Debbie did Dallas and I Just Sorta got Screwed There.

May 19, 2009 at 7:14 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I shouldn't have even posted this, It's OK to be confused... I am, Me myself I and me again | Leave a comment

I know.  I’ve been back from Texas since Friday and I haven’t updated you.  I can tell you’ve been here, awaiting the site to refresh, looking for a new title at the top of the screen… and you’ve been disappointed.  Until now.  Now, my pretties, I give you an update.  The one you’ve been waiting for. 

No?

Ok then.  Moving on.

Thursday morning I woke up excited because the two breakouts that I needed to attend were going to be very informative and NOM! knowledge!  (I so wish I was kidding about my lameness) and then I was flying back home!  I tried to delay, but ended up heading to the airport at around 1:30pm for a 5:05pm takeoff.  I hopped on a shuttle and happily chatted with my fellow passengers.  Then one of those sons of bitches burst my balloon and that was the start of the deflation that was my day. 

“Are you connecting by way of Dallas ?” 

Me: “Why yes.  Yes I am.”

“Bummer… all the flights to Dallas are delayed.”

Wha?  I walk into the awful, unairconditioned, musty little “in construction” side of the airport to see American Airlines signs, kinda sorta… you know, if I stand on my tippy toes to see over the heads of the eleventy thousand people standing in line.  I stand slack-jawed at the monitor to see that my flight is delayed 2 hours.  So very happy I was early.  I then call Wayne to let him know (and for him to find someone to replace him for work the next day) and call Stephanie to loudly proclaim my dismay as other would-be passengers didn’t even try to ignore my conversation but instead nodded their heads in agreement.  At this point I’m in the giddy/stressed stage.  The adrenaline is keeping me stable (you know, in a crazy sort of way).

Lots and lots of tens of minutes later, I get to the counter.  “Help me get to my son!” I joke in all seriousness at the lady.  She “aww”s and tells me she wants $15 to check my baggage (fees to check bags!  and she didn’t even take my bag, I had to deliver it to the evil scanners myself!) and OF COURSE my connecting flight in Dallas will be delayed too so I’ll TOTALLY MAKE THE FLIGHT and DON’T WORRY and oh yeah, here is a number to call if you miss your flight which is THE LAST FLIGHT OUT OF DALLAS FOR THE NIGHT that you will totally make.  I roll my bag over to the scanning machines, think twice, and dig out my wireless card and power cord.  But WiFi in this dump?  I girl can dream.

So I wander over to my gate and I’m about 5 hours early.  I head back to the big hallway that’s lined with business travelers in their suits, sitting on the tile floor next to the coveted power outlets tapping away at their laptops and talking to no one unless you look closely and see that they have something jammed in their ear.  So they are only slightly insane.  I see an open outlet and settle my ass next to it.  I hold my breath and turn on my laptop… double click on Internet Explorer… and SUCCESS!  Terms and conditions!  I scroll the page for fees… NO FEES!  Whoop!  So for a few hours I click through the interweb-super-dirt-road and chat with the other bitching travelers about delays and sore asses.  At this point I’m at the tired/whatever stage.  I’d casually flip off the world if it didn’t take so much effort.

Later, I settled myself in at the gate and read.  (Dooce’s “It Sucked and then I Cried”)  I LOLed IRL.  At the last minute, I opened the laptop to check my connecting flight in Dallas that was totally going to be delayed too and it TOTALLY WAS NOT DELAYED!  As a matter of fact it was taking off 3 minutes after the flight I was about to board.  OMFGWTFFML!!  As I’m walking (OK, standing) in the little rickety thing that connects the airport with the plane the other passengers and I are calmly discussing (OK, bitching and flitting around like birds) our connecting flights in Dallas .  Super Business Woman in front of me takes out her IPhone with a gazillion apps on it and asks me my flight number.  SBW informs me that it’s about to take off for Detroit .  At like any moment.  At this point I’m at peace with my sentence.  I’m in the zen, I know I’m fucked what can you do haha, frame of mind.  La dee da.

That frame of mind continues throughout the 45 minute flight as the plane-wide bitch fest continues its session.  I just read my book and occasionally picked up my head to say, “Yes I am delayed.  Detroit .  Last flight of the night.  I know, right?  What can you do?  Just want to get home to my boy.  8 months.  I’ve been gone for 5 days.  I left him on Mother’s Day.  Not really anything I can do.”  I smiled politely and went back to my book, proud of myself for my zen-like qualities in the face of doom.  Glowed in the envy of my stressed out co-plane-ers.

We land and everyone shmushes for the door.  I take my time, politely let people pass and debark.  There is a chick at the gate letting everyone know about their connections.  I casually strut over to her and say, “I was supposed to be on the 2204 to Detroit .  Gone, right?”  She’s says, “Oh yeah… it’s gone and it was the last flight to… hold on.  No wait… there is one more flight to Detroit and you might be able to make it if you hurry… C17… go, run!”  BABY!  Oh!  BABY tonight!  C17!  Ahhh!  I jiggled my discombobulated ass down the A terminal to the train, across 2 terminals, on said train that didn’t go fast enough, down the C terminal to THE GATE!  There it is!  There are people there!  And a line.  I stand in line like I’m a 9 month pregnant lady waiting to pee.  I think I was mumbling to myself, ‘Baby… go home… I see my baby?  I fly?  Can I?  I’ll sit on the floor… baby… I want my baby’.  Then, eons later, I hear, “Sorry, I only have one stand by seat and… you were first, sir.”  And then some bald dude that looked like he might kill babies for a living steps in front of me like he was the shit when I JUST WANTED TO GET HOME TO MY BABY!  I think people asked me what was going on and if she said there were any more seats or more flights?  And I think I said, ‘Baby… I wanna go home… I have a baby.  Only people that kill babies get on this flight.’  And I might have seen the looks of horror from them if I wasn’t already dragging my feet back towards the A terminal to find my luggage and a place to sleep.  At this point I’m starting to feel a bit depressed.  Chick got my hopes up and the baby killer shot them down.  I’m running/walking/sulking around the Dallas airport with a heavy-ass backpack weighing me down along with my dead hope and my totally not melodramatic thoughts.

Scene 20: Dallas/Fort Worth Airport. Terminal A.  I’m about to cross into the No Return Zone.  The baggage pick up where you can’t go back into the airport and contaminate it with guns and bombs and 4 ounce containers of shampoo.  I stand at the baggage-go-round as I notice that there are about 3 other people in here and two of them are baggage handlers.  The other one’s luggage spits out.  And that’s all.  As in I-look-like-in-idiot-standing-here-waiting-for-my-luggage-because-DUH-I’m-shit-out-of-luck.  I try my best little girl lost routine on the baggage lady.  She says I can try to beg for my bag at the ticket counter, but they are about to close.  She said, “You really got to stay on them.  If you really, really need your bag, you have to beg and pester them until they get it.  If you still don’t get it by 10pm, you’re out of luck.”  As thoughts of unbrushed teeth and dirty underwear sprung to mind, I dragged my sorry ass out into the night.  The hot, humid, assy, Dallas night.  At this point, I’m pretty much done.  I’m holding back the tears but everyone that passes me probably thinks that my puppy just died.  Including my neighbor on the flight to Dallas who stops me and asks me what ended up happening.  As if the lost, homeless, sweaty look on my face didn’t explain it all.

I do a few loops around the outside walkway and back into the baggage pickup and back out again before I found the shuttle to the another terminal that houses one of two hotels on the airport property.  I stare at the floor of the shuttle and do the slow-mo eye blinks and consider whether or not I could stand washing my underwear and letting them dry as I slept commando in a rented hotel room bed.  No, I could not.  Finally, I walk up to the hotel clerk that looks at me like he should swat me with a fly swatter and I beg for a room.  He calmly informs me that the hotel is full.  BULLSHIT!  No!  I think about beginning an argument as my balloon finally gets limp and I hang my head down and cry.  He hands me a slip of paper with the other hotel’s number on it and tells me to try them.  How about a tissue, prick?  Or how about you give me some service and call them for me because it’s a fucking Hyatt as well and where is your SERVICE and COMPASSION and I WANT MY BABY and WTF am I supposed to do now?  I sit in his precious lobby crying on my cell listening to it ring.  And ring.  AND THEN BEEP BECAUSE MY PHONE IS DYING OF COURSE BECAUSE GUESS WHERE MY PHONE CHARGER IS?  That’s right, with my clean underwear.  I go back to drip on the dude and he lets me use a house phone.  It also rings for a while and finally someone answers and says why yes… we have a room for you… I’ll send a shuttle to pick you up.  So then I cry some more.

I go back into the night and realize that I am not at all thinking about personal safety because here I am sitting outside with my only belongings strapped to my back at night for 20 minutes.  Oh well.  I get on YET ANOTHER bumpy shuttle and bounce my way BACK to Terminal C.  I make a bee-line for the front desk like they have crack for me there and say, “A room, you said I could have a room.  I need a room.  Do you have a store with underwear?”  And her smile falters and she says, “A room?  I think we’re booked.”  Thankfully someone told her she talked to me and that she could give me a handicapped room before I leaped over the desk with my last bit of strength and asked her if she wanted to eat her keyboard or feel it rammed up her ass.  Luckily I stayed sweet and calm and out of jail.  I limped to my handicapped room and went back out telling God that he made a funny out of my night and HAHA I can take a joke, but PLEASE let there be some sort of store in here that’s open or you’re going to see one of your sheep lose it’s wool and then there it was: a store.  With it’s door closed… and an OPEN sign.  And I tried the door and it was OPEN!  And it had T-SHIRTS and WATER and TOILETRIES and UNDERWEAR!!!  Fresh, clean, $15 underwear.  I took my $50 purchase back to my room and slept.  I this point I’m feeling UH-GAH-Waa-tuble-okjahlgkjarhbkemroiqrvgned.  Because I don’t think I could have spoke English just then.

Friday morning and I’m in a shuttle to the airport.  I get through security and, Look! A Starbucks!  I get a Tall Caramel Latte with Whipped Cream and go to my gate.  I board the plane and it’s not even full.  There’s a seat between me and the lady in the aisle seat.  Don’t you just love it when there’s a seat there?  Then the moment of truth.  The baggage carousel.  GOD ONLY KNOWS where my luggage is.  And of course, because DUH!  It’s not spitting out.  I look at the American Airlines woman with desperation that could weigh down a camel and she invites me back to look for it.  And… THERE IT IS!  IT’S THERE!  THE PLACE WHERE I’M AT NOW.  THE PLACE THAT WHICH I AM IN!  RIGHT THERE!  I do a leap hug at the lady and run to my car.  As I’m paying for the parking that was basically about the same cost as my flight, Stephanie calls and asks if I’m alive or on the planet and I say, “BABY!  IN THE STATE!  THE STATE THAT HAS MY BABY!  Baby!  BABY!” I don’t really remember the drive home, just alternating thoughts between, “BABY!” and “Should I try to go 95 MPH?”  Before I know it, I’m squealing into the driveway, barely remembering my keys before having my husband and BABY meet me at the door.  At this point I am complete.

FIN.

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