Getting There

10B, Middle Seat, SFO -> Memphis

Sandwiched in between Mr. “You Won’t Hear A Word From Me Until You Are Fast Asleep and I Want to Use the Bathroom” in the window seat and Mrs. “I’m An Old Lady From Memphis and I’m Going to Complain About Every Possible Thing I Can. Loudly.” in the aisle seat. It was a long journey.

Smallest Plane In The World

Memphis -> Charlotte

“No carry on luggage larger than a purse is allowed on board. All oversized baggage must be tagged and left at the end of the ramp.” My hair brushed the cabin ceiling as I made my way to my seat (and I don’t even have the traditional big hair so common to Southern women). Looking on the bright side, I wasn’t in a middle seat. There was no middle seat, each row only had two seats.

Are We There Yet?

CLT -> La Quinta Hotel

I simply wanted to get to the hotel and go to sleep. I asked the taxi driver if he knew the way to the La Quinta. “Of course,” he replied in a heavily accented English. I had deliberately chosen a hotel near the airport to avoid a tremendous cab fare. As he began accelerating, he asked, “How are you tonight?” I replied the generic, “Fine, thank you.” He nodded. Within minutes we reached the cluster of airport hotels. Marriott, Ramada, Comfort Inn, he drove past all of them. We arrived at the end of the road. He stopped the car and peered out the windows, confounded. He rubbed his chin then grunted, “Hmph. It must be the other road.”

I’m paranoid. Especially in unfamiliar situations. Was he really lost? Or was this a ploy? Was he about to abduct me?

He drove down the other road. We passed many hotels, but no La Quinta. Again he stopped and pondered. This time I spoke. “Do you know where the hotel is?” A stupid question, because obviously the answer was no, but the only thing that occurred to me. “Oh, yes. Right over here.” We turned around and headed the other way, down a dark, barely lit road. Suddenly he looked in the rear view mirror. “How are you tonight?” I’m exhausted, my feet are swollen, and we’re freaking lost. How the hell do you think I’m doing? roared through my head. “Fine,” exited my lips. He nodded.

We drove until we happened upon the FedEx distribution plant. We pulled into the dimly lit lot. Oh, my god, he is going to abduct me. I can see the headlines now:

FedEx. When the mutilated body absolutely, positively, without a doubt has to be there overnight.

I immediately pulled out my cell phone. If he was going to kidnap me, someone was going to hear it. I dialed the hotel. “Hi. I have a reservation there tonight. I’m in a cab and we can’t seem to find your hotel. Have you perhaps changed the name or the address?” A harsh voice barked at me, “No, we’re right here where we’ve always been. What kind of taxi driver don’t know where we are?” Obviously the one that’s driving my cab.

“Kin you see the Waffle House?”

“Well, sort of,” I began. “It’s kind of in the distance.”

“Well, you need to just git yourself back up the Waffle House. Lawd! I ain’t never heard of a taxi driver cain’t find a hotel. Who he think he is?”

After an eternity, we pulled into the driveway of La Quinta.

I entered the deserted lobby. Beatrice bellowed, “What kind driver gonna say they take you somewhere when they ain’t knowing the way? That’s a shame.” In a trance, too tired to even respond, I handed her my i.d., my reservation confirmation, and my credit card. She continued berating the taxi driver. “Lawd! He could’ve just said he don’t know the way. What’s wrong with him?” As I received my room key, Beatrice hollered, “RAY! RAY! Git here and take this lady to her room, number 151. She’s done been lost once tonight.”

Wait a minute, sister. I wasn’t lost of my own accord. I was lost because someone I was paying to know directions didn’t. Again, however, no words left my lips.

Ray lumbered over, his large frame struggling to carry his larger body. I smiled weakly; he grunted. He pushed the door open, made a left and walked straight down the sidewalk about 15 feet. He stopped and grunted.

Room 151. I couldn’t have NOT found it even if I’d been trying.

I’ve washed all the dishes. I’ve cleaned out the refrigerator. I’ve sorted my closet by types, then colors, then styles, of clothing. I’ve repotted all my plants. I’ve even read the bios of all 135 candidates running for governor in Tuesday’s special election.

But I haven’t packed.

I’m flying to North Carolina tomorrow. Actually, later today, as it is well after midnight. My grandfather died on Sunday. The funeral is Friday.

I have mixed feelings about attending.

When I was maybe six, maybe seven, I spent a summer with my grandparents in Florida. I don’t remember how I got there. However, I do remember flying home, by myself.

I adored Grandaddy. I didn’t adore Grandmother. She was a disciplinarian. She was strict. She was a high school principal. She gave me academic exercises to complete every day while I stayed with them. Math ditto sheets, smudged blue numbers that smelled like alcohol and were cool to the touch as soon as they were reproduced. Boring, boring stories. So boring that of my own volition I began reading one of the many Bibles resting on an end table.

See, Grandaddy was a minister. No, a preacher. A Southern Baptist, fire and brimstone preacher. When I attended services on Sunday (and every Sunday we did attend not just one, but many, services) and heard him preach, I slumped down, farther and farther, until eventually I was crouching behind the pew, my shoulders hunched into my skinny stomach. I didn’t want God to find me and take me to hell. Because according to Grandaddy, we were all going to hell. I didn’t want to go to hell. It didn’t sound like a fun place to go to. If I made myself small, ever so tiny, God would overlook me. I didn’t like Grandaddy in the pulpit.

I liked Grandaddy in the morning, after Grandmother had left for work. We ate our breakfast together, the breakfast Grandmother had gotten up early to prepare and leave in the refrigerator. Usually it consisted of some combination of cottage cheese, fruit cocktail from the can (“Grandaddy, can I have your cherry?”) and freshly sliced, perfectly separated citrus. Not even in the finest restaurants have I ever had oranges or grapefruits so perfectly sectioned. It was pure pulp, none of the chewy, tough membranes, nor tiny seeds present. At the time I didn’t realize what an act of love Grandmother was performing every morning.

I didn’t realize a lot of things over the years. To me, Grandmother constantly complained. “Don’t do that!” “Watch your mouth!” “You will too come here right now!” “This is my house and you will do what I say!” I much preferred to shadow Grandaddy. He didn’t really say anything. He simply sat and smoked his pipe, smiling as he exhaled a sweet apple-y cinnamon-y smoke.

We visited every year, either at Thanksgiving or at Christmas. As I got older, I began to notice that Grandmother, while still always complaining, always did all the work. She waited on Grandaddy, bringing him his pipe, his freshly squeezed orange juice, his newspaper. She cleaned the house; she cleared the dishes. She also talked. She showed us the photographs from their most recent AARP bus trip and told us, in-depth, more details than we ever cared to hear, about what transpired. Grandaddy sat silent, smoking his pipe, smiling ever so slightly as he exhaled.

Then Grandmother couldn’t do the work anymore. She had a series of medical catastrophes. Stroke after stroke. Brain infections while in the hospital. Viruses attacking her nervous system.

Grandaddy cared for her. Or rather, he tended to her. He gave her her medicines. He took her to doctor’s appointments. He bought her oil paints when she took up painting. And we continued to visit.

In 1994, I got married. I didn’t invite Grandaddy to perform the service. I invited my minister, from my home town church, the one I had gone to for 20 years, to perform the service. Grandaddy refused to come to the wedding, citing that Grandmother was too frail. I tried to explain my choice to him, but he wouldn’t listen to me. I asked my mom if he was being spiteful, or if Grandmother really was too sick to travel. She, like I, thought he was being spiteful. I pleaded, trying to get him to change his mind. He stood steadfast, refusing to come. In the weeks before the wedding, I kept hoping I would receive a phone call, Grandaddy saying he realized he was being silly and they would drive, or fly, up. Or maybe they were going to surprise me and just show up. They didn’t.

A couple of years later Grandmother died. The one thing, perhaps the only thing, I don’t like about living on the West coast is that I’m always 3 time zones and 10 hours of travel away from my family. I didn’t go to the funeral. It just seemed like too much.

Shortly thereafter, my mother came out to visit. My husband and I had just bought a house and she was helping us paint. Day after day after day we taped, scraped, painted, and edged until the whole house was completed. I still remember the dinner. We went to MC2 in the city. A hip, trendy, very cool restaurant that had just opened. We were sitting, contemplating our vertical appetizers, when mother said, “Your grandfather is getting married.”

Both my husband and I were stunned. I uttered a nervous laugh and questioned her. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I need to tell you something.”

What followed next was a story that the most talented soap opera writer couldn’t rival. It involved my grandfather, the church secretary, my grandfather leaving my grandmother, death threats by the secretary’s husband (who happened to be some sort of grand something or other in the KKK), my grandfather appealing to my grandmother, swearing that if she took him back he wouldn’t ever leave her again, until death did they part.

And he didn’t. Leave her. He didn’t cherish her, as would be expected between husband and wife, but he did keep his word. He never left her. Until after her death. When he immediately married the church secretary, whom he had been rendezvousing with clandestinely over the years.

The phrase, “My whole world was turned upside down” most aptly describes how I felt after my mother stopped speaking. So many thoughts clashed in my head, screamed for my attention. Going to hell, the Bible verses he always quoted, Grandmother serving him, he simply passing time, smoking his pipe. I felt cheated. I had the same feeling I had at the end of The Usual Suspects. I had been duped. The good guy wasn’t the good guy. He was the bad guy. And I had fallen for it.

Needless to say, family visits after grandfather’s re-marriage were strained. We never interacted with the new wife, as much her choice as ours.

This is what I face on Friday.

And I still haven’t packed.

It Could Happen To You!

Recently, at a cocktail party, Emily and I were discussing the benefits of LASIK eye surgery with a couple of guys we had just met. The conversation eventually focused on why we decided to have it done.

Emily: Well, I’m nearly blind, so in the event that I was kidnapped by Columbian rebels and forced to march through the jungle for days on end before finally managing to escape, I would want to have at least a fighting chance for survival. Because, if I had my contacts in, they would eventually dry out, they would pop out of my eyes, and then I wouldn’t be able to see, much less escape.

Me: Well, I’m nearly blind as well, so in the event of (insert favorite natural disaster here), I would want to be able to at least have a fighting chance for survival. Or, what if my plane was hijacked? Or, what if I was suddenly sold into white slavery? If I had better vision I’d at least have a chance of survival. Before the surgery – no chance. I couldn’t walk two inches without colliding into a wall.

Both men scoffed at us. They laughed, saying our reasons were ridiculous, that those life events never happen.

But they do.

Today, Emily forwarded me the following article. Thank goodness this fellow wasn’t concerned about contact lens solution.

Things To Do With Glue…

A co-worker forwarded me one of those “Interesting Stuff To Know…” emails today. A comprehensive list of unorthodox uses for everyday products. My favorite from the list:

Elmer’s Glue-paint on your face, allow it to dry, peel off and see the dead skin and blackheads.

Why would anyone ever even think to spread Elmer’s Glue all over their face? I mean, really. When I pick up a bottle of glue, my first thought isn’t, “Hmm. I wonder what would happen if I decided to spread this all over my face (my face!) and then peel it off?”

A close second however, was this:

Body paint – Crisco mixed with food coloring. Heat the Crisco in the microwave, pour into an empty film container and mix with the food color of your choice!

I can only imagine some Midwestern housewife, with a little bit of Crisco left over from making biscuits, wondering what to do with it. “Hmm. I think I’ll put it in the microwave, add some food coloring, or maybe KoolAid, and have a body painting party.” Nebraskans gone wild. Watch out.

The Fan

When I was fastidiously trying to complete my kitchen remodel, my landlady acted as a broker, obtaining a fan from one of my apartment neighbors to relieve me from the fumes that occurred as I stripped paint from my kitchen cabinets. It was a small fan, but quite powerful. I placed it in my kitchen window and it removed all fumes, sucking them out the window before they had a chance to asphyxiate me.

Stripping the cabinets took much longer than I expected. Originally I thought the project would take a day, maybe a weekend. Six weeks later….

In appreciation, and out of embarrassment, I cleaned the fan, put it in a nice bag, purchased a beautiful orchid in a blue ceramic pot, and wrote a quick thank you.

“Hi, guys! Thanks so much for letting me borrow the fan. Sorry it took me so long to return it. Please accept the orchid as a token of my appreciation. Hope you’re doing well, Lori (305)”

That was two weeks ago. Didn’t think twice about it. Until yesterday.

I came home to a message on my answering machine. “Lori, this is your landlady. Josh from 502 called me to ask about the fan he lent you. Because it’s kind of a heat wave now and they’d like their fan. Could you either call him or preferably, just return the fan?”

My stomach felt as though someone had punched it. He hadn’t received the fan? Or the orchid? He thought I was an ingratiate who didn’t return things borrowed?

I went up to 502 and immediately realized my mistake. I had left the fan and orchid in front of 501. Egads!

I rang 501. No answer.

I rang 502. Josh answered the door. “Hi. I’m Lori. You lent your fan to me, through our landlady. A funny thing happened. At least, I hope you’ll think it’s funny. Thinking I was being considerate, about two weeks ago, I left the fan and an orchid in front of your door. Except that it wasn’t. Your door, that is. I left it in front of 501. I feel horrible. Please tell me again what kind of fan it was (you would think I would know since I had it for six weeks) and I’ll get you another.”

By that time his fiancee had come to the door as well. She tittered and laughed. “Don’t worry about the fan – this is worth it just for the story!”

I again apologized and reiterated that I would get them a new fan. Josh offered, “Don’t worry about it. Someone gave me that fan when I was a ski bum in Utah years ago.” “Oh,” I said, “so it has sentimental value…” We all laughed.

Just then Mr. 501 came to his door. I immediately began, “Hi, you don’t know me, but a couple of weeks ago, I left a fan and an orchid outside of your door….”

He looked at me, somewhat perplexed, “Yeah. We got those. We were kind of surprised, because we didn’t think we owned a fan. We couldn’t remember owning a fan, much less lending it to someone.”

“Well,” I said, “That’s because you didn’t. See, I mistakenly put the fan and orchid in front of your door. It actually belongs to Josh and Amber here. Do you think you could return the fan to them? Feel free to keep the orchid for your troubles, but I’m sure they, as well as I, would appreciate it if you returned the fan.”

He glanced at his feet. “Well, you see, I would like to return the fan, but…”

We all looked at him expectedly.

“Well, my girlfriend and I used to live together. But then, we broke up. And she moved out. And took the fan.”

This so can’t be happening.

“But I can call her, and try to see if she’ll return it.”

Josh and Amber were incredibly gracious. Much laughter as they said, “Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.”

Mr. 501 assured us he would call his ex-girlfriend and do all that he could to procure the return of the fan before he disappeared inside of his apartment.

Josh and Amber again laughed about the situation, saying this was much better than getting their fan back.

I don’t know which would be a better ending:

a – Mr. 501 calling his girlfriend, explaining the situation, she bringing back the fan, realizing her feelings for him, and they living happily ever after (with the fan returned to 502)

or

b – Mr. 501 calling his girlfriend, she can’t return the fan because she’s placed it for sale on Craigslist, I’ve seen the ad, purchased the fan, and returned it to Josh and Amber as if nothing ever happened.

We Really Do Have Too Much Free Time

Emily forwarded me the following article today:

Cheeseburger and Fries, Wrapped Into One

Okay. As she stated, “This is the grand prize winner of a product extension gone

horribly wrong.” So wrong, so wrong.

A cheeseburger and fries, as a meal, fine. Why mess with a good thing? Why try to combine them? Why not leave well enough alone?

The testimonials in the article really don’t lend credence to the new product:

“And while the taste is not distinctly beef, biting into one does impart the lingering flavoring of processed cheese.” Lingering flavor? Of processed cheese? If there’s going to be a lingering flavor, it should be of something desirable. Not processed. Ugh. Perhaps most distressing, though, is the last sentence of the article, “We want beef in dessert if we can get it there.” So yuck.

The World Is My Porkchop (Express)

I slowly sauntered towards the bar, enjoying my state of being, enjoying the buttery air stroking my cheeks. Not cold, not hot, simply being. No one else shared the streets with me, street lamps slowly beginning to glow. I almost turned away from the bar, content to enjoy the rare solitary night in the city. As I drew closer, I heard faint notes. As I continued, the notes became louder, clearer, more recognizable. I realized I was smiling, unintentionally, my step quickening. I bopped up the stairs and entered the dimly lit, low ceilinged room. There at the end of the long narrow room were the boys of Porkchop Express. I gently elbowed my way through the Jack Daniels’ infused crowd. I sat down, inches away from the music.

I’ve known them for a while, maybe 3, maybe 4 years. But they’re different people when they’re playing their music. Concentrated bliss. Joy, radiating. And funny. Not that they’re not funny otherwise, but moreso when on stage.

I can’t really say which is my favorite of their songs. Hippy Girlfriend definitely has the catchiest tune, the chorus won’t budge from my head for days after a show:

Oh, I’m in love with my hippy girlfriend

and I just can’t understand

How she can smell like patchouli, and smoke lots of reefer

but still love a redneck boy like me.

But the music of Pancakes is haunting. The verse is melodic, soft, flowing:

Sunday afternoon and I’m sleepin if off.

Too many beers last night my mind’s in a fog.

Gotta fill my stomach with something solid.

Hollered my girl’s name and she got right on it.

Then, with utmost force and a clash of chords:

Bitch better make me pancakes

Make me pancakes.

And it works. The whole bar always sings along. And likes it. Even the women. Go figure.

But perhaps the best is an ode to the woman who bore us all: our mothers.

Momma never taught me my p’s and q’s

Or to wash my hands in the bathroom sink

I never learned how to tie my shoes

But momma she taught me, she taught me to drink.

I left the show with my head full of twangy, catchy country rock lyrics and a smile on my face. Thanks, guys.

What You Want, Baby I Got It

I attended a dinner party in which I was one of very few women surrounded by very handsome, very gay men. I entered the party with a bang, literally, accidentally dropping the bottle of rum and bunches of mint I had brought for mojitos. The eyes that focused on me were soon followed by multitudes of hands, stroking my soft turquoise sweater, the feathers surrounding my neckline, and my breasts. “Oh, honey!” “Girl, will you look at that!” “You go!”

But my favorite comment of the evening, “You are a gay man’s dream. You have boobs and a boa, what more could you ask for?”

Gone

I tend to forget that people are no longer in my life, until I’m confronted with harsh evidence proving otherwise. I can’t remember what the name of that book was that my grandmother used to read to me when I stayed with her during the summer, and I make a note to ask her the next time I talk to her. Staring at the note I realize she died five years ago. I sigh.

When talking to my parents, catching up on what’s what and who’s who in my hometown, I inquire about Jake. “Lori, he died last year. Remember, honey?” I sigh. Oh. That’s right.

While cleaning today, I found a credit card receipt from a dinner not too long ago, signed by a now ex-boyfriend. I remembered that evening and smiled. Then fingered that tangible reminder that he is no longer a part of my life. I sighed.

Charlie Brown Moment

For the first time in many seasons we were not seeded last going into the playoffs. Anything was possible. We would clinch the season with a mighty victory. Go Slingshots! We took the field, short one player. The captain sent me to 3rd base instead of my comfortable position at catcher. I was ready. We were fired up. Lots of talk was flying around the outfield. “Go Slingshots!” “3 up, 3 down!” “Let’s go, defense!”

The first batter sauntered up to the plate. The pitch was thrown. He swung – CRACK! He easily made it to first base. “That’s okay!” “C’mon Slingshots!” “We can do it!”

However, all of our cheering did not prevent this trend from continuing with the next several hitters.

Finally. Our big break. A pop fly was hit. Up, up, up. It was mine. I did what I was supposed to do. I kept my eye on the ball. I watched. I moved. I called it. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” I was under the ball. It landed with a smack in my worn glove. “Yeah! Woo hoo! I’m a player! I’m a player!” Right before I began my little victory dance, the ball magically jumped out of my glove. One bounce, right to the ground. The cheers that had begun mere seconds ago turned to groans.

Good grief, Charlie Brown.