I have found out there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them. (Mark Twain)
Picking up someone up at the airport is a complex social endeavor, fraught with pit falls and cul de sacs. Some people think it is a huge favor, especially if it saves them money. The trade-off is that you are obligated to make small talk with your ride even if you’re mentally and physically exhausted.
Then there are those who view the pick up as just another item on their to-do list and run all kinds of errands on the way to taking you to your destination. Once I was even dragged along on a run to pick up some drugs. I waited in the car and prayed that it would be over soon. So far the record for the longest ride from the airport is 9 hours. The last 2 hours of the journey I had to drive through dark, foggy, and unfamiliar territory because my ride got too drunk to drive from all the stop offs on the way home.
“We don’t have any food in the house so we’re going to stop at the grocery store on the way home.” Oh goody, just what I was dying to do right after a long tedious journey – slog through a supermarket. Frankly I don’t care if there is food in the house. All I really want is a cold beer, a shower, and maybe a brief lie down. I’m perfectly fine with arranging to provide these items for myself. If it’s an issue of wanting me to pay for groceries, I’m also fine with that. Please just don’t make me do it on the way from the airport.
I’m one of those odd people who would much prefer to take a cab. No offense, but seriously? I truly enjoy the freedom to go to my destination directly and with the minimum of fuss and bother. No, I don’t want to meet your friends, drinking buddies, and entire extended family, go shopping, wash the car, tour a factory, pick up some smoke, or any of the other bizarre things I’ve been dragged along to on a ride from the airport. For crying out loud, give me a chance to freshen up first and then I’m game for just about anything.
Hmm, maybe I should re-brand myself as the crabby traveler?
I ran across a joke website a few years ago and it cracked me up laughing. It was a blank page with 2 lines that read “You Have Reached the End of the Internet! It’s time to go outside and get on with your life. I guess there is a limit to things you can find or do on the internet. I’ve researched everything I could possibly imagine 8 ways from Sunday.
So I’m standing at the crossroads again. It’s time to crawl back out of my temporary shell and get on with my life. Oh, if it were that simple. I’m leaving Saturday for a week-long beach trip with 2 girlfriends. Looking forward to the vacation itself, but not looking forward to packing or the airport. And I’m really, really not looking forward to doing the spread eagle in that body scanner machine. It’s just yucky, there’s no other word for it.
I wish that I could just wiggle my nose and magically be on the beach with an ice-cold mojito in my hand. But I have to pack and hate that. I’m afraid that if I start packing too early my cat will get in a snit and pee in my suitcase. Have you ever had the feeling that you have to hide the fact that you’re leaving from your pets? Like you’re doing something wrong and you have to be all furtive about it. But you can’t hide – they know you’re up to something. They’re little furry 4 legged mind readers.
I snuck a load of laundry in today and tried to keep a straight, innocent face. Like “hey, I do laundry all the time – nothing going on here.” Mr. Kitty will bust me though when I start sorting my toiletries and stacking clothes on the bed trying to decide what to bring with me. There’s no fooling him. I wish I could just sit him down and explain “Kitty, it’s true I am leaving town, but the big furry beast, the Hubman, is staying here. You won’t be left alone, God forbid, or packed up in a crate and shipped off to the cat hotel.
Animals are so real. They act on their emotions, no bull about it. “You have offended me oh great one, therefore I shat upon your bath mat!”
But, I’m going anyway; I’m not going to let a cat run my life.
It is lovely, when I forget all birthdays, including my own, to find that somebody remembers me. Ellen Glasgow
I tend to wax nostalgic on my birthday. I’ve been on this earth for 58 years now. Most of the time spent in awe and wonder, interspersed with occasional times of inevitable sadness.
My son’s father sent me a picture that drew my mind back into the past. In the picture I’m standing on the beach in Macau with my 2 children, looking across the bay at mainland china.
This moment in time happened about 35 years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. The feel of the sand on my toes, the warm sea air caressing my skin, my son’s sweaty little sumo wrestler body clinging to me like a baby monkey, my daughter asking a thousand questions, delighting in every sea shell – every grain of sand. It was a peaceful day that’s been lingering in the back of my brain for decades.
I think living a long wonderful life takes a bit of mental effort. If you let your brain sit back and randomly spew memories, you don’t know what you’re gonna get. A deliberate choice to remember happy times takes some mental gyrations, but the rewards are plentiful.
I do love to travel; it’s the number one on the favorite things to do list. But, I haaaate to pack. I’ve been looking for that perfect dress for years, but haven’t found it. It should be reversible and on one side you could wear it to a midnight drunken beach party debacle/bonfire or flip it over and wear it to a presidential inauguration. Haven’t found one yet, still looking.
If I ever get rich enough to afford supercilious things, what I want is a personal valet. They wouldn’t have to do much really, just bring me a cup of coffee in the morning, mail back my Netflix movies, and pack when I’m planning to travel. Anyone out there know someone looking for a part-time valet job? Ok, they might get asked to patrol the house for cat fur balls on occasion or go to the drug store and pick out that perfect shade of lip gloss that I can never find. Whatever I buy, I end up looking like a circus clown 20 minutes after application.
I tend to mutter curses and talk to myself a lot when packing. I’m talking through the activities trying to figure out what I’m going to need and combine that into the least amount of clothing and accessories. It occurred to me earlier that it would help to declare a packing day moratorium with Mr. Husband on responding to anything I say, scream or mutter. Unless I address him by his given name and am looking him in the eye, or if I happen to be screaming in pain and yelling “help.” Other than that ignore me completely, please, thank you.
Packing is a pretty personal thing though when you think about it. It gets even more stressful when Hubman starts asking me what he should pack. That overloads my brain. Once I snapped, “just bring everything.” He did…and threw out his back trying to get his suitcase out of the car. This time I told him “honey, we’re going to a place where people’s idea of dressing up is wearing a clean T-shirt, shorts with no holes and a new pair of rubber flip-flops, trust me I lived there, figure it out!”
Hubman and his mom have this thing about preparation that involves talking about it five thousand eight hundred and seventy-two times – per day. This just drives me bat shit crazy. I end up wanting to say rude things like “look, just throw yer crap in a garbage bag, get in the damned car and let’s go! Anything you forgot we can buy along the way. It’s not like we’re going to Botswana.”
But, I’m trying to be a lady about this. I’m still a little raw and embarrassed by yelling at an in-law on Thanksgiving Day. I’ll get over it, I always do. If I didn’t, that would mean big trouble because I say things that even I don’t believe came out of my mouth, often.
**Sigh** Here I am writing again, when I should be doing….well, you know. I guess I’ll go pack.
Howdy all. Been so busy yakking about wanting to travel and planning to travel that I forgot to mention that I’m leaving town. 🙂
Mr. Husband, his mom and I are hitting the road in a couple of hours. We’re heading off to Houston for another cousin’s wedding. His family is a hoot. They do love weddings. And they know how to throw a party, lemme tell ya!
It’s only a 4 day trip, but I’ve spent days trying to figure out what I want to bring with me. We’re not flying so I don’t have to worry about liquids or sharp objects in my luggage. Always need plenty of both on a road trip. Oh and a bottle opener. You never seem to have one when you need one and I never mastered opening a beer bottle with a cigarette lighter. My sister can do it and I was impressed when I saw it the first time.
Once I got laughed at for bringing a camping ax with me in the car. They weren’t laughing when we had to use the ax to hack of a big hunk of car tire that shredded and was flapping against the fender so hard we thought we were going to crash. It worked long enough for us to get to a station to buy a new tire. Who’s laughing now? Ha, I say!
Houston is hotter than the first few levels of hell in the summer time, so it’s a tricky mix to pack for a dressy occasion with clothes that won’t make you swelter any more than necessary. I’m not bringing any stockings, that’s for sure. All attention will be on the bride anyway. My naked legs are nobody’s business but my own.
Hubman and his mother are both side seat drivers and spend the majority of their time together either telling the other one how to drive or where to turn, while the other is yelling “don’t tell me how to drive.” My plan is to hide in the back seat most of the way there. Plug in my Ipod, and read or stare out the window. Maybe if I put a towel over my head they will forget I’m back there, yea buddy.
So anyhow. It’s off we go. I’m going to experiment with not lugging my laptop with me this time. So I may drop off the radar this weekend. If I get the overwhelming urge to say something in the meantime I can always borrow Hubman’s laptop. Right after I pry it out of cold dead hands. Nah, just kidding. He’s good about sharing. But, thank God his laptop isn’t powerful enough for gaming or it might not be a pretty story.