She's Still Got It

By "it" I definitely do not mean, "The ability to tell a story with wit, charm and elegant turn of phrase." That may be gone forever. I go to writing school now so I'm like, a serious writer. I know my 4.5 person readership has come to depend on a few laughs at my expense every four to nine months, so I'll try to be entertaining. But, I can't guarantee that I won't spin off into weighty tangents about my identity, my subconscious desires or my mother. Because if workshop participation has taught me one thing, it's this: When your story lacks pizazz, throw in a handful of mommy issues. They're like the chocolate chips of writing.

 Actually, the "It" I'm referring to in this entry's title is the "travel jinx." Or, that's what I've called it before. But let's call a spade a spade. My "jinx" is actually a self-diagnosed borderline learning disorder that renders me unable to process the specific values of numbers -- especially times and dates. For instance, when a normal person glances at, "09/20/12," they quickly process it as "September twentieth, in the year twenty-twelve." I, on the other hand (unless I concentrate very hard, use the fingers on both my hands and do a little rap that I learned in elementary school about the order of the months) see that same series of numbers as, "a date probably this year that is not my birthday."

I was starting to think I had outgrown it. I now literally make a living booking other people's travel arrangements. In six months at my new job, I haven't sent anybody to Chicago, TX or reserved any Febuary 4th hotel rooms for guests who were actually visiting on April 2nd. But, as it turns out, the  scheduling precision I execute at work has not extended to my personal life. I'm like the secretary version of those TV matchmakers who can find love for everybody...except themselves! It's just one of many things Patti Stengler and I have in common.

I considered not posting the following stories. Because they're too embarrassing, you ask? Um...are you new? Remember that time I forgot to pack underwear on choir tour? How about that time I wrote a multi-page saga about the time I forgot to pack underwear on choir tour and posted it on the internet? "Too embarrassing" has never stopped me before. Really, I thought about not sharing my most recent displays of scheduling ineptitude because they aren't embarrassing enough. I mean, they display the exceptional level of incompetence you've come to expect from me over the years but, in terms of stakes and drama, they don't even break the top 20.

However, I feel compelled to make the catalog of my numerically induced misadventures up-to-date and comprehensive, whether you want to read about them all or not. Have your expectations been lowered accordingly? If so, by all means, proceed!

Scene One: Travelocity? More like Travelidiot.

"When does your flight leave on Wednesday?

"Oh, some time around six. I just have to double check my ticket to find out the exact time."

This exchange didn't just happen once or twice over my 4th of July vacation. It probably happened around a dozen times. If my life were a movie, this would have been a device we in the writing biz like to call, "foreshadowing." And not even the subtle kind. It would have been hacky, heavy-handed foreshadowing. After the fourth or fifth time it happened, even the densest audience member would start to think, "why do they keep having that same boring conversation over and over again? How come the camera is so close to her face? Those ominous tones in the background are making me feel anxious for some -- Oh, wait! I get it. This is probably going to be important later."

But I didn't hear any ominous tones. I just kept saying, "some time around six." Why wouldn't it be? I had triple checked the ticket. My five day weekend had been surprisingly complicated to plan. I flew from Chicago to Rochester on the same flight as my mother, which she booked separately through work. Then we drove to Sioux Falls for a wedding, then from Sioux Falls to Brainerd. Now, my family was going to drop me off at the Minneapolis airport on their way back to Rochester, but not before the smoked turkey came off the grill at Pam and Mike's at around 2 pm. I figured, since the most travel-heavy part of my trip had gone so smoothly, I was home free.

You, as usual, know better.

When I finally elbowed my sister away from my grandparents' desktop the day before my flight back to Chicago, I discovered that my flight was not, as I had told everyone several times, "some time around six," but rather, "some time around two." Guys, I still don't know what happened. It wasn't like I saw the time and thought, "Oh, yeah. Now I remember. I booked that earlier flight for reasons X, Y and Z that make sense." Through the entire process of booking my ticket -- through selecting my flight, clicking the button that said, "select this flight," entering my payment information, "checking" the details of my flight before confirming my purchase, receiving my e-mail receipt and triple-checking the dates -- that entire time right up until less than 24 hours before my departure, I thought I had booked a 6 pm flight.

I have to chalk it up to my disorder. Where a normal person would have seen 2:15 and thought, "Oh, that's not what I want. I shall click this other button that says 6 pm, which is what I want. Phew. Close one." I saw the list of possible flight times and processed it as, "Whoa, that's a lot of numbers. I guess I could concentrate and figure out what they all mean, but who has time for that? I guess I'll just click in the general vicinity of the time I want while I get hypnotized by the shrinking cartoon belly in that ad in the sidebar. I wonder which 'one weird food' could help me drop 50 pounds. Click click click click."

I realize: having four hours skimmed off the top of my vacation is not a big deal -- especially considering what we all know I am capable of. When my mom said, "It could have been worse," I didn't even have to imagine all the ways it could have been. I just had to remember: I could have accidentally booked my ticket a week later than I meant to (again) or, I could have discovered out that my flight was hours earlier than I thought it was 45 minutes before it was actually scheduled to depart (again). This time, I only faced a slight inconvenience. But, friends, I was devastated. Tears were shed, but I wasn't actually at an airport at the time, so they didn't do any good. I did get some pity from my mom though. She gave me a hug and said, "I feel so sorry that this happened to you."

I said, "Don't. I happened to myself."

As usual, I wasn't crying because I was going to miss anything important. I was crying because I realized, after all the maturing I've done over the past few years, I'm still capable of doing stupid crap like this. I notified my friend Tracey that I would be "unexpectedly" arriving back in Chicago in time for 4th of July fireworks and she graciously offered to pick me up from the airport. When I got into the car she asked, "So what happened?"

"Well, what happened was..." I considered a number of excuses for my early arrival, but I answered with the truth -- what I knew in my heart was the real root of the "travel jinx":

"...I'm an idiot."

 Scene two: No, seriously. I Wanted to go to this one.

This next one isn't really a travel story, but it includes many of the same themes of my usual travel misadventures so I felt like it should be included. If you want, you can think of it as a lengthy entry in my travelogue's appendix.

 "So, do you have any plans for the weekend?"

"Yeah, my friends are having a party on Sunday night."

"Sunday?"

"Yeah. They're students, so they can have parties at weird times."

You know the drill: Same exchange multiple times. Face close-ups. Ominous tones. Foreshadowing.

I RSVP'd to the Facebook invitation to Tracey and Matthew's party with a definitive "yes." That is opposed to the usual "maybe" I send in response to party invites in the hopes that something less people-y will come along first. But my social outings have been pretty spare lately since my two Chicago friends have gone on multiple extended vacations during the summer months.  I had spent the previous weekend alone and I knew the same would be true of the weekend after the party. So, I would go. And I would bring jam.

I spent Saturday running errands in the rain. I got home around 8 pm, stripped off my wet clothes, put on my pajamas, started a load of laundry and put the peaches for the jam for tomorrow's party on the stove. Then, I checked my e-mail.

Message from Tracey: "Sorry, We're leaving town tomorrow so I can't go to that concert with you. See you later tonight, though."

You guys. I don't...I can't even begin to...I mean, what the hell!? This time, I have even less of a grasp on what happened than with my 4th of July flight. I mean, seriously. What did my defective brain do this time? Did it receive the letter "S" from the beginning of "Saturday" and say, "You know what, Eyes? I'ma stop you right there since we're running late for an appointment to find out who got kicked off of The Glee Project last night. We know from the first letter that this party is on one of two days. What say we save some time and just flip a coin -- then disregard the results of said coin toss and go with the less likely option. Sunday it is!" 

I called Tracey immediately.

I could hear general party jollity in the background when she answered the phone. "Hello, Caitlin!"

"Tracey, I thought your party was on Sunday!"

Tracey started laughing. She pretty much didn't stop laughing the whole time we were on the phone. We've known each other since high school, so she was laughing for the same reason I started crying in the above story: This behavior is, and forever will be, cah-lassic Caitlin. She said, "Ha ha ha ha ha. Oh no! Ha ha ha."

"Why did I think your party was on Sunday?"

"I don't know!"

"I don't know either!"

"You can still come if you want. We're going to be here for a while."

"I just put a load of laundry in!"

"Ha ha ha ha!"

Tracey assured me that it was OK, and I explained that I knew it was OK with her. I mean, I know she enjoys my company, but she had plenty of other people at her party. The absence of one guest wasn't going to ruin her night. I was the one who hadn't had any social contact with other human beings for the past 21 days. If I didn't go to this party, I might start answering my cell-phone with: "This is Caitlin, how can I help you, mom?"

I told Tracey, "I mean, I am sorry I won't be at your party. But, mostly I feel sorry for myself."

If I had a nickle.

I hung up the phone and put my head in my hands. I tried to wrap my head around climbing out of my pajamas and applying mascara. I thought about what was at stake. Then, I called Tracey back. This time my voice was laced with steely determination:

"Tracey. I have decided that I am coming to your Party."

Tracey said, "Oh, OK."

"If I don't, I may lose the capacity for human speech. So, I'll head over as soon as I put my laundry in the dryer."

Tracey: "OK, sure."

Clearly, Tracey didn't appreciate the effort I'd need to exert to narrowly avoid another Saturday evening round of, "What happens when I pour THIS in my ice-cream maker?" I looked at the clock: 40 minutes until the washing-machine cycle would be done. Not enough time for the jam I initially planned, but I couldn't show up to this party empty-handed. How was I supposed to make people welcome my presence? Sparkling conversation? We've been over this, people. I have a hard time making small-talk at times when I exercise my charm-muscles regularly. At this point, my small-talk vocabulary had shriveled to, "So, it's supposed to rain tomorrow, huh?" and, "Actually, you need an access code for the fax machine." Food is the only tool of endear-ability I have left. If ever a situation called for Lutheran cookies, this was it. I got to work on my tried-and-true church cookbook recipe. I put the second pan in the oven and ran downstairs to switch my laundry to the dryer. I turned off the lights in the kitchen around 9:45 and wished the cockroaches happy feasting on the floury film coating my kitchen.

When I got to the party at about 10:30 I nearly collapsed into Tracey's arms. "I'm so glad I made it!"

One of the other guests asked, "What happened?"

I didn't hesitate this time. "What happened," I said, "is I'm an idiot."

Friends, in these uncertain times, when it sometimes seems like nothing is constant, I hope you can at least take some comfort in knowing that, whatever happens, I'll never stop having to cry in airports.

Once again, I'm not making any promises about the future of this blog. New entries aren't really practical when school is in session, but I'm hoping to get another one in before class starts for me in October. Also, I'm getting tired of looking at the same middle-school-ey myspace color scheme and tedious layout. But, by now this blog is apparently so old that it is fixed in internet-stone forever and I can't change a darn thing about it. So we'll see. There may be a new url on the horizon. Maybe this time with recipes and pictures of cats! Or maybe I'll stick with my twice-a-year updating schedule and impossibly dense blocks of text that no one has time to read. Because all change is bad. I will let you know!