captains log, stardate 1.10.2009.
we woke up very early. I called a taxi to take us to the airport shuttle even though it's only a couple blocks away.
shawn protested, but with a little dissent I explained that I was not going to schlepp my luggage the few very long blocks to the station.
he was alert enough not to argue.
we arrived, purchased entry to the almighty bus, and waited...
no sooner than all of this happened does shawn realize he's left his sweater at home.
a little background on shawn...
this man is never cold. okay, rarely anyway. as long as he's got a hat on he can run around in snowy negative weather in shorts. I've never seen anything like it. this guy is a veritable heater. sometimes I can't even lie next to him because he's too hot to the touch.
you get the picture...
so anyway, when shawn tells me he's forgotten his sweater and we're bound for belize, i think, oh well, no big deal.
wrong
apparently he does need his sweater, although by this point I'm convinced that it's got more to do with the sick pleasure of inconvenience than actual necessity.
the bus leaves in 15 minutes.
"I'm gonna go back to the house and get it".
what?
*man repeats himself while female tries to put the boggled pieces of her brain back into cognizant order*
"do you think you can make it there and back in 15 minutes?"
"yes", he replies, in a manly confident tone. as if to say, "of course I can, after all, I'm faster than a speeding bullet and can throw a football over those mountains."
ok fine, but hurry.
I drag our accoutrements into the little lobby area of the station. it's cold outside and I want moxie coffee. so, I wander over to the coffee station, grab a cup and fill it with powdery "creamer" and a little sugar, blah blah blah, and sit down to relax while I listen to the two women behind the desk complain about an absent co-worker.
I take a draw off my peewee coffee cup and inwardly worry about whether or not shawn will actually make it back in time.
hm. there's something in my mouth. I fish it out, it's like plastic or something, must be from the cup.
I take another sip, this time wondering if there are any more people taking this shuttle, maybe if there are they can slow things down a little and give shawn time to make it back.
hm. another little plasticky thing in my mouth.
finally I look down from my musings into my "coffee cup". hm. there's a kind of oily film floating on the top, greasy coffee, eh? no sooner do I think this than the reality of what's really going on in the microcosm of my cup hits me.
it's wax.
I put my fucking coffee in a waxed water cup instead of a foam one.
what a retard.
I have the ladies dump it for me. I make myself a new, wax free, no build-up kinda coffee and find my seat again.
no sooner do I do this than a cranky sounding gwamanian (or something) barks out, "OAKLAND!!!!".
geez, alright already...
I stall.
This guy is obviously up too early and was kicked off the wrong side of his futon, and now I have to figure out a diplomatic way to explain to him that my partner is not here and I don't know when he will be, without causing his head explode, flinging thousands of sharp pieces of skull through the lobby like a frag grenade, and killing all of us where we stand.
"AREN'T YOU GOING TO OAKLAND?"
"um yes, I am... only, well, here's the thing..."
He mutters something indiscernible. It's not that it's too quiet to hear, it's just that it really doesn't consist of words, it's more like a collection of carefully selected growls.
The lady behind the desk tells him to relax, the way a wife might say in that roll-your-eyes kind of way to a grumpy husband of 20 years. he grumbles again and goes outside.
mk, 5 minutes after scheduled lift off. where are you?
feeling I can't stall inside anymore I tote our belongings outside to drag my feet in a new location, closer to the bus.
He loads up our bags. he asks where he is. I tell him. he wants to know what my definition of a couple of blocks is. he wants to know how much longer. he wants to know why god hates him and has put us on his bus.
finally he informs me that we are leaving and that I better hope that I've told him the truth about which direction he's gone so that we can pick him up en route.
I think it's funny that he thinks I lied to him.
So here we go, down the street, slowly so we can find him in the dark and there he is, walking down the street toward the station.
walking
now I love my man very much, and I know that he was probably winded from running, but right at that particular moment it did not look very good for us.
not at all
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