On swass and gas and 6.99 wine in a plastic glass.

Happily Urban Me didn’t travel for work.  She occasionally transported her VIP Boss to the airport while he took conference calls with the Sultan of Biggetty Bruhaha (or whatever, I MAY have that name wrong,) but other than that, hoofing it across campus to represent at the all staff council was my biggest work trip.

Reluctantly Suburban Me is also “Shockingly Corporate Me” who has to travel occasionally, and currently located 38000 ft in the air after 2 days at the main office (or Mothership as I like to call it – so I can say “They called me back to the Mothership for a few days,” because I am a super dork unique like that.)

It’s fine…  it makes my Foursquare and Untappd check-ins more exciting, and I get to send pictures of ivy-covered brick buildings back to my parents with captions like “Look Ma, now you can say your daughter went to Harvard!”   I can’t exactly say that sorting through email while lounging in a puffy hotel bed with a plate of room service fruit and cheese and a glass of wine super sucks or anything. That would be a pretty transparent lie.

 But there are a few things that are less-than-awesomesauce about it both this time and in general:

  1. The biggie.  Leaving my kid, standing there waiving with The Mr., wearing his tiny Dropkick Murphys T-shirt in honor of Mommy “Shipping Up To Boston,”, I had a feeling of certainty that he would be packing for college when I returned in a few days because YEAH, it really does  seem like it is all going by that fast. 
  2. Getting to DIA kind of always sucked. But from the north-west burbs it feels like you actually are driving to Kansas.  You should SEE the amount of bug carcass splattered on my windshield. Too. Far. Out.
  3. The GTL beefcakey situation spilling into my seat as I type this has been ripping toots every 7 to 10 minutes since we pushed back from the gate at Logan over 2 hours ago.  If I had to guess I would say he had burning tires for dinner.  I have been sniffing my own pit on a regular basis just to see if I can muffle the stank with what is left of my Secret powder fresh.
  4. Speaking of  Dee-ode, is there some ninja version that peeps in high humidity climates know about that us high and dry dwellers aren’t privy to?  Because the “Secret” I find is that I am a sticky, sweaty pile of less-than-fresh about an hour into my day during trips to Beantown.  (Holy swamp ass, yo?)
  5. Every cabbie I get for the ride between hotel and office seems to be on the “I will save money on car maintenance by only using two of my tires every time I take a turn,” plan.  Oh and also by rolling the windows down (A/C is for sissys,) so that my passenger’s humidity bombed hair can also be blown 80 different directions.  Hot stuff.
  6. I used to be a TERRIBLE flyer.  I say this knowing that the only reason I am no longer one is because I turned 21 and was able to toss a lot little booze on top of the Xanax/Ativan/Whatever that the doctor had given me that never QUITE worked completely.  However, faced with the knowledge that I have to drive myself back home from Kansas DIA when we land, I have to ratchet back on my usual shameless self medication – leaving me stone cold sober and sniffing up GTL’s gas as we hit the usual mountain wave turbulence in our descent back to the pleasantly thin-aired 5280+ ft that we like to call “on the ground” here in the great state of CO.
  7. The actual, legit (not doing an SNL skit,) use of the word “Wicked”.  It can be kind of cool, actually… but when the bar tender at the hotel has said it 9001 times in 15 minitues? Yeah, I’m wicked pissed.
  8. Andplusalso – my kid.  (did I say that already?  He counts twice.)       

(And The Mr…. and the world’s greatest puppy pants….  And my folks who tag team Jr. care with The Mr. while mommy “pahks the cah in Ha-vad yah-d” because it really DOES take a village to raise a Little Emperor Jr.  Miss them all like crazy-crazy-cray.)

 

Until next time, Boston – Home again home again, jiggetty jig.

1 Comment

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One response to “On swass and gas and 6.99 wine in a plastic glass.

  1. Pingback: Dat Workin’ Mom Lyfe. Just Sayin’. | Reluctantly Suburban

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