Traveling with Mom
I’m in San Diego for a week with my family – I’ll do a proper wrap-up when I get home, after I’m done eating my feelings and drinking away my pain. It is not that I don’t love my family. Really. I do … yeah.
No – it’s simply that traveling is exciting enough, and traveling with my mother is, well … very exciting. Exciting because you might get strip-searched, arrested, or possibly deported. I’m not sure if it’s like this for everyone – I suspect, though, that it may be. I mean, lots of people have moms who travel 8 hours by train to crouch outside George Clooney’s house and contemplate running in when the gate opens (but thankfully don’t). Right?
And lots of moms accidentally carry 8-inch long stainless steel hiking pick-axes in their carry-ons, resulting in a sort of fiasco that their children scarcely remember, because god is merciful and causes us to black out such things. Right?
And lots of moms peer at their fellow passengers, before leaning over and whispering, “That woman over there … she was born a man. I’m sure of it.” Right?