I got home Thursday afternoon after a long day of flying. Thursday morning, we got up at the butt-crack of dawn and went through the gauntlet of hell that is Atlanta morning traffic. Hugs and kisses later, I was deposited curbside at the Atlanta airport. I check in, I take the tram to my terminal, I stop by Starbucks for the biggest charged drink I can get my hands on. I got to my gate and settle in my seat when some unruly 3 year old saunters over and takes the straw out of my drink. Dad scoops up the little darling and takes him away...with my straw. I go back to Starbucks and get another straw.
As I am sitting there, I call Paul to make certain his ass is out of bed (because he told me to). He tells me about his uncle's funeral. I'm looking out the window watching all the planes come and go when my plane pulls up to the gate. I gasp. Paul asks me what is wrong and I tell him that I am flying out of Atlanta on a John Denver Airplane. We're talking the smallest commercial plane ever. Paul assures me that I will be fine, but does mention he will pray for my safety.
I board the bus with wings, and my seat is in the very back of the airplane. I lean over and look down the isle, and I can see buttons in the cockpit. The plane is that small.
The lady seated next to me is a Hurricane Katrina Refugee. She tells me about her experience in New Orleans, I understand half of it due to her thick accent. She was on her way to Houston to see the rest of her family who was taken there. She laments that she is now having to start over and get a job. Hurricane Katrina happened 6 months ago, and she is only now starting to seek gainful employment.
We arrive in Houston without incident. I go to the gate my ticket tells me to go to for my connecting flight, but the info on the board reflects another plane. I do a little searching and find the right gate. Much to my dismay, my next flight is on another little aircraft powered by hamsters. I call Paul to make certain his ass is out of bed (it wasn't) and I complain more about flying on the Little Plane That Could.
The flight from Houston to Kansas City passes with little fanfare. I collect my luggage, and no Paul. Ever after two phone calls, he is still late. He calls my cell phone to tell me this, so I wait for him.
After he picks me up, we decide to get something for dinner. Dinner was good. As I am looking through my purse for some chapstick, I come to the horrible realization that I don't have my keys. I pale. Paul asks me what is wrong and I tell him that I think I have left my keys in Georgia. A couple calls to Atlanta confirm this. Fortunately, I have another set at home. Unfortunately, I can't get into the house to get them. I call my mother who comes home an hour later and lets me into the apartment. Kathryn tells me that she will drop my keys in the mail. Paul goes home with a new pair of pajama pants.
So ends my harrowing trip home. Not very exciting, I know. I will probably not fly Continental again, even though they offer better onflight snacks than American.