Romantic Times Trip Report Chapter 1
Romantic Times Trip Report Chapter 2 My Armpit Boob
Romantic Times Trip Report Chapter 3 Alien Toilet:
So during the plane ride I guzzled orange juice and wiggled my legs a lot. Because of Deep Vein Thrombosis. The old DVT. Pretty much a blot clot that googling plane rides can make you fear.
I know it’s unlikely. But I was pretty sure I was worm food three times on the way to Nashville. They gave me a nut sack too!!! How great is that? I love when I get free nuts. I think a nut sack is the key to world peace.
My glazed neighbor wakes long enough to order a ginger ale then he’s back to dreamland. I was lucky he didn’t lean my way. You know. On the boob pillow. Because I’ve cuddled my children and probably would have just snuggled him in so he felt safe. Do you see why no one lets me be in public?
We land and it is the reverse of the take off, which is I guess to be expected due to physics and that kind of bullshit, but to me it was another great surprise.
We land in Nashville. I wake up stoner and tell him his gate information that he slept through. We of course part ways with a hug. Because why the hell not?
It occurs to me as I try to make my boarding pass match up with the gate numbers that my suitcase has to follow me on this journey. I can’t imagine that it would work out. All the planning and packing and a suitcase full of swag would probably be getting barbequed in Chicago
The husband had recommended I pack an extra outfit in my carry on. And as I hurry through Nashville I see the smarticles hanging off of that advice. I had just ten minutes to get to the NOLA plane. I made it!
The sign wasn’t matching my boarding pass though. I hate numbers. When going from Maryland to Tennessee I time traveled. Dr. Who math is hard. Am I in the future or the past? Does my cell phone update itself? Is it lying to me? I don’t even know.
I ask the Southwest lady. I point to the time. “Does that mean I arrive at 8:30pm?”
“No, your flight has been delayed. You leave at 8:30pm.” Which is really not the actual time my body acknowledges. I was wildly jetlagged. Many people have told me this was impossible. They are all liars. Natasha’s Book Blog tried to tell me her 22 hour flight from Australia could somehow compare to my trauma.
We need to have a discussion Nashville. Come in close to mama. Closer. Not that close. Respect the bubble of personal space. Okay, no really, climb up in my bosom.
Why are outlets so sparse Nashville? Everyone becomes an electrician at the airport. And all my bullshit is seeping battery life like it’s the only job it has. There are four outlets in the whole airport. Three are on the floor in the hallway. There’s one in the crapper, but you’ve got to really want it to park yourself in there while everyone has the travel stress diarrhea.
It’s cool. I only have like 2-ish hours. I have to be at the gate at 8:30pm. When my plane leaves. Hold up, you don’t have to scroll back, my plane departs at exactly 8:30pm and my stubborn, dumb ass refuses to remember that I need to be there for boarding.
I wander to the food court. Weird offerings again. I notice an Aunt Annie’s pretzel. I can usually slosh that back without crapping my pants. I order and eat the 16 hour old butter sponges. Nashville must pipe some laxatives into their pretzels because all of a sudden, finding the bathroom is all there is.
So I start. You know when a dog circles and circles and circles before pinching it off? Yeah. That’s where I was. Stalls had gaps. All was quiet on the Western front. I’m miserable.
I drag my carry on behind me like Linus and his blanket. Sad. Then out of the corner of my eye I see a miracle.
I remember those! They were rare. And when me and the kids really needed them, they were on the other side of the mall.
A family bathroom. A one seater. With lock. Oh God. Could I do it? I would have totally side eyed someone coming out of that crapper without a kid.
I couldn’t even fart anymore. It was time.
I test the knob. It’s open! I swing all my nonsense in and lock the door. Now I’m like the Jack Bauer of pooping. I have to be fast, effective and undetected. Not to get into too much detail, but I normally have leisurely alone time in the bathroom. An iPad, a nice loud fan and no one bothering me.
I grab the handicapped handrails and set to the task at…um…hand.
Never has anything ever happened faster. There’s actually a backdraft fart that starts a little turd tornado in the toilet.
Okay maybe that was too far.
I wash, tuck, and zip myself into a respectable human again. I slip out of the bathroom like I’m sneaking out of the White House.
Success! No little eyes and a rage-ful parent greeted me on the other side. I felt like a hero. Maybe I was purple and sweating. Maybe not.
I wander back to the gate. Holy crap! I did it again! They are lining up already! I find my spot in the A line and barely make it onto the plane. My favorite two seat row is full, I pick a window seat in the back. I’m sure that’s a great idea. I start talking to the other people in the back of the plane because I’m a fucking nutball. A huge something hits my window. We all jump.
I look outside. I’m like two stories up from the luggage guys. They are laughing.
It was such a loud crack, I thought maybe there was damage. No idea what it was. Sounded like a landlord looking for rent.
This plane is full as well. Two older women bust into my row. They sit down and we are all ass cheek to ass cheek as per the comfort of Southwest. These two ladies were my favorite plane buddies the whole time. They were amazing. We were laughing our asses off the whole ride. Two sisters headed to a girls' weekend in NOLA. I was disappointed that they weren’t going to the convention because they were my new best friends. Their travel day had been hilariously long as well. We were all punch drunk.
I look out the window. Of course take off was a transportation orgasm. About an hour into the flight, I notice someone is taking pictures outside. Then I remember that is really unlikely. Turns out we are flying through a lightening storm. Which was interesting. I’m super reluctant to be electrocuted due to some really spectacular shocks in my past. So far it’s been one of the worst ways to die that I’ve experienced.
Can lightening shoot up? Like it’s headed down, but if it sees a shiny metal blob, won’t it just slap us right in the pussy? I mean why travel all the way to Earth?
I ask around. No one knows. I feel like this is something we should all know. “In case of a very likely thunder and lightening storm you will get your face blown off. Especially if there was someone knocking the fuck out of your window right after boarding.”
I realize I won’t know if I make it until I make it and settle in. I try and get over my fears by talking to my new friends about colonoscopies. Of course. Soon we are laughing again.
The landing was smooth and I checked out the high-tech alien toilets at the NOLA airport.
Yes those are my Mickey Crocs. And yes, I forgot to turn off the camera so you get a trip inside my purse. You'd think I'd be better at bathroom videos.
We land in NOLA. I was actually pretty amazed I got from point A to point B to point C.
I had no hopes that my luggage had done the same trick. Sure enough, as the carousel spins and empties out --my dopey suitcase is no where to be found. I take the walk of shame into the baggage office.
Up Next Chapter 4- What's it like to be slapped by God?
Romantic Times Trip Report Chapter 4- Slapped by God