Just My Luck

I stayed home from the ceili dance tonight due to a bout of the stomach flu.

An hour later than the proper hour, I remembered that the dog needed to be fed.

I opened the container.

It was EMPTY.

Unbelievable.

I lugged the twenty pound bag of food from the dining room to the kitchen, cut a hole in the top, lifted the bag, and poured the food.

Onto the floor.

Brilliant.

Wanda was pretty excited about this development.

I wasn't.

Although I didn't spill much, it seemed disastrous. It still does. Mostly 'cause my tummy hurts.

It's all cleaned up.

Wanda got more food than normal.

And I cried.

The End.

Entirely Too Much Passion

(part four my trip story)

The fifteen-passenger van that Theresa came to get me in was huge. It had antennae on the top, and was jacked up. With a bit of effort, I managed to climb into it. The engine made an enormous amount of noise – diesel run. I was off on an adventure of epic proportions. Exactly how epic was still a mystery.

Mrs. Walsh cautioned me that passions might be running high in the household. The washing machine and dryer had been broken for a few days, so no one had clean clothes to pack. They still hadn’t figured out many details that would be necessary for the successful execution of the weekend. I was warned that there might be a lot of tempers lost and a lot of yelling. I was ready for yelling. I just duck when angry words start flying, especially if they are not directed at me. If I can stay out of it, I do.

After Adoration and Benediction, we arrived at the house to an almost ready supper. A seminarian was going to be eating supper with us, leaving the total people at the dinner table at a nice even dozen. (Seminarians have this knack of showing up in my life. Not quite sure how that happens.) So far, I had not seen any passion. Mr. Walsh had met us at Adoration and he was being fed, so he was happy. Dinner proved to be scrumptious, grunions were discussed (much to my discomfiture), and the game of “salt and pepper” was highly amusing. Nick insisted that they teach “the illustrious what’s her face” how to play, so I agreed. I don’t like playing games. In fact, I detest playing games. But I acquiesced. I had caused enough trouble with my dietary needs, so I figured I should go along with this request. The nature of the game is rather peculiar and deserves it’s own treatment, but I’m being lazy about it. It produced laughter to an extraordinary degree, mostly at my expense. By the time we left the table, it was almost ten o’clock and we were all pretty tired. We said night prayers and were all hustled off to bed. None of the packing issues were addressed because of the late hour. There was no passion displayed, at least of the angry kind. A passion for making fun of Bridget was, however, displayed in mass quantity.

The passion I witnessed the next day wasn’t anger, though. It was much worse. It was that quiet, freaking out, on the verge of tears passion. My family is so very organized that the tumult of it all would never have happened. I was rather frazzled by it all: the packing of the food, the hitching of the cars, the Laundromat trip, etc. I mostly felt like a puppy dog whose feet and ears are too big for the rest of her. I was in the way, mostly. I didn’t know where anything was or where anything should go. I just tried to stay out of the crossfire of tension. I would’ve preferred yelling, actually. The silent thing is kinda creepy. Not gonna lie.

We were supposed to leave at eleven in the morning. We left at three. The tension in the air was so thick that a knife could have cut it. The first fits were pitched at the same time as the tents. People were hungry, cranky, and stressed. We all went to bed early, mostly so we could avoid each other’s company. The next day was Theresa’s birthday… and I was hoping that the only passion displayed would be joy.

Nap Time

(part three of my trip story)

I remember being a small child and vehemently resisting the daily nap. By the time I was two or three, they were pretty much a "no-go" as far as this little missy was concerned. Mum allowed the lack of sleep, but every afternoon I was shut in the bedroom with my sister, with the strict instruction to be absolutely quiet and stay mostly on the bed. I was allowed off the bed to retrieve a toy, but that was it. My sister, placid as always, dutifully slept. I took advantage of the opportunity to play with her toys, which she never allowed me to touch. The forced quiet time always ended before my sister woke up, so I could always be sure of having time to put her things neatly back into place without her knowing they had ever been gone. Eventually, the truth about the toy “sharing” came out, but I had a couple of years of sneaky play time.

William still takes naps every afternoon. He is also very much a “people person,” even at the age of three. He likes visitors and always wishes them a fond farewell from the doorway, waving his little hand as they drive away. Unfortunately, my scheduled departure time was right in the middle of his nap. Lisa explained that this may be a problem: if someone leaves during his nap, he gets really agitated when he wakes up to find them gone and tears are pretty much inevitable. So I agreed to pretend to leave for his sake, so she could put him down for his nap and prevent an episode.

At about 3 pm, I headed for the door as he headed up the stairs with his mommy. I gave him a hug and turned away from him, reaching for the door handle.

“Wait, Bwidet, yo sooos!”

I had figured that I could just walk out the door as I was and he wouldn’t notice. But his three year old brain was sharper than that.

“Oh, you’re right! Thank you for reminding me, William!”

I slipped the shoes on my feet and headed for the door again.

“Waaaait, Bwidet, yo bag!”

Smart kid. I thanked him again and headed for the door a third time.

“What abow yo uder one?”

This little guy wanted to make sure I didn’t forget anything. I picked up my other bag and my purse, realizing that there was no fooling this kid. I had to look like I was genuinely leaving – with all of my stuff – in order for him to be satisfied. I said goodbye again and headed out the door, walking around the corner of the house so he couldn’t see me. I waited a few minutes after I heard the door shut and then crept back around the corner and plopped down on the porch with all of my luggage. I waited for Lisa to come open the door for me, just so I could be sure the coast was clear.

About five minutes later, the door-bell rang. I winced, thinking of the sleeping boys upstairs, and ran to answer it. I hushed Theresa’s enthusiastic greeting, ushered her inside, introduced her to Lisa, and then noticed a small boy at the top of the stairs. William had come to investigate.

“You back?” he queried.

“I came back just for a minute. But I’m leaving again. Bye!” I turned back to the door, hoping to escape without ceremony. But William was down the stairs in a flash, ready to wave me off again. This time he waited at the door until he saw us drive away, his cute little hand waving goodbye.

When I’m around, naps don’t stand a chance.

Miss Bwidet?

(part two of my trip story)

Finding my luggage at the baggage claim always gives me a bit of a panic attack. I have this paranoia about them losing the stuff. It isn’t completely unreasonable. When I travelled to Ireland in 2005 they lost my bag and I was without toothbrush and clean clothes for two days. Talk about traumatizing. Not only was I on an unfamiliar continent, but also I was without the normal comforts of cleanliness. Ever since that trip I have conscientiously packed a change of clothes and a toothbrush in my carry-on, just for good measure.

So there I was, walking through the Portland airport, following the signs that read “Baggage Claim.” As I walked and walked and walked some more, a mounting sense of panic started in me. What if I took too long to walk to the baggage claim and my baggage was whisked away forever? What if I was going the wrong direction in the airport and I’d have to walk back to the other end later on? What if I couldn’t find the baggage claim? What if they lost my luggage? I was in a strange state and I was alone. I don’t generally like being alone. Any worry that may lay hold of me triples when I’m all by my lonesome. I work myself into a frenzied nonsensical tizzy and burst into tears in the most public of places. I was fine until I got down to the baggage claim. Much to my dismay, there were 20 carousels for baggage and none of them had my flight number on them. I started imagining the long hike back through the airport, racing against the monster that eats the luggage of tardy passengers.

By the time my mental state had approached sheer panic, I had made it back to the first of the carousels. There I discovered (to my great relief) that my flight information was now emblazoned in the red lights above it. I recognized the people – who had just begun to trickle in – as my fellow travelers. After a few minutes, my bag came sliding along. So much for the bag-eating monster. I picked it up and headed outside to wait for Lisa and the little boys to come pick me up.

I was settled into the van in a matter of minutes. The two munchkin boys in the back seat were shy at first, but warmed up to me quickly. William (age 3) said to me, “Eskuse me, Miss Bwidet?”

“Miss Bridget?” I thought. Since when was I old enough to be called “Miss Bridget”?

“Yes, William?”

As he began telling me about how cool airplanes are, I listened, struggling to understand the three-year old lingo. His mother kindly interpreted for me, repeating his sentences for me. After a few minutes and several instances of him calling me “Miss Bwidet,” I assured him that he could just call me “Bridget”, if that was ok with his mommy. I looked inquiringly at Lisa, hoping that she would indeed be ok with this. She nodded and assured William that he could call me “Bridget.” His forehead was wrinkled up in consternation about this new development for a while, but he eventually got used to it.

“Miss Bwi… I mean, jus Bwidet?”

I grinned at this new title. Just Bridget. I could live with that.

Occasionally, his mother slipped into addressing me by the more formidable title, but William was quick to correct her:

“No, Mommy. Dat’s siwwy. She isn’t Miss Bwidet. She jus Bwidet!”

Over the next twenty-four hours, I slowly adjusted to his particular brand of three year old speak. Every toddler has a slightly different rendition of the English language and it takes a while for the ear to adapt. The next morning, we had a conversation that went something like this.

“Tan I have yummy twators, Bwidet?”

“You want tractors?”

“No, ttwwwators!”

“I don’t have any tractors to give to you, William.”

“No, not kwakors! Teese twators!”

It finally occurred to me that William commonly mixes up his “t” and “k” sounds. He wanted the “yummy crackers.” Thankfully, I remembered this before his frustration flooded over into tears and I quickly retrieved the crackers for him. Happiness ensued, and he continued on his merry way.