My day started bright and early when 2doh fell out of bed despite two sides abutting walls and the other two sides protected by those “don’t fall out of bed” gates. I’m fairly certain if the only thing between her and hitting her head on the floor was a light socket, she could fall thru it in order to scream bloody murder, wake me up and torment the remainder of my night.
So I was up a little after 5am on Sunday. A this point we still hadn’t told 1doh about my trip, as we thought it would be traumatic and unnecessary.
I got breakfast from Hardee’s (the diet platter if you must know) and headed home. We spent the morning getting me packed and doing various chores so GBD wouldn’t have to do them in my absence. And I spent a lot of time telling her I loved her. (Shut up fucker. She’s awesome and you’d be lucky to have her).
I finally got packed and realized that a) I don’t really know how to pack for a long trip and 2) I’m not nearly strong enough to carry the amount of shit I need for a long trip.
I got the bags downstairs, quintuple checked the list of stuff I needed, and then debated wearing jeans and tennis shoes vs. wearing shorts and flip flops and carrying the former.
I should have worn the shorts and flops, but more on that later.
I took 1doh to Brusters for ice cream to talk a little about my trip. She was in denial and clearly upset, but ordering a double scoop topped with m&m’s seemed to help.
And like every other time we go, I got an Oreo Blast. I’m simple that way.
So 1doh says, “Can I have some Daddy?”
In my head I say, “Fuck no. You ordered that mess. We’ll be home in about five minutes. Just hold your water.”
What I actually said was “Sure baby. Here you go.”
And we passed it back and forth on the way home, and when we got home, I had about 1/3 of my fucking Blast. We went inside, I gave GBD her Oreo Blast and 1doh proceeded to eat one bite of her four dollar double scoop with m&m’s and said “I’m not hungry anymore daddy.”
I wanted to reply “That’s because you ate my fucking Oreo Blast!! Again!! Like always!!!”
What I said was “Then why don’t you order a Blast like daddy’s?”
She replied, “Because I like sharing yours.”
God dammit. Trumped again by a way cute five year old.
Anyway, we got ready to head out a little before 3pm, and that’s when it happened.
I was putting my suitcase in the car and 1doh came running up to me and started the sobbing about a foot away, and by the time I got her into my arms she was wailing. That made me sad.
But she cowboy’d up pretty well and waved as I left, and it was then that I realized that two weeks out of town was a long time away from home. It also made me realize what a pussy I am considering that my cousin has a husband who is in the middle of a one year plus deployment in Fallujah, Iraq.
So off we went to the airport. It was a nice ride. We went to the wrong terminal at first, which is hilarious given that we’ve lived her every day that airport has been open and that the south terminal is almost completely dedicated to my carrier du jour, Delta.
Poppy dropped me off, and I headed for the curbside check-in, where a crabby asshole told me my bag was ten pounds too heavy.
Ummm….what? What do you want me to do?
His answer? Make it ten pounds lighter.
So I proceeded to do a cost / weight analysis of my suitcase’s contents, and I decided to pitch a five dollar hardback (3 pounds), moved two paperbacks to my computer bag (2 pounds) and I decided to make my bathroom bag a carry-on (five pounds). Fuck you, Mr. 50 pounds.
And then it was off to the security area, which at this point I’m confident has nothing to do with stopping terrorists and everything to do with seeing what annoying and inconvenient things 500 under qualified and over employed sisters can get an endless stream of white people to do in a public place.
What things you ask?
First, I had to let them rummage through my carry on bag and throw away my sealed bottle of scope (4.2 ounces), my unopened toothpaste (still in the box and 4 ounces) and my still sealed can of mousse (6.2 ounces), then they made me put all of my bathroom supplies in a fucking zip lock sandwich bag and carry that apart from my bathroom bag and my pc bag.
Next, take off your shoes. Yes. Bend over, untie them and put them in the first of three bins you’ll be using.
Now, take off every piece of metal (even your highly terroristic god damned Medic Alert bracelet), belt, watch, ring, keys and anything else and put it in the bin too. Also, take out your pc and put it flat in another bin, bringing your total of bins to follow thru to four.
Now, walk thru the detector, have your Medic Alert bracelet set it off, and watch the flummoxed dumbass with the wand look everywhere EXCEPT at the bracelet.
Finally you get to go thru and proceed to re-dress, all while someone else’s shit is pushing your four bins of shit further down the line. That way, you can’t keep up with your shoes, belt, expensive watch, expensive laptop, and everyone behind you is groaning because you haven’t just spun around like almighty Isis and magically been in your original packed and ready to go condition.
Anyway, it was off to the absolute farthest gate on concourse B, and a snack of Wolfgang Puck To Go’s chicken Caesar salad for $8.95. Oh, it was exactly the same as the Caesar at the Chili’s to Go fridge just down the way, but who’s keeping track of the fact that Wolfgang Puck is apparently now required to wear 15 pieces of flair whilst short order cooking at Chili’s.
My flight left mostly on time and I was in a window seat and realized that FUCK I HATE THE WINDOW SEAT!! I’m 6’3” and I was not made to sit next to a c-shaped wall.
The people next to me were very nice. They were a hippy-ish older couple that brought their own food, but they saved their Delta “snack” packs for me, so instead of two wheat crackers, a spoonful of cheese, a tiny box of raisins and two Oreo’s, I got three times that amount. Good stuff.
The only bad part was the 2-3 year old kid who was (surprise) across the aisle from me, and was melting down all the way from Modesto to the airport. His parents tried to use the “I’m going to ignore you if you don’t stop crying” approach, which didn’t appear successful. I have audio in case you were wondering.
I got in on time, got my bag, hit my head on the underside of the trunk, and we headed towards Palo Alto and got some awesome authentic Mexican food. The music wasn’t authentic. Instead of mariachi they were playing Bob Marley. But I think that’s okay. I’m pretty sure that when he was baked out of his gourd, Bob was probably down with a number 11 with some cheese dip on the side.
Ultimately, I got to my room around 10:30, sent some emails, got semi-unpacked, and finally hit the rack around midnight (3am my time), so I was up and going for around 22 hours. I slept great.
Next stop today? Change clothes and head for the Giants game where I hope John Smoltz hits Barry Bonds in the cock on the first pitch he throws him.
More later after the game.
Hugs everybody.
What say you?