One of those days...

In the spirit of my - very late - New Year's Resolution (It's only April, give me a break), I've decided to post a second time, on the same day. I know, right? That's what I thought.

Anyways, this is my method of recording everything that hopefully, one day, I will sort in consecutive order and have printed out in nice hard-back form with a pretty cover. Of course, I would never be able to remember them in consecutive order, even if I wanted to, so I'll just write them down as they come to me.

Probably not with pictures. I'm not so good at the whole camera thing.

Okay, this took place just a few months ago, mid-January. In winter, we load up the horses and haul all the way down to the groin area of California, an unofficial community of Riverside County or something, according to the signs as you enter. It's about a mile long and a street-width wide, and it's called Thermal, California, and groin about covers it. (I used to call it the armpit of California, but David rightly reminded me that Modesto is the armpit of California.)

There's a horse show series down there, seven weeks long. We attend two of those weeks, and use Time-Share weeks in order to afford it. The show of course had its share of Stooge-like moments, but this story takes place at the hotel thing we stayed at. Being that we were down there to work, we rarely got home before seven, and a couple of times not before ten. This was one of those times.

Okay, real quick I have to provide a disclaimer. The hotel was friggin' confusing, and you couldn't ever find the room numbers, and all the separate units looked the same!

Anyway.

The card key didn't work.

Most of you know how that feels. You hike your way all the way to the room, down identical streets and up sidewalks and across lawns, longing for a hot shower and bed, only to find that little irritating red light blinking at you when you slide your card in.

So we drop all our stuff on the ground and my mom hikes all the way back to the truck to drive back to the lobby while I stay behind with the things. And the lobby's a long ways away so it takes for ever.

Ten minutes in, the door to the room next door opens and a little old lady pokes her head out and looks at me quizzically.

"Room key doesn't work," I explain, shrugging in that you know how it is way.

"That's not your room," the little old lady said, and all of a sudden my legs go numb and my neck gets inexplicably stiff. My eyes flick to the little tiny plastic plaque around the corner. Damn, I think. She's right!

"Oops," my mouth says. Then I stand there, and the little old lady stands there, and finally I sigh and pick up all the bags of stuff you seem to accumulate at horse shows and drag myself a little ways away to make a phone call.

"We're at the wrong unit," I tell my mom when she answers.

"What?"

"Wrong room!" I say louder, and resist the urge to pace and flap my arms around in agitation.

"Oh," she says, and I hear her sigh. "Okay, go outside by the street and I'll drive by and pick you up."

"Okay," I say, hang up, and drag all our stuff out to the street to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Finally, my phone rings.

"Where are you?" my mom wants to know.

"Out by the street!" I say in exasperation.

"I don't see you!"

"Then you're at the wrong unit again!"

"Well, where are you?"

"Out by the street!"

"I can't find you!"

"That is obvious!"

"I'm lost!"

Silence.

"Okay," I say, taking a deep breath. "Go back to the lobby, and try again."

"Okay, I'm going back."

"No, wait! I see you!"

"There you are! What happened to that mug you've got in your hand?"

I looked down. The mug was handleless.

"I think I broke it when you told me you were lost."

"Oh. Huh."

Hey, Remember Me? Yeah! Long Time No See!

Sometimes I impress myself. Like, slack-jawed astonishment at what I just did, or is happening around me, or how I attract trouble like no one I've ever known, except for one other person. That person is my mom, Denise.

We like to call ourselves the Two Stooges, and sometimes the 'Two-and-a-half Stooges', if Adam's tagging along. In the spirit of the disastrous directions our lives sometimes take us, my mother and I have decided to write an autobiography titled How on Earth Could We Be So Stupid? and sequel, titled How on Earth Could We Be So Stupid, AGAIN?

Well, okay. Maybe we won't actually call them that - those titles might be kind of embarrassing, later on - but they're quite accurate.

I haven't actually started it yet, but I figure, at least write it down somewhere, right? Those little instances where I do a mental head-thunking excersize. Mental because I've found that if you literally pound your head against the walls in public places, people tend to look at you funny and then concentrate very hard on not looking at you at all. Sometimes they even walk very quickly to get away.

Okay, they tend to do that anyways, but usually it's because of something I can't actually control. Like my mom doing squats in the Detroit airport, or cursing a blue streak behind me as we stare blank-faced at the airport departure board that tells us we're over two hours late and our plane departed three minutes ago.

That was in Venice. Which, you'd think, Venice, right? Not so bad? Wrong.

Then, sometimes I get the feeling I should include my three-year-old cat Foxy in the Stooges thing. She'd make a full blown one, not a half-stooge. She came in the other day with a very constipated look on her face, sneezing and rubbing at her nose. Of course she didn't want me to look at what was wrong, so I had to pin her in order to get a look at the little bit of grass sticking out of her nose that atually turned out to be about six inches long. In her nose.

Don't ask. I have no clue.

And then there's Adam, who just came up to me. This was the conversation.

Adam: "Jennifer?"
Me: "Hmm?"
Adam: "My butt is itching."
Me: "Would you like me to scratch it for you?"
Adam: "Yes, please."
Me: "No!!"

I have no words. Really.

And this was kind of a useless post. Oh, well. Whatever.