Nobody went to jail this
Nobody went to the
emergency room, either.
Nobody had to rush a
bloody cat to the veterinary hospital at one o'clock in the morning.
Nobody woke up and
discovered that their dashboard had been disembowelled while they
Nobody got drunk.
Nobody got anything
pierced. (Although Daughter #2 is sporting a new evil clown tattoo on
her inner right calf.)
Nobody wrecked their car
or ran out of gas or accidentally ended up on the freeway.
Nobody raised an eyebrow
when Mom ordered both a soft beef taco AND
a crisp beef burrito at one sitting.
Nobody talked about the
%$&# fudking California RECALL
ELECTION. Mostly they talked
about the weather, and about TicTac's skyrocketing gas prices, and
about the latest bodies being pulled out of Gary Ridgway's crawlspace.
Nobody killed anybody
totally dead. At least, not while *I* was in town.
not to say that
this latest trip to TicTac was completely without incident.
was the Getting
Lost on the Way To Grandma's House Incident, for instance: New Driver
Jaymi and Nervous Passenger Mom cruising through the scariest part of
White Center at sundown, with the car doors locked and the windows
rolled up tighter than the Popemobile. There was the Misbehaving
Underwire Incident. There was The French Onion Soup Appetizer
Accidentally Served AFTER The Entree Incident. There was the Oh-Shidt-I've-Lost-My-Credit-Card!
Incident. (Although I merely interpreted that
one as a sign from the MasterCard gods, telling me that I'd spent
enough money for one trip.)
then there was my vote for Most Surreal
Incident of the weekend: The Pink Balloon Incident, wherein my
seventeen-year-old son reached over and deliberately popped his
twenty-year-old sister's pink balloon, in the middle of the Super Mall,
prompting her to burst into tears. (Thereby prompting me
to say something I never thought I would be saying to these two adult
human beings, ever again: "If
the two of you can't get along with each other, we're going home RIGHT
incidents? We got 'em by the bucketload in this family.
always hoping for
Oprah when I go home to TicTac: warm, fuzzy, intimate, reconciliatory.
Lots of hugging and laughing. Lots of fence-mending. Lots of sitting
around in bright sunny kitchens over steaming mugs of General Foods
International Coffee, reminiscing about days -- and people -- gone by.
Basically: I want the ten days I spend in TicTac every year to make up
for the 355 days that I'm not
there. Which is pretty unrealistic, when you think about it ... not to
mention stoopid and immature and self-serving and totally embarrassing
that's what I want.
good news is that I
did get my fair share of those warm fuzzy moments this year. I got to
hang out with my mom for an afternoon, and with her nice gentleman
friend Vince (who I like better and better, the more I get to know
him). I got to spend some time with my sister, who once again is
skinnier than I am [damn].
I got to have brunch with The World's Cutest Nephew, who continues to
live up to the title. I got to eat Taco Time -- twice! -- and watch The
MTV Music Video Awards -- twice! -- and wander around in shopping malls
looking for baggy pants -- three times! I got to sleep late, sort of.
(6:07 a.m. is late for a Sunday morning, right?) I got to ride
in the passenger seat while two newly-licensed Tots took turns
chauffering me around TicTac. I got to admire Daughter #2's
newly-blonde hair. I got to spend an afternoon smelling shampoo at
Long's Drugs, and another afternoon looking through old family photo
albums at my ex-husband's house. I got to spend my nights in pretty
guest rooms decorated with cabbage roses and potpourri. I got to take
pictures and eat Hostess Chocolate Cupcakes and make snotty comparisons
between the "meteorologists" in TicTac and the "meteorologists" in the
Bay Area. (The verdict? They're all just a bunch of weather puppets.)
Best of all: I got to do all of this stuff in the company of people I
love most on the planet.
yeah. OK. It wasn't
Oprah. It's never
Oprah, and one of these days I might actually figure that out in
advance and quit expecting it to be.
again: it wasn't
Jerry Springer, either. Things could be lots worse.
to see enlarged image
to throw a rock?