It’s not our first choice, nor our third or fifth or twenty-sixth, but tomorrow we’ll be flying on a plane with an 8 week old. A family emergency has forced us to face one of the worst circles of hell new parents can imagine: air travel with an infant. There was talk of leaving Fyona at home since somebody has to water the trees, but ultimately we decided she should tag along.

(Pictured but not included: joy.)

This ain’t no puddle jump, either. We’re going coast to coast with a transfer. I tried for non-stop, but with the purchase being made 24 hours before, I decided to only spend Fyona’s braces fund rather than our new car fund. Thanks for negotiating that bullshit, Shatner.

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Well, I’m back.

As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serangetti, you can count on Airports to offer new insults to your pride and remind us all that we are merely sheep at the mercy of our shepherds. Our total dick shepherds.

Somewhere around the 5/8 way mark of our 4 hour drive to the airport in Atlanta, I received a mysterious phone call from a blocked number. Feelin’ lucky, I decided to answer. It was Delta, calling to tell me our flight had been delayed an hour. Wonderful. We were already on pace to arrive early, and the Redhead and I were fearful of anything that extended the 2 hours of sitting at the terminal we were expecting. A brash decision was made to stop off for food. Never being a big fan of chains, except of course for McDonalds, I suggested that we find something with a little local flavor. We chose a place that boasted of “Country Italian” cooking. It sounded intriguing. It wasn’t. It was, however, happy hour, and a couple of 3 dollar bellinis gave me hope for the rest of the return home.

The hope didn’t last, as 20 minutes into the flight a flight attendant exploded a can of coke all over me. The iPad survived, and therefore, so did she. The actions of the can could be explained by the bumpy flight, but we seemed in good hands. The pilot made up time and kept us level, sticking the landing like a pro. Then all hell broke lose.

As soon as the plane was at slow roll, a lady in Pink brand sweatpants stood up and marched toward the bathroom. The stewardess told her she had to remain seated while we taxied, but Pink responded, “I will PISS in my pants,” in a stern and bratty tone. When the door locked, the pilot came on: “folks, FAA regulations NEED you to remain seated while we are taxiing. Please exit the lavatory.” This gave an idea to another passenger who had been wearing sunglasses the entire flight: maybe he should piss now, too.

It was pandamonium. The plane was stopped. We were shy of the gate and more people started standing up, opting to pull their suitcases down or stretch. The pilot came on again, this time sounding worthy of his rank as captain of the vessel. “Folks, sit DOWN. We are NOT at the gate.” It worked. With some grumbling, and their Rosa Parks in Pink sweats having emerged from the bathroom, the unruly mob was put down. 10 minutes later we were cleared for the gate, after a full sweep by the flight attendants. The crowd was silently seething. Half the plane thought that the rules may be for everybody else, but certainly not for them. Does this pilot know who they are?

It’s possible that in addition to being a bold leader, our captain was also a cruel one. Baggage claim was the farthest possible from our gate, and after 4 promises of the bags arriving in “10 minutes,” we got our bags 2 hours after exiting the plane. With the right kind of ears, maniacal laughter could be heard in the background of every announcement promising our luggage in moments.

We’re back in Los Angeles.

Back to California today, after a week of battling in-laws and bees the size of my thumb. One such bee attacked the 4 year old niece, causing her adorable little face to cringe and whimper. She’s a brave one. She tried her best to maintan a cool demeanor, but that little savage yellowjacket had run her threw like a shish kabob. I’ve always had a hatred for bees, but now it’s personal. Like one of the Bitches of New Jersey, or maybe it’s one of the Bitches of Orange County, I declare that if you mess with my family, you mess with me.

Our flight is tonight from Atlanta. It’s in 8 hours and the drive takes about 3, but we’re leaving soon. Last time we got caught when a tractor-trailer jack knifed on the highway, causing a 2 hour delay and for us to miss our plane. While I enjoyed the hospitality and customer service at the Ruby Tuesday’s by our hotel, I didn’t enjoy it enough to have a repeat visit. I need to get back home, or rather, to California. As the baby grows in the Redhead’s tummy, my love of Los Angeles shrinks. It’s not where we live, it’s where we survive. Plus, I have to do everythng in my power to prevent my child from EVER rooting for the Lakers.

There’s no mistaking a flight bound for Los Angeles. The majority of the passengers are all wearing that falsified swagger caused by living in LA. They’re also usually wearing sunglasses at night, and not a single one of them is Corey Hart. It can be exhausting being surrounded by 200 people who all think everyone is looking at them, checking them out, or jealous of them. Still, it’s probably best to get used to it before landing in a “city” of 12 million people dong the same thing.

Perhaps I shall drink on the plane….

I am currently sitting in Hotlanta ATL nursing an alcoholic beverage. This is important, Internet, because I should be on a plane right now. Specifically, a plane bound for home.

(The step we missed.)

The Redhead and I spent the Thanksgiving holiday in South Carolina with her Parents. I’m not sure why, but it seems to be a rule for every family member of hers that they live a minimum of 3 hours from an airport. Today, our commute was interrupted when a crotch rocket motorcycle took too sharp of a turn in front of a Mac Truck and Trailer, sending said Mac Truck (and Trailer) on to its side and slightly into a ditch.

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