My weekend in Minnesota...

Let’s start out by saying how much I loved being in Minneapolis for my nephew’s bar mitzvah. Or as Dash would say, “varmizpah”. Family is good. Cousins are good. Even mom and dad are good. If you know my parents, you know how much fun they are to hang out with. If you know my family, you know how great a party it’s going to be. And of course, like any cultural or religious event, you know there is going to be a lot of food. A myriad of food. A virtual cornucopia of food. Seriously, there was food. I think my ass is now made of peanut butter fudge and my thighs made of lemon cake. We not only ate a ton of food but we talked about how much we ate, how much each other ate and just how full we were. I am actually still full.

So yes, the weekend was a super-awesome-wicked-fun-filled good time. I even got to see two old friends of mine; either I would move to Minnesota for if they asked to marry me. (Just checking if they are reading this) I was amazed by watching not only my nephew rock his haftorah, but watching my own son, Max, read a prayer in front of the whole congregation during the Saturday morning service. Kvelling. Oy, was I kvelling. (My spell check seems to be frightened by Yiddish words) The Saturday night party was a Vikings party with a DJ where my sons danced the night away surrounded by thirteen year old giggling girls daring each other to kiss the bar mitzvah boy. There was a moment in the bathroom where I overheard my nephew’s seventh grade girlfriend being challenged to kiss him by all of her adorable friends in training bras. I felt as if I was back in middle school doing some daring of my own. No, I was not plotting about kissing anyone there but the memories of my own seventh grade year hoping a cute boy named Jon-something-or-other would smooch me in the dark corners of the synagogue flooded my thoughts that night. I found myself giggling as well. Yep, some things just do not change. Actually, one of my nephew’s female friends was the daughter of a guy I used to smooch in high school. Crap, that was weird. I was introduced to her by my sister who opened with, “This is my sister. She used to date your dad…” Yes, I felt…old.

So yes, bar mitzvah was great; party was great; food was great. However…

Getting there…not so great. I was asked to perform the ghastly “airport story” several times over the weekend and a lot of people at the bar mitzvah read my blog so it was also asked if I would be writing about it. I told them I couldn’t write about it until I found “the funny”. Ya know, the sarcastic-self-deprecating way I have of making a story seem more entertaining than it actually is. And by the way, thank you to all of you over the weekend who told me how much you enjoyed my blog and my book! Oh dear goodness, was that validating. Seriously, to hear positive feedback from people who know me, barely know me, like me or have heard about me, seriously, I was validated by the adulation more than when I actually was kissed by Jon-something-or-other while wearing braces and my brand new Calvin Kline jeans in seventh grade back in 19…never mind.

Alright. The story of the airport from hell. (dundundah)

Yes, we were running late; but you try getting a seven and a five year old out of the house on time. We arrived at LAX sixty-five minutes before my flight. According to the Delta website, this was an ample amount of time. In fact, they said fifty minutes was enough. So there we were, waiting in line to get our luggage checked-in curb side. There was only one skycap and the line was long. Like, really, really long. I kept checking my watch and watched the minutes slowly tick by. I chatted in line with the other people and a few of them let us go ahead of them seeing as how the minutes where starting to tick by a bit quicker. After thirty minutes of standing in line the lone skycap was finally ready to check my luggage.

“Sorry,” he said, “you’re too late; I can’t check your bags.”

“What do you mean you can’t check my bags?” I said in my overly calm voice I use with students who tell me things I do NOT want to hear.

“You’re too late. Sorry.” So what? I was supposed to just go home?

“Ok, my flight leaves in thirty minutes so you’re going to need to get a supervisor for me because I have to be in Minneapolis today. I arrived on time, it’s just I have been standing in line for thirty minutes and there is only one of you so really, this is not my fault. Get a supervisor, please.”

He paused and surveyed the situation. I am not sure if he could see that my hands were starting to shake or that Max was looking at me curiously, but he slooooooowly sauntered away and five long minutes later, the first red-coated supervisor of my adventure arrived.

I quickly and with a pseudo calmness explained my situation ending my diatribe with a “just please tell me what to do now.” She had me follow her to the ticket counter. I heard muffled and impatient chatting, making out only “No, we can’t check her luggage, she’s too late.”

“But I got here on time.” I said. Or maybe I yelled. I’m not sure, but a whole bunch of people were looking at me. My children were very quiet, sitting on the luggage. “Just tell me what to do now” I repeated. Supervisor number one said she was going to get her supervisor. Apparently the grand high nurgle of luggage. Maybe she could help me.

Ten very arduous minutes later, the grand high nurgle of luggage arrived. She had no name tag but said her name was H.C. I didn’t even stop to figure out what the hell that stood for or make a joke about her name or rather lack of one. She refused to stand less than three feet from me, all the while holding her nifty little walkie-talkie in her hand. I was panicking by this point and I could feel the tears begin to well up.

“You were late.” She stated over and over. “This is your fault.” She tritely said. She said it so many times and walked in circles around me like a freakin’ shark circling its prey. I kept saying, “I wasn’t late!” and “You only had one skycap!” I was yelling by this time. No one would help me. There was no sympathy for me. From her, the other people in line, no one. Ten minutes until my flight departed.

I tried to plead with her. “Please stop focusing on the problem and focus on the solution. Just tell me what to do. Please, just tell me what to do!” I reached out to touch her arm as one does with sincerity, to just get her to listen to me and she screamed, “Don’t touch me!!” and then into her walkie-talkie, “CODE BLUE!!!!”

“Oh come on!” I yelled with tears blurring my vision. “Just help me.” I ran back to my children as several red coated supervisors, TSA agents and some airport police began to arrive.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I yelled. Max was crying. Dash was holding on to my leg. It was not my finest moment. I let the tears just flow and remember shouting something about having $42 worth of Jewish cookies in my bag that I had to get to Minneapolis for my nephew’s bar mitzvah. But she wasn’t Jewish. She was obviously not even a mom. Most likely this hardened soul hadn’t had love or sex in her life in a long time because the empathy was non-existent.

Red-coated supervisor number three arrived. She explained that the real police were on their way and if I didn’t calm down no one would even hear me. Or rather listen to me. I took a deep shaky breath and regaled my story for the twentieth time. I calmed down. I didn’t stop crying, but I calmed a bit down. Yelling and crying get you nowhere. I knew this. I was usually great with customer service people because I used to be one and when you are nice to them they want to help you. If you cry and scream and get a “code blue” called on you they tend not to want to do shit for you. So, I tried the best I could to gather the last bit of strength I could and calm the hell down.

And then she said she would help me. Finally. I could feel my self exhale.

My flight, well, that I had now missed. She got me on the next one which left in an hour. She looked at me with these big brown eyes that seemed to mirror my own. She waved the police away and took care of me personally, adding how she hoped this would not be the last time I flew Delta. I thanked her repeatedly and then noticed her name tag.

“Your name is Sylvia.” I said quietly.

“Yes.” She said.

“That was the name of my grandmother who died last August.”

She smiled.

I thanked her one last time and decided to treat my children to McDonalds. If you know me, you know that meant I was trying to apologize to them for freaking out. But hey, they will need something to talk to their therapists about when they are teenagers.

But wait…there’s more.

We get to the gate and twenty minutes before the flight, the gate agent tells me we are listed as stand-by passengers. Seriously?

“Let me just call my supervisor…”

I prayed it would not be the nurgle again.

A new red-coated supervisor arrived and again, with my bloodshot eyes and mascara streaked face, I told the abbreviated version of the story again ending it with, “I’m not usually like this.” I even told him the part about the name Sylvia. He smiled and said that I had an angel looking out for me today.

“Go ahead and board,” he said. “And have a good weekend.”

As my children and I boarded the plane I looked back to thank him and asked his name. It was Bill. As I reached the airplane door, I realized I had had two angels watching over me today. My grandfather who had died when I was eighteen was named Bill. I felt a tear fall upon my cheek, only this time, with a smile on my lips.

The moral to this story is simple: Never, under any circumstances, travel on the first day of your period.