Oh, the Places You'll Go!

I'm ba-ack! Thanks to everyone who read the blog while I was out of town and not posting--hope you weren't too bored. New York was fantastic. I've got several posts about it for later on, but for now, I'm just going to address our plane rides. The actual travel was the only part of the trip we had trouble with, so I'm going to get it out of the way now and talk about the fun stuff later.

Last week, the King and I agreed that because our flight left Dulles Airport at 11:30 am, we'd get up around 8 and leave the house at 8:30. No problem, we'd get a little lie-in and have plenty of time at the airport for breakfast and any lines at the check-in desk. So the alarm goes off at 8, we get up, and leisurely begin getting ready to go. I make some coffee, the King takes a shower, and around 8:20, I grab our plane tickets to put them in my suitcase. Thank God, I glanced at them before packing them:

Me: "Oh shit."
The King: "What?"
Me: "Our flight isn't leaving at 11:30, it's leaving at 10:00. Holy FUCK."
The King: "Are you fucking kidding me?"
We said fuck a lot more times while racing up and down the stairs with bags, flipping the lights off, and shouting at each other. By the time we got on the highway, we pretty much weren't speaking except for the following:
The King: "You should call the airline and tell them we're going to miss the flight. They'll be nicer about rescheduling if we tell them now, instead of just not showing up."
Me: "We're not going to miss the flight. I've never missed a plane, and I don't intend to start today. Drive faster. That little old lady will get out of the way."

We made the flight--we ran up to the gate at the very moment the stewardess was annoucing that boarding was beginning. We were the first people on. (For what it's worth, it was completely my fault. I made the reservations, and told the King the wrong time. He was very nice about it once the shock wore off.)

The trip home was even more exciting, if that's possible. But in a bad, bad way. The night before we were to leave, we went to bar and ended up chatting with this fabulous Swedish couple. I drank too much and before I knew it, it was 4:00 am and the bar was closing. The King got me back to our hotel and set the alarm.

In the morning, I had a terrible hangover. I managed to get packed, and the King checked us out of the hotel. We went for lunch at the hotel restaurant. There was a huge hole in the ceiling, out of which was dripping large amounts of water, and the place smelled like cabbage and old grease. This was not good for my upset stomach. I knew I needed to eat something to settle it, and all they had was hamburgers. I've generally got a cast-iron constitution--I never get sick from eating stuff. So I had a burger--the greasiest, cheesiest, biggest burger ever. I should have known it was a bad idea, but the pounding headache destroying my brain was a bit distracting.

After lunch, we stood in the pouring rain to get a cab. The cab was a typical New York cab driver--suicidal. He began racing through Midtown traffic, zipping in and out of the lanes like a Formula One pro. I should note that although I never get sick from stomach flus or bad food, I do have a tendency to get queasy from motion sickness.

About halfway to the airport, just as we were going over the Queensboro Bridge, it started. My stomach began rolling like the perfect storm was passing through, and I started getting dizzy. The King, seeing me turning green and clinging to the door handle, became alarmed.

The King: "What's wrong? You look awful."
Me: "Urp."
The King: "Oh shit." [Looking around, realizing we're doing 70 on a freeway with no possible way to pull over.] "Do it out the window, if you have to."

And I did. That's right, I puked out the window of the cab while driving up the 495 at speed. To all the cars I vomited on, I am so very, very sorry. To the poor cab driver, who was nice enough not to punch me when he saw my vomit all over the side of his car, thank you for taking pity on me. And to the lady who saw me trying to wash vomit out of my hair and mouth in the bathroom at JFK airport, thank you for not calling security to have me removed. I'm sure I looked like a crazy homeless person, but I was really just very, very sick.

And to the King, who put my vomity shirt in his suitcase, got me some stomach pills and water, checked us it at the airport, and managed not to throw up himself while watching me puke, thank you for being the best husband ever. And I don't blame you at all for not wanting to kiss me until I got home and took a shower. Which I wasn't able to do for a long time, because our 40-minute flight was delayed 3 hours due to rain. So I smelled like vomit pretty much all fucking day. Thanks, baby--you're the best.