How It Goes

Last year, a month or so before my sister's birthday, she sent me a link to an L.L. Bean bag that she really, really wanted. Because I know when to take a hint, and because I'm a good sister, I got her the bag as a birthday gift, and kept the travel coffee mug that I had originally gotten her to engrave with the name of the college that we went to for myself, and actually, this year, I use it regularly. Anyway, I opened my campus mailbox on day and found that I had a package, from Heather, and it was a cloth-covered mead notebook with a ribbon for a place holder. Inside the front cover was a simple note that read:

Molly Louise
Just because. You know how it goes.
By the way - I ADORE my new bag!! [There is a smiley face made from the exclamation points.] It Rocks.
See you soon.
LOVE YOU!
Heather

I taped that note inside the front cover so that whenever I opened it, I would see it, read it, and know that my sister is always with me. As for the notebook itself - I debated having it for a poetry book, and instead, actually, because it seemed fitting, settled on using it for a journal. I don't remember to empty my head every day; there are some things that need to rattle around for a little more, ferment a little better before they get dumped out. There are occasions when I update regularly [much like the blog, if you could see that comparison] and there are times when I forget that it's there. There is a side of me in those pages that is deeper, and a little more personal than the blog that I'm currently typing [and you're currently reading]. And that's the way it should be.

However, there are times when I bare as much of myself as possible [not in that sense, thank you very much] and give people a little more depth to me that I might otherwise not let you see. Then again, that's probably just me.

I actually got this idea from Connie, over at The Young and the Relentless, which was inspired by her Connie Diaries, which are snippets of her younger days from (I'm assuming) her diary.

I've given you snippets about what happened in Philadelphia last summer, but I haven't actually given you the whole story. And, as a prelude to a post that's still rattling around in my head that might take a little while to actually hash out, I wanted to share with you something more personal, and slightly out of the archive. So, instead of me telling you what happened in Philly, and making it all nice and pretty and snarky in places, I'm going to give you the "original" version. Which, for the most part, is nice and pretty and snarky in all the right places naturally. But you get the idea.

And maybe kickstart a new series in the process. No idea about that, though, because I don't censor my language as much in the journal as I do on here, mostly because I should be [except on occasions like this] the only person who reads said journal] and I try to keep the blog as family-friendly [teenie-bopper-and-up-friendly] as possible. I try, which isn't the same as succeeding, but I do try and for the most part, haven't failed epically yet. Yay! Points for the home team.

Oh, and anybody playing with the idea of keeping a journal or a diary? Do it. Find yourself a comfortable place to write things [I'm talking about the book or notebook, and if you're like me and can't write on a blank, lineless page without slanting, then get one with lines, there's no shame] because it's a marvelous thing to have to track your emotional and personal trials, tribulations, and growth. Also, those vacation memories you have, the stories that don't necessarily correspond to the pictures, this is how you remember them. Sometimes I wish I had done a better job of writing about things while I was in Hawaii, New Zealand, and Australia, but, I was twelve at the time and it didn't seem like that big a deal. And who knows? Twenty years from now, if I ever have kids [or grandkids, which is a really scary thought] they can read about the adventures [the good ones and the no-so-good ones] that I had when I was their age [or a little older]. Might even be a trip down Memory Lane worth strolling someday.

The Point: Keep some sort of journal or diary. Trust me, it's a good thing.

So, [trying to get back on topic here and failing miserably, as usual] here's the low-down on Philly, and maybe the start of something a little different and a little special. Just because, well, you know how it goes.

This was written the following morning from when I was actually supposed to fly home. Names of the airports that I should have been flying into have changed ['cause, you know, I'm slightly paranoid] but everything else has been left the same as the original entry. And I think that's all the stage-setting that you'll need.The name of my job has been abbreviated. And that, I believe, is the last service message that you should need. And yes, usually the morning after a stressful, oh-my-goodness-am-I-ever-going-to-get-home-I-just-wanna-see-my-mama-and-sleep-in-my-own-bed night is brighter and a little better. It also opens a period of time for reflection. Or sufficient ranting. You pick.

August 1, 2009 8:11 am, Philadelphia, PA

As you can see I never made it home. There's a reason.

The woman at the service counter never took my name and put it on the Ipthama list. So that wasn't an option. I go back to the Epthama gate and they keep moving that back. Now, instead of leaving at 8:50, they leave at 11:15. And I'm not guaranteed a seat. After all the people with seats have sat, she starts calling [names] mine. She not only butchers it, she doesn't say the entire thing. So I go and tell her this, and she says go. There were 2 people ahead of me, and they sat and the flight attendant looks at me and says, "Sorry sweetie, I'm out of seats." I get off the plane and they realize that someone got on who wasn't supposed to. I was not about to pull someone, already sitting, off a plane. I have more...no idea what I have but I couldn't. I wouldn't feel right. Even though I just wanted to go home.

I got a distress form from the airport, took a shuttle to a Holiday Inn, stood around some more in line, and got a room.

So, now I'm writing from the 10th floor of a Holiday Inn in Philly. I probably look like shit, I'm most likely not awake, and I'm hungry. My flight now leaves for Ipthama, at 12:15 this afternoon. I don't know how long I'll be in the air, don't know when I'll land, and I definitely don't know if I'm going to work tonight. My mom has to call C.W. and tell them I'm still in Philly.

And since my stomach is making noises, I'm going to feed it. And I don't care if it's white bread.

Still no idea WTF my luggage is.

Did I mention that I can throw a stone and hit the stadium of the Philadelphia Phillies?