The United Club

I was giddy with excitement.  I had the key to a magic kingdom in my wallet: a segregated sanctuary for the snobs.  

I mean the elite travelers.

I’d been carrying my Free One Time Use of the United Club for more than 6 months, just waiting for a chance to optimize its value.  A 5-hour layover at Dulles on the way to the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop? 

Hell, yeah.  No gate seating for me!

I put on my best “I’m hot shit” face as I walked through the mahogany doors.

A woman sat guard at the desk that stood between me and the United Club.  I smiled and handed her my United Club card. She asked for my boarding pass, my drivers’ license, passport, dental records, fingerprints, and my 6th grade report card. 

She then eyed me suspiciously and asked a trick question, “Who do you want to win American Idol?” 

“Dalton… I mean, Duh… I don’t watch American Idol.”

She smiled and said, “Welcome to the United Club, Miss Clyde.”

As I descended the stairs into the wonderful world of the United Club I had an epiphany.

I should not have gone to breakfast first.  Because there is complimentary breakfast in the United Club.  

I just spent $5.00 for stinkin’ orange juice that is F*R*E*E to the elite members of the United Club.  Like me.

No worries.  I helped myself to a cup of hot chocolate.  Not Nestles Hot Chocolate.  Ghiradelli Hot Chocolate. 

(Gate seaters drink Nestles Hot Chocolate.  From styrofoam cups.  United Club members drink Ghiradelli.  Served in fine china.)

I looked around at the other elite members.   They were a quiet bunch.  Reading the Wall Street Journal or watching the business channel on the flat screen TVs. 

No HGTV in the United Club.  Or Project Runway.

Wait.  What’s that?  A room in the back of the United Club with workstations!  And phones!  And a printer, copier and fax machine!   

An office for the Nerdling.

I set up shop.  I fit right in, hardly working working hard on my laptop.  And I had 4 more hours to spend there!  The perfect environment to write a blog about the United Club.

I took several laps around the space, attempting to look important.  I studied the departures board and noticed that I had 3 hours and 50 minutes until my flight.

There were newspapers scattered about.  Wall Street Journals and the New York Times.  No People Magazines in the United Club. 

Damn.  I wanted to read about Ben and what’s her name from the Bachelor.

I returned to the departures board.  Only 3 hours and 45 minutes until my flight. 

I looked around again at the other elite members sharing “our” lounge. 

They were boring. 

Then I had my second epiphany.  If I wanted entertainment, I’d have to go to the gate.  The United Club had no fighting kids, no fashion don’ts, no middle-aged slobs spilling mustard on their shirts, nobody singing off-key with earbuds in their ears.

No nose pickers.

I packed up my laptop and headed out of the ridiculously boring United Club.

But not before filling my purse with some snacks to take to my gate seat.

I deserved them.   After all, I am a United Club member.

The Dead Ancestor Makeover

I was like a little kid again.  Putting on make up.  Dead ancestor makeup.  

Because I have been cast as Dead Puritan Ancestor in Addams' Family.

I studied the YouTube video, setting it on the bathroom counter so I could follow the instructions to a tee.  

It was much harder than it looked, but the results were amazing. 

I look great, don't you think?

Say what?   You seriously don’t believe it’s me?   Shut up.

Of course it’s me. 

OK.  So it’s not me. 

You know how dead people don’t look as good as live people?  Well, when I got done with my dead ancestor makeover, I scared myself.  Kevin looked at me, growled and went under the bed. 

I asked Linda to take a picture of me.  “OMG, Mom.  Go away,” she said.

“If you wish to remain in my will, you will take my picture,” I said, handing her my phone. 

She reluctantly took a few pictures.

"How do I look?"

"Back up," she said.  I backed up several feet.  

She took some more pictures and reviewed them.  “Further, Mom,” she said. 

I stepped backed again.   She took some more pictures.

She looked at the pictures and shook her head.  “Go down the street,” she said. “I’ll take the picture from my bedroom window.”

It was like that scene in Tootsie, when the director told the cameraman to back away from the shot and he said, “How far?” and the director said, “Cleveland”.
 
Linda probably would like me to back up all the way to Cleveland.  (Or at least to Dayton, where I will attending my first ever Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in a few weeks.)

I had an idea.
 
“How about I put on one of my super-cute polar fleece head bands. That will help, right?”

"Or a bag over your head,” she said.  She’s a comedian.

I put on the headband.  It didn’t help.

"Try your gloves,” she said, in a moment of pure genius, that she certainly inherited from me, despite the fact that she is adopted.  I’ve never been prouder. 

I put on my neon flashing gloves that I’d ordered on Groupon.

And it did help pull the attention away from my hideous make up job.

See?

Then I had a flashback to 9-month old Kimmy who discovered the jar of Desitin next her crib after waking up from a nap.  I went in search of the picture.  It was among several bazillion photos in the hope chest.

When I found it I was overwhelmed with a mixture of pride and jealousy.

 

Her makeup was way better than mine.

Next time I'm going to use Desitin.