Now that I'm two full days back to the reality of my life, I've had a moment to reflect on just how freakin insane the actual travel part of my trip to Ireland actually was. If I had never even seen Geraldine in Ireland the flight out and the flight back would have been enough of a shit show to have made the trip worth while. At the very least worth while to write about in this here blog o'mine.Ok. So. The ticket was free. Free tickets mean layovers which for people who work/travel for work is a major hassle. Layovers for stay-at-home moms means more time to drink and socialize with adult strangers at the bar -- which is awesome. Given that normally an interesting week for me would be scoring a free pass to the zoo or the aquarium -- the thought of a free ticket to Ireland with a layover where I could day-drink between flights...well, let's just say...I started to drool just thinking about it when I got my itinerary.
On my way out, my flight to Ireland had a three hour layover in Atlanta. I think I was in the TGI Friday's bar about seven minutes after the plane had landed from Boston. Not to worry, I made sure the TGIF bar was the closest to my departure gate and that my bag (an enormous suitcase entirely filled with baby gear for my friend) was checked through to Dublin. Score. I had almost two and half hours to hang out, relax, and pull some poor sap into a adult conversation with me since the only people I hang out with on a regular basis are under the age of three.
I opened my menu and ordered the first gorgeous looking mixed drink they advertised. I couldn't mess around and have a beer or a glass of wine -- I needed to go all out if I was going to take full advantage of this time away from home. A guy pulls up a stool next to me and orders a beer with the thickest masshole accent ever. The vodka drink is making me think I might still be at Logan airport and missed my initial flight to Atlanta. I ask him where he's from, he says Boston. I say, "Clearly. Where in Boston?" He says Roslindale. I tell him I'm from Southie. He says he grew up in Southie. I tell him my cross streets he tells me his. Of course, they're like three blocks apart. I have found my layover day drinking friend.
He's a dad, I'm a mom...blah, blah, blah....it was a totally plutonic and friendly conversation for those of you with dirty minds out there who think I'm about to go on about some airport rendezvous. Please. I'm a mother for Christ sake. I haven't had a proper haircut or bought any fun new outfits in a LONG time. This was strictly business. Day-drinking, desperately-need-to-socialize-with-adults-over-alcohol kind of business. We were just starting to really throw our masshole accents around when the bar sprung a huge leak. There was a good inch of water involved. I wasn't going to let anything ruin this layover for me, and having been a waitress for what felt like one hundred years during my teens and twenties -- a flooded bar doesn't bother me in the slightest. I actually tried to help clean up a bit given the panic that ensued around me. I guess soppy wet luggage and backpacks bother people. Not me. The point is, I got a free a drink for my "troubles." Seriously? Troubles? I should have showed them my daughters care page -- maybe they would have given me a keg to carry on the flight with me. Anyway, after the leak debacle me and Mr. Southie yucked it up a bit more and then he headed off to Sarasota to golf with his brother-in-law.
I'm just about to check the time since this has been a bit more of a hectic day-drinking situation than I first expected when the older business man standing to my left (who had been happily getting a kick out of me and Mr. Southie's masshole exchange for some time now while throwing back chardonnay after chardonnay) buys me a drink. Again. This guy is not hitting on me. Just a few chardonnay's in and hoping to take Mr. Southie's place and have a few laughs with a crazy stay-at-home mom day drinker before his flight. I'm thinking, damn! I'm on a tear! I haven't lost my ability to day drink or make conversation with adults in a bar! I was feeling pretty damn good (and buzzed :) let me tell you.
I guess you can kind of see where this is going -- but yes, they called my name over the loudspeaker, yes they almost canceled my ticket and threatened to take my enormous bag of baby gear off the plane, and yes I almost missed my flight to Dublin. All I remember thinking as I raced towards the gate is how the hell am I going to explain to my brother (who gave me the free ticket) and my husband (who is juggling both work and our kids for me) that I missed my flight with a THREE HOUR LAYOVER. Doesn't matter. Because once they double checked my passport to make sure I wasn't some last minute shoe bomber and I crossed that threshold -- I was on the plane, had already scored two free drinks, and basically felt like the hottest shit at the Atlanta airport. Well, the hottest shit wearing yoga pants and mom clogs anyway.
I sit down. I'm on the aisle and there is an empty seat next to me. I feel like I've won the lottery and the buzz I've got on actually has me thinking that my overall luck in life has turned a corner. I'm thinking...this is the beginning of the rest of my life (totally over dramatic but remember there were two huge vodka cocktails involved and a glass of chardonnay that I basically had to chug before sprinting to my gate). It's a good thing I have an empty seat next to me because in the next seat over is the largest human being I have ever seen in all my life. Not fat, large. Just straight up enormous. And she's a grandmother. She's got a big ol' gray ponytail and her shoulders are towering over the back of her chair. If she's Irish she looks like she probably pushed a tractor without an engine with her own brute strength over the green grassy hills of whatever remote village where she's from. If she's American? I don't quite know what to think but let's just say, it's pretty clear this is Granny's first trip on a plane. With the empty seat between us -- I'm not bothered by this in the slightest except for the fact that Granny stands out just a smidge amongst the other Irish families returning home from a vacation in the states.
I get settled and realize that they've updated the personal entertainment systems on international flights since the last time I was on one and they basically have every movie I've missed since the kids were born -- on demand, at my fingertips, for free. This is going to be the best seven and half hours I've had in a long time. I can finally watch The Artist, My Week With Marilyn....haven't even gotten to Ireland yet and am having the best time of my life. Until....
Granny needs some help with her remote. She's clearly trying to figure out all this entertainment madness even dragging her finger across the screen like it's an iPhone. I'm feeling pretty good about myself so I figure why not give this poor woman a hand. I start helping her figure out how the remote works, get her situated with her earphones, we have a nice little exchange, introduce ourselves, etc. She's trying to open some kind of little package of snacks or something with a plastic knife and cuts her finger. I give her my napkin as she waits for the stewardess to bring her a bandaid. Then she leans over to me and says, "Even with the tiniest cut, I bleed really bad because of the agent orange exposure." Um, ok. Shit. Buzz kill alert. My good deed to help this woman is clearly going to turn into the mother load of buzz kills and I haven't even ordered my complimentary glass of wine yet. Goddamn it. Things were looking so good back in Atlanta.
She was clearly wanting to have a chat -- so I said, "Oh, that's awful! I'm assuming you mean agent orange from Vietnam?" She said yes but still wanted me to engage her in conversation so I dug my heels in. "What was your role when you were in Vietnam?" -- I know what's coming but I just have to be sure this situation is actually happening to me. She says, "I was fighting just like everybody else, I was a man back then." Right. Of course you were.
She then goes on to tell me she suffers from PTSD and this is her first big trip since her suicide attempt a few weeks ago. No joke -- seriously. I immediately tell her how amazing I think it is that she's taking this trip, that Ireland is a beautiful country and that the fresh country air and beautiful scenery will do her wonders. I sound like I work for Ireland's Tourism Bureau -- but seriously -- what the hell else could I have said after all that? I love the Irish to death but as I'm hearing this woman's story I'm secretly wondering just how well this Trannygranny is going to fair on her first trip out of her house in a few years having picked Ireland as her destination. The Irish are fantastic -- don't get me wrong -- but I'm not sure "celebrating diversity" would be in my top three adjectives for describing their culture. The poor thing...she'll be fine but, um, wow. Not exactly what I expected when I sat down buzzin from my first time back on the bar scene in two years. It was sad/inspiring to say the least -- and sure as hell chalks up to yet another situation where I'm thinking -- do I have a sign on my forehead that says, "Hi, I'm Molly. You may not know me, but I'm the kind of person you can just divulge all your shit to immediately upon meeting, here have a seat, lets get started."
Ok. So that was the flight out. On the flight back I'm a little less enthused about flying over Boston, down to Atlanta, and then back up to Boston for a total of 13 hours. Being my first trip away from the kids for this long, I'm ready to get home. My suitcase is entirely empty except for a screwdriver (I brought over to put a baby swing together that I had brought for Ger) and one tube of nipple cream (she laughed when I tried to give it to her and said, "Whatever that is, get it away from me.") Huge enormous suitcase, light as a feather, and with these two items in it -- my suitcase will undoubtedly be the butt of a few TSA jokes. I'm going to try like hell to keep a straight face myself when the guy at customs asks me if I have anything to declare.
I get through customs, and hurry to my seat so I can get started on the remaining 2011 oscar nominated films I have left to watch :) When we arrive in Atlanta my flight is delayed 45 mins, given that I have nothing in my suitcase I need other than the suitcase itself, I try to get on an earlier flight to Boston rather than work my regular shift at the TGIFriday's bar. No can do. Guess it's not the 90's anymore and standby is a thing of the past. So, I end up back at TGIF to check in on the staff and see how everyone's doing while I was away for the weekend. The 45 minute delay turns into an hour and half delay and we board the flight. Everyone boarding this flight is flustered about the delay -- but I'm starting to go green with exhaustion at this point. Well, that was just the beginning.
They tell us (after we've all freakin boarded the damn plane) that there is a mechanical problem and they are trying to fix it. They ask us to pull your shades and turn off our air while they attempt to fix the problem. I told you we were in Atlanta, right? Well, it's freakin hot in Atlanta. The lady sitting next to me is a hysterically funny chick, right up my ally with her kind of humor, and is having none of this delay shenanigans. Actually, her name is Shannon the Irish nickname for Shenannigans :) She's freakin funny as hell -- so I'm thinking, well at least she's got some life in her -- this might actually be fun. She asks me my name, I tell her Molly. We go on to find out that we're both walking Irish-American stereotypes and collectively our kids names sound like a rugby team out of Southie. A super nice guy is sitting next to her and he's trying to help make a baby stop crying cross the aisle from him. He ends up pinching the baby by accident and the little one goes into an absolute fit. I felt bad for him, but not as bad as I did for the mother of the baby. Been there. We all start laughing at how awful this situation is getting, Shannon makes a joke about the two of us being Irish and guesses that this guys is Armenian. He is. She asks him if he'd be willing to change his name to Shamus just for the flight but he ends up just sticking with his real name, Andrew. He knows he's got his hands full with these two Irish lasses he's just acquired in row 42 -- but he's totally game. He ends up being freakin hysterical too.
Long story short is that Row 42 starts begging the stewardesses (two jacked gay guys who literally could not keep their hands off each other -- kinda funny) for alcohol to make this situation more manageable. They're not having it. Shannon and I have just hatched a plan to takeover first class because we know they're getting their drink on -- when they ask us to deboard the plane and wait to hear whether we're actually going to get to Boston tonight. Thinking back to how insane my flight was on the way out -- I'm not surprised in the slightest at the thought that I might be sharing a hotel room in Atlanta with my Irish and Aremenian buddies.
It wasn't even a question that the three of us were heading straight to a bar to await word on the status of our flight. A lovely sushi dinner and drinks at the bar across TGI Friday's (I'm becoming a local at Terminal E) and we've become fast friends. I can't even begin to explain the conversation we were having together -- it was like the three of us had been friends for years. Really....it was awesome. Funny stuff, serious stuff, it didn't matter -- we just fell right into a complete and utter comfort zone with one another and given the horrendous situation -- we were having a really good time.
We boarded a second plane, kept our original seats, and continue to laugh our asses off and tell stories (some of which I can't even go in to detail about here - but just know they were AWESOME). All we could hope for was that soon the plane would take off, they'd bring out the beverage cart, and we'd keep this party going. Not so much.
Everything you can imagine went wrong. We had to wait for a new flight crew because at this point it would have been illegal for the same crew to stay on the flight they had been working so long. There was a fucking peanut allergy on the plane. They tricked us into thinking at one point we were leaving and then they realized they hadn't put ANY BAGS ON THE PLANE. Passengers literally started taking a poll, "I don't really need my bag, do you need your bag? I don't even really like my suitcase, I've been wanting to replace it for some time now. Maybe if we tell them that we're all fine leaving without our bags they'll just send the bags to Boston later?" At this point, I never cared about the screwdriver or the nipple cream, now I don't even care about the suitcase itself. Totally replaceable. JUST FUCKING PULL BACK. It was awful. But it gave us a LOT of material to laugh about and the three of us were on fire with the amount of shit happening that we were able to make fun of. We left Atlanta five hours after our original flight was supposed to leave. Unbelievable. By the time I got to Boston I had been up for 20 hours. I could have gone to Vietnam, been exposed to agent orange myself, and made it back to Boston in that amount of time.
Needless-to-say, we arrived in Boston after seven hours together. In seven hours it felt like we had the kind of friendship that was formed over four years of college or as if we had all lived together as roommates in some city together. People may not understand when we refer to one another as "old friends from Delta 1400 Class of 2012" but I told Andrew and Shannon that I would be more than willing to put together an alumni newsletter so we could keep in touch year to year -- maybe even organize a summer bbq where we as Row 42 alums can get together and have our families meet one another :)
Fucking crazy. And boy would I love to put the finishing touches on this post and tell you that the insanity ended there. Sorry. If that were the truth I wouldn't be the kind of person that people say, "You should write all this shit down. The weirdest most ridiculous things happen to you." (Hence, one of the reasons for this blog, I guess.) One last disaster and I swear the post from hell will end.
My parents ended up spending the night at my house minding the kids because my husband had an early morning meeting the morning after I arrived and they wanted to be sure there was coverage for the kids if I didn't make it back from Atlanta. I basically fell into bed like a dead person and then woke up at 7AM to find my parents and my nine month old son in a panic outside my daughter's bedroom door which she had locked from the inside. Yup. My two year old was locked in her room. She's crying from inside her room and my son is crying outside her room. I think my parents might have been crying too, I can't remember. Seriously? Is this really happening right now?
Now that's she's walking, at some point during the day, she had pushed the button in on the inside of the door, and when my parents put her down in her crib the night before they pulled the door shut -- locking it. We had to call a locksmith in Southie, who of course had a thicker brogue than even my girlfriend Geraldine who I had just been with the night before in Dublin. I started thinking...maybe I haven't even left Ireland yet and this is some kind of an acid trip?
Needless to say, this lovely Irish guy picked the lock and I got to rush into my daughter's room and yell, "Surprise! Mummy's home!" I think she's still trying to understand why I went through all the effort to have the door busted open to make my return so overly dramatic. But, I'll just let her think that was all part of the surprise of me coming home. I'm trying not to think about the fact that the next time I try to go on vacation she's probably going to have a fit thinking that means she has to be locked in her room while I'm gone.
Anyhoo....told my parents about the whole Transgendered/Transatlantic/Irish-Armenian Alliance debacle over coffee. Later that evening my mum went out to meet a girlfriend (who I know really well) for drinks and started to tell her about my return flight last night. Her friend looked at her in disbelief. She was in Row 20 on the same flight. She said she kept seeing someone that looked exactly like me -- since there was plenty of opportunity given we got on and off the planes what felt like a million different times -- but she just thought -- that's impossible. Molly has two small children -- what the hell would she be doing in Atlanta? I must be losing my mind.
Nope. That was me :)
My parents ended up spending the night at my house minding the kids because my husband had an early morning meeting the morning after I arrived and they wanted to be sure there was coverage for the kids if I didn't make it back from Atlanta. I basically fell into bed like a dead person and then woke up at 7AM to find my parents and my nine month old son in a panic outside my daughter's bedroom door which she had locked from the inside. Yup. My two year old was locked in her room. She's crying from inside her room and my son is crying outside her room. I think my parents might have been crying too, I can't remember. Seriously? Is this really happening right now?
Now that's she's walking, at some point during the day, she had pushed the button in on the inside of the door, and when my parents put her down in her crib the night before they pulled the door shut -- locking it. We had to call a locksmith in Southie, who of course had a thicker brogue than even my girlfriend Geraldine who I had just been with the night before in Dublin. I started thinking...maybe I haven't even left Ireland yet and this is some kind of an acid trip?
Needless to say, this lovely Irish guy picked the lock and I got to rush into my daughter's room and yell, "Surprise! Mummy's home!" I think she's still trying to understand why I went through all the effort to have the door busted open to make my return so overly dramatic. But, I'll just let her think that was all part of the surprise of me coming home. I'm trying not to think about the fact that the next time I try to go on vacation she's probably going to have a fit thinking that means she has to be locked in her room while I'm gone.
Anyhoo....told my parents about the whole Transgendered/Transatlantic/Irish-Armenian Alliance debacle over coffee. Later that evening my mum went out to meet a girlfriend (who I know really well) for drinks and started to tell her about my return flight last night. Her friend looked at her in disbelief. She was in Row 20 on the same flight. She said she kept seeing someone that looked exactly like me -- since there was plenty of opportunity given we got on and off the planes what felt like a million different times -- but she just thought -- that's impossible. Molly has two small children -- what the hell would she be doing in Atlanta? I must be losing my mind.
Nope. That was me :)
No comments:
Post a Comment