inconvenient
This weekend was all about living on the edge.
Not only did I purchase and eat non-organic grapes, but I left dishes in the sink for an entire night, I pretty much risked my life to find parking at the mall on Saturday afternoon, and I let my Japanese-straightening miracle-worker douse my head with dozens of toxic chemicals.
Before: At the salon…
But all of these things paled in comparison to what else I (dumbly) did: I allowed my husband to get involved in planning our Christmas vacation.
Ali: Why do we always fly Virgin or Delta? Aren’t there other choices?
Me: There certainly are but these are the most reasonable. Trust me, I’ve done my research.
Ali: But don’t I have status on USAir?
Me: Please Ali. Who has booked every single one of our trips for the 12 years we’ve been married? I think I know your status better than you do.
Ali: I very much doubt that.
Me: Well then by all means, go ahead and waste your Sunday afternoon.
After: At Wolfgang’s for my dad’s birthday.
And Ali did just that.
First he called his BFF at the American Express Travel to facilitate. Then his BFF conferenced in USAir. Then Ali turned up the volume on speakerphone so I too could enjoy the useless 48 minute conversation.
At the end of it all we agreed on the following:
- USAir does not offer any convenient routes, at any convenient times, to any enjoyable destinations.
- Ali has no status on USAir.
- Virgin and Delta are the best of the worst.
- And when it comes to travel-related decisions Ali should NOT question me.
But I’m 99% certain it won’t stop him from doing it again.
new york, new york
In keeping with my need to control all aspects of my life, I’m sure it comes as no surprise that I will avoid checking in my luggage at all costs.
It is because of this that I have become an expert at rolling a week’s worth of clothes so they fit in a carry-on. It is because of this that almost every picture of me on vacation shows me in black and gray (they are the easiest colors to coordinate). It is because of this that I’ve mastered the art of sneaking my own items into Ali and Maya’s luggage.
(And since I have to pack both of their bags I don’t feel guilty about this.)
In any case, going carry-on only for a 5 day trip to NYC, as we did last week, is a piece of cake. But I made one fatal mistake on the return flight: I packed Maya’s coat in her pink polka dot carry-on so she wouldn’t have to coordinate carrying it on board separately.
Virgin America Agent:You’ll have to check the pink bag.
Me: But we brought the same bag from LAX to JFK with no problem. It’ll fit in the overhead compartment, I promise.
Virgin America Agent: Bring it here so I can ticket it.
Me: The reason it looks slightly large is because it’s bright pink. Plus I packed a coat in it. I’ll just take the coat out.
Virgin America Agent: It’s too late for that. We need to check it.
Me: It’s too late to take a coat out? That doesn’t make any sense.
Ali: I’m not sure you understand but 5 days ago we brought this exact bag from LAX to JFK and it fit with no problem.
Virgin America Agent: Well this is JFK. And I said it needs to be checked.
Ali: But it’s the same plane and the same piece of luggage. How does the city we’re departing from make any difference?
Me: This is absurd.
Ali: I’d like to talk to the manager.
Ultimately the reasonable manager let us take a few things out so the bag appeared flatter, and then he let us board with the bag. Once we were on board we repacked the same items, and of course the bag fit in the overhead compartment with no problem. Just as it did on the way in to NYC.
So really, I’m not sure what the entire exercise accomplished? Except that someone at JFK felt authoritative for 5 minutes. And that our fellow passengers probably still hate us for causing a spectacle. And that despite a good few years, it seems that Virgin America is well on its way to joining the ranks of all the other crappy domestic airlines…
it’s not you.
On Saturday morning I made sure we were all rested, well-fed, and yoga-ed.
And then I plastered a fake smile on my face, feigned enthusiasm, and asked Maya if she was ready to tackle her book report.
The only time we eat together is Saturday morning. At which time I make homemade muffins, steamed broccoli, hashbrowns, and eggs and then everyone complains they don’t like X or Y or Z.
Although Maya replied in the affirmative, I’m going to go ahead and say that she really wasn’t ready at all. I know this because after 45 long minutes of discussing “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” we accomplished nothing more than the following:
- Maya wrote one sentence describing the fact that the book takes place during winter.
- Maya shot several “I hate you” glares in my direction.
- When Maya wasn’t looking I pantomimed (for Ali’s benefit) putting myself out of my misery via a fake gun.
I finally told Maya that helping her with her homework was of absolutely NO benefit to me and that she needed to pick her entire assignment up and go to her room and figure it out.
When the dust settled we had lunch together too. And we sat outside, despite the rain.
As Maya lumbered to her room at the pace of a snail, my husband decided he was going to be a hero and straighten things out.
Ali: “I’m going to help her with her book report.”
Me: “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all morning. Loads of luck to you.”
Here’s what happened next:
- Ali went into Maya’s room armed with his usual load of patience. He asked Maya to tell him what the book was about.
- Maya replied that it was about “a whole lot of things.”
- Ali did what I’d done minutes earlier: he outlined the book on a piece of paper.
- Maya insisted she still didn’t know what the book was about.
- Ali asked, “How is that possible when you read the book and both Mom and I discussed it with you?”
- Maya: “I don’t know.”
- Ali: “You don’t know? Well how about this: Do. It. Do you know what those two words mean at least?”
Ali stormed out of Maya’s room, returned to the living room, and then took a turn pantomiming his death. This time via a sharp object.
I love Instagram because it makes my pictures look 10 X better AND it masks so many imperfections. Like gray hair.
And then he said the most magical 8 words I’ve ever heard: “I thought it was you. It’s not you.”
Thank God someone understands that. Finally.
While I'm not going to win Mother/Wife of the Year Award anytime soon, I haven't killed anyone yet or shot myself in the head. And that, my friends, is how I calculate success these days. 
FANCY THAT FANCY THIS 