Travel days from hell are always kind of funny in hindsight, right?
Yesterday was a circus. Things were stillhectic when I made my escape from the office so I was forced bring my work, which consisted of shit loads of loose paper and binders and notebooks, with me to the airport. We sat in traffic and when we arrived (late) the security line was longer than the one outside L’as du Falafel in Paris on Sundays.
The Boo huffed and puffed about it, saying “if you had TSA Pre-Check we wouldn’t have to deal with this.” The man is the most efficient traveler I’ve ever seen but he loses all sense of personal decorum when he’s faced with lines, stupid people, or needless delays due to things like shoelaces or oversized liquids. He becomes absolutely unbearable to be around, which he loves to hear.
So I sent him to the Pre-Check line with his matchy-matchy luggage and his headset in his ear and his shiny loafers looking all George Clooney in Up in the Air and there I am hobbling behind with paper flying everywhere and my work Blackberry blowing up in my butt pocket and my purse overflowing with curling irons and thongs and running shoes like I just finished my shift at the Hustler club.
Here’s the thing – I’m fine with being the last person on the plane. The Boo has to be the first person on the plane, even when we get upgraded (we didn’t) and there’s no risk of running out of bin space. He loses his shit if I so much as try to stop at the bathroom or Hudson News.
Needless to say it was kind of ironic when we got to the SLS and the guy at check-in informed us that we didn’t have a reservation despite the Boo’s conviction that he booked it several weeks ago. I’ve been looking forward to the SLS, so the mysterious disappearing reservation was sad, but from the look of the girls coming in and out of that place, it’s way too cool for me anyway. Plus I really wasn’t in the mood to stuff myself into white skinny jeans and do the whole scene-y thing after spending a five hour flight sitting in a pile of Starburst wrappers with my hand buried inside a jumbo bag of Cheez-its.
At that point our only hotel options were the LAX HoJo or the Beverly Hills Hotel, and considering the Boo won’t even shop at Ikea, you can guess where we landed. He’s calling it our mini-moon (whatever that is) and I’m sort of just doing the whole “smile-and-nod” thing because I have $67 in my checking account and can’t afford to cover a round of drinks at the Polo Lounge.
So I made the unilateral decision that my contribution to this mini-moon (I promise that’s the last time I will use that awful term) would be free entertainment, starting with an early morning hike up Runyon Canyon. Except I screwed up the directions and we wound up starting at the top of the hill, instead of at the bottom like normal people would, and the Boo pointed out that it’s not really as fun to walk down the hill and hike back up when you’ve already seen the views from the top. So that didn’t really pan out.
I plan to redeem myself by bringing the Boo up to Malibu for a beach day where I will buy him a burrito from a food truck. He’s acting all excited about it, bless his heart.
So, with all that said, I’m off to the ‘bu. (I also promise never to say that again).