To be fair, apparently if we'd checked our bags online during any of the prior 24 hours, but not including the hour before our flight, we could've saved roughly $10 per bag, but, we didn't know about that policy until we were reading it on the sign at the airport line. Yeah.
The green was starting to swirl around my irises before we even got on the plane.
I got the kids in a row and Husband took his lonely seat on the aisle of the row beside us. We took out iPod, iPad and iPhone and I plugged in the kids à la The Matrix. I played some John Coltrane in my headphones and closed my eyes to the other bazillion passengers boarding. I think Husband was playing Fruit Ninja on his phone, but since it's not an Apple product, I refer to it as "Ned Stark's Bastard" or "Jon Snow" (depending on whether we're north of the wall or not) from Game of Thrones.
Within a few minutes, however, the sweet smell of booze wafted into my nostrils and I smiled thinking Husband must've bought me a little "settle-your-shit-down" bevvie before take-off.
I inhaled deeply, opened my eyes and realized, that a) there was no booze for me to swill and b) the guy directly in front of me might be the dark hole where booze comes from.
Seriously, he smelled like my early 20's.
Raising my eyebrows in a way only a smug 30-something can do, judged him harshly (albeit silently) and redirected my children to their iDevices. Ryan Coke, as I began to silently call him, was the middle seat, and as luck would have it, the ladies on either side of him were equally as judgemental. We all rolled our eyes in unison and sat back in our smugness to enjoy the flight.
About an hour into our three-hour flight, there was a disturbance in the force. Ryan Coke passed out shortly after an additional drink before take-off, and was snoring audibly. But the other two women both stopped what they were doing and glanced at each other, nervously, too.
Then time slowed down. It was like any horror film where everyone knows shit is about to go down, they're just not sure who's gonna get axed. Even my daughter paused her game and said, "Momma?" just in time to watch Ryan Coke launch himself forward violently out of a booze-coma to puke up THE WORLD all over his row mates and the people in the row in front of him.
Kiddo #1 looked at me and said, disgustedly, "Well THAT'S gonna give me nightmares for the rest of my life!" and the two ladies propelled themselves out of their seats into the aisle way screaming and swearing the whole time. Frightened and contaminated, they went in circles swearing while I pressed the "help" button for the stewards.
Now, I'd set out this flight planning on being pissy and annoyed that Spirit Airlines had stolen an extra $500 from our pockets by making us pay almost $50/bag for each of our checked and carry-on luggage. But, mad and poor as I was, I couldn't blame them for Puke Fest 2013.
The ladies were yelling swears at Ryan, the people in the row in front of him were saying nasty things to him, and a whole lot of negativity was swirling around the air. Maybe he deserved them. None of my shit got puke on it, so maybe it was easy for me to be nice. But I kinda figured if it was me, I'd be dying of embarrassment, and plus that shitty taste of puke in the mouth makes it impossible to even say "Sorry" without reliving the whole damn mess. So I took out my $4.00 bottle of Spirit Air water that Kiddo #2 HAD TO HAVE and drank 1/3 of, and reached it across to Ryan Coke. "Uh, you're probably dehydrated."
I mean, what else do you say?
The stewards arrived, assessed the situation, and sent Ryan (puke-covered) to the bathroom to clean up. It was disgusting, but two of the three stewards were professional, and the third one was so visibly anxious that I nearly gave her my $50 Xanax that I HAD TO HAVE and didn't end up taking. But, $50 is a whole checked bag in some circles so I patted it through my purse, smugly, and joked with the responsible stewards.
Once we got off the plane (which went by very quickly once they poured the coffee grounds all over the floor to cover the smell), we rang in the new day with our bags, limped to the shuttle and got to our car within an hour.
The kids were already in their jammies for the flight, so we buckled them into their careats, got on I-94 E and headed to the bridge between Detroit and Canada. I looked at my sleeping babies and started charging my phone when Husband came to a quick stop (STOP!) on the highway.
Me: What the frick?
Husband: Uh, I don't know? Everyone's stopped.
Me: What the frick?
Husband: I don't know? Everyone's stopped.
Me: What the frick?
Husband: Seriously. This isn't Groundhog Day. It's 2am. Get your feet off the dash and see if you can see around the cars.
60 minutes later, we haven't moved an inch, and my phone is charged but we still have no idea what's going on because overnights on radio stations are pre-recorded (I used to do those, in another life) and offer no help. Plus, I won't turn my phone off airplane-mode because Roaming-Data in America costs as much as two overhead bags on Spirit Airlines. No joke.
At 3am, we finally got near-ish to the bridge,which is to say we drove through some of the parts of Detroit that Eminem is scared of, and Kiddo #2 started coughing. He'd had a cough for a day or so since he'd eaten something he shouldn't, but this cough was awesomer. It was weirder, harder and ... oh, now he's puking.
I turned around in my seat and started whisper-yelling at Husband. I'm trying to keep Kiddo #1 from waking up to Puke Fest 2013's second show: Live in Detroit from Denver, Colorado.
Me: FRICK! HE'S PUKING!
Husband: Is he ok?
Me: Uh, he's PUKING!
Husband: Ok. Uh, so is he ok?
Me: This isn't Groundhog DAY! Cheese and RICE!
Then, I decide that Kiddo #2 can't lean over and get all the mess out of his mouth and therefore he must be suffocating. Seeing panic (that may or may not have been there, in retrospect) on Kiddo #2's face that he can't really breathe, I did what any insane, sleep-deprived mother would do. I did The Sweep of his mouth, which sent me front row tickets into Puke Fest 2013, and I start heaving and have to stop helping because I am puking into the garbage bag in the front seat.
And while I'm puking, I'm crying because my CPR training is reminding me that I shouldn't sweep his mouth because it could lodge stuff further into his throat or something, and I'm crying for Husband to pull over and he says I'm on the highway doing 65 and it's 3AM, in Detroit, and we'll be killed.
We get to the exit and now I'm cry-puking that, like Frodo and Sam, all we have to do is get across the frickin' bridge and this nightmare will finally be over. And, also like Gollum, I'm making crazy, shitty sounds while I puke-cry in the front seat.
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| "Just get us to Canada, Sam. We can finally get married, er, ...uh, I mean destroy the ring..." |
Husband puts the windows down and now it's a Hurricane in the car as we head toward the "You must Go to Canada from here" lane. I, removing hair from my mouth, shout "Why the frick are the windows down?" and he says that he's airing out the car because there's a kid covered in puke and there's no way the border patrol will let us into Canada with a kid covered in vomit and a wife looking like she's been in The Hangover IV: One Night In Detroit.
I glance down at the bag filled with vomit and seriously think we can pull this off. I look in my handy overhead mirror at my mascara trails and wild hair, at Kiddo #2 who just kinda looks... off, and my comatose daughter who can literally (I can say this now) sleep through anything,
And, this, friends, is why I will never EVER be invited to be in a Heist. I'm sure you've all assumed that I'd be shite in a Heist anyway, but this scene is definitive proof.
At the duty free parking lot, the last stop before paying the toll and zooming to Canada, at 3:30AM, we pulled over and attempted to de-vomit our cars using only the "flap it in the wind to let it fall off" method, and the salty tears of a woman out of her mind.
I don't know if I looked too crazy to deny entry, or if we'd done a great job of covering up our mess (which, actually, makes me an AMAZING Heist-mate, so eat it, Mofo!), but they let us back in.
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| Glory, glory, hallelujah |
