Regretfully, many of you will find this post more interesting than anything I posted about my activities in Chicago, but such is life…sometimes the journey is more eventful than the destination. In this case, I would say the journey was ulcer inducing and colon wrenching.

Due chronic indecisiveness and commitment issues, I fly standby. One never knows when a family member is going to break a hip or suffer an attack salmonella, so flexibility when traveling is the key. I monitored flights for weeks prior to departing for Chicago, but careful planning can only carry a person so far. Sooner or later, summer thunderstorms, will send planning to hell in a hand basket. Such was the case for my travel intentions.

I began my day, bright and early at 4AM, a wake-up time reserved exclusively for flying days. As luck would have it, the travel overlords smiled on the first leg of my journey and I flew from my regional airport to the busiest airport in the southeast without incident. I had enough time between flights for coffee, so life was good. Or so I thought. I went to the gate to board my connecting flight only to discover it was cancelled due to bad weather. I rolled into the standby list for the next flight, took a train to the new gate, only to watch that flight cancel as well. Two flights (a new concourse and train ride) later I was on my way to Chicago…on the second to last available seat. Four hours behind schedule, but who cares? I made it and I was happy.

I didn’t give much thought to my departing from Chicago to return home. The weather wouldn’t screw me twice, right? Hmmm. Once again, on Sunday, I got the second to last available seat on the flight out of Chicago, which was my only opportunity to make my connecting flight.

I was escorted to my seat only to be greeted by a middle aged bleached blond from Alabama who said,”Thank goodness you’re small. I was afraid they would put a six-four, 400 lb, white guy in the empty seat”. My response, “Uh huh.”

Faking a cat nap seemed like a most excellent way to avoid conversation, so I closed my eyes as the plane taxied from the gate. We taxied, and taxied, and taxied, and the season changed from summer to fall, and the leaves fell from the trees…Then I woke up abruptly, as the engines shut down. Excuse me? Did we land already? The pilot announced, take off was delayed due to thunderstorms. He said we would wait on the plane until further notice, but if the wait exceeded half an hour, we would return to the gate and disembark.

At this point I began chanting to myself, “No, no, no, to the gate we can’t go”. Because I know, if I leave the plane, I may not be allowed to re-board the plane if someone traveling at a higher standby priority than myself decides they want to take this flight. No, no, no, to the gate we can’t go. No, no, no, to the gate we can’t go…

Thirty minutes passed, and much to my relief, we were cleared for take off. Yes, yes, yes, yes! (That’s the sound of me having a premature travelgasm).

We arrived thirty minutes late for my connecting flight’s scheduled departure, but I checked and discovered the departure time had been delayed, and I could still make the flight…if there were seats available. I took the train to the next concourse and waited at the gate for two hours, then the flight was canceled.

Due to forces of gravity requiring shit to roll down hill, I wouldn’t be able to fly home, because Monday’s flights to my destination were overbooked. I looked for an alternative airport close to home, so I wouldn’t have to beg an unsuspecting family member to drive four hours and rescue me from the airport. I found an alternative that would only require a one plus hour commute and booked myself on the flight.

Since my flight left early in the morning, I deemed it practical to remain in the airport all night rather than find a hotel, catch a shuttle, sleep less than five hours, catch another shuttle, return to the airport, wade through the hassle we call security, and crawl back to the gate.

I found a seat with a foot rest and I might have slept a few hours, if it hadn’t been for the pissed woman, who got bumped from her Las Vegas flight. She insisted on chatting with me non-stop. (FYI, I was not giving up my foot rest.) When I pretended to doze off, she called all her family on the west coast to complain about her tragic situation. Yes, she and five hundred other unhappy passengers had been specifically targeted in a travel conspiracy to wreck their flight plans, because airlines love rerouting angry passengers.

After tossing, turning and freezing for four hours, I left my coveted seat for coffee and a danish around 6AM. I went to the courtesy phones to check in for my flight, only to discover sixty pissed-off passengers trying to rebook their flights. After waiting twenty-five minutes for an operator, I discovered my morning flight had been cancelled, and I would need to rebook for yet, another different airport. With the courtesy phone against one ear, I called my husband on my cell, listening with the other ear to inquire, “Now which airport?”. He was excited to hear from me because it was six thirty and he was he was sleeping.

Eventually, I connected with an operator and rebooked my flight for a different airport an hour and a half from home. Still, better than four hours. I made the flight and arrived at my destination at 10AM. Then I waited at that airport for two hours for my spouse to pick me up because he couldn’t (wouldn’t?) postpone breakfast with his parents until another morning (don’t go there). I commenced my journey with a car trip and some mediocre fast food.

After a three hour detour (which I agreed to) I arrived home at 5PM on Monday, twenty hours behind schedule. If I had to do it all over again, I would still do it. The inconvenience was well worth the risk, to spend time with friends.

I know this is pretty chintzy grabbing the same meme twice. I’m already fretting over this month and I’m only three days into it. Several opportunities to travel are on the horizon, two are almost guaranteed, two more are possibilities, and one is a complete unknown, and there’s a menial trip to the dentist. I’m not complaining, these are good problems to have, but I guess I shouldn’t call a an opportunity a problem.

Okay eight interesting, weird, normal things:

1. When the Mister and I moved in together, he wanted a Christmas tree. I had never bothered with decorations during my single years, and he lost his decorations in his divorce. I collected Altoid tins so we’d have stuff to hang on the tree. Mints and sours. Eventually any small decorative item became fair game. People still save them for me.
2. I don’t spend much time cooking, but I hardly ever prepare food from a can or a cardboard box. I use lots of fresh produce and grill often. I don’t keep much processed food either. I don’t have anything against it, but I feel better when I eat fresh vegetables. I guess I’m doing penance for all the chicken strips, french fries, and ice cream I ate when I was single.
3. After two margaritas at a Mexican restaurant, I get tipsy enough to speak to the waiters in Spanish. I was required to take Spanish for two years in high school, but I can’t seem to remember it when I’m sober. “Uno mas, por favor” is the extent of my sober Spanish.
4. In the eight years the Mister and I have been together, We have only gone on two vacations in which I have not been on my period. Two. We travel fairly often. I even tried planning around the damn thing. It has a mind of its own, and shows up too early or too late. I know there are pills for this. but giving mother nature the finger makes me a little nervous.
5. I didn’t try sneaking out of the house until I was twenty-two. I was home from college on Spring Break. It might not qualify as sneaking out when you are over the age of consent, but my Mom was still paying my expenses, so by her standards, I was still subjected to her rules. I snuck out because he had a flat tire and couldn’t sneak over. I didn’t get caught, but the baggage was not worth it…
6. When I was working, I gently jabbed my boss in the stomach after his hernia surgery. I didn’t know he had the surgery. He started it. He wrapped one arm around in a headlock, and delivered the mock adolescent punch to the stomach. I returned the favor but not as lightly, because I refuse to fight like a girl. He cried uncle…literally. I managed to hold onto the job a few more years. For those of you thinking, hmmm sexual harassment. Yes, but that wasn’t the incident or the offender.
7. I love music. It is a source of sanity. I am convinced I would have left my last job two years earlier if I had not been allowed to stream in audio from the internet. I often engage in music lyric philosophy. I never listen to the radio in my car except for NPR or cd’s. I don’t care for much of mainstream music, and prefer variety.
8. I took three years of ballet as a kid. It didn’t do me a damn bit of good in the grace department. I am agile, but I was never very coordinated when I was younger. I was a late bloomer. My brother was shocked to learn I could catch a football in my thirties. Mocked by a forty year old man with a spare tire.

Don’t be mislead by the masthead. This blog has little to do with cats. It’s more about waste management. Shit must be handled properly. If disposed of in a cavalier fashion, it can poison the water supply, or be stepped in and tracked across clean surfaces. Hence the litterpan, an unpleasant device which serves a very useful purpose.

If you’re here, it’s either a.) because you’re curious or b.) you want to be here. You may be wondering what is with the emailing why not post a link? Excellent question. Family has the web address for Claw~less & Ball~less because I gave it to them. I don’t regret sharing, but I need a secluded location to write from first person, from my person without confining myself with censorship. If you are family, and you have found this url, as I have not taken efforts to conceal it, I respectfully ask you not to return. I have no intentions of sullying your good name or telling the world about your insert embarrassing ethical dilemma here. Like you, I need a place where I can sit in peace and contemplate life.

Patches’ website will remain in tact for now. He is the wittier of the two of us, and he has plenty to say. He will continue to participate in Poetry Friday and woo you with alcohol induced bad poetry and his attempts at clever illustrations. As of this posting, neither blog has any clear goals or target audience. I suppose we will be surprised by the results together.

If you’re wondering how I got here, you’re not alone, I’ve asked myself the same question. I have a fear of failing, so it seemed easier to fail under the assumed identity of a mammal with a brain the size of a golf ball who licks his own testicles. It’s a lower elevation to fall from grace. I bumped into a few limitations trying to project my voice through my ball~less, though wonderfully affectionate house cat. So it is time to grow a spine and speak for myself.