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August 8, 2006

How to make a 90 Minute Flight Last 13 Hours (Part Deux)

Or, How I saved the lives of Over 20 Babies. And One Dog.

I blogged the first half of this story last week, and nothing below will make a lick a sense if you haven't read the first part...

SO when the captain FINALLY stopped talking about how we might not all die probably, I had this deep, gut instinct telling I must NOT, notnotnot, NOT under any circumstances, get on that flight. I had been burned, you see. And burned and burned and burned, until I had moved WAY past twice shy and into Extra Crispy.

Saying, "I had some trouble this tour with the travel" is akin to announcing that The Middle Ages had a slight rat problem. That may seem like a mild little simile for a girl as hooked on hyperbole as I am, until you consider that medieval rats were all positively dripping with the black plague. It wasn't JUST the security flag... It was a HOST of things. One small example: If I made it to my destination, my luggage did not. If I did not, my luggage did. After the second time, I cleverly tucked a pair of leopard print underpants in my laptop bag, thinking at least I would arrive with clean underpants to wear to the hospital when the cab I got into had its inevitable deadly crash. Two concrete ideas, 1) security flag, and 2) leopard print underpants, wandered around in my brain looking for each other, but they never actually intersected until the next airport's security flag stopped me and the guy who was combing THROUGH my laptop bag picked up the small wad of leapard print cloth, lofted it high where all could see, and fluttered it open into its unmistakably underpantsian shape. NEAT!

I was traveling with Murphy, and his law was in full effect.

I looked around to see if anyone else was panicking, and I started noticing the VAST NUMBERS OF BABIES who were planning to go to Atlanta on my flight. Seriously, like 20 babies. And they were all very CUTE, NICE babies, everything from sleeping twin newborns to a positive herd of fat-cheeked wandering toddlers dragging their parents around to see the exciting chairs of the waiting area.

The (pregnant!!!) woman next to me had a tiny little dog in her purse, and the wandering babies would come up and discover the dog, and then naturally they would want to PAT the dog in a LOVING but uncontrolled baby-esque fashion that looked a LOT like whanging the dog in its head. The parents would apologize, and the Purse-Dog Owner would say, "Oh no, it's fine, she LOVES babies," and take the dog out of its purse to allow the babies to whang at the whole dog, the dog would WAG ITS ENTIRE BODY in joyful acceptance, as if to say OH YES! WHANG ME AGAIN DELICIOUS BABIES. It was probably the nicest dog ever born.

Everyone was having a good time, except me, because I KNEW, I KNEW, if I got on that plane with my terrible cursed travel juices, I would cause the tail to ice, and, not to be too technical here and confuse the NON AVIATRIXES among us by DIRECTLY quoting the stalwart captain....but IF the tail were to ice "Whew-whee! That would be bad."

My mother has always told me, TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS. And my instincts were telling me... DO NOT GET ON THAT PLANE. I tried to get my husband aka Scott aka The Bastion of Reason on the phone, but I got his voicemail. So I started calling girlfriends. I called a good ten girlfriends and got maybe six on the phone. I asked every girlfriend who picked up if I should trust my instincts or get on the plane. TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS!!!! each of them said. I was looking for ONE PERSON to say, "Darling, you are on CRACK. You HAVE no instincts worth speaking of. Get your BUTTOCKS on that perfectly mostly probably safe unless the tail ices flight and COME HOME. But no. It was a Hallelujah chorus of TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS.

Right after the plane left with me not on it, Scott called me back.

Scott: Get on the plane.
Me: It left. Should I rent a car and DRIVE HOME?
Scott: Oh, honey. That's insane.
Me: But, but....I trusted my instincts!
Him: Your instincts are in a state of hysteria and exhaustion. I wouldn't trust your instincts to make DINNER right now, much less life and death decisions. Go get your butt on the next flight.

See why I call him the Bastion of Reason?

I stomped off CURSING MYSELF for a superstitious insane instinct trusting fool. I cursed louder when I learned the next flight would be in five hours. I went dierctly to the airport bar, ordered a cosmo and then struck up a lively conversation with a drunk guy who knew as much English as I knew Deutsche. It went like this:

Me: I don't remember any more German. Oh wait. Geschmacklosigkeit! That's smacking something. Or being blinded by a stick in the eye. Or a kind of horse. Right?
Him: YA! YA! Geschmacklosigkeit! Ya! SomethingSomethingSomething.

Long Pause

Him: SomethingSomethingSomethingSomething "Bucket!" Ja??? SomethingSomethingSomething.
Me: Yes, yes BUCKET, that's the English word for...A Bucket. I don't know the German for it.

Long Pause

Me: Oh but I also remember the word for blue pencil, which is blaustift. DER blaustift because in Germany, pencils are male. Even pink pencils are male, although I think PINK pencils should be called DIE Pinktifts, feminine, except then the SHAPE. Does SHAPE trump COLOR when sexing your pencils?
Him: Ja! SomethingSomethingSomething. Blaustift. Something.

And on like that. If it sounds like a bad conversation, then I hypothesize that you have not currently had NEARLY as many cosmopolitans as I had at that point.

Do I need to tell you that when I FINALLY arrived at the Atlanta airport my luggage had been lost? No, you already assumed that, right? Okay, well, further assume that the LOST LUGGAGE LINE needed one of those winding rat mazes like they set up for the newest rollercoasters at Disney World. I was in that line for almost an hour, then a lady took my info and sent me down the hall. I waited, half dozing and regretting that final Cosmo. Another hour or went by, and then I saw a man coming with my luggage. I stood up and gave a weak cheer. I took it from his hand, began dragging it away. I think I had taken maybe two steps when the handle snapped off. The luggage dropped, peeling a festive ribbon of skin off the back of my leg and foot.

I stared stupidly at the luggage and the foot carnage, then looked up at the man. My foot was bleeding. I still held the broken handle, attached to nothing.
I could not decide whether I should laugh or cry when he shrugged and said "Major Airline won't pay for that," and walked off.

Kindness might have undone me. As it was, I laughed until I thought my liver would come out my nose, giggling and bleeding and wondering how I would lug 50 pounds of luggage out to the taxi line with no wheely handle. I managed though, and now, I tell you, ASHLEY WILKES, I tell you true, I tell you SO SO true I might as well be standing on the hill at 12 Oaks having just vomited up a radish. Picture me lifting my little fist to the heavens and hear me when I say, "If I have to lie and cheat and steal and kill twenty babies AND the nicest dog ever spawned.... I will never listen to my stupid instincts again."

Posted by at 5:51 AM | Comments (10)

Comments

Posted by: Elena at August 8, 2006 6:58 AM

Posted by: laurenjharwood at August 8, 2006 8:43 AM

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Posted by: Sheri at August 15, 2006 2:09 PM