She's a Betty: My Gram

Growing up, my weekends were timed by my grandmother's visits.

On Saturday mornings, I was up at the ass-crack o' dawn--watching cartoons huddled on the floor in my Strawberry Shortcake sleeping bag. Sometimes, however, you could find me sitting at the head of the stairs with the dog in my Wonder Woman underoos waiting for my grandmother to arrive.

Once the front door opened, I was downstairs in a flash (if I was in the underoos, I was told to "put some clothes on as I would catch cold." I did so love Wonder Woman). I got a big hug from my grandmother who always smelled like Coty powder and the Windsong I gave her for Christmas--along with the outside cold that lingered on her wool coat.

"Hello, Katzelie, " she'd always say to me, 'let's get down to the nitty gritty."

The "nitty gritty" involved going down to her bedroom and watching her unpack all of her medications, which she kept in a ziplock bag.

Then the fun began--as only fun can begin to a nine-year old: Grandma had been to the Hostess store. Following the unloading of the medications began the unloading of enough treats and sugar to put the most hardened nutrionist into a diabetic coma.

(An aside: Oh--Ding Dong, oh Ho Ho--how I love thee.)

"Are 'they' still alseep?" my grandmother would ask, pointing to my parents' bedroom.

"Yep," I'd respond--thinking about all the ways Gram and I could fill the time.

"Let's play Bunco," Gram suggested--pulling a tablecloth to muffle the sound of the dice.

And so we did--we'd play Bunco, Crazy Eights, Poker...as I got older, we'd sit and talk. We'd play Texas Hold'em or Pinchole or Canasta.

We'd curl up and night and read our books. Grandma would talk about The War (and believe me, there's only one.) or The Depression (where I thought people were sad all the time.)

We'd dance together--my grandmother was a dancer who was fond of reporting: "I was out on Saturday nights, and I danced all 32 dances!" Her outfits hung like whispers in her closet.

The best gift that Gram could have given me was that of The Golden Girls.

"We're watching this," Gram told me one Saturday night, "it has Bea Arthur."

Well, I didn't know who Bea Arthur was, but Gram and I curled up that first Saturday night at 8:30--me resting a pillow on her shoulder--to watch the black-and-white on her nightstand.

And I fell in love. I thought Blanche glamorous and Dorothy smart. I couldn't wait for each episode!

I watched GG all the way towards its series end in 1991.

In 1993, my Ultimate Golden Girl left this world for another--where I know she's not only dancing all 32 dances--but teaching others how to do them--as well as keeping everyone in toothpaste and toilet paper (on sale).

But in introducing me to Dorothy, Blanche, Rose, and Sophia, my grandmother left me a gift--of herself. I have the Girls on Tivo and on DVD--and with one click--I'm right back there with the black-and-white (except now I get the humor). :)

Life has a funny way of working out. When both Estelle Getty and Bea Arthur passed on, I grieved.

I joined FB groups about the Girls--took quizzes about which GG I am: (Dorothy).

And then the funniest thing happened on the way to FaceBook: Betty White has made a resurgence.

Between movies with Sandra Bullock and an utmost-FAB superbowl commercial, our Miss Betty (84-years young) is back!

She has made the talk show rounds and will appear on SNL this Saturday! (You go, girl!)

She has played beer pong on Jimmy Fallon.

Was in the shower on Jay Leno.

And as my grandmother would say: "getting down to the nitty gritty." :)

I Heart You, Betty!

My grandmother would have loved this--we would have laughed with the television turned up high.

Love you Gram!!

My Mother, Myself

As I look towards getting older, there are many things I look forward to: a. getting to speak my mind fully and unselfconsciously to complete strangers without fear of repercussion (I am actively working on this), b. getting better looking by means fair or foul (i.e., Boxtox if need be), c. mandatory spa treatments to support letter b, and d. turning into my mother.

Because, you see, my mother--quite simply--rocks.

Now, I know other people say this of their mothers--and espouse their greatness--but in my mother's case, it is simply true.

Kinda like gravity.

The best part of being my mother's daughter is being her daughter as an adult. (Not that I still don't get maternal advice: don't talk to strangers, watch your purse, watch out for deer on the road--and after getting my wallet stolen, she's not taking any chances!). We have so much fun together--we laugh, we talk. We also have our secret mom/daughter language (sorry--no can tell).

Although we live close, our respective work schedules make it difficult to see each other often or regularly, we have what I like to refer to as the Weekly Phone Call, which may transpire something like this:

ME: (after shutting office door and using office phone, which offers better quality than my crappy phone) Hi, it's ME!

MOM: Hi ME! How is work?

ME: Fine.

MOM: How is Man?

ME: Fine.

MOM: How is LT? (Teddy for those of you not In the Know.)

ME: Fine. He's still old.

(abrupt change in coversation)

ME: I HAVE GOSSIP!!

MOM: What? What is it?

ME: (spilling forth gossip of the week)

MOM: That's good gossip.

ME: I know! (Because I'm nothing if not modest.) Do you have gossip?

MOM: Some. I was having issues with my wireless network. I called Tech Support, and they LOVED my network name!

ME: Oh yeah--what is it?

MOM: NO POACHING

Now, seriously, how can you not love a mom like that? She's tech-savvy and protects her bandwdith.

The best part about my mom is not about the big memories we've made together--but the small ones--and even some of those in difficult times.

Valentine's Day

As lame as it sounds, Valentine's Day is pretty important to girls--even though we can probably all agree that it's a commercialized holiday funded by Hallmark. And yet, when that day rolls around, we want some acknowledgment that someone out there loves us--albeit in the form of a Hallmark Greeting Card.

I am lucky. Having suffered several crappy VD memories over the years--namely, buying my own flowers at the grocery store--after bashing my head in on a lamp and requiring 28 stitches and some guy heckling me in the parking lot--I am happily ensconced with Man (who makes everyday special), and always lights up my day with flowers and chocolates on Valentine's Day.

Before Man, however, and even before my dad (who sent me my first flowers at age 14), there was my mom.

It was fourth grade (back in the day when you had to send valentines to every kid in the class--whether you liked them or not). I had walked in from school and up in the living room--sitting on the Queen Ann Table (from which I write this blog)--sat my Valentine's gift from my mom; a white teddy bear holding a heart that said 'Somebody Loves You," a box of chocolates, candy hearts, and a card.

I could not believe that all that was for me. It was the best feeling ever.

Plantation Project

I remember being so worried about this project for my fifth-grade history project--but no worries: Mom to the rescue. Mine was one of the best in class, and we had such fun working on it together.

A Night at The Worthington

Mom and I spent a night at The Worthington in downtown Fort Worth--being ladies on the town. :)

Ice Cream Sundaes on the Couch

After my parents separated, my mom and I spent an afternoon on the couch watching movies and eating ice cream. She brought me an outfit from The Limited, which I had (at least the leggings) until 2001.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name: Boston

In spite of all the sadness that had befallen us, Mom always wanted to make sure we made memories. We used her flight benefits to fly to Boston for the day. We went to Filene's Basement.

Freshman Year of College:

After the passing of my grandmother after I transferred back to UNT--in spite of the grief she felt about my grandmother--my mom was there. I remember how out-of-the-blue she showed up at my dorm room with a new outfit because she thought it might cheer me up.

Cruising

Mom always wanted us to having something to look foward to--so she planned a cruise for us upon my exit from grad school. We planned for months--fretting over wardrobes and pondering menus. :)

Brain Surgery

The worst thing about brain surgery is death. And that they have to shave your head. And that there aren't mandatory pedicures. The best thing about brain surgery is having your mother with you. And not just the hospital stay--but after. It never occurred to my mother that she wouldn't stay with me--even at the expense of other things going on. She was there--making smoothies, meals that I could eat, finding a pillow that I could sleep on, helping me bathe. But we talked--about life, about movies...sometimes we didn't talk at all. We just sat.

The best thing you can have your mother say at 30, "You're a lot easier to feed now than as a baby." :)

Moving to Minnesota

Moving to the midwest wasn't an easy decision--I was ready for a change and wanted to be where my mom was. After living in Chicagi, I got my job in MN.

And I emailed my mom with the words, "Hello Neighbor!"

That was the best day ever. Of course, Mom was there to help with everything.

Lessons Learned From My Mom:

1. Put the turkey in early on a low setting.
2. If the recipe calls for butter, use it.
3. Watch for deer.
4. Don't pet the deer.
5. Watch for you purse when you travel because if you lose your license, you're not coming home.
6. Wear sunscreen.
7. Use fabric softener as cream rinse.
8. Wed. is double-coupon day at Rainbow.
9. Heat up a cup of white vinegar in the microwave to help clean the insides.
10. I Love Lucy/ Golden Girls fixes all troubles.

To my mom: I love you!!

Bran and the Art of Automobile Maintenance

Man asks for keys.

Hand man keys.

Thank Man profusely when he offers to fix plates and change oil

Give Man plate and plate accroutrements.

Man affixes plate to car. Man uses drill.

Man asks about the tab (a sticker that is affixed to plate noting the year of expiration.)

Flush guiltily and remember that I accidentally ripped sticker and placed it on the paper.

Sticker won't come off.

Need new sticker.

Man gives me Man look.

Man changes oil! YAY MAN!!

Toyota makes changing oil in newer cars much more difficult.

Haters.

Man overcomes Toyota-laden adversity with only minor damage to self.

Man has removed offending oil change stickers from windshield.

Man informs me of NEW oil change mileage.

Tells me to write it down someplace SAFE.

Given the number of things I misplace, that could be problematic.

Hence this blog:

50,200 miles.

I Heart You, Man!

Songs of Innocence and Experience

Songs of Innocence

Music has always been a fundamental and visceral part of my life.

I ended my days in pre-school with Little River Band with my mother. I grew up playing classical piano with titles like "The Spider Dance," "Wishing Well", and "The Three B's."

(All arrangements of classical composers, of course.)

I listened to Kenny Rogers and the Beatles. I had a crush on Freddy Mercury--well, not really. My mom liked Queen, and I thought he was cool. Good enough for my mother, good enough for me.

I knew where the Lion Slept Tonight.

And then the 80s happened.

Illinois: 1983-1985

Something crazy happened in the 80s. I fell in love--with big hair, shoulder pads, anything fluorescent. I wore multiple socks paired with leggings.

I had Fun with Cyndi Lauper (so far as to dress up as her for a fifth-grade Halloween costume). I Took On Ah-Ha. Got Crazy with Prince...and hell...even danced to "Darling Nikki" before I even knew that you could actually strip to it.

(A small caveat to '80s music, a college friend actually had to explain the song "Sugar Walls" to me. As in "Come inside my sugar walls." I wasn't quite clear on metaphor at that point. Thank you.)

Seven and the Ragged Tiger

Every young girl has her first love affair. I had mine early. At age ten. With Duran Duran. (To this day, I know that DD--along with Neil Diamond--(Neil, why haven't you answered my Tweet?)--they KNOW that I love them best.

My dad took me to the Seven and the Ragged Tiger concert--where upon I made him buy me a t-shirt and a program (that--to this day--if I had any sense, I would have saved).

(My dad was good like that with concerts: Prince, David Bowie, Duran Duran...and my all-time most interesting experience with my dad: The Cars.)

Me at Cars Concert (wrinkling my nose in distaste): "DADDY, what is that SMELL?"

My Dad at Cars Concert (wearing the Oh-Holy-Crap Look of Dads everywhere--as he has just spotted the guys in front of us smoking a doobie.): "Nothing, honey. Just a little mildew. Let's move over here."

So, there we were at the Seven concert--the best time ever. And me--all the way home--explaining the musical nuances of the group based on the pictures and bio information in the concert program.

My fourth-grade (fifth, maybe?) math skills suffered, but who cared? I discovered MTV.

(I'd like to mention that I did go on to graduate school--so I don't consider 1984 a waste at all.)

Texas--1986-1989: Bangin' on a Big Thing

Tam and I met working on a Theatre Arts project in 8th-grade. We were rehearsing a scene from Butterflies Are Free (not to be confused with The Butterfly Effect for all you hipsters.) We rehearsed at my house passionately--completely convinced of our own talent. I am certain that with our skill--not only were the butterflies freed--but we managed to help out a few bug-like species along the way--like caterpillars!

Every rehearsal ended in the same, satisfying way: "No, Mrs. Baker! You go home, you go home!"

One day after rehearsal, Tam and I were looking at my tape collection. (Yes, tapes. The things after eight-tracks--and I won't even comment on the Greatness of Vinyl. The things before CDs and iTunes.)

"You have Duran Duran?!" she enthused. "Me too!"

2D Love

Once Tam and I discovered our mutual love of The Band--we were an unstoppable force. We analyzed the lyrics of Notorious and wondered What They Really Meant. (Thank you to Duran Duran, by the way, to getting me to an early start in literary criticism. You really wouldn't believe how this served me well in graduate school.)

(And Simon, Simon, Simon, I have to say: please don't pull a Mick. For 25 years, I have had the lyrics wrong to a particular verse in "Of Crime and Passion. I didn't know exactly WHAT you were saying, but it wasn't this: Bride of wire-how disguise so easily cracked /Saw your heart turn spade/ This orchid's turned to black.

That...that is beautiful if only you could understand it. Please enunciate. E-NUNC-I-A-TION--say it like Rod. It's no good if we can't understand you.)

But I digress: back to Tam and me.

We pondered anxiously over magazine articles about band members, significant others, and what that meant For Us.

"Supermodels!" we'd scoff at each other."What do they have that we don't have?"

(Aside from being at least the age of consent, what did they have to offer that Tam and I--in our fourteen-year old state--could not? )

Really, where do I begin? Us vs. Heidi Klum? Us vs. Heidi Klum? You decide.

There was nothing else for it. We'd have to become models.

Except that at 5'4" and 5'2" respectively, the only models we'd make were miniature ones. And let's face it, although Tam was lovely with her long blonde hair and blue eyes, I was still on the Adolescent Train to Awkward--a train, that I might add, kept on going and going and going. So, the only modeling I would ever be doing any time soon would be the Before picture in a plastic surgeon's office (or a good orthodontist).

And then the Unexpected Happened:

Duran Duran cane to the Tarrant County Convention Center!

We'd agonized for weeks. What to wear. Hair. Make-up. Seats. How close could we get. Could we meet the band. Get backstage.

Then the Day Arrived!

Tam and I--in all of our school-girl (and eight-pounds of make-up) finery waited for my dad to get home from work, so my parents could take us to the concert. He was late. Dear God, he was late! How could we worship at the Altar of Nick if he was late?

We paced. We stewed. I had a very interesting habit of folding paper when I got nervous, so a piece of paper was folded tightly in my sweaty palm. Then he arrived home, and we were on our way!

I don't think the car even came to a complete stop as Tam and I hauled ass into the Convention Center. We visited with some other girls our age and found that The Band had been signing autographs earlier. Jealousy and disappointment raced through us. But no problem. We were looking good, and we had a plan.

We bought a couple of posters and found our seats--which were--which were--no fucking way--on floor level! How on earth had our parents managed that? Granted, it was the very last row, but the Convention Center was not that big, and we were sharing precious air space with Simon, Nick, and John. (By the by, this proves in my mind--that God does not only exist, but he is a Duran Duran fan. Thank you God.)

This is what the concert sounded like: "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

With some music in the background.

"Ohmygod!" Tam shrieked and grabbed my arm. "It's Simon! He's hurt his leg." Sure enough, it looked as though Simon had managed to catch his leg on something.

Was he okay? Did he need medical attention? Or a limb? Because, between the two of us, we had four. He seemed to be okay, so we enjoyed the rest of the show.

We stood on our chairs, eager to get a better view of the stage. We berated the background dancers: we could do soooo much better.

And then the concert ended.

(It was like the same feeling that you get at a club when they have the Last Dance--via Donna Summer. The lights come on...and the hazy, drunken glow you feel: GONE! Instead you're left with a drunk guy who won't leave you alone, your cutest shoes are now encased in Some Kind of Gross, and you're faced with Utter Disappointment.)

Once the lights came on.

Luckily, Tam and I had very little time to be down because we had to take care of some Very Serious Business. We had to get back stage and meet The Band.

We quickly approached the stage with the other sycophants. A world-weary bouncer/security guy fielded questions. "Is Nick's synthesizer a...? "Is there any possible chance...backstage?"

Tam and I managed to worm our way to the front (YAY Us! Never underestimate two fab girls with a mission). Tam and I looked at each other.

"Hello," I said to the bouncer, "we'd like to go backstage, please."

"Is your name on the list? Are you a friend of the band?"

"Um," I replied, "Well, no, but..."

"It's got to be cleared with the band."

"But--"

Tam and I looked at each other: "Well, see, it's like this: we are leaving tomorrow for Germany. My dad's in the military, and I don't know when I'll get this chance again. Please?"

"It's got to be cleared with the band."

Dejected, Tam and I went outside for my parents. We lamented over our lack of ability to get back stage. We were so close. We sat there on the curb, looking at our posters.

"Wait a minute," Tam said, "I think I have an idea."

"What is it?"

"Well, no one doesn't actually know that we didn't meet the band."

"Right...so?"

"What if we act like we did?"

I mulled this idea over. I looked at her. With the sudden Duran Duran Fan Mind Meld, an idea was formed. We'd autograph each other's posters. I'd sign hers, and she'd sign mine. We deftly signed our posted with signatures as illegible as possible.

I saw my parents' car pull up.

"This is it! I told her. "Show time!"

We climbed into the back seat: "AHHH!! OHMYGOD! WE GOT TO MEET DURAN DURAN! AHHHHH! WE GOT TO GO BACKSTAGE! THEY SIGNED OUR POSTERS! AHHHHHHH!"

"Really?" my mom asked, "why, that's--"

"AHHHH! AHHHH! AHHH!!!"

"Wait a minute."

I could feel my mother eyes narrow from the front seat.

"Let me see those posters." (Let me comment on the fact that my mother is no amateur when it comes meeting rock stars. She's met The Beatles and The Stones.)

(Paul, Paul, Paul, bless your heart, why, WHY, did you have to go marry that Heather Mills? WHY?)

Admitting defeat, Tam and I hand over the posters. "You girls. Brandy Michelle, I'd recognize that handwriting anywhere."

We were flat-ass busted.

Nuts.

Songs of Experience

Texas: 1993

"Hey, it's me," Tam's voice is on the other end of the phone.

"What's up?"

"Not much. Just busy." I had just finished up my first year of--what was soon to be--a waist-length deep career in Academia. And pain and loss had found me. For a young girl, I felt old.

Tam and I had kept in touch--been good friends--we had both been indoctrinated rather young into the Life Isn't Fucking Fair Club.

"Duran Duran is coming to Starplex. Do you want to go?" she blurted. "I have someone who could take us."

Did I want to go? Did I want to go? Of course, I wanted to go.

"I can get the tickets," Tam adds.

She did and we went.

Sitting in the backseat of her friend's car, Tam and I share a lipstick I discovered. It is a purple-ly color, and I always feel pretty when I wear it.

Tam and I find our seats in the pavilion. The air is thick with excitement. Tam and I grin at each other. The concert begins. We scream. We yell. We dance.

"YAAAAY Nick!" we yell, our voices drowned out by sound.

"YAY Nick!" a group of guys behind us yells.

We turn around. "You like Nick?" we ask the guys, "Us, too!"
Which started our new Fast Friendship with the guys behind us.

I feel carefree again.

********************************************************

Tam gave me Duran Duran sheet music for my fifteenth birthday. To this day, I keep it next to Mozart. Naturally.

38,000 Feet: Bless Your heart, Bitch

I considered being a flight attendant for about five minutes.

It was between the summer of college and graduate school. A girlfriend was thinking of applying, and I thought, "Why not?"

I'd get to see the world, make a little extra cash, date a pilot...and best of all, get my hair done at the American Airlines Flight Attendant Academy (still a dream of mine), AND get flight benefits of my very own to dole out at my leisure to people who were nice to me.

Given that my mother was an employee and that I had been non-revving for years (airline speak for flying on passes), I was a natural. I knew all of the airport codes and all of the flight attendant lingo by heart. I could rock that speech about "returning your seats to their full and upright position. Be careful about opening overhead bins as articles may have shifted during flight."

(Apparently, I can still rock it.)

I ran the idea past the Guiding Force in my Life and the Keeper of my Best Interests at Heart: my mother.

Mom: I don't think that would be the best fit for you...you would have to serve drinks, and people can be kind of a pain sometimes.

(My mother is so nice--that is her way of saying, "People are complete assholes and should crawl under a rock and not expose themselves to anyone. Ever.)

Mom: And...you know...you wouldn't be able to get...lippy with people.

(Lippy was a very common adjective for me growing up...as in "Don't be lippy." Or, "Don't get flip." I had a tendency towards sarcasm. And although I was (and am) kind-hearted, if I felt that I was being maligned, I would get vocal about it. In other words, at 38,000 feet, I couldn't get all Julia from Designing Women on someone's ass.)

Me: (shame-faced) You're right.

Growing Up in the One-World Alliance

Mom took a job with American Airlines in 1987.

Our first pass--a "Welcome Aboard" pass brought us to the lovely den-of-iniquity: Las Vegas (I Heart Vegas). We were going for the day.

I imagined school on Monday--people inquiring about my weekend, and me tossing (my really awful '80s-feathered) hair and stating rather nonchalantly, "Oh, I went to Vegas for the day."

(Now--let me interject here--and offer advice to teenagers the world over. Consider this a gift. Learn from my mistake. Don't do know what I just did--you look, sound, and act like a total douchebag.)

(Having said that, if I acted that way to you...it was because you were mean to me. I had to engage in some semblance of superiority. Sorry about that. But not so sorry that I wouldn't do it again.)

Growing up in the Alliance meant I had lots of opportunities that many kids my age (or anyone else on the planet) may not have had. I traveled overseas. I flew first class. I, along with the other well-dressed non-revs, waited by the gate hoping to get a seat on an oversold flight.

I met all kinds of people, witnessed a food fight on a DC-10, and saw a belligerent jackass bully a gate agent in Chicago.

It was a study in human nature.

Adulthood in the Alliance

It is funny...as a non-rev, you have to represent the airline (rightfully so, in my opinion...you're flying on their dime).

We have different dresses for "first" and "coach." Often, it's easier to "dress" for first in case coach is full. That way, you have a seat. (I have seen a family getting kicked off a plane in Frankfurt for wearing jeans in First.)

And I love the process--love looking crisp and cool in my outfit--envying the revenue passengers, to some degree, because they could dress how they wanted--but also knowing that hell would freeze over before I would ever display toenails that looked like that!

(Seriously, people. If I can see toe jam, cover it up.)

Adulthood in the Alliance: Post 9/11

I hate to travel. Now, it is degrading to me.

Air travel used to be a luxury--a sign of comfort, of security, of privilege. People dressed for it. It was not a means-to-an-end but an experience.

The last person to meet me at the gate was my dad. It was April 2001.

Now there is no one.

The world has changed and air travel (obviously) with it. We have engaged measures of security to ensure our livelihood.

And, at first, we went along with it.

Didn't we?

We succumbed to having our luggage searched, our shoes searched, and in my case, my breakfast from Au Bon Pain searched.

We brought in the Army...and we brought in the TSA.

Customer Service, National Security, and Fuck You (Yes, I said Fuck.)

Working in the airline industry sucks, in my opinion. After I got over my brief flight-o-fancy about being an air hostess in the sky, I began to come around to my mother's way of thinking. People can be awful and treat you like shit--especially in the customer-service arena.

(And lest you be all self-righteous, who hasn't gone all Rambo on the Comcast Guy?)

So, I treat others around me with respect. I am not mean. I dislike deliberate cruelty (especially among adults). I try to treat others as they would like to be treated.

I sometimes have a Julia flare-up...but only if it concerns me or mine. And I do recognize--that for a young Grace kelly--I have a terrible potty mouth. But, for the most part, I pick my battles and swallow my words.

So, I get that Gate Agents/Ticket Agents/Security Agents see the worst in people. And may act accordingly.

And I have to say--in my 23 years of travel--I have only seen the best in these people (except at O'Hare).

One Gate Agent had to escort me off an airplane in Minneapolis. The flight was full--he managed to snag me a seat--and there I was cocooned in snug American Airlines comfort...when the jackass who bought the seat showed up at the last minute.

The GA came aboard th airplane, apologized, and told me we had to go.

I grabbed my luggage and followed him off the airplane. I am choked up.

"Those people think I'm a TERRORIST!" I cry.

"No, they don't," he reassured me, "I promise."

I called my mom--crying about my humiliation and to come get me.

That GA got me home to Dallas the next day. First Class.

I always make it a point when I'm at the airport to stop in and say hi.

March 2009

I have not traveled in a coon's age. I had been home in 2008 and traveled on business in 2007.

So it has been a while.

I haven't forgotten the drill. Laptop out. Ziplock bags full of toiletries. Shoes off.

I am looking extremely fetching today. Dressed in head-to-toe-Ann Taylor with matching jewelry. I admire how I had coupled two rings on one finger: my grandmother's wedding band and a ring of my mother's--the sapphires against diamond nestling together.

I feel good. I feel confident. I am non-rev worthy.

And I am heartbreakingly sad--as I am going home to Dallas for a funeral. My whole goal is to get on this airplane.

Going through security, I notice a spilled drink on the floor.

My shoes are off, and I edge away from it.

I tip-toe across towards security. I am a bit leery about this floor at best.

I reach out to hand my boarding pass when I am met with resistance by someone resembling Jabba the Hut.

Jabba: "YOU!" I need you to stand back!"

Me: "Um...okay." Wondering if there is something aside from a precious metal gracing my life form.

I creep forward again.

Jabba: YOU need to WALK through LIKE a NORMAL HUMAN BEING!

I realized what she was talking about--me sidling about on my toes--trying to avoid the spilled liquid--along with other people's germs--not only made me a suspect somehow--it made her a bully.

Me: I'm sorry--but there's a spilled--

Jabba: I THOUGHT I told you to STAND BACK and WALK THROUGH HERE LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING.

I walked through like a "normal human being." Whatever that meant.

I suppressed my inner Julia but did a fine job of thanking the other TSA officers loudly and profusely.

I grabbed my luggage and put on my shoes and fumed.

How dare I be treated that way? Should I do something? Not do something?

As a guest of the airline, I pretty much have to keep sweet.

What recourse do I have?

I need to buy toothpaste--since apparently, the tube I own at home is verboten.

I make my way to the convenience store to buy toothpaste.

I see a TSA guy there.

But wait--TSA is government, not airline.

Julia bubbles to the surface.

I march over and tap that TSA guy on the shoulder.

"EXCUSE ME, ARE YOU TSA?"

The child, who barely has had time to grow pubes, nods.

"I HAVE A COMPLAINT TO MAKE. THAT WOMAN WHO WORKS DOWN AT ENTRANCE ONE?" I give him a rundown of the scenario. "LET ME TELL YOU--NO ONE--NO ONE--DESERVES TO BE SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT! I AM A HUMAN BEING. A PERSON. WITH FEELINGS. I AM GOING TO DALLAS FOR A FUNERAL. AND LET ME TELL YOU: THIS IS THE LAST THING I NEEDED TODAY!!!!!!!!"

He asked if I wanted to talk to security.

"NO! I HAVE TO GO--BUT I WILL SAY THIS, I APPRECIATE THE WORK YOU DO (not really), BUT THERE ARE A LOT OF BAD PEOPLE OUT THERE! AND I AM NOT ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE!"

I called Man once landing in Dallas to see if I could sue for someone being a Complete Fucking Idiot. I informed him I had been egregiously insulted.

I called my mom--who was VERY PISSED on my behalf. She told me to call security next time.

So...Jabba the Fucking Hut in MSP Airport, Door Number One: this is my message to you--

Contrary to popular belief, you do not make my flying experience a safer one.

Quite fucking frankly, sugar, you're not that smart.

If you were, you'd be doing something else.

It took a lot of planning to fly a couple of airplanes into a building--thus causing mass destruction and loss of life.

I don't think you and your X-ray machines or you lack of mental capability can top that.

So, I will say this:

Should I ever encounter your ugly, disrespectful mug again and you ever treat m me like that again, you'd best hope your soul belongs to Jesus 'cause your ass belongs to me.

Or, as we like to say in the south, "Bless your heart."

Bitch.

Officer Friendly and The Warning Ticket: Or...a Missive on Getting Pulled Over...Yet Again

Officer Friendly

When I was in third grade, Officer Friendly came to our classroom to lecture us on "Stranger Danger." I was more of a fan of MacGruff the Crime Dog and Smokey the Bear--but hey, our classroom had its very own Officer Friendly: complete with the outfit and everything. Officer Friendly also went on to explain about how stealing and how taking things from other people was wrong. I sank lower and lower into my child-size, third-grade seat

Unwittingly, he hurled me into the abyss of a moral and ethical crisis that still lingers with me. Because I was a thief--a stealer of someone else's property. I stole a candy from Brach's--an orange slice, to be exact--and surreptitiously consumed it while sitting on the bench of the upright piano in our living room. (Since then, I have read the sign that says "Samples: Five Cents." That helped. Sometimes I give a quarter.)

Suffice it to say, my life of crime was rather short--age eight, but my fear of the police officer remains. They have the car with the intimidating lights, the outfit, the scary sunglasses...and they have GUNS! 'Nuff said.

(One time I caught a police officer checking me out in a grocery store--not like in "I-want-to arrest-you-and-haul-your-ass-to jail" kind of way but in a "I-really-think-you're-cute" kind of way. I avoided eye contact and left the premises immediately.)

Car and Driver: Why I Really Need to Start Reading Auto Quarterly or at least the Car Manual

I know nothing about cars--admittedly, I am the Stereotype.

Cars work like magic--you put the key in the thingie, turn it to the right...and voila--it turns on. You put the thing to D, put your foot on the gas pedal...and you're off. My car has leather and an air-freshener. I am happy. It has a nice sound system with a fab six-disc CD player. I am happy. It's a pretty color.

Yes, I am the Stereotype.

(I used to have my oil changed at the Jiffy Lube in Irving, Texas--where they guy wouldn't let me pull my car into the garage after I grossly miscalculated distance. It was documented in my file and everything.)

You want to talk about literary theory? I'm your girl. Austen? Ditto. Grammar and style? Let's have a little confab.

But if you start mentioning things like pistons or transmissions or....gosh...a spark plug. No clue. At all. (And, really, I am okay with that. Some things just don't interest me. As much as I'd like to be Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny, I have enough girlfriends who are car people--they can out- Marisa Marisa.)

Sigh...I need an oil change.

My Experiences with the Officers Of the Law: Getting Pulled over Texas-Style

Pantego, Texas 2003

I didn't know much about the small town of Pantego--it was a means-to-an-end to the get to the highway, so I could get to my job in Fort Worth. The stretch of road leading to I-20 was laden with school zones and known to be a recognized speed-trap. For reasons, I can't remember, I had to leave work early, got on the highway, exited to the road that would take me to home. Apparently, I'd hit the "school zone" with no flashing lights--as soon as I realized that's where I was, I slowed down.

Apparently, not soon enough: the tell-tale flashing lights behind me indicated that. I was being pulled over! I pulled into the exit of a school just letting out (yep, that's me!) and contemplated my fate--gathering my driver's license and insurance, I wondered: Alcatraz, Sing-Sing, Huntsville?

The office swaggered over. I rolled down the window.

Big Scary Guy: "M'am, do you realize you JUST pulled into an exit area for a school?"

Me: "Um, Well, This is the first time I've been pulled over, and I didn't know what to do."

Big Scary Guy: "Do you know how fast you were going?"

Me: "Um. Well, I was going the speed limit--but the lights weren't flashing...and then I saw them and slowed down."

Big Scary Guy: "Is your address current? It doesn't match your insurance." Me: "Well, I just got married--still getting things settled."

Big Scary Guy: "Oh, really...when?"

Me: "Um...last year? In May." (Note to everyone out there: please...if ever asked this question...lie. Don't be like me. I get so nervous in these situations....I'd probably confess to have ordered the killing of Hoffa.)

Big Scary Guy: "Why haven't you changed your name?"

Me: "Um."

Big Scary Sexist Guy: "I'm writing you a citation for the school zone and lack of name change."

He takes care of business and swaggers back to his ve-hi-cle. (Another note: there is no legal reason to change your name upon being married...and yet...while in traffic court, I was asked that very thing by the judge (an old, nice man actually). Paying the fine sucked...defensive driving on DVD sucked...but traffic court rocked. I observed everyone.)

My Experiences with the Officers Of the Law: Getting Pulled over Texas-Style: II

Somehow when I bought my shiny-new Toyota, it failed to come with a shiny new front license plate on the front of my shiny, new car. (It did, however, come equipped with a Notorious B.I.G. CD that one of the detailers left. Thank you, my friend.)

Now, having a healthy respect for the aesthetic, I didn't really WANT a front plate on my car. It ruined the look.

Apparently, law and car fashion didn't co-exist reasonably.

I was driving to work--the traffic on 20 was flowing smoothly. I was listening to some Janis on my CD player--driving the speed limit--enjoying spring in Texas...when...I see those same flashing lights behind me. Damn, damn, damn, and damn, I'm on the highway. Where do I go?

Luckily, the officer has an answer as evidenced by the vocal sounds emanating from his car: "Please pull over immediately."

Hmmm...what did I do? I got speaker action.

This speaker action had me exiting the highway on the seedier side of Fort Worth. (It is certainly NOT the softer side of Sears.)

Big Scary State Trooper: "Do you know why I pulled you over?"

Me: (Let's dispense with the rhetorical questions...as you're about to tell me why.)

Big Scary State Trooper: "You don't have a front license plate!!!!"

(We have serial killers, Craigslist Killers, and really hateful people out there. Just sayin'.)

Me: "Um."

(Yes, I'm linguistically gifted.)

Me (again): (Inspiration struck--I am, after all, a Lifetime Thespian Member) "My husband was supposed to take care of that!" (I gave him the smirk of "whaddaya gonna do?" ) He obliged and wrote me a warning.

Interlude

People wax poetic about the "I'll-think-about-it tomorrow" Scarlett O'Hara. Her moxie. Her curtains. Her 17-inch waistline. (I appreciate the pop culture, but alas, Ms. O'Hara is fiction.)

And yet...I respect this fictional minx. She can "think about it tomorrow." I can beat that girl to the punch. Quite frankly, I don't have an end date: next week, next month, even next year will do.

I may procrastinate, but I'm pretty.

Minnesota: Three Times in a Year, Seriously: 2007-Present

Okay, granted, I am not great at taking care of important things. Like my MN license or plates. But I'd spent a brief time in Chicago that didn't work for me. And I clung to my Texas roots like a fly to flypaper.

Minnesota was new to me, but I was so glad to be here. Minnesota had my mom (YAY me!). (I know other people have great moms, but I am such a fan of mine.)

Something happened when I moved here. I fit in.


Somehow in the course of my existence (Pick-a-mix candy aside), I had gotten lucky. Mama was there with our coupon-sharing sessions...I made friends. I had a good job. And then I met Man.

Man is now my boyfriend--who happens to be an attorney. I love asking Man questions. About the Magna Carta. About Habeus Corpus. About whether I can sue someone for being an asshole. Or having bad hair. Mainly, I love just having Man around. He crinkles his brow before answering questions. I love tucking my head into his shoulder--smelling the bleach of his shirt. 'You smell like MAN, " I tell him. Hence, the name.

During our initial courtship, Man had discovered my Scarlett tendencies. I was always running late--and casually mentioned to Man the State of the Union regarding my tires as related to Minnesota driving (bad, bad, and more bad). Finally, one day, Man checked my tires.

"Sweetness?" Man called to me while hooking very important-looking things up to my tires, 'Do you ever check your tire pressure?"

"Tire Pressure?" I gave him the same look I give my dentist when he asks me if I floss. "No."

Man did his Man thing by checking this and that...and muttering to himself. Once he was done, he looked at me and said, 'Sweetness, these tires need to be replaced immediately. They're cracked and worn. In the meantime, I'll fill up your tires. No wonder you were sliding. I don't feel safe with you driving."

Man looked concerned. I cried. I wasn't used to having someone look out for me. To make sure my tires worked. That I was safe. Man not only smelled good; he rocked. I vowed to take care the tire situation that week.

It's just...well... I was busy with work and had a hair appt. that Thursday. (My tires may have been crap--but my hair looked good.)

I called Man after my appt--giggling about the state of my hair and my need to stop at Chipotle. As I was driving home, we continued our discussion. I saw the flashing lights behind me. The car in front of me stopped--as did I. "OH, fuck," I told Man, "I'm being pulled over. I'll call you back."

Minnesota's Finest came up...examined the car in front of me...came back and asked me, "Is there a man in your car?" I took a good cursory look around--I had a large UPS box in the back--and the best I could determine--that was nary a man to be had.

"No," I told him. He went back to his ve-hi-cle doing whatever it is that they do.

He came back out...and we essentially had the Minnesota version of a Come-to-Jesus: him asking me I'd be driving on MN roads all this time illegally. Gave me a warning ticket-stating that they saw an out-of-state license plate leaving the spa. (Um...yes. God Bless Texas!)

I got a warning ticket. I got new tires, a new license, and new registration the next day.

February of this year.

I am driving to work listening to "I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked." (I'm lucky to have such cool co-workers with fab taste in music.). I take a big slurp out of my Diet Coke can...when I AGAIN see the flashing lights behind me: I look around my car--tail light? Diet Coke abuse? I pull over.

As I see the 19-year old get out of the car, I have a Cougar moment. I check my makeup in the mirror--and am wearing none. Not even lipstick. His Boy-Smiley Self comes to my window and says, 'HEY, do you know your tabs are expired?" "Tabs, tabs--what are tabs? OH--he means tags!")

BSS: "They expired last month."

Me: Really? (Note to man-child: people DIE every day--and you're worried about a fucking sticker on a license plate!)

Me: Thanks! Will take care of it. And I do.

May of this year.

I am no saint--I try to fly right-with the occasional lapse in judgement. Scarlett is still a constant companion--I still procrastinate...and she's there taunting me with those fucking curtains. Cow.

Today, I am running to Wal-mart for essentials: vitamin water, Sprite, and light bulbs. My house is dark and I have been queasy.

I turn onto the residential street to home--listening to Mick--talking about buying insta-cakes and frozen steaks (a concept that I could get behind, BTW) when I see the shimmery, shiney lights of a blue-and-white (SUV! natch) behind me. My brain casts a quick once-over around me: no Coke, check. No meth, check. Maybe it's the vitamin water. WAIT--maybe I had been speeding!! But no, I had not. I pulled over--running my front tire into the curb--pretty much having an internal version of a meltdown.

The Minnesota version of Barnie Fife raps on my window. I roll it down. "Hi. Do you know why I pulled you over?" (Note: No...am scared...I need an oil change...and you'll send me up the river next week.)

BF: "Do you have a front Minnesota license plate?" (ooo, ooo!! I had a question I could answer!)

Me: "Yes! It's in my briefcase!"

BF: Well, Minnesota law requires a front plate. (Deja Texas, anyone?) (At this point, I'm having a Man Flashback--where Man has told me that license plates on the front of my ve-hi-cle are a good idea.) Really, what ends up happening is my version of a meltdown--I take Barney down the path of my brief marriage and purchase of said ve-hi-cle. Etc., etc.

Barney seems to be a pretty good sport and very nice--perhaps it's the shaking of my hands? Then he does the unthinkable and asks for my license--which at this point is intimately ensconsced with other plastic spending forms in my wallet. "Sorry!" I wheeze and shake, "This just scares me."

I love my new fast-fast friend, Barney. He waits patiently and says, "it's okay. We're all friends here--take your time. I'm mainly worried about the wind outside carrying me away." (Rightfully so.)

I shakily dig through my wallet and had Barney my license. He purues my license and then takes a look at my windows. He asks when I bought the car: "2003!" I chriped, proudly--leaving out the ex-husband, awful financing situation.

Barney: Did you have tinting put in your windows since then?

What?! ME! I looked at Barney as though he had three heads: "No, sir. I bought the car this way." Apparently--like in hot sauce, there is a difference. There are Minnesota-tinted windows. And the rest of the world. (Given that it's ash-gray eight months out of the year here, I can see his point. Perhaps I don't need as much tint.)

But still. Tinting? Really?

I have been pulled over three times in one year--and I have avoided any kind of ticket or fine. And while I am thankful, I am irritated. Because what I would like to say is: "Please, PLEASE who fucking cares about the tint on my windows!? Toyota didn't.

Please leave me and my vitamin water-drinking, front-license-plate -eschewing-posse ALONE. Until we start making meth in the back seats of our sedans and selling it to the world....please! Go concentrate on the bad guys of which I am not one!