Kronikle Vol. 4, Issue 1: "I'm Feeling Logue-y": A Prologue and Travelogue
Greetings from Kentucky, Kronkites!
The cyclical nature of existence asserts itself once again. Here I am in the same town, doing the same work for the same pay. Alas, it is somewhat comforting to know I am a creature of habit since I can't seem to establish anything approching a routine in my regular life.
This year's Kronikle has to begin a day prior to "Travel Day", aka White Knuckle Day, Facing Deep-seated Fear Day, or "Jesus, I know I don't ever pray but..." Day. We will get to that momentarily.
Yesterday, May 31, I had the annual experience of check out day at school. It is interesting to note that whenever we briefly hire a teacher who has actually worked for a different school district and isn't just fresh meat, they ALWAYS start at least one sentence with, "I have NEVER worked at a school that..." Huh.
Anyway, I must admit that due to certain other, voluntary commitments that I could have declined, I was, less than 24 hours away from "Travel Day", wholly unready for living away from the house for 8 full days. The washer remained a casualty of the reenactment of Noah's flood that recently occurred in the converted garage I call my bedroom, making the selection of garments a sketchy affair better left uncontemplated. Grime removal products remained unpurchased. The securing of prescription medications to keep me off TSA's No Fly List had yet to transpire. I had not even secured a ride even though I had to be at the airport at 5 in the mornin'--think about that for a sec--who would ever, ever leave that most important element of "Travel Day" left to the last minute so that the only people willing to consider the request are saints, meth fiends who want money and don't drive well, and my aunt Jeanne (who, I should be clear falls into the former category and not the latter).
I was mostly done for checkout. I had to perform some minor cleaning (which is a Herculean effort for me; I have a "I hate vacuuming" tattoo on my stomach and "I despise dishes" on the back in an Old English font.) Let me get to the point. I was done with every single thing at noon. The way it works at our school is various bosses come through and sign off on one part of checkout and then you go talk to the principal and then the central office. I had all my signatures by 1:30, except one. Kronkites, see where this headed?
That one signature (who was supposed to check out his part on Friday the 27th but never showed) did not saunter in until 4:15. I sat for nearly 4 hours, with nothing to do (oh wait, I had plenty to do, just not there), for almost three hours. While I waited, I tried a variety of ways to keep busy, most of which centered around me trying to lay my head down and take a nap and when, on the cusp of sweet unconsciousness, I would answer the question of the person that just tucked their head in to ask if I was actually trying to sleep.
I did not get out of school until 5:47pm.
The race against the clock then began. Curiously, Oklahoma City, at that time on that day, spontaneously developed ridiculously long lines at every business establishment within the metropolitan area. It was like an M. Night Shymalan movie. I didn't see the phenomenon reported on the news, but I know it happened. It will probably become one of those urban legends that are actually true like alligators that bite your butt when you sit on the toilet.
That evening, we celebrated my son's 17th birthday a day early. Our activities included the beloved party games "20 bucks to whomever finds Mom's mp3 player", "How many times can the four year old unpack a suitcase when no one is looking?" and "Hey son, why don't you go frost your own cake?". My son's birthday presents consisted on Twizzlers, Generic Capn Crunch, Generic Beef Jerky, and a case of Dr. Pepper (no Dr. Thunder; my son deserves the fine things in life).
Having secured a ride from Jeanne during the endless purgatory of the my afternoon (I called all my meth fiend friends first; they were, like, "You crazy!"). I awoke at 3:30 in the morning contemplating what kind of person regularly takes runs at 4:30 in the morning (my aunt) and what happened to their souls. Then I loaded up the mp3 player I strongly suggested my daughter voluntarily loan me. I remembered the sparse population of Will Rogers Airport on previous trips to Kentucky at 5 in the mornin' as I got into the car, truck, whatever, I was barely making out shapes that early in the morning. I don't actually know if it was actually my aunt that took me.
When I placed one foot in Will Rogers at 4:50 AM, I could sense there was going to be something different about this plane ride. Mainly because the line at the Delta counter was packed (apparently, portions of OKC experienced aftershocks of the previously described Long Line Event). Then security was packed. Upside, I was not molested, contrary to assertions of the media otherwise. Maybe I am not as dangerous looking as that 6 year old kid.
I selected my "Rage Against the Machine" shirt figuring that it best reflected the relationship I have with the conveyance I had secured to Kentucky.
There was a lovely family with a one year old that would ultimately become "a lap child" in aviation parlance. We boarded the plane. I sat next to the lap child. The kid was screaming. It didn't bother me; it seemed like if you try to make a one year old sit still and quiet for an hour and 20 minutes, you are going to have a screaming kid. Whatever. I had headphones, a fully medicated system, and a monumental amount of experience ignoring the pleas of children. What I was unprepared for was the mom.
I don't like to criticize parental approaches, I think your kids are yours to screw up and it takes all kinds. I am fully aware that my parenting style has led to much speculation amongst educators, physicians, and neighbors. But here is something that I do know: when your kid is screaming (legitimately, it has to suck to be one and on a plane) when you gripe at the kid, stuff the kid's face in your chest so that it can't move, and then slap the kid on the hand, that kid is not, I repeat, NOT going to stop crying. If it does, you have bigger problems on your hands and those problems will probably culminate with the last image of your life being an axe landing on your face. So I am sitting there debating whether I even want to touch that or just ignore it when the stewardess asks me if I am travelling alone, which I give an affirmative as an answer. She tells me to get up and sits me in what I presume is first class since the really big seat came with a pillow and a blanket. I am not sure if I am allowed to use the pillow and blanket as I did not pay to be there. I split the difference and use the pillow but not the blanket. Then I completely passed out. I have a vague memory of the stewardess shoving a basket of treats toward me and asking if I wanted any, me declining since I had no idea what was going on, and then her pushing the basket toward me still. In order to get back to my sleep, I politely took a banana and laid it on my lap where it would remain for the remainder of the flight. It was apparently a well-behaved little banana and quietly waited for the flight to end whereupon, awaking, I consumed it. It was good.
The stopover in Memphis was about 30 mins. I quickly bought some chocolate milk to take advantage of the $10 the College Board will reimburse me for breakfast during travel.I boarded the next plane, sitting opposite and one aisle behind another kid. I fell asleep, possibly before we took off. I don't know because I don't remember. I do remember being awakened by a stewardess awakening me to ask if I would like anything to drink, to which I mumbled, having been behaviorally conditioned by the previous stewardess, "Uh, Sprite?". She fixed me a Sprite and then asked if I wanted any cookies. I think I nodded because somehow I ended up with cookies. Then I went back to sleep, awakening briefly during what I think might have been a rough landing to consider where I was going to end up if was unable to actually get up. I imagined a Groundhog Day like scenario of briefly waking to ingest more Sprite and more cookies until I landed in Kabul with my system that had finally processed the drugs. Then I thought about how I don't think I have any skills that would help me earn enough for a return flight in that environment. I doubt my brand of history would go over very well, demand for copies and cashiers is probably limited, and in pictures, it has never looked like Kabul needs someone willing to mow lawns for cheap.
Well, I found my legs and left the plane in Louisville and walked along until, smelling strong, black coffee, I turned into a reall life version of cartoon characters floating through the air as they sniff some delightful, recently baked treat. Purchased heaping dose of said treasure. Saved the receipt, too--that counts as breakfast!
Until next the next point in the Khronology, I remain...
Carrie the Red (stripe)
The cyclical nature of existence asserts itself once again. Here I am in the same town, doing the same work for the same pay. Alas, it is somewhat comforting to know I am a creature of habit since I can't seem to establish anything approching a routine in my regular life.
This year's Kronikle has to begin a day prior to "Travel Day", aka White Knuckle Day, Facing Deep-seated Fear Day, or "Jesus, I know I don't ever pray but..." Day. We will get to that momentarily.
Yesterday, May 31, I had the annual experience of check out day at school. It is interesting to note that whenever we briefly hire a teacher who has actually worked for a different school district and isn't just fresh meat, they ALWAYS start at least one sentence with, "I have NEVER worked at a school that..." Huh.
Anyway, I must admit that due to certain other, voluntary commitments that I could have declined, I was, less than 24 hours away from "Travel Day", wholly unready for living away from the house for 8 full days. The washer remained a casualty of the reenactment of Noah's flood that recently occurred in the converted garage I call my bedroom, making the selection of garments a sketchy affair better left uncontemplated. Grime removal products remained unpurchased. The securing of prescription medications to keep me off TSA's No Fly List had yet to transpire. I had not even secured a ride even though I had to be at the airport at 5 in the mornin'--think about that for a sec--who would ever, ever leave that most important element of "Travel Day" left to the last minute so that the only people willing to consider the request are saints, meth fiends who want money and don't drive well, and my aunt Jeanne (who, I should be clear falls into the former category and not the latter).
I was mostly done for checkout. I had to perform some minor cleaning (which is a Herculean effort for me; I have a "I hate vacuuming" tattoo on my stomach and "I despise dishes" on the back in an Old English font.) Let me get to the point. I was done with every single thing at noon. The way it works at our school is various bosses come through and sign off on one part of checkout and then you go talk to the principal and then the central office. I had all my signatures by 1:30, except one. Kronkites, see where this headed?
That one signature (who was supposed to check out his part on Friday the 27th but never showed) did not saunter in until 4:15. I sat for nearly 4 hours, with nothing to do (oh wait, I had plenty to do, just not there), for almost three hours. While I waited, I tried a variety of ways to keep busy, most of which centered around me trying to lay my head down and take a nap and when, on the cusp of sweet unconsciousness, I would answer the question of the person that just tucked their head in to ask if I was actually trying to sleep.
I did not get out of school until 5:47pm.
The race against the clock then began. Curiously, Oklahoma City, at that time on that day, spontaneously developed ridiculously long lines at every business establishment within the metropolitan area. It was like an M. Night Shymalan movie. I didn't see the phenomenon reported on the news, but I know it happened. It will probably become one of those urban legends that are actually true like alligators that bite your butt when you sit on the toilet.
That evening, we celebrated my son's 17th birthday a day early. Our activities included the beloved party games "20 bucks to whomever finds Mom's mp3 player", "How many times can the four year old unpack a suitcase when no one is looking?" and "Hey son, why don't you go frost your own cake?". My son's birthday presents consisted on Twizzlers, Generic Capn Crunch, Generic Beef Jerky, and a case of Dr. Pepper (no Dr. Thunder; my son deserves the fine things in life).
Having secured a ride from Jeanne during the endless purgatory of the my afternoon (I called all my meth fiend friends first; they were, like, "You crazy!"). I awoke at 3:30 in the morning contemplating what kind of person regularly takes runs at 4:30 in the morning (my aunt) and what happened to their souls. Then I loaded up the mp3 player I strongly suggested my daughter voluntarily loan me. I remembered the sparse population of Will Rogers Airport on previous trips to Kentucky at 5 in the mornin' as I got into the car, truck, whatever, I was barely making out shapes that early in the morning. I don't actually know if it was actually my aunt that took me.
When I placed one foot in Will Rogers at 4:50 AM, I could sense there was going to be something different about this plane ride. Mainly because the line at the Delta counter was packed (apparently, portions of OKC experienced aftershocks of the previously described Long Line Event). Then security was packed. Upside, I was not molested, contrary to assertions of the media otherwise. Maybe I am not as dangerous looking as that 6 year old kid.
I selected my "Rage Against the Machine" shirt figuring that it best reflected the relationship I have with the conveyance I had secured to Kentucky.
There was a lovely family with a one year old that would ultimately become "a lap child" in aviation parlance. We boarded the plane. I sat next to the lap child. The kid was screaming. It didn't bother me; it seemed like if you try to make a one year old sit still and quiet for an hour and 20 minutes, you are going to have a screaming kid. Whatever. I had headphones, a fully medicated system, and a monumental amount of experience ignoring the pleas of children. What I was unprepared for was the mom.
I don't like to criticize parental approaches, I think your kids are yours to screw up and it takes all kinds. I am fully aware that my parenting style has led to much speculation amongst educators, physicians, and neighbors. But here is something that I do know: when your kid is screaming (legitimately, it has to suck to be one and on a plane) when you gripe at the kid, stuff the kid's face in your chest so that it can't move, and then slap the kid on the hand, that kid is not, I repeat, NOT going to stop crying. If it does, you have bigger problems on your hands and those problems will probably culminate with the last image of your life being an axe landing on your face. So I am sitting there debating whether I even want to touch that or just ignore it when the stewardess asks me if I am travelling alone, which I give an affirmative as an answer. She tells me to get up and sits me in what I presume is first class since the really big seat came with a pillow and a blanket. I am not sure if I am allowed to use the pillow and blanket as I did not pay to be there. I split the difference and use the pillow but not the blanket. Then I completely passed out. I have a vague memory of the stewardess shoving a basket of treats toward me and asking if I wanted any, me declining since I had no idea what was going on, and then her pushing the basket toward me still. In order to get back to my sleep, I politely took a banana and laid it on my lap where it would remain for the remainder of the flight. It was apparently a well-behaved little banana and quietly waited for the flight to end whereupon, awaking, I consumed it. It was good.
The stopover in Memphis was about 30 mins. I quickly bought some chocolate milk to take advantage of the $10 the College Board will reimburse me for breakfast during travel.I boarded the next plane, sitting opposite and one aisle behind another kid. I fell asleep, possibly before we took off. I don't know because I don't remember. I do remember being awakened by a stewardess awakening me to ask if I would like anything to drink, to which I mumbled, having been behaviorally conditioned by the previous stewardess, "Uh, Sprite?". She fixed me a Sprite and then asked if I wanted any cookies. I think I nodded because somehow I ended up with cookies. Then I went back to sleep, awakening briefly during what I think might have been a rough landing to consider where I was going to end up if was unable to actually get up. I imagined a Groundhog Day like scenario of briefly waking to ingest more Sprite and more cookies until I landed in Kabul with my system that had finally processed the drugs. Then I thought about how I don't think I have any skills that would help me earn enough for a return flight in that environment. I doubt my brand of history would go over very well, demand for copies and cashiers is probably limited, and in pictures, it has never looked like Kabul needs someone willing to mow lawns for cheap.
Well, I found my legs and left the plane in Louisville and walked along until, smelling strong, black coffee, I turned into a reall life version of cartoon characters floating through the air as they sniff some delightful, recently baked treat. Purchased heaping dose of said treasure. Saved the receipt, too--that counts as breakfast!
Until next the next point in the Khronology, I remain...
Carrie the Red (stripe)