I TOLD YOU SO!

Ha! Ha! Everyone laughs at the Safety Girl. Yuck it up people, and afterwards, and please review my previous blog on shark safety and awareness. :)

http://www.huliq.com/10473/bull-shark-caught-georgia-freshwater-second-shark-escapes-video

xox,
The Safety Girl

Cool Earrings Are Attached To This Rant!

   I have this friend who always gives perfect gifts. I won't call her by name for fear of embarrassing her but she is one of those people who goes away for a weekend trip and ALWAYS returns with the perfect little trinket that reminded her of you. I love her dearly yet sometimes feel the urge to strangle her for setting the gift giving bar so high. Well DARN her, this is one of her recent finds on a weekend trip to NOLA.
   The vendor is "Gore's Art" and I am attaching pics of the earrings, which are made out of recycled materials, as well as the earring holder just because it is cool. If you are in NOLA anytime soon track this cat down!

From Alabama Alumni Extra

Alabama Alumni Extra

Remembering What’s Important

Posted on June 8, 2011 by admin

by Haley Herfurth

Julie Love's office before the tornado

When Julie Love arrived at the building that housed her law practice, Julie P. Love PC, in the Alberta City section of Tuscaloosa, Ala., on the morning of April 27, 2011, she had no idea it would be the last time she’d step through the front door. In the aftermath of the tornado that ripped through the city later that day, Love found her office leveled; however, she also found an outpouring of support she never expected.

Love, who graduated from The University of Alabama in 1996 with a bachelor’s in theatre, and her office manager, Yushonda Milligan, had debated whether to leave early that day. However, they had closed up early in the previous weeks because of storms, so they were hesitant to do so again. After much debate, Love decided to shut down and head to her home in Druid Hills, about a mile away.

What was left after the storm

While waiting in the basement for the rough weather to pass, along with her husband, Shawn, their 12-year-old son, Logan, and two friends, Love occupied herself with painting a chair, not realizing the severity of the storm. “I had been paying little attention, because our cable had been out since the April 15 tornado, so I couldn’t follow the weather,” she said. After receiving word from a friend in Birmingham, Ala., who was watching live coverage of the tornado on TV, Love finally absorbed how serious the situation really was.

While hiding in a closet under the basement stairs, they felt and heard the tornado rush over them. It pulled a large tree from their front yard completely out of the ground, and threw it over the driveway with “such force that we actually felt the ground shake,” she said. That was the only harm done to their home. Love said that she and her family were blessed; their neighborhood and the surrounding area had sustained a lot of damage. “I have been through tornadoes, and can honestly say that for the first time in my life, I was close enough that I was terrified,” she said.

Love's law degree was found, still framed and unharmed.

After the winds calmed, Love and her husband, a 2001 UA graduate, set out to find a friend of hers, with whom Love had lost contact during the storm. Since the family’s cars were blocked by the tree and her friend lived only two miles away, she and Shawn went into the fray on bicycles. On the trek, she ran into a fellow lawyer. “He grabbed hold of me as I came past him, and all he said was, ‘I was in the gym,’” she recalled. “I shook him off and said I was looking for someone and had to go. I later found out he had been in Planet Fitness [destroyed by the storm]. I will never get the image of Alberta immediately after out of my mind. People were covered with dirt and debris, and some were bleeding and holding all they owned. It looked like something from a war movie.”

Love said that despite riding past the location of her office she hadn’t focused on the fact that it was now in ruins. “Because my office laid in between my home and her home, she was the top thing on my mind,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, it registered as I passed the building, but it took a while for it to sink in.” In the end, she was simply grateful they hadn’t been there. “When it was all said and done, I was thankful that Shonda and I had gone home,” she said.

The office sign was located amidst the rubble.

Milligan, who lives in the Palisades apartment homes on Hargrove Road, about three miles from their office, said that she had planned to return to work that afternoon, but eventually decided against it. “I figured we would get some heavy rain and winds, but nothing too severe,” she said. “Thank God I didn’t go back, because I would have been working at the time the tornado came through Alberta City.” That evening, she received a text message from Love with a picture of their law office attached. “I immediately dropped to my knees and began crying, thanking God I wasn’t there.”

Since the devastation of her office building, Love said that Wright Hale, a fellow Tuscaloosa attorney, has provided them with work space. She also said that while she has always loved the Tuscaloosa Bar, she never expected the amount of support she has received from the group. “Lawyers and judges alike have called, e-mailed and offered everything from office space to copies of files,” she said. “[District] Judge [Joel] Chandler even showed up with a bulldozer and helped dig. Clients and friends have also been so supportive and helpful. One of my favorite quotes is from the movie ‘It’s a Wonderful Life,’ when Clarence left the inscription for George Bailey, ‘No man is a failure who has friends.’ I have never known that to be more true than now.”

A tree fell in the family's front yard.

Milligan said that while their office was destroyed, she knows that both she and Love and the entire area will come back stronger than before. “It will take time for everyone to recover from this, but as a community, if we continue to work together, we will rebuild Tuscaloosa,” she said.

Love agreed, saying that a positive outlook is important in these trying times. “I could easily look at the storm as a sign that I am not supposed to be in this line of work,” she said. “But I could just as easily look at the fact that in all that rubble, we pulled out all but three of our files, including 1,000 closed files, and that not one picture of my father, who practiced law for over 50 years, was damaged, as a sign that God smiled on my little law office.”

They're back!

     On March 15, 2011, I blogged about my jalapeno pepper stealing squirrel situation. (See blog, "I guess my thumb is more chartreuse than green.") Captain America scoffed at my crazed squirrel theory. Just the same, I stopped attempting to grow vegetables, other than the occasional compost pile accidental onion and what do I discover on the patio this weekend? They have taken to eating press board!
I give you Exhibit "A."

Addendum to nail tech shout out!

I went back to see Elaine today (Tuscaloosa Nails and Spa at Midtown, station #4) for a second gel manicure and this time I took a picture to show you the goods. My last one lasted over two weeks, and probably would have lasted longer if not for that blasted file clean up. This is the portion of the blog where you feel sorry for me. :) Ignore my man hands and just focus on the excellent job she does.
GO SEE ELAINE!

Nail Tech Shout Out!

Elaine (Technician #4)@ Tuscaloosa Nails &Spa talked me into the new gel coating (aka Shellacking) instead of my usual $10.00 cheapilstilskin manicure that is chipped the next day. She said it would last 2-3 weeks with no chipping. Two weeks later still looks excellent. Well worth the $30.00! Go see Elaine!

HE IS ALWAYS LISTENING

Last week my son, The Boy Wonder, mentioned that my eyes were green. Impressed that he had looked up from his game device long enough to make this observation I attempted further conversation. I explained that my eyes have always changed color from green to blue depending on what color clothing I was wearing at the time. He said nothing more and resumed the nimble dance of his thumbs as he battled some alien force aimed at destroying America.

            Today I picked him up from school in the suit I wore to court earlier in the day and he said, “Ju Ju, today your eyes are Husky Blue.” The Boy Wonder has taken to using various breeds of dog in casual conversation as a method to subliminally convince Captain America and me that our family needs a dog.

            “Umm hmm” I said, in the tone I use when I am only half invested in the conversation. I usually reserve this tone for comments regarding video games, comic books, or Pod Casts and follow it up with, “Uhhh, I don’t know, you should ask your father.”

            However, I stopped dead in my tracks when he followed up with, “So when you wear depressing clothes your eyes are Husky blue?”

            From the mouths of babes.

Breaking up is hard to do

“If it’s over, if it’s over, let me know, just let me know.”

-Mariah Carey

            A good friend recently went through the breakup of her marriage. Although she possesses one of the most positive outlooks of anyone I have encountered, and believe me, as an attorney who handles divorces, I have seen my share of outlooks on divorce; I wanted to make an effort to cheer her further. And so, in my newly single friend’s honor I have compiled a list of my top four personal best breakups. Brace yourself.

           

4. I just wanted Olive Garden:

Circa 1994, and the boyfriend I had dated for a little over a year, let’s call him Elrod, called me one evening to ask where I wanted to have dinner. Because Elrod was an athlete of an enormous size, we had to carefully select restaurants that had the potential of actually filling him up without cleaning out a bank account. We agreed that he would be on his way to pick me up for a nice dinner at Olive Garden, a very popular location in 1994. After fifteen minutes I began to worry, as he only lived across the complex from me. Thirty minutes later I got into my car and drove past his place. The lights were off and his truck was not parked out front. Because 1994 was years before the cell phone was carried by everyone over the age of ten, there was nothing more for me to do but return home and wait. I did not hear from him again for three months.

3. The block:

After the break up with Elrod I was on a date with a cute fellow who right down to his perfect blonde hair bore a striking resemblance to a Ken doll. We had gone to dinner, maybe even at the Olive Garden, and he pulled up in front of my place, put the car in park, turned and looked into my eyes. I closed my eyes and prepared myself for a goodnight kiss. I felt him lean over and my heart began to flutter. Even with closed eyes I could tell the interior light had come on but it still took a second for me to realize that he had missed my mouth completely and simply leaned over to open my door.  I was confused, until I turned to exit the vehicle and saw Elrod sleeping in a lounge chair on my porch. The chair strained under his weight and his arms and legs dangled off the sides. He was snoring loudly, one half of his gigantic body covered by a blanket that on him looked like a child’s binky. “I had a great time,” Ken doll said, “but I am not stepping over that to get you into the house.”

2. I just dated you because I hate your ex-boyfriend:

For two years I dated and adored a gentleman we will call Dud. When he ended the relationship he filled me in on a little secret I could have gone my entire life without knowing. It appears that he was in the college recruiting class with Elrod. I would never have suspected this as the Dud was of average male size. During recruitment Elrod rubbed Dud the wrong way and a one- sided grudge formed. As Elrod and I remained friends after our breakup, Dud had an occasion to see us together at a party one evening and decided this would be his moment to exact revenge. After which he courted and dated me all in an effort to one up Elrod, who, when later asked about the Dud, had no memory of him whatsoever.

1. Are you kidding me?

I once dated a nuclear engineer who worked on a Navy submarine. He went out to sea for three months at a time surfacing only a handful of times at undisclosed locations during which, if allowed, he assured me he would drop me a letter. Otherwise our only communication would be via “family-gram,” which is a telegram sent through the Naval offices, and carefully scrutinized for content. He told me this was necessary because the submarine did not make an unscheduled surface for any reason.

“What if someone dies?” I asked.

 “They put them in the freezer,” he replied matter of factly.

   

 As such, the Navy could not afford to have letters come through that would upset a crew member as they did not wish to have a love sick sailor running around crazy while under the sea.

With this little contact it would be impossible for us not to appreciate our time together and since I had just started my first year of law school I would be as time constrained as he was. I thought ours the perfect relationship. I packed him a tiny gift to open each day of his voyage and waved from the dock as he floated off into the sunset. I wrote him a family gram once a week, per Navy policy, and a month or so later I received one of those above ground mailings he had mentioned in the form of a “Dear John” letter dumping me. Yes, I was dumped from 20,000 leagues below the sea.

            I toss the gauntlet.  If you think you can top my best break ups please feel free to comment, I would love to know that I am not alone.

           

            

Mrs. America 2011

Mrs. America 2011 Preliminaries

“I am a sergeant in this army of luggage carriers.”

-Captain America

            I have to say I was shocked and honored when Elaine Marmel of the Mrs. America Organization extended an invitation for me to co-host the preliminary round of competition of the 2011 Mrs. America Pageant at the historic Greenbrier Resort in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia.

I almost missed rehearsal, as I was overlooked when the memo went out clearly not a good sign- but I ran in at the last second in my gym clothes and found my marks. Since it was a special occasion I decided to have my hair and makeup professionally done. Four hours later I squeezed into a dress that fit me when I arrived, approximately six banana splits, two bottles of wine, one apple pie and a chicken pot pie ago and wobbled downstairs to the auditorium. I knew I looked good when Kevin, our stage assistant, introduced himself to me even though we had spent an entire morning working two feet from one another.

I was more than nervous to look onto the front row and find Florence Henderson, the host of the televised pageant, gazing up at me. If it isn’t hard enough trying to be cute and witty with my on stage improvisation, keeping my gut pulled in for fear of exploding from my dress and not tripping on the miles of tulle underneath my hem, I now had to add the “Mrs. Brady” factor.  She and my husband Captain America have a long history. When I competed for the title in Palm Springs in 2004, Captain America stood by my side during the top five on- stage question. Florence, who also hosted that year, glided over, radiant in a silver gown, and as she purred his name into the camera I knew Captain America was a goner. After that, he arrived at every Mrs. America hosted event looking for his special lady friend, once going as far as trying to get her to skip out of a reception and catch a Vegas show with him.  For a split second I stood on stage and allowed myself to imagine the horror the crowd would feel if I dove off the stage, a blur of black lace and tulle and full body tackled Captain America as if reenacting a scene from the World Wrestling Federation.

 I am happy to report that the preliminaries went off with no causalities and that I was allowed to co-host the entire event, something I was sure would not happen if I left the stage at intermission. The stage was beautiful and my co-host, writer, Bill Harris, was a blast. The crowd seemed to have a good time, but by far, my personal highlight was Florence coming up and hugging me at intermission and telling me that I did a great job. She said she had to do a double take when I came on stage as she absolutely did not recognize me. Do you think I should be concerned that no one recognizes me with my hair styled and face made up? I was going to dismiss the thought until the next morning, as I appeared in the lobby in my usual disheveled state and a contestant’s husband walked up to me and asked, “Didn’t you host the preliminaries?” The look on his face was that of a man who suddenly understood the meaning of the old pageant saying, “smoke and mirrors.” Fine America, point taken!   

      

I have found the perfect nail polish!

To my sisters and a few of my brothers in fashion:
     I have spent large amounts of time (and funds) purchasing nail polish I felt sure would be both hip and flattering to my gigantic, knuckle dragging, man hands with no success until today! I present, Revlon Shade 705 in "Gray Suede" which can be purchased for under $4.00 at any Wal-Mart.

I guess my thumb is more chartreuse than green

My father was a successful attorney during his lifetime. However, while a student at Jacksonville State University he studied horticulture and his love of plants never left him. He built a huge greenhouse and during the winter carefully cultivated plants of all shapes and sizes that he then transplanted to his garden each summer. I spent many a Saturday trailing behind him, helping pick weeds and gather a bounty of vegetables that would be transformed into next week’s lunchtime masterpieces by our nanny Clara. 

            My mother, an equally successful attorney, did not share my father’s love of the garden, but was instead drawn to flowering plants. Her flower bed, which was located near the back deck, housed a small apple tree that each spring was blanketed at its base with tulips of every color imaginable. Our front flower bed was always blooming with roses and the bank leading up our driveway was alive with daffodils. Mother also grew wild strawberries that she had transplanted from her own mother’s garden, and wonderful smelling mint that always garnished our sweet tea in the summer, explaining that during her childhood neighbors shared “cuttings” from what they already had on their property for both economic and practical reasons. She carefully demonstrated on more than one occasion how to root a cutting from an already existing plant that could later be given to a friend, or simply planted in a different location. You might say that I developed my love of plants honestly, however, my green thumb is another matter entirely.

            I am convinced there is a photo of me posted on every register in both Home Depot and Lowe’s because at this point my money is not welcome. I need only cross that chain link threshold into the area of all things blooming and every clerk on site vanishes. It appears that those who love plants cannot bear to turn them over to a horticulturist of my skill. I will share a few examples to explain how I became blackballed. First there was the “lucky” bamboo my friend Patti gave me, which, she explained, required nothing of me but a place to rest its weary blue and white china pot. My lucky bamboo was dead in two weeks, however, the pot still works well as a paper clip holder. Second, there was the money tree my husband, Captain America, and I thought was charming. In its first weeks, I watched as two, and then three leaves would fall at a time. By the time it gave up the ghost a month later, the leaves were falling much like my money falls into the deep black hole of student loan debt. Perhaps that is why it is called a money tree, but I believe it was more along the lines of foreshadowing regarding my likelihood of success in the small business world. 

Third there were multiple peace lilies, which, according to the florist were “practically indestructible.” Allow me to introduce myself: My name is “practically.” After killing off all the living plants in our home, I decided that the problem was I was classically trained as an outdoor gardener, and, as such, turned my efforts to more familiar territory. I bought a potting bench, soil, and hand held shovel and went to work not only potting plants, but planting bulbs and rose bushes. The confederate jasmine was so disgusted with my efforts that one cold February morning it bloomed in an obvious act of suicide. I could never get the hang of the whole rose pruning thing or why at certain times of the year my neighbor- and garden nemeses- piled up little mounds of dirt and pine straw around his roses. Instead of the big explosion of beauty I remembered from childhood my roses were more scraggly vines of thorns, a fact my mother comments on with every visit.

One burgundy rose bush I was convinced was dead, I pulled from the ground in frustration and proceeded to curse and stomp until I realized the neighbors might be watching. I later attempted to grow another plant in its spot which immediately died; but, the rose sprang back to life. I named the rose bush Lazarus and vowed never to touch it again, its appreciation shown with yearly blooming success.

In a show of confidence, my mother left me in charge of a beautiful pink hydrangea she received while in the hospital. I killed it. The moon plant my in-laws brought over should have come with its own toe tag. I have yet to successfully root anything.

            Understanding at this point that flowers were not my thing, I moved on to gardening. I planted strawberries, peppers, squash and zucchini in vain. I became convinced that those annoying squirrels in the back yard had, under the cover of darkness, been digging up and stealing my vegetables, then covering their crime by carefully replacing the soil. When I shared this theory with Captain America he just shook his head and mumbled something to himself. At night I leaped from bed every time the motion detector light on our back patio turned on, and crawled back in as Captain America mumbled something about us having the only jalapeno eating squirrels in history. After I attempted tomatoes in the upside down squirrel free planter that extended from a beam on our pergola with equal success I gave up the ghost.

 It appears that all I can grow are weeds, and boy do I have a knack for that! Our front yard, which was professionally landscaped by the prior owners, is situated smack dab in the middle of a community of retirees and at the time we purchased it was a showplace. After a few seasons in my care it is alive with every weed imaginable. I would peep around the curtains in my den and watch my neighbors walk by shaking their heads in disgust. Fearing that we might be met one evening by a torch wielding mob I went to the garden center for help. I purchased a gallon of snake oil which after attaching to the hose pipe and spraying liberally over our lawn, was guaranteed to kill ONLY the weeds and leave all other remaining plant life. I sprayed liberally, and watched, every plant in our front yard immediately curl up like slugs on a salt bed. The weeds went unscathed. We felt it best to leave town for a few days to allow the neighbors to calm down. With that, I gave up gardening and moved on to my new hobby: recycling. I remember the look of horror when I dragged home my Sam’s Club Compost Bin.  “I’m not going to grow any more plants” I snapped at a relieved Captain America. I read the instructions and placed a note card on the refrigerator to remind my family that our scraps could be put to good use. We could make soil I explained, and give it to my father-in-law, as he actually knows how to grow things. Last week I sent my son, the Boy Wonder, out to churn the compost and he came back saying he did not think we were correctly “growing” our dirt. Certain that he was trying to get a rise out of me, I stomped out and peered into the bin to find five large onions had grown themselves without out my assistance. So there you have it, I finally learned to garden while trying to grow dirt.

Fly the Friendly Skies

Fly the Friendly Skies

 As I prepared for our fun, family vacation I tried to put my usual Scrooginess aside and was determined to have a positive attitude. Travel never seems to work out well for me. Early sailors believed it was bad luck to spot an Albatross while at sea.  Pirates believed that a woman on board a ship would bring bad luck. It appears I am the flying equivalent of both. I rarely reach my intended destination without casualties. We were to leave the Birmingham Airport on December 27, 2010, and arrive in Traverse City, Michigan, rent a car and drive as easy fifty minutes to beautiful Boyne, Michigan, for a relaxing ski vacation. We were to return to Alabama on January 1, 2011, having greeted the New Year on holiday. Each and every detail of this adventure had been planned a year in advance by my in-laws and husband, Captain America, all of whom are eternally optimistic and never sick.

On December 24 I came down with some sort of funk that on first swallow appeared to be strep throat. “I shall remain positive,” I mumbled to myself, and in affirmation of my mantra, I did not seek immediate medical attention as is my usual custom regarding anything related to my ear, nose, throat, or even a hangnail. I spent Christmas Eve in bed, hacking and now convinced I had pneumonia, but still clinging to my mind- over- matter philosophy. Christmas Day I crawled from the bed long enough to see my son, the Boy Wonder, open his gifts and then slunk back to what I was convinced was, in fact, my death bed.

Unfortunately, I came to my senses a little too late. There are no medical offices open on Christmas Day and I dared not go to the emergency room, as my Blue Cross co-pay is now so high that I might have to leave my son as partial payment. So I suffered through until December 26 and lined up with 70 of my closest friends at the local doc-in-the-box where I was diagnosed with one of my semi-annual sinus infections. Five hours, two shots and five prescriptions later I was on my way home.

 Captain America met me at the door, “due to bad weather Delta has cancelled our flight.”

I struggled to find my inner chi, but I was high on a steroid shot at this point and the lawyer in me, which I thought I had tucked safely away while on vacation, reared her ugly head, “they did not cancel our flight they put someone else on it because they over book these flights and one flight delay due to bad weather topples their house of cards!” It was at this point that I realized he was still on the phone with Delta.

The attendant scurried around a bit shuffling paper and clacking the keyboard of her magic Delta Computer and managed to find two seats on a plane leaving before sunrise. That would be wonderful had we not been a party of five passengers! I wondered, silently this time, if this is what it felt like as they drew straws for rowboat seats on the Titanic. It was agreed that Captain America and the Boy Wonder would fly on and I would follow with the in-laws on our newly booked flight the following day Tuesday, December 28. Happy to have one more day of bed rest and antibiotics I helped the men pack, carefully weighing the bags so as to avoid the additional $5,000.00 overweight luggage charge and returned to bed.

They arrived in Michigan without incident having traveled on a plane with many empty seats. I remained positive. “Vacation, vacation, vacation,” I repeated to myself and took a swig of cough syrup.

 We decided I would stay the night at the home of my in-laws to make the early morning trip to the airport easier. When they arrived to pick me up on Monday evening, the cell phone in my mother-in-law’s hand should have been a warning sign. It was Delta again. They were cancelling our flight and rebooking us for Wednesday, December 29. The customer service representative first said that due to the weather no flights were going into Traverse City until Wednesday. My father-in-law pointed out that he had children fly into Traverse City from both Arizona and Alabama, opposite ends of the United States that afternoon. Never missing a beat, she moved on to excuse number two: the fact that there were three of us traveling together made it virtually impossible to place us on a plane. There was a faint snapping sound as the last straw broke. I began shouting at the little I-Phone speaker that I was hardly to blame for Delta’s incompetence and that they had many flights that were flying their friendly skies at least one of which went to our destination and was not full! I insisted that she go ahead and book my in-laws and I would remain behind and draft the lawsuit, as I felt positive there was nothing in the contract language that allowed them to over sell flights and then kick people off because there was no room when bad weather caused delays. She was quiet for a moment, as were my in-laws, and then I heard the nervous clatter of the computer key board. “I found a flight! It’s leaving at 5 a.m. from Atlanta, Georgia.” To add insult to injury, she added, “Thank you for flying with Delta” and quickly hung up before I had the opportunity to shout back, “That remains to be seen!”

So we woke at midnight to make the three hour drive from Tuscaloosa to Atlanta. Well, my in-laws were awake. I was still in a cough syrup induced coma, so I actually missed the drive over. We finally boarded and made it to Traverse City, where interestingly, planes were flying both into and out of the airport without problem. I guess they did not have direct access to Delta’s Magic Computer.

I would love to say that the rest of our journey went without incident but that would go against everything for which Delta stands. On the return flight we had a small four- hour layover in Detroit, Michigan. No worries I thought, I can watch The University of Alabama’s bowl game while I wait. The first sign of things to come was revealed during our trek down the concourse in search of a television. There, alone on the runway, bravely staring down a small plane was a single red suitcase. Captain America immediately brought it to the attention of the nearest Delta agent, who looked over in the direction of the window, mumbled, “yeah, we know,” and went back to her conversation. As we walked away the Boy Wonder looked over his shoulder and asked, “Is that our suitcase?”

When our time came to board the flight to Birmingham I told myself I was thinking positive thoughts, but out of habit I took a deep breath and waited for the worst. Delta did not disappoint me. The nice gentleman at the ticket counter, who I came to refer to as Mr. Delta, picked up his little, black microphone, attached to his very loud squawk box and advised us that we were overweight passengers and three of us had to go. Now I am still silently pondering how one makes a determination that a room full of total strangers are too heavy for an airplane when he comes back on the squawk box and doles out the following enticing offer: “If we have three volunteers each will receive a $200 Delta Dollars voucher, hotel and meal vouchers and a flight leaving tomorrow morning.”

Tempting, but seeing as how $200 Delta Dollars barely covers the baggage cost of the flight and having once been put up at a hotel compliments of Delta that required me to move the crime scene tape to enter I was not about to budge. Five long, silent minutes passed on the concourse and he tried again. This time the lucky participants would receive a flight they had miraculously located in their magic computer that was leaving at 5:30 the same day. No sleazy hotel or meal vouchers necessary. He was met with a wall of silence.

“O.K., no volunteers,” Mr. Delta croaked clearly losing his patience with our group. “Will the following three individuals please report to my desk? Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to board the plane.” I only had a moment to wonder what would happen if they did try to board the plane. Would an alarm sound and F.A.A. representatives usher them to a small room in the back of the airport? My thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Delta as he shot off the three names of the angry customers who were now rushing his desk demanding to know how their names were selected.

The situation was becoming heated as Mr. Delta, backed against the wall of his cubicle, shouted the name selection was the computer’s fault and that he had no control. Suddenly from behind the big steel door that separated us and our flight home appeared a friendly flight attendant. She snatched the squawk box from Mr. Delta and began to calm the crowd saying she was going to do a head count of the concourse because she felt sure we would all fit. As I pondered whether flight attendant training now required classes similar to hostage negotiation she made a bee line for me and the Boy Wonder. “Excuse me ma’am,” she said with a bright smile on her face. I stared straight ahead and debated whether or not I should pretend that I did not speak English. She cleared her voice, “excuse me,” she said again, making it clear she was going nowhere. I looked over my left shoulder and feigned surprise to find her standing there. “Are you and your son flying to Birmingham? How old is he? How many are in your party?” I felt like I was under an interrogation spotlight. All the while Captain America sat smiling and staring straight ahead, earphones in his ears as he listened to his Keith Richards biography.

“This is what I get for telling him he should read more,” I thought to myself. I nodded “yes” to her questions about my flight and felt a little sick until she turned to Mr. Delta and indicating to the Boy Wonder said, “We have a half here, as well as at least three others, I think we will be fine.”

            As she resumed her question and answer session with other travelers, the boy’s spine stiffened up and he mumbled, “Who is she calling a half?” “Shh!” I hissed.

Well, the nice flight attendant managed to squeeze each and every one of us onto the plane. At first I was relieved and then I began to worry. Weight limits are there for a reason. I once tried to explain this to a 290 pound boyfriend who lied and announced his weight at fifty pounds less to gain entrance to a water slide. I do not know that he ever made the connection of why weight was important when barreling down a thirty foot water slide but the video was clear enough as he shot off the slide and did not stop until he hit a chain link fence. The plane groaned and I prayed and somehow we made it back to Birmingham, Alabama.

Captain America ran ahead to get the car as I retrieved our suitcases from baggage claim. I rounded the corner and was greeted by a grave yard of abandoned luggage. Red, black, blue and polka dot suitcases were piled atop each other like casualties of war. The alarm sounded and the conveyor belt for our flight started and about ten suitcases came off of Delta Flight Bloated from Detroit, Michigan. I turned on my heel and went to the little office to the left to make my report and almost tripped over one of the lucky individuals whose bag had in fact made it home. It was completely shredded on one side, held together by half of its zipper. She sat on the floor and held it in her arms like a sick child as another passenger attempted to separate them and encouraged her to survey the contents for survivors.

The lost baggage attendant clicked around on the keyboard of that magic computer and said, “this is curious, your bags were loaded and then they were unloaded because the plane was too heavy.” Now my bags were to blame? “But they will be arriving on the next flight this evening, whoops, that flight was just cancelled, they will be delivered to you first thing in the morning. Thanks for flying Delta.”

Morning came and went. I dialed the toll free number no less than 400 times and was always greeted with a busy signal. Captain America finally outsmarted the system by calling Delta, as if planning to book another flight from hell, and once he secured a human being requested a direct connection to lost baggage. I was so proud of his sneaky revelation. At 11 a.m. the bags were reported to be en route. At 3:00 p.m., using the same trick, we spoke to lost baggage again and were directed to the courier, who, as luck would have it, answered the phone. Our bags were traveling along with many other overweight, lost, or otherwise unacceptable bags and though slow in their arrival, we were guaranteed they would arrive that day. Our bags arrived around midnight; at least the courier’s word was good. Attached to the top of my suitcase was a nice little Delta form tag that read, “Sorry for the delay.” Hah! I am holding on to the hope that once Oprah tires of owning an entire television network that she will take a crack at the airline business. Until then, I will fly down the friendly interstate via my trusty Mustang.