I write to you from the bar at the Wingate Inn in Round Rock, Texas. And as if I really needed to mention it based on that first sentence: I'm having a bad day.
Now, I'm not talking about your run of the mill, things were kind of sucky, every stoplight turned red, and my hair was frizzy kind of bad day. And nor, am I talking about a day where a loved one died, 100,000 people were displaced due to border fighting, or I just found out my dog has an incurable disease kind of bad day (puh, puh, puh). This was a day where it truly appeared that the universe had used its intelligence to design chaos, line up every sort of obstacle, reserve every type of irritant, and set up events that could cause light injury to fall in my cluttered path.
This is the type of day I blame on gnomes.
That's right; gnomes. Not your garden variety gnomes that frequent English gardens or come from that crazy ass book from the 70s - (will insert link to this weirdness later). These are gnomes who went bad, smell bad, invented bad. Gnomes who's primarily goal is to disrupt the lives of the innocent, because...well....for gnomes; its fun. The gnome assigned to me is named Frothington Wurlygurt, and somewhere at some place in time I did something to him. And he saved his revenge for today. August 1, 2008.
Here's the quick and dirty; I woke up bloated (dont' laugh, it sucks). I tripped in public and possibly (no actually) exposed a boob. After the boob exposure, I suffered a deep oh so deep papercut under my pinky fingernail that bled on a small (not mine) dog at the vet. The owner then asked for an HIV test.
The taxi I reserved for my trip to the airport was 45 minutes late due to a flat tire, almost hitting someone, and a moving van almost hitting it. The said taxi almost drove off with my luggage in the trunk when I was basically flung out of the car at the airport. (Now don't forget to register the obvious subtext here - this is the real reason for the very bad day) I learned that families going through court in our timeframe, will most likely not travel to Ethiopia to pick up their lovely children till October. FRIGGIN OCTOBER??!!!!
I got to the airport, and it was filled to the outermost brim with pulsating masses of sweaty inexperienced travelers with gaping mouths (not that there is anything wrong with that). I thought I would be smart and check in with only carry on luggage. (FRIGGIN OCTOBER!???) 30 minutes into the security line, I realize that I am carrying thousands of gallons of liquid in my large carry on that will never, (unless the gnome went to lunch) make its way through security. I wiggle my way in reverse through the security line and through some fluke, rub my hand up against some girl's butt crack. Its too complicated to write it out here and I wouldn't have believed it unless it happened to me, but the crack was big and I was at a very unfortunate angle. (FRIGGIN OCTOBER!!!)
I then proceed to wait in the wrong line, receive conflicting information about where to go, and end up in another terminal because for some reason, mine was the only United flight to gate in the non-United terminal that is conveniently located a mile or two away. I buy a sandwich, walk to my gate and realize that I forgot packaged mustard. (I have to wait to touch my son until FRIGGIN OCTOBER?!!) I irritate the papercut by applying anti-bacterial gel to cleanse my diseased hands (refer back to buttcrack incident). While I'm eating my dry sandwich, I witness and then become almost victim to a nutter-butter airline employee going postal. And I mean batass crazy postal. She emerges from some sort of staircase throwing her open water bottle into the air (missed my head by an inch), kicking chairs, and threatening to take the plane down. Someone named "the queen" has pissed her off, and she isn't taking another bleep bleeping inch of it. And, despite security guards staring, no...one...does...anything. She leaves through some tiny door in the wall that looked like it was connected to my plane with threats of sabotage. But hey, at least we're safe, since my gallons of liquid from earlier didn't make it through.
There's a load of other gnome-generated shenanigans, but alas, the nightlife of rural Texas calls. In short, the plane ride ended in a nose dive. A very abrupt descent into the Austin airport that caused the flight attendent to swear, and vomit in her mouth (or so it seemed). Never a good sign. Nor is it a good sign when it is obvious that the back of the plane is at a much higher angle than the front. You should never be able to detect geometry in a commercial aircraft.
How is the day ending you may ask? I repeat: I'm sitting in a bar at the Wingate Inn in Round Rock, Texas.
David and I live in the big cold blast known as Chicago. We have two delightful doozers, Daisy and Ulysses. David is one of those lawyerly types, and I muddle around in the non-profit world. We are in the process of bringing home a delightful baby boy named Misho. Welcome to the Big Woo!