The girls are flying to Washington, DC to go see Holly’s dad and grandparents in Virginia. I’m going to miss them, of course I will. They are the center of my universe, but I’m excited for the break. It’s been a hectic summer and I’m tired of hearing “Mom” every five minutes. I’m ready for a little quiet. Rob, Holly’s dad, schedules the flight for Friday night at 7pm out of Milwaukee, and I plan on going on to Kenosha to see my best friend Holly after I see the plane off.
Everything is going so well getting ready for the airport that I finally stop assuming something is going to go wrong. Then the dog craps in the parking garage, despite just having gone an hour before. I will myself to not see it as an omen as she crouches down on the pavement, as far from the car as she can get with her leash, while we ransack the car for a plastic bag to clean it up. The kids think its the funniest thing ever, and I’m wishing I hadn’t brought the dog, but I’m staying overnight at my friend Holly’s so I don’t have a choice. The girls say their goodbyes while I clean up the thankfully solid pile.
The girls and I find the AirTran counter easily, and talk amongst ourselves while we get checked in. I’m given envelopes to fill out, and told that since Georgia is over twelve years old and can accept responsibility for herself and her sister, there will be no unaccompanied minor fees. This is wonderful, because those can be expensive. Some airlines charge $100 dollars, on direct flights in which parents are still in charge of making sure the child gets to and from the gate.
We are informed that the plane is on time, we’ve already eaten and we still have time, so we nose around in the book store, all of us coming out with a used book. We wait in a long security line, and then head to the gate.
I should’ve realized something was up when there was no one at the counter as we arrived, not until twenty minutes before the plane was to take off, despite the computerized sign reading that the plane is scheduled to leave on time. When the woman from the airline finally arrives, she gets on the loudspeaker and informs the crowd that our plane is here, but the crew is still stuck in Atlanta, where there are severe storms. The flight crew is scheduled to arrive by 10:30 pm, but in the meantime the airline will work on getting a different flight crew. An enormous line forms immediately.
I confer with the girls, more thinking out loud than anything else, while they read their magazines. Holly informs me that we should just go to Auntie Holly’s house and try again in the morning. Georgia says we should wait it out at the airport and be done with it, both talking to me without looking up from behind their magazines. I call Rob. He says to get in the ridiculously long line and find out about flights in the morning, make sure they are allowed to fly on the last flight of the day, and then let him know.
The ticket woman, who is all teeth, forced fake smiles and frazzled, assures me that the girls will get on the flight later this evening without problem, then tells me the morning flight is booked. We could hope someone would be willing to switch to the evening flight, otherwise we could try the same flight the following evening. I don’t want this process to take days. I just want to get out of the freaking airport with as little drama as possible. We will wait it out. She gives us food vouchers. We make friends with the woman next to us, a grandmother from Minnesota traveling with her three year old granddaughter, Hallie. The grandmother offers, in a funny little accent that reminds me of the movie Fargo, to take care of the girls if I need to leave. She’s harmless, I’m sure, but I tell her that I’m waiting it out, too.
The girls and I share pizzas, bananas and bottles of water before the stores close up for the night. Security shuts down, and we are forced to stay in the concourse because re-entry isn’t permitted once security closes. We are officially being held hostage by the airline and the airport. I silently hope my dog isn’t eating my steering wheel.
We make friends with a young guy with a laptop and fancy phone, who calls me “Ma’am” in his southern accent, and informs us that the flight from Atlanta with our flight crew aboard hasn’t even left yet. Which means were screwed. He says “Y’all talk funny,” which is kind of the pot calling the kettle black if you ask me, but he’s keeping us more informed than the airline, so he’s forgiven.
I call Rob again, who tells me to go the counter and tell the person there that they are putting my kids on a flight in the morning to DC, on any airline, and that they are paying for it. I’m willing to give it a shot, but this isn’t really me. I don’t bully very well. My downstairs neighbor hated me when I moved in because I have a dog, apparently she was attacked as a child. I feel bad about this, but it wasn’t my dog, and it is what it is. I just kept making her carrot cake and cookies until she softened.
When I get back, an announcement had been made that a plane is arriving out of New Orleans with a flight crew for us. They will be in by 11:30 pm, the plane is already over Indianapolis. I don’t have to yell at anyone. We will all be allowed to leave this god forsaken airport, and soon. We settle in with the grandma and Hallie, taking pictures and talking. Three year old Hallie has a fascination with cavities and informs us that she wants to be a dentist. The girls are tired but ready to be on their way. We gather our stuff to head to the restrooms one last time before boarding. The grandma, whose name I never did get, suggests that we see if the kids could sit with her and Hallie, that its late and she wouldn’t mind switching if I wanted, so she could keep an eye on them. We head to the counter to make it happen while my girls take Hallie to the bathroom. They get back just as it’s my turn at the counter.
Another employee is at the counter, one I haven’t seen in all of the past six hours. She’s blunt and short with me immediately, and she has a less well-intentioned forced smile. She asks for the passenger name and I tell her, and then pull out the envelopes. She takes one look at those envelopes and asks how I would feel about the kids flying on the morning flight. I tell her that I wouldn’t feel very good about that, my kids are getting on the plane tonight, thanks. She tells me that they actually aren’t, they are unaccompanied minors and they aren’t permitted to get on the last flight of the day. And then, to be sure I know who’s in charge, she says “We have no choice but to make other arrangements.” This is when I lost it. I will admit that I lost it, or that it wasn’t my shining moment, anyway.
“My kids and I have been held hostage in this god forsaken airport for over six hours, and I’d been assured a dozen times that my kids were getting on an airplane tonight if we waited it out, which we did. All I wanted to do was let the kids sit next to this nice lady and her grandbaby, and you’re telling me my kids can’t get on the airplane? NO. You are putting my kids on this goddamn AIRPLANE!”
To which she said, “I’m calling the sheriff.”
This is funny. Funny because I’ve never even had a speeding ticket. I’m so squeaky clean at this point in my life it’s almost sad. I would’ve been scared by the threat if it weren’t for the fact that I was so mad. So I laughed. I really wasn’t trying to be a brat, it just seemed so funny. The woman behind the counter didn’t like the laugh.
So I ask, “You’re calling the sheriff? For what?”
“Ma’am, you raised your voice at me. And swore.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that was illegal. Hey, swearing and raising your voice is illegal everyone, just so you know! They’ll call the sheriff.” I might as well address the crowd, the line has stopped moving completely and they are all doing nothing but watching us anyway. I don’t really like being the center of attention, but I am a firm believer that if you’re going to do something, do it right. Or at least get the masses on your side.
I chuck my cell phone to Holly and say “Call your father”. The woman behind the counter tells me to get out of her ticket area. Freakin’ gladly, lady. She’s already on the phone, and two other employees are trying to calm her. She’s pointing at me. Pointing. Still talking about the goddamn sheriff. I’m five foot three with shoes on, not even 150 pounds. And I’ve been recently run through a metal detector. Come on. I don’t even have three ounces of liquid to my name to throw at her. Somehow, it’s Georgia who’s talking to Rob on my phone now, and she’s in tears. Did I mention that the dog is still in the goddamn car?
The other woman who’d been at the counter all along comes rushing over to me. She asks for the kids envelopes, and pulls the boarding passes out of them and hands them to me. She says “You didn’t pay the unaccompanied minor fee, right?”
I’m thinking, what the hell, now they want money?
“No…” I say, trying to get calm.
“Okay, that means that your holding the kids boarding passes, which means they are just passengers. These envelopes are for unaccompanied minors, so I’m going to rip them up. You didn’t pay the fee, and they are not unaccompanied minors. Do you understand?” Her voice is soft. She’s risking something for me, I know this.
“I understand.” I tell her, and she rips both envelopes in four and tells me to get the kids in line. The grandma is right behind me, telling me that she switched her seats by the girls. Three passengers I never talked to in all our hours of sitting there tell me that their sorry for how that woman treated me. I’m stunned into silence. I just nod. I’m surprised, because I feel like an asshole. I lost my temper.
The kids get on the plane. I pace the windows, wishing I could make out their little faces through the tiny airplane windows. The pissed off sheriff-cry-wolf woman walks over to me. I turn to her but don’t say a word.
“I heard a rumor that you might think that I was rude to you before,” she says to me.
I raise my eyebrows and say “Might be rude? I had three people I didn’t know apologize to me for how you treated me. That’s rude, lady. I don’t want to talk to you. The kids are on the plane, and you know, I don’t want to upset you or anything. Don’t want you calling the sheriff.”
“I’m trying to make this right, ma’am.” She says. I scowl at her, because I can’t think of how she can make this right, unless she has some magical power of turning back time that I am unaware of.
“I have a two year old,” she tells me.
“Yeah, I’ve had them, too. Twice actually.” I say, but I don’t think that it’s any kind of excuse. Cowboy up, life keeps moving whether you're ready or not.
I just want her to go away. It was a bad night, for everyone, and I just want to be done with her, so I tell her. “Please go away,” and she does, but I have to say it twice. I crumple into a seat by the window cross-legged, look out at the plane getting ready to taxi away and try not to cry. I don’t want to give that Sheriff bitch the satisfaction, more than anything else. I page through pictures on my phone for distraction, and as a reminder that there is life outside this airport.
When the plane taxis off, I head out. I call Rob and tell him the plane is on the way, and hightail it out of that place. I don’t even think about getting a pass for parking until I’m in the parking garage when it’s too late to go back in. I no longer care. I walk to the car to find Somewhere smiling at me through the window, the car intact. She didn’t even eat the oatmeal cream pie that one of the girls left behind. It’s crumpled and smashed, she’s obviously moved it around the car, but it’s the only evidence of her being in the car all evening. She can be a miraculously puppy. I climb into the driver’s seat and she leans her face into my shoulder immediately, as if she can tell what kind of night I’ve had. I cuddle her, giggle when she kisses me, and instantly feel better. We’re going to Auntie Holly’s now, a safe place where I feel almost as comfortable as I do in my own home. All is good.
Now, if this were anyone else’s life, the story would end here. But this is my life, chock full of experiences that make for great story telling.
I am fifteen minutes from Holly’s house when she calls. Apparently, her backyard and dog have been sprayed by a skunk, again. This has been Holly’s nemesis in life for the past two years, skunks. I’ve heard the stories of gagging and an odor so noxious that it takes days to clear out of your nostrils, loads of laundry and bottles of Febreeze to get the smell out of the house. I never thought that she was exaggerating, I’ve just never smelled skunk close up.
I smell it as soon as I turn onto her block. She’s waiting in her front yard for me, because the smell is too strong to handle being in the house. It’s late, so I let Somewhere out of the car without the leash and repeat the phrase “Stay with me,” about four hundred times. She does as she’s told. Holly helps me with my bags, and we head into the house. It’s honestly horrendous in there. The living room is toxic, but the kitchen is deadly. Holly’s dog, Bella, gets into the house somehow, and with her, the most offensive odor ever, with the possible exception of vomit on your person. I grab Kleenex, shove it up my nose, and start spraying Febreeze. My dog is foaming at the mouth from the smell. Bella is still wet from being sprayed. We shove her back outside, put Somewhere in the toxic living room with a bone, and get ready to deal with Bella. It’s well after midnight.
I ask Holly for some clothes to help clean up the dog with. She returns with an old sweatshirt and a pair of Capri pants. I come out of the bathroom with them on, but due to my short legs, the pants that are Capri’s on Holly are just pants on me. They reach my ankles. Just like I knew it would, this cracks Holly up, which isn’t so easy to do, being that she’s been walking around gagging since she called me on my way from the airport. She gets her husband Neal to come see my outfit, who doesn’t find it quite as funny as we do, and mostly just wants to go to bed. Holly explains to him that going to bed isn’t an option, he’s helping us. We open windows, light candles, stick more Kleenex up our noses and head to the backyard with a vat of tomato juice and a gallon on apple cider vinegar.
Neal digs around for gloves to use, but we aren’t sure if they contain latex and I’m allergic. I don’t want to take a trip to the emergency room or chance an armful of blisters, so I dip my bare hand into the tomato juice and start smearing it on their dog. Bella looks at me with sad eyes, as if to say that I am always nice to her and this doesn’t fit her idea of me. I apologize aloud to her, and continue mopping her with tomato juice. Holly and Neal join in, and soon the driveway looks more like we’ve been hacking up a deer than washing a dog. Their driveway, and all of us, are covered in thick red goop. This sucks, just like the airport did, only in a different way.
At least we have each other. If there is anyone in the world I could pick to go through this with, it would be my friend Holly. As her mother always says, the two of us could have fun together stuck in a cardboard box. And though I wouldn’t call the process fun, we are doing a surprising amount of smiling for such a nasty task. We spend a lot of the time listening to Holly wonder aloud what purpose skunks have, wishing them banned from the planet, and telling Neal that he’s the hunter and the man, and he needs to get his gun and take care of the skunks. The image is great, mostly because Holly and Neal live in the heart of Kenosha, where you could accidently hit someone throwing a ball too hard for your dog. A loaded gun in the city is probably not the best idea, but Holly’s been through this particular game three other times. She’s over it.
By the time we get to the part of this process where we take the hose to Bella, the girls call to say they’ve arrived in DC. The ride was bumpy, they could see lightning and they were afraid. I tell them that I’m standing in Auntie Holly’s’ back yard, up to my elbows in tomato juice and skunk odor, and suggest that we all start over tomorrow. That we need to have extra fun the following days to wipe this god awful day off the planet for good. They whole heartedly agree, as does Auntie Holly, whose nodding at me from behind the stream of the hose.
We get the dog tolerable enough to put in her kennel for the night, change into different clothes, and head to bed. It’s after 3am, and I’m beyond exhausted. The house smells, and so do I. All I smell is skunk. I roll over my day in my head, thinking of what I could’ve done different, and how so many things in this life aren’t in our control, they just carry us along for the ride. And how some days, life just stinks.
