It started with the hair crap.
And the magazines.
In LA for the week, I went to visit my Aunt Margaret in Palm Springs.
About 25 years ago, Margaret married a rancher/developer named Al who has created five or six lavish pieces of property in Texas and California to subsidize a sweet retirement in Palm Springs.
A girl from the Bronx, Aunt Margaret takes nothing for granted: she clips coupons and asks for senior discounts; and she is also extremely generous. She has hand-crafted countless semi-precious jewelry sets for her sisters and me, and warmly hosted me this week.
As I was packing to leave, she brought out a huge bag of expensive hair products. "Can you use any of this?"
"Um..." I fished through the bag, pulling a few tubes... "Well, if you really want to part with these..."
"Oh, yes, yes!" she said, "I mean, you have the long hair. What am I going to do with it?"
I grinned, stuffing them in my suitcase.
"You are overweight. Can you pull anything out?" Now it's 3:35pm, and I'm scrambling to check into LAX for my 4:25pm flight and the guy at curbside checkin has put my enormous rolling duffel on the scale.
I had gotten lost on my way to the Payless rental return, which cost me nearly 20 minutes, and I was already running a bit late (as usual). So I rip open the zipper to scrounge for removeables.
I can't take out any of the heaviest stuff -- the hair crap -- because it is liquid and can't go in the carry-ons. I pull out a tuft of magazines about Clearlake Oaks which my aunt Rose-Marie had given me to help lure my parents into visiting her. Then I pull out some heavy souvenirs, including a slab of dark chocolate I'd bought from an LA gourmet shop.
"That looks good," says the guy, and starts the checkin.
"You missed the deadline," he clucks his tongue at 4:42pm. "Let me see what I can do for you." He walks me inside to the main counter where every attendant is busy. The clock is ticking.
"There's not even a supervisor around," he shrugs and walks back to his post.
Finally a female attendant calls me to the counter. I explain the situation. "Is there anything you can do??" I plead.
"You missed the cut-off," shakes her head. "I can put you on a later flight. 9:30pm."
Everything sinks. I have rehearsal and meetings on Sunday. I'll be dead on my feet. I start to melt down, "Oh no.... Oh god... how much will it be?"
"Oh it's no extra," she chirps printing my boarding pass.
I sigh weepily and trudge to security.
And my carry-on gets stopped for "extra screening." Why? The irregularly-shaped slab of dark chocolate!!
Oddly, this makes me feel a bit better; no matter what, I probably would have missed the flight.
I trundle to little Mexican joint near my gate called "On the Boarder." "Do you have a place where I can plug in my laptop?" I ask, explaining my situation.
At first, the guy says no, but then he seats me at a tiny table near the wait station. "How long is your cord?" he asks. I pull it out and he plugs it into the a socket under their register! I order a bunch of margaritas, some food, and tip generously.
I turn on my wireless.
The only hotspot provider is T-Mobile -- my cellphone carrier! I try to sign up for their $10 monthly rate, figuring I'll use the account a few times when I'm back in NY, but each time I try to sign up, I get a dead page.
I call their tech support. There is a "problem creating new accounts at LAX" the rep tells me. Their solution? They GIVE me a free 24-hour account!!
So, here I sit, happily sauced and Facebooked, chowing down on a beef burrito.
In ten minutes I board.
Five hours have flown by as quickly as I hope to fly through the next five.
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