Blargh. Why is it that when your mother says something to you, it is fraught with so many layers of meaning, it's completely insane? For instance, on Sunday, Lil' Puddin' Tater and I went over to Mammy & Papa's house to pick up some things Mammy brought from cleaning out her mother's garage. It was lovely outside not cold by any stretch of the imagination, and I frankly didn't feel like arguing the merits of putting a coat on with LPT. So she wore two t-shirts and long capri pants. And shoes. And she was completely comfortable. But my mother, as soon as LPT gets out of the car, exclaims, horrified: "Where is your coat?" then follows that up with a fleeting glance in my direction. Now, on the surface, this is nothing. It is an adult asking a simple question to a child. However, when you peel back that simple, vanilla veneer (did I just mix metaphors?) you see the jumbled mess of emotions contained in those four little words: How could your mother let you go out in this weather and get cold? She knows you have breathing problems, and you can't convince me that the cold is harmless. And you! You're her mother, and you should make her put on a coat if it's chilly outside! I know that I get cold when it's like this, I cannot imagine how she must feel! I never let you go outside without a coat when you were little. Why don't you care more? You are not a good mother, and I would do so much better.

Now, not a bit of this is actually said, possibly not even thought outright. And perhaps I'm just making it all up, just reading too deeply. And my mother would say I was completely insane if she ever read this. And perhaps this isn't a good example. But there is something to the hidden nuances present between daughters and mothers. A tone of voice, a look, even posture all convey the slightest changes in disposition toward another person, and I think that with mothers and daughters, it's especially true.

Can you tell who I'm dealing with today? :)

Mexico.

On Wednesday evening, I arrived back in Kentucky from Cancun, Mexico. It was a lovely trip; we stayed here, and somehow were "Club Platinum" guests, which means that the hotel employees will help you get rid of a body, as long as you are wearing your platinum wristband. I got to spend uninterrupted time with my mom, and I discovered that she (and probably I as well) can be very enjoyable when she hasn't had to deal with my children all day. We relaxed, we read anything we could get our hands on, we drank to our hearts' content (all-inclusive is the only way to go) and we slept late. We also took home a bit of a sunburn, but hey, it's the price you pay. This is not to say that I didn't miss the midgets. And I really missed D. There were several couples who were honeymooning, and the king-size bed in my suite was HUGE. I spent most nights with pillows piled around me, I guess to mimic the crowded nature of the bed at home. And Lil' Puddin' Tater would have had a blast at the pool and on the beach. There was even a special "Kids' Clubhouse" right next to the pool. Maybe next time.

And really, the trip was uneventful until the last day. We were packed, breakfasted and ready to go to the airport by 11:00 am. The shuttle arrived on time, and the 30 minute drive to the airport was completely great. However, it was when we were standing in line (it was Disney-world long, I tell you) that a US Air employee made an announcement that we needed to write contact information on the back of our Immigration Stub, and have it and our passports ready when we got to the ticket counter. Since we flew in to Cancun on Mexicana Airlines, all announcements involving customs and immigration forms were in Spanish or broken English over the PA system of the plane, so if they mentioned that you needed to retain this little stub of paper in order to leave the country, I was unaware. But I didn't panic! It was 11:40-ish, our flight didn't leave until 1:40, so I thought I would just go to the information desk and clear everything up. The girl at the desk said to go to the immigration office. Ok, cool. So I leave everyone in line with my luggage, and take off. The Immigration Office is a sad little room in the back of Terminal 3, at the end of a hallway. In it is a desk, piles of boxes, and a chair. No computer, no phone. The officer sitting at the desk spoke only Spanish. So I filled out the appropriate form (designated through gestures and pointing) while she went and fetched "Josh," who could speak English. I did not care for Josh, mostly because he entered the office and confiscated my passport, then told me to go to "el banco" in Terminal 2.

Here is a map of the Cancun Airport. I was at the black dot in Terminal 3 (the orange area) when I heard this. I protested leaving my passport, making "Josh" quite displeased with me. When I realized he was serious, I walked out and took the shuttle to Terminal 2, in search of "el banco." On the shuttle, I met a group of French tourists and I swear, I have never been so happy to speak French. I verified that this was indeed the shuttle I needed to take, and that el banco was in Terminal 2. Apparently, I was being sent to pay an immigration fee of 525 pesos, and all I needed to do was bring the receipt back to the immigration office and all would be well. When I arrived at Terminal 2 (the red area - I'll explain the black route in a sec) I was offered several "extra" visas that various airport employees had on hand, for about 50 bucks. I chose to stay legal (and where did that get me?!?)and queued up at the bank. It was apparently pay day, because the line was forever long, and most of it was airport employees cashing checks. I have always heard that things move really slowly in Mexico. That is 100% correct. I stood in line for about 90 minutes. My mother found me after about a half hour, and progressively became more and more irate the closer we got to the teller window, at about 1:00 pm. (remember, the flight leaves at 1:40.) When I submitted my form (after fending off several instances of tourists in my same situation trying to cut in line) the teller looked at me blankly and said "Cash only. Sorry." My mother is gone in a flash with my check card, and I would up paying my fee in dollars and pesos. I get my receipt, and we dash outside to discover that we've missed the shuttle and it won't come back for another 20 minutes. It is now 1:10. We ask if it's possible to walk to Terminal 3. The porters who keep trying to take our bags for us assure us it will take 5 minutes. The route from Terminal 2 to Terminal 3 is the black line on the above map. It was about 3/4 of a mile, and both mom and I were running the entire way, rolling suitcases be damned. We get to teh terminal, I run to the immigration office, fill out another form and then we bolt to security. Looking back, this is where it becomes amusing.

My mother is in a panic. We have printed our boarding passes out at the hotel, so she is waving this sheet of paper in front of her while screaming "We're about to miss our flight!" and running at the security guards. When she sees that there's a line, she bypasses the line and tries to go around the guard. Naturally, this alarms the guards, and they are on high alert. They detain my mother, as she is still screaming about the flight. To their credit, they listen, then see what she has in her hand. They inform us that electronic boarding passes are not valid in Mexico. This means that we will have to stand in the hideously long line again, and get real boarding passes. At this point, it's 1:20 and there's no hope. We're going to miss our flight.

We descend the escalators and see my stepfather, standing with our luggage. My stepbrother has gone ahead and gotten on the flight we just missed, and now we have to find a seat on the next flight out of Cancun or we'll be there until Thursday. Our luck starts to look up, and we get scheduled for a flight out of Cancun at 3:20, and the US Air employee writes (not prints, mind you) the following for our flight out of Charlotte the next day: Charlotte Louisville Flight 3285 9:10. The rest of the day is uneventful, and we arrive in Charlotte, NC that evening at 8:00.

We have to spend the night there (at the hippest airport hotel ever) and we wake up early the next morning to get to the airport by 7:30. George tries to print out the boarding passes at the hotel that morning at 7, and is told that he can't since it's 90 minutes or less before the flight departure. Turns out when the Mexico US Air person wrote 9:10, that was when the plane arrived in Louisville. It left Charlotte at 7:35. At this point, I want to cry. D is getting more and more pissed, since I've told him at least twice now that I was going to be home, and then was delayed. We finagle three seats on a flight Louisville that leaves at 10. We're at the airport in plenty of time, and all is well.

Then there is fog.

The flight is delayed 30 minutes.

The flight is delayed another 30 minutes.

The flight is cancelled.

Since I'm getting tired of typing, the gist is this: we get booked on standby to Lexington and miraculously make the flight. We rent a car and drive home. I arrive after D had to go to work, around 6 ish. I vow never to travel again.

The End.

Well praise the lord that Chuck Norris is thinking about the future and what he can do. He's going to run for president! Of Texas! When it secedes from the rest of the United States! But the real question is: will he be wearing these pants at the inauguration?
This week's Modern Love requires Kleenex. I think everyone hopes their marriage (or partnership, which ever the case may be) is that strong. But to know that it is, 100%? Amazing.
And since I can't think of anything else to write, here's a video to make you smile from FotC.

It's finally (finally!) starting to get nice around here, weather-wise. Today the high is 69, and it's not going to be completely miserable at night for awhile. I wore sandals for the first time this year yesterday, and I nearly blinded myself with the pallor of my feet. Going to Cancun (6 days and counting!) should do me good.
I've had to bribe LPT to let me leave. She doesn't know exactly how long I'll be gone, but she does know that I'm leaving and thus I have had to promise presents (namely a doll and some clothing) wrapped in paper upon my return. This means that I'll be toting a roll of wrapping paper and some scotch tape (not in my carry-on though - who knows what kind of damage I could do with that serrated edge?) because I know she'll ask about it as soon as we get in the car at the airport.

So, on to the real reason for my post: INSPIRATION. I received this book in the mail yesterday (love love love Heather), and the images (and, let's be honest, EVERYTHING) in it are so lovely! Is it inappropriate to bring my sewing machine to Mexico?