All tagged Jennifer Genovese
We rushed to the bank to get our closing funds. Then we rushed toward the title company to sign our documents. While en route I got another call, it was my real estate agent again. We would not be able to close today, the title company didn’t have time for us. I thought he was kidding. Literally I smiled and said, “stop it.”
He was not kidding.
The nostalgia of apartment living often permeates the air in the form of a burnt meal setting off smoke detectors in a neighboring apartment. The open courtyard we overlook acts as an echo chamber, amplifying the piercing tones and making it impossible to find the source—unless of course the smoke is heavy enough to betray the would-be chef.
Nothing says family road trip like standing in the parking lot of a Cavender's Boot Barn in El Paso Texas with your shirt collar pulled up over your nose while you hold your child at arms' length so mommy can take off her shit-laden clothes.
As if on queue, Alyssa came home today from the doctor with a diagnosis of dual ear infections. Let us be clear: this trip is not a vacation, it's a refresher on the difference between having to go to work and getting to.
Everything was going great. The invitations went out as scheduled, Jen's prolonged visit allowed her an opportunity for a shower and bachelorette party, and when I flew out for the July wedding we took our engagement pictures. Then, on August third, just over two weeks away from the wedding, Jen got a phone call, and I got in big big trouble.
So it turns out that Jen just missed the dog. All the nausea, sickness, misery—she missed the dog.
OK, maybe it was a little more than that.
The roundabouts were making her dizzy. She felt that staying here any longer would get her nowhere. It would be like going in circles, as it were.
It also might have had something to do with the lack of ice. It wasn’t just the hospitals, getting ice in restaurants and hotels was equally as challenging, and when you did manage to get something “ice cold”, it contained exactly three cubes. Every time, exactly three. It was uncanny.
By the time Friday rolled around and we got in to see the doctor, Jen was back in a black spin. She was throwing up every thirty minutes and was once again dehydrated and malnourished. The appointment with the doctor—or consultant as she was called—was scheduled for 10 minutes. Since we were being seen as a “private patient”, the charge was 30 pounds. I wish I made $360 an hour. Ten minutes was about how long it took for her to test Jen’s urine and send us off to the hospital. This time it was St. Mary’s where there was no “accident & emergency” department, but there was a gynecology ward. This time they admitted her.
I don't know where the last two weeks went, but already I find myself back in England. We (this time I brought my wife) have been here almost a week already and it turns out that, as clichés go, "getting there" is less than half the battle and the moron who called Chicago that toddling town can kiss my ass.
It’s now 2:15 and I explain to her how I’m supposed to be on the flight to Vienna leaving right now. She asks me why I’m just now checking in. I nearly climb over the counter but instead use every ounce of self control to explain, through clenched teeth, that I’ve been at the airport for over three hours. She refers me to the lovely ladies at the ticket counter behind us. Apparently I raised my voice when I responded, “I don’t want to talk to them anymore!”. She picked up the phone.
What kind of idiot did this guy mistake me for? Did he honestly think that if I knew the answer to that question it would have been a “noise complaint” call? If I knew to whom that piece of shit car belonged, Officer Lone Star would have been investigating a homicide. No we don’t know who the damn car belongs to, come on man! He proceeded to give us the speech:
I admit, in the past I have been accused of hyperbole, and rightly so. I assure you, however, that everything you are about to read is fact. The names have not been changed because there’s nobody innocent to protect.
Those readers who have had the pleasure of an early morning wakeup call of the seismic variety will appreciate what I am about to describe. For the next few nights, Jen and I were afraid to go to sleep. We watched TV, left lights on, and stared at the ceiling. After an earthquake, every creak of a two by four or squeak of a door is a possible betrayal. You develop a sixth sense called paranoia. I even saw dead people. Here in Texas we don’t have earthquakes, we have smoke alarms.
We've had our furniture over a week now. As the holiday weekend comes to a close, I am happy to report that everything is officially unpacked and, except for the lone martini glass, unharmed (including the prized and famed state mug collection). Having furniture hasn't been all sunshine roses and rainbows though. Now that we're finally able to start settling in, we're becoming aware of some of the charming quarks our new digs have to offer. Pay attention future visitors, this information may benefit you during your visit—it might even dissuade you from coming at al
It has been twenty-seven days since we were exiled here to Texas. Yesterday is just a blur of subconscious mind tricks. I remember driving Jen to work. We were hungry. Maybe she was uptight; maybe it was me who was high-strung. It doesn't really matter to a police officer.
We stayed at the Bates Motel last night and lived to tell the tale. When I called enroute to make our reservation, I asked if they had any vacancy for that evening. I found out when we arrived why the girl on the phone chuckled a little when I asked her that question.