Thursday, June 25, 2009

Since Sliced Bread

At the age of 10 my mom decided that we would be leaving our Colorado residence behind and move across country to Vermont. The reasons are way too long to write here but involve nothing short of a messy messy divorce and the fact that she overheats if it's warmer than 43 degrees outside.

Just keeping it real, folks.


My mother is also a pack rat and has kept every school paper, drawing, note, nick knack, tangible item that any of us 3 kids, family member, or stranger could have conceivably deposited within our residence. If you are ever in need of $0.15 off a jar of Smuckers, mom might be able to drudge up a coupon for you, although it probably expired in 1985. Plus, it would take her two years to find it, so it's probably not worth the trouble. Although, the debacle that would surely ensue has the potential to be quite entertaining.

With that said, it took us nearly 2 years to pack up all of her crap mementos and belongings to move the 1925.92 miles across the country to the great white north. Yes. Two years. Two years of "tackling one room at a time" as she put it. If she had just hired movers to pack and move us, it probably would have taken two full size 18-wheelers. So, she sorted her way down to the volume acceptable for a family of 18.

Once we finally had everything in some semblance of order, mom had the Bekins truck packed with belongings and sent it on its 2K mile journey. Mom and I stayed behind packing the rest of our property that would fit into suitcases and be hauled by plane to the final destination. Of course, nothing goes as planned and the next two days were spent in a frantic frenzy of "flinging" unnecessary items in the trash and running in circles finalizing our plans.

Did I mention it was the middle of winter and I slipped 3 times hauling garbage to the trash bins?

Mom doesn't work too well with deadlines, so has the final 24 hour countdown to our departure started ticking away, so did her sanity and patience. We both (not my choice) stayed up the entire night before our flight freaking out over how much stuff was still left that didn't fit either a) on the moving truck b)in suitcases c) up our butts. In a state of delirium, a large quantity of "items" were left at our residence as mom ran out of both time and space to take care of everything. We frantically hustled to the curb with our bulging suitcases as our airport shuttle picked us up for the cross-country journey that is Denver to Denver Int'l Airport. We left the inside of our house looking like downtown Beirut and skipped into the sunset snow.


After sinking into a coma of exhaustion on the bus, mom woke me up upon our arrival to the airport. We unloaded our 17 suitcases at the curb and spent the next five hours checking luggage. There may have been a Bengal tiger or a small golf cart inside one bag for all I know. These things were bulging at the seams and I am so thankful one didn't actually burst because I would have died of embarrassment on the spot. After successfully ensuring that our plane would be flying on the heavy side, we ventured over to the security checkpoint.

All I can say about this next part is that we are both incredibly lucky that this was several years before 9/11.

We placed our jackets and carry-ons on the conveyor belt for x-ray and walked successfully through the metal detectors.

That carry-on, however, wasn't so lucky. Mom had managed to pack a 15" serrated bread knife into her carry on and sent the sucker right through the security screening.

I will say that again: My mom packed a fifteen inch long serrated bread knife in her carry on bag and sent it through the x-ray machine for all TSA security staff to view.

And no one said a thing about it.

I'm not sure which is worse. The fact that my mom thought she would need a serrated bread knife immediately upon our arrival to Vermont, or the fact that no one in the airport caught it.

For all I know, she had enough metal in her bag to construct a Winchester 1200 Defender.

We ventured to our gate and successfully boarded the plane. Much of that morning was a complete blur since I was running on zero sleep, but I will never forget her face once she realized that she had packed a bread knife and sailed through DIA Security like a pro.

If you ever find yourself on a flight sitting next to my mom and you need some bread sliced, she may be able to help a friend out.

Anyone hungry for sandwiches?

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