I’m back. In case you were worried. Where was I? Oh right, the missed flight incident. But first, on my way back to my office yesterday after picking up my mail, I was accosted by one of the residents that live in the retirement community where I work. A female resident. A female resident who LOVES my husband. Of course, all of the residents that have met my husband, LOVE him. So, she stops me to inquire about my family, then she latches her claw like hand on my arm before I can answer and says, nevermind you, I know how you are (you do?), tell me how is that sweet husband of yours. I see how it is. “Well” I answer, “I haven’t browbeat him to death recently, so he’s good”. Hahaha she cackles, yet not denying that such a thing would even be possible. I smile benignly. I’d be as NICE and WONDERFUL as my husband if I didn’t have to get up so early to polish his halo. I’m just tired, see. And bitter. Maybe a little bitter. I get tired of being the villain in the marriage book of my life. He swears he only says good things about me in his sermons, and he wouldn’t lie about a sermon, right? Of course, every time he does comment on what a wonderful wife and mother I am, the residents probably whisper to each other something along the lines of “that evil bitch probably made him say that, poor guy”. Okay, maybe I exaggerate just a little, but when you constantly hear things like “your husband is so sweet and wonderful, you two are really nothing alike” it breaks you down a bit. Anyway, as usual I’m off on a tangent. My husband is wonderful. Wonderfully imperfect. We are wonderfully imperfect together 🙂
Back to “da plane, da plane”. We flew our oldest daughter out to California for some fun and frolic with friends for a week, and it was my job to take her to the airport. It’s not far from where I work, and her flight was scheduled to leave at 8:30am. I drive that way every day, so I know the traffic flow and the perfect time to leave. We can leave around 6:30 and make it with plenty of time to spare. Right?! Wrong. Literally, 7 miles from the airport, traffic comes to a complete and total stop. It’s only 7am, we’ve got an hour and half…I’ve got this! 30 minutes later, we’ve moved approximately 6 feet. Now I am freaking out. Well, alternating between freaking out and trying to assure my daughter that we will make it. It goes something like this:
“OMG WE AREN’T GOING TO *BLEEPING* MAKE IT!! I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS! I CAN SEE THE *BLEEPING* PLANES RIGHT THERE. STUPID TRAFFIC! I KNEW WE SHOULD HAVE LEFT EARLIER”
“But everything will be fine. Yes, fine. We’ll make it. No worries.”
‘OMG WE ARE NEVER GOING TO MAKE IT! OMG OMG OMG! YOU ARE GOING TO MISS THE FLIGHT. YEP. MISS THE *BLEEPING* FLIGHT.”
“No, of course you won’t miss the flight, we’ll be fine.”
My personalities argued like this back and forth until I was able to finally exit and take the service road to bypass the traffic jam. My daughter is keeping very quiet. I mean she’s probably thinking I am a crazy person, and she’s not far off. Of course, after trying to park for another 20 minutes, I realize we are in the wrong terminal. I’m still alternating between cursing, hysterical laughter and assuring my daughter that everything will be fine. She’s still quiet. We finally make it to the correct terminal. It’s 8am. This is not looking good folks. We enter a parking area, the sign reads 300 open spots. Yeah, where? Are these spots invisible? Are only the people on time for their flight allowed to see these 300 open spaces? Because all I see are WALL TO WALL CARS! Or am I supposed to believe that there were 300 cars just ahead of me and they snapped up these open spaces. We finally find a spot, on the roof. Then we become those people. You know those people. The ones dashing through the airport, hitting people with luggage, hoping against hope that by some miracle we will make our flight. My daughter looked very cute and dainty dashing through the airport. I looked like a panicked hippo on hunting day, a sweaty out-of-breath hippo. I hit so many people with her luggage that I stopped apologizing. We run to the ticket counter……line……..to wait. It’s 8:10. Why is there is always one ticket agent just standing there doing nothing. She’s not even trying to look busy. I keep my eyes trained on her, shooting imaginary laser beams, just daring her to look my way. She doesn’t. I’m sweating. Profusely. At 8:29, we make it to the ticket counter. And still I hope that I will get my miracle, my hail mary…
Even after my award-winning oscar performance, that plane was going to leave without her. My choices now were:
A. go on standby and hope we make a flight sometime in the next 12 hours.
B. pay an extra 75 bucks and get her on the 1pm flight out.
We went with option B. This pretty much sums up how my daughter is feeling right now. Can’t say I blame her.
Well, I have to actually get some work down now. I will wrap this up in the next week or so with Part 3.