Go Fuck Yourself ‘burb page and you’re not listed, you’ll need to send again. If you emailed me and I haven’t replied, send again. If you have a journal that I read, please send me an email summarizing everything that happened in your life in the last ten days. (I’m kidding on that last one.) A normal person would download a different email client. Of course, I’m not normal, and so I’ve downloaded Eudora yet again. When I’m whining about losing my email yet again in the future, you have my full permission to call me a dumbass. So, the spud and I left Portland yesterday at 9:35. We almost didn’t make it to the plane, because we were sitting by gate number 5, since it said over the gate that the flight leaving at 9:35 would be leaving from that gate. After getting a blueberry scone and orange juice from the Starbucks stand (did you know that Starbucks doesn’t serve soda? What the hell is up with that??), the spud and I sat and ate and read, and then I looked at the clock on my phone and realized that it was 9:20. “Hm,” I said. “Odd that they haven’t begun boarding yet. Wait here, spud. I’m going to go to the bathroom before we have to board.” I walked to the bathroom, did my business, and on my way out I happened to glance at Gate 6. Where they were boarding. Over Gate 6 was a board with our flight number. “Is this flight (whatever) to Cincinnati?” I asked the agent at the gate. “It sure is, we’re doing final boarding. Are you on this flight?” “Yeah. Hold on, let me get my daughter and my stuff!” I said, ran over to where the spud was playing on her gameboy, grabbed her, gave our tickets to the gate agent, and headed down the jetway. We were the last ones on the plane, and we’d barely gotten to our seats when they shut the door and we were on our way. What I hate most about flying is how incredibly fucking boring it is. It’s especially boring when you’re trapped on a plane for two and half hours and don’t have anything to drink other than what the flight attendant provides. (Note to self: Bring a bottle of water next time) We ended up landing in Cincinnati (I swear that doesn’t look like it’s spelled right) about fifteen minutes late due to some headwinds (I think) which caused the plane to fly slower or something. I don’t know, I can hardly understand the damn pilot when he mumbles over the loudspeaker, all I know is we landed 15 minutes late. Oh, I thought. That’s okay, because we had a 45 minute layover, anyway. We won’t have a chance to look around in the gift shops or anything, but we still have half an hour to get to our gate. Shouldn’t be too bad, our flight doesn’t leave ’til 12:53. Hm. Maybe I should double-check that. Yeah, I’m mighty fucking glad that I double-checked, because my flight wasn’t leaving at 12:53. It was leaving at 12:35. And we had to get from the B terminal to the C terminal. AND we were way back in row 30, and the plane was fucking PACKED. So I stood and sighed and rolled my eyes and just generally acted like a big asshole, waiting for the people in rows 1 – 29 to get their carry-on luggage (have I mentioned how much I hate the fuckers with their carry-on luggage? Except for you, my dear sweet readers. I love you despite the carry-on luggage. Unless you’re in my way, in which case I hate you.) and get their asses moving and out of my way. We hauled ass down terminal B (naturally, we were at the far end), waited impatiently to get on the bus to terminal C, and almost knocked everyone over on our way to our gate. We were almost there when three STUPID-ASS BITCHES who worked in Starbucks and were walking across the hallway (for lack of a better word) stopped dead in their tracks, making us veer around them. “Omigod!” one of them exclaimed. “Do you think so??” “OMIGOD!” I said to the spud in my best Valley Girl voice. “Do you think we could stand RIGHT in the way and make people miss their flight? Because that would be so RAD! That would be the ultimate in cool! We could make them miss their flight, and then they’d have to spend another three hours in this shitty fucking airport!” Yes, I’m an asshole. But the spud thought it was funny as hell. As we ran up to our gate, the gate agent looked expectantly at us. “Huntsville, Alabama?” she asked. “Yes!” I handed our tickets to her. “They’ve already shut the door, but I’ll call out to them to reopen it. Hurry!” She pointed the way. We walked up the steps (it was one of those tiny planes) and the flight attendant said “Please be sure your cell phone is turned off, blahblah whatever-flight-attendants-say!” We sat and caught our breath. “There’s no WAY our luggage made it onto the plane,” I said conversationally to the spud. And I was right. It didn’t make it onto the plane, and Fred had to circle around the airport several times while we discussed with the baggage claim chick where our luggage might be (on the 3:35 flight, being the answer) and where we wanted the luggage delivered. So while I hate you damn people with all the carry-on luggage, I’m certainly starting to understand. Next time I’m going to carry a bag that contains all my contact stuff, my glasses, my thyroid medication (and the spud’s), and my birth control pill. Oh, and a change of underwear. And I’ll be sure to store my bag in the overhead bin and take my time getting it out, yes indeedy. Oh, and our luggage was here before 7 last night with no problem. Yay, delivery people!
This is me, holding one of them. Just call me the cat whisperer.
Their names are Cleo and Porsche, but I have no idea which is which. They’re only 6 months old, and I think they’re going to be big cats.
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