Last night at 11:00 they started jackhammering in the street below us.
This morning at 6:00 car horns were already honking.
Sounds of the city, not even sifted through trees, permeate the apartment through the open windows.
And with every heavy truck that rumbles past, I smile.
My carry-on just got searched. I was all tingly expecting them to go to the bag of sex toys and hold up the nipple clamps.
Apparently my liquids and gels half-filled a gallon zip bag. Apparently I’m only supposed to use a quart sized bag. They let it slide because I’m polite and friendly and I have awesome hair.
Also, the security worker smiled when she asked me if there was anything sharp and pointy in the bag and I said, “No, Ma’am.”
I changed my door hanging today. This morning it was a metal basket of pansies. Now it is a grapevine wreath with orange and yellow leaves and berries.
Because Miles gave me flak when we walked outdoors this morning saying, “Momma, it’s not summer anymore. You have to change the door. You have to.”
I’ve spent today seeing my last clients for a week and doing laundry. Tonight I pack myself up for New York. I pack the boys’ bag to spend the weekend with their father who arrives tomorrow afternoon and will stay until Sunday morning.
Oh, and Daniel called at 2 PM to inform me that he could only get a reservation for Thursday night at the Holiday Inn. Not Friday. Not Saturday. Is there anything I could do to help him?
Right, like offer my apartment for him to stay in when I’m out of town. It’d be one thing if I was in town and he had to crash on the futon and he had nowhere else to go and he took total responsibility for the boys and didn’t leave them with me so he could go out with friends.
But that’s not what happened in the past. And I’m NOT in town this weekend. So how can he really think I’d be okay with him in my space with my private things and full access to whatever he wanted?
Best part is: He called the hotel today. He’s had his plane tickets for at least two weeks. BEST part is that his wife is the marketing manager for a five-star hotel.
Can I fall on the floor laughing/screaming now?
Hot damn, I’m in a good mood now. My client just emailed me to tell me about the lifting of the liquid and gel ban from airplanes. Thank dog. My toothpaste can come with. I’m bottling everything in trial sizes, though, just in case.
Yay for not having to check a bag. Yay for not having to spend one extra minute in LaGuardia, which gives me a headache. Yay for liquid-ish presents which will be delivered in person rather than by mail. Yay for bringing my own lube.
Not that it’ll make going through security any easier, because I will have sex toys and various apparati and apparently I still can’t bring coffee on board, but at least now I know.
I must be going out of town. I got my hair cut today and my waxing appointment is tomorrow. I may sneak in a pedi, too.
Update: I did get a pedi, and my toes are gorgeous. I also had my girl wax my underarms, which I normally don’t do because last time she did them they broke out and I had raw, red underarms for like, four days. Yeah, so guess what happened. I’m so effing stupid.
It’s just getting longer: The To-Do List. I’m looking at the sheet of paper divided into three parts: What to pack, what to buy, what to do. All before I leave in five days while also cleaning my house, keeping up with laundry, packing the boys’ bag for the time I’m gone, not to mention seeing the clients I’ve got scheduled and a few more who will call Monday and Tuesday, I’m sure.
Of course I’m procrastinating. Of course I will also need to make arrangements for transportation to and from the airport. Shit, I just remembered about that. Sucks to live in a place where that is such a big deal. Stupid farmland.
I’m excited about the visit, but anxious about the scheduling. I want to spend time with everyone and I know that someone will be left feeling shafted. Not in the good way.
Last week, when Miles decided to test the sharpness of the scissors by poking them straight into my yoga ball, effectively shredding the thing, I took him with me to buy a new one.
“This costs $13.00. Do you know how many quarters that is?”
They are both into the quarters, thanks to the monstrous gumball machines poised at the entrance to every store we visit. Gumballs, and by extension quarters, are great motivators.
“How many quarters?”
“How many are in a dollar?”
“Four! 25, 50, 75, 1.00!”
“Four for one dollar. Thirteen dollars times four quarters. Let’s see. Ten times four is what?”
“Forty quarters in ten dollars. How many more dollars to thirteen?”
“What’s three times four?”
He counted on his fingers.
“So let’s add forty and twelve. That’s how many quarters this ball costs”
“Fifty-two quarters?! Do you have enough money?”
“This time I do, but I need you to respect other peoples’ things. If you break something it’s your responsibility, even if it was by accident.”
“I understand. I’d better save some more quarters.”
I’m sitting on the ball which we took turns pumping up two nights ago. It smells like goat cheese.
Stupid terrorist plots.
I wonder if I can survive five days without my face wash and moisturizer.
Cos I’m telling you now, there’s some fucked-up shit going down for it to be okay for me to travel with my knitting needles and scissors on a flight, but be forced to check my Aloe & Citrus face wash.
Seriously, you can even travel with up to 4 oz of “personal lubricant.” No cleanser, though. Must find a way to avoid Baggage Claim at LaGuardia if it kills me.
Balls. Fucking balls.
(Actually, I’d better leave those at home, too.)