Going Beneath Savannah's Surface, Sort of. Savannah, Georgia. The physical embodiment of Southern charm. It’s mystique of manners and decorum are demurred by the telltale Spanish moss. Its polite gentility pushes its funky and eccentric underbelly down out of site. But it’s the places and stories swept under the city’s rug that I seek. Ok, maybe that’s a bit melodramatic, but I’m working with a theme here. Bonaventure Cemetery Bonaventure is not underground in the way of requiring a secret password, nor is it hidden below ground. But I sure hope its residents are tucked deep down into the earth. The site is famous on its own, but many people know it from “The Book” and film, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, during my last trip to Savannah. The gray skies and light rain hanging in the sky added to the mystery of the cemetery’s 160 acres. It is divided into sections like a mini-city divided into neighborhoods with small roads making all corners of the site accessible. A burial was in progress in Section K, while tours tiptoed through the paths and trails to visit the famous and not-so-famous interred in Sections M and N. My travel buddy and I found the resting place of Johnny Mercer, the man of 1,000 songs. The Bird Girl statue, Little Wendy, featured on The Book’s cover no longer resides in Bonaventure. The family moved her to Telfair Academy (museum) for her protection and to maintain the integrity of the family’s plot. Jim Williams and Danny Hansford from The Book do not rest here. Now, I’m not one to judge. Who am I kidding? I see or hear someone or something and an opinion shoots through my mind; I make a judgment. For some among us, this trait is called being decisive and knowing what they want. For others, it’s deemed as being judgmental. Tomayto – tomahto. But, having an (informed) opinion is just the skill needed to join the legion of script readers for the Austin Film Festival. What luck! I joined the reading ranks late in the 2023 season, when over 11,000 scripts were submitted. It’s a new year with a new festival on the books, so I’m all in from the start for the 2024 reading season.
What does being a script reader entail? Other than reading and evaluating a script for its strength and weaknesses in a variety of categories such as plot, structure, and character to help reduce the field of contenders? I’m not at liberty to say. I’m also not permitted to read in my own category. Damn. And I can’t read the work of friends or acquaintances, so there’s no need to try to woo me with sweet talk and bribes. Double damn! Who am I to judge? Sure, I’m sure we’ve all run across plenty of randos on the street who think that we’re all entitled to their opinions. But really, what makes any one person’s opinion better than someone else’s? Education, experience, diplomacy, perhaps. And while I have plenty of strong views, when it comes to people’s creative works, I often don’t express them. That would be mean. The winter holidays are done. The New Year has come and gone. School is back in and about to be out of session, again. Resolutions are surely still in full swing – congrats to Dry January and Veganuary participants! The groundhog did not see his shadow. And now, it’s almost another New Year, the Lunar New Year. This means it can’t be avoided any longer. If not already done, thank you cards must be completed and sent! “Aw, Mom, do I have to?”
Even if my tot isn’t moaning about it, I’m thinking it. My kid mostly doesn’t mind, but at the same time, like most kids, would rather abstain from the ‘thank you’ ritual. But, the hesitancy to complete the perfunctory thank you stems from more than a kid not wanting to do a task or chore. Over the course of his childhood, we’ve noticed that no one else sends thank yous. NO. ONE. EVER. In our experience. Start to New Year: January whenever 2024 Are you awake? Upright? Scrubbing off the greasy, sticky residue of 2023? Yeah? Me, too. Nonetheless, Happy New Year!
I have never been one to make resolutions. I have, though, been known to occasionally take stock in the day-to-day existence to see what tweaks I might want to make. Sometimes, I do this near my birthday, during a season change, while waiting for an appointment, or, say, on Dec. 31 of any given year. And, I did so on the turn of this particular new year. You know what I discovered in my deep reflection? Not much – nothing’s really changed. 2004, 2024 - I’d still like to work towards or improve on the same things I always do. Maybe I’ll add a soupçon of other supporting interests, but yeah, same old same old here for another turn around the sun. An Ode to Lost Things, Nov. 29, 2022 Here in the U.S., we just celebrated Thanksgiving, the day when we are supposed to share our bounty and declare all the things that we are thankful for. This time of the year is not the time to be whining about what’s been lost, you know, stuff. We’re even supposed to free ourselves of stuff. While my Lost Things are just stuff, they are essential stuff. And, I would be ever so thankful if my stuff made its way back to me. It’d be a glorious Christmas or Hanukkah or other winter holiday miracle! The memories of the lost stuff have stuck with me. Some items have only been gone a year or two, some decades. But I want them all back no matter how long they’ve been away. If you happen to have my stuff, it is not yours. Those pieces are my property and were not given away freely. You are in possession of stolen goods. In thinking about all this stuff, I got to wondering why I was even thinking about the stuff in the first place. Are our worldly possessions more than stuff? Some mementos are. Some of the stuff whose loss I’ve felt the longest and feel the worst about are related to family. The items spark sentimental feelings, of course. But what is sentiment? Proof that those who bestowed us with the special items existed? And by owning the items, we too exist? And, if we don’t exist in a physical and meaningful way, later in turn able to leave something behind, do we or should we exist at all? And worse than this existential flogging is that in addition to my tragic feelings, my grandmother thought I didn’t like and got rid of these items. Oh, how did I love thee? Let me recount the ways, the ways that you were lost that is. FAMILY ARTICLE ONE The first item to join the land of loss was my grandmother’s old camera. It was from the 40’s I believe. She had noticed that I liked dabbling with my camera so she shared her old one with me. I had so much fun looking into the viewfinder hood on top and pushing the button on the side. I felt like I really worked to get the picture more than with the modern point-and-click. I felt like a budding photographer. The loss of that item feels like the loss of that interest or hobby; like it was taken away before it could develop. {Oooh, a pun!} Hurt. So. Bad. She gave it to me for a birthday. I loved it! At the time, rose gold wasn’t all the rage, so it was also unique. FAMILY ARTICLE TWO Even worse to lose, though, was a piece of jewelry; my grandmother’s rose gold lock baby bracelet. How CANADA Keeps Trying to Keep Me in its Borders, but Won't Admit it Wants Me. Much of the U.S is on pins and needles watching the post-insurrection mid-term elections. Will tight and contentious races go the way we want? Will bleakness yield to hope? Is Georgia on my mind? Ab-so-peachin’-lutely. But you know who, or what seems to be thinking about me? Not California. Not New York. Germany could give a rat's ass. But in case things here go tits up, it seems that one locale is opening its arms to welcome me, offering me an escape. Or, maybe just the opportunity to contact one of its specialists and fill out an evaluation to see if I’m worthy… O, Canada. To date, you’ve played coy. You’re always there, quietly on the fringes, saying “no,” yet showing “yes.” It’s a new era now, Canada. Don’t play games. Just come out and say it. You know you want me, baby (Canada). My family has ‘dabbled’ in Canada. One of my great-grandmothers was born there. Her husband, my great-grandfather (was) moved there as a child. My grandfather was born there but wasn’t considered a Canadian or British citizen, simply a British subject. Gee, thanks for the warm embrace of inclusion, Canada. Despite not fully welcoming my family into the Canadian fold, growing up in northwestern Washington, my mom recalls believing that O’ Canada was her national anthem. Her neck of the woods tuned in more Canadian than U.S. television channels, and the stations back then signed off at night with color bars and “O, Canada”. Time hop a couple of generations and maybe Canada is changing its tune about my family. One summer during my early high school years, my mother wanted to show her Australian friend where she grew up, and from there, visit Canada. This was, ah hem, a while ago, before we needed passports or had Real IDs to cross our northern border. My prior visits to Canada had never been an issue, so no worries. Right? As per usual, we rode the Coho from Washington to Victoria, B.C., Canada. We visited the Butchart Gardens, hit the James Bay Tea Room because the Impress was too touristy, and shopped for Rogers’ Chocolates and Murchies tea – yet sadly, not a Mountie in sight. And, after a day on Canadian soil, it was time to board the ferry back to Washington. It was a sunny day and the winds whipped off the waters onto the ferry’s deck. Upon docking, all us passengers then mooed our way to customs to be cleared to enter the U.S. I knew the drill. I also knew that the border guards drilling me always got tripped up on the point that I was born in a different state than I grew up in. And, as expected, the border guard grilled me on where I was born, where I’m from, and then proceeded to get a bit flustered that those are two different states. Then the real fun kicked in.
The Day-of Realities of Kids Flying Solo To recap: I have a child who must fly solo. I did a lot of online research and called around to different airlines before first booking a trip on American Airlines, and then a second on Delta. I researched and booked a flight for my minor who is flying solo. Now what? Oh, we – the kid and I – actually have to go through the flight process. It shouldn’t be that bad, right? I flew unaccompanied as a kid with no fear. I also enjoyed pretending to be five to fly alone even though I was still four. Even though flying is relatively safe, things feel different now. Maybe it’s the increased understanding of risk that comes with being an adult. Maybe “things” – the world - are different, different meaning unsafe and uncertain, now. And, the kid not wanting to take the trip probably isn’t helping how he or I about the solo flying experience. Some of the minor’s feelings: Whhhheeeeee: This is fun. Later, Mom! Anxiety overload: I can’t leave, Mama. I’ll be all alone. I’ve never been so far from Mama. The contradictory parental feelings: Pride: My little is growing up, spreading his wings, soaring through the skies on his own. Anxiety: My little can’t go alone. He needs me. What if there’s a problem, a delay, an accident, an issue on the other end? The Rundown: For both trips, we arrived at the airport 2.5 – 3 hours before the departure of a domestic flight. The first jaunt, I had to drive around for 30-minutes before luckily stumbling across a space being vacated – the only available spot as far as eyes could see. The departure time inhibited using mass transit to get to the airport, that, and to drive was 27 minutes, mass transit would have taken 1.5 hours. The second trip, I drove straight to a far-off parking lot and then we took a SkyTrain to the terminal. This was relatively easy. rIn November, lines to check-in and check baggage at American were very, very long. The week following Memorial Day at Delta was medium busy, but Delta had agents working to ensure that patrons were evenly dispersed across available counters. NB: An unaccompanied minor cannot check-in online 24 hours before the flight, instead having to report directly at the counter. There, the adult fills out paperwork with contact information for the minor and the adult on the receiving end. And if the hefty unaccompanied minor (UAM) fee hasn’t already been paid, it is charged now. On the second trip, there was an error flagged on my flyer’s itinerary. The agent thought he’d accidentally been booked on the last flight of the day for the final leg, which is a no-no. He'd have to be rescheduled to return a day earlier. A few calls and computer clicks later, the itinerary, which had already been changed three times, was deemed in order. I was then issued a gate pass to take my little passenger to his flight. Long gone are the days when my mother just walked me to my departure and my grandfather arrived at the arrival gate in Seattle to watch planes take-off and land long before I’d ever left California. Security: When my child and I travel together, we both get through security on my TSA-Pre. During our first UAM experience, I asked if we could use it since I’m escorting him. The American Airlines agent thought that would be possible on his next trip. Take Two: feeling experienced, I asked the Delta agent if we could, indeed, use my TSA-Pre to jump the security line. She gave us a big “NOPE.” So, with him as the solo traveler, and children under 12 not eligible for TSA-Pre, we had to go into the gen pop that is general security. And the line was long with us getting to the gate five minutes before boarding. Our second general security experience took about 40 minutes but felt more organized yet more traumatic than our first trip. In the security line for the Delta flight, we took in a moving multi-media exhibit about Sen. John Lewis and his fight for voting rights. As we moved closer to ID checks, a young lady a few people behind us had a medical emergency. She seemed to faint. Her party and security got her up and barely moving when she had a medical emergency again. The woman in front of me appeared to mumble a prayer. Us non-practitioners of any religion stood there stunned by the startling medical emergency and the religious response before we gathered it together to line up two-by-two to be rudely sniffed by a TSA dog. I managed to keep the kid from petting the “cute doggie.” We arrived at the gate in plenty of time, but not without first, you guessed it, seeing an older gentleman sprawled on the floor in the throes of a medical emergency. At the gate, the kid asked if he, too, was also going to have a medical emergency. "No, Kid, they aren't contagious, I hope." Departure: And it’s flight time. The attendant escorted my kid to the back of the plane because it’s “safer” and helped him stow his luggage. My minor texted me from the connector airport that he’d landed and was being taken to the next gate. Then I eventually received proof of life on the other end. Pick-Up: The pick-up for the American Airlines flight in November, was, um, frustrating. Parking was easier, thankfully, but once I got to the counter, it was deserted. No. One. Was. There. It was about 8:30pm at a major airport. I asked another airline’s counter staff where I might find someone for my airline – I needed a gate pass to pick up the kid. I was sent to one end of the airport, then back to the empty counter. As I approached again, I saw a flight attendant who tried to ignore my attempts to flag her down. She proceeded to give me excuses like, “I’m not working,” “No one’s here right now,” “I think they might maybe bring the children to baggage claim.” No. Just. No. What are we paying the UAM fees for? I have a young child to pick up at the gate! A maybe of where he could be in a giant airport is completely unacceptable. This attendant finally found someone else who could issue me a gate pass from the still desolate check-in counter – issued to the wrong gate, but thankfully no one caught that. Once at the gate and the plane had landed, there was a competent attendant who escorted my little traveler safely to me. Pick-up for the Delta flight was easier in many ways. I had my parking routine down. There were agents at the Delta counter, I got my gate pass, but no arrival gate was listed. I get through security and I look for arrival/departure gates so I know which terminal to take the airport train to so that I can pick up my precious cargo. All the boards had departures only, no arrivals. I track down an airport worker. She wasn’t quite sure. I have the Delta app and it gave me a gate, but what if I didn’t have the app? And what if the app is wrong? Why aren’t the arrivals posted like the departures are? And, I have often had gates be different than what I was told at the counter. I arrived at the gate, and still no listing of the arrival. I really want to know where my kid will be arriving. I don’t think this is an unreasonable ask. I asked at other gates. They weren’t sure. I went back to the app and the app says the gate I’m at is it. And, finally, after much anxious waiting, the last to stumble off the plane, was my kid. Safe, sound, and ready to spill the tea of his adventures.
Kid report: “Mama! Yea, I’m home!” Phew. Sending the Little One Solo into the Wild Blue Yonder Thinking of sending a minor on a plane trip unaccompanied? Just. Don’t. Do. It. Ok, most of us contemplating this anxiety-induced event aren’t doing so willing. There’s likely some external force pushing the issue, and the ripped-out hair and impending debt that comes with it. So, for those who have to suck it up and book those tickets, here’s what you might expect. What is an unaccompanied minor? It’s pretty straightforward – a child at least five – 11, 12, 14, 16, or 17-years-old, depending on the airline, who is traveling without an accompanying adult. Why is the child unaccompanied? It doesn’t really matter, at least not to the airlines, but for the curious, it could be court-ordered visitation, visiting friends or relatives when the parent(s) can’t join the minor; or trips, camps, or other enrichment adventures. What services do airlines provide the unaccompanied minor? They help the children find their seats, escort them to gates for connecting flights, and make sure they connect with the appropriate receiving adult. Logistics: The key term to remember here is “direct flights”. In an article I read on The Points Guy on the topic of unaccompanied minors, the author mentioned she wouldn’t send her (older) minor on a flight plan with connections. I get that, but I don’t have that option. I also had no clue how much has changed since the “good ole days” in the way of airline limitations, booking and flight restrictions, and added costs prior to the 12-plus-hour search-and-book session I underwent for my minor. I recently moved from an airport hub city to another airport hub city. No problem: My flight path is clear. The person on the receiving end moved to a non-hub town. This means that there are fewer flights between the two locations, none are direct, some only have one flight for a particular leg of the itinerary per day, and all flights are costly. Airlines: Considering how many air carriers exist, when looking for flights, it felt like only a handful accepted unaccompanied minors. For my purposes, I looked at American, Alaska, Delta, United, JetBlue, and Southwest. Yes, you will note the lack of budget airlines on this list. They don't take unaccompanied minors.
Booking: I used Google and popular flight search websites like Kayak, Expedia, Skiplagged, and the airlines’ direct websites for an initial search to get an idea of what to expect in the way of day, time, and price options. JetBlue and Southwest ended up not having flights to the destination. Alaska would have routed my minor through Seattle, which overshot the destination by a couple of states. Booking a flight for an unaccompanied minor requires calling the airline reservation line and includes the long holds that typically come with calling an 800-number. Flight Plans/Routes: I found a flight on United that was quite pricey, but still cheaper than Delta or American. Through the exchange with the agent, I learned about one of the major complexities of booking flights for unaccompanied minors in contemporary times: solo or last flight legs. Because my little is flying alone, he can’t be on the only flight of any leg of the itinerary. He also can’t be on the last flight of the day for any part of the flight plan. The United ticket I thought I’d scored was now gone because it was the only one of the day on that route. Damn! Jockeying back and forth with Delta and American, I ran into similar issues – a cheaper leg of a flight, but it was the only one through that connector city, so I couldn’t book it. My minor would have to be routed through a different airport. Then the same circumstances were true when speaking with American, so back to Delta, then back to American. After hours of flight permutations, date changes, and general number crunching, I ended up with a lower ticket price on American, so went with that. When booking a second unaccompanied-minor flight, I tried United again. I discovered from the agent that United only takes unaccompanied minors for direct flights, something that wasn’t mentioned to me in my first go-around. Therefore, I will never be able to book with United Airlines for this flight plan. Costs:
All the Kid Remembers About the Drive is the Pets I’m a horrible mother. I always knew that I wasn’t maternal, and I was right. This is evidenced by my continual failing of my child. When he was 5-6 years-old, he wanted a second mom. Sorry, kid, not gonna happen. He just wanted to keep up with the Joneses anyway. He had a friend with two moms and thought it was cool. The following year, he wanted a sibling – a brother specifically, one year younger so that he could be the big brother. But again, wasn’t gonna happen. So, he acquiesced on his stance against me getting a boyfriend – I was now allowed to, but again, only if it brought him a sibling, specifically a brother. Has hell frozen over? Lastly, he settled on wanting a pet. At first, he wanted a dog. Then he had a taste of how much work it would be to take care of one. I stood firm that I wasn’t going to care for the dog, so he switched to a cat. “Mama, please, just a kitty,” he pleads. I’m only mostly cold-hearted, but I agree a pet might be nice. Our place in California, though, was just too small and now that we’re moving… we’re not allowed pets. "How could you get a place that won't allow pets?!" Mom has failed her child yet again! So, when The Quid looks back at this time – this summer of change and transition, a time many have commented as “once in a lifetime”, “a great adventure”, “fun and exciting”, “life changing”, after 2,400 miles, nine states, and various sites seen along the way, experiences and feelings had, he’s going to remember the cat and dogs we met as the highlight of our drive to Georgia. The reaffirmation of current failings as a parent began in Tucson. We arrived at my friend’s house and The Quid was immediately taken with the golden doodle, Chestnut, who my friend described as “having no boundaries.” Perfect! My kid is mostly lacking in boundaries, too. Or is that a filter? Maybe he lacks a filter. The Quid loved having a fur-buddy to nuzzle him, lick him, and lay around in the heat with him. And when we were out for brunch, my kiddo felt like the big dog brother by “disciplining” – barking commands – at Chestnut even if Chestnut wasn’t doing anything meriting discipline. “Mom, can’t we bring Chestnut with us?” "Hon, I think Chestnut needs a break." The Quid slept late the next day – he’d been fighting his first cold in two years, and long-distance travel isn’t easy on anyone. He slept and slept and slept. My friend’s pets earned their kibble and treats by rotating as his sleep-time snuggle buddies. So much “aaaaaaahhhhhhh” – touching, sentimental was happening that I was sure I was going to hurl. But it really was cute. My animal-loving co-pilot had a hard time saying good-bye to my friend’s gang of furballs. Luckily, though, I was able to dangle another pet-carrot in front to get him through the next drive. Another dog, the husky, Dakota! The Quid starts off slowly with animals, but then, after a few cautious seconds, dives right in, face first, in the fur, into petting, into loving but complaining about being licked. And so it was with Dakota. He loved her two different colored eyes, her hair instead of fur – it’s more hypoallergenic, and that she’s a little pudgy – there’s more of her to love. Half-laying on Dakota, “Mama, can he have a husky? Pppplllleeeeeaaaaassseee. Look how easy she is to take care of, and no allergies.” But again, to pet or not to pet is currently out of my hands. I love that he loves animals, though. It shows that he’s kind, caring, and likely not a psychopath! Now back to how the Quid might remember the long drive of 2021: favorite place visited – Monterey Bay Aquarium; favorite city: New Orleans, (also, best architecture); best part of the trip: it’s all about the pets! Are we there yet??? When we set out on our great adventure across the American South, I was almost excited to drive through New Mexico. It may not sound like me – New Mexico, but I’ve never been there and wanted to check it out. Santa Fe, Truth and Consequences, Roswell, Las Cruces, Carlsbad Caverns. “Surely, we can check out somewhere new on our way to Texas,” I thought. Ha! Joke’s on me. I thought wrong! I looked at the route to my next stop in Belton, TX. I considered how much I might consider diverging from it to see “cool stuff”. I looked at projected drive and arrival times to potential spots of interest. BUT... we’d taken our time getting on the road out of Tucson, though. And it was Sunday – no different than any other day for me, but not so for many goods and service providers like shops, museums, and protected parks. In short, I ran up against a bunch of closed, closed, closing. I was S-O-L on checking out almost any sight of significance other than freeway landscaping – SHIT! I know; I should have planned more, and normally I would have, but the move came up suddenly-ish, so I had to make that happen first – plan the drive second. And what fun are plans? Where’s the spontaneity? Right? We did drive into Las Cruces to buy cold medicine and a thermometer. And in doing so we crossed the Rio Grande – not what I imagined. It must be bigger in Texas. Everything’s bigger in Texas. Since I have absolutely no geographical orientation to the state and where its cities of renown are in relation to well, anything or anywhere, I was quite shocked to almost immediately roll up on El Paso after leaving New Mexico. Well, hello there, El Paso! And it seemed to be divided by the freeway – and probably a border crossing from Ciudad Juárez, Mexico. “Look, Quid," while pointing from side to side, "the U.S., Mexico, U.S., Mexico. Gray, bright colors, gray, bright colors.” Since I felt like I hadn’t driven far enough for the day, we ventured “deeper” into Texas, but maybe I should have stopped once it got dark. Things got really confusing for me in the dark. Or I’m just easily confused. The sun was long tucked in for the night. The traffic slowed and merged to one lane for trucks to be weighed and everyone else in another. Simple enough. We slowed some more. Not much farther now; the GPS says I’m only a couple miles from the target stop, Sierra Blanca – a little hotel there got a nice review online… Then suddenly, we’re hit with bright flood lights, guards, and I see guns. Shit, did we accidentally cross into Mexico? I roll up to the patrol hoping to holy hell I hadn’t accidentally done something wrong. Don’t wanna get shot. Thankfully, instead, I enjoyed some lovely banter with Border Patrol, confirmed that we had not crossed into Mexico but that it was closer than I thought, and they suggested maybe we should stay the night in Van Horn instead of Sierra Blanca.
The next day’s drive to Belton seemed longer and harder. There were some cool nature visuals here and there, but the freeway landscape was mostly mono – mono-chromatic, mono-tonous. Also, the freeway was such, at least for the many hours that I was on it, that if I missed an exit, I couldn’t just get off and turn around at the next exit. There weren’t overpasses or ways to get to the other side of the freeway to turn around. And, of course, The Quid decided he needed the restroom five miles after we’d passed the last rest stop before an upcoming freeway change, which meant getting him to the closest restroom meant rerouting my drive. GPS for the win, despite my irritation. And did I mention the monotonous views. Thankfully, as we came within a couple hours of Belton, the scenery changed a bit, but too late, the damage was done. “Mom, what’re you doing?” The Quid shouts from the back seat as I pull over, get out, and start pace in front of some farm’s fence. “Let’s go!” “Hold on a minute! I need air, to move around.” Big-ass truck drives by and stares at weird Californian taking a constitutional along the road. Just an hour or so more to go. “Mama. Ma-ma. MAAAMMAAA!” “I’m coming! I just want to get there in one piece.” Back behind the wheel, finally, signs for Fort Hood. Then Killeen. And then, BELTON! YAY! YIPPEE! I never knew I’d be so excited to arrive somewhere in Texas. We’re here! And thankfully, so was my friend, home from work, attending her pets, and ready to hit the store for some wine. You know what she grabbed - 19 Crimes wine, Snoop Dogg edition. Snoop Dogg, the patron saint of long-ass drives. The Quid blew my friend and I off in preference of her dogs and cat leaving us to able to unwind, take a deep breath, sip wine, and catch up. We’d met when I first arrived in Germany and we’ve managed to get together a couple of times since despite both of us, mostly her, bouncing between a few more countries and states since then. She likes that we can reach out randomly, no matter where the country or state, and we can pick up where we last left off like no time has passed. I do, too! And I totally appreciate her opening her doors for me and the tot, maybe on short notice – although, I swear we had something solidly arranged because I had her impending flight to Germany in my head since I always seem to be in her neck of the woods days or hours before she has a flight to Germany. It’s my thing. After a couple of days recharging, it was time to make a run for the border – between Texas and Louisiana.
“Mom, are we STILL in Texas?” “Five more hours.” But thankfully, along the way was another friend – this one dating back to college – she and her husband both. I’m so happy to have more people to visit! Yippee! The Quid and I rolled into Cypress outside of Houston in time for lunch. After circling my friend’s street a few times like we were casing the place, I finally spotted the California plates, plates I swear she’s had since college, and safely deemed we were in the place. The Quid walks into her, plunks down with the pet of this palace, ignoring us, and my friend catch up – so where were we – almost 20-years-ago. We’ve talked since, of course, but well, life has taken us all down many paths, which apparently are now crossing in person decades later as newly minted Californians-in-Residence in our new states. I met her kids who were in utero or not yet existing when last my friend and I got together in person. They’re now adults or nearly there, in school, at work, doing arty things. And my little spud still rolls around on the floor with their dog, a ball of fur, pizza, and unknown potential. My friend’s almost “free”, and I’ll be a grandma before my kid dons a high school cap and gown. Sigh. This was a quick visit, though, as The Quid and I had to continue on our way, because, yep, there’s still more Texas. “We should meet up in New Orleans,” she said. She’s smart, that lady. What a great idea. No wonder we’re friends! Now back in the car - I’m so F#^%&-ing done with driving. I definitely echo The Quid when I scream, “Are we there yet?” |
AuthorGreat transitioner & media operative seeking a position as a script coordinator, writers' room assistant, or staff writer with a TV drama. I'm also open to related jobs with networks and production companies. Landing an agent would be awesome. Archives
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