There's no place like home

I'm back home after a fantastic weekend with my peeps. We have made this our little tradition; heading into the city without our husbands and kids for some girl time. Nobody leaves NYC without a Broadway show, loads of good food, fake purse shopping, and late night hilarity (that's when the REAL Stie comes out. If you haven't met her, you're missing out. She's much more fun than Daytime Stie).

It was great to reconnect - some of us haven't been together in three years, which was way too long. Adding to the fun was my adorable sister-in-law, Gabi, coming to meet us on Saturday for a show (although we would have kept you all weekend if Brad would have spared you, Gab). We saw The Drowsy Chaperone (HIGHLY recommend it, if it comes to your city. So, so cute). It was just the old fashioned Broadway that I love. Tap dancing, zany characters, soaring voices, and a wedding or two thrown in for kicks. It was a musical as they are meant to be done. We all absolutely loved it. The weekend was just what I have been needing. [Jackie, Cindy, and Bridget - you were sorely missed. We will not accept your excuses next time, trust me.]

We've all done NY a time or two, so this was merely a weekend spent eating, laughing, and catching up. We stayed in Times Square and shared our hotel with about a bazillion ladies in town for the breast cancer walk, all sporting large, pink cowboy hats. We walked through Central Park. We had a luxurious Sunday brunch at the top of the Marriott Marquee (for which my pocketbook has not yet recovered). It was a perfect weekend.

But the biggest adventure for me was the journey home. It seems I have had too long of a lucky streak in the travel department and was overdue for some misfortune and near-misses.

Let's just say this about the experience:

One cancelled flight + one flight re-booked on another airline = Racing to TWO different terminals to find the right gate.

Two different terminals + 1 suitcase + 1 purse = TWO long waits in security lines (AGAIN).

One cancelled flight + one stupid ticket counter person = Second leg of journey cancelled for you. [Oh, how nice. I always wanted to move to Washington, D.C. without my family. No, I don't need to get home, you IDIOT!]

One stupidly cancelled flight + no record of previous flight plans = One ANGRY, anxious, yelling Me.

Ten minutes of yelling, pleading, and explaining + shortened layover time [due to the First Lady flying into LaGuardia and causing the runway to be unusable until secured (yeah, Annie, my lone celebrity sighting: I saw her plane and security detail. Woo hoo.)] = Me RUNNING through Reagan Airport to catch my second plane, practically shoving people out of the way as I go.

One minute of begging to get to the front of security line (which I am now going through for the THIRD time in this stupid airport) + sprinting to my gate to catch a flight that was due to leave any second = Sweaty, sobbing heap of a mess. Me.

And nothing says WELCOME HOME, MOM! like a five-year-old throwing up all over the [yes, carpeted] stairs at two-thirty in the morning. WHY, WHY, WHYYYY couldn't she have done that on The Husband's watch? WHY? Oh, no. She saved that little ditty for my cleaning pleasure. I think it's her own private way of punishing me for leaving her alone with the men in this house and having some fun without her.

I think I need another vacation. Now.