Up in the air

Edgar and I made the decision a few weeks ago that we would fly to Indiana this year for Christmas. I saw my parents at Thanksgiving last year, but other than that, I haven't seen any of my family, with the exception of my aunt, uncle, and cousin that live here in California, since Edgar and I got married in September 2008. So by the time we get out there for Christmas 2010 it will have been over 2 years since the last time I saw my brother, my sister, my two adorable nieces, and my dogs. Yes, even though I haven't lived with my parents for five years, I still consider their dogs to be my dogs.

Except now, I'm just concerned about even getting to Indiana in the first place. Flight information recently became available for the dates that we are going to be flying, and I'm convinced that the universe is trying to kill us. There is ONE non-stop flight between LAX and the Indianapolis airport on the dates in questions. That is a red-eye. I've taken that flight before. The memory of the screaming children and the busted air-conditioning is enough to make me swear off night flights for the rest of my life. Except that every single other one-stop flight has a layover in either Chicago (and who the hell would ever intentionally go anywhere near the airport in Chicago at Christmas time without a gun to their head) or Cleveland (also risking lots of winter storms and frightening delays). But the worst part, the ABSOLUTE WORST PART, is that every connecting flight is on either a tiny Embraer plane or on a Turbo-prop.

That's right, a plane with PROPELLERS.

I guess I should probably take a moment here to say that I am terrified of flying. I don't know why. I never used to be. But as I've gotten older, the excitement of flying just went away and now I'm just really concerned with the possibility of the plane that I'm on just falling out of the sky.

I know that I'm being unreasonable. I know that there are laws of physics that keep the thing in the air. So I shouldn't be worried. Because laws are unbreakable, RIGHT? Oh, except all of those times when they are broken, so you might as well call your laws of physics "Oh, that physics thing that my great-uncle Albert kept talking about, but we all thought he was crazy because of his wacky hair" thing.

So, you can imagine the heavy knot of fear that fills up my stomach whenever I look at airfares and see that the only way to get to my family is by strapping myself into a tiny little death tube with 36 other people and hoping that a slight gust of wind doesn't spell t-h-e e-n-d for me. The flights between Chicago and Indianapolis and Cleveland and Indianapolis are so short that they are essentially comprised of just the take off followed by "we'll shortly be beginning our descent into Indianapolis" but that does nothing to allay my fears. Because I might be on a plane with PROPELLERS. That's right, PROPELLERS. The exact same model of plan that crashed in New York last year because the cold, icy weather was just too much for it and the pilot didn't know how to respond to it's safety features in the event of a stalled engine. WITH PROPELLERS.

And even if there weren't propellers, there would still be Chicago, and the fact that the hour and half layover that most of these flights offered would not be nearly enough since it's pretty much impossible to catch a connecting flight out of that airport on time during the holiday rush.

So the universe either wants me to die or for Edgar and I to spend Christmas alone with the cat. Not fair.

Auld lang syne

I just want to say to everybody out there in Internet-land that I hope you have a safe and happy and prosperous 2010. And that you find a comfortable thing to call the new year. Because "ten" just doesn't sound right. "Ninety four," "eighty seven," "oh-nine," they all sound right. "Ten"? Not so much.

To send this blog off into the happy land of The Year Known as Ten, Yes, That One That Comes After Oh-Nine, I give you my list of resolutions. Which will likely be broken in epic fashion. But this is what we do, so here I go doing it:

1. Get knocked up.

2. Try to exercise and eat well for purposes of being healthy during the said knocked up-ed-ness. (Notice I didn't say 'lose 50 pounds' because who actually follows through on that?)

3. Read 52 books.

4. Suck it up and break-up with some of those shows on the damn DVR that I need to stop watching so I have time for the exercise and the reading.

5. Win the lottery.

6. Save $150 every month until that winning the lottery thing kicks in.

7. Blog my little heart out. I was bad in December. I want to be a good girl again.

8. Help Edgar out more with the around the house cleaning and laundry. Unless it entails getting up earlier on the weekends. Then he's on his own.

9. Improve my Spanish.

10. Call my parents more.

This is in addition to the pro-life pamphlets outside the bathroom door

When Edgar was younger, younger in the sense that he was younger than he is now but still an adult that was on his own and taking care of himself, he made a promise to his mom. That promise was that he would attend church with her on Easter, Mother's Day, and Christmas Eve, as long as she promised to stop giving him a damn hard time about how he never goes to church. He kept up his end of the bargain. Naturally, she did not. That's what mothers do, right?

His mom is a very devout Catholic. I'm not Catholic at all. It's been an adjustment. I'm accustomed to my mom, as I go out the door, yelling "Drive carefully!" from the other room. His mom blesses me. If there's a problem, my mom says "Let's see what we can do." His mom says "You need to pray more." That's just how it is. When we bought a new car last year, she threw Holy Water on it. When we lived with Edgar's parents while we were both out of work, Jesus watched us whenever we [quietly] got it on, because his benevolent likeness was hanging on the bedroom wall. Did I mention his mom gave us a crucifix to hang in our apartment by our front door?

Let me be clear: I love my mother-in-law. I'm not saying anything here to disparage her, this is just the exposition to my coming story.

And don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking Catholicism. I was raised in a denomination of the Protestant Church. Neither Edgar nor I practice the religions that we were raised in. Nothing against religion, but neither of us really understand the fervor and the devoutness that being a "good" follower of a religion entails. We attend church services three times a year to appease his mother. Neither of us really falls in line with this idea of a vengeful or judgmental god as its presented in the Catholic church. And since I'm not Catholic, my duty by attending the services is to basically keep Edgar and his brother separated because they revert to 12-year-old boys in church. And while it's really quite entertaining, SOMEBODY HAS TO BE THE GROWN UP.

So, this Christmas Eve, we put on our Sunday Finest (which in my case is comprised of "The Clothes I Wore When My Job Required Me To Dress In Business Casual But That I Never Wear Anymore Because My Current Job Doesn't Care If I Wear Sweatpants, Thank You Universe" clothes) and made the trek to West Covina to attend Mass with Edgar's parents.

About halfway through the service, a thought occurred to me. That thought was that most of the people that had parts in the service really didn't deserve to be there. The sheer pomposity of everyone but the priest was maddening.

My impressions of church, the things I learned growing up, were that church is a place you go to put all of your bullshit aside and talk to God and learn how to be a better person. That's what it's supposed to be, right? The part of religion that I've always agreed with was the part about how you use it to help shape you into a better person. A person that cares for the needs of others, a person that can lend a helping hand, a person that can put aside all of their own petty crap and be at peace with the world as they try to make it better, not by shoving their beliefs down the throats of others but by turning the other cheek and extending kindness. You know, those few fundamental things that people of all faiths agree upon. That stuff.

Instead, I found people whose heads swelled to seven times the normal size with the prospect of a microphone being shoved in front of their gaping yaws. Example: the two ladies that did scripture readings. ATTENTION SHOW-OFF LADIES (yes, you ladies, the ones with their joyfully embroidered Christmas sweaters, tacky gold jewelery in your ears and around your necks and around your wrists and TOO MUCH TACKY PUFFY GOLD EVERYWHERE, along with your carefully teased short hair): there is a difference between speaking with clear diction and adding gratuitous pauses between phrases to extend your time at the pulpit so that you can sound like the greatest storyteller of all time.

Attention boy who does that thing that I don't know what it's called because I'm not Catholic but that thing where you sing a phrase, and then the congregation sings it back to you, and then you sing something else, then sing that one phrase again, and who also gets to sing into the microphone to lead the congregation during hymns (yes, you, that guy): there's a thing in music called a beat. Live it. Learn it. Love it. Stop trying to be all grandiose and think that it makes you more special than the rest of the people there because you get to lord it over all of us underlings and sing it in a way that clearly sends the message that you want everyone to slow down and follow you, including the organist. I THINK THE ORGANIST KNOWS BETTER THAN YOU.

Attention fat guy with the reindeer ears (yes, you!): Stop popping around the whole sanctuary before the service being a little social butterfly that's all "Look! Look at my reindeer ears! I'm so popular and great and everyone loves me because I wear reindeer ears! This totally gives me validation for the fact that no one would play with me when I was a kid because of that incident with the teeter-totter!" CHURCH IS ABOUT JESUS, NOT SANTA.

Attention all of you people that don't show up until random intervals after the service is halfway over: You missed it. Deal with it. Wait until the next service starts in 45 minutes. Showing up for communion right at the end kind of negates the fact that you missed all of the other stuff.

The only tolerable person that was there was the priest himself. He looked like some crazy mad scientist, but that man knew how to take care of business. No ridiculous posturing from the pulpit. No ridiculously over-exaggerated prayers that lasted for what felt like hours. Just a quick, concise, cheerful sermon that wasn't even five minutes long, because he knew PEOPLE HAD SHIT TO DO AND PRESENTS TO OPEN.

Mad scientist priest, I applaud you.

Buy none, get one free

I haven't posted in six days.

Bad blogger.

So let me regale you with this tale of thievery.

Edgar decided for Christmas that he wanted to buy me a pair of running shoes. I've been going to the gym again lately and running, but my feet have been hurting because my tennis shoes are older than Miley Cyrus and offer less support than Jon Gosselin gives his kids (whoa, two pop culture references in one sentence, CAN YOU DIG IT?). We decided to take a walk over to a sports store a couple of blocks away when he saw that there was a pair of shoes from a good brand on sale. And by on sale I mean they cost $39.99, down from an original price of like eighty bucks.

So. We go to the store. I try them on. They're pretty and they fit. Sold. After I picked the shoes out we walked around the store for awhile checking ot the merchandise and goofing off with tennis racquets. Because we're grown up like that. We ended up grabbing an inflatable exercise ball (with workout DVD included!) and went to the counter to check out. The girl working at the counter checks the shoes to make sure they're the same size. She rings up the exercise ball. She bags the items. Edgar swipes his card and enters his pin. We grab the bag and walk out of the store.

Did you notice what was missing?

The part where she rings up the shoes. Before putting them in the bag that she gives to us.

AND WE WALK OUT OF THE STORE WITH A FREE PAIR OR RUNNING SHOES.

Merry Christmas to all and Happy Savings.

It's beginning to look a lot like.....

We got out Christmas tree yesterday, and man, am I all of a sudden in the holiday spirit! Not in the "I want to give the world a song" kind of spirit, just the "aw, wow, Christmas trees are pretty!" kind of spirit. Because they are. Pretty.

Thankful

Much more to come on the posting front once the week is over and we aren't entertaining family anymore.

I will say that last year at this time, Edgar and I were in a very bad place. We were staring at a black hole. And now life is completely different. It's turned itself around. We're happy, we're healthy, and we're getting ready to start our own family.

Thanks, universe.

And so it begins

Holidays are always great because you end up with a big group of family that is normally never together but for the reason of that specific holiday. Thus, we end up with Keene Family Thanksgiving Week 2009.

My dad has one brother and two sisters. The brother lives in a town called Simi Valley, about an hour away from Long Beach when there's no traffic on the 405. That's a rare thing, the no traffic on the 405 thing, but we can always wish. My dad and his two sisters, one that is married and one that is a widow, live in Indiana. This Thanksgiving the Indiana part of the family decided to come to California. It's gonna be an interesting week.

Their flight got in a little after 6 on Saturday evening. We managed to get out of LAX a little before 7:00 and headed up to Simi Valley from there. My mother, who is not a drinker, immediately started pounding the chardonnay. My aunt and uncle that live here are regular drinkers ( but alcoholics they are not), and I think my mom was trying desperately to keep up. She failed miserably. About three glasses in she started talking with her hands, and with every point here and gesture there the wine kept coming closer and closer and closer to slopping over the edge of the glass. And it eventually reached that point, resulting in a huge splash of wine onto her pants and her drunken vehement denails that she wasn't in fact drunk, that she just talks with her hands and it was bound to happen. Bound to happen BECAUSE SHE WAS DRUNK.

I was viewing this show from my non-drinking armchair. My parents and my California uncle and aunt seemed to be highly disappointed that I wasn't getting sloshed with them, my aunt even going so far as to say "I told you that you needed to wait until January to try to get pregnant so that you could enjoy the holidays!" That point of view makes me think that people must have a waaaaay different perspective of me than I thought. When Edgar and I were at his friend's birthday party two weeks ago and I mentioned that we weren't drinking anymore since we were trying to get pregnant, they were all shocked and "Wow, that's got to be hard for you!" Just because I'm the only girl of the group that ever drank I guess that automatically made me the group's alcoholic. And then my family thinks that I need to be able to drink in order to enjoy the holiday season. Ok, yes, I miss the wine and the bourbon (OH MY GOD THE GOOD BOURBON) but I don't need it to enjoy my holiday. And I actually discovered that I can enjoy myself plenty being stone sober and watching a bunch of 50+ year old men and women getting wasted.

The best part of the story came the next morning from my dad: my mom apparently had to crawl up the stairs to bed, be undressed and then redressed in her pajamas by my dead, during which time she kept falling over, and then once that was done she laid down on the bed and alternated between moaning and giggling until she went to sleep. Oh, mom.

Let the festivities begin.