This is why you should make it a point never to travel with me, ever.

As I may have mentioned once or twice or seventeen times in the past, I’m a bit of a nervous flyer. I tend to throw myself into the details of planning, METICULOUS planning, for whatever trip it is that’s necessitating said flight, in the hopes that I distract myself from the whole…you know, FLIGHT THING. I make packing lists—even if I’m only going to be gone for a few days—organizing myself and my bags in an OCD fashion that would make even Howard Hughes envious.

As such, I suppose it was a bit ironic that I found myself sprinting through the airport on Sunday like a crazy person, attempting to make my flight. (I was headed to DC for a business trip.) I had told my driver to take me to the Delta terminal, and so he did. I waited on the security line, and cursed myself upon realizing that despite all my planning, I’d made the mistake of forgetting socks, which would mean my precious tootsies would touch the floor of LaGuardia airport when I took off my shoes for security. And speaking of those assholes, I passed through not one but two security checkpoints, and it was only once I was PUTTING MY SHOES BACK ON that I was informed that I was in the wrong terminal. I was in the main Delta one, when in fact I was supposed to be in the Delta SHUTTLE terminal. Which, as it turned out, was a 10-minute bus ride away. On a bus that apparently came every 5-15 minutes. It was at that point 6 on the dot, and my flight was at 6:30.

(Oh, and I was told that I'd have to go through security again once I made it there, which, yes, while I understand WHY, it did mean my bare feet had just been on the floor of La Guardia airport for no reason. I mean, really, I might as well have licked a toilet. Or at least dipped my feet in one.)

Have you ever had to sit on a shuttle bus taking you to a flight for which you are running incredibly late? If you have, then you already know what I learned on Sunday: It turns you into a douchebag of Spencer Pratt-like proportions, just exhibiting incredibly sociopathic behavior, the likes of which you didn’t know you personally possessed. An elderly man was boarding the bus and he had a cane –a CANE for the love of God—and as he gingerly made his way up the steps, all I could think was—I swear-- IF I TELL YOU I HAVE A BUTTERSCOTCH, WILL IT MAKE YOU MOVE ANY FASTER? HAUL ASS, GRAMPS. Who am I? is WRONG with me?

Of course, once I arrived at my the elusive Delta Shuttle Terminal (at 6:18!), I still needed to get through security (FEET. ON THE FLOOR. AGAIN. BARF.), and sprint towards the gate. Have you ever had to run for a flight? I mean really run, arms flailing, inwardly praying that you don’t mow down any small children or say, helper monkeys in the process with your rolling bag, but kind of not caring if you do? Sweating profusely, lungs bursting? Breathing like that sexual deviant in the old Caller ID commercials where the lady is all “Oh, but I see your name and numbah, Albert Pervertsen!” or whatever? It’s…not the best.

Happily, though, I made it to the plane in time, germ-ridden feet and all. And luckily it was a pretty empty flight so I had my own row, in which to fan myself, apply Purell to my feet, and secretly reapply deodorant. It’s not that I wouldn’t have done those things if I was wedged in the window seat next to someone, but I wouldn’t have been HAPPY about it, is what I’m saying.

Oh! And in other good news, while I was in town, I had dinner with these lovely ladies. Cheese was obviously involved, as was incessant laughter. Always good things:



(Full set here.)

Oh! OH! I can’t believe I forgot about this. YOU GUYS. Some alert and thoughtful readers have informed me that MeMe is back on the scene! And she’s getting her ass handed to her by…some British anchor on Fox News! I daresay it’s more delicious than a pile of stolen sprinkles and syrups.