Monday, June 12, 2006

Travel Log

From my flight adventures last night...

"Diverted to Casper due to weather." Great. That's what the pilot just announced on the PA system, and of course, I happen to be sitting in the area of the plane that has the Unruly Passenger - a lady in a one-piece denim jumpsuit, in this case - who is already holding those of us around her captive with her extremely colorful string of expletives letting us know that she is "so sick of this!" Oh yes, and may I tell you how much we are enjoying your particular brand of antics right now, Reverend Bluejeans? I am always taken aback by these people who just go nuts like that because, really, how is Curse Fest 2006 solving the problem at 30,000 feet while we're hurtling through the air toward Wyoming instead of Colorado? I'm going to go with NOT HELPING.

I'm looking out the window wondering what the "weather" is, 'cause from where I sit, it's nothing but blue skies and sunbeams. Hmm. Strange. However, my stomach is doing the little flip-flops (like the kind that happened as a kid when the parents would take a hill in the road just a bit too fast, and the excitement combines with the ever-so-slight feelings of, "Whoa, that was also scary. DO IT AGAIN, DADDY!!"), so I know there's something going on out there. Eeep. Too much flippin' and floppin' for my taste.

I feel bad for my husband because we've got this whole little system down when it comes to picking people up at the airport so that we don't have to pay to park, and now I'm not going to be there on time to hold up my end of the bargain. I just snuck my phone on for a second and saw that I have three missed calls, so I'm pretty sure The Dude is wondering where the heck I am. Oops, touching down now as the two guys in front of me are debating just how much Garth Brooks may or may not have aided the career of Chris LeDoux. Yep, I'm in Wyoming.

* * *

Almost two hours later, I'm still hangin' on the tarmac in Casper, listening to the occasional announcements from the captain, pushing back our departure time more and more. I have been listening half-heartedly to the guy in front of me regaling the passenger next to him with stories of what I can only assume was some sort of vacation with the boys, because he is lamenting that "A week as a bachelor when you're married is not like being a bachelor at all." I can't tell if he is sad about it or just stating a fact, but I'm pretty sure the guy next to him just wants him to SHUT IT. Frankly, I'm enjoying it. I'm all for getting a peek into the Mind of Man, especially one who's really starting to sound like marriage may not be for him. Whoopsa-daisy, buddy. WHOOPSA. DAISY. Being a ball and chain myself, I can only hope that the pros usually outweigh the cons, and that my hubby will be happy to see his ol' nag. Reverend Bluejeans has twice gone up to "speak to the captain," informing anyone who will listen that she is "from New Jersey (what bearing that particular bit of information has on anything, I do not know), we need more air circulation in the back of the plane, the beverage cart needs to be pushed around since we're all being made to wait," and the bathroom smell is "positively gut-wrenching." I haven't decided yet if she is a gigantic pain in the ass or the Voice of the People. If she can somehow manage to get the flight attendants to start bringing rounds of complimentary - and NECESSARY - shots, I'll be giving this very vocal representative of the Garden State the benefit of the doubt. Meanwhile, I'm hoping that the "positively gut-wrenching" smell is indeed the bathroom and not the fact that I have not managed to shower in almost the last 24 hours. Please let the spring-air bathroom spray I doused myself in during my hurried state-of-paranoia race to the airport be working its little black magic.

"Please ensure that all carry-on items are re-stowed, all electronic items are turned off, and seatbelts are securely re-fastened."

I believe we have lift-off...

1 comment:

Samantha said...

Between the two of us, we've spent a damn lot of time in the Great Brown State.