Recently, one of the large radio towers in the field behind our house had its light bulbs changed and its system updated. This would have been fine except the new bulbs are about 1,000 times brighter than the previous bulbs and they were cranked up all the way day and night.
It's hard to exaggerate how bright this made our neighborhood. Visualize lightning striking in the black of night every second or so and I suppose that's the closest picture I can paint you. It was aggravating, and though it bothered me. . .it nearly drove my husband insane.
What follows is the series of letters written from Greg to various officials as he tries desperately to get this fixed. . . and get some sleep. Because they are comical on their own, I'll post them, one at a time with little to no introduction.
Enjoy!
9.24.2006
The Wobble of Death
Over a couple weeks in August, my brothers were able to come out and visit. One from North Carolina, one from Minnesota. The 4 (including my husband) of us are pretty close, and whenever the guys can come out - it's always a good time.
We went shopping at the mall one day. . . and about 2 hours before this photo was taken, Jeff (the one on the left) bought a longboard. It's something his friends are into. Basically a long, surfboard-shaped board that is similiar to a skateboard, but apparently different. And since Jeff enjoys tooling around on these things, he bought one on our shopping trip, along with a helmet.
About 1 hour before this photo was taken. . . Jeff didn't have that massive bandage on his arm.
We went from the mall to our parents house for dinner - around 50 minutes away. Jeff spent much of that time telling us all sorts of interesting facts about this style of boarding, along with things to watch out for. One of these things was 'The Wobble of Death' which he described as when the speed of the board gets to be so great that it starts to wobble first a little, and then with increasing frequency until the rider literally gets 'bucked off' his board.
So as we neared my parents house, we stopped at the the top of the sloping hilly road that they live on. . . and (as he was eager to try his new board out) let Jeff out to ride down on his own. We would follow behind just to make sure he was OK and to fend off any cars that may try to pass him, and we'd meet him at the house about a quarter mile down the hill.
So off Jeff went - new helmet, new board. His long locks waving in the wind. 5mph. . . 10mph. . . 15mph. . . 20mph! I was starting to get nervous at the speed; when John, Greg and I all noticed a bit of a . . . .Wobble.
Uh Oh.
Just as Jeff had - apparently prophetically - described; this slight wobble increased in momentum until it did, indeed look as if Jeff was riding some sort of crazed horse. His arms went out attempting to keep his balance, and then. . .like it was in slow motion. . . we watched him fly off the board, take two drunken high-speed steps (please remember his body was still going 20mph even if his legs weren't) and then fall and barrell roll down the street as his longboard shot off into the forest. Greg slammed on the brakes, we all ran out of the car to where Jeff was lying bloodied with torn jeans, shirt, and a scratched helmet. We were horrified.
Jeff had temporarily lost the ability to breathe and had also lost quite a bit of skin on the pavement. But though he was bloody and bruised, it didn't warrant a hospital visit, and so we gently helped him up and into the back of the car so he could catch his breath for a minute before we headed down the hill to scare my mother to death.
Jeff sat there gasping for air, and groaning in misery - and as he did my other brother John patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. "Yeah Jeff," he said contemplatively; "we see what you mean about that Wobble of Death."
9.14.2006
Hello we're back . . .and we're taking calls. . . .
Greetings all 5 people who read my post on a daily basis. Or, not so daily, as of late. Again, many apologies for the lapse - but I'm ready to hop back on the horse again so to speak, and here we go:
So. What story to regale you with since last we read? What tale of hilarity; vacation, work, or marriage-related should I tell this day? Let's start with vacation. Which Greg and I took the last week of August.
Off we scampered to a sacred site where my family and I have been camping for the last 22 years. It's in Colorado, and it's amazingly beautiful. A nice rustic campsite by a river, plenty of wood for fires, and due to the stark lack of any sort of civilization . . .very free of those pesky class A, B, C or whatever motorhomes that are the size of small Soviet countries, crowded with all sorts of prissy folk.
Greg and I were able to borrow his parent's pop-up camper which isn't even close to the same thing. (So stop thinking that)
My parents joined us 3 days into it, and as they just sold the 1974 Vaquero camping trailer that we've had since I was 6. . . .they were tent camping it for the first time in many, many moons. Which was interesting because they brought a huge blow-up bed, an outdoor kitchen, a small outhouse-shaped tent that was for showers, carpet for the inside of their 3 bedroom tent, as well as their 2 dogs and cat, Simba.
Yes, I typed that correctly - there was carpet . . .and (entirely unrelated). . .their cat.
It was like when they showed up - so did bits and pieces of a house.
But, we had a great time. We had all kinds of crazy food which we ate with gusto, and for those of you who know Greg, also know that this relates very closely to his version of heaven.
Until the 5th night. I vaguely remember through a sleepy haze that I heard rustling through the cabinets. Perhaps the faint hint of paper rustling, and the pitter-patter of tiny paws.
I didn't think much of it until the next morning when I found that a mouse had taken a wee bite out of nearly every kind of food we had brought. Greg went ballistic. It is a very deep form of violation for him to have his food ruined by any sort of creature, let alone a tiny mouse who didn't even bother to finish his first feast before starting on another.
We went back and forth on solutions to the matter - during the day the mouse was gone, and Greg wanted to capitalize on that to move all perishable food into the truck, lamenting all the while at our massive oversight in not stocking the camper with mousetraps. There was no convincing him otherwise, and as he was doing that I was trying to think of a way to solve this issue so I could have a functioning kitchen back. Then, Simba (the cat) showed up from his foraging in the forest, and he gave me an idea. . . .
I let Greg empty out the trailer (with the spirit of a man who knows that all his Skippy Peanut Butter Bars will be gone forever if he doesn't act NOW) and when it was done I carefully sprinkled some Lucky Charms near what I believed to be the mouse entrance was. We opened all the cupboards, and waited for night to fall.
When it was dark, we took Simba, and stuck him in the trailer while Greg, my parents and I all sat around the campfire making s'mores. In truth, I thought it would take until the middle of the night or something before a first kill could be made, and we occasionally looked in to see how the cat was doing.
He was perched, oh-so-quietly on top of the seat cushion, looking down into the baited cabinet. Ears pricked, head cocked, and very, very, still. He knew what was up and was taking his job very seriously.
In the middle of a s'mores conversation, there was a big THUMP, and a brief rustling, and then silence. The fire ring was silent as we looked at each other in disbelief, and I finally said what we all were thinking:
"Do you really think he's caught one already?"
There was only one way to find out. We all trudged over to the camper, and upon opening the door, there was Simba waiting for us, sitting in the entryway with a dead mouse clamped firmly between his jaws.
We disposed of the poor creature, and then sent Simba back in to kill any other 'poor creatures' who may be trying to eat our food.
I did feel bad, but that was the only mouse apparently, because Simba caught no other ones that night despite my bait.
Perhaps those lucky charms aren't so 'Magically Delicious'.
At least for field mice.
So. What story to regale you with since last we read? What tale of hilarity; vacation, work, or marriage-related should I tell this day? Let's start with vacation. Which Greg and I took the last week of August.
Off we scampered to a sacred site where my family and I have been camping for the last 22 years. It's in Colorado, and it's amazingly beautiful. A nice rustic campsite by a river, plenty of wood for fires, and due to the stark lack of any sort of civilization . . .very free of those pesky class A, B, C or whatever motorhomes that are the size of small Soviet countries, crowded with all sorts of prissy folk.
Greg and I were able to borrow his parent's pop-up camper which isn't even close to the same thing. (So stop thinking that)
My parents joined us 3 days into it, and as they just sold the 1974 Vaquero camping trailer that we've had since I was 6. . . .they were tent camping it for the first time in many, many moons. Which was interesting because they brought a huge blow-up bed, an outdoor kitchen, a small outhouse-shaped tent that was for showers, carpet for the inside of their 3 bedroom tent, as well as their 2 dogs and cat, Simba.
Yes, I typed that correctly - there was carpet . . .and (entirely unrelated). . .their cat.
It was like when they showed up - so did bits and pieces of a house.
But, we had a great time. We had all kinds of crazy food which we ate with gusto, and for those of you who know Greg, also know that this relates very closely to his version of heaven.
Until the 5th night. I vaguely remember through a sleepy haze that I heard rustling through the cabinets. Perhaps the faint hint of paper rustling, and the pitter-patter of tiny paws.
I didn't think much of it until the next morning when I found that a mouse had taken a wee bite out of nearly every kind of food we had brought. Greg went ballistic. It is a very deep form of violation for him to have his food ruined by any sort of creature, let alone a tiny mouse who didn't even bother to finish his first feast before starting on another.
We went back and forth on solutions to the matter - during the day the mouse was gone, and Greg wanted to capitalize on that to move all perishable food into the truck, lamenting all the while at our massive oversight in not stocking the camper with mousetraps. There was no convincing him otherwise, and as he was doing that I was trying to think of a way to solve this issue so I could have a functioning kitchen back. Then, Simba (the cat) showed up from his foraging in the forest, and he gave me an idea. . . .
I let Greg empty out the trailer (with the spirit of a man who knows that all his Skippy Peanut Butter Bars will be gone forever if he doesn't act NOW) and when it was done I carefully sprinkled some Lucky Charms near what I believed to be the mouse entrance was. We opened all the cupboards, and waited for night to fall.
When it was dark, we took Simba, and stuck him in the trailer while Greg, my parents and I all sat around the campfire making s'mores. In truth, I thought it would take until the middle of the night or something before a first kill could be made, and we occasionally looked in to see how the cat was doing.
He was perched, oh-so-quietly on top of the seat cushion, looking down into the baited cabinet. Ears pricked, head cocked, and very, very, still. He knew what was up and was taking his job very seriously.
In the middle of a s'mores conversation, there was a big THUMP, and a brief rustling, and then silence. The fire ring was silent as we looked at each other in disbelief, and I finally said what we all were thinking:
"Do you really think he's caught one already?"
There was only one way to find out. We all trudged over to the camper, and upon opening the door, there was Simba waiting for us, sitting in the entryway with a dead mouse clamped firmly between his jaws.
We disposed of the poor creature, and then sent Simba back in to kill any other 'poor creatures' who may be trying to eat our food.
I did feel bad, but that was the only mouse apparently, because Simba caught no other ones that night despite my bait.
Perhaps those lucky charms aren't so 'Magically Delicious'.
At least for field mice.
8.29.2006
Unexplained Absence...
Fans, Friends, and Loyal Readers;
I apologize for not writing anything lately - I assure you it's not for any depleted interest or lack of subject materials, but something much more. . . insiduous.
A very busy month.
Between one brother coming out for 2 weeks, another for 1 week and a week of vacation as well as a round of birthdays, I'm swamped. But. Things have begun to calm down and I hope to post as early as sometime this week. My head's all backed up and have a good many things to tell. :)
Until then, Bonne nuit!
I apologize for not writing anything lately - I assure you it's not for any depleted interest or lack of subject materials, but something much more. . . insiduous.
A very busy month.
Between one brother coming out for 2 weeks, another for 1 week and a week of vacation as well as a round of birthdays, I'm swamped. But. Things have begun to calm down and I hope to post as early as sometime this week. My head's all backed up and have a good many things to tell. :)
Until then, Bonne nuit!
8.01.2006
Of Marble and Gunshots
This past weekend, to celebrate our anniversary, Greg and I stayed at a B&B in central Colorado. Perhaps more B than a B&B, for it was a bit rustic, and the owner didn’t feel like cooking breakfast on morning #2 (though to his credit, he did say we could cook our own breakfast with his groceries). Whatever; small towns can often translate into new definitions of things you thought you knew.
It was a much-needed break to get away and have nothing to do for 2 whole days. We read, tried out the canoe (an amusing tale for a later blog), hiked, ate junk food, and slept. At one point, we entertained the idea of heading up and checking out the marble quarry which makes the town, Marble, so famous.
So the morning that we did get breakfast, the owner joined us and upon hearing our interest in the quarry trip, decided to regale us with stories of the craziness of this small town. He’s lived there for almost 20 years, has served on and off as a town-councilman and mayor pro-term, and knows quite a bit about town politics.
So he tells us about the crazy people who own the land through which 20 feet of the trail to the marble quarry passes through (got that?). The trail cannot divert through this old mining claim as there is a cliff to the left and right of it, and seeing an opportunity to make money and establish some dominant hierarchy within the town. . . they’ve decided to charge people $5 per person to walk this 20 feet of ‘their’ trail.
At this point in the tale, our host got a weird gleam in his eye and proceeded to tell us that we shouldn’t pay the fee if we were to go. I agreed that it was ridiculous, but shouldn’t the town government be taking care of this? Don’t they need a permit or something?
I was wrong; such is the corruptness of this town that people are powerless to stop these money-hungry folk. And so, our host suggested, we should instead put green paper into the slot that asks for money with a snippy little note on it saying something to the point of “Good luck with your venture” or something to that point.
I was starting to feel like a pawn in this whole game, and suggested that Greg and I saunter through without paying and without the sassy green paper.
No, the host didn’t like that idea.
Why not? Says I, clearly naive to the ways of Marble.
Well, a couple tried that a few years ago (which tells you how long this ridiculous feud has been going on) and the owner, frustrated that people in town were telling tourists not to pay, fired a warning shot over their heads with his rifle. They, of course, took the man to court, and his whole defense was that clearly this wasn’t an issue, since it was just a warning shot and not actually aimed to harm them.
Greg and I glanced at each other over our French toast, eyebrows raised. Our host then excused himself to go clean up, cheerily gave us a bit of green paper (because they’ll probably think it’s a $10!) and then left us.
We decided not to hit up the marble quarry that day, or the next.
Clearly, everyone here is crazy; both sides of the argument. Additionally, anyone who thinks that warning shots are normal behavior doesn’t need $10 of my money and I’m surely not going to provoke him with a bit of green paper.
:)
It was a much-needed break to get away and have nothing to do for 2 whole days. We read, tried out the canoe (an amusing tale for a later blog), hiked, ate junk food, and slept. At one point, we entertained the idea of heading up and checking out the marble quarry which makes the town, Marble, so famous.
So the morning that we did get breakfast, the owner joined us and upon hearing our interest in the quarry trip, decided to regale us with stories of the craziness of this small town. He’s lived there for almost 20 years, has served on and off as a town-councilman and mayor pro-term, and knows quite a bit about town politics.
So he tells us about the crazy people who own the land through which 20 feet of the trail to the marble quarry passes through (got that?). The trail cannot divert through this old mining claim as there is a cliff to the left and right of it, and seeing an opportunity to make money and establish some dominant hierarchy within the town. . . they’ve decided to charge people $5 per person to walk this 20 feet of ‘their’ trail.
At this point in the tale, our host got a weird gleam in his eye and proceeded to tell us that we shouldn’t pay the fee if we were to go. I agreed that it was ridiculous, but shouldn’t the town government be taking care of this? Don’t they need a permit or something?
I was wrong; such is the corruptness of this town that people are powerless to stop these money-hungry folk. And so, our host suggested, we should instead put green paper into the slot that asks for money with a snippy little note on it saying something to the point of “Good luck with your venture” or something to that point.
I was starting to feel like a pawn in this whole game, and suggested that Greg and I saunter through without paying and without the sassy green paper.
No, the host didn’t like that idea.
Why not? Says I, clearly naive to the ways of Marble.
Well, a couple tried that a few years ago (which tells you how long this ridiculous feud has been going on) and the owner, frustrated that people in town were telling tourists not to pay, fired a warning shot over their heads with his rifle. They, of course, took the man to court, and his whole defense was that clearly this wasn’t an issue, since it was just a warning shot and not actually aimed to harm them.
Greg and I glanced at each other over our French toast, eyebrows raised. Our host then excused himself to go clean up, cheerily gave us a bit of green paper (because they’ll probably think it’s a $10!) and then left us.
We decided not to hit up the marble quarry that day, or the next.
Clearly, everyone here is crazy; both sides of the argument. Additionally, anyone who thinks that warning shots are normal behavior doesn’t need $10 of my money and I’m surely not going to provoke him with a bit of green paper.
:)
7.26.2006
The Beginning of Wedded Bliss
I've been thinking a bit about my husband Greg. Regarding this blog, he really is my muse, so to speak, and he has kept me entertaine
d for 6 years now. 3 of those we were dating, 3 of those we were married, and tomorrow is our anniversary.
So, in the spirit of celebrating our anniversary, I thought I'd regale you with a Greg story that happened 3 years and 1 day ago today. . . or, perhaps to clarify, 2 days before the wedding.
We were married in a small mountain town called Ouray, on the Western side of the Rockies here in Colorado. I grew up over there, and as we both loved it we decided to make the 5 hour trek and meet all our friends and family for the Grand Celebration. It was a medium-sized wedding, about 100 people showed up for it, and in the couple days before we were to be married, we hung out with everyone, going to some hotsprings, visiting camp and cabin sites, shopping, eating, touring old mines, and. . . Most important to this story, taking a 4-wheel drive trip.
My dad, Greg and I all knew the route well, I've been doing it since I was 2. It winds up and over a mountain pass, and then drops you off in Telluride so you can then take a regular road back to Ridgeway and finally, back to Ouray - where we started. The ride was great, we all took pictures, checked out old mines and ghost towns, took more pictures, and then headed down the backside of the mountain into Telluride. Brad, Greg's best friend was riding in the backseat, and the three of us were in the middle of a conversation almost into Telluride when there was a horrendous THUMP from the hood of Greg's Explorer followed by an earpiercing shriek of metal on metal for 10 long seconds before the sound finally died with the engine. There was brief silence followed by a torrent of cursing from Greg.
Apparently this had been a problem that Greg was going to fix, but didn't think needed immediate attention like apparently it had. And so our getaway/honeymoon/driving car was completely disabled. . . on the side of a mountain. . . .5 hours away from where we lived. . . .2 hours from our wedding site. . . a day and a half before the wedding.
Greg and Brad (they both are mechanics, Greg just doesn't do it as a profession anymore) hopped out and immediately went about trying to figure out a way to fix the problem. Something about how a ball bearing welded itself onto the engine. . . Not really fixable for running the motor, but we could coast and be towed alright. And that's what we did. We coasted into Telluride, and my dad towed us over the pass and then let us go once we were to the top. It's just miles and miles of downhill, and I joined Greg for a 30 minute equivalent of 'Mr. Toad's Wild Ride' as we careened into Ridgeway with no power steering or brakes.
The Explorer's prognosis was no good. It would take at least a week to fix. Which was too bad since we were going to be on our honeymoon in now, 1 day. My mom called a friend back in Denver who hadn't yet arrived for the wedding and begged him and his dad to bring her car over so we could use it. They said ok, but that they'd be a little late. The wedding preparations were done, we had one more fun evening with our friends and prepared to get married the next day.
As I prepared throughout the day with hair, makeup, dressing, flowers, and whatnot, I was wondering where our car was. Hours ticked by and still it didn't show up. Greg was wondering as well and sweating it out. What were we going to do tomorrow if it didn't show? We didn't want to spend half the day with our parents trying to find a car rental in some other town!
The day passed by quickly and soon I went to the church for pictures and then hid upstairs as Greg showed up for his pictures . . .And still no car. I sent my bridesmaids out on car-watching duty periodically to see if it had showed yet, and nope - no car. As I was walking down the aisle, through the open door I saw my mom's car screech around the corner and do a 4 wheel skid into the parking lot. . .And I smiled.
I arrived at the end of the aisle, and after being given away by my father, walked up the stairs towards the altar with my soon-to-be-husband, and looked up at him and winked.
"The car's here" I whispered, and we both smiled as we took our vows.
d for 6 years now. 3 of those we were dating, 3 of those we were married, and tomorrow is our anniversary.So, in the spirit of celebrating our anniversary, I thought I'd regale you with a Greg story that happened 3 years and 1 day ago today. . . or, perhaps to clarify, 2 days before the wedding.
We were married in a small mountain town called Ouray, on the Western side of the Rockies here in Colorado. I grew up over there, and as we both loved it we decided to make the 5 hour trek and meet all our friends and family for the Grand Celebration. It was a medium-sized wedding, about 100 people showed up for it, and in the couple days before we were to be married, we hung out with everyone, going to some hotsprings, visiting camp and cabin sites, shopping, eating, touring old mines, and. . . Most important to this story, taking a 4-wheel drive trip.
My dad, Greg and I all knew the route well, I've been doing it since I was 2. It winds up and over a mountain pass, and then drops you off in Telluride so you can then take a regular road back to Ridgeway and finally, back to Ouray - where we started. The ride was great, we all took pictures, checked out old mines and ghost towns, took more pictures, and then headed down the backside of the mountain into Telluride. Brad, Greg's best friend was riding in the backseat, and the three of us were in the middle of a conversation almost into Telluride when there was a horrendous THUMP from the hood of Greg's Explorer followed by an earpiercing shriek of metal on metal for 10 long seconds before the sound finally died with the engine. There was brief silence followed by a torrent of cursing from Greg.
Apparently this had been a problem that Greg was going to fix, but didn't think needed immediate attention like apparently it had. And so our getaway/honeymoon/driving car was completely disabled. . . on the side of a mountain. . . .5 hours away from where we lived. . . .2 hours from our wedding site. . . a day and a half before the wedding.
Greg and Brad (they both are mechanics, Greg just doesn't do it as a profession anymore) hopped out and immediately went about trying to figure out a way to fix the problem. Something about how a ball bearing welded itself onto the engine. . . Not really fixable for running the motor, but we could coast and be towed alright. And that's what we did. We coasted into Telluride, and my dad towed us over the pass and then let us go once we were to the top. It's just miles and miles of downhill, and I joined Greg for a 30 minute equivalent of 'Mr. Toad's Wild Ride' as we careened into Ridgeway with no power steering or brakes.
The Explorer's prognosis was no good. It would take at least a week to fix. Which was too bad since we were going to be on our honeymoon in now, 1 day. My mom called a friend back in Denver who hadn't yet arrived for the wedding and begged him and his dad to bring her car over so we could use it. They said ok, but that they'd be a little late. The wedding preparations were done, we had one more fun evening with our friends and prepared to get married the next day.
As I prepared throughout the day with hair, makeup, dressing, flowers, and whatnot, I was wondering where our car was. Hours ticked by and still it didn't show up. Greg was wondering as well and sweating it out. What were we going to do tomorrow if it didn't show? We didn't want to spend half the day with our parents trying to find a car rental in some other town!
The day passed by quickly and soon I went to the church for pictures and then hid upstairs as Greg showed up for his pictures . . .And still no car. I sent my bridesmaids out on car-watching duty periodically to see if it had showed yet, and nope - no car. As I was walking down the aisle, through the open door I saw my mom's car screech around the corner and do a 4 wheel skid into the parking lot. . .And I smiled.
I arrived at the end of the aisle, and after being given away by my father, walked up the stairs towards the altar with my soon-to-be-husband, and looked up at him and winked.
"The car's here" I whispered, and we both smiled as we took our vows.
7.20.2006
Of Burritos and Flying
We were in California for a long weekend this past week. It was a trip to celebrate the wedding of Greg's best friend, Brad. All in all it was a nice, uneventful weekend, until of course, it was time to leave.
Allan, another friend of ours, dropped us off at the airport for our departing flight 2 hours ahead of time, and Dan, another friendly guy we know, called to see if we were hungry for lunch. He works for United, we were flying out of American, and he could come eat with us and hang out until we left. It was a splendid idea, and we were both hungry. So off he went to grab some burritos, and we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Until it was 30 minutes before boarding. Greg got up to go see if he could call/find Dan and see what the ETA for him was. Greg wandered off and I stayed with the luggage (God FORBID you leave it alone for more than .05 seconds, who knows what the terrorists may do to it!) and read my book.
I tend to dissappear into books, so I didn't really notice how much time had passed until they started boarding. I looked up and didn't see Greg, I stood up and still didn't see him (at 6'7" he's easy to spot in a crowd) This was a small, regional terminal seperate from the main airport, so it's not like there was a huge crowd that he could have dissappeared into. At this point, over 1/2 of the people were boarded, and I was baffled. "Where did he go?!" If we missed this flight, this was the last one to LA to get back to CO, so it was mildy crucial we be on it.
Scanning the crowd again, I looked outside past security in the main lobby, and there he was. Standing in security. With 5 minutes before our plane took of.
I raised my hands in sign-language question. He raised his and had a burrito in each.
Apparently Dan couldn't get through security without a ticket, terrorist burritos and all that, so Greg had to go out and get them. In coming BACK through security, the two people in front of him were triple searched, and he couldn't get through.
"This is the final boarding call for flight 1497, would passengers OurLastNameHere, party of two, please come to the gate?"
Greg got through security at this point, and came tearing over to get his bags. He threw me a burrito, and we boarded. I never saw Dan, and we ate on the plane. They were excellent burritos. :)
And that, my friends, is how we nearly missed our flight for food.
Allan, another friend of ours, dropped us off at the airport for our departing flight 2 hours ahead of time, and Dan, another friendly guy we know, called to see if we were hungry for lunch. He works for United, we were flying out of American, and he could come eat with us and hang out until we left. It was a splendid idea, and we were both hungry. So off he went to grab some burritos, and we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Until it was 30 minutes before boarding. Greg got up to go see if he could call/find Dan and see what the ETA for him was. Greg wandered off and I stayed with the luggage (God FORBID you leave it alone for more than .05 seconds, who knows what the terrorists may do to it!) and read my book.
I tend to dissappear into books, so I didn't really notice how much time had passed until they started boarding. I looked up and didn't see Greg, I stood up and still didn't see him (at 6'7" he's easy to spot in a crowd) This was a small, regional terminal seperate from the main airport, so it's not like there was a huge crowd that he could have dissappeared into. At this point, over 1/2 of the people were boarded, and I was baffled. "Where did he go?!" If we missed this flight, this was the last one to LA to get back to CO, so it was mildy crucial we be on it.
Scanning the crowd again, I looked outside past security in the main lobby, and there he was. Standing in security. With 5 minutes before our plane took of.
I raised my hands in sign-language question. He raised his and had a burrito in each.
Apparently Dan couldn't get through security without a ticket, terrorist burritos and all that, so Greg had to go out and get them. In coming BACK through security, the two people in front of him were triple searched, and he couldn't get through.
"This is the final boarding call for flight 1497, would passengers OurLastNameHere, party of two, please come to the gate?"
Greg got through security at this point, and came tearing over to get his bags. He threw me a burrito, and we boarded. I never saw Dan, and we ate on the plane. They were excellent burritos. :)
And that, my friends, is how we nearly missed our flight for food.
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