Leave the winter coat. Take the chocolates.

 You could feel it in the air (Are you humming the song now?). Like the planets lining up, the Mosimans were converging...shooting like little Mosiman meteors across the sky. Alaska. Texas. California. New York. Iowa. Meeting in Kansas City to watch the Royals play.

Airports tend to cause me a bit of anxiety so I was relieved that Brad would be accompanying me. Our flight departed at 6:30 am so we left the house at the reasonable time of 4:30, when I am at my brightest and bushiest. Talking is not in my skill-set at this hour. Functioning at any level is not in my skill-set at this hour. Brad Mosiman is at his most cheerful and his chattiest at this hour. Kill me now.

He watched me wrestle out of my winter coat and toss it in the back of the truck during the drive. "Are you not taking it?" he asked, annoying me by simply existing, let alone asking me obvious questions. I grunted in response. "Mornings will be in the 40s," he told me (like I'd ASKED for a weather report). Fine. I'd take the frickin' coat. I was already down to one pair of jeans and had to give up my robe and slippers to make room for the Oliver's Easter chocolates I'd packed for everyone. Brad and I had spent hours and arguments picking out the best character representative for each member of our party. "How many sweatshirts do you need?" Brad had asked, noting the lack of space for his wardrobe in our shared checked bag. Are you kidding me? He expected me to wear the same pair of jeans AND the same sweatshirt for three days? 

So after Brad stuffed our truck into a space best suited for a scooter, I grabbed my winter coat for the dash across three football fields to get to the airport. "I thought you were going to leave it," he commented, as he goaded me along. "You said it was going to be 40 degrees," I gasped, out of breath. "It's kind of bulky," he observed. My scream of frustration echoed across the parking garage. 

We arrived at the service desk. The empty service desk.

I could feel Brad glancing at me. Glaring at me. 

"It's too late to check your bag," the agent informed me. The only thing saving me was my husband's poor hearing. He had no idea what was going on. I had heard her perfectly and I had no idea what was going on. Blink. Blink. What? Annoyed, she consulted her colleague several times. Tap her keyboard furiously. Squint at the screen."We might have to put you on another flight." Blink. Blink. What? Tap her keyboard even more furiously. Squint at the screen. "We should be able to get you on this flight but not your bag." Blink. Blink. What? Rapid fire key strokes. "We might be able to get your bag on but we can't guarantee that'll arrive with you."  Blink. Blink. Brad and I watched in horror as the colleague grabbed our poor bag, heaved it angrily above her head to WWE slam it onto the belt. Its badly beaten body bounced once before the carcass, with its obviously crushed chocolate organs, was whisked away. Blink. Blink. 

Brad and I were the last ones to board the plane. My fanatically punctual husband was NOT happy. "How does this feel?" he asked as we did the shuffle of shame down the narrow airplane aisle, hoping to embed this memory into my mind. "Not my first rodeo," I tossed back, his exasperated sigh pushing me along.

I slithered into my seat, the weight of emotion finally catching up to me. Brad wrestled me into my seat belt, stuffing my giant coat and my backpack out of the way. By this point, my communication skills had completely shut down. I couldn't tell Brad that my backpack was my comfort item that I cling to. He promptly fell asleep (while the plane idled for 45 minutes to document a paint scratch on the wing) while I gazed longingly at my out-of-reach backpack filled with miniature peppermint patties. 

Things turned around in Chicago. Typically, I despise Chicago for its unforgivable absence of an Aunt Annie's pretzel kiosk. "Check your gate," our pilot told us as we raced fifty other planes to their parking spots, "as we'll be stationed at echo concourse." Echo. What? I've never been in E. 

And guess what's in E? Hello, Aunt Annie!

And then, finally, in Kansas City...our bag! 

We made it! (Well, except for Lisa's chocolate. Her horse had been beheaded. But in a city known for the meat and the mob, that seemed appropriate.)