Tea For Two

I pushed open the door to the staff room at the school where I work and sized up the tea kettles.  The first thing I do, after I do the first thing I do (which is pee), when I arrive in the morning, is make a huge bucket of tea.

I'd make a bucket of coffee, but I'm not sure it comes that big. Ba-dum-bum.

There are two kettles on the counter-- one is the first electric kettle ever invented.  It says "Property of Mary Magdalene's Mani Pedi Shoppe, 1 Resurrection Blvd, Jerusalem, Israel" on one side.  The other is a much newer looking stainless steel number.  For the first week of school, I defaulted to the newer looking kettle because, well, honestly, the other one, Mary Magdalene's, looks like a fire hazard.

Of course, we all know that kettles in a school staff room are toss-outs from the teachers of the past:  the machines take forever to heat up, but they still technically work, so instead of throwing it in the garbage (it still works) or donating it to Goodwill (it doesn't work THAT well), it finds it way to the staff room to torture and crush the souls of the future.

Sure I'd been using the stainless steel one but waiting upwards of 10 minutes for the kettle to boil was getting old. I mean, I could heat up a whole cup of water in the microwave in 90 seconds.  Why wait for a wretched kettle?

Yet here I was, waiting for that stainless kettle.  I glanced back at Mary Magdalene's kettle and back to the stainless one.  Mary Magdalene's kettle was apt to also suck at heating up, and frankly I wasn't going to give up 20 minutes of prep time at 7am (between waiting for the first kettle, giving up and starting the next one and waiting another 14 minutes) so I waited.

And then I had an idea. I had a totally awesome idea!

I plugged both the kettles in and decided to do a scientific experiment.

I filled both kettles with 8 cups of water (according to their guidelines) hovered my fingers on their start buttons and counted down slowly from 5.  I was gonna count down from 10 but by the time I got to 7 I was bored and then I forgot what I was doing, and then my mom texted me so I just restarted but from 5 this time.

5... 4... 3...2... 1 And they're off!

I pushed down the buttons and brought my face close to the two kettles so as to monitor the precise second the winner ... uh, won. And then, 3 minutes later, when I remembered that these were pieces of shit, I sat down to return my mom's text while I waited.

Mom:  Hey! Tennessee is wonderful. Did you guys get lots of rain last night?
Me: No. We got some gusty winds and about three drops.
Mom: Uh, nope. Impossible. There is power out all around your house. 2300 residents.
Me: I thought you were in Tennessee, not driving around in a Hydro truck.
Mom: Haha. No, I read the news. Don't you?
Me: Oh wow. Nah. Any idea when this heat is gonna end?
Mom: Probably Friday. Are you sure you didn't have a storm last night?
Me: Hold on I'll text Husband.

-----
Me: Hey, was there a storm last night?
Husband: Yep. Pretty bad.
Me: Really? Are you sure?
Husband: Yep. Remember when I went to the grocery store for bananas?
Me: Yep.
Husband: And you were outside and everything was blowing around?
Me: Yep.
Me: Oh yeah.
Me: Huh.
Husband: I was almost blown over going in the door at the supermarket.
Me: Really? That is fascinating. I don't remember any of that.
Husband: It's cuz our house was built well. We don't hear a lot of the outside noise.
Me: Really? Fascinating. Thanks.
-----

Me: Hey, I'm back. Husband says there was IN FACT a storm last night.
Mom: I know.
Me: A BIG one. He says I didn't know because we have a good house.
Mom: I know.
Me: Were you two texting or something?
Mom: No.
Me: Well, anyway, I guess it was a big deal.
Mom: Well, I figured there wasn't some invisible dome around your house keeping the storm only from you.
Me: For the amount we pay in taxes, there SHOULD be a dome around our house, made of politicians, and it should magically go up at the first sign of scattered showers.

And that's when, after 18 minutes, I realized that neither kettle had gone off.
In fact, neither kettle was still on.

Or even remotely warm.

Mother-effer.

Down the hall I walked, shamefully, trying to figure out how to explain to our janitor that I'd blown the fuse in the kitchen because I was racing the tea kettles.

I found him, asked him how to reset the kitchen fuse panel, and he got a strange look in his eyes.

Janitor: (pause, sizing me up) Hmmmmm.  Racing the tea kettles?
Me: (astonished) How did you know?
Janitor: You just seem... like someone who would do that. Plus, you haven't had your first cup of coffee, and racing tea kettles is a before-caffeine thought.


I think I'm gonna fit in here just fine.

You Must Be Ned Stark's Bastard and Other Tales

Spirit Airlines called us to the gate in Zone 1, which is code for "You paid more than $225 to check your baggage for this flight alone, so we're letting you board first to keep your rage and impending bankruptcy simmering" and we hustled over to the boarding area.

To be fair, apparently if we'd checked our bags online during any of the prior 24 hours, but not including the hour before our flight, we could've saved roughly $10 per bag, but, we didn't know about that policy until we were reading it on the sign at the airport line.  Yeah. 

The green was starting to swirl around my irises before we even got on the plane.

I got the kids in a row and Husband took his lonely seat on the aisle of the row beside us. We took out iPod, iPad and iPhone and I plugged in the kids à la The Matrix.  I played some John Coltrane in my headphones and closed my eyes to the other bazillion passengers boarding.  I think Husband was playing Fruit Ninja on his phone, but since it's not an Apple product, I refer to it as "Ned Stark's Bastard" or "Jon Snow" (depending on whether we're north of the wall or not) from Game of Thrones. 

Within a few minutes, however, the sweet smell of booze wafted into my nostrils and I smiled thinking Husband must've bought me a little "settle-your-shit-down" bevvie before take-off.

I inhaled deeply, opened my eyes and realized, that a) there was no booze for me to swill and b) the guy directly in front of me might be the dark hole where booze comes from. 

Seriously, he smelled like my early 20's.  

Raising my eyebrows in a way only a smug 30-something can do, judged him harshly (albeit silently) and redirected my children to their iDevices.  Ryan Coke, as I began to silently call him, was the middle seat, and as luck would have it, the ladies on either side of him were equally as judgemental. We all rolled our eyes in unison and sat back in our smugness to enjoy the flight.

About an hour into our three-hour flight, there was a disturbance in the force. Ryan Coke passed out shortly after an additional drink before take-off, and was snoring audibly. But the other two women both stopped what they were doing and glanced at each other, nervously, too. 

Then time slowed down.  It was like any horror film where everyone knows shit is about to go down, they're just not sure who's gonna get axed.  Even my daughter paused her game and said, "Momma?" just in time to watch Ryan Coke launch himself forward violently out of a booze-coma to puke up THE WORLD all over his row mates and the people in the row in front of him.

Kiddo #1 looked at me and said, disgustedly, "Well THAT'S gonna give me nightmares for the rest of my life!" and the two ladies propelled themselves out of their seats into the aisle way screaming and swearing the whole time.  Frightened and contaminated, they went in circles swearing while I pressed the "help" button for the stewards.  

Now, I'd set out this flight planning on being pissy and annoyed that Spirit Airlines had stolen an extra $500 from our pockets by making us pay almost $50/bag for each of our checked and carry-on luggage.  But, mad and poor as I was, I couldn't blame them for Puke Fest 2013.  

The ladies were yelling swears at Ryan, the people in the row in front of him were saying nasty things to him, and a whole lot of negativity was swirling around the air.  Maybe he deserved them. None of my shit got puke on it, so maybe it was easy for me to be nice.  But I kinda figured if it was me, I'd be dying of embarrassment, and plus that shitty taste of puke in the mouth makes it impossible to even say "Sorry" without reliving the whole damn mess. So I took out my $4.00 bottle of Spirit Air water that Kiddo #2 HAD TO HAVE and drank 1/3 of, and reached it across to Ryan Coke.  "Uh, you're probably dehydrated."  

I mean, what else do you say?

The stewards arrived, assessed the situation, and sent Ryan (puke-covered) to the bathroom to clean up. It was disgusting, but two of the three stewards were professional, and the third one was so visibly anxious that I nearly gave her my $50 Xanax that I HAD TO HAVE and didn't end up taking.  But, $50 is a whole checked bag in some circles so I patted it through my purse, smugly, and joked with the responsible stewards.

Once we got off the plane (which went by very quickly once they poured the coffee grounds all over the floor to cover the smell), we rang in the new day with our bags, limped to the shuttle and got to our car within an hour. 

The kids were already in their jammies for the flight, so we buckled them into their careats, got on I-94 E and headed to the bridge between Detroit and Canada.  I looked at my sleeping babies and started charging my phone when Husband came to a quick stop (STOP!) on the highway.  

Me: What the frick?

Husband: Uh, I don't know? Everyone's stopped.

Me: What the frick?

Husband: I don't know? Everyone's stopped.

Me: What the frick?

Husband: Seriously. This isn't Groundhog Day. It's 2am.  Get your feet off the dash and see if you can see around the cars.

60 minutes later, we haven't moved an inch, and my phone is charged but we still have no idea what's going on because overnights on radio stations are pre-recorded (I used to do those, in another life) and offer no help.  Plus, I won't turn my phone off airplane-mode because Roaming-Data in America costs as much as two overhead bags on Spirit Airlines.  No joke.

At 3am, we finally got near-ish to the bridge,which is to say we drove through some of the parts of Detroit that Eminem is scared of, and Kiddo #2 started coughing. He'd had a cough for a day or so since he'd eaten something he shouldn't, but this cough was awesomer.  It was weirder, harder and ... oh, now he's puking.

I turned around in my seat and started whisper-yelling at Husband. I'm trying to keep Kiddo #1 from waking up to Puke Fest 2013's second show: Live in Detroit from Denver, Colorado. 

Me: FRICK! HE'S PUKING!

Husband: Is he ok?

Me: Uh, he's PUKING!

Husband: Ok. Uh, so is he ok?

Me: This isn't Groundhog DAY! Cheese and RICE!

Then, I decide that Kiddo #2 can't lean over and get all the mess out of his mouth and therefore he must be suffocating.  Seeing panic (that may or may not have been there, in retrospect) on Kiddo #2's face that he can't really breathe, I did what any insane, sleep-deprived mother would do.  I did The Sweep of his mouth, which sent me front row tickets into Puke Fest 2013, and I start heaving and have to stop helping because I am puking into the garbage bag in the front seat.  

And while I'm puking, I'm crying because my CPR training is reminding me that I shouldn't sweep his mouth because it could lodge stuff further into his throat or something, and I'm crying for Husband to pull over and he says I'm on the highway doing 65 and it's 3AM, in Detroit, and we'll be killed.

We get to the exit and now I'm cry-puking that, like Frodo and Sam, all we have to do is get across the frickin' bridge and this nightmare will finally be over. And, also like Gollum, I'm making crazy, shitty sounds while I puke-cry in the front seat.

"Just get us to Canada, Sam. We can finally get married, er, ...uh,  I mean destroy the ring..."

Husband puts the windows down and now it's a Hurricane in the car as we head toward the "You must Go to Canada from here" lane.  I, removing hair from my mouth, shout "Why the frick are the windows down?"  and he says that he's airing out the car because there's a kid covered in puke and there's no way the border patrol will let us into Canada with a kid covered in vomit and a wife looking like she's been in The Hangover IV: One Night In Detroit.

I glance down at the bag filled with vomit and seriously think we can pull this off.  I look in my handy overhead mirror at my mascara trails and wild hair, at Kiddo #2 who just kinda looks... off, and my comatose daughter who can literally (I can say this now) sleep through anything, 

And, this, friends, is why I will never EVER be invited to be in a Heist.  I'm sure you've all assumed that I'd be shite in a Heist anyway, but this scene is definitive proof.  

At the duty free parking lot, the last stop before paying the toll and zooming to Canada, at 3:30AM, we pulled over and attempted to de-vomit our cars using only the "flap it in the wind to let it fall off" method, and the salty tears of a woman out of her mind.

I don't know if I looked too crazy to deny entry, or if we'd done a great job of covering up our mess (which, actually, makes me an AMAZING Heist-mate, so eat it, Mofo!), but they let us back in.

Glory, glory, hallelujah

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