A “Welcome to My Worlds: A Bipolar Christian Tells All” Story
Since the Romance Writers of America’s (RWA) National Conference, 2009 is almost upon us, I thought a look back at my 2008 adventure appropriate. Here’s the tale of when I winged my way to beautiful San Francisco…
Being me, I planned way ahead of time. Overjoyed the conference was in California this year (it rotates from East, Central, West—although it takes less time to get from So Cal to Arizona than to Northern Cal), I realized I could actually avoid going on Wednesday. One extra day home. Double sigh. I guess I should clear something up. Yes, as an agent, I should wanna spend numerous days networking, but due to rampant Bipolar Disorder and numerous OCD’s (I make Monk look like a lightweight), I have juuust a bit of trouble changing my routine.
Anyway, I booked a 5:00 p.m. flight on Thursday, front of the plane on the aisle (for a quick getaway). The flight was only 1.5 hours, so that’d give me time to get acclimated. My agent appointments weren’t until Saturday morning, so I was set.
A few weeks later, I received an invite to the “Death by Chocolate” party. Two of my authors (Kelly Ann Riley, Terry Odell) were up for a Daphne award, and I figured I should be there. Is there such a thing as a triple sigh? So, I called my airline and changed my 5:00 flight to the 1:20 p.m. flight. Cost me $40.00, but I could justify the expense. I gritted my teeth and whipped out my debit card. Grrr.
Some of you know; I have three businesses. One being 4 Gals Designs for my custom line of handbags. I’d been taking sewing lessons at night, and was hoping to finish what I call a “mini-briefcase” to show off at the conference. Technically, it’s a laptop carrier, but I don’t like laptops. Can’t get used to the rollerball instead of the mouse. (Wonder if that would bother Monk?) The size is perfect for a partial or two, and the one I was making was so hot, it was cool.
I have to say, I’m darn good at most everything I try, but sewing? Oiy! I’m an artist. I love squiggly lines that trail off the page. If any of you sew, you know it’s kind of important to cut and sew straight. In my valiant attempt, I sewed through my thumb. Literally. Needle went through my nail and out the bottom/side.
I yelped, but didn’t cry. (I have a high threshold of pain.) My hubby (he’s such a sweet man) turned from his desk. He saw the blood and nearly fainted, then decided he had to “rush” me to the hospital for a tetanus shot. (The closest hospital is an hour away, so I’d probably bleed-out before arrival.) Besides, we’re too close to the Mexican border. In the Emergency Rooms around here, English is a second language. (Yeah, I know. But we’ll save that for another blog.) My hubby (he’s such a sweet man) froze. I told him to get his behind in gear and grab a paper towel, ’cause if I bled on my mini-briefcase, he was toast.
Then I got revenge on my sewing machine, so to speak—I broke the needle. (No, not with my other thumb.) Happens when working with heavy fabric. I have Brother computerized machines, and I think I need commercial-grade Singers. Grrr. No problemo. Exchange needle and re-thread machine, lickety split. (Wonder where that phrase came from.)
I worked feverishly, doing everything I could at home to save time at my next class. I always get hung up because the teacher doesn’t use the instructions that go with the pattern. She’s been sewing for roughly 100 years (I’m counting her time in the womb), and simply does things her way. Great … until I go home and try to follow the instructions and cute picture diagrams on the patterns. My 400-level finance classes were easier to figure out.
I was sure I’d finish the bag at my last class, the Tuesday night before I left. Nope. All these pesky problems cropped up, so I had to go it alone. No problemo. I was on the second-to-last step when I decided I needed to add a few things. I won’t give you the gory details. I stayed up all night. Well, close. I went to sleep at 4:30 a.m., and got up at 6:30 a.m. Then I tried to fix all the damage I’d caused the night before, but couldn’t. No bag. Grrr.
Lightbulb moment. I knew what would make me feel better. I cut and color my own hair. Not with that boxed stuff. I had to read up on the procedure and learn the process like the “pros.” (One should never stop learning new things. Right? Just don’t ask my thumb that question.) Never had a problem dyin’ my hair before. But a simple application of color couldn’t overcome my feelings of d—de—defeat. Nope. I figured a weave was in order. Didn’t matter that I’d never done one; I used to get them all the time. I had bleach and a dark blond-colored dye in my supply cupboard. I even had pre-cut foil. Didn’t matter that I had to catch a plane in a few hours. I’m a “go for it” kinda gal.
The bleach worked, except the hair at my part and in front processed lighter than the rest. Cool. Those dark-blond highlights around the face would soften the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles. (Wonder who thought that idea up.) Step two: I applied the dye, then looked at the time. OMGosh!
I sprinted to the closet, grabbed some clothes, and tossed everything in my suitcase like it was last night’s soggy salad headed for the garbage. Except my shoes. Sigh. Those, I loving wrapped with tissue and care and placed them into the special bags made to slip inside my suitcase, all snug and safe. Double sigh.
Sheesh. I forgot; I still had to rinse the dye out of my hair! I streaked to the shower (no wisecracks) and shampooed. Couldn’t wait to see the new color. (I shoulda waited.) Orange! Yes, orange is my favorite color, but not on my hair. Grrr. What to do? No time to use more dye, and all I had left was my hubby’s (he’s such a sweet man) jet black. Talk about lookin’ like a walking gothic novel. No thanks. Ingenuity. I could handle this. I took a minute to think up a solution. (Actually, it was half a minute—thirty seconds was all I could spare.)
I rummaged through my used make-up drawer and found a sponge applicator and some chocolate-brown eye shadow. Perfect. My brassy orange turned into a sort of caramel color … kinda. That would suffice for the flight. On the way to the airport I could make a pitstop at the beauty supply store and pick up some non-permanent rinse. I figured I’d get to the conference and have plenty of time to implement the color change before the party. Whew. I felt better. Had to hurry, though.
I dressed in comfy clothes, and being the smart gal I am, slipped my feet into my black mules with the kitten heels. (Still haven’t found a pair of brown ones.) That way, when I hit the plastic containers at airport security, I could shuck the shoes off in record time.
My hubby (he’s such a sweet man) hefted my suitcase and off we went. If we broke Mach 1, I juuust might make my flight. I was already nervous, as I wasn’t flyin’ out of my airport: O-N-T, Ontario, CA. I know where everything is there, have the security checkpoints figured out, etc. They didn’t have a flight to San Fran, so we headed to our default: San Diego Airport.
First stop: Pick up the rinse. I rushed into the store, grabbed some Fanciful (never used it before, but how hard could it be?), a squirt bottle, and a pair of latex gloves, then zipped them in the outside pocket of my suitcase, and we were back in business, baby.
We pulled into the airport and it was late. I mean late. My flight departed in twenty minutes. Did I give up? Think I would? No way. We cruised curbside, but couldn’t find the Virgin America drop-off spot. Grrr. I figured I’d find it inside. My family waved goodbye, and I hustled (not the dance, although that used to be totally fun), trotted up and down, back and forth, but didn’t see a counter for Virgin. Grrr. Thinking it must be upstairs, I hit the elevator. (Not literally—with my luck, I’d anger “Hal” and the darn thing would stop between floors.) I taped my kitten heel, waitin’ for the chute to open so I could charge out like a scared calf.
Glance at my watch: Ten minutes until my flight flew. I looked up and smiled at the nice Transportation Safety Administration (TSA) lady, and waved my boarding pass and ID at her. I glanced at the disrobing line, trying to hide my scowl, and asked if I’d make a 1:20 flight. She checked her watch and nodded. Great. No problemo.
I stood behind four people and my Secret antiperspirant wasn’t keepin’ my secret. (No, I don’t really use the stuff, as they’ve linked aluminum with Alzheimer’s, but it made for a good line, don’t ya think?) At least the nice gentleman in front of me let me cut in front of him. (A last resort, I assure you.)
The nice TSA gentleman looked at the size of my bag, then at me. The depth of his frown wasn’t a good sign. He asked if I had any liquids over three ounces. Of course not; I knew the rules. Drat, my rinse! He told me I’d have to ditch it, or go back and check my bag. Since I had no idea where to check it, and my flight left in eight minutes, I coughed up the bottle. Grrr. If I hadn’t stopped to buy it, I wouldn’t have been so late. Sigh. I passed through the metal detector without a glitch. (I know, but the impossible happens at times.) Could I still make the flight? I juuust might squeak by.
Then another nice TSA lady flagged me and pulled me aside next to an elderly woman leaning on her walker, and a young gal cradling a tiny baby. (You never know; the newborn might be hidin’ an explosive device in his diaper.) I shoulda grabbed that white towel I dry my hair with instead of concentrating on my black mules. If they thought I was from the Middle East, they probably woulda saluted and given me a personal escort aboard the plane. (Yeah, I know. But we’ll save that for another blog.)
I grabbed my belongings and she gave me the favored parting words, “Don’t worry; you’ll make your flight.” I scooted to the gate where a lone dude with a nametag reading “John John” (no, I’m not kidding) said, “Are you Kelly?” I huffed out a yes and asked if I’d missed my 1:20 flight. Yep. I glanced at my watch, which read 1:15. I looked out the window and there was the plane, just restin’ up before the big flight. Unfortunately, it’d moved about three inches from the narrow hallway where passengers embark.
No problemo. I could jump it. (Have I mentioned I went to the state finals in track? Yeah, as a sprinter, but I was also nasty at the running long jump.) Yep, I’d simply squat into position, pound the ground at a flat-out run like a flamin’ demon trailed me (Or one of my ex-mother-in-laws. The second one, I think), tap my foot on the board, and soar through the air like I was Jonathon Livingston Seagull.
John John crushed my dreams of glory. Even though the plane wouldn’t go anywhere for another ten minutes, once they’d moved, no cigar. He asked if I wanted to be on standby for the 5:00 flight. I answered in the affirmative, but told him he’d have to wait a minute to sign me up, as I had an important errand to run.
I turned and hoofed it back to the security station. I figured if I had to wait 3.5 hours for the next flight, I might as well get my rinse back and check my bag. I’d have plenty of time to hunt for the elusive Virgin American counter.
I moved past the nice TSA lady who’d promised me I wouldn’t miss my flight, making sure my fake smile didn’t morph into a genuine grimace. (Didn’t wanna lose the yogurt she let me keep in the first round.) I politely asked the nice TAS gentleman for my rinse back, to which he informed me one of the lady janitors had just emptied his “rubbish receptacle” about one minute before I re-appeared. Grrr.
I turned away, head down, bag dragging. (Hey, even I have my limits.) Wait! Janitor at two o’clock! It only took me a minute to convince her I wasn’t a nut. (Which proves my theory I shoulda been an actor.) I don’t speak Spanish, and she didn’t speak English. (Yeah, I know. But we’ll save that for another blog.) She said something kinda resembling the word “ticket” and I nodded. (Not a lie, as I had no idea how close the words “hair rinse” and “ticket” were in Spanish.)
I almost grabbed the latex gloves meant for my rinse operation, but opted to go bare, confident in the knowledge my hubby (he’s such a sweet man) put a travel-size container of hand sanitizer in my gorgeous handbag. (Yep, I made that one. Well, that was the second time I made it. The first time I crashed and burned.) I rummaged through the trash, but no rinse. Grrr.
So, I trudged back to John John, and he put me on standby. I didn’t wanna contemplate what I’d do if I didn’t get on the 5:00. I parked it, and did some line editing after I called Gayle Link. (I tell ya, I couldn’t survive without that women. No joke. She’s the life-preserver in my sea of chaos.)
I wore a light sweater, but that infamous air conditioning kicked in. (The airport personnel have to make sure all those nice people visiting from Antarctica stay comfortable.) With no socks on (I was wearing mules; I had no choice!) I shivered. Great. I was a freezing, angry, miserable, bipolarized (if I say it’s a word, it’s a word) orange-haired woman who was gonna blowout two appointments (beastly!) in San Fran, and might miss the party as well. Could anything else go wrong? (Do I haveta answer that?)
A group of six teenaged boys showed up. No biggie until they set up a movie theater with a large-screen laptop and two speakers. I’m not sure, but they coulda been watching Animal House, or mayhap Porky’s. Either way, I found it difficult to give the manuscript a decent edit.
I spotted a row of seats in the high-traffic area. I caught my breath. (No, not literally.) My gaze fell on a skylight complete with a single beam of afternoon sun peeking onto the floor in a criss-cross pattern. (A tiny ray of warmth for the two blocks of ice I once called my humongous feet.) I stampeded my way toward the light like Colin Ferrell was over there, winkin’ at me. (What I really needed was a Xanax, but what if I fell asleep and missed the call for the flight?) Couldn’t risk it, so I stayed in “full manic mode.” Wasn’t pretty. I looked through the skylight to address my Maker. “Okay, God. I get the whole “Job-thing.” (Not job, JOB. Y’know, the guy who ate it, big-time.) “So, God, seriously, do Ya think You can stop now?”
John John approached. He informed me that when I’d gone on standby, there were seven seats available, but now there was one left. Did I want to reserve it? I pondered why he hadn’t given me that choice from the get-go (Wonder where that phrase came from.), but just said “yes.” He mentioned the additional cost: $25.00, oh, and I’d have to sit in the back of the plane, center seat.
Let’s recap, shall we? I’d paid for the 5:00 flight, front row, aisle seat; then paid $40.00 to switch to the 1:20; then paid another $25.00 to get back on my original flight, with a seat in back, dead center. I gritted my teeth and whipped out my debit card. Grrr.
Finally, at 7:35 p.m., I made it to the Marriot, knowin’ I was home-free. Just enough time to unpack and jam on over to the Death by Chocolate party. Went to my executive king suite where I met my lovely and sweet roomie, Jennifer Clark Vihel. (Sharing a room with her was one of the highlights of my stay, even though we soon realized there was one bed, and two of us. At least she can say she slept with an agent at a conference.) Then I unpacked.
No! Waves of shock shook my body. The room spun. I dove for my meds. The horror I found—or didn’t find—in my suitcase vaulted me over the precipice. Somehow, I’d left my separately wrapped, lovingly bagged shoes on my bed at home. “Grrr” didn’t cover it. I peeked at my shoes. Black mules with a kitten heel. Not exactly stylish enough for my RITA ceremony gown, or anything else I’d brought.
I delved deeper into the bowels of my suitcase, praying I was blind instead of bipolar, and my beautiful shoes were hiding under my Godzilla-sized make-up bag. (Gotta disguise all my flaws. Well, at least the ones on my face.) Sigh. No never-worn, fire-engine-red patent leather chunky heels. No black stilettos sporting tiny shoestring bows, toe cleavage, and pointy tips. (No, your toes don’t go all the way to the top. This style elongates the leg.) No copper metallic slingbacks … I can’t go on, it’s too painful.
I didn’t have my glorious shoes, but my extensive suitcase search did reveal three “ball of the feet” gel insoles, two packs of “heel protectors,” and two sets of “firming arch supports.” Grrr.
Welcome to My Worlds.
