LATER DUDE . . . . HELLO MISTER
I signed off with TGG Wednesday night, a hug, an admonition not to get into any trouble, and a plea . . . call me when you have a chance. Met a friend in the bar for a glass of wine, went upstairs packed my bags, watched CNN as the world hurls itself into knots of deception and distortion, then tried to sleep.
After four hours, my alarm went off. Got up, showered and shined, went downstairs and caught a cab to the airport. Prayed desperately to make it through the tunnel alive on the way to Logan International. Mucho traffic. Many, interminable minutes stopped dead in the tunnel. Mucho prayers. Sweat a lot, and arrive alive. Get on board to find a few empty seats, but stuck in a row with two other ladies not too happy to get up and let me get to my window seat. Bad vibes all around. Finally get a chance to move to another seat. Off to L.A. Cross country, homeward bound.
Five and a half hours later, arrive at LAX, wait 30 long minutes for bags to finally start popping out of the damned baggage claim. Catch a cab for a 70 mph stomach lurching taxi ride home, get an interrogation from the Hungarian Nanny with whom we cannot live without, frown at greetings from the pure-breed cat who can only pee OUTside the litter box, and take a gander at the mountain of mail. Hmmm, time to toss another dead orchid plant, open a very large bill from my divorce attorney that I haven't spoken to in several months, and retrieve the case of wine that my 87 year old neighbor signed for from FedEx while I was away.
Whew, take a deep breath, change from sandals to flip flops. . . . then clear off a gazillion poisonous oleader blooms from the windshield of the Red Ladybug, and head back to LAX to meet Grandpa Dave and the Mister. Arrive in good time, get a great parking spot, head to the terminal. Forget cell phone in the car, so reverse course and retrieve the phone. Damn. Call Mom and get Mr. B's confirmation number so I can get past security and up to the arrival gates. Get my pass, get to the gate, find out the plane will be 10 minutes late. Hmmm, I'm 65 minutes early from the original arrival time, so comtemplate my options: (A) sit and wait 75 long tedious moments, (B) spend $10 on gossip magazines, or (C) get a shot ( or two) of tequila.
So, of course I chose option (D) harangue the gate attendant 3 (maybe 4) times to get the skinny on what was up with the outbound flight back to Sacramento. The I/O has been the "Sherpa to Mr. B" lately, and well . . . I just thought he should have a quick turn around. Not that I was pushy or annoying or anything. Wee Daughter is nothing but . . . . . . ummm . . very politely RELENTLESS.
Anywhooo, Mister B arrived all smiles and sweet greetings and Life is Good and all is well. We headed back home in the Ladyug to settle in and endure the affection of the Hungarian Nanny. Our TGG dude calls from Boston to check in all happy and enthusiastic, so we have a glass of that wine from the case, and stay up late doing a bit of nothing at all, other than to send prayers to Grandpa the Sherpa wishing a safe flight back to George and to the Mrs I/O.
Over and Out.
HOME, JAMES
Back from Boston. New England is so cool, so provincial, so nasal. It was warm and humid. Then we had thunder storms and it was hot and sweaty, which then makes walking into any indoor space turn your sweat into icicles because they crank the air conditioning to an arctic temperature.
So, you walk around in the least amount of clothing you can get by with, but hauling a sweatshirt to throw on when you have to enter any establishment to ward off pneumonia. That's weird by my standards. But then, I'm not cool, provincial, or nasal. So . . there you go.
