In keeping with my overcommitted over scheduled self, I thought I would work one Sunday night before taking a red-eye..hah…but not just any night, I was selected to work a special birthday party honoring a girl that used to work at my restaurant/bar...this girl is a rather sexy bi-sexual whose reputation lingers long after her employment ended... so serving her and her now boyfriend (in what seems to be a bit of straight stretch for her) was interesting to say the least.. They are a loud rambunctious 12-15 top of Italian friends and family who bring in a boom box (featuring a large blue neon light) which they use to blast some well known Italian tune flooding the lounge area...naturally they promptly stand and do a dance which reminded me of scenes from My Big Fat Greek Wedding...yes, I realize this is a culture on the other side of the Ionian Sea.... after which each guest sits in a chair while 3 boisterous Italian woman sing some blessing/song while hitting the guest on the forehead and each cheek. They were amusing but took forever to close out! Usually, a birthday party is not welcome to provide their own soundtrack. I guess, if you hooked up with a manager when working there and wear an entirely too tight red dress then you receive boom box privileges? Getting nervous, I try to pre-pack in my head, since I haven't packed a thing, again true to form… and simultaneously trying to field questions from the challenging, egotistical bartender, regarding my thoughts on hell, love, and past relationships..and maybe something thrown in about Babylon. Naturally, I ask for a cocktail and proceed to drain some sort of a large fruity rum concoction. The jubilant party finally disperses. I count my money while now trying to answer what I like most about this bartender..yes, he asked me...of course, I attempted not answering which only served to fuel a worse fire. Somehow an orange martini was left lonely on the bar...I drink that too...then run out the door at 11:20pm...please note, I was to be at LAX by midnight...right...
So I hit my apartment door, pack, a bit buzzed perhaps, or just stressed out over many other unrelated things, the least of which would be diving into this other world called family/past/South/etc...wake up my angelic roommate for a ride...and fly out the door...
I arrive with a whole 10minutes to spare on my 40minute check in requirement. I attempt to swipe my card only to find I need a confirmation number this time?...the young man behind the counter has pity on me and helps me find the pertinent info. He is then kind enough to remind me in my fairly skittish state that carrying on liquids is not a good idea... then I rapidly transport my lip gloss and visine and scope from my purse to my luggage and check a bag...
just as I feel in the clear....I remember I have pepper spray in my purse. because I leave bars late at night after work, laden with valuable phone numbers from creepy men...I haphazardly call to the TWA man to stop the bag. I safely stow away the spray and my new TWA friend informs me that now this baggage belt is closed...so I run back to my original sympathetic ticket clerk...who finally just takes the bag from me and personally walks me to the next bag check point... Except that I now realize I have lost my ticket!...and of course, my driver's license with it...
Now a second man comes over to assist me. He tries to calm me and offers to print out another ticket for me, if I would just hand over my ID..haha..which would be a brilliant idea...but the first dude placed my ID inside the missing ticket holder with the original lost boarding passes......I then quickly sprint to the other end of the counter, find the boarding passes and ID , run back and assure my two new unimpressed friends that all is well, and they direct me up the escalator to security.
Once seated in my middle seat, I am pleased to find 2 introverted non-talkative neighbors who are both rather fit, leaving me adequate room. However, I do wish that I was not 5'8”, instead I wish I were 5 feet..which is clearly what this airline assumed the average human height to be when they designed this plane for a red-eye flight.
I pass out and wake as we are descending for my lay over..roughly 4am west coast time. I sleepily wander out to my next gate. and keep noticing all the shops have so much Texas stuff. What is the deal with all the burnt orange longhorns? Then I realize I am Houston and chuckle to my groggy self.
The next small flight carries about 10 of us.
I wrap up in 2 blankets, hugging myself, b/c with all the extra seats, they must have been transporting some Southern hunter's recently killed deer carcass and consequently needed to keep it appropriately freezing.
The seat belt light dinging off awakens me. How do you sleep through a plane landing? No one even asked me to return my seat to the full upright position.
But, where are my glasses? I pat down my head, my lap, the floor, the wall I feel a glare from behind me, decide to let the man behind me pass.... not that I could see him...and panic. I see only a navy airplane haze in front of me; I ask some woman if she has seen my eyeglasses?!?. She mentions that some other woman broke them during the flight…lovely.. Well, did she keep them?! Are the lens broken? and why didn't anyone wake me and tell me?
My contacts would be nice about now, but are checked underneath the plane with my saline solution and all other liquids. I grope to the front of our plane in the direction of "Thank you, have a nice day, thank you, bye bye, thank you." I ask the voice in front of me if anyone turned in glasses? No such luck..I grope back to my row...My neighboring woman has stayed to help me..bless her.. and finds my glasses broken in 2 separate pieces in the seat pocket in front of me. Somehow, my glasses are quite precisely snapped in two at the nosepiece and then shoved down in the pocket in front of me.
I clutch to my sad visionary aide and deplane, totally unsure of my footing. Thankfully I have flown into this airport many times and it is tiny....LAX in this situation would be hell...
I occasionally stop and hold up my two monocles, like a double fisted Colonel Mustard from Clue. I am hungry, tired, and getting a headache since the focal points are all screwed...no sign of my parents...
I just keep following the colored spots of people around me...assuming they will be going to baggage claim? I hear the escalator and ride down. Then spin a couple of times until I detect the sounds of a moving belt...hoping it is my flight and manage to grab by bag...thank goodness my father makes us all keep bright colored ribbon tied to our non-descript bags.
I head for the bathroom to put in my contacts… men? women? I have never been so glad the designer of the Pensacola airport decided to make the sign for the women’s bathroom literally 8 feet tall...
I am starving, dizzy, and so glad to get daddy hugs. Anticipating my family vacation makes the whole trip worth it. Although for the next week, I wore glasses mal-adjusted and super glued together, I was still able to enjoy my mama’s hot water cornbread, a delicacy not enjoyed in my tiny LA apartment with my single twin bed.
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