Terminal in the terminal

Went back to my job at the airport today sounding like Harvey Feirstein.

It seems my boss had whored me out to another department to work on a presentation, so I got to sit in the terminal today. And I took all of my pills and bottles and tissues with me, making my purse look like the nightstand of an old person, which was nice.

Tonight the Kid and I had dinner with her dad. And I didn't even cook it, which was astounding. He even paid for it, which knocked me right over and left me yelling for the defibrillator. Maybe he got laid, speaking of getting whored out for someone else's benefit... that molten chocolate cake sure was good.

Since I was driving, I ordered an iced tea. Of course, the kid's beverage took a half an hour to pour, so she drank mine, and then hers. Then her pasta alfredo showed up, and although she bellowed for a fork, she ate with her hand while clinging to the fork in her other hand. Three minutes after her food arrived, she was covered in it, from hair to toes. I sat, I watched, I have no idea what happened. All I know is those fat little alfredo-covered fingers kept reaching for me and my iced tea, and I kept backing away, shrieking and shoving napkins at her. Then she and her dad saw my food arrive, decided it looked delicious, and started to eat off my plate before I could even get a fork in my own hand to start stabbing them with. I would have sneezed on it, but I know that wouldn't deter either one of them for a second.

Sixty-four napkins later, I begged her to use a fork. She stared at me, and without breaking eye contact, reached for a fistful of pasta, and shoved it in her mouth so she had two ziti tusks sticking perfectly symmetrically out of the sides of her mouth. She continued to stare at me, tusks unflinching. Her father was laughing so hard that his eyes were watering, over there on the clean side of the booth. She's still staring at me. After all the crap I put up with throughout the course of an ordinary week, I'm sitting here having a pissing contest with a two-year old. Not even two. Two in two weeks, and three months premature, so I'm sitting here arguing with a veritable fetus.

As I type this, my cats are hurling themselves up against my bedroom door so I will get up and let them in. The door is actually shaking in the doorframe.

When I post next week from a tropical island in the middle of the Pacific, you'll know why.

Of course, I'll be wearing a hat made out of a coconut, and my "laptop" will be a piece of driftwood, but who cares. It sounds so fantastic.