Flying the Friendly Skies

You know how, when you travel somewhere, people always ask you how your trip was? And you say something like, "Fine, a little turbulence, whatever." Well, that didn't happen this time.

Everything started well. Got to the airport on time, no one noticed I had 3.12 ounces of saline solution in my carry on, we traded up to exit row seats. Life was grand.

But then the pilot said they couldn't get the door closed, and please hold on for 15 minutes. Which became 45. Then he said they were looking for the part and it might be another hour. Our connection in Chicago was history. So we, and everyone else -- including my aunt and her friend, who were also flying to the wake -- scrambled off and began frantically called American Airlines. But they said we couldn't make it to Milwaukee that night, so we hatched a plan to fly to Chitown and drive the hour and a half to Milwaukee. Not fun. Luckily, we ran out to the front desk and they found us a spot on Midwest.

But then American wouldn't transfer my aunt's bag, which had this display of photos she'd made for gramma's funeral/wake. She was freaking out, so I let slip that, actually, our relative's ashes were in the suitcase.

And immediately I started seeing a horrible scene take place, right out of Curb Your Enthusiasm. They would hurry to get the bag, we would get on the plane, they'd run with it across the tarmac where it would burst open, and gramma's pictures would fly out. They would see there were no ashes and we would all be tossed off the plane and we'd miss bowling and brats and frozen custard.

So I said I was kidding. But she did try harder to get us that bag.

Then we had to go back through security, with only 20 minutes to reach the plane. This is when April's boot decided to malfunction and not come off. She was frantically hopping around, pulling at that zipper, sweating bullets, but the security people were, luckily, laughing, and they waved the wand around her, and we made it just in time. Thank you Midwest, for making us feel better with your free, hot cookies.

When we landed in Kansas City, we discovered they have a pre-911 airport, where each 2-3 gates has its own security area. Which means that the shops are outside of that area -- and you absentmindedly buy a coffee and then find you can't take it in. And then, they make you leave behind your shaving cream and shampoo and shoot your saline with this contraption to see if it's over the limit. (Suckers!) Now, if the people in big city San Francisco don't care about my toiletries, why should the hicks in KC? Seriously, who wants to blow them up anyway? Those Texans with their inferior BBQ sauce?

Finally we arrived! And an hour later we were able to find someone to get us our missing suitcase -- only 14 hours after waking up that day!

This is all a longwinded way to say I wish my family lived closer.


Because the next day was great. Or at least as great as a funeral can be. It snowed.


We told funny stories about Grams, including me telling the one about how she witnessed the toplessness of the Dykes on Bikes with my aunt at the Gay March in SF (which is something you're not supposed to talk about in the Catholic church, apparently, oops).

(Dad's in the middle.)

We looked insanely cute at all times.


We played the piano, even though we expressly were told not to.


And we bought swimming suits in the frighteningly empty Kmart and ate giant Turtle sundaes and played Salad Bowl (Celebrity without celebrities) and argued about a dumb movie (have you seen this Tropic Thunder?) and later made the argument all better by including the whole family in it.


At least Gabe is coming up for the weekend. (Ladies, start your engines!)


(He's the dashing dude in the middle. Girls -- and their mothers -- were clawing to get at him in the hot tub.)