Let me just put it out there, in case there is any doubt, that I am not an easy flyer. Just the very idea of being on plane makes me feel ill, really. And actually being on a plane without my kids? Well that reduces me to a state of pure panic where I sob uncontrollably in front of strangers at the slightest bump. Oddly enough though, I actually do better flying with my kids because I am so distracted by trying to make them behave and not embarrass the hell out of me before we all go down in a fiery crash. See I care that the strangers on the plane might think I am a bad mother with uncontrollable kids, however I do not care if they think I am paranoid freak.
The night before we left I was up until 2 am packing and then got up at 4 am to finish and get dressed so we could catch our 8 am flight. Ryan, the bastard, went to bed around midnight. Basically right after I finished helping him pack. Then he slept an extra hour while I cleaned up the house and made sure nothing was forgotten.
The guys dropped Meme, baby Pat and I off at the curb with more than half our luggage while they went and parked the car. The sky cap was rushing and wasn't paying attention. At one point he tagged our bags with the wrong destination and then made Meme unpack and redistribute one of her bags because it was overweight. Then he gave me Ryan's boarding pass without Ryan even being there. So much for tight security at Hartsfield. I gave it back to him and explained that Ryan wasn't with me. It was a very confusing and hectic check in.
The flight was very bumpy and we were in turbulence for over an hour. After about 10 minutes of trying to be brave and ignore it I just laid my head down and cried until I couldn't cry anymore. Ryan, use to flying with me just ignored me. Bubbles passed tissues to me from across the aisle. In retrospect, I probably should have had a bloodymary or something to take the edge off before ever getting on the plane.
We did land safely and Ryan left with his Dad to get the car. By this point I am so tired and confused and have 5 tickets for luggage taped on my boarding pass. I get three of our bags but the fourth bag, the one with our shoes, never comes through. I have meltdown. Not the shoes!!! Any bag but the one with my shoes (and Ryan's too for that matter.) Everyone else has their luggage and is ready to go. I see a million black bags that I think look like mine but none are mine. I report my missing bag and am assured that it will come through today if not tomorrow. I am unconvinced, having had my bags lost in the past, and again I sob in the car that all of my shoes are gone, or at the least are still sitting at Hartsfield.
We drop our bags off at the hotel and go to have lunch at the Wharf and sight see. I spend the afternoon crying off and on over my lost shoes. I cried: while at lunch at Tarantinos; I cried while on the sidewalk laughing at Bushman scaring the shit out of tourists by attacking them with his fake bush. Basically, I cried as we trekked all over San Francisco taking in the sights and the sounds-- all, of which I did, in my little red kitten heel slides. Shoes that are cute and that were comfortable on the plane but proved not so great for walking up and down nosebleed hills.
Finally, taking mercy on my feet, Ryan agreed to buy me some new running shoes. After that I am happy. At that point my thinking is that at least I have shoes I can walk in and run my 10k in the morning and, if need be, my little red shoes will match 2 of the outfits I brought with me. I am good til the wedding. I begin to relax a little. What can I say? I am woman who likes to have her stuff--especially her shoes.
We finally get back to the hotel room and start getting dressed for the rehearsal dinner. I have decided to put the missing bag behind me and enjoy my trip. I am wearing the shoes from the plane and my little black dress. Not my ideal outfit but I can live with it. Ryan, however, can't find any socks and again I start cursing the lost bag.
Your socks, I tell him, they are in the lost bag.
While searching he opens one of the 3 bags we do have. The one we have yet to open. It is full of shoes.
Ryan asks, confused, "Honey, what shoes are in the other bag?"
And suddenly I realize there is no 4th bag. The fog that has clung to my brain starts to lift a bit.
We only had 3 bags! I happily exclaim to Ryan, who still is confused and puzzled over just how many shoes did I pack?
Just those shoes. In that bag, I assure him. There is no 4th bag! I excitedly tell him.
Yes, I packed 5 bags but 2 of those, both black, went to my Mom's with the kids. It is all clear to me now. The black bag I remember checking at the curb was Meme's and Ryan checked our other bag when he checked in. The skycap just gave me extra tickets for bags that do not exist, maybe the ones he tagged wrongly. I don't know. I didn't care. I was just so damn happy to have all my shoes! My vacation was saved!
Ryan is totally convinced that his wife has completely lost her mind but I like to think this was a learning experience for him: Don't leave it up to your wife to pack all the bags while you snooze away.
So, after a rocky start in San Francisco the rest of the trip went pretty smoothly and I got new running shoes out of it: Brooks Adrenaline. They are awesome.
Here are some pictures from the rehearsal dinner and wedding.
The rehearsal dinner was at the stadium. So we took a tour of the stadium .Meme and I really regretted the tour once we ran out of our cocktail. Also, for the record, Sonoma-Cutrer does not taste good in a plastic cup.
That's Uncle Don in the broadcaster's booth. This is also where Meme and I dished gossip and tried to figure out how we could sneak out of the tour. She actually did but I went back for Ryan and got busted.
This is me and Meme being one of the boys in the Giant's Dugout. (Note the cute shoes)
Pat and Ryan at dinner: rosey cheeked Irish boys if ever there were.
The wedding was at Old St. Mary's Cathedral.
The flower girls were Lindsay and Natalie. True little angels. They were so well behaved and are both just a few months older than Carmella and Beau. I cannot tell you how jealous I was. No way would Beau have sat quietly through a Catholic ceremony. Carmella, yes. Beau, no way.
After the wedding, outside on the street, tourists were stopping to take pictures of the wedding party
This is Ryan's grandmother here with the bride-- Ryan's cousin Katie, the groom Kevin, and Ryan's aunt, Maryann. Grandma Virginia is royalty according to Carmella. She absolutely adores her and was pretty mad after she found out that Grandma Virginia was on this trip and she wasn't invited.
Grandma Virginia cut a serious rug at the reception. I wish we had pictures but we were all too busy dancing our asses off to take pictures.
The reception was at the hotel. Here Katie and Kevin have their first dance.
Bubbles and her sisters, Patricia and Eileen and cousin Jenny. The men are Uncle John, Uncle Don and Poppy.
Ryan and I enjoying ourselves.
After that there was a lot of champagne and a lot of dancing til late into the night and as a result I have no more pictures of the evening.