Vegas Episode 1: Getting There (or Not?)

Perhaps I should have consulted my husband when I booked our 7 AM outbound flight to Vegas. When I finally did let him know (as he was setting the alarm clock), I got that look:

Joe:  You're serious?  You booked us on a 7 am flight?  For our vacation??

Marianne:  We haven't gone anywhere together alone in forever. I want to cram as much Vegas fun as we can in 4 days.  I even made breakfast reservations for that restaurant you saw on Man vs. Food.

Joe: (unimpressed):  You could have just made reservations for lunch and let me sleep in a bit.

Marianne:  It'll be fine.  You can sleep on the plane.

Those words would come back to haunt me.

And with that, Joe went to bed and I spent the next 4 hours getting the house in order for the sitter, preparing papers that begin with "in the event of our demise," and scouring the house for my favorite flip-flops (eventually discovered next to Jack's bed in an apparent attempt to ensure his mommy wouldn't really leave him).

We now pull up at my dad's townhouse at the crack of 4:45 am.  My siblings and I affectionately refer to my father as "Taxi-Dad" because he spends much of his retired life driving his ungrateful children to airports and assorted other destinations.   He loves planes and we really should spring for some flying lessons, except we are all fairly certain he'll just end up trying to fly under a bridge.  Crazy senior citizen, you see.

We are about to walk out of my dad's house when the phone rings with a 800 number on the caller ID.  My father mutters something about rotten telemarketers and my husband encourages him to tell the apparent sales caller to "get f*%cked for calling at 5 AM."

The Enemy

Inside of me, a little worried voice remembers I gave American Airlines my dad's number as a back-up.  That voice starts to cringe.

An automated message comes on as my dad picks up.  My internal interpretation of the actual recorded message:

Greeting from American Airlines, the airline that has one of the worst on-time records in the business.  You are a dimwit for booking with us when you could have used Southwest and been ensured a timely arrival.  But no.  Now you're screwed. 

Our plane is broken (code for: our pilot just didn't show?).  And if you think we're going to fix it or send you a new one, you're even dumber than we thought.  Good luck waiting on hold for the next hour for another plane that's probably as poorly-maintained as the last one.  We hate our passengers, we hate our jobs, and more importantly, we hate you.  Have a nice day.

With that call, the real adventure begins.

Tune in tomorrow for how Joe teaches Sanjeev the nice Indian fellow from Expedia to stand up to  American Airlines...Chicago-style.