Should have scaled back on the celebratory Birthday water

 Here we go again. I try. I really try. But we just need to come to grips with the fact that gift-giving is not my...gift. Sydney Lynn turned 23 today. Given the size and occupancy of her apartment, presents must be purchased with scale in mind. Given the health consciousness of the residents of the apartment, the other type of "scale" must also be kept in mind. And then it came to me! Sydney loves the Icelandic water featured on The Big Bang Theory. I'd ship her a whole case of it! She'd be thrilled!

She was thrilled all right. 

"Your package was delivered today," Sydney informed me, her voice sounding slightly strangled. Fantastic! "What'ya think?" I asked her, fishing for compliments about how I clearly selected the perfect present. "Hydration will never again be an issue," she admitted before inadvertently giggling. I frowned. What could possibly be so funny about water? Sydney could not contain herself. "Mom...they're HUGE!" She quickly sent me photographic evidence. Her water towering over a roll of paper towels. Her water overshadowing her wine. Her one and a half liter libation dwarfing the convenient single-sized version. "I get the picture, Sydney Lynn," I said, tiring quickly of this photographic exposé revealing my utter lack of ability in the area of purchasing presents. "There's twelve of them!" she squealed in delight, "I will think of the love of my mother as I strain every muscle in my arm lifting the bottle to my lips," she vowed. I vowed to carefully consider present proportion prior to purchase. So much for scaling back on size. 

Fee...Fi...phobia. What's next? A fear of giants?

As my 49th birthday approaches, I quiver with anticipation, wondering what new neurosis will accompany the anniversary of my earthly arrival (I had to go rogue as there were no appealing synonyms for "birthday" unless "natal day" rocks your boat.). My claustrophobia is now legendary...beginning with Sydney and my friend Sarah stuffing me through the narrow passages of the renowned "Winding Way" of Howe's Caverns like Pooh Bear out of Rabbit's hole to hyperventilating in a tubing tunnel at Splash Lagoon to sobbing uncontrollably in an MRI machine, drugged out of my mind and gasping "Just...keep...going." I recently realized that I have airport anxiety. Not planes. Ports. My heart thumps like a tripped-out terrier every time I travel. And my fear of crowds has almost become crippling.

Case in point: Every week-end, Brad and I visit my parents and then drive WAY out of our way so that I can grocery shop in my little hometown market. "Are there no grocery stores where your parents live?" you may wonder. Well...yes. But I know where everything IS in my hometown store. And Brad puts up with this little idiosyncrasy. Actually, he puts up with a LOT of idiosyncrasies. I like to believe that he finds them secretly adorable.

Anyway, this past week-end, I decided to try and act like an adult member of society and shop somewhere that wasn't thirty miles out of our way just because I knew exactly where they stocked the Hostess Cupcakes. "Are you sure?" Brad asked doubtfully as I directed him into the Stuff-Mart parking lot. And not just any ol' Stuff-Mart. A Stuff-Mart Super-Center. We knew we were in trouble the minute we hit the produce department. "They don't have the glazed candied walnuts that I use for our autumnal salad," I whispered frantically to my husband, clutching his arm. "Is that what it's called?" he asked with interest, "Why?" "Because it has chopped-up apples in it," I told him. "Oh." he nodded, "Like our Greek Chicken is called Greek Chicken because you throw an olive in it?" I smiled. He so gets me.

I wheeled my noisy cart down a wide aisle, jam-packed with people. There were loaded stock-carts and employees everywhere, bustling about. It was re-set day at Stuff-Mart. "I can't find the raisins," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I thought we just needed three things," Brad frowned, realizing this was going to go bad...real fast. "I need raisins," I choked. He pulled me off to the side. "Hold onto the cart," he said, "I'll go get the raisins." Brad disappeared into the whirling mass of humanity while I clutched the cart. Across from me were industrial-sized packages of Poptarts. I waited for a break in traffic and then courageously dashed across the aisle to wrestle a year's worth of breakfast toaster pastries into my possession. Brad interrupted me before I could return for a lifetime supply of jarred banana peppers.

The candy aisle was a big mistake. I drafted behind Brad, clutching his coat while he used the noisy cart as a battering ram. His phone rang just as we'd managed to fight our way to the sea-salt caramel Ghirardelli chocolate. Glancing back at me, he noticed tears streaming down my face and yelled into the phone to our daughter Sydney to "Distract your mother" while he battled our way out of an aisle of White Walkers. "I'm calling it," he said as I de-escalated by the bologna.  I apologized profusely. I promised that I'd do better next time. Today was just a perfect storm of psychological triggers. Noisy cart. Crowded. Stock re-set. "Look," I said, pointing, "There aren't even any directional signs over the aisles. No wonder we couldn't find the raisins." Slowly wheeling the cart away, Brad began to head for check-out as I protested. "But we didn't get the glazed candied walnuts for our autumnal salad." Brad stopped and stared at my tear-stained face in disbelief. "You're telling me that you WANT to go back to produce?" I nodded. Sighing, he changed direction.

"Stay here," he told me, leaving me on the outskirts of this vegetative wasteland. He dove in, fighting the current of customers for my nuts. If ever there was a metaphor for my marriage, folks, there it is.
He returned with a selection for my inspection where we encountered yet another one of my adorable little idiosyncrasies: My inability to make a decision. I was paralyzed with indecisiveness. Glazed walnuts, almonds, and pecans smattered with dried pomegranate seeds? Cashews, almonds and cranberries? Pistachios, pine-nuts, and dried cherries? Brad immediately realized his mistake but it was too late. "Let's try process of elimination," he suggested. "Which one DON'T you want?" I struggled to think through my veil of vapidness. "You don't like cherries," I suddenly remembered. Brad tossed one bag back on the shelf. Slowly, I parred down the rest of my choices. "I don't know if you'd like pomegranate seeds," I vacillated. Brad suddenly remembered that eating dried pomegranate seeds was on his bucket list. There! Whew! We did it!

We finally made it back to the van where I dissolved in tears...repressed stress streaming down my face...When the storm passed, we sat there silently for a moment. "I'll do better next time," I vowed. "You know, thirty miles really isn't all that far out of our way," Brad told me, "It's actually a nice drive." I smiled. He so gets me.

When a car accident turns into an argument about parts of speech

"How was your day?" I casually asked my husband. A question I ask every day. "Fine," came his usual non-committal answer on the phone. When he picked me up later, I hurried to the van, the bitter wind rushing me along so I didn't notice anything until I was seated, wrestling with my seat-belt and wondering why Brad had hung ugly curtains in his vehicle.

"Did the airbags deploy?" I asked, staring as I took in the interior of the van, my eyes sweeping the dashboard coated in powder. I glared at Brad, taking a quick inventory of the man who had said his day was "fine." I'd hate to see an "okay" day. For goodness sake, I refuse to even consider what a "bad" day for Brad Mosiman looks like.

I leaped out and inspected the crumpled passenger side of the van. "Was everyone alright?" I asked. Brad shrugged, working to get my seat-belt fastened around me. "What about the other driver?" I persisted. "They drove off," Brad explained. I was furious! It was High Pony-Tail Girl all over again! I peppered Brad with questions. "Was the driver male or female? Did you get a make and model on the type of vehicle they were driving? What about a license plate number? A picture! Did you take a picture?!?" Justice...surely...would be done! Brad sighed. "All I saw were the air bags," he said. I paused. "What about surveillance cameras at the intersection? What about witnesses?" "Nobody stopped," Brad told me, "And once the police are all caught up on their current cases of burglary, assaults, drug busts, and such...I'm sure they'll start combing through grainy surveillance images to catch the culprit of this non-injurious hit-and-run."

I was fuming. What is WRONG with humanity? That driver didn't know that my husband wasn't hurt (or worse). To just drive away...to avoid cost...a ticket...any sense of moral accountability???

I called our daughters. "Did you hear about Daddy's t-bone?" I asked. I couldn't hear their response over Brad's laughter. "Isn't that what it's called?" I wondered, confused. Brad was incapable of maturely articulating an answer so Sydney reassured me that the term t-bone was accurate...just not accurately applied. I was not currently in the mood for a parts of speech meat lesson as my beloved had almost been de-boned in a fender-bender. Brad finally pulled himself together. "You used t-bone as a noun," he began, "whereas in an accident situation, the term is used as a verb." Was this really happening? Was I really sitting in a beat-up van, brushing aside flimsy airbag curtains to be given an ELA lesson? I stared out the window silently for a moment, pausing to thank God that this infuriating man was "fine." Brad nudged me. "So..." he said, smiling, "How was your day?"

What sort of transportation lands you in Denver for an 18-hour lay-over? An error plane!

Eighteen hours would have been a LOT of solitaire.

 The definition of being an adult, for me, is (a) always having money on you, (b) enjoying coffee, and (c) applying crucial important documents at appropriate times. Sigh. I will NEVER fulfill the needed criteria for proper adulting. I guess Savannah's driver's license test should have told me that.

But in a rare moment of maturity, I inadvertently stumbled onto a piece of information that might have messed up my Merry Christmas. I admire the "check-in early" people. I really do. But I am not one of them. When, the day before departure, my airline sent a thoughtful e-mail encouraging me to check-in, I barely resisted the impulse to hit delete. But for some reason (Picture me kissing my fingers, tapping my heart twice, and pointing up to The Man Upstairs), I opened the e-mail. Even MORE extraordinary...I READ it. And then almost hyperventilated. "Arrive in Denver Christmas Eve for an 18-hour layover to arrive in San Diego at 9 am on Christmas morning?!?!?" What?!?!? Eighteen hours???!!!

Airport inhibitions disappear after
awhile as I ignored my fellow
food court customers to position
myself under ceiling "art" to look like
I'm wearing a hat. 

Naturally, I called the airline. After waiting the usual exasperatingly long period of time designed to
make you give up, I got through to a woman with a marked Dothraki accent who assured me that nothing could be done. "Surely not..." I countered, inexplicably countering with a stiff British accent. Brad watched with interest at his perch by the pellet stove as my emotions underwent a terrifying metamorphosis. My voice squeaked, shook, and shivered. Thirty minutes later, I was offered the choice of cancelling my flight altogether or receiving a hundred dollar credit for my inconvenience.  "One hundred dollars that I will never use for me to sit in a Denver airport for 18 hours?" I asked incredulously, "Isn't that less than minimum wage?" Brad held up a paper reading $5.50 an hour. "And what makes you think that I would EVER use your airline again?" I paused and took a shuddering breath. Brad narrowed his eyes and leaned in to hear better as I hissed into the phone. "You have an important decision to make at this time," I told the airline representative, "We can continue and I will shout like crazy at you or you can get me a supervisor, preferably from Westeros, and I will yell at them." "Hold, please," she said (I think).

Sleepy...

Now well over an hour into an incredibly stressful phone call, I "suddenly" 😏 found myself with a better flight than before, getting in much earlier than I had intended which meant that I would be able to attend Christmas Eve services with my daughters. God's timing? Airline incompetence? Either way, I was relieved and satisfied with the results. I had to be assertive, persistent, and uncomfortably rude to get my way while responding to an industry that does not value me a customer but instead views me as cattle to be herded along and stuffed into cramped quarters for endless hours. Scratch that. The cattle in Wyoming County are treated much better than airline customers.  But in the end, would I have sat in a Denver airport for 18 hours? Of course. But not because that's what adults do. It's what moms do.