Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Pie In The Sky

Since JB and I hosted my family last Thanksgiving, it was only fair that this year we spend the holiday with his family. So Wednesday morning we left the house with bags packed and one of JB's home-made pecan pies in hand. We walked four blocks to the nearest Marta station and took the train to the airport.

Exiting the security screening area juggling my duffel bag, coat, shoes, belt, laptop, ziplock baggie of liquids and a fucking pie; I made a comment under my breath that his family better appreciate said fucking pie.

"What did you say?"

Oops. The only time JB's artificial hip ever slows him down is when TSA agents wand his groin for ten minutes, so I was not expecting him to be right behind me. Then again, I wasn't expecting to be carrying an aluminum wrapped container with the same approximate density as plastic explosives through airport security on the busiest travel day of the year.

"Your family is going to love your wonderful pie!" I answered.

"It's not for them," JB said in a tone that indicated he wasn't fooled by my feeble attempt to cover my ass. I shut up and concentrated on literally keeping my pants up with my arms loaded until I could find a spot to put myself back together.

It turns out the pie was for the flight attendants working our flight to Houston. I was impressed by JB's thoughtful gesture toward his colleagues. Until I realized the real method to his madness when the free drinks started coming and didn't stop.

I wasn't really planning to get tipsy at 10:30am, but the relief of getting a seat on the plane, the prospect of spending four days with in-laws and the baby in the row behind me screamed me into it.

That explains why our tray table always ends up looking
like Edina's and Patsy's every time we fly.


  1. I was going to say that booze won't do anything for your cruise-induced waistline, but I suppose the virus that hit you later took care of everything and all is status quo.