Letters From the Airport

Dear Airline (whichever one you are):

Please, please, please stop canceling flights and booking your displaced passengers on my flights. I could have gotten some-fucking-where this weekend if you didn’t sell flights you have no plans to fly. kthanxbai.

Dear Airline (you know which one you are):

I understand that flying standby is a privilege, and that of course paying fares fly first. But, please, train your people to be more sensitive to the trials and struggles of your standby passengers. Being nasty just because I can’t say anything back is dirty, dirty pool. Also? Fly more flights to Paradise and the North, as they are obviously in high demand.

Dear guy from Isreal (and the guy from Iowa),

Thanks for getting me trashed in the airport bar on Friday night. If I had to be stranded for hours on concourse D, at least I was too fucked up to really care. You are a gem. I’m sorry I don’t remember your name, I only remember you trying to teach me how to pronounce it.

Dear SuperCute guy from Texas,

Thanks for letting me check my email on your laptop. If I didn’t sign out of my Google account, please don’t fuck around with my stuff. Also, thank you for not taking advantage of my drunken, flirtatious ass, though, honestly, I’m still not sure I would have minded.

Dear Baggage Services,

Okay? Really? If the TSA says that my bag isn’t supposed to go anywhere I don’t, then how did Kermit get back to Paradise 24 hours ahead of me? And stop touching my underwear. You know you do it. Freaks.

Dear Sis,

Thank God, Mary, and the baby Jesus for you. Thanks for picking me up at the airport Friday night. And bringing clean pants. And not telling Mom how drunk I was when you picked me up. And for taking me to breakfast. And for dropping me back off at this godforsaken motherfucking airport. I love you.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Sorry I couldn’t get there. I tried my damnedest. I can only figure that fate was protecting me from some unspeakable harm. I love you, and I will come see you. When I can afford to drive. No, of course I did not get drunk in the airport. I would never do something like that.

Dear Boss,

I’m sorry that I charged $60 to my company credit card. I can only claim temporary insanity. Hopefully, when you told me that I should get trashed on my company card if I got stranded, you really meant it. Don’t worry, I’ll reimburse you, even if it takes me two months. kthanksbai.

Dear Ramone,

Thanks for making a rough weekend a good time. You’re a great guy, and it was an honor and a pleasure to meet you. Every time I hear a great guitar solo, I will think of you, pouring your soul out through your strings. Here’s to a beautiful man, inside and out. If you’re ever in Paradise, let me know, so WH and I can take you out to dinner. And get you chips and candy.

To the Businessman in the Smoking Coffin on Concourse C that teased me about being a blogger:

You were worried about us blogger types chronicling your missteps and mistakes. Well, here you are, on my blog, and I can only say that you’re a warm and friendly guy who made my misadventure a little more pleasant. Matter of fact, you and Ramone are the reasons that I can’t ever stick to my rule of not talking to strange men in the airport. How’s that for your internet debut.

To the Guy from Alabama with the Horticultural Degree:

Thanks for the gardening advice. And the screwdriver. Dude, you totally need to shit-can your CPA. She’s screwing you hard.

To the Mysterious Young Guy on my flight:

Stop staring at me. Thanks for waking me up.

To Vida:

Girl, we made it home! Alive! With our bags! We are so totally doing lunch, and I still think that we could make a mint selling showers at the airport.

To VeryBadCat:

You earned your blog name this weekend, babe. Do not get drunk in the airport anymore. Please, please, please remember Friday night anytime you’re tempted to guzzle overpriced chardonnay. being stranded is a reason not to get trashed, as counterintuitive as that may seem. If you do enjoy a cocktail, be careful who you share it with. Also, running full speed to make a flight you know you really aren’t going to make with a bladder full of chardonnay is not worth peeing a little in your pants. Also, do not hesitate to blog about all of this, after all, you’ve already left your dignity in the bar at Concourse D.

PS: Remember to tell the receptionist to put all personal calls into your voicemail for awhile. And hide your business cards from yourself. Love you, thanks!


4 Responses

  1. wow – what a way to spend your weekend. 😦

  2. Nice. Sounds like quite the weekend! If I’ve ever heard a case of making lemonade when life hands you lemons, this would be it!

  3. The whole time I read this I couldn’t help but chuckle.

    A lot.

    Oh, and drinking @ the airport? THE ONLY WAY TO GO!

  4. […] decided that since I almost can’t feel the pain from my last attempt to visit, and I’m a little afraid that my Mom’s super sanity emotional armour (really, […]

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