March 25, 2007

Dear TSA

Dear Transportation Security Agency,

Do you have any idea the fear I had boarding a JetBlue flight from NYC’s JFK airport to Burbank, land of Jay Leno, California???

You see, as you know (because I called you 6 times)I lost my California Driver’s License somewhere around Madison Square Garden and the Empire State Building. I had no intention of losing my only photo ID. It was not some sort of ploy to make your life harder. It was not some sort of trick to keep you on the phone with me, a frantic mother of two, while you should be out tracking terrorists and hijacking people’s toothpaste and water bottles and, oh yeah-as I learned, jelly sandwiches. We all know how terribly explosive those Smucker’s people are. Smucker’s just sounds evil, I agree.

Anyway, i admit I was a bit of a pain in your ass. You see, I wanted to make sure I could, say, get home from New York. I had gotten to New York so, silly me, I wanted to get home from that great city.

Your nice agents assured me it was possible to return home, as planned. All I needed was two non-photo forms of ID.  That’s it. They didn’t have to be originals. They could just be faxed to the hotel. But, I was told by your really well informed agents, there must be TWO pieces of faxed paper, and they both must contain the copies of two government issued documents. I was told this could be my social security card, my birth certificate, my marriage license, my divorce decree (not that I have one), or something like that. This, I was told, was the ONLY way I was getting on that plane home. The ONLY way I would ever see my wonderful husband and darling children again.

It’s not like I could rent a car without a driver’s license. Its not like I could use my credit card for a train ticket without a photo ID. No, I needed those two forms of ID, and my adoring Kaiser went through closet after closet, box after box and came away victorious.With two children tugging at his pants, he faxed the documents to the hotel. I waiting in a long line at the front desk and, eventually, walked away with the holy grail of paper.

I held the envelope tightly in my hand while I went up 10 floors to my room. I tucked the envelope away in a safe spot, awaiting the time and date of my return flight. I called your agents again and again…and maybe again. I needed to be sure these documents, tucked between my panties and my pj’s…would be my ticket home.

Yes, the agents told me…over and over. The documents would be fine, but they would be scrutinized. I would go through a more formal search, and I would be allowed to board the flight if my documents were in order.

Finally, the time came. With documents in hand I approached security…shaking. The Kaiser was on standby, waiting to hear if I made it through. Friends were on standby, waiting to come get me if they needed to, and my mother was on standby, convinced this was all a ploy to stay on vacation longer.

Security looked at my boarding pass, asked for my ID. I explained the situation and handed them  my envelope of precious documents.

They didn’t even look at them.

Not a glance. Not a…hmmm…let me see what we have here.

Nothing.

I kept trying to hand security types my papers…someone needed to see these. SOMEONE needed to LOOK at my PROOF that I was NOT a terrorist.

Hello…ANYONE WANT TO SEE THESE?????

NO takers.

Not one.

Just thought you should know.

Way to keep us safe, asshats,

Queen of Spain

February 26, 2007

Go to Jail, Go directly to Jail

My son really, really, really does not want me to go to jail. Or die.

Which is good, because I really don’t have any desire to go to jail. Or die.

He seems to think both are real possibilities and both could happen at any moment. I mean, he’s right about one of those…but still. I wrote about this over at DotMoms, but I need to post it again here, because I honestly don’t know how to answer him anymore. I think explaining to him only bad people go to jail helped relieve some fears. But the death thing? He flusters me daily. I just can’t bring myself to tell him anyone of us could be gone tomorrow.

My son is asking about death.

He wants to know if he will die. He wants to known when he will die. He wants to know how he will die. He wants to know what will happen after he dies. He wants to know if Mommy will die. He wants to know if Daddy will die.

When I was asked these deep questions by a not-quite 4-year-old, I paused. This was one of those moments when I needed to have my Mom act together. I was not going to get away with a, “Oh, just because…” answer.

It was during my pause that my son threw me for a loop. It seems he wasn’t so concerned about dying, but actually more concerned about being “alone” and “away from everybody.”

He wasn’t really worried about dying, he was worried about not being able to hug his mom when he needed it most.

Did anyone else’s heart just jump into their throats?

I, of course, assured my tiny worry wart that he would always have someone. I was vague. I was very non specific, and I choked back tears the entire time, knowing it wasn’t true.

I lied.

I wasn’t as concerned with the lie as I was the truth. One day he may be alone. One day I won’t be here. One day…

I think I liked it better when I thought he was obsessed with death.

January 17, 2007

Wild Weather in Los Angeles

Dear God,

You are scaring me. Please Stop. Thanks. QofS

December 11, 2006

Santa the Impaler

Dear Bastard Santa on top of my tree,

I’ve got you. I’ve FINALLY got you. Today your fat head toppled your white body and you fell within inches of my son’s golden mop. In my mind, that makes you a safety hazard. You, my friend, must go.

Yes, I know. We have a long history together. I bought you thinking you would look great on my white and gold decorated tree. Back when I could put things like glass balls and bows and only white lights on my perfect, fragrant, pine.

Of course, my husband, being the man he is, thought you deserved to be adorned with the Marshall football helmet a friend kindly gave him as a gift. Since that fateful day when your white hair was covered in HELMET…I’ve hated you. I’ve hated you ruining my Martha aspirations. Not that I could ever really be that coordinated…but dammit, it was my first house and my first married Christmas and I was going to try. And fail. But TRY none the less.
Despite my disdain, you became a tradition. And you’ve been on top of every tree, every year, since that horrific, pretty-killing Christmas. Yes Santa, you are a pretty-killer.

Traditions are something I know a lot about. I’ve forced my husband into many of mine. Like kielbasa on Christmas Eve and pie for breakfast. Orange juice for a New Year’s toast and lighting candles at local churches when our sky is falling. So I could never have knocked you off your tree top post. Not after year 2. Certainly not after 3. Or 4. Or 5. I have a certain respect for tradition. Even when they are asinine.

It was today, when you tipped ever so slightly to the left and then tumbled, helmet first, to the ground that I realized this may be my one and only chance to kick you off the main spot on my tannenbaum. I’ve already given up the glass ornaments and the white lights and the bows and ribbons and pretty, pretty things.

I now have a certified, 100% family tree. Hand made (and much loved) ornaments, colored lights to please the children, even the soft, hand-me-down stuffed ornaments my mother made when I was young and prone to breaking things. Add in the latest diagnosis of asthma in our house, and we now have a fake tree. Not even that new tree smell to greet me as I walk in the door.
So do I leave you up there, oh Bastard Santa? Or do you get replaced with some less top-heavy object??? Do I dare tempt an ill-fated, Christmas ER trip wherein I explain to the doctor how a helmeted Claus knocked my child unconscious?

The clock is ticking, Mr. Kringle.