California Doomed: Horrors Behind Closed Doors?

Continued below (warning: I change tenses a bit, deal with my inconsistency accordingly):

So, as in my last post, I had recently, sweatily (What, so what if it isn't a word, I just made it one!) got through airport security, U.S. Customs, and I am alone.

In some countries like Cuba, you get screamed/shouted at if you don't continue moving after you pass through their security or customs area. So I try to walk really slowly around the edge of security.

I don't know if I will be yelled at or forced to move on.

I see the sign for the fancy schmancy Air Canada Maple Leaf Lounge to my right, but realize I have no access without Feyoncé.

It is also then that I realize that HOLY-SHIT-WHERE-THE-HELL-IS-HE, HE'S-BEEN-GONE-FOR-A-WHILE-AND-I-DON'T-KNOW-WHERE-HE-WILL-END-UP-WHEN-HE-IS-DONE.

I am standing alone, without a watch, without a clue as to where he is or how long he will be.

So I put on my big girl pants and wait. 5 minutes. It feels like a long time. Until I still see nothing for the next 3 minutes... 5 more..

5 more...

and 5 more.

I finally approach someone official-looking and ask if Feyoncé will end up in the same place as me once he is done his "random check". The gentlemen assures me that if my guy is travelling to the U.S. that he will, indeed, have to come through the same security area.

He offers that I go to the lounge to wait for him. Or try calling him.

(While it would have been a helpful addition to this post to add photographs of all of the NO CELL PHONE signs posted throughout the security area, I feel that whipping out my cell or camera to document said signs probably wouldn't have gone over very well).

SO THANKS, official-looking-guy. Pretty sure I can't call him, and sure as hell HE CAN'T answer his own phone if he is in interrogation/being searched rectally.

So after twenty minutes have passed, I can feel whatever semblance of big-girl-pant-ed-ness I had crumbling under the weight of the terror that I will never see Feyoncé again/I will miss the flight/ I will die just beyond the border of the security area.

I mean, totally rational, right? Probably the most likely area to die. Or not.

So I start CRYING people.

CRYING at the motherfucking airport, at 31 years of age.

Crying at the airport.... Who? ME?? Nooooo.

After 35 minutes of anxiety and confusion, I finally see him making his way through the hundreds of feet of security aisle.

I cannot express the relief I felt.

I can see, too, that he is at least happy to communicate to me that although he has been violated in ways no man should ever (nor will ever) discuss publicly, that he knows that I NOW KNOW that he is alive and will be coming with me.

We head to the lounge together, STAT, because I need a mother-effing drink more than you can say "overreact".

SO... turns out there was a long line-up in the random screening section. That was it.



Yup, just a line-up. And a friendly search person who apologized for the delay to him. And some questions about pocket contents.

Jaysus.

Also? I think that the Air Canada Maple Leaf Lounge at Pearson Airport waters down their liquor because I downed two triple vodka and iced teas in about 15 minutes and didn't feel it.

So that was the start to my first (and only?) trip to California.

Calm, cool, and collected.

Good thing I brought my big girl pants, eh?

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Vacation Follies Part 1 (The Dog Kennel: Pre-Departure)

So our adventure started around 7am on Christmas Day (after me leaving packing until the very last second on Christmas Eve. Which was on the heels of me leaving wrapping ALL of the presents to the last minute before my family Christmas. See a trend? No, me neither).

We sleepily (and for me, coupled with anxiety, begrudgingly) turned off the snooze buttons and alarm clocks and hauled our tired asses out of bed. BF and I hurriedly exchanged gifts knowing that we were under the gun for time, and had yet to take Schultzy to his luxurious little doggy kennel ( --insert heavy/guilty feelings of dread for said activity here-- ).

I am NOT a bad parent pet-owner, I am NOT a bad parent pet-owner...

It went so quickly that it seems a blur (maybe that was all those gross goobery eye crusties I hadn't yet had the time to wipe away... one never really knows these things). I do remember, though, that BF got me a fancy-schmancy red rice cooker (very wild for him, if you ask me, the kitchen has black and silver appliances** - thanks babe!!). And to top it off, he surprised me with this wicked-ass red coat I had drooled over when I was at Winners (during the sad shopping trip mentioned here.) He had talked me out of buying it over the phone, at my request. He actually bought at least 5 or 6 coats to try to find one that would work.

I cried at the thoughtful surprise (the first tears to come of the day).

We loaded up Schultz (and his bed, and his comforter, and his leash, and his muzzle, and his two favourite stuffed animals, and...) to head to the boarding kennel, The Escarpment Pet Retreat, where I had previously talked to the male owner repeatedly to make sure we were good to go, confirm the time we would bring our baby dog, and make sure we could see where he would be staying and the set up of the kennel.

When we got there, the female owner was rude and defensive within the first minute. She refused to let us see where Schultz would be staying. She swore once or twice. I got VERY upset, as I discussed (through tears) that the male owner had said, and I quote "any reputable kennel will allow you to see the premises and have a tour unless they have something to hide."

Hmph. The male owner was not there.

The female owner then refused us entry to the kennel area, insisting we would upset the other dogs, then she told us that we "clearly don't give a shit about animals" if we wanted to go into the kennel area. All the while staff members walked back and forth, in and out, with minimal upset to the dogs. (For those of you living under a rock, I love animals, I adopt animals, I don't eat animals, I am a goddamn bleeding heart for animals, just FYI. I am no saint, but I certainly give a shit!)

I looked at BF and begged/pleaded/asked the impossible question of taking the dog somewhere - anywhere - else, but we both knew we were screwed.

It was 9:30am on Christmas Day, we have a huge sometimes-aggressive Great Dane, and we needed someone to take care of him while we were gone on our trip (which we were scheduled to depart for in 30 minutes). The female owner made it clear that she would be quite fine if we were to leave and go somewhere else. She encouraged it.

The rage bubbled inside.

Our lovely boy, Schultzy Poo

So, through heavy sobbing I had to leave before I said something warranting the female owner to kick us out altogether. I had to bite my tongue. I felt horrible. But we had no friends willing to watch him for that long, and my parents were coming with us. So we were screwed.

I went back in to say goodbye and we had to leave. I cried the whole way home.
I cried at home, gathering and packing my last few trip items.
I cried on the way to the airport.
I cried silently on the first leg of the flight.

I felt like the worst pet owner ever.

YAAAAY! Great start to the vacay!

** - I just found out on Wednesday that this rice cooker was purchased with the intention of only EVER being on the counter when in use, then being hidden away otherwise (since it is red). BF loses "crazy & wild" points on that one.


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