Airports are a funny thing. Because for all intents and purposes I usually do my “leaving” BEFORE I hit the terminal of sadness and over-the-shoulder-sobbiness, (that intent and purpose being I want to look fabulous, not ruin my makeup and be bumped to first class because I couldn’t POSSIBLY be sitting in coach…) I often have a great deal of time to look around and observe all the other sad sacks saying goodbye. Which in turn explains why I never get bumped up to first class because I usually end up crying and ruining my face watching other people cry and say goodbye. Yeah.

However, yesterday we were running.. lets say.. a titch late. It wasn’t actually late by the rest of the worlds standards, but apparently by said airline who shall remain nameless (but has lost my bags two christmases in a row for months and in turn is pretty much sending us toVenice less I demand to start being allowed to smuggle drugs) when you say arrive at the airport approximately an hour prior for a domestic flight, they actually mean a DAY and an hour. Silly me. Because when we got there, despite all the newfangled devices that let you check in at home, print your boarding pass, select your seat, we still had to get in a line of about 150 people to drop of our bags. Yes, the bags that I had seriously considered packing only ripe cod in to damn those airport workers to airline hell needed to be manually checked in by said airline who shall remain nameless but is operated entirely by crones with a frontal labotomy and a penchant for peach shnapps and or lipstick.

That line of 150 people? We were at the end. Oh, wait. No. We had an entire East Indian Entourage behind us exclaiming that if they could ONLY find Amita their 9th cousin who worked at the Burger King in the lounge, SHE would take them to the front of the line. Ahead of us was an elderly gentleman who looked like he was on the edge of tears, telling us that he never flew said airline that shall remain nameless but almost made an old man cry, and was going to miss his flight as it was now 2:30 and his flight departed at 3:10. We were on the same flight. So, my handsome and dashing brother took charge/was kicked into gear because I was going to explode with anger and it’s really embarrassing and he didn’t want to be around for it – and took his dashing self to the executive line (see: no line). Where he proceeded to tell the less-peachy-shnappy-lippy woman that himself, his sister and their elderly travel companion were going to miss their flight if they didn’t check their bags NOW. And she proceeded to motion us all over to the execute line, I grabbed my teary little old man, told him to hustle, whereupon he led entirely with his cart through every stancheon and rope, knocking down everything and like Moses with the Jews, bringing a crapload of the line with him in his wake. Not going to lie, I smiled at the Indian Entourage and their cries of dismay as they were pushed back into the regular line. HA.

So in the end we made our flight which for our sin of line jumping was populated by crying babies and we were put in the last row which I swear tilts the seats forward, given incorrect change and as such charged 12$ for a glass of wine and had to put up with somebody learning french as they went over the loudspeaker. BUT.

I’m home. And I just slept for the past 13 hours.




1 Comment

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One response to “home.

  1. The last line of this made me laugh out loud.

    Damn you, Air Canada!!

    And I’m glad you and the little old man made your baby-screaming flight.

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