by Barbara Poelle
So Husband and I were in Minnesota over the weekend to attend a book launch for my client (have you picked up your copy of Purge: Rehab Diaries yet?) as well as to make a grand appearance at the to-do for the 40th wedding anniversary of my parents- just a quick weekend jaunt, we thought. What could be easier? Well….
On Sunday night we had a layover in Wisconsin, but our flight out of Minneapolis was delayed by three hours. One of these hours was spent strapped in, locked and loaded, on the tarmac. They turned off the engines to conserve fuel which was fine as it ensured that the only ambiance was provided by two drunken nasally ‘Sconnie moms (they weren’t ‘Sotes, we natives can tell, it’s in the nuance of the fricatives) who apparently never get out of the house except to accompany their daughters’ volleyball team on away games who chose to spend that last hour prank calling their ‘Sconnie Mom friends and pretending to be a Chinese takeout restaurant worker over and over and over while hiccupping and giggling. At one point a young teenage voice behind me said, “Is that your mom and Mrs. Harris?” And the response was a humiliated, “They had some margaritas at the airport.”
I think “some” means seven.
So four hours later we arrive in Milwaukee, but of course we had long since missed our connection and apparently since the Great Vampiric Outbreak of Aught 3, all of the air traffic from Milwaukee stops at 9:58 pm. (The only REASON I can think that in this, the new Millennium, any major airport would only completely close down at 10pm is because of all the vampires getting sucked into the jet engines at night, because otherwise for the love of Gene Wilder WHY are there no flights after 10 pm?) So at the gate, the customer service rep for the airline gives us boarding passes for 7:45 a.m. without batting an eye. I say, “And what accommodations will you be providing for us?” and she proceeded to tell me that “Well, because the delay was due to weather the airline was not responsible….”
Okay. Many sharks have what is known as a nictitating membrane, which is an eyelid that closes during predation to protect the retina from the flailings of prey. That magnificent animal known as the great white shark does NOT have a nictitating membrane. Instead, that sweet pumpkin has the capacity to roll his eyeballs back under the true eyelid which gives him that white-eye or dead-eye look that they are so famous for.
I also do not have a nictitating membrane. So when my eyes rolled back and went dead and still and black, the nice lady at the airline counter handed over a discount hotel voucher and called the shuttle to come pick us up immediately.
So Husband and I spend a restless six hours in a hotel room somewhere in Milwaukee, and then are walking back through the front doors of the airport at 6 a.m. to see that glorious lite-brite departure board and all of its lovely times and gates and flight numbers. And one tiny “cancelled” next to a flight.
Our flight.
Which explains why the ticketing area looks like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange.
So I let loose with a delightful string of obscenities which may still be hanging over Lake Michigan now, and also causes a young woman to move to the other side of the terminal while casting horrified looks over her shoulder. So we get into the snaking line and when we finally arrive at the ticket counter, I ask the Sally Struthers Doppelganger what the issue is and here, friends and countrymen, is where we get to the whole point of my tale. When asked about the problem with the plane, Sally responds:
“It got struck by light-nin and it don’t work no more.”
It. Got. Struck. By. Light-nin. And. It. Don’t. Work. No. More.
I just don’t have it in me to type any more than that. Except to say, everyone, please, treat yourself to a copy of Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynne Truss. You’ll thank me for it.
Ps Also, OMG, did you know that you can spell cancelled like cancelled AND like canceled? Somebody should straighten THAT one out before a fistfight breaks out in an airport or something.
