In an effort to prove to you that I still exist even if I haven’t posted since January 20 (thanks for pointing that out, pianorox), I give you this photo of what Jack and Quinn would look like if they were the regular boozehounds at your local bar.
I recently took an extremely quick fly-out-Friday-evening/come-back-Sunday-afternoon cross-country trip. My flights and airport experiences may have taken place over a short period of time, but they were no less educational for their swiftness.
Because I’m a helper, I’m going to compile those lessons into a helpful little document for you.
Scenario: You have only 45 minutes to catch your connecting flight and have no idea how far away your arriving plane will be from your departing plane. You are concerned that they will be in different terminals, or possibly different airports.
How to handle it: Flat out denial. Assume that both gates will be right next to each other. Be pleasantly surprised when they are. Feel sad when the second flight is delayed and you’ve wasted that sweet, short trip from gate B7 to B2.
Scenario: You have scheduled a flight that lands late enough at night for your airport pick-up to be annoyingly late. You then watch your connecting flight be late, making your late-evening pickup a late-night pickup.
How to handle it: Send an apologetic text to the kind people who are planning to pick you up. Start with, “Oh noes!” and end with, “Can you take a nap in the cell phone parking lot?” Then go buy yourself a lot of cookies to make yourself feel better. How the people picking you up make themselves feel better is their business.
Scenario: The (cookieless) people giving you a ride can’t find their way out of the airport area.
How to handle it: Sit quietly in the backseat of the car as the knowledge that it is too fucking late and too fucking dark to find the freeway slowly permeates the car. Try to be as unobtrusive as possible, which is difficult considering you are the reason for the entire misbegotten journey.
Scenario: On the return trip, your airport buddy wants to leave for the airport sixteen hours ahead of time “just in case something happens.”
How to handle it: Mock her mercilessly. If, against all odds, there is a long-enough freeway backup on your way to the airport that her 16-hour time cushion becomes necessary, eat every single one of your words. Prepare yourself for the inevitable telling and retelling (and retelling) of this story whenever she wants to go to the airport again. Forever. Damn you, semi truck that blocked ALL FOUR LANES OF THE FREEWAY.
Scenario: You’ve shared a ride to the teeny tiny Ontario airport with someone who has a 12:40 flight. You have a 4:40 flight.
How to handle it: See if you can patronize every store in the airport. Start at one end and buy a burrito for lunch. Walk aaaaaaaalllll the way to the other end to find the bathroom. Walk back to the other side to buy a bottle of water to take on the plane. Return to the restaurant you saw by the bathroom that offered free refills on fountain sodas. Sit in that restaurant, drink all the soda, and read an entire book. Saunter back past the burrito place to find a different bathroom and, eventually, your gate.
Scenario: No one on your flight seems to think “Bring your roller bags and duffel bags to the counter for a yellow valet ticket so we can check it during the flight because it’s a small plane and your luggage will not fit in the overhead compartment,” applies to them.
How to handle it: Watch (with your yellow valet ticket firmly attached to your bag) as passenger after passenger tries to take their roller bags and duffel bags onto the plane with them. Feel slightly superior for being a reasonable person.
Scenario: On your first flight into Phoenix, the burly, leg-twitchy man sitting next to you turns to you and asks, “Will the plane bounce a lot when it lands? I haven’t flown in a long time and I’m really nervous.”
How to handle it: This guy is reaching out for help. You are going to have to, oh god, chat with him. Assume that you’re supposed to calm him down by distracting him with small talk. Wrack your brain for anything to talk about that doesn’t involve a plane crash, which is, dammit, the only thing you can think about anymore. Ask him what he does for a living. If he tells you that he is a financial advisor, realize that you have ZERO follow up questions about such a career. Cover topics like, “How many kids do you have?” and “No, Baltimore is more than a two-hour flight from Phoenix,” and “Yeah, I actually do think it matters if you’re not wearing your seatbelt when you land and if you’re afraid of crashing, why aren’t you wearing it already?” Eventually land safely.
Scenario: Your flight landed late. It is 7:10. Your connecting flight starts to board at 7:10. You REALLY want to get to the bathroom before you board your plane, but your gate-checked bag hasn’t yet arrived on the jetway.
How to handle it: Clutch your yellow valet ticket as you start to shriek, “YOUR STUPID RULES DON’T APPLY TO MEEEEEE!” Contemplate elbowing your way to the front of line as you loudly explain, “No, you don’t understand. See, *I* have a flight to catch.” Thank the good lord when (1) your bag is one of the first brought to the jetway and (2) your bag is bright orange so you can see from the back of the line that your bag is one of the first brought to the jetway. Once you get your bag, run to the bathroom and speed pee.
Scenario: You bought a cheeseburger in California. You want to eat it over Nebraska. How do you do so without succumbing to the airplane food awkwardness of eating food that no one else has?
How to handle it: Make a three-quarters turn toward the window and snarf the burger. Probably spill ketchup on yourself. Again, feel vaguely superior for having thought far enough ahead to buy that food in California.
Scenario: You drank sooooo much soda in California that you can’t fall asleep on your late-night flight.
How to handle it: Weep quietly.
Scenario: Your plane lands in Baltimore at 1:51 am.
How to handle it: Feel pleased that you thought to leave a can of soda in the car you parked at the airport as a caffeinated treat to greet you on your arrival. Feel less pleased when you pop that sucker open on the interstate on the drive home, only to have it explode all over your car, leaving only a chunk of frozen soda that won’t come out of the can hole. Coin the term “sodasplosion.” Sacrifice a t-shirt from your luggage to clean your car.
Scenario: Arrive home at 3 am.
How to handle it: Fall into bed, happy with both the good parts of the trip and the fact that the travel part of it is over. Try hard not to think about your alarm going off in three and a half hours.
Although this looks like a pretty ordinary photo, there is not a single thing that I don’t love about it:
It so perfectly describes my family. Now I’ll use a thousand words* to tell you exactly how it describes my family.
First of all, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there on the left sits Starfire in a chair. She sat there nearly completely still for a solid 15 minutes all like, “What in the actual fuck? Where is MY plate of spaghetti?”)
I don’t know that we need to go too deeply into our food choices, but there IS a green salad on the table, so maybe that makes up for the canned crescent rolls there on the lazy Susan.
Speaking of that green salad, you might notice that Sam and Jack each have ONE piece of lettuce on their plates. Neither of them was able to finish it. In his defense, however, Jack did lick his. Barely.
You might notice that Sam is ingesting nourishment when I took this photo. That is because he never stops putting food in his mouth. He ate four helpings of the spaghetti. (And then said he was too full to eat his tiny scrap of lettuce.)
You should now move your attention over to Quinn, who looks completely disgruntled. Let the record show that he, in fact, was completely disgruntled. His reasons were twofold: (1) Quinn does not care for spaghetti. Or apparently salad with “cream,” a.k.a. salad dressing. (2) Jack was eating his spaghetti with his fingers, which makes Quinn gag—and scream, apparently.
My house is a riot of conflicting access needs.
Jack tried really hard to eat his spaghetti with his fork, but, c’mon, it’s spaghetti.
Also, you can rest assured that I didn’t actually give Jack poison to drink for dinner.
All in all, a pretty accurate representation of our family dinners. At least no one burst into tears when they arrived at the table and saw what I was serving. That has happened in the past. Often.
Lest you think Team Stimey dinners are all screaming fights and food refusal, I offer the next two photos, which show the end of dinner when Jack spent a good five minutes scripting a joke that *I* didn’t get, but that Sam and Quinn found HILARIOUS.
Also, please don’t judge me for my terribly sugary and non-nutritious cereal choice visible in the background.
* Actual word count: 387
I took a really quick trip last weekend to Southern California. My beautiful aunt passed away late last month and I felt an overwhelming compulsion to hop on a plane and go hug my uncle. Which I did.
There are some things in life that feel really unfair. Losing the love of your life far earlier than you should is one of them. It makes me so sad to know another amazing couple to whom that has happened.
So I’m going to take this opportunity to try to put some love into the world via my aunt’s creative husband and beloved dog.
You have all my love and friendship, Uncle S.
Because Sam plays two instruments, he has to practice a lot. Oftentimes this happens in the evening, when I’m sitting in a partially darkened living room and he plays his flute or bassoon, or even sometimes just noodles around on the piano.
It is one of my very favorite things in the whole world.
Just tonight, I was futzing around on my iPad when Sam was practicing his flute. He was trying to work something out, studying his music and working with his metronome. He looked up some piece of music on Alex’s phone and mimed the fingerwork on his instrument as he listened.
He has a PROCESS, people.
It is amazing to watch. I don’t even care if he sounds particularly good or not. It is particularly amazing to me because I am not musical at all. Instrumental music is not something I would have ever suggested to any of my kids as their thing. I think that is part of why I love his musicality so much—it is all his.
Watching your child find and grow into a passion, well, that is one of the most incredible things I’ve ever been privileged to witness.
I have no real reason to tell you all this other than sometimes I am just really struck by my children and what they bring to the world.
In case you are less, you know, in wonder at my kid, I’ll give you Sam’s advice for dealing with anxiety during performances or auditions: “If you’re nervous, just pretend that [the audience] are boxes.
“And that a couple of the boxes have heads.”
I don’t remember if we were driving or running the first time Alex called my attention to him, lying on his side in a muddy puddle. We couldn’t figure out what his purpose was there. There was no logic to his being placed by the side of a running path in the center of a collection of rainwater where it was unlikely anyone would step, whether he was there or not.
“You know what I feel sad for?” Alex asked, pausing before gesturing to the side of the road and answering himself. “Sad Cone.”
Except Alex and me. We cared about Sad Cone.
Sad Cone lived in a puddle by the side of Alex and my running route. We would also regularly drive by Sad Cone. We always made note of him as we passed, checking to see how deep his puddle was or whether his mud coat had climbed higher. Sad Cone became a character in our lives.
During our runs, I told Alex about running mantras and how sometimes internally repeating such a mantra can keep a runner moving when they think they can’t go on. One day, during a particularly difficult stretch, Alex said, “I AM NOT SAD CONE!” and thus was born a running mantra.
(He also sometimes uses, “OUTTA MY WAY, JERKASS!” complete with flailing arms and shoving, but I prefer the Sad Cone mantra.)
We kept Sad Cone company all fall and he gave us a smile every time we ran passed him. We noted when his puddle seemed particularly cold or dirty. We commented when tire tracks appeared around him. His mantra pushed Alex to run when it was hard. We were contemplating bringing a Sharpie on a run so we could give Sad Cone a face and share him with the other runners on our path.
Then, just as Sad Cone’s puddle shallowed and started to ice over so that we could start thinking about reaching him, we drove past one day and noticed that someone had saved him. He was still on his side, but he was on dry pavement on the other side of the road. By the time we went running the next day, Sad Cone was gone entirely.
We didn’t even get to say goodbye.
We’ve been running a few times since Sad Cone left and it’s just not the same. We’ll never know who put him in that puddle or why and we don’t know who took him away. Sad Cone is gone, but we will always remember him.