I Was Just Trying to Help, Act I

Last night, I returned from a trip to the Tri-State area. I am from there. My mom lives there. My grandparents and extended family live there. My closest college girlfriends live there. Various ex-lovers live there.

I flew out because my uber-capable friend N pulled together a surprise birthday party for my uber-free spirited friend M, who is also celebrating some good riddance to bad rubbish...but that's her story, not mine, so I'll leave it at that.

I got lucky for the flight out: for some reason, it cost the same amount of air miles to fly first class as it would have to fly coach. I'm here to tell you: Continental Airlines first class is top notch. I ate a crab and shrimp appetizer. I ate a tasty chicken breast stuffed with spinach and cheese. I ate an ice cream sundae with whipped cream and nuts. I drank a lot of free wine. I also kept checking to see if the curtain between first and coach was closed, which it wasn't, and I didn't like that. I kept expecting the plane packed full of angry Friday-night travelers to charge forward and storm my in-flight Versailles.

Let them eat peanuts!

Anyway, I arrived in Newark at midnight. My mom met me at the airport. I knew she wasn't feeling well--she cut a pretty pathetic-looking figure at the curb, trying to stay out of the driving rain. The first thing she asked me was, "How many drinks did you have on the plane?" She was feeling too sick to drive home, and handed me the keys to her brand-new 2008 Toyota Solara convertible. She also told me that I smelled like a brewery*. Then I turned the key in the ignition and tried to turn on the car. Which was already running.

It's a really quiet car. Seriously.

Anyway, she was really feeling awful, so I drove home, and we both crashed out.

*I think this was a function of having just come off an airplane. I don't, nor would I ever, drive after I'd been drinking. Especially not with my mom in the car.