Tuesday, November 29, 2005

I don't give a damn about the whole state of Michigan, but. . .

We got stuck in Detroit for 4 hours on Thanksgiving, thanks to the self centered idiots leaving LGA that afternoon who simply refused to board quickly and take their seats. It was like flying Air Bronx. Took over an hour to load the aircraft, and then they wouldn't sit. Then, of course, we lost our takeoff slot.

So much for our connection. But in a stroke of weirdness, we got off the plane at the same gate from which our Vegas bound flight had just departed, and so they had little kits waiting for us with our new flight info, a letter of apology, phone cards, and food vouchers. We were stunned. For all the bad things we've heard about Northwest, they treated us quite nicely.

We figured we'd donate the phone cards, and I told J to screw the vouchers as I knew a secret. Dragged him to the Westin in the terminal, where I stayed last January during the auto show. It has one of the coolest lobbies anywhere, with 8 story live bamboo in the atrium, running water, lots of stone, and a zen atmosphere. They also have an open restaurant where I figured he could have sushi and a glass of wine. It's insanely expensive, but a treat for the soul as much as the mouth.

No sushi. Instead, they served Thanksgiving dinner--for $18.75. We almost keeled over. Roasted butternut squash soup with curry, orange, and creme fraiche. Salad with walnuts and dried cranberries. The bird, with porcini and truffles, over stuffing, broccolini, and asparagus, with mashed taters and cranberries. Dessert was a huge slice of cheesecake with maple-sweet potato caramel and toasted walnuts.

It was blissful, and we both marveled at our good fortune. And then the waitress asked if we had distressed passenger vouchers, and told us they accepted them! So we had that amazing meal for barely more than the cost of a tip.

Who knew? I mean, when did those wolverines get so smart?

Monday, November 14, 2005


My husband is convinced that fairies fly into our bedroom during the day and make our bed. Today I broke his fantasy bubble and revealed the truth about the Q-tip fairies: they do not exist.

Evil bitch that I am, I then emasculated him further by insisting he fill his little Q-tip jar himself. At first he resisted, pointing at the two jumbo boxes of Q-tips and asking which to select. "The open one," I replied, not giving him an inch.

Moments later, as he stuffed the little sticks into the jar, I swear I saw the tiny wings sprouting on his back.

So my question is this: what are boy fairies called?