I wasn’t able to get a good picture of “the cougar,” since I was in the seat behind her…and my middle school note-passing attempts between seats didn’t convince Tim to take one of her with his iPhone. I kept writing: “Just say cheese. SHE’LL KNOW WHAT TO DO.”
He finally turned around and gave me the “Seriously. Stop. We’re IN A PUBLIC PLACE. REMEMBER? YOU PROMISED.”
So I had to make my own fun. And if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s entertaining myself.
I started writing random sentences on my book draft like, “did you know reading me is a crime?” and “your dress is on fire” for The Snoop on my left.
I took sky pictures
I made myself some free advertising.
WHAT? It’s the CROSSWORD SECTION, PEOPLE. IT’S THERE TO WRITE ON.
When the flight attendant came around to inquire about my “snack selection,” I tried to ask him for the “cookies that started with a B.” They are my most favorite cookies IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE. I’ve also decided that these cookies only exist on airplanes, because I’ve never seen them in a sensible place like a grocery store
The flight attendant just stared at me like the altitude was affecting my ability to communicate. I was trying to explain via bastardized sign language what I wanted, because he was too far away to actually converse with and there is just no yelling on a plane. It’s like taboo or something.
Finally, we connected.
Or he’s just really good at charades.
And he brought me a stack of these:
Other than the cougar trying to prey on Tim, The Snoop next to me that kept trying to read my book and would look away all, “WHAT? I was just looking out the window.” Um…window’s closed, missy. So unless you have like, X-ray vision…I think not…and the dude who almost dropped a massive suitcase on a poor old lady while he was putting it into the overhead bin and almost caused a brawl…a fairly calm flight.
When we got off the plane and made our way to the security doors that separated ‘those with a ticket’ and ‘those without,’ Tim’s parents weren’t waiting for us, smiles plastered on their faces
And since FOREVER, his parents have picked us up from the airport. There has not been a SINGLE INSTANCE where they weren’t waiting RIGHT OUTSIDE the security area.
So, when they weren’t at-the-ready and in position, Tim was all, “What the hell? Where are they?”
He sent them a text message and I was all, “Why not CALL THEM?”
Tim: This is just as fast.
Me: No, calling and having someone pick up is faster.
Tim: Well, my dad’s usually really fast responding.
Not today, he isn’t.
We sat around baggage claim for a few minutes, with no bags to claim…because we refuse to PAY TO CHECK A BAG if we don’t have to…I can find a way to do without the five extra pairs of panties and twenty-eight shirts.
Anyhow, Tim finally decided to call his dad…when out of nowhere, Tim’s sister, Kristen, walks up with her newest little addition, Colton.
And of all the things that happened from the moment we left the airport to the time we spent at her house visiting, nothing could top the last five minutes, except maybe Kristen’s two doves that chuckle like humans.
I didn’t even know doves could do noises other than cooing.
Right, so the last five minutes…Tim was holding Coltwith baby-googly eyes that plainly said I WANT ONE. And at that precise moment, Colton decided it was time for a little exclamation of his own – shot it right out the back end.
Little is actually being nice. Tim said later he felt the reverberations run all the way up to his shoulder and the resulting steam left little droplets of moisture on Tim’s forearm.
The remainder of the evening centered around food (Italians, remember?).
And how do you say “Welcome to America!” to full blooded Italians?
You make pasta from scratch.
Well, YOU as in Abbie, Martha Stewart Junior, who is married to Tim’s younger brother, Josh.
Abbie knows how to MAKE JAM and KNIT SCARVES and can probably do the whole macramé feathers into gold bit.
I will never be an Abbie.
Obviously, that is not my hand making pasta, as I am not allowed near appliances.
It’s Martha’s Abbie’s.