What I'm not going to do? Drone on about politics when half of you feel one way, half feel the opposite. Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.
What I am going to do? Make you hear about m'trip home so far. No photos yet cause it's a pain in the ass to search my phone, select photos, email them to myself, get on my email up on mom's laptop, drag the photos onto mom's desktop, then upload them here.
[Whole room dearly wishes I'd talk about politics.]
First of all, I almost missed my damn flight. I stupidly scheduled to leave out of Raleigh, an hour away, fairly early in the day. I gave myself lots of time, but still got stuck in traffic and was 15 miles from the airport with less than an hour till my flight.
If I'd had a theme song right then, it'd have been Mission Impossible. It'd have been Under Pressure.
So I called Delta Dawn to ask that what that flower was they had on while I drove, and of course it was all, "Press one for blah de bloo," which was impossible because I was driving and what companies could do to make everyone happier is hire humans to answer the phone right away. And also to not tell me that I need to pay attention to all the prompts because "our menu has recently changed."
YOUR FUCKING MENU HAS NOT RECENTLY FUCKING CHANGED. HOW STUPID DO YOU THINK WE ARE? YOU JUST WANT US TO GIVE UP AND NOT CALL YOU, DELTA STUPID AIRLINES. AND EVERYBODY ELSE.
Anyway, I kept screeching, "Representative," and finally that worked, and when I got a human I told her the story of how I've never missed a flight before, but I was stuck in traffic and now it's 50 minutes till my departure and I'm at a standstill three exits away.
"We recommend you get to the airport 90 minutes before your flight," she said, and that is when I shot her. But other than that she was helpful, and when I finally got there and drove 39439494 miles in a circle to park and schlepped my suitcase 70 miles and stood in line to check my bag and stood in line for the anal probe and got to the gate, the plane was boarding.
Then in Detroit I got off my plane and my next plane was in a different terminal
...and already boarding.
Mother of god.
Anyway, the good news was I left North Carolina at 9:38 and got to Saginaw at 1:30, ready to kill my own self.
"I brought you Quiznos," said my mother, who knew of my charming day so far. "I looked at the menu and ordered exactly the opposite of what I'd ever get." She handed me my steak and cheese.
She'd wanted me to go terrecktly to her book club with her right from the airport. My stepfather bought me the book they were reading; he was going to book club, too. I read the book (Let the Great World Spin--highly recommend. Don't get bored at first) but I was in no mood. No mood.
I went home and napped while they went to book club.
Then mom and all her hippie friends had an election night party, and you know how Mary Richards' parties always went? This doomed party was right up there with the time Lou Grant and his wife broke up at Mary's party. (The same party that Lars slept with SueAnn Nivens. Do you recall that? I hadn't. Guess who's been binging Mary Tyler Moore?)
I noted on Facebook that I was home, and I don't know why I do this, because 394858493 people from my past always do the, "Oh! You're in town! Why don't you drive 35 miles to my house and we'll catch up from that time we last saw each other in 1982!" thing.
I suppose I should be delighted that this happens, and that people don't say, "Oh my god, I hope June doesn't remember I live here," but it always puts me in this awkward position of, well, no. No, I really can't abandon my actual family and so on to hang out, seeing as I'm home about once a year and usually for around 72 hours and even then I probably won't see everyone who's blood. Because damn Catholics.
However, there was this woman I was good friends with in junior high who saw I was home. We worked the library together for fifth hour in 8th grade. Working in the library was an excellent way to get out of gym. Anyway, she saw I was home, and attending my mom's doomed pantsuit party, and could she come, and I was excited to see her so I said okay to the man.
That line is only funny to When Harry Met Sally fans.
She came? With Kurt Russell wine. "Kurt Russell is my Barry Gibb," she announced to the room at large, and right then they knew. She was my people.
I was unable to resist doing the pain-in-the-ass practice of uploading a photo of my junior high friend and her Kurt Russell wine for your viewing pleasure, so while I was up I got some more photos for you.
I mean, did you even know Kurt Russell made wine?
Aunt Kathy, mom and me at Mom's pantsuit party, before it took a turn. Before it became less a pantsuit and more a prick suit. Andy Sipowitz used to say that on NYPD Blue when he was being crabby. "Sorry, didn't mean to put on my prick suit." I try to work that into conversations as often as I can. It's not easy.
Okay, you seriously have no idea what a pain that is, so no more photos till I get home.
My mother's phone rings all the time. Her home phone. Does your phone ring anymore? I mean, I'm assuming you don't have a home phone; I don't. Your cell phone, though. The only person who calls me, ever, is Ned. Back when we were dating in Round 1, he called every night we didn't see each other and we'd recap our day, and he does so once again in Round 2. But other than that? I mean, my aunts will call maybe once a month. My mother calls. And then I call her back, adding to her ringing phone.
There are also many people bounding in and out of here all day. My mother is way more social than I am. If people wandered in and out at my house I'd be all, WHAT.
I'd love to italicize that "what" to fully emphasize my crabby, like you need that further emphasized, but I can't highlight it and scroll up and hit ital. I am hampered, y'all.
Anyway, I've talked too long as it is, so I will recap more for you tomorrow. This will give you something to look forward to, sort of like Christmas Eve.
Okay one more. Mom says we look like we're posing for a new Mt. Rushmore. Also, mom needs to give it up on the raised eyebrows look.
Surprisingly,
June
