Press the Brake

I just dropped Little Sister off at the airport.

Well, I carried her luggage, walked with her to check in, and left her at the C gates.

What kept me from crying?
Mom.

No, not her cool deposition (she was far from it, actually. Her nose was red, her eyes were watery... Little Sister was doing the same thing, getting red in the face, that is), but the mistake she committed when we were looking for a parking spot.

She went in the wrong lot. We were trying to tell her to go to the short term lot, but somehow, "long term" looks identical to "short term" to her.

As we were getting to the... what's that called... the little arm that goes up and down... it's colored yellow with black stripes... it goes down to keep you from going in to a parking area, goes up when you get a ticket... well, that little bar was in the way, with the ticket machine to the left stating "please, grab a ticket."
Well, I guess Mom's far more discombobulated than any of us, and as she was reaching for the ticket, she bumped her head on the car door.
Somehow, she released the brake... so my car began to roll forward, towards the little arm/bar thing.
You know what Mom did next??
She tried grabbing the fucking ticket, that wasn't being released by the machine (if it were a human, I'm sure it would have been saying "What the fuck is your problem? If you plan on busting through the bar, I won't give you a fucking ticket").
As my car rolled forward... towards the yellow with black metal bar thing... she was trying. to reach for. the goddamn. ticket.

"LET THE TICKET GO!! PRESS THE FUCKING BRAKE!"

"Out of all things... you give more importance to grabbing a damn ticket than pressing the brake?! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

I know, aren't I the sweetest when in the face of danger?

Finally, she put the brake on, when my car was centimeters away from the bar (that would have made it the second time my poor Bambi gets crashed into some yellow bar... the poor car).

Anyway, it was 10 times funnier in person... of course, once the initial rage passes. Little Sister and I used it as a way to keep from crying.

I'm getting teary-eyed as we're going up the escalator to the C gates?
"Press the brake!!"

Little Sister's getting teary-eyed as Mom is giving her the blessing?
"Press the brake!"

Mom's getting watery-eyed as she's watching her baby girl walk toward the check point?
"Press the brake!"

Then I came home and had a mild freakout.
She'll be gone for 5 months...
Holy moly... my baby sister will be alone for (a little under) 5 months (because I will be there with her for two weeks, damn it!) on the other side of the hemisphere!

I'd buy that

I don't know if I've mentioned it on here before, but my all-time favorite store is Home Depot.

Put your hand down, fool, I won't choose anything over Home Depot.

No, I'm not fond of this store because I'm a crafty gal. I wish that were the case. I actually break anything that comes within a five meter radius of me. I'm quite destructive.

I love Home Depot because it brings back some very good memories and it smells like new home (plus, I'm Mexican... it seems it runs in my blood to love this sort of thing).
I'll play around with almost anything, and I'll start getting all these awesome home-make-over ideas (which of course, I never undertake because I'm also very... very much a procrastinator).

Anyway, whenever a parent needs an extra hand at this store, I'm the offspring who will be called on for help (most often it's Mom since she hates going there by herself. Dad will take me when he needs someone to act like a Colombian mule for a couple of minutes).

Well, last Tuesday (I'm only telling this story because of something I saw on Family Guy this evening) Mom invited me to go with her to Home Depot in search for some closet-building stuff (yeah, my closet is STILL broken... for a second time! Damn closet!).

So we get there, and we're looking.
I was entertained by door knobs (... yeah... I know... why??) while mom looked for screws.
Once I saw, touched, and played with all the door knobs, I went back to Mom, who still hadn't found what she was looking for.
We had a talk about nails and screws (why is this so... euphemisms abound in my head right now) and we got to talking about why my closet collapsed in the first place (and let the euphemisms continue, I say!! I swear I'm not doing this on purpose) and I realized Mom had just nailed/screwed the wall wherever she pleased (dear God, get this out of my head!).
So I began to search for a Stud Finder.

Mom thought I was lying; how can such a thing exist?!
I was unsuccessful (as I always am) in my search, and I guess us two Mexicans looked very lost in this huge Home Depot (that's a first), because this really nice-looking (as in: kind, humble, sweet, etc. While he didn't look bad, per se, he had that "happily married man who'll be nice to you because he doesn't care about chicks anymore" look) man probably in his mid-thirties approached us.

Guy: Can I help you ladies in anything?
Me: Yeah... Where can I find the Stud Finders?
(Guy smiles)
Guy: You don't seem to have a problem with that.
(I stare blankly)
Guy: (laughs a little) Aisle...
(I don't hear the last part because my brain goes "OOO!! I get what you said! You called yourself a stud... right?")

We didn't buy a Stud Finder, my closet's still broken, and I feel bad for the poor guy who tried to crack a joke but ended up feeling dumb because I was too dumb to catch his joke.