I know it’s been a while. That’s why y’all get this loooong story.

However, before this really starts rolling, let me confess that my anxiety level was exceptionally low. I wasn’t worried much at all. I thoroughly enjoy The Boyfriend’s™ mother, and I was looking forward to getting to know his sister better. I had no issue with picking them up at the airport. It was just like picking my own sister and mom up, except I had to curse less. And I don’t have a sister. Nor irrational anger that crops up at the most awkward of times from my long-buried childhood issues toward his mother. So really, it just wasn’t a big deal. I was more honored that he’d asked me to pick them up, really that he trusted me to pick them up and not embarrass them and humiliate myself in the process.

So I made sure I didn’t wear anything that was inappropriate, such as that “I fucked your boyfriend” t-shirt that I sometimes forget offends people, and then I cleaned out my car. Two bags of empty Smart Water bottles later, I’m ready to roll down to LAX. I check traffic on my iPhone and it’s green all the way from Burbank.

But first, let’s have a flashback: so I’m in Burbank because that’s where my Bar Method class is and The Boyfriend™ lives in the city next door. I’d stayed at his place last night, killing zombies––we can’t have an infestation of zombies with his mom and sister coming into town. That would just look irresponsible on our part, not cleaning up rotting, animated corpses that are out for our brains. But other than playing video games, there’s the actual cleaning up of his 70s ski chalet condo (exposed wood beams and strange, levitating, pointy banisters make you want spiked hot coco year round). He went off to work, I went off to my torturous class (by the way, have I mentioned how freaking hot my legs look?). I come back from said class and start cleaning. I started in the living room, with his shoes and socks, then my shoes and socks. At the bottom of the stairs I found his shirt. And, using my better judgment, I picked up my shirt, bra and underwear from the stairs. I also didn’t think his mother and sister needed to see bedding in a very, um, personal state, so that went into the wash. My dog, Annie the Wünderdachshand, tried to help, but I didn’t think The Boyfriend’s™ mother would appreciate stepping on rawhide, probably with a bare foot. Frankly, I didn’t make the place look too perfect because they’d know it was a setup. I mean, they’ve known him for thirty-three years. But the condo was passable. I’d let my own mother see the place. I’m doing yoga-like breathing, I’m so at peace about this. It’s. All. Good.

Then Annie needs her walk. I take her around the block because this is her chance to use the grass before I leave for three hours. She eyes up a few spots, nothing too abnormal. She finds a spot. She squats…and a mailman walks by, interrupting Little Miss ADD Puppy. So we walk on, she squats, and workmen start hammering. Annie stops. We go down a bit farther, some kid on his bicycle distracts her. Then the mailman comes by again. Someone’s dog inside their house barks and slobbers frantically at her. I can’t remember all the interruptions, but the culmination is this: I’m about to be late and my dog hasn’t pissed in six hours. Annie hasn’t gone in the house for over a year, but I just know, today of all days, I’ll return with The Boyfriend’s™ mother and sister to a wet spot on the carpet and a condo reeking of dog urine. Oh, it will happen because that’s how my life works.

Toss her ass in the car then. She won’t pee in it. And they like dogs, she’s a good dog (except today). OH. MY. GOD. I still have to get gas. I am now running ten minutes late to pick up his mother and sister. Visions of them sitting at the LAX curb on their luggage, arms crossed, glaring at me as I drive up. And I start to shake. I haven’t eaten after an hour of impossible ballet leg lifting and contorting my body into nearly impossible shapes that have started working their way into my sex life. So I stop for gas and grab some pretzels while my car fills up. Then Annie and I are off. I’m racing down the 134 to the 5 to get to the 110 to get to the 105 to get to LAX. I slow down a bit on the 134, so I open the bag of pretzels while Annie tries to roll down the passenger window. No, no, no, no, not a dead stop, just please, not a dead stop, anything but a… I hit the brakes and my car comes to a complete stop on the 134. I look at my iPhone, which must be fueled by the soul of a boyfriend from my early 20s because it tells me traffic is clear and it is LYING to me. I am sitting here with an open bag of pretzels in my lap, staring at the license plate of the Saab in front, with Annie barking at a Mexican family in a minivan next to me. My dog is racist.

So I decide to eat my pretzels before I faint in my car, but I have to pop my retainer out first. Brief back story: I’m getting an implant because I lost a tooth when I got hit in the face with a softball, so my retainer fills in the gap on the far right side of my mouth. It’s not very noticeable, but I sure feel awkward when I don’t wear it, like everyone can see it. I set the retainer on the center console and shove a handful of those little Sour Dough Nibblers into my mouth, praying nothing gets stuck in the crevices of my teeth as I chow down.

Traffic starts moving. Annie’s now rolling around on the floor having a blast, and I don’t care what she’s doing as long as she’s no longer barking at anyone who isn’t white, because the last thing I need is the NAACP rolling up next to me with a megaphone, yelling at me to curb my KKK Dachshund.

I make it to the 5. The next freeway isn’t that far. So far no call from The Boyfriend’s™ mother. Their flight should be there by now, I’m still twenty minutes away, but they checked luggage. The car’s silent. Music? No. I’ll listen to my anxiety, let it fuel me as I race down the 5, toward the 110 interchange, where there is no line of cars waiting. Yes! A fucking miracle. And still no call.

In my benevolent state, I smile down at Annie, who’s chewing away on a toy on the passenger’s side floor. Dear God in Heaven that doesn’t exist, thank you. Thank you! This may just work out… Uh. Wait a second.

I…didn’t bring any dog toys. What is she chewing…?

My eyes bulge like I have a thyroid condition. I look down at the empty center console. I look to the dog. I’m in the middle of changing from the 5 to the 110 along this curvy, two-lane interchange that hugs the side of an enormous hill. I scream in rage and grab her leash and harness, yanking Annie up into the seat. I see my retainer fly out of her mouth, bounce off the car door and onto the floor of my car, rolling around in weeks––months––of dirt from passengers’ shoes.

For the entire drive down the 110, I can’t reach my retainer. Traffic is flying, I’m going 85 and my retainer’s as far as it could be from me, a diagonal line of torture because I can’t tell how badly she’s damaged it. Please, just a little traffic, please. I’m sorry I said You don’t exist, I’m so sorry. Annie sits on the seat looking very sad, but I know she’s not sad because she did something wrong. She keeps hanging her head over the seat, staring at my retainer, wanting her chew toy so badly that she whimpers a few times until my glare of doom quiets her.

I know once I exit the 105 for LAX there will be time for me to grab it. I’m on the 105 now but ten minutes away. Still no phone call, but I could care less at this point. How can I possibly meet The Boyfriend’s™ mother and sister as a toothless hag? I can’t smile the entire time. And one of them, probably his mother, will be sitting next to me. Any time I talk, you can see the black, gaping hole where my tooth used to be––and her son is dating this ghetto-ass bitch and “softball” is probably some new slang term for crack! My son is dating a crack whore!

No. No, no. Calm yourself, Cleveland. Just chill. That is an irrational line of thought. You don’t look like a crack whore, even though sometimes you may act like one. You are not a crack whore. Crack whores do not have master’s degrees, do not have retainers, and do not have dogs that chew on them repeatedly throughout car trips to pick up their boyfriend’s mother and sister at the airport.

…chew on them repeatedly…

“Annie! NOOOOOOOOO!!!” I scream as I yank her up again by her harness. I hit the steering wheel, screaming incoherently while the guy in the Mercedes next to me quickly moves into the far lane, the vehicular version of inching away from a crazy person on the bus.

Finally I exit the 105. I stop on the off ramp. I claw down for my retainer, frantically pawing for it under the seat. I can’t feel it, I can’t see it. It’s gone. Disappeared. Nowhere do I feel its rough curves and metal prongs. I look up over the dashboard and the light’s green. Cars are moving. Where is it? I look at Annie.

“Is it in your stomach? Because I will f-ing gut you, dog, I swear. A little taxidermy never hurt anyone. Mount you on the hood of my f-ing car, you slut.”

Then my fingers touch it. Just a little more of a reach and––my hand closes around it, I pop up and the Explorer before me is moving. I drive through the tunnel, wrists on the wheel, eyes switching between the road and the retainer. I have to drive. I can’t tell how badly it’s damaged but at least the fake tooth is still intact. I don’t know if it’ll still fit in my mouth, covering the most physically embarrassing thing about me.

I find the arrivals. I find the airline. I find the parking structure. I pull into a spot. My phone rings. I turn my car off. I answer it.

“Christie, we just got off the plane,” The Boyfriend’s™ mother says. “We were delayed a half an hour.”

Halle-fucking-lujah.

We all agree to meet in the baggage claim, but I leave the evil little dog in the car and hoof it to the terminal, hand still squeezing the retainer. Maybe I can make it to the bathroom before they make it to the baggage claim. Maybe I can duck around them. But I see where the bathroom is, I see where the baggage claim is, and I see The Boyfriend’s™ mother, who sees me. She smiles and waves. I cock my head to the left and smile back, wave back. I start walking toward her. I don’t see his sister anywhere.

What am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do? I look perfect except for that gaping black hole where a tooth should be. Toothless hag! Crack whore! Not to mention my retainer that possess that horrible mouthpiece stench, which is now rubbed all over my hand, along with eau de dog breath and bits of shoe soles.

I keep walking slowly. There’s a pillar ahead that will block me from her view. That will be my only chance. I approach the pillar, she can’t see me. It’s a millisecond where my brain fires commands to my hand. I don’t even recall making the decision. It was more of a fight or flight reaction, purely instinctual to pop that retainer into my mouth, risking that it didn’t fit anymore, and all covered with dog drool and germs from the floor of my car. My shoulders relax as it pops into place with only a little strain from one of the wires, but good enough.

Around the pillar, and I’m giving his mother an enormous smile and a hug.

“Thanks for picking us up,” she says.

As I reply, I feel a hair stuck between my retainer and roof of my mouth, and I wonder if it’s mine, my dog’s or some random person’s hair that got tracked into my car at one point in the last two years. But fuck it. For now, my smile’s perfect.