The Wedding: Part I

1-10-02 11:13 am

So I'm sitting in the airport, waiting for my plane to board (not the plane I was supposed to be on, but that's a whole other thing) and I'm sitting next to this tool some chick that he wants for a mail order bride or something. The poor girl barely speaks English, and he's telling her how the letters are backwards in her language. They're now exchanging e-mail, but even though they've been talking since I got here, he just now bothered to get her name.

It's not even like he's remotely attractive. His fatness makes me look like Courteny Cox, except with the breasts, or long black hair, or well, the fact that I'm not a woman. But I digress. The irony (for those who care to see it) is that this loser actually does have breasts. The poor little foreign girls is looking at this dude as a way out of her country or whatever.

I suppose that's pretty presumptuous of me, but really. Why else would she talk to him? He's all about condescension, translating his tricky English words (like soon) with other English words (small time). Right.

He's telling her that she's supposed to go to the Arch in St. Louis, but not to travel alone because there are bgi mean men. It's a good thing he's here to look out for her. "In St. Petersburg" (dork just got back from Russia with a $50 tea set) "the children play in the streets. It's too cold for bad people there."

Dude. Now if she feels chilly, she's going to go strolling in some ghetto. Good job. She'll never get her greencard that way.

Who cares that he's been to Russia? I don't. I wish he stayed there. And I'm getting the feeling that she has the same idea in her head, because she looks like she's about to fall asleep. Maybe she doesn't really like him, but she's too sleepy to move and doesn't know the English words "Shut your face, fat man."

If I ever go to a foreign country, I'm totally learning how to say that before I leave.

Ha. He lives in Rolla, MO. That explains a lot.

1:35 pm

Wow. I don't look good right now. This airport debacle has definitely taken its toll (and made me incredibly bitter as is eveident by the last entry). Which makes this a good time to tell the story.

So we leave a little late at about 7:15. No big deal. We get to Midway in plenty of time for my flight. There's not even a line.

For a good reason. Because my flight is out of O'Hare.

So Allison zoomed back to Midway to pick me up again. The airport woman says to take 55N all the way to O'Hare. Guess what? That's not right. 55N turns into Lakeshore Drive. In rush hour.

Eventually, after two unsuccessful calls for directions (I'm so glad that I pay Sprint to sit there like idiots) we found our way to the right highway. We made it to the airport with a half hour to spare. After cutting in line at the curbside check-in, I was told that I was too late and had to take the next flight. Even though, technically, I made it.

Bastards.

I got a new flight. Two and a half hours later. Which is why I spent the morning in an airport bar drinking screwdrivers.

Stay tuned for drinking, drug dealers, debauchery and general taking it to the people.