Whiskers

My darling boy approached me the other day and told me he needed a shaving kit.

I instantly felt like he'd punched me in the stomach.

I peered closely at his face, willing the ever more distinctive brown fuzz above his lip to disappear.  I am not ready to be the mother of a son that shaves in quite the same vein as I am not ready to contemplate him behind the wheel of a vehicle.

I called his mobile the other day to inquire as to his whereabouts and a man answered, which startled me.  His voice was deep down in his boots.  It took a second for the world to stop spinning.

I remember my baby boy when he was brand new to the world.  I remember him as got his first teeth and took his first steps.  I remember getting the news of his hearing impairment and his wonder at the world when he could hear the birds chirp.  I remember his first day at kindy and his unbridled amazement the first time he walked through the doors of the Magic Kingdom at Disney.  I remember everything except when it was that he transitioned from a little boy to a man.

When children are babies and you haven't slept a full night in months, it's hard not to wish they were older.  When they graduate to toddlers and throw tantrums in the grocery store, it's natural to look to a time in the future when they won't demand so much of your patience.  When children morph into preadolescents and treat you like you like an ATM with a car, it's reasonable to count down the days until they can earn their own cash and chauffeur themselves.

Then, without warning, those days are upon you.  You catch sight of him eating his breakfast and notice that his hands are those of an adult.  Suddenly, he talks about politics, music and part time jobs instead of video games and tv shows.  Long gone are his dimpled wrists and chubby knees.  In their place is this tall, thin, young man in need of a shaving kit.

I'm still wrapping my head around that.

Another Airline Odyssey

During the most recent New Zealand school holidays which ran from 30 June through 15 July, I took the kids back to the US to see their biological father.  When he and I were negotiating the mechanics of a custody arrangement that allowed me to remove the children from America to live in another country, one of the things to which I agreed, was that I would be responsible to arrange and fund their return to the US once a year.  

We left Auckland late Saturday night on the 30th of June and arrived in Los Angeles mid afternoon on the same day, which is always a bit of a mind screw.  We had dinner with Dallas's son, shopped a bit and then retired to our hotel room since we had a 6:00am flight to Tulsa the following morning.

I woke up the next morning to my mobile ringing and as I stumbled out of bed and over to the phone, I had a vague, jet lagged-soaked, feeling of unease.  I missed the call and one other thing registered as I glanced down at the face of my mobile.  We'd missed our flight, too.  It was 6:10 am.

Shit.

I freaked just a bit, woke up the kids and told them to HURRY, WE MISSED OUR FLIGHT!

My son, the voice of reason, said, "Why do we need to hurry if we have missed the plane?"

I didn't have a good answer.

I called United.  The next flight out that they could get us on would be the following day, late evening.  Even though it was the Sunday before the 4th of July holiday, I could not believe that between the two recently merged airlines of Continental and United, that they could not find 3 seats from LOS ANGELES to Tulsa.  I explained that I didn't care if we had to go to the East Coast first or Chicago or Denver or Houston or Dallas or WHEREVER...we just needed to be in Tulsa that night since both the kids and I had obligations Monday morning.  No dice. Nothing.  

I had no choice but to secure tickets on another airline to the tune of $1600.  I hated myself at that moment.  Before that, though, I told the customer service agent that I needed to make sure that our return tickets were left intact and not cancelled.  She said that in order to do that, she would have to check us in at Denver, which is where our original connection was to have been.  I waited on hold while she did this for us.  Twenty four minutes later, she came back on the line to tell us that we were checked in and that our return tickets were solid.  I received emails confirming our check in at Denver.

So la de da, we get to Tulsa on the other airline and spend the next week, as planned.  The following Sunday, we head back to Tulsa to spend the night before flying out the following Monday morning to Los Angeles.  I have crappy travel luck.  It's well documented and on Sunday night, my Spidey senses were tingling and I thought I'd better get online and check us in.  Guess what?  No record of us.  Our confirmation number was no longer working.  

I get back on the phone with United.  Actually, I got on with their automated system that made me just a hair shy of homicidal.  After slogging my way through the robot system to where it would allow me to speak with an agent, I was put on hold and told my wait time would be in the neighborhood of 8 minutes.  Well, 38 minutes later, I got a real live person on the phone.  She spoke with me for about two minutes, got the gist of the problem, put me on hold again and left me there....for another 18 minutes.  She then came back on and told me that there was nothing she could do for me and had in fact, spoken to two different supervisors who suggested I show up at the Tulsa airport the following day and see what they could do for me there.  I calmly told her that her advice was not acceptable and that I needed to speak with a supervisor since I had made all of the necessary provisions on the front end to ensure that this problem would't exist and oh, by the way, we were flying to NEW ZEALAND from Los Angeles and if it was alright by her, I didn't really feel like rolling the dice since that would be upsetting to my TWO CHILDREN. 

I was placed back on hold.  At the one hour and eight minute mark, I put my mobile on speaker and picked up the hotel phone and dialed United customer service again.  After the whole series of questions by the auto system, I was placed on hold.  I think it was at this point that I lost my composure.  Then King, an agent based in the Philippines, came on the line and as I was telling him my story, I began to sob like a crazy person.  I'm not sure how much sense I was making but I do remember quite clearly that at the end of my tale, he said, very firmly, "I am going to put you on hold again and I apologize.  I will fix this.  I promise."  Back to the land of hold, I went.

In the meantime, back on my mobile, a female agent named Michelle based in Tampa, FL came on the line.  "Are you a supervisor?"  I asked?  This was at the one hour , twenty two minute mark, who for those of you who are keeping track, will note that the original agent left me on hold for another twenty four minutes after I had asked to speak with a supervisor.  Michelle told me that sadly, she was not a supervisor.  I burst into tears, again, and through hiccups, explained what had transpired with her company over the better part of the last hour and a half.  She was horrified and not in that fake, "I'm sorry you've had such a poor experience with us Mrs. X" way.  This woman was genuinely upset for us.  She told me to hang on while she took a look and also instructed me not to hang up either phone.

Back on hold, I went.  About two minutes later, King came back on the line to tell me he had sorted out the kids and was working on me but that he would have to put me on hold again.  I was so grateful, I could barely choke out my thanks.  Then Michelle popped back into my mobile and confirmed the kids had been booked and not to hang up with King because it looked like they were working on mine.  She put me on hold and went back at it, too.

Finally, one hour and forty four minutes after dialing United, King came back on the line and told me we were good to go the following day and then he did something remarkable.  He apologized for the trouble that we had experienced.  I found that impressive.  After thanking him profusely and getting his ID details, I hung up with him. Within thirty seconds, Michelle came back on the mobile line to confirm that we were all sorted.  She apologized, as well.  Her compassion for our situation and the obvious stress it caused was really appreciated.  I went to bed that night a mostly sane person. 

In the end, it all worked out and we were able to catch our flight home to New Zealand but what stuck with me was the difference in talent on the other end of the phone.  That first agent and was appalling.  She didn't give a shit about us at all.  She just wanted our problem out of her queue so she could move on to the next customer and keep her phone stats up.  That one person, and her utter lack of problem solving skills, could have really buggered things had I just accepted her response.  How is it that one agent can get it done while another tells you that even the supervisors think you're fucked?

I plan to write a letter because King and Michelle deserve to be recognized for their efforts and United should know what an ordeal it was to exercise our return tickets.  In spite of King and Michelle though, I'm pretty sure that I'll exhaust my other airline options before I spend another dime with United.  

Skip The Fifty Shades

I know that I haven't written very much lately so what I'm about to say may sound a bit like sour grapes but I just read yet another article about the "Fifty Shades of Gray" trilogy and I just don't get it.  Well, I get some of it but I don't understand the furor.  

I admit, I bought the first book because what 45 year old woman with a pulse could resist the tickle of something described as, "mommy porn"?  

And the first book was an easy, entertaining read.  It wasn't going to win a Pulitzer any time soon and a disconcerting portion of the dialogue had me cringing with the cheese factor but still, it was a fun, beach read.

So, I bought the second book, wondering if E. L. James had done any research in the Harlequin aisle since the classic romance genre was followed to the letter.  You know how it goes: boy meets girl, boy and girl have an attraction, boy and girl experience a misunderstanding(s) all with a fiery sexual tension undercurrent,  boy rescues girl (from her irrational, unsafe self, apparently), girl accepts boy in spite of the fact that he is tortured by an unspeakable past, boy and girl shag and finally, boy and girl live happily ever after.  Ick.

I haven't made it very far into the second book.  I hope it gets better because I am incapable of starting a novel and not finishing it.  To do so would be literary sacrilege.

Again, like I did after reading the Twilight series, I found myself following the sales figures of the trilogy in the news and shaking my head in disbelief.  While honestly thrilled for the two writers (because I'd give anything to be in either of their shoes), I couldn't help but wonder how it is that the universe sees them enjoying huge literary success while a genius like Gabriel Garcia Marquez will never grace us with another written word now that he is lost to his dementia.  Kurt Vonnegut is dead.  So is Christopher Hitchens.  

I digress.

I'm going to pick it up again tonight and try to plow through a few more chapters.  I wish I could say, "at least the sex is good," but alas, there are only so many euphemisms for the human orgasm and since the main characters are shagging every other page, the list has pretty much been exhausted.  

I'm bored.

All Fired Up

Holy shit, it's cold in my house. Seriously.

There is no such thing as central heat and air down here because there are no real extremes in weather so when it gets chilly, you turn on the heat pump (installed on the wall, electrically manufactures dry heat) or, if you are unlucky like me, you light a fire.

The thing is, most Kiwis are acclimated to the winter and to them, a daytime temperature of 13°C (55.4°F) in the house, is normal.

I am freezing my ass off.

As I write this, it is late morning, and I am wearing sweats, thermals, a hoody, socks, Uggs, wrapped in a blanket with a beanie on my head. And still, my nose runs from the cold. It is a balmy sixteen degrees C, in here and the fireplace beckons.

My neighbours will smell my fire.

They will likely shake their heads and tsk tsk about what a wimpy North American I am.

I think I am beyond caring.

1. Get wood. Lots and lots of wood. And kindling. Kindling is your friend.

2. Stuff the fireplace full of newsprint. Try to use the good stuff (the big city newspaper) because those little community papers are under a tight budget and their rag just doesn't burn as well. Make sure the paper is loosely wadded so there is maximum airflow. Oxygen is your friend, too.

3. Place kindling on top. My husband, who is master fire-maker, takes the time to make tepees of the kindling and strategically places newsprint underneath each of his triangular creations. I say, sod it, and throw them all on top. I have plenty of paper and will burn every scrap of it until one or ten of those suckers catches fire.

4. The best part: the lighting. I am always so hopeful at this point.

5. Beauty, eh? Now, you open the flue wide, leave the fireplace door slightly ajar, and allow the fire to gorge itself on oxygen. I try to psych my fire out. At this point, I walk away saying things like, "Burn, don't burn...I don't care," and inevitably, without me hovering, all that kindling, oxygen and flame mingle like barflies.

6. Add the big dogs, give them plenty of air, and let them burn into gorgeous little embers.

At this point, I flip on the fireplace blower, seal the kitchen up and wait for the warmth to envelope me.

I am a fire goddess. I would have made an excellent scout.

Haere Ra (Good bye)

On Saturday, I went to a funeral.

At our race, the previous week, one of our Waka Ama team members died suddenly.  He wasn't paddling.  Since our club hosted the race, duties like the time keeping, safety briefing, waka inspecting were the responsibility of the more senior members of the club.   He was on one of the support boats when it happened.  He was 41 years old.

I'm not sure the exact cause of death because over the last seven days, there really hasn't been an appropriate moment to ask and frankly, it doesn't matter whether it was an aneurysm or a heart attack, he's still gone.

I went to practice on Tuesday night completely oblivious because I'd had to leave immediately after my race on Saturday and was not there when the tragedy occurred.  I arrived at our ramp to find that I was the only car in the parking lot.  I called my coach.

"You don't know?" she gasped, "Have you seen the canoes?"

I flipped on my high beams and there, in the glare of the lights I could see that all of the wakas had been draped in leis.

There would be no practice for the rest of the week.

At the service, the man's mum spoke.  She was quiet, gentle and dignified.  Her grief was raw and left the back of my throat aching with unshed tears.  "No parent should ever have to bury her child," she whispered.

His partner, a lovely woman from Germany, spoke, as well.  "He was the love of my life," she said.

His boss, a colleague, his friends and his brothers, all talked about how generous, loyal and happy he was and how he positively influenced the lives of all that he met.  A slide show of pictures played through the whole service and in shot after shot, my teammate was smiling, surrounded by people, fully engaged. His life was very obviously rich with people who loved him.

At the end of the service, all of us who participate in Waka Ama, filed outside to give our mate a proper send off.  We lined up on either side of the hearse and as the casket was brought down the steps of the church, we raised our paddles in a canopy.

As the hearse doors were closed, a lone male stood in the clearing behind it and called out the first couple of sentences of a haka.  It raised the hair on the back of my neck.  He was joined by one of our female teammates.  Then, several in the crowd chimed in.  They raged, pummeled their hands against their chests in unison and said good bye in a way that had me sobbing.

It was a fitting end to the most emotional funeral I've ever attended.  I wish I had been fortunate enough to have known him for more than the blink of an eye.

Today, he leaves New Zealand for the last time.  He had always expressed the desire to be taken back to the Cook Islands, to Raratonga, to be buried in the family plot when the time came.  Today, he goes home.

Haere Ra, Tai.