Somehow, We Never Saw Where It Was Going

So after a very pleasant few days in Montreal and then Quebec, it was time to go home.  Unfortunately, United Airlines had other plans.   They seemed to think we should apply for Canadian citizenship instead.

We arrived at the airport at zero-dark-thirty (with not even a sip of coffee to improve the mood since our beautifully renovated hotel (HA!) did not begin serving coffee till 6am.  Um, hellooooooo....no coffee??? Seriously?  So you want people to be surly and uncommunicative when they check out?  Job well done.) to stand in a moderately long line for check-in. (No coffee, no self-check-in.  We should have seen where this was going.)

There were two United flights leaving at approximately the same time, ours and one to Chicago. There were three people working at the counter: one for the Chicago flight, who seemed able to work a computer, deal with customers and chew gum at the same time; one for our flight, who seemed able to chew gum, and...nope, that's about it, she could chew gum; and one handling the "priority" customers, who seemed only slightly more talented than the woman taking care of our line.  Maybe.  Apparently, our need for coffee was even greater than we thought, because Helen Keller would have seen where this was going.

Now it just so happened that a fairly large group of people swarmed into the priority line at this point because they had "oversized" baggage (sports equipment) with them and claimed they had talked to some employee or other who gave them the go-ahead to get into the priority line (You can see where this is going, right?  Yeah.  We still didn't.)

Meanwhile, the woman working the "Chicago" line finished with her last customer and.....naturally....only to be expected.....started chatting with another employee. GRRRRRRR. But then, wonder of wonders, she logged on to another computer, put up a sign that listed our flight... and then shut everything down and took her break.   Double GRRRRRRRR. (Once again, we should have seen this coming a mile off.  Damn coffee withdrawl!)

Hey, don't mind us.  We've only been standing here for an hour and a half inching forward like constipated snails pulling a wheel of cheddar.  And we really appreciated the game of "got your nose" that you just played with us.  What a fun way to start off the day before being stripped searched, then herded into a metal tube with a hundred of our closest friends,  strapped into a seat designed for one of Santa's undersized elfs,  unloaded through a shoot narrower than a livestock pen to claw our way through a mob to reclaim our bags only to stand in another line.  (And we still didn't see where this was going.)

"I'm sorry,  we've overbooked the flight and there are no more seats available," the woman tried to fake sincerity for our plight.  "We can see if someone with a seat would be willing to give up their tickets for compensation."

Oh.  Yeah. Right.  Labor Day weekend, and you think that three  people are going to give up their seats.  What drugs did you put in your coffee this morning? 

"What's the next flight you can get us out on?"  I asked, trying to hold Tim back from hurdling the counter and making her one with her computer.  How could she not see where this was going?

Rose just pretended she didn't know us.

"Well..." Tap, tap, tap.  "I see a flight to Montreal with a five hour layover and then a late afternoon flight to DC."

So, let me get this straight.  Montreal has hotels where you can actually fit into the bathrooms, cab drivers who don't mess with your heads, and now the only flights home?  If only we had seen where this was going three days ago.

"Fine, we'll take it."


Twenty minutes later, she was still tapping on her computer with not a ticket in sight. 

Um, I hate to interrupt the copy of War and Peace that you are clearly typing out, but any chance we are going to get our tickets before we miss the flight?

"Oh.  You have to go to the window down there," gesturing the counter furthest away in the airport, "for the tickets.  I am working on compensation for you."

Now Tim was holding me back.

"Give us our passports NOW." I channelled the Great and Powerful Oz. This was going to a very bad place, very quickly.

"Here are the passports for Tim and Rose," she offered.

Yup.  She could just about manage to chew gum on a good day.

They took off for the other counter, while the tapping continued.  After another eternity, she upped the degree of difficulty and got on the phone as well.  

Oh, goody.  Now it can take you eight times as long. Going downhill on skates.

Rose came rushing back.

"They are closing the window now," she panted.  "If you don't get down there, you'll miss the flight."

The girl behind the counter still tapped and whispered into the phone, unperturbed.

"I need my passport.  Now." I snapped.

"But I'm still working on your compensation.  Don't you want your $100 coupon toward another flight?"

She should have seen where that was going before she even opened her mouth.

Speak Up!!!

Upon arrival in Quebec, we arranged to do a tour of the city with a guide.  Too bad we didn't bring an interpreter.  One who knew sign language.

At first, everything seemed okay.  Our guide was a nice, older gentleman who pointed out all the historic sights as we passed them.

"And there is Joan of Arc gardens......Here is the the Cathedral......This is the American Consulate."

All very interesting, but then we started to ask questions and things got really interesting.

"Are those the remains of the original fort down there, under the boardwalk?"

"What's that?   You want to walk?"

"No" (louder).  "Remains of the fort?" (pointing to the area in question)

"Names of sports?  Well...let's see."

"The original fort.  FORT!!!  REMAINS!!!  RUINS!!! YOU KNOW, MILITARY.  BANG BANG!...Oh, never mind." I finished lamely as he walked away, probably trying to figure out why I wanted to play sports with a broken foot.

"And here is the first school for girls, started by the Urselines in the 1600's...." And then proceeded to give us a fifteen minute history lesson while trying to open the door of the chapel which was locked and labeled as closed till the afternoon.

Hoping to distract him, I foolishly asked a seemingly innocuous question: "Has school started here yet for the year?

"The start of school?  Well, it was in the 1600's that the Urselines opened the first school........"

Dreading a repeat of the same lecture, I tried to head him off at the pass. "NO.  SCHOOL  THIS YEAR.  AUGUST?  SEPTEMBER?"

  I started pantomiming reading a book and writing, like that was actually going to help. (It reminded me of the time in Italy where they turned the air conditioning off for the night and expected you  to open your windows.  BUG SPRAY! I remember my mother shouting at the desk clerk, because speaking really loudly always makes you instantly understandable to someone speaking another language.  YOU KNOW, PSSSSSSSST! (using an imaginary aerosol can) AAAARGH! (Grabbing her throat to mimic a mosquito choking on fumes), CLECH ( tongue out, eyes rolled back in head, head flopping to one side).  Not only did we not get bug spray, I think they slipped some Prozac into our morning coffee, and dear God, I really have become my mother!)

"Today is August 29.  You think it's cool?  Probably a lot hotter where you are from, eh?"

I bowed my head in defeat.

Tim and Rose fared no better.  They asked about the average price for a condo unit he pointed out and he told them about the exchange rate of the Canadian dollar.  Tim asked something about the government, and he responded by showing him the gardens outside the parlaiment and asking him to translate the names of the herbs from French into English.

"OREGANO! BASIL! PARSLEY!" Tim was shouting out names like he was Mr. Greenjeans making a salad.

Mercifully, the tour ended, and we were left to our own devices and the guidebook.  But the fun was not over yet.

The next night, we went out for dinner to a restaurant that was too far to walk to with my boot.  Upon leaving the restaurant, we hailed a cab and climbed in.

"The Frontenac," Tim said, shutting the door.

The driver bent his head toward us, cupping a hand to his ear.

Tim repeated the name of the hotel, a bit louder.

The driver leaned closer, a puzzled look on his face. Rose and I exchanged glances.

"FRONTENAC!"  Tim bellowed, pointing up the hill.

Once again, the driver gestured for him to be louder.

"FRON-TEN-AC!" Rose and I joined in this time, doing our best to be heard...in Miami.

Visions of ending up in Vancouver drifted through my mind, or worse yet, an hour-long disemenation on the difference between the FRONT and the BACK.  Our hands were on the door handles, ready to abandon Tim to his fate when the driver burst out laughing.

"I'm only kidding," he chortled.  I heard you the first time."

NOT FUNNY.

Showtime!

Rose is a great travelling companion.  She provides hours of entertainment...without meaning to.

On our recent trip to Canada, Tim, Rose and I took the train from Montreal to Quebec, about a three hour trip.  Somehow, Rose and I began talking about Les Miserables.  (All the French accents and second-hand smoke must have addled our brains and lured us away from Candy Crush-- Hey, I know.  Let's sit and talk about depressing movies--Terms of Endearment?  No, only one person dies there. Beaches?  Nah.  Only one song came out of that one.  Les Mis?  Perfect!!!  Lots of death and lots of songs about death.  Yeah.  That'll make three hours go by quickly.)

***Spoiler alert: If you haven't seen the play or movie and think that something called Les Miserables is going to have a happy ending, you probably shouldn't watch Old Yeller, Bambi or most other Disney movies involving animals either.  So.  Much.  Death.

Many years ago, Rose and her mom had gone to see the play. 

"How'd you like it?" Tim and I asked afterwards.

"Um.  It was ....good."

"Good?"  Just good?  Didn't you think the ending was so amazing and sad?"

"Not really."

"OMG!  Don't you have a heart?  Everyone dies!!!  How is that not sad?"

"What do you mean, everyone dies?"

"Well, they get sick, shot, blown up, jump off a bridge.  You know...die."

"No.  Only the one woman dies.   Wait.  Who jumps off a bridge?"

"What do you mean, 'who jumps off a bridge?'  What'd you do, sleep through the second half?"

"Second half???  There was a second half?  Didn't it end with a barricade and a really big song where they wave a flag?"

"Yeah.  The flag song was called the end of Act I!!!"

Silence.

"Oh no you didn't.  Please tell me you didn't leave halfway through the show."

"Well, it was over two hours!  How were we supposed to know there was a second half?"

Gee, that is a puzzler.  Didn't you think it was a little odd that nobody else left the theater?  Did you maybe think they were hanging around waiting for autographs?  Hmmm if only there was some way of getting information about the play you were going to see.  You know, a book where they could maybe list the songs, tell you how many acts, give you information about the actors.  Somebody should really invent something like that.

So now, twenty-five years later, I offered Rose my ipad to watch Les Mis and find out who jumped off a bridge (because, really, doesn't everyone have Les Mis on their ipad?).  She popped in her earbuds and that's when the real show began.

"Oh no!,"  she burst out, "That's awful!"

Um, inside voice, Rose.  A few fellow passengers turned their heads.

"No! No!" she bellowed at Hugh Jackman, totally oblivious to the fact that she was louder than the actual French Revolution.

Being a true friend and big help, I, naturally, convulsed in my seat, hysterical with laughter and let her continue.

"Whuuuhhhh.  Oh God!"

"What." she shouted, finally catching sight of my now-purple face.  "Do you want to watch too?"

By now, people four cars away were probably convinced someone was either being murdered or having really kinky sex in the restroom.

Trying to catch my breath, I motioned to her to take the earbuds out.

"Oh.  Can you hear this?" she mercifully popped one out.

Um, no.  Thankfully I cannot hear Russell Crowe mangle the songs because through the magic of technology, that wire is transmitting the sound only to you.  You, on the other hand, are shouting louder than a game show contestant trying to win the all-expense-paid trip for two to Dollywood.

"Oh, was I talking out loud?  Why didn't you tell me?"

Why? Because I was enjoying the show.

In Case Of Emergency, Don't Call Rose

Since having chemo, I have ended up in the emergency room a few times.  (Cancer, the gift that keeps on giving.)

Naturally, my side effects occurred when Tim was not around, so I called Rose and asked her to take me to the hospital. (Bless her little heart, she would do anything to help someone.)  After all, she was a candy striper when she was younger.  All I can say is, "God help the people she was assigned to.  They are probably still trying to recover!"

The first hurdle was getting to the hospital without getting killed.

"Go straight through the stop sign," I directed as we came to an intersection.

And she did.  Straight through the stop sign.

"What?" Hearing my gasp, she glanced over at me, mistakenly thinking the reason I sounded like a beached whale was because my face had swollen up and I looked like a beached whale.  Somehow, she missed the fact that we had just narrowly escaped death due to her driving skills.

"You just blew through that stop sign," I sputtered.

"Well, you said to go straight through it," she protested.

"I meant go straight, after stopping!!!  I do not want my tombstone to read, 'She survived cancer, but not a car ride with Rose' "

Sadly, she was not done trying to kill me yet.

Upon arrival at the hospital, they gave me a mask to wear, and a gown to put on.  Yep, nothing makes you feel more like the expendable crew member in a sci-fi movie who gets some horribly disfiguring disease and dies an agonizing death during the opening credits while the star stands over you, looking like they just finished shooting a cover for Vogue  than having to sit in the ER covered head to toe in paper mache.  Woo-freakin'-hoo.

After drawing blood, taking my pressure and temperature for the fifty-sixth time and assuring me that whatever it was, it was probably not fatal, maybe, they left Rose and I alone in the room and went off to scratch their heads again. (Paging Dr. House...disease of the week in room 4)

Vainly, I tried to get comfortable on the hospital bed (which is like asking a hot dog to get comfortable on a nice, hot grill).  I triple-folded the plastic pillow and scooted up, then down.  I crossed and uncrossed my legs.  I used the side-rail as a prop, went into downward dog, attempted a warrior three and ended with a triple-toe loop, but nothing worked.

"Here, let me help you," Rose offered.  "I know how to put the back of the bed up.  It's just this lever here."

And faster than you can say, "Code Blue"  she pulled something under the bed and the next thing I knew,  I was getting up close and personal with my knees!

"Um, I think I prefer it the way it was," I panted, trying in vain to drag some air into my lungs without rupturing my spleen in the position I was in.

"Oops," Rose muttered, tinkering with the lever again, "Sorry.  I didn't mean to push the top that far forward."

Really?  So you were not trying to fold, spindle and mutilate me?

"There," she announced as the top half of the bed went flying 180 degrees back to its original position, taking me with it, "how's that?"

Gee, I'm not sure.  Let me get this case of whiplash taken care of and then I'll let you know.

"Okay, I've got it figured out now," she announced, pressing the lever of death once more before I fully regained consciousness.

This time, I ended sitting up straighter than a corpse at an Irish wake (sadly, this has actually happened in my family back in the day when some great-uncles and assorted cousins decided the deceased needed "one for the road", but that's another blog).

"Is that comfortable?" she inquired, reaching for the lever again.

"Not really, but I'm afraid if you go for a fourth attempt, I will end up in Ripley's Believe it or Not, or the Guiness Book of World Records, and I've kind of gotten used to having my limbs in all the usual places." I mumbled as I shooed her away from the bed.

Luckily, the hospital staff interrupted at this point, and there was no further experimentation with trying to turn me into a human pretzel.

So just this last week,when I ended up in the ER yet again with my foot, Rose tried to help me move my wheelchair away from a too-close-to-my-broken-foot-to-be-opened-safely-door.

"I know how to do this," she bragged.  "Remember, I worked at a hospital as a candy striper."

What I remember is barely surviving the last time you touched the hospital equipment.

"Put the chair-lock down, back away, and nobody gets hurt," I warned her.

Especially not me. Next time I need to go to the ER, I think I'll call a cab.

I'm Late! I'm Late! I'm Late!

My parents came to visit this weekend on their way down to Florida, and it was like spending time with the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.

First of all, this was the first time they were taking the auto train from here to Florida, and my father had been reading about it on the Amtrak website. I am sooo glad we taught him to surf the net. Next time we have a brilliant idea like that, we should just slam our hands in a door repeatedly. It would be less painful.

"It says you can check in as early as 11:30," he started in on Saturday about fifteen minutes after they arrived.

"But the train doesn't leave until 4...on Monday,". I pointed out. "Why do you want to sit around the station for several hours?"

"I want to make sure we get the 7pm seating for dinner," he informed me, "otherwise, we'll be stuck eating at either 5 or 9."

"So it's first come, first serve?"

"I don't know, but I want to be there early, so we get the 7pm seating for dinner."

Okay. Got it. You want to eat at 7.

"I really want to get there early," he broached the subject again about an hour later. "5pm is too early to eat and 9 is too late."

"What time do they board?". Tim tried a different tack.

"2pm, but I want to make sure we get the 7 o'clock dinner seating," my father stressed.

"So you reserve dinner when you check in?" Tim tried again to clarify.

"I don't know, but 5 is too early and 9 is too late for dinner," said the rainman, er, my father.

"That's a long time to sit in the station," sometimes Tim didn't have the sense God gave a turnip.

Stop. Roll over and play dead. Give up. I tried to communicate telepathically with Tim, but had no more success getting him to listen to me that way than I have when I actually speak out loud to him.

"I'd go around 1," he offered, "otherwise, it'll be a really long day."

"I don't know," my father seemed to waver for a moment, but recovered. "I'd hate to get there too late to get the 7 o'clock seating."

He actually managed to not bring up the subject for at least another hour or two and then only 86 or 87 times more an hour for the next two days.

Each time, we tried to lure him off topic by steering the conversation toward some other aspect of the journey.

"So, does arriving early affect the order in which your car comes off the train at the end?"

"It says it doesn't because of the way they load them on, but it does affect whether you get the 7pm seating."

Shoot me.

"Do you want to order a Netflix movie so you can watch it on your iPad? They have wi-fi on board, right?"

"If we get the 7pm seating, we won't have time for a movie afterwards, so we'll just watch a TV show. That's why I want to get there early."

Shoot me now.

"What do they serve for dinner anyway?"

"I don't know. I couldn't find that on the website, but it says they have three seatings: 5, 7, or 9."

Okay, one bullet for the both of us. We'll stand really, really close.

And while my father was obsessed with getting to the train early on Monday, my mother was just as obsessed with getting to church early on Sunday.

"What time is mass?" she questioned on Saturday night.

"All different times. Sleep as late as you want, and we'll go from there," I told her.

She was up at 7.

"What's the mass schedule?" she wanted to know. "What time do we have to leave? I don't want to be late."

We decided on 10:30 mass at a church less than five minutes away. Rose offered to drive, so at 10:10, my mother decided that Rose was late and she would wait outside for her.

"It's kind of breezy and chilly," I warned, "why don't we just watch out the window?"

"She might park the car and get out before we can get to the door, and then we'll be really late."

Okay, you and dad need to get either a hobby or a prescription for an incredibly powerful drug.

"It's 10:17," she fretted as we stood at the bottom of the driveway getting blown apart. "I don't want to be late."

"I know, but the church is less than five minute away," I tried to soothe her.

"It's 10:20, we're going to be late," she pronounced exactly three minutes later.

Maybe a hobby and a drug.

"It's 10:22. We'll never make it on time."

Hobby, drug and smash the watch.

Fortunately, Rose arrived at 10:25, just as I was getting ready to perform CPR...on myself because my blood pressure shot up sixty points every time Big Ben ticked off another second.

I am happy to say that my mother was not late...much.

I wish I could say the same for my father. Sadly, by the time he stopped for gas on the way to the train, he was late. They were stuck with the dreaded 5pm dinner slot.

"I told you so," he pouted over the phone. "I knew I should have been here early. Now, we'll have too much time to kill just sitting around after dinner."

As opposed to the time sitting around before? I wanted to, but I didn't say it.

Hobby, drug, gun, one bullet.

Love Is A Battlefield

This past weekend, our nephew got married, and like most weddings, family members gathered together to celebrate...and aggravate.

The first skirmish occurred during the rehearsal dinner when a relative of the bride came up to our happy little family group as we were sitting down to dinner.  Trying to make conversation, but inadvertently making enemies with every syllable he uttered, he asked one of Tim's sisters where she fit in the order of the siblings.

"I'm the oldest of the girls," she told him.

"Ahh, but you look like the youngest," he replied gallantly, but unfortunately within hearing of Rose who was across the table.

"Helloooo.  I'm sitting right here," Rose all but growled under her breath while the rest of us snickered.

Oblivious to the daggers Rose was shooting him with her eyes, he continued to dig himself deeper into the hole.

"So how old are your brothers?" he pressed.

"Tim and Tom are celebrating a milestone birthday this year,"  And she named a number I refuse to write because if I see a number that large associated with me in print, I may pass out.

"Really?!!?"  he had the nerve and misfortune to look surprised.  "That's all?  I am ten years older and I thought they were my age.  They are the youngest?"

Uh oh.  Tim's eyes narrowed, while Rose's crossed with the effort it took not to leap across the table and show him who was old.  We all sucked in a collective breath and tried to unobtrusively back away to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.

I don't know what he had done with the money his mother had given him for charm lessons, but I hoped he had invested wisely.  He was going to need a lot of cash to pay the medical bills.

"I don't even dye my hair," he boasted, smoothing back the thinning strands.

"That's what we all say,"  Rose countered with a saccharine sweet smile, fluffing her own blond locks, while Tim sniped, "Yeah.  And the sky is green and the grass is blue," out of the corner of his mouth to me, while I kicked him under the table, hard.

Still not feeling the waves of hostility surging toward him, he continued, "I am the best looking.  See," he pointed across the room, "my one brother is grey and the other is bald."

"Maybe you're adopted," Rose offered, batting her eyelashes at him while preparing to go in for the kill.

Meanwhile, I kicked Tim harder to prevent him from entering the fray.  He subsided with a glare and a muttered, "Mirror, mirror, on the wall..."

"No.  Really.  I, too am the oldest and the best looking," he beamed at Tim's oldest sister, who, knowing he was a dead man walking leaned back while Rose finished him off.

"Well, we can't all be George Clooney," she declared.  As he opened his mouth again, she cut him off.  "One more word and it's off with your head, undyed hair and all."

The foolish man actually laughed, but finally had the good sense to retreat before he was carried, bleeding off the field.

Of course, this exchange was mild compared to the one that took place the day of our rehearsal dinner, oh so many years ago.

It had been a crazy day, filled with a thousand last minute details that needed to be taken care of, but finally it was time to get dressed for dinner.

Since it was ninety-five degrees out, and we were expecting my cousin and her fiance from out of town at any minute, my mother had turned on all three of the air conditioners in the bedrooms.  The only problem was that in our hundred plus year old house, the electrical system could only handle two and a half air conditioners when all the planets lined up and the moon was in the seventh house.

We turned on a light, we blew a fuse.  Plugged in a curling iron, we blew a fuse.  Opened the fridge, we blew a fuse.  Lit a match, we blew a fuse.

And each time this happened, my father would stomp down to the cellar to do battle with the fuse box, cursing a blue streak.  As for the rest of us, this was not our fight, since A. my father was the only one who knew how to do this, and B.  he was the only one brave enough to actually go down there without a silver bullet, string of garlic, bucket of holy water, ghostbuster, exorcist, or team of green berets.

Our cellar made the Amityville Horror house look like a suite at the Ritz.  Even Stephen King could not imagine such a creepy place.

Somewhere around trip number 56 million, my father succumbed to battle fatigue, and lost it.  He charged back up the stairs from the cellar as though something was hot on his heels (which it may have been...an alligator, swamp creature, zombie, Rodent of Unusual Size), made it as far as the foyer and hollered up the stairs to my mother, "Turn off that (unprintable word) air conditioner in the guest room.  I'm not replacing another (string of unprintable words) fuse."

"I'm trying to keep the room cool for Walter (my cousin's fiance).  He won't want to change in a hot room."  My mother was a veteran of many such campaigns, and this did not phase her in the least.

At the end of his rope (which on a really good day is about three inches long), my father exploded like a bomb, "I don't give a s@#t what Walter wants!"

No sooner did the last word leave his mouth than we heard a knock at the screen door behind him, and there was Walter.  A direct hit!

Without missing a beat, my father turned, stuck out his hand, and said, "Oh.  Hello Walter," and then walked away.

But She Never Said, "I Told You So..."

After sitting in traffic last Thanksgiving for over six hours (for what is normally a less than four hour trip), we decided to be smart this year and travel back early on Saturday instead of waiting for Sunday. Apparently, fate had another plan.

Since my sister-in-law, Rose, had her car, and Tim and I had ours, I decided to travel back with Rose and her dog, Murray, the first half of the trip, then, when her ears were bleeding from listening to me talk for two hours, I would switch cars and make Tim listen to me for the second half of the trip.

We had been following Tim for less than a half hour when he suddenly pulled off the road (which was barely enough time to complain about how much we ate and how fat we were). Puzzled, we pulled up behind him on the shoulder only to find that his left front tire had gone flat. Surprisingly, he was taking it quite well (only three or four curses, and no kicking the tire, car or roadside debris).

After emptying a can of Fix-A-Flat into the tire and having it hiss and foam back out at us from a slit near the bottom, we decided to call roadside assistance and see if we could get the tire replaced (250 miles on a doughnut? Please. Just the thought of having to drive two miles on the highway while keeping it under sixty was making Tim break out in a cold sweat.)

So there we sat, Tim, Rose, Murray and I (foul mood, bad back that was out, sore throat and clogged sinuses, and needing a bathroom -- and Rose, Murray and I were not in happy places either), when Tim's brother, Tom, came along and pulled in as well to commiserate. (Wohoo! a tailgate party!)

Fortunately, help arrived within twenty minutes (which was what Rose had optimistically predicted). That was the good news. The bad news was that there was not a replacement tire to be had within a, well, 250 mile radius. Great. Another six hour trip. Our happy places now were in the land of Far, Far Away.

Thirty minutes later, we were on the road again, but this time I was with Tim and we had convinced Rose and Tom to go on ahead of us (Rose was the hardest sell, wanting to follow us in case we had problems with the doughnut, but we finally insulted her enough and got her to go on ahead. In retrospect, it was like watching the last lifeboat from the Titanic head for the horizon while we danced to the final verse of "Amazing Grace".)

Several hours of Christmas music later (which was not making our day either merry or bright), we were finally nearing the end of our journey. Only an hour and a half to go. Tim was holding it together pretty well, although there had been one or two tense moments such as when a carload of senior citizens passed us (and I'm pretty sure they flipped us off) doing a speedy sixty in a sixty-five zone. But the worst moment came when we were passed by a Winebego--towing a car! I never thought it was possible for someone's skin to simultaneously turn white and red until I looked over at Tim, who was clenching his teeth and the wheel with equal force.

Just as we were discussing where we should have dinner, it happened. The right front tire went flat. As we coasted to the side of the highway for the second time that day, and discovered that that tire too was beyond help, I waited for it. I was sure it was coming any second now. The Rumplestiltskin dance.

But there was no stamping. No spewing of cuss words. No disappearing through a whole in the ground, never to be seen again. Amazingly, Tim calmly called roadside assistance and ordered a tow truck. (Meanwhile, I was wondering who this stranger was and what he had done with my husband. Had he been switched out for a Stepford husband, or had aliens taken over his body? Would a pod shoot out of his stomach at any moment and attack me?)

While I was still pondering the possibilities, Rose pulled up behind us once again ( she had stopped for a bathroom break--for her and the dog-- and shrewdly stayed some miles behind us, anticipating this very thing). After transferring our luggage to her car, we all sat and waited for the cavalry to arrive. Which he did one and a half hours later (after he finished watching his movie--no sense everyone having a bad day).

By then, darkness had fallen, Rose and Murray had fallen asleep and Tim had fallen into the long anticipated but expected foul mood (there he was... the guy I married!).

After a truly speedy trip to the dealer (Who knew a flatbed tow truck could do eighty?) Rose drove us home where we went to the diner for dinner (and I got moldy bread with my tuna sandwich---the perfect end to the perfect day). It had only taken us eight and a half hours to make that four hour trip.

Before she left to go home though, Rose made one final prediction...on the price of the tires. Tim disagreed. Two days later, after speaking with the dealer, we found out that, once again, Rose was right!

Dry Cleaning and Fruit

Our dry cleaner loves us. Maybe it's the truckload of clothes we drop off each week. I figure by now, we have put several of his children through collage and purchased him at least one new car.

This is why he gives us fruit.

Apparently, he owns a farm where he spends his Sundays in bucolic bliss planting and harvesting a variety of fruits and vegetables.

Then, he spends his Mondays doling out the bounty along with the claim checks. Sort of like when you go to the movies and spend $18 on a bag of popcorn and $26 on two candy bars and they throw in the soda for free.

Some Mondays it's ten pounds of apples, others it's peaches and a watermelon, and still others it's some strange looking, unidentifiable squash, I think.

A few weeks ago, it was a tomato. One perfect, ripe, juicy tomato that just fit in the palm of my hand.

It was also a holiday, and we had some running around to do. So Tim and I took our tomato, and off we went.

First, I held the tomato. Then, I put it on the center console, but it rolled. Tim suggested my purse (tomato puree, anyone?), or the glove box (baked tomato?). I worried about out poor little tomato (I worried about it ending up all over my white shorts or the bottom of my flip-flops).

I found a shady nook for it when we ran into the CVS. I tucked it away carefully when we ran into the mall. I put it in the cup holder as soon a Tim finished his soda. I protected that tomato (and the leather seats) from harm. Until our last stop.

Tim's sister was returning home after being out of town for the weekend. It had been a long trip filled with traffic, road construction, and more traffic, so we decided to meet her, help her unload some boxes and then go to dinner.

When we got out of the car, I took my precious tomato that I had guarded so closely all day and handed it to her while I reached for the dog.

"A gift for you, after your long trip," I said, tongue in cheek, "to help you feel better."

"Thanks," she replied. And, without really looking or missing a beat, she squeezed what she thought was a stress ball... all over herself and the garage.

And to think I was worried that that poor little tomato would end up all over my shorts.

The Great Apartment Search

My sister-in-law recently accepted a new job in our area, so we spent the weekend helping her search for an apartment here in town, along with my other sister-in-law and five year old neice.

Since we live in a large, metropolitan area with literally hundreds of apartment buildings, it should be easy, right? Go to any grocery store and there are free books the size of the Oxford English Dictionary listing all the possibilities. Choose a price range, an area, the ammenities you want, check out a couple for comparison and voila, you have a new home. Yeah. Right. In Fantasyland maybe.

In the real world, you load everyone in the car and drive to your first choice, try to figure out the code to punch into the call box so that you can actually get into the building(God forbid they would list the leasing office number on a plaque and make it easy for you, after all you are only trying to give them your money), fill out a form, collect floorplans, go over pricing, give them your license, take a guided tour of every nook and crany of the building, mention you have a dog....uh oh. Danger Will Robinson!!!!!!!

A dog. What breed? How many pounds? Now your choices are limited. No big dogs. No problem, he weighs only 10 pounds. No aggressive breeds. Safe again, he's a Yorkie, but he thinks he's a doberman, does that count? No apartments above the second floor in this building. Why? Apparently, that is all their little doggie bladders can handle. Oh, and then there are the additional fees, including monthly rent for FIdo. Guess the little guy will have to stop slacking off and go out and get a job.

You have a car too? More monthly fees! You want heat, water, air conditioning in the summer? That'll cost you. You didn't think the astronomical rent covered any of that, did you?

On to the other choices in the book, but we were getting smarter. We'd pull up and I would hop out (avoiding the whole circus clowns out of the minicar compounded by a carseat thing), crack the secret leasing office code, cover the "doggie issue", then give the others the thumbs up or down signal. Forms, floorplans, pricing (adding in generous amounts for both dog and car), license, tour and out.

This building allowed dogs up to the fifth floor (apparently, the dogs living here had bigger bladders), that building allowed them on any floor (I don't even want to think about the size of their bladders!). This building had an underground garage, that building had a separate but attached garage and the one building had the garage across the street(single women returning home late at night concerned about their safety were encouraged to park in the tow away zone in front of the building. They won't really tow you as long as you are gone by six a.m.)

Some places had walk-in closets that were bigger than the living room/dining room area, some had closets so small you would have to go to the additional storage area offered on each floor (for a fee, of course) to choose your outfit for the next day and hope you could fit it into the closet without crushing it, and some had two or three closets, but spread out througout the apartment, offering a different kind of challenge.

We were beginning to feel like Goldilocks. Did the apartment exist that was "just right"? Up, down, in, out. They all began to blur together after awhile. Which one had the doggie park? Was it the one on the second floor with the balcony that overlooked the garbage bins, or the one on the fifth floor with the hallway that smelled like cabbage? Maybe it was the one that had the rooftop pool the size of a standard bathtub?

While we were trying to sort it all out, weighing things like square footage, proximity to work, safety issues and price, my neice was using her own system. Food. Most of the leasing offices offered bowls of mints, which she sampled freely, determined to get one of each color. Some offered cookies, while still others had beverages. (FYI, the pink mints tasted good, but the white ones are the best, and most of the cookies are butter and not really worth trying. They are on the dry side).

Feet aching, heads spinning we finally cried, "Uncle" and came home. And that is when the e-mails and phone calls began. Special pricing was suddenly being offered, there were deals to be had. There was no respite to be had from "The Great Apartment Search". And just think, if she was anything like her brother, my sister-in-law would move every few years and allow us to share in the fun multiple times. Now I remember why we live in a house.