Brace yourself, or move along, because this is a bitching blog entry.
If you asked me a few days ago what "embargo" meant, I couldn't tell
you. At least, not before cheating and googleing it. I might have
guessed (in my head because I know I would be wrong) "Um, is that
like, um, something that happened after the Boston Tea Party or
something?"
Now I know what it means.
In preparation for going home to Boston last-minute to be home for Dad
while he has his ticker checked-out, I scrambled to find a flight home
that was direct, and not at the peak of the day's heat. I was bringing
Ollie home with me and started making calls to reserve a space for
him.
I called Delta. Yes, there's space on the flight leaving Wednesday
evening. But, the Thursday afternoon back is booked. OK, I'll take the
one in the morning coming back then. OK, there's room for him on that
one. No problem.
So, I make an appointment with Ollie's vet to have him checked and
cleared for departure, as it were. I gasp and try not to cry when I am
billed $75 for a man to look into my dog's ear and give me a signed
piece of paper and claiming it's an official health certificate.
I pack-up and wrangle my friend Will into riding to the airport with
me and taking my car back to the paper and parking it there. He takes
one look at my abnormally large bag and teases me. I have issues - one
of them is not being a streamline packer. Well, I just don't know if
I'm going to want to wear these pant or those on any given day. I'll
admit it, it's a serious problem and a flaw for sure.
Curbside, a man takes Ollie's kennel and places it on his cart. My
abnormally large bag, my dog, and I are off. I approach the check-in
and the bitchy wench behind the counter barks, 'You have a dog with
you!? We have a dog embargo right now, he can't fly!" she struts out
from behind her counter to get closer, "Oh, that kennel is far too
small for him, he can't turn around in that at all, you can't fly with
that!".
Her tone infuriates me. Speaking to as though I'm not only a child,
but a child who abuses her (spoiled rotten) dog.
I explain to her that, gee, that's strange because I've flown with him
a few times before on her airline and there's never been a problem,
and oh, by the way, I reserved a spot for him on your plane just last
night with YOUR company. (In my What If version of this situation, I
tell her to shove it right before I exaggerate my current situation by
telling her I am rushing home to be with my father before his
quadruple bypass surgery...NO NO! For his heart TRANSPLANT! Yeah,
THAT's it!)
A second woman asks for my name to look me up in the system.
"I'm not checking in right now, I have to find someone to take my dog"
I tell Dumb Lady number two. I'm confused as I watched her continue
to check me in, as though I'm going to hand my bags over and hop on to
the plane and leave my dog in a crate in front of HER stupid counter.
Like, oh, I'll just pick him up when I get back 'cause my priority is
definitely checking in my bags right now.
Will turns around and comes back to pick us up. My cell phone rings
and an automated message from Delta informs me that my flight is
delayed an hour and a half. Actually, that's annoying but at the
moment, helpful.
I don't want to burden my friends by asking them to come check on
Oliver three times a day at the apartment. He is super protective of
the house and basically is a giant pain in the ass on his own turf.
Will wants my dog. I mean, he WANTS my dog. He says that instead of
spending the weekend in St. Pete, 3.5 hours away this weekend, he'll
just drive over and back in a day.
Um, no.
I call Libby and she is happy to take him. I scramble home to get a
bag together of crap for him. Bag of dog food, which he probably won't
eat? Check. Treats he will probably turn his nose up at? Check. Fuzzy
bed? Check. Mangled remains of the Boston lobster dog toy? Check.
Confused dog with benedryl in him because he's supposed to be chillin'
on a plane? Check.
I call mom, "I'm probably going to start crying but I'm ok" I preface.
Then, I tell her about the change in things and make fun of myself for
being so attached to my damn dog. As for the flight, we agree it's
best for me to take a cab from Boston home. No problem.
I am pushing it with the time at this point, so I pack the dog into
the car and head over to Libby's. Halfway there the needle on my gas
gage goes from an eighth to empty.
I step in gum as I stand next to the pump to fill in three gallons quickly.
Libby is not home but they've left a door open for me and when I leave
Ollie, I basically throw a treat and run to avoid any opportunity for
panic and sad last minute eye contact suggesting the feeling of utter
anxiety and acknowledgment of abandonment issues.
I am sad. My doggie's not with me.
My dad called. When I find out when I am arriving in Boston, call, he
tells me. He wants to pick me up. Cause that's what I need - my poor
dad to have a heart attack in late-night Boston traffic. I swing back
by the office to pick Will up and we experience a scene from Groundhog
Day by doing this routine all over again.
We pull up curbside and do a Chinese fire drill. He looks at my bag as
I grab an end and assist by car in giving birth to it. "Don't make fun
of my bag" I sneer at him.
I head inside and look at the Delta counter. There is no one on the
entire floor and there is no one behind the counter.
A cricket chirps.
I scamper over and see a man come out, "Oh, please tell me you can
check me in?" He can. Gate C, he tells me.
I look at the directory, the gate's at the right at the end of the
airport. I book it. Oh, good, I think, as I approach security, there's
no line. I hand the woman my ticket and ID.
"Gate C" she says, "Other end".
Of course it is. Fortunately, Palm Beach International Airport is
small, so I trek to the other end. I am again the only one in line. I
shed items, take my laptop out of my backpack, and hook my insulin
pump onto my shirt so I can hand over my belt. The security guy sees
the pump, "I'm gonna need a female assist!" he calls to a colleague.
Yes, my insulin pump administers insulin AND explosive fluid. I think
if I upgrade I can get one that will do my taxes, but I'm not sure.
I'll have to look into that.
I am frisked and then sent to where my backpack is now being violated.
Apparently there's a new search procedure which they do from time to
time. They take every...little...thing...out of you bag and run a
small cloth on the end of a wand across it. Each little cloth is put
into a machine.
"Did you buy a ticket last minute?" the guy asks me.
"Um, no, not really," I tell him, although I suppose getting a ticket
the night before can be considered last minute, "I'm just checking in
kind of late".
It is now 8:30 and my flight doesn't leave till nine, but as I watch
him painstakingly pull out every little thing and run his little
Harry Potter wand over it, I have to stifle my chuckling over the
day's events.
On the plane, I am relaxed as we take off. Once in the air, I pull out
my laptop to watch a movie. Then, I remember, my computer melted a few
weeks ago and I lost everything in the retrieval process. Including my
movies. I raise my fists to the sky and shake them above my head (in
my head, of course) AAAaaarrrrrgh!
I am reminded of one of my favorite childhood books (the fact that
this crape-hanger of a book is one of my favorites is for a post of
some other day), "Alexander and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad
Day".
I think I'll go live in Australia.
No comments:
Post a Comment