DIRTY ROTTEN VIRUS

"Dirty Rotten Scoundrels" on tour...

With the virus taking hold, I spend our last night in Charleston wide awake for large portions of the night, terrified of choking to death on my own phlegm. I am also required to clear my throat every 10 minutes which I know is keeping Michael awake. He is still carrying the last vestiges of the cough from when he had the plague which, should I be lucky enough to fall asleep, wakes me up. Between the two us, it is a fairly sleepless night.

Michael is on a different flight than I am (!?!) so he has to leave the hotel at 7 a.m. I wake, or rather, I 'give in' to the world of daylight at 8 a.m. in order to achieve some semblance of normalcy before my 9:30 bus call. The tactic doesn't really work. I am sleepy, grumpy, achy, (sneezy & dopey) and I sound like Kathleen Turner when I can get any sound out at all. I manage to avoid any serious, conversation-inducing contact with the company, thus avoiding the risk me shredding them. The airport presents some slightly more challenging interactions. I stand in the line-up for security and listen to the agent try to explain to random Granny and Grandpa that they have to go check in with their airline to get a boarding pass before they can go through security. The concept eventually starts to make sense to them so Granny begins to fire a list of inane question about what she can and can't, hypothetically, take on board. My eye brows meet in the middle and then crawl over the back of my head. Once I reach my departure gate lounge, I decide that food might relieve my restlessness. I opt for a small container of peach yogurt, but I can find no spoons anywhere to eat it with. I stand in line at the cash and, when it is finally my turn I ask if there are any spoons. "No, sir", is the emotionless response. I briefly consider launching into a tirade that raises the question, "Why sell the yogurt but provide nothing to eat it with", "Why should I pay a 600% markup if you're not going to give me a spoon", but it hurts to talk. So, I leave the yogurt in front of the cashier and stomp away.

Boarding the plane, I'm stuck behind Granny & Grandpa again. Granny has to stop AT EVERY ROW to check the numbers. I want to scream, "The idea of numbers hasn't changed since even YOU were young. Two still comes after one, five still comes after four. If you still haven't grasped the concept, I have a slapping game that might help you learn." The only thing that actually stops me from saying anything at all to her is the fear that the plane might be delayed if my less than friendly demeanour frightens her into a stroke. That, or I might just shake her teeth out of her head. By the time I reach my seat, I could fillet anyone just for looking at me. The company leaves me alone.

Thankfully, I manage to sleep for most of the trip. Michael's sainted father meets us at the airport (where Michael has been waiting since his flight arrived an hour before mine) and drives us home. It is almost 7 pm by the time we pull into our driveway which means Michael has been travelling for 12 hours and I've been on the move for 10. The twins, our house/cat sitters, have fluffed the house and bring gifts of cheese and bread. They have also contrived to give us the house to ourselves for our first night back.
Let Serenity reign, for tomorrow, we must do laundry and taxes before heading back out on to the road in a mere 5 days.