Holy moly! It’s a little dirty around here…hold on…
Ok, that’s better. Sorry if I phoofed dust in your eyes. CLEARLY, someone has been letting the ol’ website languish away in some dreary corner of the Internet. Ahem…don’t look over here, although I did actually predict something like this happening, back in this post. It’s entirely possible that I have devolved into the aforementioned homicidal googly-eyed maniac, although it’s not due to the stress of moving so much as the stress of NOT BEING HOME EVER EVER EVER OMG.
My eyes are starting to twitch as we speak.
But! I’m home now, until all the way far away Tuesday! Hooray! This time, it was the getting home that was a real pain in the old keister. For starters, I was a bit wardrobe challenged yesterday. Let’s pretend that I own a fabulous red trench coat, mmkay? Well, I have to start thinking a bit more about what I wear WITH the red trench coat. And what I haul around while wearing the red trench coat. Otherwise you end up with me yesterday…green casual slacks (from Old Navy, and they rock!) bright BLUE carry-on wheely bag (so’s I can tell which one is mine, natch) and the happy bright red trench coat and matching red leather gloves. I looked like a box of crayons.
Of course, when the plane landed at DIA yesterday, I could have cared less what color my coat and gloves were, because it was SNOWING. And I was on a turbo prop that you exit via a staircase. Into the SNOW. So that was fun. My seatmate and I took one look at the blowing snow outside the window, and flatly refused to get out of our seats until we saw our gate-checked wheely bags unloaded onto the cart. (Oh yes, my travel life is so glamorous that 9 times out of 10, I’m on a plane that is too small to hold wheely bags in the overhead compartments, so they take them planeside, heave ’em under into the cargo bay and return them as you deplane.) Bag firmly in hand, I gingerly minced across the icy tarmac, because I was wearing (of course) snakeskin ballet flats. In my defense, the weather didn’t call for snow when I left Denver, and my other choices of footwear were equally bad, as they both involved high heels. So, mincemincemince across the ice, into the terminal, on the train, up the stairs, out the door to the parking garage. Not that I park in the parking garage, because it’s to damn expensive ($18 a day? Are you KIDDING me?) but so I could walk through the parking garage to the outlying lots, where I had cleverly parked close enough to walk, so I didn’t have to wait for the shuttle. Of course, I totally would have taken the shuttle NOW, but I failed to remember where I was parked, so I wouldn’t have been able to tell the driver which row and section. I’m sure that a feeble wave and declaration of “somewhere over there-ish…I think” would have just enraged the other passengers, as we weaved around searching for my car.
So, I hoofed it. And it was bloody cold. I spent most of this time on the phone with my mom because
a) I like to call my parents when I come home from trips to let them know I’m not dead
b) I wanted someone on the line with me that could call 911 if I gave in to exhaustion and collapsed into a snow bank. At least she could tell them I was in the east parking lot, somewhere over there-ish.
Off I trudged, dodging snow plows all the way, looking for my damn car. It took a while to find, because clever me did a pull-through, and although I remembered pulling into a spot on the north side of the row, I was actually on the south (duh.) There were small drifts all around my car, which a normal person wouldn’t have noticed, but a person wearing ballet flats? Oh, that shit got noticed. Stomp stomp stomp to the back of the car, up with the hatch, in with the bag, over to the driver’s side. Of course, this entire time my conversation with my mom went something like:
“fuck bloody fuck fuck my feet are bloody freezing this f-in sucks ARRRRGGH! My shoe just fell off! Really? Really? FUCK!”
(fortunately, my mom is a-ok with the cussing.)
I get into the car, wipe my poor feet off with some random article of clothing left in the front seat, and start the damn thing so I can let it run and heat up while I get out and scrape the windows (I tried to just use the wipers, but they got stuck after moving 3 inches. Stupid snow. Stupid ice.) Or, at least that was the plan, because the alternator? She is dying in the poor car, and I had to keep revving the engine to keep it from giving up entirely. So I ended up opening the door and standing with one foot in a drift, the other in the car firmly on the accelerator. This meant I was working a one-handed scraping operation, but I persevered until I got the wipers unstuck, at which point they went FOOMP, and dumped an entire boatload of snow down my cleavage. (Red trench coat? I hate you and your stupid neckline!) I lost it at that point, got back in the car, turned it to defrost, cranked the vents up to 11, and waited until shit started to melt. I then spent twice my normal commute home stuck in traffic, because OMG! Snow! In Denver! Clearly, the end of the world is imminent!
Lord love a duck, this traveling all the damn time has got to slow down after Christmas, or I may well go completely batshit crazy. Hopefully I’ll keep you updated. But till then?
I’m off to Fargo next week.