The Man-friend said he wanted to fly out the day after Christmas to Arizona. We both thought I at the very least would be working Christmas Eve (which by the luck of Supervisor I didn't have to) and that we'd probably be having some sort of makeshift family over between Xmas and Xmas eve.
The British call it Boxing Day. I heard it's when you give your servants a tip. I heard it's when you box up your leftovers for the needy. I heard it's when you box up your excess hoard for the needy. It all appears to be untrue. I'm not ready to find out via Wikipedia and just see if I learn the truth -- kind of like when I heard Sausages and Potatoes got the name Bangers & Mash during the meat rationing of the War. Which War ... ugh I am not sure. I'll go with WWI. bah I don't know.
Anyhow we fly out Boxing Day. We go to the airport, but he makes no Sky Park reservation.Why no reservation? Because he forgot it was the holidays. Hmm. They were full. Hmm. So they sent us to the Long Term SFO Parking, but guess what, they were full. But hey, they were cool, sent us with a voucher with bad accented directions to the International Parking lot where there were no parking spaces for 4 floors. We felt like we were in a video game. Whatever we were doing what we needed...
EXCEPT MY INNER CONTROL FREAK WAS FREAKING OUT ABOUT TIME.
I was cool ...
We stalked a spot. We got in the elevator. It wouldn't work. The lights flashed, the doors wouldn't close, the button outside wouldn't hail another elevator. I swore.
Elevator goes away. Non-possessed elevator comes. We are in the wrong terminal. Tick Tock you don't stop, Mr. Clock.
We take the Tram. It's okay, I'm playing it cool-ish. But my eyes shoot venom.
We are doing fine. We only need boarding passes. We are doing fine. We go to the bathroom and make it through security and have plenty of time. We are ... you get me.
We get food, we get on the plane, I start knitting. We sit on the runway for 50 minutes. Other people's children are disgruntled, so am I, but I'm an old grumperella and can cope better. Who can one blame? Why
blame when one can knit?
We are on the loudest flight ever. Really? It hasn't been that long since I've flown. But it's really loud, makes us nervous. There is turbulence. It's okay. The Kid is antsy but that is okay, he's got my iPod, but he can't really hear it. He eats chips, he holds his hands over his headphoned ears. He is better he says when he lays down in The Man-Friend's lap. Then Man-friend spills an entire airplane cup of ginger ale on my bathing suit region.
I'm sticky in my bathing suit region and imagine bizarre explanations regarding UTI medication requests and I'm resigned. Man-friend apologizes profusely, knowing it's not his fault, I cannot say anything at least know I have good story coming. Frustration is hot and bothered like a pair of ginger ale panties.
Plane lands safely! BIL is there ready for us. He had checked flight times and was not waiting too long. I go to the bathroom ... I take a "Trip" in the ladies room, bruised knees and a stranger picking me up. I thought that was very kind.
My husbands family, my in-laws, my son's appropriate excitement, and an excellent meal with excellent wine (Dutton Ranch & Cote Rotie) were fantastic.
My BIL & SIL have a tv that they let me stay up and knit to like my own private AMC theater. The Kid has not asked to play Club Penguin once. Between my father and My BIL/SIL he is in NERF blasting heaven.
Have showered and fresh clothing self since ginger ale incident, unfortunately In Laws washing machine is possessed. I feel for them. We can wash stuff when we get home. They have one more chore to deal with, on top of 2 kids in house, a business, 2 dogs and US in the house. Thankfully they are kind and patient.
Tomorrow's update: Shopping AZ sales avec SIL. Ry's introduction to Chowder and TaTa's luncheon.