I had visions yesterday of returning to Brazil, one of which occurred in the middle of the night and woke me up thinking, “Oh God. I’m going back the-day-after-the-day-after-tomorrow.” Once I get into the “day after” mode, it’s all down hill. I start calculating days and hours and questionning if I’ve done everything I wanted to (to which, if my credit card could speak, would respond with a deafening “hell yes, and please stop.”) And of course, no thanks to all the press the Brazilian aviation administration has been garnering in recent weeks, I begin to think about all the things that could go wrong with my flights. This time, rather than the direct flight from JFK to Sao Paulo, I am catching a flight from JFK to Atlanta, an airport notorious for flight problems, mostly because I think every flight I’ve ever been on that has gone anywhere near Atlanta has been cancelled, delayed, stuck in the clouds because of bad weather, or grounded because of bad behavior. Whatever the case, four months ago when I booked this flight, I thought it’d be a fabulous idea to have multiple opportunities to get bumped and thus have the chance to get a seat upgrade or, better yet, cash. It happened to me before and I scored big time. Then again, it was unplanned back then. Just watch: now that I’ve carved out room in my schedule to allow for upsets, I’ll be on that first flight back to Brazil, sitting on the aisle seat next to a fourteen year old boy who wants to go to the bathroom every nine minutes, thereby interrupting my deep and peaceful sleep upright in a pleather seat. Just watch.
You may be wondering how my last bunch of hours here will be spent. Me too. There are exactly three things that I know are happening, all of which I am looking forward to doing: Number 1: Party at Bottega to celebrate my friend Mia’s XXth birthday. Number 2: Victoria’s Secret gift certificate spending. Number 3: BBQ at my friends’ house on Wooster Square with the added bonus (is that redundant?) of getting to meet an important person at a local private school where maybe, just maybe, there might be a place for me in the future.
So with all that said, I am now off to bring Dennis to work. This is how our days go: he wakes up, takes a shower, wakes me up, and then I bring him to work, after which I am left to my own devices for at least twelve hours, and then we are reunited just in time to fall asleep. Last night it worked out well because I got to go out with a good friend (Hi Vicki!) and we ate Mexican food and talked ourselves into oblivion about books! boys! and toll booth operators!
Dennis just walked in from his shower. He asked, “Are you ready to go to work?” And I answered with a hearty “No.” I mean this. I mean it because A) I don’t have to work here, and B) I’m not ready to go back to the place where I really do work.
But such is life and we’re never, ever ready to go back to work after being in heaven. (Dennis NOW just asked me, “Why are you so awake this morning?” And I said, in the middle of the typing, “I just am, don’t bother me anymore.” For the record, I have NO control over what I’m saying while I’m typing, so words that come out of my mouth don’t count. And so he responded, “You’re mean in the morning. Where’s my girlfriend who loved me? She used to be nice.”) So on that note, I’m going to go try to find her and bring this sucker to work.