TheMommyBlog

Tuesday, July 29, 2008 Me, Me, Me, Bad Mood Dude

You know what’s worse than being offline for twenty-one hours? Being offline AND unable to access your parental shrine of self-absorption.

Sixteen hours ago, I rose at 4 a.m. to catch a car to the airport, where I would fly to Cincinnati for the Pampers Parenting Institute. So exciting!–and a small group, manageable, intimate, we can all hang out and get to know each other.

Enter me, stage right.

First thing I did was trip over a sprinkler getting to the car, and then spill powder on myself trying to put on makeup in the back seat. Then, we found that the airport traffic was re-rerouted in a crazy-eight such that you couldn’t get there from here without first going over there and back here. We still got there in time. JUST in time, but in time.

And that was when I exited the car and did a full-on Miss Congeniality pratfall on the sidewalk, dropping my two novels (who brings two novels on an overnight?) on the floor of the car and schmushing my glasses. Gaaarrghh. I popped right back up again a la Sandra Bullock and marched right up to a check in machine and collected my boarding pass. And then? In band camp? I tried to bend my eyeglasses back in shape, popped out a lens and snapped off one of the stems. Jesus H. Ebeneezer Christ in a sidecar eating a donut.

We all shuffled toward security, past where the food court used to be, and all the way to the first baggage carousel to get to the end of the line, which then snaked back around past one, then two, then three baggage carousels, back past the food court, to the first of three amusement park cattle courses and then finally to one of the six (six!) lines to go through the metal detector. Where the woman in front of me was in a wheelchair.

I thought, oh, she’ll go right through the little gate. No, she was going to stand. She got up, shakily, while half of us readied to catch her or jump away and the other half winced. She baby stepped all the way up to the gate where she stood, flapping her hands, terrified of stepping up and over the little rise of the metal detector’s frame. Her attendant, an airline employee, stood at the ready, watching the woman inch her way across the threshold and not setting off any alarms to our collective relief.

But then the attendant had trouble getting the wheelchair through, and then seemed confused about going through the detector herself. Presumably, being an airline employee pushing a wheelchair for a passenger, she had permission to cross the threshold as well. But she wasn’t entirely sure. Perhaps she was surer before her charge nearly fainted negotiating the thing. Finally, she grasped her employee badge and held it up in front of her like an amulet and I SWEAR TO GOD closed her eyes before ducking through. These are the crackerjack security folks keeping America safe? I’m sorry, but standing there, barefoot and juggling two bags, a laptop, my shoes and three bins, it felt like the terrorists were winning.

Anyway, the flight to Chicago… was a flight to Chicago. What can I say? I hate flying into O’Hare. I lived there for fifteen years and am no longer charmed by the flashy lights and New Age music in the tunnel connecting the United terminals. On the flight, I bought one of those mini meals to stop the growling in my stomach (and to help keep my internal organs down), and as soon as I ripped open the box, I dropped the little plastic knife. No matter, I’d eat the applesauce first. And that was when I discovered that I could neither find the knife, move anything out of the way to look for it, nor open a single bloody packet without it. The peel-off lid on the Rondele? Would not peel. I tried pressing and then jabbing lightly on the foil with the spoon. The spoon broke. At that point it was either start crying or go to sleep. I slept.

To my great joy, we landed at Concourse B! No tunnel! I could hardly believe my luck. I still had about fifteen minutes to board my connection but, alas, it was cancelled. They had put me on standby in three hours.

PR WonderGirl to the rescue! I phoned my contact and agreed I’d started walking toward the later flight’s gate (in Concourse C! Newman!) while she checked to see if she could get me on another airline. I cursed the entire way through the tunnel, refusing to look up and go oooohooh, and hoofed it all the way Back to C. At which point WonderGirl called to say I was confirmed on another flight! Woohoo! Oh, but it was boarding in five minutes On Delta Fucking Airlines, in Concourse L. For Loser.

Does anyone know how far that is? I made a map of my journey. See for yourself.

I jogged over to the nearest information kiosk to confirm L’s location, where I had a small heart attack, took off my shoes, and pelted the mile or so across the airport. I OJ’d my way through seven concourses, skirting every single security line in the place. People stepped quickly out of my way. Children clung to their mothers’ skirts. I was going to make that flight.

One the way, clutching the phone to my ear, I scrambled for something to write the flight number on. How can I not have a pen? Who goes out of town without a PEN? What kind of a writer AM I? Jeebus.

I found a pale blue colored pencil deep in my bag, whipped it out, and asked WonderGirl to repeat the information. That was when the pencil flew our of my grasp, landed exactly on the point, and then the tip snapped off and did a full gainer with a twist before rolling under a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

There was nothing to do but dig out my DS and pictochat with myself to retain the gate and flight number. Yeah, I know.

Five minutes later, sweat pouring down my forehead, back, and arms, I was still only halfway there. I was that guy in the Olympics who could only make it to the finish line in bare feet. Shoes couldn’t help me now. Actually, if my heart gave out it wouldn’t matter.

Finally, I skidded to a halt and collapsed at the counter at the gate, heaving and gasping. “My flight was cancelled… GASP… and they put me on…GASP…this flight…GASP… and I should have a boarding…GASP… pass!”

“Let me see.” Her nails clacked over the keyboard. Back and forth. Typity type, ENTER. Tyyyyypity typeeeee ENTER. Was she playing Tetris? “Yes, you’re confirmed. Let me just print your boarding pass and then you can have a seat until we begin boarding.”

WHAT?

They were supposed to be in the air already, I lost seventy percent of my lung capacity in the sprint over, the rose thorn lacerations all up my leg were on fire, and the plane was late taking off. I had like ten minutes to relax. WHICH I COULDN’T because my heart rate was through the roof and my knees were giving out but wouldn’t bend so that I could sit. Not that anyone really wanted me sitting there.

It must have all been for a reason, because my seatmate in the emergency row was a scream, and we talked and laughed all the way to Cincinnati. I didn’t even know we’d been in the air until the beverage cart came and he bought me a glass of wine for breakfast and a Jack and Coke for himself. We traded kid stories, talked about work, and realized that we knew a whole slew of the same people in Chicago, Colorado Springs, and California. We even knew some of the same places in Tijuana. You don’t even want to know. And then he said he’d once played for the A’s, The baseball team Logan idolizes! If he’s not wearing a Shark’s jersey, he’s decked out in green and gold, head to toe. I got an autograph. He said, “There won’t be a baseball card.”

“Just sign it. To Logan.”

“ I was only on for like five minutes, and then I got cut.”

“The point is that you were THERE. You wore the uniform. Logan is going to love this.”

Best of all, he and his son had just returned from Beijing, where Phil and I are going in two weeks! It was a great trip except for the cough that lasted ten days after he landed. The air’s a little thick over there.

There was sooo much more to this day, but I’m beat and have to check out at 08:30 tomorrow. My dogs are barking and my head’s telling me that the second martini at dinner really wasn’t all that necessary

Nite, all.