Being an infrequent flyer, I am at the airport at the appointed 2 hours beforehand slot. I check in, which takes 2.3 minutes, go through security and am on my way down the hall.
I was here, leaving on our MAW trip, exactly 3 weeks ago. I am having multiple Two For the Road moments. There’s where I was when the sophisticated looking woman began running back to security, shrieking that one of the guards had stolen $4000 from her. There’s the first of 876 bathrooms I took the three girls in. There’s the window where they pressed their faces, looking at our plane, as wiggly and excited as puppies.
I pop into the restroom. I knew that I would cry when I had to say goodbye to Little Warrior, so I wisely put my makeup (as little as there is of it) in my bag. I apply it. Granted, I’ll probably cry when I see Jots (I’m a crier, I accept that I’m a crier, after 2 bouts with childhood cancer and me about to turn 40, I’ve accepted that this just isn’t going to change. Jots promised she’d cry, too.)
I go into the bigger of the two shops and browse the reading material. Looking at all the paperbacks, it hits me – wow, I haven’t read a junk book … in like, forever. Couldn’t last summer – when we were going through treatment, Entertainment Weekly taxed my brain. And as soon as she was out, I was back in seminary, and reading all class-related books. Browse, browse. Laura Schlessinger has a book out, In Praise of Stay at Home Moms. I’m a S-A-H-M, but I have a feeling the book would still piss me off. Outliers. Oh yeah, I bought that a couple of months ago. The Husband was supposed to read it. Wonder if he did.
All of the books that are written by African-Americans or about African-Americans are all on a bookcase together. I debate moving Famous Quotations By Barack Obama About Family over by Dr. Laura’s book. I decide I’ll save my adventure with TSA for the return trip.
Look at all the magazines I have aged out of. Modern Bride. Fit Pregnancy. Cosmopolitan. Pick up “O.”
Take my coffee and my O, and sit down in my airport section. Try to get on the ‘net. Sure I can, for $10. I think an uncomplimentary term. Traveling without kids, my mental quips are sailor-worthy.
It’s an hour til flight time. I have to make a connecting flight. I have 50 minutes between ‘em.
The connection is fine, if crowded. The second leg of my journey is short.
Most of our friends can’t believe that we’ve never met, never even talked on the phone. My parents apparently discussed my upcoming adventure with total confusion. “What if they hate each other?” my dad asked my Mom.
That thought hasn’t entered my head. Blogging, we found so many similarities, it was freakin’ spooky. Weirdo coincidences. When we began emailing, even more so.
The plane lands. We’re here!
I exit the plane, very excited. I come past the security area and I see a rather small alien, a tee-baller, and an impossibly statuesque woman wearing about 432 colors.
Oh, here’s one other thing about Jots. She’s tall, slender, and shapely. She’s UU Barbie. (Comes complete with chalice, recycle bins and NPR-preset radio. Find one at a store near you. Limited quantities, no rainchecks will be issued.)
I jam my tiara on my head (I always travel with a tiara, you can just never tell when you may need one) and run toward them. We do the requisite girl squealing and hugging. I think jumping may have been involved. Grab my duffel and we’re off.
Drop Boy Jots at tee-ball, then Girl Jots, her mama and I go to hear Brandi Carlile at an outdoor concert. Lovely, lovely. Meet a cool friend of hers who speaks glowingly of Jots when Jots and Girl Jots are off for a few minutes.
The occasional light sprinkles turn into giant plopping raindrops, so we pack up to go.
We stop at Chez Auspicious, put Girl Jots to bed, and I get to meet Mr. Jots.
Before I have time get too comfortable, we are off again, to a dive where some friends of Jots are playing.
Tiny hole in the wall and great music. They all know her and it’s obvious they’re pleased she’s there. The lead singer and saxophonist introduces us to his father and we sit with him for the show. I even get a shout-out during the show. Hey, when you travel with Jots, man, it’s like being with a celebrity!
Then, oh, magic times. An old, bluesy jazzy singer gets up – even Jots is excited. She’s heard tale of him, but never heard him live. He sings a couple of numbers with the band, and then explains that really, he’s a balladeer. He sings alone, with just the keyboardist playing. “My Romance.” The room swoons.
We finish our beers and head back to Chez Auspicious.