Noise is starting to be made about the RWA National Conference in July. The one in Anaheim. California. (Boston, people! What’s the matter with Boston?) And, thanks to my husband and I having what we thought was a private conversation that wasn’t, the Short Kid is busy planning a week in Anaheim with his dad. The problem with California is that I can’t drive there.
Back on the 4th, my family set off for Manchester airport to pick up Taz. Easy, right? Walk in, pick up the dog, walk out. No security checkpoints or escalators or sitting next to screaming babies. It started getting rocky about the third time around the rotary, trying to figure out how to get in to the airport, which involved my husband and I trying to out-yell each other while the Short Kid said, “There’s an airplane above us, so we must be close.”
So we found the airport and the short-term parking and a parking spot. We all took deep breaths and my husband and I hit the reset button on the marital-strife-ometer. All good.
And then…the doors. The Automatic Revolving Doors of Doom. If escalators were doors, they’d be these doors. They just keep going around and around like a lazy susan and you have to step in and keep up.
There’s a flash header on the website showing the thing in motion, although I’m probably the only person in this century who hadn’t seen them yet. And I panicked. My husband, foolishly assuming I could handle navigating a door, stepped right in and the teen went in after him. I grabbed the Short Kid in a headlock and, with my life flashing before my eyes, stepped into the merry-go-round entrance to Hell.
Short Kid: “Mom, I can’t breathe.”
Me: “So what? The door is MOVING!”
Anyway, we lived. So my guys find a bench and seem to content to sit and wait until the puppy’s plane arrived. I sat on the bench, too. But on the inside, as the blood pressure-headache escalates…
What if this is the wrong gate? What if they took the puppy to another place and we’re not there so they send the puppy to…ohmigod, what will they do with my puppy if I don’t pick it up? What if they forget to take him off the plane? What if he gnawed his way out of the crate and he’s running loose on the plane? What if he gets near the landing gear? Where is my puppy? Why is my husband rolling his eyes at me? Why did I marry him, anyway? What if they didn’t give my puppy any water and he’s in a crate somewhere, dehydrating and crying, and I’m at the wrong gate and he’s lost and why doesn’t my husband DO SOMETHING?
Then they brought the puppy crate out and he was all healthy and happy and not lost. But then we had to leave. Which meant going through the Portals of Hell again. This time the Short Kid stuck close to his dad because he’s no fool and learns quickly how to avoid oxygen deprivation. But the teen was lagging behind, so I panicked. Again.
Teen: “You know, they just keep going around. I’ll be okay.”
I grabbed a fistful of his leather jacket and hauled him in with me because no matter how tall he gets, I’m his mother and maternal superpowers include the dragging-around of teenagers when mom is certain he’s going to be crushed to death by an oversized, glass lazy susan.
So that was our adventure in the airport. A medium-sized airport. And we didn’t even have to go through all the nightmares involved with actually getting on a plane. Flying out of Logan into LAX? Maybe if I was unconscious. (Is it legal to drug me, put me in a cargo box and send me with the live cargo?)