Dear American Airlines: Save the Drama for Obama

It's 2:17am. I write to you now from the Best Western Airport Hotel and Casino.

American Airlines can S a D. It is now, along with Delta, on my shit list.

In the last 6 weeks I have been on 8 planes, in 12 airports, and not once had a layover or delay...until now. And it's been more hardcore than I could have imagined.

I think you all know I have bad luck with flying. And while I always brace myself for some drama and foolishness, my recent rash of good luck on international journeys had me hopeful. Besides, my desire to get to the islands was so great, I figured I could will the airline into functioning normally.

Apparently, not.
It started off smoothly, although the Metrocard machine ate the $5 I inserted for my AirTrain ticket. I shook it off, trying to maintain the relaxed vibe I'd cultivated in my time down under. A seemingly long line at security actually moved quite quickly, and my 3-oz. bottles of lotion and shampoo were FDA approved. I only had an hour before my flight, so I did what any normal person does when they have time to kill: read 'Twilight' at the newsstand. Everything seemed aces until 4:35--the boarding time--rolled around.
"Ladies and gentlemen, there seems to be a problem with the fuel pump, and maintenance is checking now. We don't know how long it'll be, but we should find out shortly. Boarding will not take place now."
Ruh-roh.

When they don't know what's up or how long it'll take to handle a scandal, it's never a good sign. 20 minutes later, chick explains that there will be an hour delay, making it impossible for me to make my connecting flight.
How will I get my groove back now???? I thought as I waited on line to talk to the attendant. Just then, another voice came over the PA, telling us a new plane would be needed, and we wouldn't be leaving until 9:15.

Current time: 6:05.
Awesome.

We finally get going at 10pm, and upon landing, a flight attendant informs us that there is a problem getting the door to the aircraft open, and asked for our patience. A chorus of moans ensued, and I had visions of the weird guy across from me staring at me with glowing red eyes before mauling me with his bare hands.

Airlines are so fucking annoying. You pay them alot of money. They make you show up ridiculously early and tell you it's for your own good. This you do after packing a bag so strategically that you'd have to be part terrorist to make it work. Then they make you wait on crazy lines and treat you like an unwanted third-marriage step-child by people who don't like their jobs, and then force you to take off items of clothing as they judge your sketch factor. If you make it through all this, it is their job to provide an aircraft and take you to a destination at a time that they've set, no less. But time after time, they disappoint and screw it up, providing lame excuses and no remorse.

Reminds me of every relationship I've ever had.

So now it's almost 2:30 am and I have 6 hours until my 40-minute flight to St. Croix. I'm going to take a quick shower and get some quick zzz's and hope there are no bedbugs. I will step off the plane bleary-eyed and confused, and demand a mojito. After a couple of those, this American Airlines debacle will be a distant memory.

Until then, I rant.

Would You Like a Steaming, Hot cup of TRUTH????

Look, look-- Apparently, HOT-lanta can handle my truth:

This photo was sent to me by a Southern white woman as she made her own sojourn to her homeland of South Carolina. This cafe can be found in the Atlanta international airport. I didn't see that last time I was there (though, I was so oppressed and weary after my travels that I wouldn't be surprised if it slipped right by my blurry eyes).

Is this cafe supposed to be my 40 acres? Where's my cut of the earnings from this place?! You know they've got to be some steady cash flow, as all things at airports cost a million dollars.

I think we all need to go there and demand some reparations!

The Dirrrty South.... What?!

Guys, this weekend was tough. I stepped outside of my safe space. I went below the Mason-Dixon line to ATL, aka HOT-lanta, aka The Dirrrrty South-- just because my cousin's wife decided to get knocked up.

And it took me 15 hours to get there.

I hate Delta Airlines. Like Southern character actress Delta Burke, it is shifty, untrustworthy, and full of dead weight. It failed me terribly.

Here is a timeline of the madness, which I logged as it happened, because it was so unbelievable. I don't know why I'm surprised that I was oppressed, seeing as I was heading to the South.

4:00pm: Sojourner and her mother* hop on Delta flight 521, a direct flight to ATL.

7:00pm: A voice comes over the intercom system: "Hello folks, this is Captain Everything-I-Say-Is-Unintelligible-Except-For-The-Word-'Turbulence'-And-'Stay Calm.' We've got some storm clouds and have been circling up here for a while now and are starting to run out of fuel. We're going to divert to Augusta for a moment to refuel. Just sit tight; we'll be on our way."

7:45 pm: We land in Augusta, Georgia, so that the plane can refuel. The engines are turned off, which cuts off our air conditioning.

Sojourner, along with 183 other passengers, sits in an airplane with no air conditioning for TWO HOURS.
In Georgia, in August heat.
Can you handle this truth?

9:45 pm: We are allowed to get off the plane and stand on the tarmac to keep cool. I've never been on a tarmac before. There are fire trucks and everything. I feel like it's the end of an action movie, and I'm hoping that Bruce Willis is going to get in the cockpit and make magic happen.

10:30 pm: We are all rushed back on the plane by the flight attendants/lying whores. Still skeptical, I slowly saunter onto the sauna that is Delta Flight 521. I won't believe we're taking off til the houses look like Christmas lights.

10:50 pm: We are ushered off the plane, as the Captain (who I now call "Asshole") says that due to FAA regulations, pilots cannot fly for more than 8 hours in a shift-- and we've just run out of time.

We head into the Augusta, Georgia "airport"-- at best, it can be described as a rest stop with plane-like paraphenalia on the walls. This airport has a seating capacity of about 200, and their "food court" is a yogurt stand. Which is closed. No one is allowed to get their stowed luggage, and our only sustenance is to be found in a vending machine.
Did you know Fritos come in a chili-cheese flavor?

12:15 am: We are told an alternate plane will arrive at 1:30 am, with a new, refreshed crew ready to take us to ATL. We are also told that food is on it's way.

12:30 am: An airport worker wheels in a cart filled with bottled water, potato chips, and hostess cupcakes. This is our "food"-- a trans-fat caravan. I got better eats on the plantation!

1:54 am: A plane still hasn't arrived. We are told by a sassy, surly Augusta airport whore that one will come at 3:00 am. I am sitting in the first row of seats, watching a rerun of The Nanny on Lifetime.

Now is not the time for Fran Drescher and her screechy comedy of manners. I am going to die.

3:30 am: Still no plane. Suddenly, a new airport wench tells us a plane will arrive in "3 to 8 minutes," and to use the bathroom and generally prepare to go.

4:15 am: I have decided that Delta time is the equivalent of dog years. I am talking to a nice firefighter and a sassy gay man, lamenting our fate. One man says, "We could have flown to Australia in all this time!"
I shed a tear for my lost love.

6:40 am: A plane finally arrives. I pass out as soon as I take my seat, but before my XXX-rated Harry Potter fantasy reaches a crescendo, I am brutally awakened by harsh lights.

Did I mention the flight from Augusta to Atlanta is only 20 minutes? It's also a mere 2-hour drive. Had Delta (Burke) Arlines had any sense, they would have gotten some busses and driven us to freedom (I never thought I'd refer to the South as freedom, but this is what Delta has done to me).

And when I arrived, bleary eyed and surly, I had a few hours to sleep before going to a baby shower, where good times were had by... some... I think.

This is me wearing a diaper made out of toilet paper. This was supposed to be a GAME. This 2-ply padding was rapidly applied by my mother as we competed against other female pairs. I was not allowed to help her in any way, other than raising my legs and turning my bum.

I am holding our first place prize: moisturizing antibacterial hand soap.

That's so a thing a baby shower would give you. Lame. The hostess should have been handing out condoms and IUDs, so that others don't suffer her fate.

*Who knew Sojourner's mother would still be alive?!