My Trip to NYC: At the Tampa Airport,Sweetman's Completley Morphed, Ta-Tas, and Quizno

This morning, I'm dragging myself around. I know I usually have my stuff posted by seven but I didn't barrel out of bed until seven-thirty. I'm looking forward to when I can cut back on hair lopping days. Hope all the mommies out there had a great day yesterday, too. Now onward with my story.

March 19, 2011

Eventually, we'll make it to New York City but I have to get through the morphing process of Sweetman turning into foaming-at-the-mouth-monster.

He sped the car toward the airport terminal. In his deluded mind we're late. He's moaning, growling, and mumbling some not nice words. Me, I'm keeping my mouth shut. It's something I must practice daily because it's not something I do well.

He stops the car at a parking ticket booth for the cars longterm stay, still complaining. Right about now I believe my eyes have spun, not rolled, around in my sockets about a million times. My silence is broken with an outburst of giggles.

"What's so funny?" He asked.

"You," I said. "I can hardly wait to write about this. Sweetman turns Jeckyl and Hyde on me. You do this every trip."

He grunted something inaudible and jerked the car out of the booth area. He raced around a round-d-round, up and up we went to find a parking spot. There must've been a hundred cars. He spilled out a few more naughty words until he found the perfect parking spot.

"Did you remember your driver's license?" He shoved the automatic forward.

"Of course, I did." Discreetly, I fumbled around in my purse because I could't remember. But, yup, it's there.

"Where's your plane ticket?" His face is beet red now and his cute little dimples have disappeared. I think I see foam etching out from the corners of his mouth.

"You never gave me one,' I said. "Don't they give us one when we check in the bags?"

"I did this on-line. And, we're carrying our luggage on."

"Oh. So you must still have my ticket."

"No. I gave it to you." He feels at his shirt pockets and then his pants. "I know I gave it to you."

"I know, you didn't. I remember everything."

"No. You remember nothing. I swear, you've got the onslaught of Alzheimer's."

We both get out of the car and walk toward the trunk. He pulls out both suitcases and searhes his. Wa-la my ticket magically appears. Yup. He had the ticket.

I smile to myself. I'm right. He's wrong.


Immediatley, once inside the airport we go to security check and stand in the long line.

"You didn't bring any big bottles of liquid with you?" he asks. His pupils have now taken over his eyes. "Anything in your purse?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Did you wear anything that's going to set the machine off?" he asked. The last several times my underwire in my bra set it off. It seemed to be the traveling ritual. I swear it was done on purpose because I always got the pat down. Whoever ran the machine had a thing for ta-tas. Espacially, mine.

Thankfully, we made it through with no bleeps. I found it strange. I think my feelings were hurt. No one liked my ta-tas this time.

Our stomachs growled at us when we slipped out of security.

"I'm hungry," I said.

"Me, too."

We walk toward a food court. Starbucks and Quiznos. We picked Quiznos.

"What are you doing now?" he asked, leading us toward the Quiznos.

"Taking a picture," I said.

"Of what?"

"Where we're going to eat and security." I followed him to the Quiznos counter.

"You don't take pictures of security."

"Why not?"

He said something that couldn't be compared to the English language and drummed his fingers on the counter. Three workers, two women and one man, stood with their backs to us, chattering away in Spanish. My husband cleared his throat. It didn't change their stance. They looked more intersted in the phone. The man had picked it up and hung it up several times.

My husband cleared his throat again. I do believe drool dribbled onto is chin now. He looked rabid-like.

"Excuse me," I said. "We'd like to order."

A short woman walked over to the register and took our orders. We got our food and found a seat. We had the perfect view of a foggy tarmac, of course.

Sweetman unwrapped his breakfast sandwhich. Wheat bread. "I told her white." He pulled off a piece of ham. Something he abhores. He's Jewish. "With cheddar cheese. Not meat!"

I pulled mine open. I got his white bread and his cheddar cheese. Not what I ordered. Oh, well. This trip is starting off in the toilet and Sweetman may need a rabies shot before we board.

To Be Continued...