Dallas, We Have a Problem

Oh where, oh where has my suitcase-y gone,

Oh where, oh where can it be?

To be honest, at this very moment, I do not have a frickin' clue. When the travelling sages would tell the Baroness that she should take a toothbrush and clean underwear in her carryon, the Baroness would guffaw. Chortle. Mock. Judge (repeat as needed). What kind of crackpot bumpkin peasant would she be, carrying girly drawers in her purse? Gawd. And then it happened. 5 planes and 3 airlines later, I arrived at my destination, sans baggage. Well, there's that unresolved stuff with my father, but that in and of itself won't brush my teeth. Try as I might, I can in no way fashion pajamas out of my laptop. Although - I did craft a fabulous origami bra out of my Yoga Journal magazine.

What complete moron chose Savannah anyways? Oh yeah, that would be me. I'm sure it will be a lovely city to visit - at least according to the bang-up job the tourism bureau does on their website. It's just that right now, given all the crap I've dealt with to get here, it better be pret-ty farging amazing, with Targets resembling Neiman Marcus, and an easy-access Walgreens so I can replenish my non-existent toiletries. Paula Deen herself better be tappin' on my hotel door (y'all) to deliver my room service. Scratch that. Send one of her sons instead. Then everything will be even.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'm still thrilled beyond belief to be able to spend some girly time with my sister. Huge, huge, massive thanks to Mr. American Airlines ticket counter guy who pawned me off to Delta Airlines. A big warm embrace to Herb at Delta, who somehow got me on standby out of Dallas, to sweet Allen at the gate, who actually managed to get me on the plane, and to the pilots, who decided to take off from Dallas when the rest of the airport was shutting down from the snowstorm. This is a trip that was obviously meant to be, and through the effort of some fine individuals who spent most of yesterday being crapped on, I'm here and truly grateful to you all.

Some random thoughts I jotted down while on various planes yesterday:

1. In all the years I watched "Dallas" on tv, I never recall it snowing on Southfork. WTF? Did JR and Sue Ellen use all of their ill-gotten booty on some sort of biodome?

2. "Last Call" for boarding a plane surprisingly does not bring about the same emotions as "Last Call" at a bar.

3. An apology to all the seat-pee-ers at the airport - in a desperate toilet fly-by between planes, it became clear to me how some flushing may get overlooked (note here that I said it became clear. This in no way implicates me in said eww-ness). The odds are still astronomical that this happens so often that no matter when I fly, I'm in the stall immediately following the toilet seat tinklers. I still do not grant pardons to areas other than the airport - you know who you are.

4. If, for whatever reason, in some far-fetched skewed reality I were to be on "Amazing Race" - I would be a cryer. Or at the very least, a whiner. It's a fact I'm not too proud of, but there you have it. I'm so not cut out for guerilla travel. I'm in awe of you all who must zigzag back and forth across the country for business. You are made of strong mettle. I, on the other hand, am made of marshmallows and feathers and resemble a quavering house of cards.

5. One of the flight attendants reminds us that, "overhead space is shared space." Yeah, she's talking to you, Mr. Jerk in 10A, who spends 10 minutes trying to Tetris not only his 2 suitcases into the overhead bin, but I believe also a live chicken.

6. I notice that the food truck loading comestibles onto the place boast the logo "Pride in Quality". Hmm. When sir, exactly, were you last proud?

7. Where did I read that "keep hydrated" advice? In Style? New England Journal of Medicine?

This theory only works if you are in close proximity to one of the paltry few airplane lavoratories and have also slipped the flight attendant a 20 upon boarding that will maybe earn you VIP access. Young supermodels who can keep hydrated = bladder of a camel. Older, menopausal frumps - bladder capacity of a thimble. (Mental note - maybe a 100 instead. $20 may come across as cheap instead of desperate.)

* Note from the Baroness - I had to come back and format this post - for some reason, I couldn't get it to work on my laptop, and the non-justified paragraphs and clumped-together paragraphs were driving me mental.