Meanwhile, the annual six weeks of San Diego's "summer" just started a few days ago.
6:25 AM - The Anonymous Defense Contractor encourages us to park offsite at one of the independently owned lots that shuttles passengers to the airport. From what I can gather, here are the requirements for the drivers: denim shorts, 10-year-old T-shirt, a 2 packs-a-day habit and one of San Diego's 7,000 classic rock stations on the radio.
6:30 AM - Six Degrees of Trailer Park Trash: During the usual driver-led "So, where y'all headed" segment of the ride, one of the other shuttle passengers mentioned that he was on his way to Chicago to judge a horse jumping tournament. The driver mentioned that he had a cousin who competed in a tournament in Pomona (about 50 miles east of Los Angeles) and advanced to the regionals. The passenger, positively giddy at this point, exclaimed "I judged that tournament!"
I have just summarized the entirety of the 10 minute ride to the airport. Unlike you, I had to live it.
6:40 AM - Just found out about a new policy at work where my company now covers "tips and gratuities" for menial travel servants like airport shuttle guys and hotel room cleaning ladies. Hmm…all I have are 20s and a five. Tell you what…if he's my driver when I get back to San Diego, I'll just double tip him then. Can one of you remind me?
7:00 AM - I've checked my bags, gotten through security and just reached my gate with an hour and a half to go. This has been surprisingly problem-free. I will celebrate by breaking out the latest Maxim and attempt to discreetly read it. Step one: Make sure the cover is wrapped around the back of the mag.
7:05 AM - Maxim informs me that Hilary Duff is a neat freak. Wow, that three-year subscription is just paying for itself, no? Oh, and in another interview, that Michele Merkin chick comes across as an absolute bitch. I just had to get that out now before she's co-headlining a
7:25 AM - I get paged over the PA system and told to report to Gate 30. There's either an emergency at home or someone's about to use the word "overbooked". Guess which one I'm hoping for. (I'd tell you, but Mrs. Bootleg reads the blog, too.)
7:30 AM - My flight is overbooked. But, I'm told that American Airlines has a "great opportunity" for me that "fixes" this problem…that they created. AA can get me on the 7:35 AM flight to Dallas! With just a few keystrokes, they could double my layover time at DFW and virtually guarantee that there wouldn't be enough time to get my bags from my original flight to my new one. This was the guy's sales pitch:
"(Dallas-Fort Worth) is a lovely airport. You can stretch your legs, maybe get a cocktail…"
Is he serious?! AA can inconvenience me, most likely lose my luggage and the upshot is a chance to walk around and pay $8 for a Jack & Coke? I politely declined.
His response: "Your loss. You could've had an aisle seat on this one, but I see you're stuck with a middle."
He made it seem that he was all but SAVING me from a seat next to a restless infant or one up against the sh*tters. Talk about a Jesus Complex. Get over yourself, jackass.
Hey…where's that ominously foreshadowing music coming from?
7:40 AM - Back to my original gate and, in my absence, an absolute five-alarm blaze of Hispanic hotness is sitting where I was at. For the sake of the diversity of my readership…Black People: She was hotter'n fish grease. White People: She was hotter than two drops of Tabasco on your eggs. *Whew*! Can someone pour me a glass of milk…my mouth's on fire!
She's got a small child with her who can't be hers. He looks to be about a year old, but if he came out of this woman, we're talking "Hotness Comeback Mamí of the Year". Even Republicans would be on board. Republicans! Ay carumba!
8:05 AM - Time to board. I'm in seat 34B. Let's see…we're walking, we're walking…row 30…31…32…33…34. Hey, an aisle seat! Hmm, last row of the plane. Against the sh*tters. And, look who's in 34A! It's Hotness…and her restless kid.
Hey…there's that music again.