Mrs. G's trip across across the country began on a train heading to Vancouver, Washington to meet up with her mom so they could catch a their flight the following morning to Boston. Mrs. G. settled into her seat and took at least three minutes to put on her telepathy cap (due to the size of her head, it is a metaphorical cap). Mrs. G's telepathy cap (also known in some circles as her hallucinatory, nonexistent "Second Sight") allows her to communicate (also known in the psychiatric profession some circles as fruitcakification telepathic transmission) with the Amtrak conductor that she would like to arrive at her destination alive. To augment her Karma and and doctor up any chance she has in admission to Heaven, she also uses her "Second Sight" to guarantee (as much as she can in this fantasy control system world she has constructed) the safety of all her fellow passengers. Then she opened up her laptop to cruise the internet.
30 minutes into the ride, the conductor announced the train was stopping because some foreign backpacks were located in a tunnel a few miles up the track. While Mrs. G. tried to stay calm, imagining the foreign backpacks simply to be Italian or Moroccan backpacks just backpacking together off the beaten path, her blood pressure started climbing when the conductor asked everyone to stay calm (not a good sign in even one life situation she can think of, so can we all just stop saying it now?) and patient because LAW ENFORCEMENT and THE BOMB SQUAD were on the way. Now Mrs. G. realized the conductor meant those kind of foreign backpacks and she did the only thing she could: put her head in her hands and start breathing heavily enough that passengers around her pretended not to stare.
So Mrs. G. began praying to God that, trust her God, no really God, all those questions and doubts that have plagued her since first grade were simply a kind of lifetime research project, fueled by earnest curiosity, an angelic, chaste thirst for knowledge that sought, forgive her God, concrete proof of nearly everything. Mrs. G. doesn't even trust the weatherman and all of his state-of-the-art meteorological equipment. She'll know the weather when she wakes up and damn well sees it and not one second before. And then there's the whole she and her hair don't do well in heat thing.
Mrs. G. couldn't help notice that while she was steady bargaining for her afterlife, the people around her looked annoyed, the woman next to her was on the phone complaining to someone that now her dinner reservations were screwed. These people, the very ones she had used her "Second Sight" to protect and serve, weren't scared. They were pissed. Mrs. G's ankles were sweating and they were texting.
In an effort to avoid being the one being thrown to the front of the train car to absorb the worst of the impending explosion, Mrs. G. tried to pull herself together and turned to her laptop for comfort. She went on Facebook and posted the following:
30 minutes into the trip the train I'm on headed to my mom's house has been stopped due to some foreign backpacks in a tunnel up ahead. Law enforcement is on the way. Why? I hadn't planned on drinking during this three hour trip but...Not freaking out, not freaking out, not freaking out. Religious people, pray. Heathens, do whatever. I know everything will be fine, but I love you all.
Within seconds, friends started "liking" her Facebook message, Mrs. G. started wondering if she had spent years cultivating friends who wanted her dead and she, no lie, started to tear up and pray harder. The "likes" continued to roll in and Mrs. G. just took the bull by the horns and asked her friends in the comments section, trying to give them the benefit of the doubt, whether they had lost their minds (this she could understand) and to quit liking her status because with each "like" they were jinxing her already unlikely survival. One kind soul assured Mrs. G. that by "liking" her status, they were letting her know she had been heard, they were with her and this calmed her down, but it wasn't until later when she talked to Mr. G. that she gave up the notion of killing her Facebook account and starting her social life over from scratch, which wouldn't be easy because Mrs. G. has to work like hell to assure her current friends, psychopaths or not, will even put up with her ass, which should give you some idea of just how alone felt on the train waiting to blow up. Mr. G. told her during their evening phone call that she was overreacting and misconstruing due to mental duress and lack of common sense. "In your last moments, don't resort to Facebook," he sighed, "just write shit down on paper and roll with it."
Mrs. G. thinks it's safe to assume that, God love him, the man is going straight to hell.
Most of you know by now that Mrs. G. did not die a fiery death, but she can't leave this subject alone without informing her fellow blogging friends that it is not good blog fodder if you die on a train. You are dead, rendered incapable of typing.
OK, we all lived. Let's just leave it at that.
Mrs. G. is 856 words in and only on the second photo. She'll try to speed things along here. Mrs. G. and her mom had a great flight. Mrs. G's mom had a Vanity Fair magazine and Mrs. G. had half a Xanax. They arrived in Boston without incident.
They dropped their bags and headed to meet up with this chickadee. She was in the middle of a test, so Mrs. G. and her mom strolled down to the BU bookstore.
The BU bookstore is a Barnes & Noble. Mrs. G. and her mom were suitably impressed. Mrs. G's mom hit the store running to find some good BU gear and Mrs. G. sat down in the cafe by a window, drank a chocolate/banana smoothie and...
began a photo project she called Mancake of Boston. She began it with you harlots in mind, but she promised Miss G. she would abandon it because, yes, it is creepy to just take strange men's photos when you aren't skilled in being covert, particularly with the flash on.
Once Miss G. arrived at the book store, there was a lot of hugging and kissing and more hugging and more kissing and then the three of them went to dinner at Legal Seafood. It was amazing, a great way to kick off the trip and Mrs. G. and her daughter's high-five-sealed aspiration to try as many different cocktails as they could in six days. Mrs. G's mother stays away from all the fru fru martinis but she did introduce Mrs. G. and her daughter to a little minx called the Dark 'N' Stormy.
Mrs. G's mom also introduced to them to a profiterole. The minute this photo was taken, two extra spoons dive bombed this dessert. Mrs. G's mom is all about adventure and the finer things in life. She ordered the dessert at every restaurant during the trip and without fail, picked what had to be the best one available.
After dinner, they strolled around Harvard Square. Mrs. G. did not take this picture because her levitation skills are rusty. She stole it off the Harvard website. They can try to sue her but she wonders if the university has a class in how you can't squeeze blood out of a turnip. Mrs. G. could teach that class, so bring it Harvard.
These two are a-okay strollers.
OK, Mrs. G. lied about abandoning the Mancake of Boston project. Don't tell her daughter.
Well fed and exhausted, Miss G. returned to her apartment and Mrs. G. and her mom returned to their hotel, the nicest hotel Mrs. G. has ever stayed in.
Wait up, is this more Mancake of Boston? Shhhhhh....
Mrs. G. and her mom hit the sack and woke up to one of the most beautiful Mondays in the world and a city filled with 30,000 marathoners and all the people who love them.
To be continued...