DIA (a/k/a "Damn I'm Aggravated")

To continue yesterday's story .... I finally landed safely at Denver International Airport (or “DIA,” as it has been creatively nicknamed). And as previously noted, I am lacking any keen sense of smell and am running about 20 minutes late, but am otherwise in one piece. Hooray.

Since I won’t get to the hotel until around 11:00 p.m., I decide to eat dinner at 5:00 p.m. (4:00 Pacific time) rather than miss my second meal of the day. Sorry, but the savory mix really isn't that filling.

I know what you're saying, "dinner at 5:00?" I feel like a goddamned senior citizen at Red Lobster during the early dining discount hour, for crying out loud. But screw it, I’m really hungry and this is pretty much my last chance to eat for the day.

I make my way to one of DIA’s fine eating establishments and order a sufficient amount of food to tide me over. I’ve got 2 hours until my flight, so I'm hoping that I will be able to enjoy my meal in a relatively stress-free fashion. I also hope that Jessica Alba will get my name tattooed on her inner thigh, but of course that won't happen either.

Now up until that time, my hunger wasn’t really bothering me. But that changed when I allowed my mind to drift and dream about the food that would soon arrive. At this point, my stomach has basically convinved my brain into thinking that I'm a long lost member of the Donner Party.

I wait ... and wait ... and wait for my food but it never arrives. About 15 minutes have passed and they’ve jumped ahead about twenty numbers, so I finally ask, “uhhh, do you have order number 6108 back there?”

The partially-toothed fry cook looks at me and says, “uhhh no. We're on number 6132. Someone must have grabbed it.”

Now I am not an expert on Colorado law, but I think I have a pretty good defense for murder at that point. Where's Mrs. T's lifeless arm when you need it? Sadly, the to-be-deceased has quickly left the scene of the crime with my food.

Fuck me. So instead of searching for the thief, I instead try to explain how I never received my food. Surprisingly, they were very understanding and started to prepare me another order of food. Not so surprisingly, they took another fifteen minutes to prepare it. At this point in time, I'm sure I would eat a shoe slathered in cheese so I quickly devoured whatever it was that they gave me to eat. Finickiness and patience are long gone.

After searching in vain for a replacement toothbrush and toothpaste (what the fuck, am I the only one shopping for this?) and blogging for a period of time while sitting next to an overflowing trash can next to the only available electrical plug (glamorous, I know), I finally boarded my plane. I start to make my way towards the back of the plane when I begin to play my favorite game of “guess who’s my seatmate this time?” Will it be the a tri-state murderer? A chatty person with a weak bladder? Perhaps Mrs. T again?

Nope. I am sitting next to the woman traveling with her 7-month old baby and a 3 year old.

(((Sigh)))

Now I know what you're thinking. This is going to be the absolute worst. I guarantee you that no one on the plane would be eager to switch seats with me? But you know what, the kids were cute and while they cried a bit, it was fine. In fact, they did not hog the armrest at all nor did they reek of incense. My sound tolerance was aided by the “Arrested Development Season 1 DVD,” but I digress. By my low travel standards, this part of the trip was actually not too horrible. No my friends, the horrible part was yet to come in St. Louis.

(Tomorrow - a sneak peek into a business offsite meeting and the fashion norms of St. Louis. Hilarity to ensue.)