LAS to LAX = LAM(e)

Last weekend I took a trip to not-so-sunny California to help my dad and brother photograph a wedding. It may or may not have been the most difficult traveling procedure of my life. But fear you not, I have survived.

Step one: Kristen prepares her luggage and loads up old rusty trusty Cracker (the beautiful Corolla) for their excursion to lovely (ba ha ha) Las Vegas. As she walks out the door of her apartment, Abbie (the roommate) offers an interesting bit of information about a time zone change somewhere in between herself and the airport.

Step two: Kristen spends the next 20 to 30 minutes calculating whether or not this means she has an EXTRA hour, or a MINUS (word help please) hour. She has lost an hour. No, she's gained an hour. No lost. Wait...gained? Gained. She definitely has an extra hour. But not really, because she just wasted it debating about the loss/gain of said hour, so she technically has neither lost nor gained...simply broken even. Time to go!

Step three: Thanks to her slight speeding disorder, Kristen (now half way to LV) is making swimmingly great time and might even get to the airport before her anticipated arrival time. Good thing too, because she may or may not have forgotten to take a potty break before leaving the house an hour ago.

Step four: 30 miles from airport Kristen hits massive and ridiculously exacerbating traffic. No worries, we are still ahead of schedule.

Step five: We are not ahead of schedule. We are behind schedule, due to the fact that I have not moved even an inch since step four.

Step six: Arrival at airport. Signs are of no help. Lost trying to find economy parking. Find it, miss shuttle, take next one.

Step seven: I get to the ticket counter and see a line of at least 60 individuals. Laughing slash crying, I approach the nearest uniformed person in my line of vision and beg for sweet mercy. She directs me to a self-check in computer which asks me for a confirmation number I cannot find on my piece of paper. I return to previously mentioned woman who looks at my paper and replies, "Honey, that print's so small I don't think God could read it." I beg to differ, although I don't press the issue. I return to self computer (which now of course has a 4 person line...I wait.) and enter the confirmation number I have miraculously found. "We're sorry. You are too late to check in for your flight." I check the clock..."Like H-e- double hockey sticks I'm too late! I still have 15 entire 60 second minutes!" I yell at the screen. The British man behind me looks away, pretending to not be paying attention. I return once more to said worker (she's loving me at this point) and announce my disapproval at her technology's non-compliance with my schedule. She tells me I must be at the airport one hour before departure to keep my seat. I tell her exactly what I think of that and leave to get back in line, print off my ticket for the next flight (they want $50 to confirm), and run to my gate, which lo and behold...has been changed.

Step seven and a half: Because this is getting long, let's just say security was a war zone. I was selected for the "strip search" but somehow was let off the hook. (Lins: I didn't even ask what his flashlight thing was for this time!)

Step eight: I pass a bathroom and my bladder yells at me, "Listen sister! I promise that I will pee your pants if you don't let me go!" I yell back, "Do it. I dare you. I am NOT missing this flight!"

Step nine: I find my gate. Over the intercom I hear "Last call for flight blah blah!" I see a line of approximately 10 stand-by fliers, begging to be put on the plane. After waiting a moment behind them, my mean side (I call her Katrina) comes out and I walk to the front of the line and tell them I have a ticket for this flight. "We're sorry, you weren't here in time. We've given your seat away." Intercom: "The gate will be closing in 30 seconds...29...28." I look over and see the hinge begin to move. Me: "Excuse me. I am not too late. I still have 27 seconds." Employee: "Well, I can't get my printer to work, so I can't print you off a ticket. I'll put you on the next flight." Katrina (you know, one of those people you are embarrassed for...): "No! You will put me on this flight because I bought a seat on it 6 weeks ago and I paid for it and I am here and the airplane is still on the ground! Look! See it out there? It hasn't even moved yet!" Desk agent: "We do have a seat in the rear of the plane reserved for an oversized package." Katrina: "I am a HUMAN! That is a bunch of CARDBOARD! Put it in the bathroom! Because so help me if you give my seat to a BOX."

Step ten: I am on the airplane, walking to my seat. All plane occupants' eyes are fixed on me as the flight attendant picks up her phone and in a sweet as ever voice says, "We do apologize for the delay, but we had a little issue and it's all taken care of and we are ready to leave." Again...all eyes on me. I almost yelled out an apology, but was a little too distraught.

Step eleven: We are airborne and the fasten seatbelt sign is turned off. I have to pee like a racehorse. Too bad the drink cart is right next to me (well, technically it is right next to the German, who is right next to me, who is asleep.) I wake him up and Katrina tells the flight attendant that she's gonna need to move her cart immediately if she doesn't want me to pee on her seat cushion/ flotation device. She is hesitant to comply, but my angry eyes convince her in the end.

Step twelve: The German on my right and the Singaporian on my left engage in heated, bad-breath debates across my lap for the next 45 minutes, both leaning in for emphasis. "Yo cuntree hahs no mercee foh meestahks." "Eh?" "YO CUNTREE EES MERCEELESS." "Vaht ah yu sayeeng?" etc. etc. etc. I interjected translations when I could, for my own sanity.

I hate flying with all the passions invested in my being.