Monthly Archives: August 2006

Having spent a relaxing week in Maine, Greg and I traversed to the Portland, Maine, airport yesterday afternoon. We knew we wouldn’t be allowed to carry any liquids, gels, etc. onto the plane, so we planned to check one bag. We never check luggage. We don’t like the nuisance of having to pick it up after the flight and the possible hassle of having it lost. But I refused to throw away all my make-up and toiletries.

Did I mention that these new rules are ridiculous? We had an empty water bottle with us. We got stopped at security, where they ran a cotton ball along the inside of the bottle and inserted the cotton ball into a machine to make sure we weren’t terrorists. I know the terrorists planned some frightening stuff, but shouldn’t we also be a little frightened by the thought of millions of travelers running around without toothpaste? Those terrorists are having a good belly laugh about this silliness. Wouldn’t it be more logical for laptops and cell phones to be banned?

As I mentioned before, Greg and I never check baggage. Why? Because when your flight is delayed and you finally touch down in Austin at two in the morning, the last thing you want to do is file a missing baggage report. But that’s exactly what we had to do because our bag got lost. The man writing the report asked us what was in the luggage. LIQUIDS! Duh!

The airline called today and said our bag will be returned shortly. I’m going to make sure we didn’t lose any valuable items. I have a suspicion that the bag ran into problems up in Maine. One of those Maine moose probably got into it. He’s got minty fresh breath and is running around in a pair of New Balance sneakers.

Greg and I are packing to take our annual anniversary voyage. Each year, one of us plans a vacation and keeps the destination a secret from the other, and this year Greg planned the trip. But what is a girl supposed to pack when she could be headed to Timbuktu or Transylvania or anywhere in between?

Greg laid out all the clothes he planned to take so that I could get an idea of the climate we’re heading to. He piled two long-sleeve shirts, a thick sweater, a few T-shirts, and some pants on the bed. Based on Greg’s pile, I planned to pack jeans and sweaters. If Greg is packing warm clothes, we must be headed to Antartica.
“OK, looking at this, what do you think the temperature will be there?” Greg asked me.

“Ummm, well, judging by that sweater, I would say it might get down to the forties at night,” I said. Greg frowned. “Or maybe the fifties.”

“I don’t think I’m going to take this sweater then,” Greg said, carrying the sweater back to the closet.

“Greg, do you not know what the temperature will be in this place?” I asked. Greg looked uncertain.
I’m getting nervous … the pit of my stomach is starting to twitch. Greg supposedly knows where we are going, and even he can’t figure out what to wear. But wait, does he know where we are going? Have I put my life in the hands of a crazy man?