charlie foxtrot

yeah. cute shoes. *gritting my teeth in pain* let's just say they look a lot cuter than they feel. even after practicing. even after sitting most of the day. even with bandaids plastered to my feet. "i can make it up the stairs. i can make it to the checkpoint. i can make it to the employee bus. i can make it to the car...." and then the day got longer.

as i arrived home, i heard the last ring of the phone before the voicemail kicked in. it was an unrecognized number. i ignored it. i let the dog out, checked the mail. checked email. checked voicemail. i had a message from my oldest daughter. "mom. <\\wind blowing fuzzed out message//> something wrong at the school. there's gas or something coming out of the school and you need to come get me. i'm on <\\static's//> cell phone. and 'stefanie' wants you to pick her up too because her mom's not home."

i didn't even put the dog away. i grabbed my purse, shoved my throbbing feet back into my shoes (not thinking to change shoes, of course) and ran back out the door.

i arrived on the scene to find mild chaos. three news stations on the sidewalk, several fire trucks and ambulances, firefighters exiting through the front door with masks on, and a helicopter overhead. students were milling around in loose groups with teachers that i assumed were individual classrooms. i could not see nearly enough students to see that the whole school had been evacuated. maybe 200 students in all. so where's my kid and how do i find her and my god why didn't i put on flip-flops? someone pointed me to a long line of irritated people clutching ID who were most likely trying to sign kids out of the school. my ID was still conveniently clipped to my shirt. i quickly snatched it off and tucked it into my purse before stepping in front of the tv cameras.

i snagged a couple of familiar faces and asked the kids if they'd seen my daughter. a loud-mouthed mom kept informing me that the line was far behind her. at some point i turned around and snapped out, "obviously i'm not looking for the line or i'd already be in it. and if you were in charge, your ass wouldn't be all the way back here either." halfway through the line, i took off my shoes and stood barefoot in the grass watching the students disappear back into the school. i overheard a teacher telling the students they were going back into the school to get their belongings and be dismissed from their mod nine class. what?? mod nine. is that gym today? or, um, music? is it an A-day or a B-day? knowing which day it is on this FUBAR schedule is really important if you need to find your kid.

so has there been an all-clear sounded? what happened? why are they outside to begin with? does anybody here have a bullhorn? could we find one and begin communicating with the growing numner of parental units in the grass?

i buttonholed a firefighter who explained to me that some students were in the nurse's office with breathing problems. she called for paramedics. by the time they arrived (literally minutes, the station is closer than my house) several more ill students had arrived. some were treated on the scene, some were taken to the hospital and the school was evacuated. but nothing registered on the instruments when the firefighters went inside, so they authorized the kids to get their stuff and then leave again.

so is my bus-riding kid taking the bus home? the school staff did not know. they said that bus riders would be put on the bus unless someone was here to sign them out. um. hello? body in front of you? so.... my kid thinks i'm coming to get her. and i stupidly left the phone number from the cell she used at home. so i can't call her back. they could net tell me where she was. obviously. and now all the parents are being shuffled across the street behind the buses where we can't see kids exiting the school and they can't see us either. but the staff were more than willing to let me hoof it into the school to find her.

wait. hold the cheese here a second. i have to stand outside in a line to show my ID before being allowed to walk the perimeter of the school, but it is perfectly OK to just waltz into the school unchallenged with my bloody bare feet in search of one short blond kid?

so this is the action plan i signed millions of colored sheets of paper in the fall to implement? my daughter standing outside borrowing a cell phone and asking me to get her? and when i arrive i never even find her? i would hate to see an actual real-live emergency. this charlie-foxtrot bullshit is not an action plan. about the only thing to happen on cue was the arrival of medical personnel and media. the rest can go hang, right? i mean, who needs to actually communicate with a large number of parents when said parents are frantically lokoing for their kids? not me. not them. not the media. not the helicopter. it's all good.

i closed my eyes, had an oooohhsaaaaah moment, and made a command decision. if i left the middle school now, i would have time to pick up my three elementary kids on time. i would then give the middle school 30 minutes to send my child home safely on the bus before heading back to the school to look for her. as i was leaving the elementary school, my girl's middle school bus was coming down the street dropping kids off. less than 15 minutes later i was hugging my baby in our front yard.

it's all good now. ooooooohsaaaaaaaaah.

few and smallish

in maryland, when someone slows their car at a stop sign, crosswalk, or when traffic in front of them has for some reason stopped, it is OK to simply screech around the slowing vehicle, even if it means they will more than likely hit a pedestrian, another car, or the car that was originally in front of them. really. it is. i watched it happen four times today alone. i was the slowing car in every instance. therefore i am a bastard.

our house is actually a giant trash can. we live inside it. it doesn't have a flip-top lid, though. it is pretty convenient to live inside a giant trash can, especially for my offspring. that way they can just spit food onto the floor, we never have to clean or bathe, any toys or books or clothes on the floor can be broken or dirty or not. whatever. such is the life in a trash can.

when you travel by air, make sure you wrap small electrical devices in lumpy masking tape packages with odd ends poking out- for security, so they don't bounce around inside the luggage with all the other electrical devices. when wrapping the tape around and around, make it as uneven and make-shift as possible. that way, when someone checks inside your bag and they immediately call for a supervisor and everything you own is pulled out to be indiviually inspected while you look on behind a glass partition, you will have an exciting story to rant about when you finally arrive at your destination. beacause those airport security guys just profile the hell out of everyone, huh?

when you break your state or government issued ID card by using it improperly to, say, open a locked door or entertain a small child or animal as a chew toy, make sure you wait until it actually expires before getting a new one. it couldn't possibly look fraudulent when it's only snapped into two pieces. and it costs a fortune to replace: $15 and a whole afternoon at the department of motor vehicles. i mean, it is a lot to ask to have valid-looking ID for identification purposes. oh, and that line on the passort that says "not valid unless signed" means abolutely nothing. especially to theives who can make about $25K on each passport they can lift without a siggy.

if you work at a job that requires the use of a writing utensil, it is a great idea to actually have a writing utensil on your person when doing your job. for instance, if you are paid to initial small pieces of paper to identify them as being valid pieces of paper for travel, you must certainly have something with which to make your initials on said papers. like a pen. or a pencil. a sharpie or highlighter might work well, although not usually a first choice. so when you show up for your job without a writing ustensil, you need to find one. borrow one. go to the shop 15 feet away from the break room and buy one. bite off the tip of your finger and write with your blood i don't care but do not under any circumstances continue to do your job without a writing utensil and expect everyone around you to "assume" you have done your job even though you have no pen to make your initials. hold still while i show you what my pen looks like by stabbing you in the eye with it. that is what happens when i have to re-do your job (with my very own pen, even) and have 100 angry passengers in front of me and 20 angry co-workers behind me who all think I am failing to do my job because i am busy re-doing yours while doing mine at the same time. *ahem* deep calming breaths......

i have been informed that when wearing "business casual" attire, one must not wear a work uniform, jeans of any color, any type of open-toed shoes, stockings with seams, sleeveless shirts, blouses that allow pachangas to jiggle out, skirts shorter than one's ass, any type of athletic shoe, or any kind of tee-shirt. so i went out in search of clothing for a two-day training class that requires business casual attire since i only own the aforementioned types of clothing. after spending $80 on a pretty sundress (with a short-sleeved cardigan to cover the spaghetti straps), a nice skirt and short-sleeved button shirt combo and a pair of chic white pumps to match both outfits, i was dismayed to learn that dresses are not considered "business casual" attire either. nor are white shoes with or without heels. you know what? fuckit. i'm wearing the clothes i bought. if they don't like it, next time i'll just wear my uniform.

someone i know had a massive "failure to communicate" moment at her job the other day. it wasn't me for a change. "joan" was screening a passenger wearing a large amount of jewelry. everyone i know already has the understanding that one should put the bling-bling away before walking through a metal detector. this lady is someone i do not know. joan calmly informed the passenger that she would be patting down her arms, torso, and a portion of her legs. the woman burst into tears and cried, "you're going to cut off my ARMS???" in between one blink and the next, joan's head whirled with thoughts. thoughts that she did not speak aloud. joan thought, "of course we're going to cut off your arms. that's what happens when you wear a lot of jewelry, dumbass. after we cut your arms off, we're going to x-ray them and then beat you with them. that way only your fingerprints will be on your body. what you do with your bloody stumps after that is your choice. your gate is on the right hand side." joan said, "uh...no, ma'am, i will PAT your arms." she didn't even laugh in the woman's face. joan showed great professionalism by remaining calm and not cutting off the woman's arms, even after she deserved it. she exceeds the standards set by this organization and is presented with the "ooooosaaaaah award for cool thinking under the influence of stupidity." congratulations, joan.

here ends the rant. nothing follows.

begging

my son is begging to take the little clear plastic bag to school, crinkling the cellophane in his grubby fist as he pleads with me. "i promised i would," he blinks his steady blue-grey eyes at me, "i promised. please? how about if i just take one?"

i look at the calendar. "not during testing week. you're not supposed to have that stuff at all, but not this week. next week you may."

"YESSSSSSSS." he leaps into the air, pumping his fist triumphantly.

booger.
black pepper.
earthworm.
dirt.
ear wax.
sausage.
grass.
vomit.
soap.
sardine.
pickle.
rotten egg.

those are what the little man is so happy about. he's sharing a bag of bertie bott's every flavor beans with his classmates, currently manufactured by the best of the best: jelly belly. so you can guarantee your vomit bean will actually taste like vomit. with a candy coating. for some reason, my son is the only kid in the third grade who has heard of these raunchy candies from the harry potter series, and santa claus himself delivered small pouches of them into stockings this past christmas. i haven't yet figured out if they were inplace of coal or if they were actually supposed to be a good gift. after the first few "ick" faces, the novelty of the bertie bott's wore off and only one child continued to eat them. and now all the third grade boys are begging - BEGGING - for a taste of earthworm and dirt mixed together. maybe a rotten egg and sausage? sardine and pepper, anyone?

ah, yes. fifteen minutes of fame indeed.

begging

my son is begging to take the little clear plastic bag to school, crinkling the cellophane in his grubby fist as he pleads with me. "i promised i would," he blinks his steady blue-grey eyes at me, "i promised. please? how about if i just take one?"

i look at the calendar. "not during testing week. you're not supposed to have that stuff at all, but not this week. next week you may."

"YESSSSSSSS." he leaps into the air, pumping his fist triumphantly.

booger.
black pepper.
earthworm.
dirt.
ear wax.
sausage.
grass.
vomit.
soap.
sardine.
pickle.
rotten egg.

those are what the little man is so happy about. he's sharing a bag of bertie bott's every flavor beans with his classmates, currently manufactured by the best of the best: jelly belly. so you can guarantee your vomit bean will actually taste like vomit. with a candy coating. for some reason, my son is the only kid in the third grade who has heard of these raunchy candies from the harry potter series, and santa claus himself delivered small pouches of them into stockings this past christmas. i haven't yet figured out if they were inplace of coal or if they were actually supposed to be a good gift. after the first few "ick" faces, the novelty of the bertie bott's wore off and only one child continued to eat them. and now all the third grade boys are begging - BEGGING - for a taste of earthworm and dirt mixed together. maybe a rotten egg and sausage? sardine and pepper, anyone?

ah, yes. fifteen minutes of fame indeed.

l'eau de twat

So I worked five whole days – in a row – for eight hours. Wow. How do you people DO that???? But then again, I don’t get a reliable nap when I get home and I have to keep on going until 8-9pm and then get up and do it all again 5 hours later. “Hit by a mack truck, several times over” is how I would describe my Sunday afternoon. And to top it all off, I woke this morning to a very angry wrist. It’s not swollen or anything, but it is definitely insulted. It is wrapped nicely and I’ll heat it this evening. I’m going to wager that it was l’Eau de Twat’s stupid green rolling carryon that did it. Oh, yes. Story time with kater.

It is a crack to noon. Almost quittin’ time.

“Bag check.”

That’s me: kater, bag-checker extraordinare. Upon the screen, I see many many many glass bottles. 20, maybe 30 of them. With little sprayers. It is a full-size carryon. No friggin way. The three of us working this lane shake our heads in disbelief. I begin to laugh. “Someone needs to take a trip back to the ticket counter. Who belongs to this lovely green bag?” I ask the room at large. Aah. The well-dressed gentleman hasn’t gotten through yet. “Hold the mag, please. That gentleman and I need to have a little talk.” I am not even going to open this bag.

“Bag check.”

That’s not me, because I’m still busy with l’Eau de Twat over here. “Sir, you’re not going to be able to take this bag with you on board the aircraft.” He smacks himself in the forehead. I smile tightly. “You know why, don’t you?”

“Oooooah,” he groans, “it is the perfume....” he continues groaning to himself. He stands there looking dazed and chewing on his lip.

My bag-checker-in-arms approaches me. “Hmm,” she says. “Sir, is this your bag as well?” He nods sheepishly. She looks at me and shakes her head again. “Hmph. Let him in. We got a mess to deal with in here.”

I heft the bag again and we head to our table at the end of the lane to wait for l’Eau to get through. The metal detector beeps wildly and several bowls parade down the conveyor belt holding his belongings: change, wallet, keys, a pen, chewing gum, chewing tobacco, two cell phones (each in it’s own bowl), a belt. Finally he has divested himself completely and he shuffles to collect his flotilla of pocket-stuffings and shoes.

“You knew,” she begins, pulling out her momma-voice, “you knew you couldn’t take alla this on the aircraft with you. How many bags have you checked? Two? Looka here. You need to take this big green bag back to the ticket counter. The airlines charge a fee for checking extra bags.” She begins unloading liquids out of his black backpack. Hair cream, two bottles of juice, lotion, hair spray, toothpaste, more lotion. He gestures to all of them.

“They cannot go?”

“No, sir. They can’t. This is a liquid. This is a cream. This is a paste. This is an aerosol. Liquids, creams, aerosols, gels and pastes have been restricted on flights since 2006. But you knew that as soon as we pulled out your bags.”

“But I will miss my flight?” he flounders.

She glanced at his ticket and briefly at her watch. “Yessir. You might,” she tells him, matter-of-factly.

I’m just standing here, next to my girl, hands on the suitcase, forcing my smirk into the back of my mouth. If I talked to the man this way, I’d be sacked. But her momma-voice is something to behold: firm, full of respect, and no-nonsense.

At this point I tell him, “You can put all of these items from your backpack into this suitcase and only have to check the one bag, but I’m telling you right now, this suitcase is stuffed so full, I am not going to open it, or try to close it back up again.” My girl starts stuffing the prohibited items into the backpack.

“But I can’t throw them here?”

“Nosirree. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,” she taps the items as she puts them away. “They are right here on top. You’re gonna take this here bag out to your ticket counter. You’re gonna pay that fee. Or you’re gonna dump these items in the trash can. You get those items into one bag if you can; you dump the things you can’t fit and can live without. I don’t care what you do and how you do it, so long as these liquids don’t come back through my checkpoint, y’hear?”

“Yes’m.” He tips his head to her, mumbling to his feet.

I zip his backpack shut and throw it onto my shoulder, pulling the handle out of the carryon and setting it on the floor to pull behind me. “I’m doing a walk-out,” I call to my lead, as I escort l’Eau de Twat to the exit. When I get to the drop-off point and hand his bags back to him, his eyes get wide.

“I have to come back through security???” he asks in horror.

“Yes sir. We’ll see you soon.” And as I turn to walk back to my lane, he breaks into a full run to his ticket counter.

Can you imagine the smell in there if we’d dumped all that perfume? That stuff is flammable, so we would have to classify it as hazardous. Our haz-mat bucket is not nearly big enough to hold all those bottles. Again I shake my head and ask, aloud this time, “What the hell was he thinking?? Who needs all that??? I don’t think I’ve owned that much stinkin-pretty in my entire life.”

We keep an eye out for him. Sometimes people go out and then try to sneak back in without getting rid of anything. They just go to a different lane, thinking they won’t get caught by someone else. As I’m leaving the break room to go clock out, here he comes, puffing down the pier to his plane, still at a full run. I’m pretty sure he made it, with only moments to spare. And I sincerely hope he’s not going to try to do that again.

my missy

for my great-aunty. who left me her beautiful life-size lioness, missy, because six years ago i refused to walk around her house and mark her things with my name on a piece of masking tape.

My only Great-Aunt Elaine,

It is spring. Although the air is cold and biting where I am sitting, the frosty white petals of the cherry blossoms softly whispering of snow on the tips of twigs, spring really is here again. Somehow I think that all of the cold is not just the wind this year. Many, many hundreds of miles have separated us throughout the years, and yet I am reminded of you every morning when I wake up. Even in the still quiet darkness when all the world is sleeping, I can see the silhouette in the moonlight of a graceful lioness, her green and steady eyes always watching near my bedroom window. Missy is safe, here, in her third home with us.

My children have thrown pillows at her feet by the fireplace and read stories. The littlest ones, barely walking, held onto her strong back, creeping around her stillness, standing nose-to-nose and hugging her fiercely about the neck. The older ones draped their arms off the end of the couch and absent-mindedly rubbed her head and back while they read. I have removed sloppily-dressed cowboys from her back more times than I can count, and really, you would laugh at all the hats she has worn. She still looks dignified, even with a purple clown wig tied with a pink scarf while sporting a sparkling rainbow cape. Trust me.

As the winter winds warm, and the leaves burst out of buds, green and new, the days will grow longer and deeper. I will remember reading and drawing in the sticky afternoons on your deck and sitting under the umbrella on the patio. I will remember long walks around the neighborhood in the setting sun, up the tall hills, pausing sometimes to listen to grownup chatter along the way. I will remember how the crickets came out to sing, the fireflies came out to dance. I will remember the deepening night sky when we would watch with muffled gasps and wide eyes as the raccoons invaded the yard from miles around to eat the loaves of stale bread you gave us to scatter for them. I will remember the way you would proudly play any of your beautiful music boxes on request and set your Woodstock chirping in the kitchen window.

I have a little piece of you embedded in my heart. And really, that is all anyone could ask for in the end.

atypical, really

so, like, it is a typical saturday. by 5am, there is a line so long, i can’t actually see the end of it. and more passengers are pouring around the corner to join them every minute that ticks by. there are a couple of passengers acting weird, so we are keeping an eye on them. i’m making announcements and checking IDs against boarding passes. some people are ticked at the long wait in line. some people are just sour people to begin with. some people are bored & sleepy. some people are begging me to make “them” move the starbucks onto the other side of the checkpoint. as if i’m that awesome. if i could do, i already woulda did-done. some are pleasant and wide-awake and really don’t need that second coffee, from as far as i can tell. and some people just are.

i’m checking an ID against a ticket and noticed that they are pre-selected by the airline to undergo additional screening. as i’m explaining the highlighter on the ticket to the dude, who has a very striking face (that i’m sure i’ve seen somewhere, but i can’t quite recall why i think that), my co-worker strikes up some idle conversation with him and we learn he is in a band from seattle that played john-hopkins on friday night. my head snaps up and i look directly at him, the name on his ticket, and then behind him and sure, enough....my lips form the name of his band as he’s speaking it to my co-worker.

it was everclear. i personally signed their boarding passes. how friggin’ cool is that?

why is it that i am sooooo intent on maintaining a cool professionalism, that i never think to ask for an autograph or something? why?? maybe it’s because i’m afraid the person will get all snooty and say no, like jack nicholson does. i suppose it’s because deep down, i guess they are just people too, and who wants to be pestered all the time? they got through security without anyone else so much as batting an eye at them. i waited until they were long gone and at their gate before mentioning it quietly to anyone else. they were probably glad to not have to deal with screaming throngs of people at 6am in between transcontinental flights between shows. (because they were coming back from seattle to the east coast again the very next night.) i just want a little something for me. maybe next time i can ask discreetly.

*memo to self: get small notebook to keep in pocket for next celebrity run-in.*