Here I am, back in W. C. Fields punching bag, where I spent 4 muggy and snowy years learning how to be a snappy dresser. We're heading down to Maryland after lunch for the rehearsal dinner/crab feed before tomorrow's big wedding of frequent 'I'll Flip You' commenter, "Molly in NYC."
But more importantly, getting here.
First of all, leave it to my mother to befriend the hottest guy in the airport. While Alex and I were camped out in the bar, Mom bonded with Sean over football, which god bless him, Sean played at Penn. When I finally showed up at our gate, I was like, "Nice work, Joanne."
Prior to taking off, I received a call from my day job boss, who left me a slightly panicked message that Carole Migden's office had called and wanted my cell phone number, which she refused. Apparently, they sounded mad. Our flight had been delayed over an hour, so I was jacked up on Bloody Marys and iced coffee when I called them back.
I guess Carole didn't like Wednesday's Culture Blog.
I would think, if someone has a problem with something someone writes in the Chronicle, they call the Chronicle. Or perhaps, utilize the e-mail link provided.
I'm saving the VAST MAJORITY of my rant for, of course, the next Culture Blog, but needless to say, I had a five hour flight and a notebook.
I landed with 11 pages of shit on Carole.
I was in no mood anyway. We were flying Southwest, which in addition to taking off crazy late and turning the cabin into Lord of the Flies with their unassaigned seat policy, has no in-flight cinema.
Again, forcing me to my notebook, now almost entirely devoted to my distaste for California State Senator, Carole Migden.
When we finally landed, an hour and a half late, the boys were instructed to get the rental car and mom and I (and hot Sean) headed to the baggage claim.
With less than an hour until our much anticipated dinner reservations, we needed to haul ass.
So you can imagine my exhausted, filthy and cranky dismay when the conveyor belt on the baggage thing broke, and we all had to stand around while they tried to fix it.
Which they couldn't.
Decades later, with baggage actually in the trunk of our rented Buick or similar, my father hops on the freeeway and asks, "Where do I go?"
I haven't lived here in 7 years. How the hell do I know?
Eventually, narrowly avoiding both New Jersey AND Delaware, we made it. Alex and I finally passed out after post-dinner drinks at a frat bar and a half-viewing of the geographically appropriate, The Sixth Sense.
I am now up before everyone else, have already been to the FABULOUS fitness center, am about to finish my blogging/e-mailing and am looking forward to some coffee and bakery goodness just around the corner.
I'm going to go mosey around Rittenhouse Square, where it's 80 degrees and raining, so I can pretend I'm in a movie.
Good talk. Good weekend...
PS. Shouts out to Tim at FRB and Mark Leno, whom I now love.