The emotional roller coaster of airports

Credit

We drove Mom to the airport on the weekend and she took a midnight flight home.

Sigh. 

She snagged a nasty virus when she was here and you know how it is – when you're under the weather, there's no place you'd rather be than in your own bed. So I will miss her and I wish she had of stayed longer but if there's one thing I've learned over the years is there's no point trying to talk people into doing something they don't want to do.

It was freezing Saturday night. I mean really freezing. With windchill, the temperature was -44C (which is -47 F). It was so cold that my coat froze and crinkled the moment I stepped out of the Jeep.

Dave said his good-byes at the curb and waited in the vehicle while I went with Mom to get her boarding pass and check her luggage. Then I waited to make sure she got through security without getting arrested. (Little old ladies are the worst, I hear – they're the ones most likely to have balloons full of heroin up their bums.)

The line was quite long and I must have waited for 20 minutes or more. Every once in a while she'd turn around and I'd wave and she'd wave and I'd make some kind of stupid face, while other "waiters" around me did the same thing with their travelling loved ones.

All around me people were saying good-bye. Christmas vacation was over and there were a lot of students going back to school. A family next to me was having a hard time letting their daughter go, especially the father.

"I'm sorry I was grumpy," he said. "I'm so sorry."

I peeked to my left and saw his middle-aged and bespectacled face buried in her shoulder, tears pouring down his ruddy cheeks.

"It's OK, Dad, it's OK. I love you," she said, which made him cry harder.

"I love you, too," he sobbed.  "I'm going to miss you so much."

My heart, already aching by my own mother's imminent departure, absolutely melted and my eyes welled up with snotiferous ugly tears. (Yeah that's a word.)

The airport is a vast cavern of opposite and deep emotion.

There's the arrivals gate, which you should go to if you need a pick-me-up. The tears shed here are made of distilled happiness as family, friends and lovers are reunited in arms flung open in joy. There are exceptions, of course – the tired business traveller, or the lonely singleton who hurries by the happy families with eyes fixed studiously on the floor. But, for the most part, especially during the holidays, the arrivals gate is the best place on earth to find actual happy people and be infected by the contagion of their brilliant smiles.

Then there's departures, where the same people, weeks later, are saying good-bye to the individuals they love the most. The people walking away from here are openly crying, or trying desperately to hold back their tears.

When my mom finally got through security, she waved one last time, then disappeared into the crowd.

I turned away and gave in to suffocating emotion.

Egg swami

I just had the most fabulous realization: I am an awesome dream interpreter!

Thanks to Ol Buzzard, I have discovered my true calling. He wrote a blog post about a bizarro dream he had in which the trunk of his vintage car was filled with a giant egg.

"I opened the trunk of a sixties vintage car and inside was a raw egg. Not just a regular raw egg, but this one filled the entire trunk - with a yoke the side of a spare tire…then I woke up."

He wondered what it might mean but it seemed pretty darned clear to me: he was craving an omelet, a BIG one, like they sell at Denny's on Sunday mornings and, because it was in a CAR, he wanted to order it "to go."

Right? I know. The depth of my dream interpretation powers impresses even me.

So I was thinking, what if I asked y'all to send me your most bizarre dreams and I would use my newfound skills to interpret them for you? Isn't that a fine idea?

Write your dreams in the comments and when I get enough I'll do a "post of enlightenment" that will answer all your nocturnal wonderings.

Come Looking For Me

The beautiful and talented Cheryl Cooper

Nope, not going anywhere. Nowhere exciting anyway. OK, so maybe I'm going to the grocery store, because I'm out of stuff – if I don't show up in a couple of hours, come looking for me in the margarine aisle. I'll be glommed on to the Becel because far be it from me to buy the cheap toast salve. Same with ketchup and toilet paper – if it doesn't cost big bucks, I don't want it.

But I digress ...

If you're looking for something actually exciting, you'll want to check out Come Looking For Me, a novel by one of my Muskoka Novel Marathon writing buddies, Cheryl Cooper.

One of the resolutions I actually made this year is to support up and coming authors. After publishing two books last year, I am very familiar with the work it takes to not only finish writing a book but to get it published ... and then, after doing all THAT, trying to get people to buy it and then review it! One of the things I learned is how important it is to post a review on Goodreads and Amazon, or wherever you buy a book. Big name authors like Stephen King have marketing departments to publicize a new book. Authors like me depend on word of mouth and reviews to spread the word. So I've made it a point to review and write about every book I enjoy. You won't find me writing about King or John Grisham (well, unless it's King's On Writing, which I recommend to every writer on the planet). I love their books but they don't need help from me.

Not that Cheryl really needs my help. If you were to meet dear Cheryl, you would love her. She is one of the nicest, most generous, most positive people I have ever met. She is a shining star at the Muskoka Novel Marathon. Absolutely everyone adores her and she spreads her bright light on everyone she meets.

Mizz Cheryl is also a talented writer (she's good looking too - nice, talented AND good looking ... *sob* It's just not fair) who has also written a sequel to Come Looking For Me, called Second Summer of War. Apparently this one hasn't been released yet but I'll be checking it out when it is.

Come Looking For Me is historical fiction at its finest, featuring a mysterious and energetic young woman named Emily who tries to cross the Atlantic Ocean during the War of 1812. Her goal is to get to Canada but she never arrives. The entire story takes place at sea, on the massive ships of the day. Describing those ships, and the fabulously whimsical characters who call them home, is where author Cheryl shines. She did her homework and then some. Now, I'm no expert by any means, but her details ring true. And it was extra interesting to me that the story was set during the War of 1812, the great war between the U.S., England and Canada. I love my American neighbours, I really do, but I take great pride that future Canadians kicked America's butt when they tried to take us over. It's a David and Goliath thing, I guess.

There's also some swoon-worthy romance, plenty of battle scenes and drama, drama, drama! Cheryl divvies the drama out in giant spoonfuls and I lapped it up.

Love historical fiction? You'll love this. If you do decide to read Come Looking For Me, make sure you review it. Tell the world! Spread the word! Support struggling authors everywhere!

Gurgle, Gurgle

My stomach is gurgling like Signorney Weaver's in Alien. Why is it, the very SECOND you step out of the shower, you have to go to the bathroom???

Yes, I just had a shower. (No wonder I was itchy yesterday.) It's 5:20 p.m. Alberta time – which is two hours behind most of you, unless you're Sue in England or Denise in Australia, who were both pretty much celebrating the beginning of 2024 when we were opening our presents Christmas morning – and I just had a shower.

It's been that kind of day. Busier than a two-peckered rooster in a henhouse. Looking after my two sickies, who are making obscene coughing and gagging noises in the family room (or maybe they're just watching Lost and Sawyer is punching Doc for the 15th-millionth time), taking down Christmas decorations, doing five loads of laundry and making up fresh beds, cleaning the truffles out of the kitty toilet and making supper ... I feel like I've been run over by a garbage truck. Did I ever tell you I knew someone who got ran over by a garbage truck? Seriously. Nice girl, but she's still picking potato peels out of her hair 15 years later.

Allow me to whine for a moment. Dave won't let me whine – says I whine too much. So I'll just do it quietly ... he'll never know ...

My back hurts. *sniff*

My feet hurt. *wah*

I think maybe, but I'm not sure, my throat is a little bit sore. *peers in mirror with flashlight looking for red spots and sees the obnoxious canker on my tongue that's been spreading holiday joy in my mouth since Boxing Day*

I'm gonna go find the economy size bottle of Tylenol and chug it down with a Diet Coke. I know. I live large. With any luck I'll get a buzz and all my achy bits will stop their caterwauling.

*gurgle, gurgle*

First thing's first, though.

*staggers off to the loo*

Why hello, 2014. How did YOU get here?

I don't make resolutions because I'm lazy as an old sow but a new year always gets me thinking. I wouldn't go as far as saying inspired, because that's just crazy talk, but there is a spark under my hood this morning.

Or maybe it's an itch and I just need a bath.

Regardless, there's a few things I'd like to get done this year.

I want to do more blogging, first of all. I've been remiss in that department and I miss it. That's a lot of misses, missus. 

I want to finish the book I started in Nano and then abandoned when I got sick. It's a real sick, twisted plot, by the way. If you ever get to read it, you'll be appalled.

Speaking of sick, I don't want to be sick anymore. Stupid sick. X-nay on the ick-nay. Oh, Dave and my mom are both sick. They decided they felt sorry for a homeless cold virus and invited it in for New Year's celebrations. Mom and It went to bed at 9:30 – I think they were getting it on. Dave and I stayed up until 30 seconds past midnight, then crashed. He had a mouthful of potato chips when he hugged me and kissed the air on top of my head at the stroke of 12. It was so romantic. I peed at 15 seconds to 12 – out with the old, you know. It's nice to start a new year with an empty pee-bag bladder.

I'd like to drive back to Ontario to see my kids. I'm going through kid-withdrawal. I need to hug 'em and kiss 'em and yell at 'em a few times to satisfy my cravings. 

I don't WANT to get on my exercise bike but I MUST because my ass is the size of Vermont and if I don't start pedalling soon, my ass will droop down to the pedals and I'll have to lift it up just to place my feet.

Welcome aboard, 2014. Holy crap I'm old.