Left Behind, the Vegas Edition

No, wait, I think it was that one, over there, I think there was a fountain in front of it,

yeah, are there any with fountains?

Yes, I’m back. Back with a resolve: never, ever, not even to the mailbox, will I ever take a trip with Mr. Right again. As in “Right At Home Where I Left It”.

Now I’m no Condoleeza Rice fan, but I can tell you one thing: had the old boy network asked, by sheer dint of her chromosomes, Condi would have had a coherent plan of action formulated for Iraq. A Plan A. A Plan B. An exit strategy. A list with little check marks to help her cross each item off in the proper order. A grand think-through. A "What If".

Not Al. No sooner had we gone two blocks from home did he note his sunglasses were left behind. Hmmm. As we were getting a ride provided by his employer and I didn’t want to miss the plane, I didn’t suggest going back. Then I asked if he brought his MP3 player. You know, the one I bought him and never have used. Might be pleasant to have some tunes on the plane. Or by the pool. Or back home under his pile of unpaid bills where he left it.

But wait! There’s more. Not long after, he asked ME if I recalled what hotel we were staying at. Um, no. You never said. You mentioned it was a suite, but never gave me a name. What do you mean, you didn’t bring that info along? Oh, thought it was on the pile of emails you printed out, but it’s not. Of course. Why get organized the night before and review everything? Naw. This is much more fun. We can just ask the cab driver in Vegas to drive up and down the strip until something sounds familiar. No problem. Was it a hotel with a little lion? Did it look like a pyramid? Eiffel Tower? Stop me when something rings a bell…

Now credit must be given to the astute Kane Citizen, who thinks this was all just a ploy by Al to make sure I never accompany him anywhere again. If so, Al and Kane are welcome to procrastinate fleeing the next Tsunami to their heart’s content, while we gals will go out and harness nuclear fission over the lunch special at Chili’s, thank you very much.

Anyhoo… we got to the airport and enjoyed the delights of speedy self-check in. As you may have guessed, there’s no such thing. Actually, my last trip with Louise to Key West was no problem. This was a nightmare (because of Al’s presence, one can only presume). After much bag toting and being pointedly ignored by bored employees, we were x-rayed and on our way. Got hungry and decided to grab a little something before boarding the plane. MISTAKE! Nothing like spending $4.95 on a bottle of water and the most horrible tasting orange ever. I wanted to ask for my money back (in lieu of lobbing so-called fruit through their glass deli case) but didn’t bother. I had bigger things to worry about. Like how Al was on my cell phone frantically trying to reach someone he works with on a Saturday so they could retrieve his hotel email. Yes, this is the man that spent six months picking a cell phone carrier. The guy who constantly grabs mine because ‘outgoing’ calls cost him. Yep. Even with research, he’s not doing too well.

So we get on the Ted plane (I didn’t book this trip, so don’t blame me for a cut-rate airline with a cutesy name derived from a fraction of the letters of the original carrier that reflects the cut pensions of the disgruntled employees who now have nothing but contempt for me and the bucket of bolts we are riding in…) and settle in. Al and I are in different rows, and that’s just as well. My luck he’ll be in the seat with the emergency exit and somehow accidentally engage it. Don’t want to know.

They announce there’s to be a FREE movie! The Devil Wears Prada! I wanted to see that! Whoo hoo! FREE! I love free! Except for the grimy earphones you are supposed to share with the last three thousand diseased cheapos who fly Ted. Oh, I get it, in-fect-TED… So I get out my little handi-wipe and try and scrub the earphones as best I can. Right when I’m done, the stewardess announces, oops! There was a mix up. Today’s movie is Mission Impossible 3. Grumbling something about how it must have been a MAN who loaded the preflight movie, I stuff the earphones back into the seat pocket. My Harry Shearer book, Not Enough Indians will have to do.

Next Post: If this is a desert, why is it raining so damn hard?