically and ended up purchasing the MP3 through Amazon where I found Gimme Sympathy, from the same album, is available for free. I quite like it.
After all of this is gone
Who’d you rather be?
The Beatles or the Rolling Stones?
Oh, seriously
You’re gonna make mistakes, you’re young
Come on, baby, play me a song
Just thought I’d share. Happy Friday, y’all.
-CJ
I have been sleeping much too late every morning, despite technically needing to be out the door by 6:50 am on weekdays. I have learned that I can push it until 7 am, skip the iced coffee and most likely arrive at work on time. Most often though, obviously, I push it until 7 am and do not skip the coffee.
The late afternoon/early evening workouts (*flex*) require late afternoon/early evening showers, so I’m good and clean come morning time. I’ve even devised a hair situation that involves some mousse and some bobby pins, and la-dee-da, we have morning time waves that are a half-step above hipster bedhead. The morning routine really only needs to involve clothing, teeth brushing and deoderizing. When I’m feeling nice, I’ll get Kiddo on the move while her dad takes a forty-seven minute shower.
This morning I didn’t drag my body from the blankets and the direct aim of the fan* until 6:55 am. I am a half-step under hipster bedhead, needless to say.
*I just love sleeping under the big zebra blanket but July hardly allows that to be comfortable. Having the fan blow all night keeps temperatures good and balanced.
There was much to be celebrated this weekend. My sister’s sixteenth birthday was on Friday and my gift to her was tickets to a Dodger game, attended by five of us girls. Saturday was the day of the Hootenanny, which I’d been waiting for with wet hot anticipation since about here:
Sunday was for the celebrating of my most bestest friend’s birthday at her house, involving a Taco Guy, music, good people and many, many drinks. And the holiday that brought on this whole weekend-plus-one-day was done right at our friends’ house where there was more music, good people and many, many drinks PLUS a band and a ton of fireworks going up in every direction.
There is more to be said about all of these things. In due time.
-CJ
I’ve had my fair share of piercing experiences; up and down my ears, through my navelbutton, my nipples, my tongue and four total pokes in the nose, all at different times. I’ve ditched most of them. The tongue piercing lasted eight hours before I pulled out the barbell and threw it in the sink. My body rejected one, forcing it out over a short period of time. (All. The. Way. Out. Without me ever having to open the hoop, my body said get the eff out and the ring pushed all the way through my nipple, leaving a straight line scar. Awesome, y/n?)
My pain tolerance is pretty admirable, considering the quantity of needles I’ve had pushed in and out of me and the sensitive skin surfaces I’ve had adorned with ink.
The worst of the worst was ten or eleven years ago when I had my rook pierced by an impatient jerk. (This is not mine.) The stiff cartilage and the shape of the fold made the process difficult for everyone and I couldn’t clench my jaw hard enough as it was happening. I didn’t expect it to hurt that bad and I wouldn’t do it ever again.
The second worst of the worst was when I took my septum piercing out for upward of six months and decided I wanted to put it back. (Also not mine.) I am unable to maneuver almost all jewelry, most especially any sort of piercing jewelry that is not for my earlobes. I went down to the nice piercing specialist man that I’ve seen a few times now and asked that he do it for me. It was supposed to be simple but see, and this should be common knowledge though it totally eluded me, the hole will shrink when not occupied by a piece of jewelry. I had thought it would slip right back in, having worn the piercing consistently for a year or so. NOT SO MUCH. NOT SO MUCH AT ALL, TURNS OUT. He had to stretch the hole back open to accommodate the jewelry. Put simply, it felt like the front of my face had exploded and then was lit on fire. (I used to wear six gauges in my ears and getting to that point never, ever hurt this bad.) I went straight to a nearby dive bar and ordered something stiff to soothe my aching existence. I told someone an hour or so later that it still felt like someone was holding a lighter directly up to the skin.
In conclusion, we understand that both the rook piercing and the stretching of skin after a piercing has shrunk hurts really, really bad, yes? Any questions?
On Saturday afternoon, I didn’t know that my plan was to combine both horrors.
My dumbass finally got around to putting back in my ear piercings since my surgery last March. (The rook and one near the top of my ear, close against my head.) I met with a different, though equally nice piercing specialist and gave him my hoops. He inserted a taper into my rook without warning and I started losing my shit. Writhing and grinding and squinting through the immense pain. He asked that I hold still and insisted he knew how horrible it felt but I was “doing great” and the like. (I was doing the opposite of great. An infant would have been more tolerable than me.) Because I had worn this earring for so long, I thought it would slip back in. WRONG AGAIN. At my breaking point, something I’ve never had before, I told him I had lost my nerve and to forget it. He explained that the taper was in place, he would just need to insert the jewelry, easy-peesy, and we’re through here. I took a deep breath which he accepted as a green light and in it went. When he confirmed it was done and said it was time to check out the other hole, I said quickly, “Ya know, I never even liked that piercing anyway. Let’s call it a day.”
I still feel like the left side of my head partially exploded. I take Ibuprofen every few hours and put ice delicately against it but it only offers relief for a short period of time.
Thus, booze.
I will never learn.
-CJ
Filed under: workplace
I was screwing around with Microsoft Office Publisher, because the icon just sits there and begs for clicksies. I was in a greeting card making template and excitedly chose “bars” for the design.
When that piece of crap loaded, I went, “Oooh.”
And then laughed out loud.
