...but not all of my family are mean, immature, unaware, hypocritical, shallow, narrow-minded, judgmental jerks.

Some of my family are actually really nice, funny, intelligent people. Most of them are senior citizens, and unfortunately they're dying at a fast pace.

We lost another one right before Christmas.

The recent death was a sad one for me. She was one of my few remaining Canadian relatives, a tough old broad raised in the Highlands who fled to the "tropical paradise" of rural Ontario, Canada.

She didn't want a funeral or memorial service. Her husband died several years ago. But. Her kids wanted to do something for her, or, more appropriately, for us, the remaining living family. Celebrate her life and spirit. All that.

Yadda yadda yadda off we went to a memorial "get together" for "Lynne."

But we went with some trepidation. Not because the memorial being was being held against the deceased's wishes, but because of the venue.

The venue chosen for the memorial is infamous in our family's history. It was the scene of an intestinal massacre that nearly wiped out our entire extended family one fateful summer evening when I was a kid.

My parents (and most of the other adults in the family) were never crazy about the restaurant. It was one of those overly-adorned sea-themed restaurants. Entrance festooned with buoys and a rope railing along a planked walkway, walls adorned with dusty fake seagulls and pelicans perched around nets filled with dusty shells hanging from the ceiling, and lobster traps spilling out dusty, faded fake lobsters and crabs. Some brass portholes and a large ship's wheel, lots of driftwood, starfish and broken shells. The female staff dressed like wenches and the male staff dressed, oddly, like gondoliers. The menu  had sections like "Reel 'em In" "Shell Game" and "For Land lubbers" and featured entrees with quaint seafaring names like "Flounderin' Around," "Call Me Calamari," and "Feelin' Crabby."

When I was a really young kid there was a special children's menu. Kids who ordered special selections were given a plastic dubloon or piece of eight at the end of their meal. The fake coins were taken to the front of the restaurant where there was a treasure chest full of small toys and candy. The fake coins could be traded for one treasure from the treasure chest. It was the highlight of the night even though the candy was old and flavorless (I recall a lot of those rootbeer barrel candies so old that the plastic wrapper stuck to them so tightly you couldn't peel it off the candy) and the small toys were even weirder and cheaper than cereal box toys. My brother contends that many of the toys were cereal box toys that were repurposed by the owner for the treasure chest.

The last time we were dragged to my relatives took us to the restaurant I was only 6 but I had a bad feeling about the place as soon as we entered. The treasure chest was empty except for some ornamental life preservers and a couple of oars sticking out of it. When we were seated I was not given a special kid's menu. Our waitwench told my parents the children's menu was discontinued but there was a children's selection area on the regular menu. Yes. The "treasure for the wee tots" gimmick was abandoned. I was disappointed. Shiver me timbers indeed. Little did we know those ornamental life preservers in the treasure chest were a scary foreboding metaphor of what was to come later that evening.

The more enthusiastic members of my family happily partook of Clammy Chowder, Hush Those Puppies, Call Me Calamari, Shrimpy the Cocktail and various sea animal entrees. I was going through my era of food enlightenment - I was starting to connect the dots between the food on my plate and the living animals the food on my plate used to be. I was also enthralled with an ornately illustrated and heavily tamed-down children's version of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea wherein the sea creatures were cute, friendly, talkative and helpful. There was no way I was going to ingest anything on that menu other than a grilled cheese sandwich.

Turns out my early anthropomorphism/vegetarian inclinations spared me the fate that befell the rest of my family.

In the car on the way back to my relatives' house my dad and brother's stomachs started making funny noises. My sister's face turned a strange shade of green. My mother was sweating profusely. By the time we got to my relatives' house another car full of relatives had already arrived and there was a waiting line for the two bathrooms in the house. You might think a "women and children first" mentality would prevail, what with the seafaring theme of the evening, but no. It was every man, woman and child from themselves. My brother and cousin couldn't wait and got sick in the bushes on the side of the house. The mothers tried to aid their ailing children and husbands, but in the end they, too, were too ill to help anyone. Eventually Pepto Bismuth and cold cloths were administered to one and all, and the entire family, all 8 adults and seven children, were bunked on various beds, couches, chairs and air mattresses.

I was the only one who didn't get sick. Except for being grossed out by what I witnessed, heard and smelled, I was fine. Which was the first clue that "it" was food poisoning.

Yes. Initially some of the adults tried to rationalize that it was just a coincidence that the entire family came down with stomach flu at the same time. "There's a nasty 24 hour bug going around the kids' school..."

My father and uncle kept squashing the flu theories. "No way. It was that [expletive] [expletiving] flounder/lobster/crab!" They groaned and turned odd colors as they said the name of the food. The evidence was mounting. Either I was the only one who was somehow freakishly immune to the alleged stomach flu strain or the seafood was tainted. Finally almost all the adults admitted that it was food poisoning.

Some of the adults wistfully said, "Well, at least the child was spared..." 

Just to be safe, my mother isolated me from the rest of the family. Just in case it was stomach flu and I didn't catch it my mother wanted to spare me the pain and suffering. While the rest of the family was in gastrointestinal distress elsewhere in the house, I was camped out on an air mattress in the den, tucked in with a blanket and an old black and white television. Later that night, in the wee hours of the morning, my brother crept into the den. He was feeling a little better and feeling a lot dehydrated. He came into the den gingerly sipping water. I'm not sure what woke me - the creak of the door or my brother's stench. He dropped into the comfy chair and grabbed a blanket.

Even though he smelled really bad, I was excited that my brother was going to camp out with me. My relatives' house was old and kind of creepy, the den was on the first floor and the window didn't have curtains so the moon cast weird shadows and the black and white television didn't offer a lot of comfort. My 6-year-old imagination and too many reruns of the Twilight Zone were getting the best of me. I was glad my brother was there. Plus I was still young enough to idolize my brother and I delighted in any second of time that he chose to spend with me.

It's also an oddly pivotal moment in my life. It was the first time I remember feeling like I was legitimized by my brother, that I wasn't just some little pipsqueak, I actually had cerebral merit.

As only teenaged boys can, my brother, in a deadpan sardonic tone, started mocking through his misery, making fun of the entree names. "Flush Puppies," "Feelin' Crappy," "Caustic Calamari," "Dysentery Dungeoness Crab" "Lobster Shits." I joined in the fun, and soon we were making up grossed-out names for food that wasn't even on the menu. It was probably my brother's weakened physical state that lowered his resolve to ridicule me, but I thought I'd finally grown up enough to be taken seriously when it came to mockery.

Buoyed by my new found acceptance and gift of food mockery, I departed from entree names and started renaming restaurants. It was a risk, but it paid off. My brother joined in and we made up a legion of disgusting restaurant names. And then it happened. I attained the apex of mockery. I arrived. I was not a little kid anymore, I was a viable mocking entity. 

Because, in a moment of serendipitous symbiosis, we simultaneously blurted out the name the restaurant would henceforth be known as in my family. By the next afternoon, even the more genteel female members of the family, even my mother, started calling the restaurant by our nickname.

The name of the restaurant was Cap'n Pat's.

But after that night it was forever known as Crappin' Pants.

No subsequent family gathering was complete without a joke about Crappin' Pants. And every time someone said Crappin' Pants I felt a tingle of pride. I came up with that. All by myself. My brother came up with it, too, but we hit upon it independently at the same time. So I felt righteous for originating the name that would go down in family history. And at such a young and tender age, too.

After a few laughs about Crappin' Pants and some "oh, what a horrible night that was" comments, a couple of my relatives would try to defend it. "Lynne" (who recently died) was quick to admonish the jokes and say, "Oh, come now, it was just the one time..."

Others would say, "Just the one time? Botulism only needs the one time. 'Cap'n Pat,' if that is his real name, nearly killed the entire family and you're defending him?" 

"Lynne" would continue to defend Cap'n Pat, "You know how it is with seafood. It can turn on you like that. Can happen to anyone."

Almost everyone involved refused to ever step foot in Crappin' Pants again, but we were all pretty sure one couple returned to the scene of the crime and ate there on a regular basis.  We were all pretty sure "Lynne" and her husband continued to dine there.

So it was no real surprise that "Lynne's" memorial was held at Crappin' Pants.

But during the entire drive to the memorial my mother muttered and sputtered, "I cannot believe they're having the memorial at Crappin' Pants."  Every time she said Crappin' Pants I giggled. All these years later it's still funny to hear my mother say Crappin' Pants. And even funnier in the context of a memorial service.

Crappin' Pants was scarily untouched by time. The layer of dust was a lot thicker and the sea themed tchothckes were more faded, the waitstaff wears jeans and Cap'n Pat's emblazoned t-shirts instead of wench and gondolier outfits, but other than that it was mostly unchanged. The treasure chest with life preservers and oars was still there and the menu still has "cute" entree names.

We sent "Lynne" off with a memorial she didn't want. But I'm pretty sure she'd be okay with the low key affair in the Longboat Room of Crappin' Pants. Many of the survivors of the original Crappin' Pants massacre were in attendance. Once again, I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. Because I was the only one infamously unscathed in the original disaster, several people took my lead. Our waitperson was clearly displeased and confused by the preponderance of grilled cheese orders. Whatever. Dine at your own risk. The intestine you save may be your own. There were many comments along the lines of, "Go ahead! Order the Lobster Bisque and Hush Puppies! After all, it was just the one time the entire family was nearly wiped out from them!"

Poor old Cap'n Pat. With "Lynne" gone there's no one left to defend him, at least not mockingly. And poor us. "Lynne" was like that with everyone, not just Cap'n Pat. She never carried a grudge and always let bygones be bygones, and always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. Even if it involved serving tainted food.

Well, it's official: I have been named the Bitch Who Stole Christmas. Yay me.

A family member we'll call "Snark" sent me an eVite for an Eve-Before-Christmas-Eve party - the day before the party. The eVite was to me and my mother. The party was at a locale an hour away and my mother didn't feel up to attending and I'm not exactly feeling festive and didn't want to spend two hours driving to and from a party, leaving my mother home alone. Everyone involved knows my mother is recuperating from heart surgery and that I'm unemployed and in foreclosure. So I didn't think declining the invitation was a big deal, especially since the invitation was only extended the day prior to the event. Apparently I was wrong.

"Snark" forwarded my politely worded decline to her eVite to several (pretty much all) of my family and added her comments about me. Unfavorable comments. Another family member then joined in the fun and added comments about me (mostly unfavorable) and forwarded those comments to three family members. One of those family members added more unfavorable comments about me and hit reply all. All included everyone who received any of the emails in the thread. All included me because the original email was from me to "Snark."

Yeah.

Merry fucking swutting Christmas.

This year I received a very special gift, a gift that money can't buy. Insight into what my family really thinks about me.

I am The Bitch Who Stole Christmas.

I'm okay with that. I know I'm not quite myself. I try to hide the negative moods, I try to at least put on my party face around other people. When I can't snap out of a funk I avoid other people until I can fake a smile or two. I have made it my mission to not be Debbie Downer during the past two years. (Excluding the blog - which is my escape. Sorry. But you choose to be here, you know what you're in for when you come here.) And there are a few people who have valid reasons to make some unfavorable comments about me.

However.

"Snark" is not one of them.

However.

I would like to note a few facts about "Snark." (This is the part of the blog where I self-indulgently vent out an "after all I've done for you?!" rant. Sorry. It's been a difficult couple of days and I need to get this out of my system without, you know, making matters worse in real life. It's my blog and I'll rant if I want to. You might want to just skip ahead.

1) "Snark" is a very vocal Buddhist who berates, bashes and makes fun of Christianity and Judaism and all who follow those faiths. "Snark" does this on Facebook, in emails and especially at family functions where most in attendance are Christian or Jewish.  Including my mother. (I know. I know.) "Snark's" judgmental mindset, intolerance and lack of respect for other religious and spiritual views is obviously not very Buddhist. And the hostility in "Snark's" venom-laden remarks about Christianity is bordering on an anger management issue. And yet..."Snark" eagerly accepts Christmas presents and hosts an annual large Eve Before Christmas Eve party. And "Snark" is offended when people, family members, me, politely decline the invitation to the Eve Before Christmas Eve party. Even when well-known and valid reasons for not attending are cited.

2) "Snark" was born when I was 17. I have attended: Baby showers for "Snark." Pre-school, Kindergarten, Fifth grade, eighth grade, high school and college graduations for "Snark." And all the dance recitals, scouting events, bake sales, craft fairs, choir concerts, school plays, soccer games, track meets in-between. I have bought raffle tickets, wrapping paper, baked goods, magazine subscriptions, an countless donations from or for "Snark." I gave "Snark's" class art lessons so they could make a huge mural for their class civic project. I took "Snark" and "Snark's" friends, to see Weezer, Garbage, Slipknot, Incubus, and Marilyn Manson when they were in high school and the parents didn't want to go - but didn't want the kids to attend unchaperoned. I even left them alone so they could pretend they didn't have a chaperone. Get this: I even took them to see Insane Clown Posse. Which was literally my worst nightmare come to life. Yes. I, who am horrified of clowns, took a car full of high school kids to see Insane Clown Posse because their own parents wouldn't attend or allow them to attend without an adult. I'm still not emotionally solvent from that experience. If that's not sincere love and devotion...

3) When "Snark" was prepping for the SAT some shortcomings in "Snark's" education became apparent and the test-prep class offered little tutelage in certain areas. Guess who helped raise "Snark's" verbal SAT score?

4) Once in college, there was some, um, "trouble" that included alcohol, a party and the law. Guess who "Snark" called for help?

5) Here's what really gets me, though. There were some years when "Snark" was young and "Snark's" parents were going through a very, very nasty divorce and "Snark's" mother had very little money. "Snark's" mother had a rum-soaked mini-breakdown at the family Christmas Eve party - she was upset her kids (including "Snark") wouldn't have much from Santa but she was embarrassed to ask anyone for help. I took Snark's mother and my credit card and made a mad-last-minute-dash through three stores on Christmas Eve. Santa came through for "Snark" that year (and a couple more years) when there was  no way "Snark's" mother could have managed to buy many, if any, presents for "Snark" and "Snark's" siblings. I'm pretty sure "Snark" doesn't know that Santa was me (and my parents) during those years, and I don't want "Snark" to know this. But. I know this.

And so, coming from "Snark," (of all people) the unfavorable comments about me are particularly hurtful.

And so, I'm left wondering if I am the Bitch Who Stole Christmas, if I am as awful as "Snark" and the other taunters said I am in their emails. 

And so, this is Christmas.

I always console myself that, even as good friends dwindle and fade, no matter how craptacular my life gets, no matter what, hey, I have family who loves me and believes in me. 

Now...well...apparently I can't console myself with that, either.

Oh sure, my mother loves me and believes in me. But. She's somewhat biased. Her judgment is clouded by the fact that she pushed me out of her vagina.

I'm fairly certain the Trill-bashing emails didn't stem solely because I declined a last minute party eVite. I'm pretty sure events of the past few months built up to the free-for-all Trill-bashing email hootenanny.

You how I've been unemployed for two years? And you know how I'm in foreclosure? And have about 30¢ to my name? Yeah. Well. Back in September a family member (not "Snark") brought up that buying holiday gifts was going to put a strain on the budget and that "we" should talk to other family members about cutting back on the gift-giving, maybe draw names or just forgo holiday gifts this year. I concurred and said, "Yes, 'we' should have a talk with the others..." That family member talked to another family member who also agreed that scaling back on gifts would be a welcomed financial relief. So, I talked to a few others who also agreed that money is tight and an agreement to cut back on holiday gifts, the exception being the children. The word was spreading and the Gift Reduction Plan was gaining momentum.

So, the original family member who brought up the idea in the first place suggested I draft an email and "we" would send it out to all the gift-related family members. I combined and encapsulated the accumulated suggestions and drafted an email.

It went something like this,
"We've been talking...and it seems some of us are thinking perhaps this would be a good year to scale back on the holiday gifts. Many of us don't need or want anything (except health and jobs, natch!) and others of us can't afford to spend much on gifts and feel awkward when when we receive more lavish gifts than we can afford to give. Others who live in far-flung locales are finding it increasingly difficult to know what gifts would be most appreciated. Whatever the personal reasons, most of us agree that it's time to scale back on gifts.

We also agree, though, that we all have to agree on this plan. A few ideas that have been suggested are:
1) Secret Santa! Adults will draw a name and buy only one gift for whomever they draw.
2) Price fixing! Set an agreed upon price limit on gifts for adults and children. Note: It's crucial that everyone adheres to the price limit.
3) Give of ourselves! Instead of an item, give of ourselves, a real gift of spirit, give a service, like babysitting or photography or teaching a useful skill.
4) Regift! Not a white elephant! For instance, if you know 15-year-old Billy covets your Joy Division LP, difficult as it might be to part with it, maybe it's time to pass it on to a new generation. If Margie always comments on how much she adores your pink pearl earrings and you rarely wear them, why not give them to Margie? You have two Dremels and Mike doesn't have one and you know he could really use one, voila! gift. Or, somehow, ahem, you ended up with a couple serving pieces of Great Aunt Clara's silver and cousin Sue has the rest of the silver service, how about a silver family reunion?
5) Donations! If you really want to spend money on family gifts, how about donating the money you'd spend on a gift to each person's favorite charity?

Thoughts? Ideas? Let's try to reach an agreement in the next few weeks. If you've already started your holiday shopping, perhaps we can cut back this year and fully implement a new holiday gift agreement for next year."

Okay. So, the family members who were in on the discussion thought the email sounded good, signed off on it and 'we' sent it to all the family.

As you can probably guess, the response was almost immediate and immediately split the family into two sides. Side 1) Those who were tremendously relieved that finally, someone had the guts to speak up and suggest cutting back on the holiday gifts. And Side 2) Those who were tremendously offended and/or angry at even thinking about imposing standards on holiday gifts.

The responses were almost unanimously either (verbatim), "Oh, thank God someone finally suggested this! I'm still paying off the credit card I used for gifts last year." Or. "I'll give whatever I damn well please to whomever I damn well please!"

Ultimately it was left to each person to decide what they wanted to "do" about gifts this year and we'd reconvene and revisit the issue for next year.

So, I sent an email speaking only for myself.

"Hi, me again. Okay, now that we've sort of figured out this year's gift plan and will continue the discussion in early 2012, I'm requesting that you all keep me off your gift shopping lists this year. As you know, the past couple years have been difficult for me and most of my possessions are packed and in storage - in a storage unit that is stuffed to capacity. There's truly nothing I need or want (other than a job, har har!) and I would honestly love for you to spend the money on the children or yourselves instead. I can't afford to shop for gifts and I'll be embarrassed if I can't reciprocate your (albeit well-intentioned) gifts. 


Also, as you know, my mother has been going through a lot of health issues and she has not been feeling well enough to shop for gifts. She also asks that you scale back on gifts for her this year."

Okay, so, it's not exactly the cheeriest pre-holiday greeting, but I kind of had to say something, right?

Well, as you probably also guessed, "Snark" and the other Trillian-bashers were the ones who a) fell into the "offended by the mere suggestion of a gift reduction plan" side, and b) assumed there wasn't actually a group of us who who wanted to cut back, that it was only me behind the gift reduction plan.

So, that's been brewing since September. And apparently my eVite decline was the carte blanche to bash they were waiting for and they wasted no time bashing me like an ugly Piñata.

I was already feeling low about a lot of holiday issues.

No money for gifts.

No job = no office parties or colleague holiday get-together. Which sounds like a good thing, but oddly enough, I miss those professional obligations. They speak to a level of professionalism. Job = professionalism. Professionalism = career. Career = obligations. Obligations = sense of security.

Last year I got creative with gift-giving. I offered my services to family and friends. I taught digital photography basics, PhotoShop basics, gave babysitting services and offered to archive and organize digital photos and music. It seemed to be appreciated. I know some people were just being polite, but, I know others have put what I taught them to good use and appreciate what I gave them. And they also mentioned that they liked "having an excuse" to get together after the holidays.

Unfortunately I've kind of exhausted my skills-set and recipients who would appreciate my skills.

So, when a family member made the "not a White-elephant regift" idea, I thought it might be a good idea. And let's face it, my remaining possessions are all I have to offer. So, as I packed up my condo I kept out items that thought family members would like. Instead of selling LPs, jewelry and books, I set some aside for family and friends who I knew would enjoy and appreciate them. And, in the case of a few family heirlooms, I decided it's time to pass them along to a younger generation. I'm obviously not going to have children, these things need to stay in the family, so, instead of storing them or hanging onto them, I decided to give them to other people in family.

That aforementioned Joy Division LP? Yeah. I have an ultra-rare edition. When I sold some CDs and LPs to a local record dealer he offered me a handsome price for that LP (and a few others). I opted to hang onto it and few others, and in the back of my mind I thought, "I know a couple people who would really enjoy these, I'd rather give them the albums than sell them..." "Snark's" spouse is one of the people I had in mind when I thought that thought. I had "Snark" in mind for my grandmother's crystal. A pair of sapphire in platinum earrings that were my aunts' were wrapped for a family member whom I know thought was going to inherit them. Some of my best-loved (and in good shape) childhood books were wrapped and given to four-year-old twins who have exhausted the supply of four-year-old kid books at their local library.

It did cross my mind that it might seem kind of, you know, macabre for the recipients to receive "gifts" of my possessions. It might feel like pillaging through a dead person's belongings...before they die. And I was struggling with that. I didn't want to make anyone feel weird or awkward or embarrassed.

And of course I know that, technically, it's tacky. It is a really tacky thing to do. These are not new gifts. They are used personal possessions or heirlooms that I didn't pay for in the first place. I know this.

But, I can't buy gifts and since "we" couldn't agree to discontinue the family gift-giving tradition, I was left with no choices.

So, I wrapped up my possessions for family and friends. If I knew someone really liked a particular item of mine, I wrapped it up with a note that said, "You have mentioned how much you like this, I've had it a while, it's time for someone else to enjoy it, so, enjoy!"

The people who I thought might be the most sensitive about my situation and would be upset about me giving away my possessions as gifts received something else: Air miles. I have an insane amount of air miles. Enough domestic round-trip tickets to give a lot of people a trip anywhere they'd like to go in the continental United States. (I also used some of those miles as donations to charities that I normally support with money. You do know you can donate your air miles to charity, right?)

I wasn't exactly "happy" about my gift choices, I'd rather have a job and a home and money to buy presents for family and friends. But. Life + Lemons = Lemonade.

By the time the week before Christmas rolled around and I trekked off to UPS to send gifts to far-flung relatives and to my mother's house for the holiday parties, I was feeling okay it. I even convinced myself that they were heartfelt gifts and therefore would be well-received. I had faith in my family. Because, I have a family who loves me and believes in me.

"Think about it, Trill" I told myself schlepping back from UPS in an icy December downpour, "[a close family member] buys the same thing for everyone for Christmas. No thought, no personalized sentiment, just a generic one-gift-fits-all gift."

Yes. A teenaged snowboarding, punk loving boy gets the same gift as a middle-aged mom whose passion is crocheting toys that look like food with googly eyes. "Where's the heartfelt thought in that?" I reasoned, "why bother giving a gift just for the sake of giving a gift? If you can't spend 10 minutes thinking about the recipient and what they're like and what they enjoy and a figure out a gift that speaks to their personality and likes, should you even be giving them a gift?!"

Really getting on a roll, I further delved into my self-consolation and gift-puffery. "And what about [another family member] who gives cash or VISA gift cards? I mean, seriously! Sheesh! Talk about inconsiderate and putting zero effort into the holiday spirit. 'Here's $15, go buy yourself something. I couldn't be bothered to spend any time or effort to buy you a gift, so you do it.'" Yeah!! My gifts, my possessions shared and thoughtfully meted out among my family and friends say, "I remember how much you liked this" or "I know how much you enjoy this" and "I'm selflessly giving you something of mine, something I know you like, too." I talked myself into believing that I would be a living example of how we could move forward, as a family, with our holiday gift-giving traditions.

Or so I thought until I got that fateful email chain with all the mocking and bashing.

And all my self-pep talk evaporated into the dark recesses of my psyche from whence they came. 

By the time I received the email many of the gifts were already sent and either opened or under trees in far-flung locales waiting to be opened. There was nothing I could do except hope that one day I'll get a job that offers limitless psychotherapy as part of their healthcare plan.

I don't have regrets. I really don't. Regrets are useless. Hindsight can be helpful. But regrets are useless wastes of emotional energy.

But.

After I read the insults, jokes and nasty comments my family wrote about me I was (am): Angry. Embarrassed. Hurt. And regretful.

I could have sold that Joy Division LP for a lot of money. I could have sold those sapphire in platinum earrings for almost a month of mortgage and utility payments. I could have used those air miles to fly a lot of places. I could have given my grandmother's crystal to a friend who, ironically, inherited a very similar set but with far fewer pieces and spends weekends haunting flea markets trying to find more pieces. Those books were my childhood friends, I loved them, I learned how to read with those books and consequently they opened up the world and my imagination. But no. I opted to give these things, my things, to family members who didn't want to give up the family gift-giving tradition. And now there they were making fun of me and insulting me.

It was like some sick mean girls version of the Gift of the Magi.

After that accidental reply-all email no one said or emailed or texted anything. My family members' Facebook walls became eerily silent.

I allowed myself a good pout and a few tears and made myself get over it then and there. Some of the presents hadn't been opened, and some of them were still in my control. I could withhold them.

Or, I could just continue as planned, give the gifts, say nothing about the email, and paste the warmest, charmingest smile on my face at the holiday get-together.

Which was, of course, the "best" plan of action. Kill 'em with kindness. Let them think and say whatever they want about me. Rise above. Lead by example, not react by insult. Eventually I'll devolve into the eccentric old spinster of the family and this year will serve as a benchmark, the year they first started noticing "odd" things about Trillian.

However.

Regardless of what the rest of my family decides to "do" about holiday gifts next year, the only person who will receive a gift from me is my mother. And not just because she pushed me out of her vagina. She's the one who taught me that grace, dignity and emotional maturity matter and that spite never feels as good as you think it will.

However, as far as gifts for next year are concerned,  if I'm to be given the title Bitch Who Stole Christmas, then I might as well live up to it. And, it feels kind of liberating. Or, at least I'm choosing to feel liberated. Insight into your relatives' opinions is hurtful and upsetting, but, it can also be helpful. The blind devotion and respect we often give our family members, simply because they're family, isn't always deserved. That doesn't mean a tit-for-tat game is appropriate. My mother's right, spite never feels as good as you think it will. Retaliation rarely satisfies. But knowing your family doesn't respect or care about you or your feelings means you don't have to do all the things, give all the gifts or attend all the events.


Meanwhile, I hope you have a nice holiday and wish you well for 2012.

*******NSFW***********

I just learned that 1) Trojan makes vibrators and 2) they're marketing them as a great holiday gift. The jokes write themselves. These combined facts offer staggering anecdotal potential. I can hardly wait to see what they come up with for Valentine's Day.

But. What I find confusing and frustrating is that somewhere out there is a marketing team who was tasked with advertising Trojan vibrators. And the best they came up with was a holiday marketing campaign akin to a Snuggie commercial. A holiday commercial featuring testimonials and a good long shot of the product packaging nestled in holiday-trimmed evergreens.

I'm not saying it's an ill-advised gift suggestion. I'm sure there are lot of women who would appreciate such a thoughtful gift that she can enjoy year round. (remember to include batteries!) But. If you're a guy and you're thinking, "Hey! That is a great gift idea for that special but difficult-to-shop-for lady in my life,"  give it some more thought before you trot out to buy one, wrap it in festive wrapping paper and nestle it amongst the gifts from Nana and her little niece. She may really like that special gift, she may appreciate the gift. And she may appreciate you for that great gift. It's great that you have such an open relationship.

But.

Ask yourself this question: What switch in your brain is in the off position?

Even if that special lady in your life wants a vibrator, in spite of what Trojan's marketing team suggests, Christmas is not the time to wrap one up and give her. Trojan's marketing team is clearly desperate to move some merchandise before the year-end inventory reports are run. Even if that special lady in your life wants a vibrator and you're feeling charitable toward Trojan's marketing team, wait. Just wait. Wait for New Year's Eve, or Valentine's Day, or better still, make it a "just because" present.

So, I had (yet) another interview. One might think that after two years and all the interviews I've had that a) I'd have a job offer, b) nothing asked or said at an interview would come as a surprise to me, and/or c) I must really suck at interviewing because I haven't been offered a job.

One might think all of that. And one might be correct about all of that. Those are fair assumptions. And I grapple with that every day and night. One might even say I'm obsessed with all three of those assumptions.


Interviews tend to fall into three types.
1) Functional. The "Here are details about the job description, we are looking for someone who can..." and then "How can you help us, specifically, with these job details?" type of interview.
2) Behavioral. The "You've read the job description, we've read your resume, HR talked to you at the pre-screen interview, you're clearly qualified to perform the tasks the job requires. And so are several hundred other people who applied for the job. We're here today to talk about you. We're a cohesive team, here, and personality fit is as important as the skill set. So tell us about yourself." type of interview.
3) WTF. The "We don't have a clue what we want or who we're looking for, but someone vacated a position and if we don't hire someone soon they'll take away the money allocated for that salary and once they do that it's impossible to get money reassigned for a new position so we just want a warm, breathing body at desk." type of interview.


There are other types (some really weird types), but generally my interview experiences fall into those three types.


Type 1 and Type 3 are "easy." Type 1 interviews require answers and dialog specific to the details and tasks of the job. If you know your profession, if you're experienced at the tasks presented in the job description, you then provide examples from your previous career experience that illustrates your knowledge and experience pertinent to what they're looking for in the job description. Type 3 interviews require a similar approach. They're not sure what or who they want, so you give 'em all you got with a positive personality spin and hope when they throw a dart at a wall of resumés they hit yours.


It's Type 2 that unnerves me the most. I know my "stuff." I have loads of relevant experience. My career has been my life for, well, most of my life. But. I also know that personality and symbiosis with the existing team are just as crucial, perhaps more crucial, when looking for a new team member. Particularly where there is the existing team has a very integrated synergy. You can suss out a few hints as to what sort of personality they want, but it's impossible to really know. I feel strongly that it's important to just be as "you" as possible under the circumstances and hope "you" are the type of personality that will fit in with the existing team. If "you" is "right" then it's not the right job for you. That's a well-worn platitude, but, it is true. These are the interviews where you're presented hypothetical situations (that are clearly drawn from real-life experiences of the interviewer) and you're asked "What would you do?" Sometimes it's just a very straightforward, "Tell me about yourself" inquiry. (No matter who says that, I always hear it in a cartoonish Austrian psychologist accent.) And the seemingly off the wall questions are asked. "If you were an animal, what would you be?" "What's your favorite color/book/vacation spot?" "What superhero power would you want to possess?" I have been asked that last question so many times that I'm starting to suspect The League of Justice actually exists and they're recruiting under the stealth cloak of innocuous job interviews.


I've had a lot of Type 2 interviews. I've been asked a lot of seemingly off-the-wall questions. Sometimes I feel like I've heard it all. But I know that's not true. I know that's not true because inevitably I'll go to the next interview and be asked some entirely new and weirder question. A few weeks ago I was asked to detail my feelings about the Revolutionary War. Not the causes (I've been asked that in other interviews). Not the tactical successes and failures. Not the leadership examples that are inspiring (or not). Nope, my feelings about the Revolutionary War. Erm, well, I presume you mean the American Revolutionary War. Just to clarify. Because I have different feelings about the French Revolution than I do about the American Revolution. And don't get me started on the Russian Revolution. But yeah, American Revolution...taxation without representation is negative thing, you know, not really good for anyone except the benefactor of the taxes. And, well, George III has never been my favorite monarch, and George Washington is my favorite president, so, you know, I feel pretty strongly about that. And, war, in general, makes me feel really sad and frustrated because of all the killing and devastated lives. And I feel you can't really talk about the Revolution without talking about the War of 1812 and Canada and Native Americans...it's a real hornet's nest that's often written off as an epilog or sidebar or even a footnote, but, you know, it's kind of a big deal in terms of territories, especially the Great Lakes (motioning toward Lake Michigan conveniently located in view of the window of the interview conference room). Right. So, yeah, that's a little of what I feel about the Revolutionary War. I did not mention my strong feelings about people to spend their free time re-enacting Revolutionary War battles. I did not mention that none of my ancestors even stepped foot on American soil until after WWI and that certain members of my family feel the War of 1812 hasn't really been resolved. Doesn't matter. I didn't get that job. Apparently I don't have the right feelings about the Revolutionary War. Or didn't articulate them well enough. Had I known I would be asked to give a dissertation on my feelings about a very complex war fraught with many issues, battles, leadership successes and failures and government policies I would have prepped a better summation of my feelings about all of that. But, stepping back for a minute, what do my feelings (or even knowledge) about the Revolutionary War have to do with my ability to serve as a creative marketing manager? I mean sure, parallels can be drawn, but I really do not like to think of my career, my job, my office or my co-worker and clients in terms of war, or how they relate to war. I'm pretty sure I dodged a bullet (perhaps literally) by not getting a job offer from them, but, on the other hand, I'm still unemployed and beyond desperation, so, getting hit by a couple painful job-related bullets wouldn't exactly be a bad thing.



Recently I had a lengthy interview that started out as a functional interview. Lots of questions about my previous experiences and my skills. But then the VP appeared and the real fun started. Lots of open-ended questions that were clearly geared toward finding the right personality for their team.


There's one I've been asked in the past, and it haunts me on deep levels.


"If all barriers were removed: Money, skills, logistics, etc., what would you do now and with your life in general?"



Yeah. That's a loaded question.

There's another version of this question that I've been asked several times, as well. "What was your vision/dream of your future when you were seven years old?"



For me, those questions are the same and one answers the other.

If all barriers were removed I would be living the life I envisioned when I was seven.

I would be a rock guitarist traveling around the world giving money to people who need it, saving/rescuing animals, creating all kinds of art, going to concerts and giving poor oppressed people money and escape routes to out from under evil dictators and I'd make an evil dictator island where all the evil dictators would live and be evil to each other (problem solved). I would also have a submarine that looks like a whale in which I would take long underwater trips traveling with whale pods. And I'd get NASA training and tag along on intergalactic missions and collect intergalactic geological samples. And I'd take lots of photographs.



I'm always careful to include those last parts and the evil dictator island part because without them I'm basically dreaming of being John Lennon. And that's just too weird and difficult for me to process. (So instead I basically dream of being Richard Branson. Hey, I never said I was sane. You're the one still reading this.)


Fortunately (apart from the evil dictator island and intergalactic geology trips) my seven-year-old me dreams and my no barriers ideas aren't, you know, too weird.

So when I'm asked these questions at job interviews my confident answer is, "Effectively I'd do the same thing - creating, managing marketing projects. But I'd reach farther, with a broader scope, and for philanthropic causes rather than capitalistic goals." Not too bad, right? I mean, a little on the Pollyanna side but not too smarmy and shows dedication to the profession. Right?

It's not like I'm saying, "Oh, I'd still want to do this job!" or "I'd be a Formula One race driver!" or "I'd feed and educate orphans in the Third World. And then eradicate AIDS, cancer and restless leg syndrome." All things I'd do if there were absolutely no barriers. Because if there were no barriers whatsoever nothing would stop me from knowing everything and if I knew everything I could unlock every riddle and solve every problem including eradicating deadly diseases and banishing evil dictators to an evil dictator island.

It's a dumb question on a lot of levels which is why I find those questions asked at interviews so tedious. People either lie (ridiculously) or just stumble through an answer they think hits a sane middle ground between what they hope shows sane/responsible/ambitious/kind and a beauty pageant speech. There have been a few instances where I had to fight every fiber of my being to not reply to this question with, "I'd buy this company and force you to sit where I am now and answer that question with the knowledge that your employment and future hinges on the answer to that ridiculously irrelevant question."


You hear about unemployed people who've given up their job search. I hear other people, employed people, say, "How? How can they just give up on finding a job? Why would they stop trying?" I have an answer. Because when they go on interviews instead of useful dialog about the job, their experience and skills, they're asked stupid beauty pageant questions like, "If there were no barriers, money, training, skills, etc., what would you do?"




The thing is, though, every time I'm asked those questions my mind gets kind of stuck in that zone and it's difficult to recover. The rest of the day I'm lost in my head fantasizing about being a rock-and-roll philanthropist with a whale-shaped submarine. And then I take one of two mindpaths. I fantasize about somehow suddenly, magically, having limitless funds and what I'd do - as in map out a "practical" plan starting from the minute the money is bestowed upon me. Or, I think about what I "should" learn from my thoughts to the "if the were no barriers/what were your plans when you were seven" questions.


From there it's just short trip down Oh-Crap-What-Have-I-Done-to-My-Life Lane. Just turn left on How-Did-I-Let-This-Happen Street, go two blocks and turn right on How-Can-I-Salvage-The-Sordid-Remains-of-My-Life Avenue, then veer left onto the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. You can't miss it, just follow the signs to the Seething Pit of Despair.


I dunno. Right now I just want a full-time job with a steady paycheck. Yeah, I'm dreaming big these days. The rock guitar wielding artist/philanthropist career and the whale-shaped submarine and intergalactic rock hunting can wait.

Yes, a wandering guitar-wielding artist philanthropist with a soft heart for animals and human rights who likes to spend prolonged periods of time underwater and in confined spaces sounds like a great life, perfect for me. But now is not the right time. 




I know, I know, if not now, when? Well. I do have barriers and I'm not seven-years-old. 


I know, that whale-shaped submarine sounds like a really great idea and I could live on it which would solve my housing, erm, "situation," but I'm pretty sure submarines, especially whale-shaped submarines, are kind of expensive. And I haven't seen any job postings reading, "Submariner wanted. No experience necessary, training provided. Willingness to travel in whale pods required."


And yes, I think I'd be a pretty darned good philanthropist. But I don't have philanthropist funds. And I haven't seen any job postings reading, "Philanthropist adviser wanted. Compassion and ability to suss out worthy causes required." 


See what I mean? Those stupid "Tell me about yourself" interview questions really get under my skin. Too deeply under my skin. I know this. But two years of unemployment messes with your head in ways you cannot imagine. (Unless you've been unemployed two years, in which case you know what I mean.) Which takes me straight back to, "I must really suck at interviews because two years and several interviews later, I'm still unemployed." Which makes me replay and replay and replay again all the questions I've been asked at interviews and how I responded to them. What am I doing wrong, what do I need to change...all that. Then stir in the "what's holding you back from pursuing what you really want out of life" can of worms and...ugh.

I wonder if employers realize the emotional toll their stupid, irrelevant questions take on job candidates. Because unless they're offering unlimited funds, time, training and access, the "what would you do if you had no barriers" question is utterly irrelevant and only serves to make candidates spiral into existential funks.

The past couple years have been really rough on my sense of security and personal stability. When I can't sleep (pretty much every night) I recite this, "No matter what happens, no matter how much farther my life spirals out of control, I know..." and then I complete the sentence with irrefutable facts about myself. The list of irrefutable facts about myself is exponentially smaller with each passing day of unemployment.

And just when I was certain that of at least one thing, the fact that Alec Baldwin and I would never have anything in common, we both flew on American Airlines on the same day and we both had, um, issues. Apparently Tuesday was American Airlines' Be Cranky to Passengers Day.

WARNING: Rant ahead.

My mother is on the mend and home recovering quickly. Yay. That's not the rant. That's a good thing.

The gentlemen callers abated for now. That's also not a rant. That's sort of a good thing. I mean, it's good for me because I don't want to think about things like step-fathers and my mother's romantic life. But if my mother wants to date that's okay, too. I'd just rather not know about it.

I had an opportunity to interview for a job. Yay. That's not the rant, either. That's a good thing.

The interview required a plane trip. This is where the rant begins.

Yes. It's an airline rant. Blah blah blah ad infinitum. I know, we've all heard it all.

But.

I have logged a lot of air miles in my life. I have logged a lot of air miles in the past 15 years of my life. A lot of air miles. The sort of air miles one accrues when one has a job which requires often twice monthly cross-country meetings and when one is in a trans-Atlantic long-distance relationship/engagement for several years and when one has endured prolonged critical illnesses in  parents who live over 200 miles away. I'm not in the million mile club, but, let's just say it's not that far out of the realm of possibility for me to qualify for membership. I flew a lot prior to 9-11 and I have flown a lot post 9-11.

I feel a need to preface my rant with those disclaimers because, with all of those air miles logged, I have a disproportionally low number of airline rants. And on the rare occasions I do rant, it's usually about other passengers, not the airlines.

But.

American Airlines let me down big time. And that's not just a disgruntled flyer ranting because they didn't get their way. American Airlines screwed up so badly that even their flight attendant approached me, of her own accord, unsolicited or invoked by me, and told me I should contact customer service. She then proceeded to give me a "special" email and phone number for complaints. The "special" email and phone number they don't publish on their website.

Gosh, Trill, what the heck happened?

In order to get to this interview I had to make flight arrangements on very short notice. Many of the most convenient flights were sold out. So I opted to depart from a smaller regional airport on American Eagle. This was not a huge deal to me - I have flown on the smaller American Eagle fleet quite a lot between Michigan and Chicago. Not ideal in terms of comfort, but not awful, either. And since 9-11 I've grown rather fond of smaller regional airports and the comparative congeniality they offer.

My rant is not about the smaller regional airport. I stand by my opinion on smaller airports. Smaller airport = fewer travelers = shorter (nonexistent) security lines = friendlier, saner, smarter TSA agents = making the best of post 9-11 airport rules.

I didn't have easy or timely access to a printer, so I couldn't do the advance check-in. I'd have to suck it up and deal with airport check-in. But, not a huge deal because I was using a smaller regional airport. 

Okay. So. I have a carry-on suitcase that I have been using for the past four years. A quick calculation culled from air mile logs and which flights the suitcase in question flew indicates that suitcase has logged at least 25,000 miles in the past four years. Yes. It's held up remarkably well. It's held up well because I only use it when I'm flying short distances for a couple days and I carry it on. But here's the thing about me and this carry-on suitcase: When gate-checking is an option, I gate check it. Always. I'm not a big fan of overhead bins. I'm even less of a fan of passengers who attempt to stow suitcases in overhead bins. I make exceptions for some larger planes, or when flying in first or business class.

I want to take this opportunity to mention that the suitcase in question fits into the size-check template thingy at the airport check-in lines.


Right. So. I rolled into the small regional airport with my trusty carry-on. It still had the red valet gate-check tag from previous flights.

I'm a self-check-in kiosk kind of gal. Especially when I'm not checking luggage. There was one person being served at American Airlines' one ticket counter. There was another person using the sole self-check-in kiosk. I queued up behind the kiosk. Meanwhile, a woman with two children and several suitcases, strollers, car seats and, I kid you not, a Coleman picnic cooler (the kind with wheels) queued up behind the singular ticket counter. The person at the ticket counter finished their business and the agent summoned me to the counter. Okay, yes, it was nice of him to offer to serve me before the woman with all the stuff, and technically I was there first, but like I said, I'm a self-check-in kiosk kind of gal.

I said, "Oh, that's okay, I'm not checking anything (glancing sympathetically to the woman with the kids and all the stuff), I'll just use the kiosk."

The agent took a more forceful tone and said, "Your bag is too large to carry on."

I honestly didn't realize he was talking to me. I thought he was addressing the other woman, the one with the kids and a ton of stuff including a picnic cooler. I continued to wait for the kiosk.

"Ma'am, you cannot use the self check-in kiosk if you are checking a bag and your bag is too large to carry on."


Oh. He's talking to me. He called me ma'am. I hate being ma'amed. My bag is not too large to carry on, I've been carrying it on for four years. I hate being ma'amed.

I made the universal "oh, you mean me?" face and accompanying pointing at oneself gesture.

The agent told me to step up to the counter to check in.

I smiled, brightly, and said, "I carry this on all the time, usually I gate-check it. See? I already have the official red gate-check valet tag on it. I'll just wait for the kiosk," again, motioning toward the woman with the kids and all the stuff to check.

"That bag is not regulation size, you have to check it."

It was at this point that my easy-going attitude turned, shall we say, less congenial. I've flown from this airport in the past, on American Eagle. I knew darned well that the overhead bins won't accommodate anything larger than a small handbag and all carry-ons are gate-checked. So in actuality the size of the carry-on is moot because everything gets gate-checked because nothing fits in the overhead bins.

I took a deep emotionally cleansing breath and said, "It is regulation size, but it doesn't matter, I'm gate-checking it, which I have done in the past, see? The official red gate-check valet tag?"

"Put it in the baggage sizer. Prove to me it's regulation size."

Okay, Mr. Smug Smarmypants, Mr. I Have to Wear a Nametag to Work, Mr. I'm in Charge Here, I'll "prove" to you that it's regulation size.

In order to get to the baggage template size thingy I had to get through the cacophony of stuff the woman with the kids had cluttering up the aisle. She had to move a stroller, car seat and the cooler in order for me to access the baggage sizer template thingy.

My bag fit into the template but there was a metal edge along the bottom that made one side of my suitcase jut up about 1-1/2".

The agent triumphantly yelled, yes, yelled from behind the safety of his ticket counter, "I told you it's not regulation size."

I said, "There's an edge of metal, a bar along the bottom that's making it protrude." I gestured to the bottom of the baggage sizer template thingy, and said, "See?"

He said, "I cannot come to that side of the counter. And I can see from here that your bag does not fit into the regulation baggage sizer."

"It fits, it's just protruding because of the metal bar along the bottom!"

He said, "I will not allow that bag as a carry-on. You have to check it."

I said, with a smile, "I'm gate-checking it."

And here's where I probably did a bad thing. The self-check-in kiosk was now available. So I picked up my carry-on, ignored the agent and proceeded check-in at the self-service check-in kiosk.

I know, I know, I shouldn't mess with "authority" at an airport. I know. Okay? I know. And I especially shouldn't mess with "authority" at an airport when I'm flying to a job interview.

And no, I typically don't have a problem with authority. For the record, I'm even okay with rent-a-cops, doormen, and the aforementioned TSA agents. But I do have issues with "authority." People who are not actually in positions of actual authority but because they're behind the desk wearing a smock/embroidered logo polo shirt and a name badge and handing out required tickets, receipts, change, whatever pittance is required to pass from one area to another, they perceive themselves to be authorities, in charge. Hand gesture of airquote *authority* hand gesture of unairquote.

Perhaps I was a bit too defiant. I'll admit that yes, I was acting a bit, you know, defiant. But. My carry-on was regulation sized. The stupid baggage sizer template thingy had a metal bar along one edge which caused my suitcase to protrude over the size allotment. Their fault, not mine.

But that didn't matter. I was on his turf and I had to play by his rules. I like small regional airports, but, the downside is that small regional airports are staffed by small regional people. Cue the Deliverance theme song.

Unfortunately that thought didn't occur to me until after I said, "I realize your employer is in bankruptcy and you're probably worried about losing your job, but extorting $25 from passengers by way of a baggage sizer scam is not going to get your airline out of debt or save your job." 

Yadda yadda yadd the agent told me he was going to call security.

Yadda yadda yadda I told him to go ahead and call security because I'd like them to see the scam he's running with the baggage sizer template thingy.

Yadda yadda yadda it turns out the security guard and the agent are good friends.

Yadda yadda yadda $25 later I was relieved of my carry-on and escorted to the "special" security area.

However, it turns out the TSA agents don't think too highly of airport rent-a-cop security guards. Turns out TSA agents think airport rent-a-cop security guards are as Barney Fife as us civilians do. Turns out TSA agents enjoy exerting their actual authority over the rent-a-cop security guards who only have "authority." I was given the VIP, smiling, go on through, have a nice flight treatment from the TSA agents. They made a big show of congenially passing me through security without the extra security pat-downs the rent-a-cop security guard was craving.

I went to the gate without further incident.

And that's when I got really angry. The flight was full and there were many people waiting to board at the gate. I looked around for a place to sit. And quickly realized there wasn't a place to sit because bar none, everyone at the gate had carry-on suitcases taking up all the extra seats and space around the chairs. The carry-ons were all the size of mine or larger. Several college-aged kids had large rolling duffels at least 6" - 8" larger than my carry-on. What the...?

And this is when I got really, really angry. The woman with the kids, strollers, car seats, suit cases and Coleman picnic cooler arrived at the gate. She arrived with all her strollers, car seats, suit cases and yes, the Coleman picnic cooler. All of which had the coveted red gate-check valet tags. Double what the...? None of that crap was regulation sized. None of it. To keep myself from completely losing it, going insane and going postal, I'm forcing myself to assume that she's a medical courier with proper ID and official papers and the picnic cooler contained either a vital organ for a transplant or a crucial rare antidote serum for a child dying of a rare disease. Or it carried breast milk for her small child.

Sidebar: I'm unemployed. I'm losing my home. I have almost no money. $25 is a big stinking deal to me. $25 is my entire food budget for two weeks, often for three weeks. So the unexpected outlay of $25 was a source of anxiety and stress for me as well as a bona fide financial hardship. And yes, I know, if you can't afford the baggage fee, you shouldn't be flying. Believe me, I wouldn't have been flying were it not for a job interview in a distant city. An important job interview for which I wanted to get a good night of rest, hence my desire to not wait around the airport a second longer than necessary, hence my desire to carry-on my regulation-sized suitcase. The extra time spent waiting at the baggage claim was equally as inconvenient to me as the $25 fee. And equally unnecessary.


We boarded, I arrived at my destination, a very, very large metropolitan airport. I trudged to the baggage claim area and waited. And waited. And waited. I began to worry because even though the baggage claim monitor listed my flight number, I was the only person waiting at that baggage carousel. Eventually a flight attendant from my flight appeared. She smiled at me. I managed a smile at her.

And then she came over and said, "I recognize you from my flight. You know that you pick up your bag at the gate, right? The bags are gate-checked and when you deplane you wait on the jetway and they unload the gate-checked bags."

"Yeah, I know the drill. But they made me check my bag. The agent said it wasn't regulation sized and called security on me. I had to pay $25 to check my bag."

The flight attendant looked at me with increasingly furrowed eyebrows.

"No one checks bags on that flight. We gate-check everything. I had a long layover and did some shopping, so I have a few things coming on the baggage carousel but no one else checked anything to arrive here. A few passengers checked bags through to other destinations, but not here. I even saw a woman gate-checking a cooler! Are you sure they didn't gate-check your bag?"

I looked around again. It was still just me and the flight attendant. The baggage claim area was taking on a Twilight Zone atmosphere.

"Well, I dunno. The agent at the counter made me check my suitcase."

"Is it really large? You know, over-sized?"

"Nope. It's a normal carry-on sized. I've carried it on a lot of flights and never had a problem. But there was this metal bar along the bottom edge of the baggage-sizer template thingy that made my bag jut above the top of the template frame and the agent made me check it and pay $25 and called security on me."

"Good God. I'm so sorry. Here, let me write down a phone number and email for you. We have a special complaint line for passengers who were inconvenienced more than is acceptable. Tell them what you told me."

We both stood there in awkward silence waiting for the baggage carousel to spring to life. 45 minutes after our flight landed the buzzer squawked and the conveyor sprang to life. 10 minutes later the flight attendant's boxes appeared. She wasn't kidding, she did some serious shopping. 10 minutes after her boxes and suitcase appeared, my measly little carry-on came rolling out of the baggage abyss.

My issue ended better than Alec Baldwin's. I was only out $25 and an extra hour of time. I wasn't escorted off the plane and I arrived at my destination as scheduled. Other than the ticket counter agent and the airport rent-a-cop the airline and TSA personnel were friendly, efficient and helpful.

But now I'm back to square one regarding my sense assurance in at least one aspect of my life. Since Alec Baldwin and I now have something in common I'm back to square one with finding something, one certain fact about myself that I can rely on cling to like a security blanket. I have to find another way to finish the sentence, "No matter what happens, no matter how much farther my life spirals out of control, I know..."