TheMommyBlog

Thursday, September 10, 2009 Me, Me, Me, Bad Mood Dude, Travel

Hey everyone, it’s time for another installment of “Mindy Gets on a Plane!”

For some reason, air travel is a little more… interesting for me than for most. Take Cincinnati (please). I ran roughly two point four miles to catch a connection ten minutes after landing and learning my second flight had been canceled. I was running with my bags, shoes off, phone to ear, taking notes on my kid’s Nintendo DS pictochat because I didn’t have a pen when the PR person started rattling off new gate information.

I think that was the week after I fell into the rose bush. But I digress.

I was set to fly to Los Angeles this morning to visit Sony Electronics to check out some new cameras and to Sony Pictures for the red carpet premiere of “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.” Yes, me, on a red carpet. Has anyone seen “Miss Congeniality?” That’s about what I’m expecting: a full pratfall followed by a shoulder roll.

Anyway, I checked my itinerary before leaving the house like any good girl, and realized that the hotel and flight reservations were made in the name of Mindy Robertson. Oh, boy. What were the odds I’d get through security? My name is Roberts.

I called the airlines, only half-hopeful that anything could be done and almost a little relieved because I have so much to do in the next few days that would be just so much HARDER to do from the W in Westwood, with Sony Pictures all up in my grill. When I finally got a customer service rep, I asked what the chances were that I’d get to check in with a different name.

“It’s in the name of Robertson, and I’m Roberts. The person who made the reservation is named Peterson, so I can see what happened.”

“Do you have the reservation number?”

“Not on what they sent me.”

“Do you have the last four digits of the card used to make the reservation?”

“It was made by SONY PICTURES, no I don’t have the number.”

“Okay, let me see what we can do. Hang on, is the name on your license Mindy?”

Crap. “No. It’s Melinda. I’m not getting on that plane, am I?”

“Let’s see.”

*hold music, interrupted occasionally by bad airline humor*

“Okay! The name has been changed for you.”

“Really? Just like that? You actually changed it from Mindy Robertson to Melinda Roberts?”

“Yes!”

“I’ve got a few more reservations to check that might be in the wrong name… kidding. But thank you! I’d better scoot!”

Hurdle #1 down.

I had barely enough time to get dressed and scram, racing (at a respectable 65 miles per hour) to the airport in record time.

First mistake, coming right up. I parked at the wrong terminal. I KNOW. SHUT UP.

I actually crossed the whole parking lot, walked all the way through the baggage claim, past security, and to the end of the counters before getting that sinking feeling in my gut.

And then I walked aaallllll the way back to my car and braved the exit attendant. “I, um, parked in the wrong lot.”

“Don’t do that! We were all worried! Wondered where you were!” Funny guy. “That will be one dollar.”

“Stupidity tax.”

“Yep.”

“See ya.”

So the other terminal is in the next county, and everyone has a different accent there. Seriously, by the time I parked again, walked to check in, lumbered through security (almost walked through the detector with my back pack on. I took off my shoes, but not my luggage.) and jogged seventeen miles to the gate, I was tired, hungry, irritated, and breaking a major sweat. So, not all that different from how I am normally.

Wanna guess how much time I had before boarding? Like TWENTY MINUTES. I HATE AIRPORTS.

Oh, and isn’t Southwest the most persnickety airline you ever did see? They have you line up under signs with numbered groups on them, and ask that you have your boarding pass out, preferably printed side up, and that you arrange yourself in line roughly according to the order assigned on your ticket. I was Group B, Number 34. I felt like an idiot trying to find my place. Am I cutting? Does it matter? The guy behind me was all agitated because his number was lower than mine and I was all, “Don’t even ask me to switch, buddy, because we’re getting on that plane ten seconds apart in the end.”

Just before the doors closed, one other guy and I were waiting under the Group B sign. Just us. I started giggling. The guy turned. I said, “This is just like the scene in ‘Meet the Parents’ where he’s standing all by himself while they wait to board his section.

He laughed. “Sir, please step aside, we are not boarding you yet.”

I snickered. The gate attendant called us. We suppressed more laughter. I thought I should explain. “You see, it’s like that scene in ‘Meet the Parents’? When there’s just one guy left to board?” He held his hand out, waiting patiently for my boarding pass. Apparently, he didn’t understand my accent.

And then I was standing in the aisle, holding my black bag, turning left and right, looking for a place to stash it. I started laughing again. I thought, you’ll have to pry this bag out of my cold dead hands, so step off bitch.

Hey, time to turn off all electronic devices and look for my driver.

*putting on big sunglasses*

Update: He was holding a sign that said, “Mrs. Robertson.”

And I have a studio! SWEEEET.