Clothes I Will Be Wearing On The Flight Home For Thanksgiving In Order To Avoid Checking A Bag
- One pair shoes
- Two pair socks
- Running tights
- Blue jeans
- Nicer pants worn over the top of other pants or on head
- Two undershirts
- One pair underwear
- Green novel-tee: cartoon of cute dinosaur with the epitaph “If I were still alive, I’d eat your fuckin’ face.”
- Two pair underwear inside armpits
- Sweater tied around neck like a keffiyeh
- Belt in pants on head
- Monocle (in case someone throws together a costume party last-minute)
- Second monocle (this is my reading monocle)
- MacBook charger tied in a knot and worn as a necklace
- Running shoes worn as mittens over hands
- List of relatives I can’t talk about politics with, but can talk about the goddamn self-destructing Bears with, tucked into crevice behind knee
- Novelty mustache, so that the person sitting next to me gets creeped out and doesn’t try to start a conversation
- Recipe I want to try, bobby-pinned to second monocle
Inside my Pockets:
- Cell phone
- Fave holiday DVDs: Home Alone, Love Actually, How the Grinch Stole Christmas 2: Revenge of Cindy Lou Who
- iPod queued to “I See a Darkness” and “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out”
- Two pens
- Utility spork (combo spoon-fork)
- Utility fife (combo fork-fife)
- Smallish notebook
- Go lean super crunch — a crunch so super your teeth explode — granola bar
- Folded up newspaper
- Dirty realist literature (bagel receipt)
- Motivational paperback bought in airport: It’s Time to Get It Together, by Healthy-Looking Californian Dude Who Must Have Hella Skeletons in His Closet, MD
- Boarding pass
This allows my carry-on to hold my laptop, holiday socks, and very necessary and miscellaneous Thanksgiving tchotchkes, trinkets, doodads, whoosie-whatsits, electric gismos, whatchamacallits, doohickeys, thingamabobs, and inhaler.
And just like that, I’m homeward bound.
A | A | A
Being married is a funny thing. We take someone we love and are so excited about and then we make them ordinary.
See, I’m a Hispanic male working as a software developer.
To say that my father died would often send an adult in search of the chink in my armor, the loose thread, the thing that would unravel me in a puddle of mourning. But there is no chink, no thread, no visible scar. My grief is ordinary and well worn.
“I went up to a girl in college and asked her how long she’s liked the Ramones and asked her what her favourite song was. She told me I was stupid as ‘Ramones’ is a brand, Not a band.”