22-Feb-2006
And now, more about my weekend home:
Friday/Saturday: I wolf down a deep fried chicken sandwich with mayo at LAX. I didn't have time to eat pre-airport, simply because there was a golf cart fiasco (who knew that I would be responsible for tracking down stolen carts and punishing the offenders? Although, let's admit it, that last part was pretty fun). I drooled on my travel pillow all the way to Chicago, snagged a Cinnabon, and strolled onto the flippety flappety no-bigger-than-a-pelican plane that took me to Louisville, at which point the rents met me. Dad cooked lunch, and I put on Season One of "24." Eight episodes later, I woke up from my snoring on the couch to find Mom waiting with some blueberry cheesecake. I ignored all calls and fell back asleep, waking up with my face covered in blueberry glaze. I love being home.
Sunday: I visit my grandmother. She manages not to insult me or my intelligence, although she does ask why I'm not married yet. I debate telling her it's because I want my bedpost notches to number at least 20 before I consider lifelong monogamy. Instead, I shut up and meet Farrah and Farrah's Fiance at the coffee shop. As often happens in a small town, we run into other people we know, and, deciding we haven't had enough quality time (just the three of us), the two of them decide to come to dinner. Meanwhile, I go for a visit to Mammy Jane, who dishes up coffee and cake and her legendary sweetness. She really is a doll, that one. While I was visiting, Seventh Grade Crush left me a voicemail saying he'd like to see me, so I call him up and tell him to join the dinner party at my house. He agrees, but only after asking me what we're having. Gotta dig his honesty - it's like my propensity to ask who's gonna be at a party before I agree to go.
Monday: I won't even go into this, but basically Sprint tried to check my credit when I was getting ready to sign a new contract with them, and apparently my credit report is blocked. Not bad. Just blocked. NO ONE can access it. The hippie-turned-corporate type waiting on me seemed to think it was because I was a CIA operative. I promptly axed his dreadlocks and called the credit bureaus. But basically, I've had to write about five thousand letters to find out why the fuck no one can check my credit. It's perfect. I checked it three months ago. Something tells me this is not gonna be a fun battle.
Fast forward a few hours, I leave my parents at the airport curb, and, like always, feel a little bit like that kid trying to be brave walking into her first day of school. Head held high, travel pillow clutched tight like a security blanket, but really about to burst into tears. In fact, yesterday at work, I was so down that our associate producer showed up mid-afternoon with a Venti Starbucks cup of coffee. "I thought you looked kinda sad this morning, so I brought you something to cheer you up." I sometimes forget there are people out here who care about me, too. It's nice to be reminded. Also, my superior connections with the Other Me have landed the Designated Driver an interview with the Great Man. God, I'm name-dropping like crazy, aren't I? But I am a bit proud of myself for that one. Yep, I rock.
I think your name dropping is hilarious. It's a game to me to figure out who people are. Of course, Farrah and her fiance were easy ones. The Seventh Grade Crush took a while, but I figured it out when he got called out for lying to us about eating dinner with his family. Apparently, he wanted no one else to be a part of the dinner or something. Hell...I would have told him to at least give you a big hug or something.
Also, that was nice of your associate producer. My coworkers just make fun of me.