ANOTHER STINKIN’ DAY IN PARADISE

I had expected to spend this evening in my own bed, in the warm embrace of She Who Must Be Obeyed, after returning from this week’s trip to the Great Corporate Salt Mine.

Alas, no.

I allowed the usual two-and-a-half hours (give or take a few minutes) to get to the Sweat City Intercontinental Aerodrome. And I made it...but it was a real squeaker. Two major accidents on two different roadways turned a routine drive into a sweaty, curse-laden wait-fest. Ahh, such is life in the Big City.

I noticed that they had toll-takers standing next to the change baskets on the exact-change lanes. My suspicion, at first, was that they were there to assist the Gaping Assholes. You know who they are: the idiots who cruise into the exact change lanes with no change, allowing them to simultaneously avoid the bone-crushing waits at the manned lanes and to piss off everyone who gets stuck behind them while they wait for someone to rescue their sorry asses. My solution is more pragmatic. In The World According to Elisson, when you try to use a bill at an exact change lane, you get your headlights whacked with a baseball bat.

Apparently, these toll-takers serve another function. They take the change from the smacked-ass drivers who lack the basic motor skills to handle the complicated tasks of navigating through the toll lane and throwing the money in the basket. My Sweet Gawd, how helpless do you need to be? Can you imagine this happening at the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge?

But despite all this nonsense, I made it in time for my flight. That’s when the fun began.

I should have known something was up when I was able to check in at the electronic kiosk a mere 30 minutes before my flight. Sure enough, the flight was delayed due to ATC in Atlanta...as predictable as sunrise.

And we waited, and we waited. And we boarded the plane, and waited some more.

Finally, about 10:00, I decided that enough was enough. If the plane were to leave immediately, I’d be home in bed, what, at 2:30 am? Feh.

A couple of quick phone calls and here I am at the Sweat City Intercontinental Aerodrome Marriott. I’ve got a half-bottle of nice red wine, a healthy block o’ cheese, a high-speed line, and a fluffy king-size bed. And a seat on the first flight out in the morning.

But what I don’t have is my SWMBO.

Crap.