Clearly, someone is trying to tell me something.
I should have known when everything fell right into place for our little weekend trip to Hotlanta. Nothing forgotten. Happy children. Cheerful mother-in-law.
But then, we arrived at the airport to find every single person in Philadelphia trying to fly to Atlanta today. I know, the CNN Center is just fabulous and I love me some Japanese Prune Coke at the Coca Cola Museum. However, I'm not sure that's worth the hellishly long lines at the ticket counters and security -- with two children, two car seats, a stroller, three bags, and a mother-in-law.
I was hoping that with the huz being employed by an airline I might get some special privileges.
Apparently that was the ONE free ziploc bag for my Preparation H cream with the butt tip that stopped the x-ray tray in front of half of the city.
Nice.
As airline employee dependents, you fly standby. No special red carpet, no stickers, and no cute set of wings. And, clearly, no special treatment. As I learned, do not for the life of you mention the word "pilot," at least to gate agent Mr. Sherry F., a man with a very weird first name for a man who's not a pre-op trannie, because he will not offer you the two open seats on your flight because "you are a party of four."
Yes. Four humans -- two of whom are small children and can clearly sit on laps and take up two seats.
"Don't make me whip out my boob and nurse right in front of you, Mister" I thought, considering the possible ramifications (and exciting blog post) of such an action.
But alas, I didn't think Mr. Sherry F. would have cared. And so started our long field trip day at the airport.
We had a picnic lunch under the large overhang at Gate E-3. We tested the various toilets and sinks at each of the two women's restrooms. We ate large amounts of candy, including gummy bears, lollipops, and twizzlers.
We listened as my daughter cheered for the arriving planes and cried loudly as they left without her. And we watched solemnly (and looked away, as many of our country people are doing) as the casket of a soldier was loaded onto a plane with a military escort and salute.
And we cried when the third flight was over sold with no chance of us getting on it.
So, our trip to Atlanta was not meant to be. We'll have to meet Ted Turner and indulge on an hour long sugar high sampling of cokes another time. And while I have to admit that the airport was almost as exciting as the zoo (less animals, air conditioning, and just under half the stench), I'm pretty sure you won't see me listing it as an "Indoor Listen and Learn" activity at Gocitykids.
And our only saving grace was that we at least got our parking free. And that my children are gems.
Maybe that's what someone was trying to tell me.
We know it's hard mommy. That's why we read our own bedtime stories sometimes.
I spent half of my life trying to get the hell out of Jersey, and the last five trying desperately to get back. I'm not quite sure what it is about Jersey that people seem to loathe, including the folks that live there.
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