All I wanted was a breakfast sandwich 5
The good news is we finally made it to beautiful San Diego.
The bad news is I didn’t even get to eat my stupid breakfast sandwich.
Scott has a theory that much like a small child, I get cranky when I’m hungry or tired.
And when I’m both hungry and tired?
Well…that’s when Hurricane Katrina rears her ugly head.
I think the account of yesterday morning’s activities proves his theory to be…umm…kind of true.
********
4:00 am: I sleepily crawl out of bed, hop in the shower and finish packing. Bonus points for not forgetting underwear and toothpaste.
4:20 am: Scott finally emerges from bed, after I threaten to douse him with a glass of ice water.
4:30 am: I brew a hot pot of coffee for the road. At this point, there is not enough caffeine in the world.
4:40 am: Jolie frantically starts running laps around the house after unsuccessfully attempting to jump inside both of our suitcases. She clearly knows we’re going somewhere and doesn’t want to be left behind.
4:50 am: Scott, Jolie, myself, and the coffee depart Smalltown only five minutes behind schedule. I agree to drive as Scott reclines the passenger’s seat all the way back, curling up with a cushy pillow and large blanket.
5:00 am: The snoring begins.
5:30 am: I suggest we stop at McDonald’s for my breakfast sandwich. Scott insists we wait until we get to the airport. I begrudgingly oblige.
6:20 am: We arrive at Scott’s dad’s house to drop of Jolie for the weekend. Everyone is still asleep, aside from Uncle Rocky, who greets his beloved with a great deal of slobber and enthusiasm.
6:30 am: After making sure all the doggie accoutrements are in place, we get back on the road and head for the airport.
6:37 am: I file a second request to stop at McDonald’s. Scott tells me to drink my coffee and be quiet. I turn up the radio, hoping that Carly Rae Jebsen will make it difficult for him to continue his napping.
6:45 am: I begin to feel very sleepy, despite the 20 ounces of coffee I’ve chugged, and the fact that Pink is singing obnoxiously in my ear at full decibel. I ask Scott to drive the last leg of the trip. He declares I am being overly dramatic and promptly resumes snoring. Loudly.
7:00 am: I nod off a few times, causing the car to swerve and my heart to race. I inform Scott I’ll be pulling over at the next exit so he can drive. He rolls his eyes without even breaking his snoring pattern. I didn’t even know that was possible, and am so impressed, I can’t even be angry.
7:30 am: We have yet to reach the next exit so I can pull over and switch seats. Why? Because we have hit rush hour traffic. I’ve always just assumed rush hour traffic didn’t exist in Minnesota. Apparently, I’ve assumed wrong.
8:00 am: Still in rush hour traffic, and no longer sleepy. Funny how the fear of missing your 9:20 am flight has a way of instantly waking you up.
8:30 am: Ten miles away from the airport, with only fifty minutes until our scheduled departure. Stress is coursing through my veins with the fury of a thousand rabid ferrets. Scott? Still asleep, of course.
8:40 am: Just moments from the airport, I finally get Scott to wake up. We agree that with only 35 minutes to board, parking in the expensive yet convenient airport lot is our only option.
8:45 am: I start screaming uncontrollably after being unable to find parking spots on four different levels of the garage. Naturally, Scott has gone back to sleep. Finally I park on the roof and wake him so we might run to the elevator.
8:50 am: Just thirty minutes from our scheduled departure, the woman at the check in desk informs us it is too late for our bags to be checked. “They still have a chance of making the flight,” she assures me, “but if they don’t, they’ll go out a couple of hours later on the next one. You’ll just have to come back to the airport to pick them up.”
I nod in agreement, frantically making sure the bags are all zipped up and ready to go.
This is the point where things went south.
In the most sarcastic, condescending, I-told-you-so-tone she could muster, the woman says “This is why we tell you to arrive at the airport ninety minutes early.”
If I hadn’t learned my lesson about punching people in the face a few days prior, I may have attempted to smack the smug look off her face with my ring wearin’ hand right there on the spot.
(Just kidding.)
(Kind of.)
Instead, I took the high road.
(Which means we exchanged words I started yelling.)
(Scott would describe it as me, going BSC.)
(Bats*** crazy, for those of you who aren’t fluent in curse word acronyms.)
Although, when you take into account that my other option was physical violence, I still consider my angry little monologue to be taking the high road.
“Ma’am, let me take care of the bags.” she calmly spoke, “You’re flight leaves in twenty minutes, and you just need to worry about getting through security, alright?”
Scott and I dashed over to the security line, at which point I started to cry. We had fifteen minutes until takeoff and were still behind about twenty-five people in line. I took a deep breath, continued crying, and begged the man at the front of the line to let us go ahead of him. He graciously agreed, and we made it through security just as the final boarding call for our flight was announced over the PA system.
I’m not much of a runner, but I’m pretty sure my sprint through the Minneapolis Saint Paul International Airport F terminal rivaled the Olympic performance of Usein Bolt. Breathless and covered with sweat, we arrived at the gate in just the nick of time. Shamefully boarding the aircraft, we received dozens of dirty looks from all of the on-time passengers who had ended up waiting for us. We sheepishly found our seats, stowed our carry-ons, and breathed an enormous sigh of relief.
We then proceeded to sit and wait for forty-five minutes. Apparently, the captain’s incoming flight from Maryland was delayed, and we had no one to actually fly us to San Diego.
The bad news was that the AC couldn’t be switched on until the captain arrived, and I was still sweating up a storm from my Olympic airport sprint.
The good news was that this meant our bags would definitely make the flight.
********
We arrived in San Diego only fifteen minutes behind schedule. I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I saw Scott’s checked bag rolling past us on the baggage claim conveyor belt.
“See?” I smiled, “I told you our bags would make it.”
But I had spoken to soon. After waiting an additional twenty minutes, it became quite apparent that my suitcase had in fact not made the flight.
A friendly woman at baggage services assured us it would be arriving on the next aircraft, and would be delivered to our hotel later this evening.
“Okay, thanks.” I responded. “It’s just weird that my husband’s bag made it, but mine didn’t. I mean…we checked them in at exactly the same time. Technically, mine even went down the conveyor belt first.”
“Well,” the woman explained, “Your’s may have been flagged by security, which would mean TSA needed to pull it aside and search through it. That might have been the reason for the delay.”
I’d like to think she was right.
Really, I would.
But when Scott elbowed me and whispered “I bet your bag would have made it if you hadn’t gone postal on the check in lady…”, I knew he was right.
Karma’s a biznatch.
But really? If I’d have just gotten my delicious McDonald’s breakfast sandwich in the first place, none of this probably would have even happened.
