Our plane to England leaves at 7:20 AM out of SFO on Monday, which means we’ll have to be out of the house by 5:00 AM at the latest. What with toddler, luggage, long-term parking, checking in, not to mention changing diapers, changing clothes, feeding toddler, suppressing urge to muzzle toddler (none of this listed in any particular order, mind) setting a 5:00 AM goal means we’ll probably get out of the house around 6:00. It takes about 45 minutes to get to the airport from here, and then there’s the parking and the shuttle to get to the airport from the parking lot– what is that, 15 or 20 minutes additional?
I think my math is right. I should probably double-check that come morning, though. Ten minutes ago I put my checkbook in the washing machine.
Anyway, that schedule is why we’re awake right now at 1:15 AM, the second to last night before we leave. Ostensibly, we’re packing. What we’re really doing is– well, I have no idea what the Guy is doing. Brooding, it looks like, over his laptop. And tablet. He does that. It’s something tech-related; he’s discovered a bug of some sort, or he’s feeling defied by his gadgets, and has therefore dropped everything to wrestle them into submission. It’s a Silicon Valley thing, I swear to God. I don’t know why women go to clubs to meet men around here. All you have to do is hold something with a monitor in an empty room, say, “It’s not working,” and immediately twenty guys will swarm out of the woodwork with the fire of righteous outrage burning in their eyes.
Of course, what they say about Alaskan men — the odds are good but the goods are odd — goes double down here. If you try out the scenario above, you probably deserve what you get. I don’t know. The only reason I met my husband was because my friend Amanda tricked me into thinking he was a starch-heavy casserole.
What the hell was my point with all this?
When I’m talking– wait. Back up. On those occasions when I listen to myself talk, as in hear myself, you know, the voice thing, echoing in my head — on those extremely rare occasions? I sound like Lauren Bacall dealing with an incompetent waiter. Low and growly with authority and sexy gravitas, a mix between Edward James Olmos and Jessica Rabbit. I sound like I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it; like I’ve seen it all and done it all; like I straddle galaxies and drink black holes with my highballs.
Strangely, digital recordings of my voice utterly fail to capture this quality. I think there must be something wrong with our answering machine. If you go by the way it rendered my last message home, in real life I sound like the offspring of Fran Drescher and a mainlining hamster. I sound like the last of my species; like a matched pair of socks flailing around the dryer; like the lemming jittering on the turntable, wondering if she remembered to turn the oven off before she left and was it really a good idea to sign that contract with Disney before reading the fine print?1
1. According to Wikipedia’s article on lemmings, they aren’t actually suicidal. The prevailing belief in that myth really got its kick from an Academy Award-winning Disney documentary, where they staged lemmings hurtling to their death off of cliffs. Apparently, “a Canadian Broadcasting Corporation documentary, Cruel Camera, found that the lemmings used for White Wilderness were flown from Hudson Bay to Calgary, Alberta, Canada, where they did not jump off the cliff, but were in fact launched off the cliff using a turntable.” There are all sorts of jokes I could make here, but all I can deal with right now is that someone, somewhere, must have launched something off a turntable and thought, “Hey! This could net me an Academy AWARD!” And that, my friends, tells you everything you need to know about the entertainment business.
- A Good Idea Followed by a Bad Idea
- Childrens’ Day and other things
- Stories on an afternoon drive
- Bring your kids to work day
- Tech support.
- A little daring
- I don’t know about you….
- A little bit of validation
- In which good intentions mean diddly-squat
- Things I need to remember not to forget
- Sometimes they will surprise you
- England and other errata