Life of Wry

An airport story.

Letsee, it starts with my arrival at LAX this sunny mid-afternoon in time to catch my flight back to Davis. Been in LA for 5 days; it will be nice to be home.

Typical Friday afternoon: LAX is a pulsing swarm of people all trying to get someplace else.

I had time for a cup of coffee and a little reading.  I’d decided to forgo computer time, since it was twenty minutes to boarding and that didn’t seem to justify T-Mobile’s $8 day-pass charge.  (Grateful for Sacramento International–my favorite airport–because they provide free wi-fi.)

Our flight was overbooked and when they asked for volunteers who might want to give up their seats, I thought, sure, this is a good time to do that because 1) I’m not in a great hurry, 2) the next flight was to leave just an hour later, and 3) the compensation for giving up my seat on this flight was worth it: a voucher for a future ticket of equal value ($180.70), and $100.  Why not?

So I did that.

But, once my seat had been given away and the jetway doors were closed, the ticket agent realized she’d made a mistake and, in fact, the next flight to Sacramento was also, actually, overbooked.  She put me, and the other two seat giver-uppers, on priority standby status but didn’t guarantee anything.  She offered us $200 for her complete incompetence our being such good sports, plus the equal value flight voucher and a seat on the next flight.

But…..and maybe you expected this, only two out of the three of us made that next flight (and one of us didn’t).  So, I was then booked onto the next flight.  I was again given my equal value future flight voucher, and this time $300. 

Sweet.

So I took off for my new gate with my new boarding pass.  I had a few more hours before the 7:55 to Sacramento.

By this time, the sun was starting to go down and it was feeling very cold in the terminal. I’m wearing like this little skirt and light shirt and sandals, so I had to buy a “Life is Good” sweatshirt at the “Life is Good” store, which is, indeed, good because I only have about 27 million sweatshirts at home, and can always use another.  This one’s fuzzy on the inside and very warm. Better be for the price I paid.

I finally settled down, but realized I was also totally starving so decided to hunt down something worth eating..hmm.. Starbucks or Starbucks?  (Grateful again for Sac’s airport that has Dos Coyotes, Saladworks, Burgers and Brew, Vino Volo..and more.) It turned out to be a good time to vacate my seat because somebody had left an unattended bag (the dreaded unattended bag) next to me and a security officer had called for some sniffer dogs to come and investigate its contents. He recommended I find someplace else to sit.

Settled again with lots of time to kill, I decided to get that T-Mobile day pass after all. First time ever: it didn’t work!  So.. had to call T-Mobile tech support. Fifteen minutes later, I was online with a special courtesy guest pass for my troubles and a credit, hopefully, on my credit card.  Nice.

And that’s the story so far.

I have to write fast because the battery power on my laptop is ratcheting down with every keystroke.  I’d opted to pack away my AC power supply in my checked baggage (along with my warm clothes) since I didn’t anticipate having much computer time in the airport today.  Battery level at this moment: 46%. Typing fast, here!

Not counting on anything, but I hope to be on the flight to Sac in another hour or so.  Should be home by 10pm.

$480.70 ahead.

Five hundred things made me want to write today.  Spending time with one’s 82-year old mom will do that to you.. no end to rich, emotion-laden material.

But holding those thoughts for now. They need some tilling first.

On the lighter side: went to the movies today, LA style.  George Clooney, Ryan Gosling, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Paul Giamatti… nothing complicated about that.

Here, now, early, silent, foggy, grey, drippy, eucky, familiar.

I tell you, I am so entirely out of sorts, I don’t know where to begin, or what to write.

So, starting with this: I’m in LA.  See above.  I’m not in downtown, but took a picture of this very nice graphic depiction of LA that hangs in Southwest’s baggage claim area at LAX.  It feels like an appropriate representation of this moment: out of alignment.

Speaking of that. The whole world sucks when you’ve thrown out your back. You’re immobilized, you hurt, you wonder if you’ll ever be able to put your pants on normally again. Everything hurts from hurting non-stop for 4 days. Because you’re always afraid of setting off that big giant spasm, you don’t want to move at all, but if you do, you do it gingerly. Then you hurt from being so sedentary. You can’t bear to sit for one more second. You’re favoring the part of your back that’s on the verge of a spasm, so the rest of you aches from all the compensation.

So, that.

Then, there was last night’s icky drama.  Had a pleasant enough dinner out, but as we were leaving the restaurant, my mom started to feel lightheaded. I won’t go into the details, but: collapse, lying on the floor, bar towels, chaos, 911, sirens, emergency response vehicles, an army of EMTs. The vision I can’t get out of my head, though, was my mom’s face as her eyes rolled back into her head and she completely folded over as I tried to hold her up..and it gets worse, but I don’t even want to write about it.  Not the way you want to see your mom, is all I can say. She recovered quickly, thankfully, and things seemed fine again.  She opted for home over hospital and we were on our way. She seemed to handle it all in stride, but it took me a couple hours to stop shaking.

Quiet day today, which was welcome, but tonight we watched the republican presidential debate.  Bad enough, but nothing more heartbreaking than listening to the best candidates the republican party can come up with one-upping each other on how, when they’re president, they’re going to build a longer, stronger, higher, more electrically-charged wall than the next guy in order to keep illegal aliens out of the United States. Bachmann boasted she’d build a double wall. I think it was Santorum who vowed to defund the United Nations.  They were rude and yelled and talked over one another.  Just good lord.

At this moment, my mom’s wondering aloud why the security lights have come on outside–you know those lights that are motion sensitive? Then she says, oh, it’s probably just an animal, and goes off to bed. And now I’m sitting here alone in the family room scared shitless, wondering how I’m going to fend off axe murderers with my back so messed up.

Really hoping for a better day tomorrow.

Getting old’s a bitch.

Here we were, early morning, driving down I-5 pre-dawn, on our way to a baseball tournament.  Happy, happy. I was waxing on and on to Jim about how fabulous I was feeling, how I was just loving my new exercise regimen and all my new-found flexibility. How surely all the stretching was going to pull, lengthen and realign knotted muscle fibers, and deliver much needed nutrient-rich blood to over-stressed tendons and ligaments.  I was telling Jim how just yesterday I had achieved some personal bests in the stretching realm, gotten my body into positions I’m not sure I’ve ever managed.  And it felt so good!

We arrived in Ripon, somewhat south of Manteca, at about 8:00am and commenced to unload the car and ready ourselves for a long, sunny day of baseball watching. I was putting some sunscreen on a leg–one of my well-stretched legs–when suddenly, someone stabbed me with a big, giant butcher knife, right below my left hip.

Many nasty, horrible, X-rated words came to mind, but only gasps came out.  I struggled to find a position that would ease the sharp shooting pains… and sorta found one, but it was not exactly convenient, contorted and bent over the bumper of my car.  I found some–not much–relief on my knees, then finally acquiesced, at everyone’s suggestion, and just lay down on my back in the parking lot.  At least it was a pretty day.

See picture.

Maybe 20 minutes.  Had some nice conversations with nurturing Frances and funny Matt (pictured), and other people in passing cars.

Realizing I couldn’t stay there the whole day, I, with plenty of helpers, got to my feet and spent the next five hours shifting slowly from various standing positions to various sitting positions.  And pretty much, that’s still the situation.. 34 hours later.

I managed to ride in the passenger seat back to Davis, then join Jim for another pair of 80-minute drives to and from the east bay for his 40th high school reunion (hold the dancing).  Today, more or less homebound.. pumping myself full of non-steroidal anti-inflammatories, icing, and walking as much as I can tolerate so as not to freeze in this position forever.

Not sure how this one’s going to play out, but it’ll likely put a crimp in my fancy new exercise program and delay my comeback.

Ouch.

So, this is happening in Davis.. Davis’ contribution to the greater national, now global, movement.

Went by this morning to visit the group… a small crowd gathered on the deck beneath the giant oak in Central Park.

Maia, a young woman who appears to be the head organizer, said many more were there last night, 200 she said, and they expect to maintain a presence for the duration, whatever that might mean.  I hope they get a lot of support.  Hard to sustain energy when your effort is relatively isolated and quiet.

Talked for awhile with another woman, someone whose path I’ve crossed for 30 years, another of us Davis oldies. It was nice to see that she’d also wandered by.  We assured the younger organizer woman that there are thousands of people in Davis who sympathize with Occupy Davis’ efforts.  We just can’t all come sleep in the park, but we appreciate their work.  And that’s true.  I gave Maia $20 toward supplies.  Stopped short of offering our bathroom, though she seemed ready to inquire about that possibility.

Anyway.. the Occupy movement.  Or the 99% movement.  I hope it gets massive traction.

Debra DeAngelo wrote a good piece this morning in the Enterprise.  My favorite part was this:

Although the collective anger boiling over at the Occupy protests has pushed its way into corporate media coverage, it’s frequently footnoted with criticism and outright sneering that the protesters don’t have a clear message. Excuse me? They most certainly do have a message: “We’re angry!” That’s a message, you dolts!

The occupiers are like a guy rushed into the emergency room, clutching his chest in agony. His message is crystal clear: “I’m hurting!” It’s up to the doctor to figure out why he has chest pain, be it heart attack, stomach ulcers or that ax protruding from his sternum. I rather doubt the doc would sniff, “Come back when you know what the problem is, pal.” Unless, of course, the doctor’s paycheck is signed by Rupert Murdoch.

For me, the final blow to our already frail democracy occurred when the Supreme Court bestowed corporations with first amendment rights, as people, removing limits on corporate campaign contributions in the name of free speech.  Gag. Politicians can now officially be bought.  I mean, really?  How could that ever be considered fair and democratic?  Ever?

And when those same corporations control the media and shape the message…. yeah.

Easy to call it corporate greed, but business is just doing what business does, maximizing profit.  Really, rather than corporate greed, the problem is the rise of privately held government.  The government’s been bought.  The fate of elections, policy decisions–all of it–in the hands of private, corporate–not public–interests.

Corporate power trumps all. Game over.

Yep.  Jim’s 40th high school reunion.

Had a very nice time.  Met a lot of people from Jim’s past, a past that didn’t include me, so that was really interesting, enlightening and fascinating, even.  Like going back in time to get to know better someone you already know well.

So easy to go to somebody else’s reunion.  So fun not to know a soul.  No pressure, no anxiety.  I was just a spouse, so could happily and eagerly meet people with no worries, no background, no baggage, no future. Just the sparkly spouse.  Never minded standing by myself (which didn’t happen often, but like when they all gathered to take a group picture (Jim’s second row, sorta 3rd from left, woman’s arm on his shoulder)…

…or when Jim went off to dance with his sister’s husband’s sister, who was in his class (who knew? everyone in the family but me, apparently, and it was so nice to meet her finally)).

Never said no to servers wandering around with plates of tantalizing appetizers, kept a full wine glass, had some very fun conversations with people who ranged from short order cook (who doubled as a musician) to swim coach (yes, got some great advice) to hospital chief of staff. Enjoyed a few sets of totally recognizable rock music–except that one Byrds’ song–performed with hilariously wonderful energy by a band comprising class-of-’71 kids that the entire crowd knew and loved, whose members had known one another since kindergarten days. How great is all that?

Really great, as it turns out.

Snapped from the passenger seat, riding, uncharacteristically, shotgun.  The attendant was not amused, but I waved at him right after I took this picture, as if to say, don’t mind me, I’m just taking a picture, but it’s ok, you’re not really all that in it, go right on back to work. He waved back.  We drove away… off to pick Peter up from a junior high school dance.  Story for another time.

I just needed a quick photo, as time was ticking down on this day.

I was not driving because I’d had too much retsina at dinner.  One glass over my limit.  In my happy retsina place, but not right for driving. I’ve decided greek food shall be served at my memorial; I love it that much.

I’m reflecting on a day full of productivity–lots of reading, writing, necessary and satisfying communications, progress on the office cleaning front, and an hour of stretching, which did wonders for several traumatized body zones.  Getting old is hell. But stretching is heaven.

This is the eve of a brutal weekend to come: a far away baseball tournament with early games on both Saturday and Sunday, and Jim’s 40th high school reunion sandwiched in between.  This means we drive 80 miles south to a farming community in the central valley, watch a couple baseball games and drive home.  Then, a reunion-appropriate wardrobe change, a 70-mile drive west to Piedmont for an upscale evening event that will undoubtedly run late into the night, then back home to Davis.  Then, up the next morning before dawn to get back down the valley for another couple, three baseball games. Hoping for smooth flowing traffic and good attitudes throughout.

Once upon a time… I went to kindergarten.  I had Mrs. Culp, a nurturing older woman who taught in Room #1 at Valmonte Elementary School in Palos Verdes Estates, California.

And so did Wendy.

We played on the playground, listened to stories, drank milk from the milk wagon, napped on roll up mats, and created creatures out of clay (sorry it’s blurry).  This is possibly my most favorite piece of art ever:

(Thanks for recognizing this as a hippopotamus.)

It’s signed by the artist (probably with help from Mrs. Culp herself), should there be any doubt as to its authenticity:

Anyway.

Wendy and I met in kindergarten, in 1960 or thereabouts.  We also were in the same first and second grade classes, with Mrs. Marshall and Mrs. Von Mueller.  We went all the way through elementary school, Malaga Cove Junior High, and high school, criss-crossing in hallways, locker rooms, classes, Brownies, and, of course, Girl Scout Troop #262.  We lost touch after graduating from PVHS in 1974; she went off to UC Berkeley and I to UC San Diego and hadn’t seen or talked to one another since (though we’d connected in recent years through Facebook).

Until today.  Wendy came to Davis for a visit and we caught up on the last 37 years.

Turns out, we share lefty political sensibilities and, we also learned today, an affinity for food coops.  We talked non-stop for four hours about people we knew and recounted experiences we had during our 18 years on the peninsula. I’m amazed, though, at how different our experiences were, how differently we perceived things, how personal and unique our realities were.  Funny, considering we lived in exactly the same era; shared the same spaces; went to the same libraries, stores and movie theaters; wandered the same streets; did so many of the same things; knew mostly all the same people…   and yet…  our narratives are so entirely different.

Maybe it was because she had older siblings and I had younger ones; or because her parents were democrats–her dad worked with Bobby Kennedy and was in the Ambassador Hotel when he was shot, and her mom campaigned for Save Our Coastline–and mine were republicans; or she was a singer and I was a jock.. who knows.

She said I was shy and quiet, which I guess is true. I think maybe I thought people didn’t notice that (I thought I was rather full of myself, but maybe only I knew I was full of myself).  I see perhaps where Peter gets his shyness and cluelessness. She told me she got in all sorts of trouble for speaking her mind, which I didn’t know then, but which I look back on now and admire.

We sat for the longest time on my dad’s memorial bench across the street from our house (which is appropriately situated under a eucalyptus tree) and looked at photos she’d brought.  It was a pretty moving experience.

Sigh.. it was that kind of morning, with a lot of that kind of sharing.  Interesting, illuminating, and so much fun.

I definitely remade a friend.

 

T’was a sunny day

Mellow morning meadow mist

We had to go. Bah.