gettin lucky in kentucky (part one)

This is not actually about "gettin lucky in kentucky." Please! My mom reads this blog. However, Brandy had been repeating the slogan for about three weeks before I left, so I'm paying her some homage.

Last weekend was my first time to Pittsburgh, Washington, PA, Cincinnati, and Kentucky. As someone who rarely ventures far from states other than New York and California, you might be wondering "why," and the reason is simple: Sam's cousin was getting married in Northern Kentucky. Before going to the hotel for the wedding on Saturday night, we stopped by Cincinnati to see his sister's apartment and have family lunch at the Cheesecake Factory. The night before, I flew in from Oakland to Pittsburgh (Sam flew in from Denver), and his parents picked us up there. Friday and Sunday night we stayed with Sam's folks at their beautiful home in Washington, PA.

Where to begin...?

I guess I should start from the top.

Exactly a week ago, I was shuffling my Vera Bradley carry-on (a gift from my mom's friend/ boss/ partner in crime, she is a wealthy hippie with a huge house and a huge heart) and my Jeep bag on wheels (a token from Brandy because after I left for a business trip to CO, Tanya TFR took run of the house allowing a stranger in my beg and Aires the Cat to pee in my giant purple duffel on wheels, which all of the Parkers have: Adam, Daniel, Pam, Lee, and even Alyson ended up getting the same ridiculous luggage by chance). The Friendly Cab picked me up, which is a lime green SUV, and it was mainly a non-eventful ride. The driver told me he played volleyball, so he could handle my luggage, no problem. All was quiet until, I get a call from an unknown number which I very rarely pick up, but because of the job search have changed my policy to answering: Hello, this is Amy.

There wasn't a person on the other end of the line I realized, glazed stare out over the highway. Just a recording from Southwest alerting me that my flight won't be taking off until 3. "Shit!" I startled the driver as we exited the highway, and he asked where I was going. "Pittsburgh... I hope" trailing off at the end, and then realized he was asking not out of curiosity, but he wanted to know which of the two terminals to drop me off at. He still seemed a little nervous that I screamed a curse into my cell phone, so I went on "I'm on JetBlue. I have a layover in Vegas, so at least if I don't make it..." and he picked up telling me about how he flew to Toronto for cheap, but now the tickets are expensive or something like that.

I told myself not to get all worked up about missing my layover, having to ask Sam's parents to wait at the airport until 4am, freaking out on the poor soul who was about to think he or she was only needing to assist me in weighing the Jeep bag and tossing it on the belt. I waited in the not-too-long line, noticed the woman monitoring the line was wearing the sneakers that answer the question: What would happen if Richard Simmons and the Spice Girls had a baby? Impressed with myself for maintaining my cool, I asked if those were those new exercise shoes, the same way one of my four grandmas might (I'm picturing Lenore). She said yes, and I continued with a smile "Do you like them?"

"They make my feet swell if I wear them for 8 hours in a row," I smiled before I recognized the complete flatness of her tone. She continued her rounds up and down the line of 15 people or so making sure none of us had printed boarding passes already.

When I actually made my way up to the consul, my palms were damp, and after I told the woman about my predicament she scolded "Too bad you didn't get here earlier. I could have switched you to an earlier flight."

As I fought the urge to slap her, she pulled up something(s) on her screen and called someone else. This Someone Else told her that the flight was back to being on time, because they switched out the flights. I was so relieved that I thanked her, even though it clearly was not her doing and she wasn't very nice either. My phone rang as I made my way through security and the automated voice told me that my flight had moved from 3 to 1:50. Ass holes. A few older women ahead of me in the Southwest A,B,C lineup were appalled by the situation, and seriously concerned that what if someone turned around after hearing the first message. Then What?!?!

I had a layover in Vegas, and put one dollar in the Wheel of Fortune slot in honor of the adventure that was the Summer of 2008. Lenore, Marilyn Reich (Lenore's bff), Alyson, Lisa D and I stayed at the Belagio for a magical week. I called my mom (Alyson) so we could bitch about being in the same place but forced apart by TSA. We discussed a business proposal, which we often do. Everything from bicycling trash to traveling poker lessons.

I also took the liberty of explaining the situation that was my outfit. Afraid that Fred and Sarah Landenwitsch (The Boy's Parents) might think that due to my stint of unemployment that I had become homeless, I thought I should talk it through with my mom (Alyson).

To start, I explained that in Oakland one can often find a rectangular patch sewed over the crotch of someone’s skinny jeans. And not just any someone, but a composting, bike-riding, queer-identified, Do It Yourself enthusiast. These ladies are all about the crotch-patch. So I decided a couple of hours before my flight, with bags slightly packed, to patch my black stretchy jeans. Unfortunately, I only had an off white plaid old collared button down from my dad. And that was the project that became my pants.