I'll Get You, My Pretty

I flew back from NYC yesterday, on what I was told was the ONLY connection available to me on the last day of the Thanksgiving weekend.  It meant getting out of bed in White Plains at 0230 in order to leave from LaGuardia at 0600 but that's a small price to pay for getting home.  Thirteen hours a day slaving over a hot database gets to you after a week or two.

(While we're on the subject of airports, does anyone know why the people who designed LaGuardia deliberately made it impossible to return your rental car?  You can't find the Avis lot without a guide dog and a dowsing stick).

I got on the Delta flight in Atlanta, mentally congratulating myself for having gotten an escape row, something that never happens, so I was looking forward to an hour and a half of unprecedented leg-room.  Suddenly the flight attendant popped up at my elbow.

"Ma'am, can you gather your things and come with me?  The gate agent wants to speak with you -- you're going to have to be rebooked on a later flight."

I counted to ten.  Slowly.  Then I asked, very calmly under the circumstances, "Do you know what this is about?

"No, ma'am.  Come with me."

I figured it wouldn't be right take it out on the flight attendant but I was sure ready to rip the gate agent a new one.  I followed him up the aisle, wondering what I had done -- recently, at least -- to get put on the no-fly list.

Anyway, when I got to the front of the plane he waved me into an empty first-class seat.  Turns out he is also a Red Cross volunteer and he spotted the chapter pin I had in my collar.

"Had you going there, didn't I?" he remarked after I kissed him.