Despite these, though, I have had bad luck lately with my return flights getting me back anywhere near on-time. My previous flight -- a 5:30 that I showed up for at 3:30 -- didn't take off until 11 because of storms, leaving me sufficiently drunk when I decided that the airport bar would help me pass the time nicely. My brother reported that I allegedly drunk-dialed my parents' house, although I have no recollection of such an action. I do, however, remember getting free drinks all afternoon, evening, and night from a schlew of men who thought it was cool that I both had breasts and an opinion on the American league vs. the National League (yes, that's baseball), telling off a man in the subway in a most ladylike fashion when he suggested that I got my current job because of the first variable of the above equation, and making friends with a lad named Cal who thought that I should let him hang out with me while he was there on business (um, no).

Although tonight was vodka-free, I did make an inadvertent attempt to board a flight to Buffalo. (That is neither here nor there [the story, not the flight -- that was obviously THERE and not HERE].) With my attempts thwarted, I sat back down and waited until 10:25 EASTERN time to board terminal C1. We boarded the plane accordingly, and I settled comfortably into my sardine seat (being small rocks). Then we waited. And then we waited some more. And then the captain in what should have been a voice saying, "We'll be overlooking XYZ famous location before ya know it," was instead saying, "We've encountered a little problem, and we've called the crew to come take a look at it." Five minutes later he said that we had to get all of our stuff off his busted-ass plane (hey -- I was flying a discount airline) and then wait to board another one. After hitting up the bathroom, I headed to the one airport location that could bring me a smile at 11 o'clock: the Coke machine. Out of Diet Coke. Out of water. Out of rootbeer. I'll be gah-damned if I'm gonna drink Spite, so the machine clearly wanted me to be a good, little sheep and just drink a Coca-cola Classic. I schlepped back to the gate and waited without a can of the artificial sugar-filled bubbly goodness accompanying my right hand. There's not much else to report there, but I did get the full can of Diet Coke during drink service.

When I left the terminal and followed the orange line to the Orange Line (isn't it cute that they use paint to indicate the subway track you're following?!), I found the doors locked despite a sign saying they were open until 12:51. I held an Italian conversation (waving arms and an exasperated face) with a CTA personnel through the glass (we couldn't hear a word each other said, of course) before walking to the (oh goodness -- SHUDDER!) awaiting buses. "Ghetto bus line to the ghetto subway, please." I said gleefully to the driver. No sooner did I settle into my seat and start rereading, "The Hot Zone" (a book I stole fair and square from the Wells Branch library back in 01/2001), did the bus driver pick up two women clearly just getting off work, as they were still wearing their red smocks and bitching about customers. And instead of sitting near or -- GASP! -- next to each other, they decided that shouting was the best way to continue their conversation. I was thisclose to delivering a karate chop to their heads, but I figured a simultaneous chop would be the way to go and my arms couldn't reach the distance between them. Yeah, yeah, yeah... My stop was actually just ahead and I needed to round my stuff up to get on the train. The train ride was fine, although I did encounter one man drunk off his ass and puking onto the tracks, another completely without his marbles and talking to himself the entire time we rode, and one asking for money and then arguing when another man told him where to get free food at that hour.

Alas, I am now home. �