The women in my family are at best neurotic. In fact, the entire existence of this web site is a direct product of the incomprehensible amounts of stress and damage afflicted on to me by my mother, sister and indirectly, the other women in my family, as a child. The cuts so deep that in deciding to pair up with my wife, I unknowingly sought out the antithesis of every female in my family.

Recently my sixty something year old grandmother came down for a visit. I decided to be the decent grandson and went to the airport to pick her up. Before even agreeing to the deed I warned my wife that it would be a disaster.

“Why is it going to be a disaster? All you have to do is go pick up your grandmother from the airport.” My wife asked, smirking and amused by my typical exaggerated emotional outpouring. I reassured her, pacing around the living room, arms waving up and down, my tone heightened and excited “Nothing is easy with these people, something will go wrong, someone will freak out about it and I’m going to get pissed. You don’t want to go with me. Just let me do this alone.” At the time she laughed at my sincerity, assuming I was making something out of nothing and insisted she ride along.

Shortly after the conversation outlining how this entire ordeal would turn into a disaster I called my mom to tell her I’d go pick up the old lady for her. Immediately the barrage started. “Now Peavey, you know she can’t walk well and you’re going to have to carry her bags for her,” also adding, “and Peavey, please don’t say anything stupid to her, you know she believes everything you say about anything.”

Immediately the sarcastic eye rolls began. A mere minute later my aunt called, word travels fast in our family. “Peavey, listen to me. I need a huge favor from you. Can you do me a favor?” “Yeah, sure.” I replied flatly. “Now listen Peavey, this is serious. You’re grandmother is in very bad condition. She can’t walk. I need a favor from you; can you do me a favor?”

Her heavy Minnesota-Wisconsin accented voice rattled around in my head, reminding me so much of my mother but even more intense than she is. “Yes, I’ll do a favor for you.” I replied frustrated. “Well, if you’re going to get an attitude I won’t ask you. But I don’t know how your grandmother is going to get off the plane.” She shot back.

I sat silently a moment, already feeling exhausted from the short conversation. “Are you there? Peavey, are you there?” she asked. “What can I do for you Aunt Beth?” I replied blankly.

“Alright, look. You’re grandmother is in bad health….” and so the story started all over again. I heard about how her mother’s ankles were swollen, her knees shot and basically her legs were going to literally pop off at the hip like a broken Barbie doll if I did not get a wheel chair, board her plane, pick her up and place her in that chair then wheel her to my car.

That morning before leaving to retrieve my grandmother, I easily received a dozen more calls between my mom and aunt, all reminding me of the same thing over and over and over again. It was mind numbing. It felt like hanging out with a little annoying retarded kid who asks your name over and over. You desire so badly to kick them in the balls then point and laugh at their goofy sobbing but you can’t because everyone will think you’re a bad person if you beat up the retarded kids.

My wife and I made our way down to the airport, which happens to be one of the busiest airports in the world, and began the task of getting a wheel chair and boarding pass. I was standing in line to be x-rayed and racially profiled when I looked over to the side where a strange Indian woman was bent over her suit case, popping the top of it.

“Shoosh… shoosh…” She hit the suitcase sharply. A little yippy dog spun around in a fury inside the bag, yipping, crying and growling. The mutt clawed frantically at the interior of its canvas prison. I’d have offered her a few Xanax to slip into the doggy doggy treats but I was fresh out after the marathon of mindless conversations with my aunt and mother that morning.

After wading through a sea of faces I made my way to the gate. I was about 10 minutes late at this point and begin looking around for my grandmother only she was nowhere to be found. I approached the gate attendant, “Has Delta flight 219 arrived?” “Yes sir, the flight arrived 20 minutes early.” he replied.

I looked around confused. At this point the old lady had been unsupervised for half an hour and was no where to be seen. I explored that section of the terminal, visiting every shop, kiosk and news stand, wondering past every gate. She was no where to be found. I rang her up… no answer. Her phone was turned off.

I approached another attendant, “Can you page someone for me?” I asked. “Sure, what’s her name and flight number?” Seconds later the page came over the intercom. I sat tight and still no sign. I called again, no answer, phone was still turned off.

I called my mother. “Why is her phone off? She has wondered away from her gate at the busiest airport in the world and she doesn’t have her phone on?” I proclaimed sarcastically. “Where is she?” I shouted! My mother provided no solution, ideas or explanations. In fact, she almost seems indifferent.

After 25 minutes of wondering around, I approached another attendant. “I’ve lost my grandmother.” That was the only thing I knew to say. Feelings of guilt began to flood my mind, my gut began convulsing and I felt sick. I had really lost my grandmother. Then my guilt faded and the primal self preservation instinct took over. “My mother will never let me forget this.” I murmured. “I will be reminded at every family gathering, during every phone call and it will be brought up in every conversation for the rest of her life that I lost my grandmother at the airport. This is a disaster”

At this point I had but one viable option, leave and never come back. Simply disappear from the face of the earth. Move to Buffalo, New York or Des Moines, Iowa or some other lame city where she’d never dare visit.

“What flight was she on sir?” The attendant asked. I was so caught up in myself that I almost forgot I had asked her for help. “Delta Flight 219″ I replied. “Sir, you’re at the wrong terminal. Her flight ended up landing in Concourse E.”

I was floored. By now my grandmother had been wondering around for over an hour and instead of arriving at the closest concourse, she was now in the furthest away. I made my way as quickly as possible to concourse E, trying my best not to look like a frantic mad man or terrorist.

All along I had been calling her; still my grandmother had not turned her phone on. I finally arrived at the gate they said her flight had landed at. She was no where to be seen, another overhead page, more waiting and still more nothing.

My only thought was that my grandmother had began nagging someone and they lured her into the restroom, killed her and stuffed her in a trash receptacle. That was the only explanation. After all, this woman was crippled, how is she even getting around?

Buzzz…. Buzz…. My phone vibrated in my pocket. “Hello.” I answered. “Peavey? Where are you parked?” It was my grandmother. “What? Grandma, where are you?” I asked, now completely exhausted. “I’m at baggage claim. I’m getting my bags.” She explained. “What!? I thought you were crippled. They said you couldn’t walk. Are you in a wheel chair? Did someone help you?” I was exasperated. My timid little grandmother chuckled a bit, “No, I just walked down here.” So I didn’t lose my grandmother after all.

My wife had stayed behind in the food court and when I told her the story of what I had been through she was speechless. Between the airline madness, my grandmother forgetting to turn on her cell phone and, my mother and aunt convincing me that she couldn’t even walk, it turned out just as I predicted, a disaster.

Post Title: They said you were crippled…
Your Jackass Author: Peavey
Posted On: 6th November 2008
Filed As: Life In General
Comment Feed: RSS 2.0

Unpleased with the contents of this blog? Please see our Disclaimer Page.