Odianaysseus’s Adventures in Ithaca

Rumors of my death, dismemberment, infection with Ebola, or ISP troubles have been greatly exaggerated. Which is not to say that I haven’t appreciated all the emails I’ve been getting over the last few days wondering where the heck I’ve been. Muchas gracias.

Here’s what happened. I just took a road trip to upstate New York which was, if not a demonstration of Murphy’s Law, a demo of Murphy’s Law Lite. Almost everything that could go wrong did.

Let’s start with the leaving. I left last Thursday, and before I left, I wrote a lovely post about Shanna Swendson’s new release, Once Upon Stilettos, and about the fact that I wouldn’t be posting for a few days. Ahem. Never posted, the stupid thing. (It’s there now… right below this one.) I might have noticed this problem, but unfortunately, a sudden fire alarm forced SB and me out of our apartment building, where we were kept for several hours. By the time they let me back in, I was running so late that I forgot half of the things I was supposed to bring with me on my journey. Stuff like: pajamas, sleeping bags, hair dryers, and toothpaste.

I did, however, check email quickly (such an addict!), and I had one from my editor. Unfortunately, in my hurried response, I managed to give her the impression that my apartment had burned down.

Next, I hit the road, and though I successfully navigated the DC beltway, I soon found myself embroiled in a multi-hour standstill outside of harrisburg care of one jack-knifed tractor trailer. Fun. Finally arriving in Pennsylvania at my cousin’s place, I enjoyed a peaceful dinner and visit. The next morning (Friday), I bought a hairdryer, PJs, and toothpaste, borrowed some sleeping bags from my aunt, and eased my editor’s fears that I’d lost everything in a blaze.

I grab KidBrother#1 from the Ithaca airport (he flew in from Georgia) and head off to KidBro #2’s Girlfriend’s apartment. KidBro#2 and Girlfriend are the exact opposite of Packed to Move Out in Two Days. Also, they don’t have the internet access I was expecting. Much trouble ensues as KB1 (whose job is utterly dependent on internet access, as is internet community moderator) and I try to make do. Finally get slow connection enough to see I have day old email from agent wondering where I am. In my frustration, I respond with very harried sounding email. Agent calls: am I upset about something? Why, yes, packing to move –especially if it’s not my move — does that to me. No offense meant.

Commence several hours of non-packing while in guise of packing, interrupted every few minutes by my father, whom I love, but who has the unfortunate need to keep me regularly updated on mom and his progress on the interstate. Phone. Doesn’t. Stop. Ringing. Ever.

When it rings for the 35th time, I answer harriedly. Of course, is my agent. Agent has good news. (No, you don’t get to find out yet. But something good did happen this weekend.) I thoroughly convince agent I am not mad at all. Am in fact highly ecstatic.

KBs 1+2 and Girlfriend get in car to meet folks for dinner. On way, am caught by some stupid stupid totally unfair absolutely ridiculous reckin freckin speedtrap. Police clearly going for world record in ticket-writing, as does so with such rapidity that he’s gone and off to catch another hapless person going 13 over at the bottom of a hill before he’s even managed to tell me what my ticket is for and the charge. Grrrrr… my buzz from agent call is totally ruined.

Go to dinner. Dinner good. Convocation following morning (Saturday) is boring and drizzly. Still no internet access. We ship an enormous amount of stuff that belongs in apartment. That evening, KB2’s Girlfriend’s family arrives and we all go to dinner. KB2 and GF have booked reservations at a Japanese hibachi restaurant. Since Ithaca is a small town currently completely overrun with families looking for restaurants in which to dine, reservations are key.

This particular Japanese restaurant, however, does not seemed to have grasped the concept. How else to explain fact that not only were all the dining spaces quintuply booked, but they were willy nilly crossing out party members and hibachi/table preferences as we stood there watching them, then claiming that we’d called and made those changes ourselves. When we first arrived, we were the only people not seated. We checked in, and then were told that it would be a bit of a wait. Fine. As we wait, four other families come in. Fifteen minutes pass. One of the other families is given the nearest vacated table. Mom, KB1, and GF go off to see how that could have happened, which is when they discover hostess’s creative accounting. meanwhile, other family, who also came in after us, try to sneak towards table. Noticing this, I step in. Bleach blond skank-makeup chick says “I had reservations here since January.” I say, “how lovely for you. We were here before you.” Huge man with protruding beer belly sticks said belly in my personal space and says, “We’re taking this table.”

I stand even closer and say, “I’d like to see you try it.” Staring match ensues. He loses, since I can smile menacingly with the best of them. Skank says, “Let’s just go someplace else.” Good riddance. I should have saved my triumphant face however, because when he sees it, he gets nasty. He then looks at skank and says, “Just sit down.” She moves towards seat. I step in front of her.

Manager of restaurant starts to cry.

Skank says to me, “Why do you have to have such an attitude about this?” Can you believe that? Like I’m the one stealing tables and getting my fat boyfriend to attack women? I’m not denying I have attitude, but seriously. Hello pot, my name is kettle.

Manager, now sobbing openly, begs seated group now on dessert to move away from hibachi.
They do, wondering if skank and I will fight, and if so, is her bleached hair flammable, what with hibachi and all. And then the Manager, in a positively brilliant move, seats our groups TOGETHER.

Have you ever seen that whole Sharks and Jets thing? Yeah, like that. But with tempura.

Anyhoo, because KB2’s Girlfriend has a mouth on her and isn’t afraid to use it, Skank & Co. eat and run. GF’s family is a little shocked, and GF says that she’s never seen someone so aggressive about getting a table. Cross an Italian with an ex-waitress food critic, and this is what you get, methinks. And I’d already dealt with too much crapola that weekend.

Next day (Sunday) is graduation. Cornell is very hilly. KB2 graduates cum laude, and already has an awesome job and apartment. Very exciting. At some point, I hurt my foot. I have no idea how, but by the time I go to bed it’s throbbing muchly. Next morning, too. Unfortunately, that is the day (Monday) we have to pack entire apartment into back of parents’ rental van and my midnight blue Mazda3 hatchback, Nikita. (Nikita fits a lot of stuff, much more than anyone in family expected.)

Dad bandages my foot, and I try to stay off of it as much as possible, which is difficult considering that I’m the only one who realizes Nikita’s potential. I get all kinds of crap in there they didn’t think would fit. Eventually we are packed, drop KB1 off at the airport, and drive down to Pennsylvania. Before we get there, my foot is hurting so badly I can hardly press the accelerator. Or, of more concern, the brake. I switch places with mom. I sit there, nursing foot, as Mom, Dad, KB2 and GF (and uncle) unpack. Then we go to uncle’s house, where I chill with chardonnay, several icepacks, and family. Since it was still very early, I’d hoped to return to DC on Monday, but I coudln’t drive with my foot. Aunt pitches me a sleeping bag in cousin’s room and all insist they will wake me up early to go home.

Early is 8 a.m. I ice up, take a few advil, and hop in car, thanking all manner of deities for cruise control to take some of the pressure off. In process of drive home, am innocently eating a caramel to keep my strength up and realize that I’ve broken my tooth.

I’ve. Broken. My. Tooth.

I’m surprised I didn’t run off the road in shock. Seriously, this might be the worst time ever to break my tooth. The day after tomorrow, I am going to my fifth year college reunion, where I of course have to look breathtaking, not like a haggled-tooth hack. After that, I’m going to New York for a decadent writer’s — well, not weekend, but weekday — retreat.

Did I mention that I don’t have a dentist in DC? Grrrrr! Get on phone with SB’s mom and manage to lisp out situation. She promises she’ll see if I can get in with her dentist. Bless the woman!

Meanwhile, parents, bro, and bro’s girlfriend are enjoying champagne and pizz in bro’s new apartment before jetting off to Paris and Rome, respectively, for 30th anniversary and graduation trip… respectively.

I’m driving through hot traffic with a broken foot and a chipped tooth and a bag of dirty laundry. And then I hit 95, which is, you guessed it, shut down.

And that, boys and girls, was my weekend.

Oh, it’s not that bad, I guess. I did see my family, which is always fun, and my brother, who clearly rocked his university experience. I drank a lot of champagne, got some good news from my agent, and SB’s mom’s dentist was in fact able to get me in at 5 p.m. to fix my tooth. And I made lasagna so SB doesn’t starve when I leave on Thursday for a week.

But if my foot is really hurt, walking around New Haven and Manhattan is going to be a bitch.

Grrrrrr…