After we landed I woke Tommy up.
He was in a cheery mood and screamed... "DON'T TOUCH ME!"
And batted at my face.
Once or twice.
I grabbed our gear and hauled him out of his seat.
To walk off the plane.
He woke up.
Pretty fast.
'Cause we were jogging.
Up the ramp.
Into the mostly deserted airport terminal.
Past the night cleaners.
And to the Monorail.
To the main terminal.
Before it started moving I told him, "You may want to hang on."
He said, "Yes. I may want to hang on."
And then, "Where's Daddy?"
I told him that Daddy, Calvin and Beth were already up North. By now. At our cottage.
He finally realized where we were and that he had to go to the bathroom.
Quick pitstop.
Then off to baggage claim.
The bags were already there. Waiting.
Our suitcase and the HUGE plastic bag with his booster seat. Way down in the bottom of it.
The plastic bag was HUGE. The size of a sleeping bag. At least.
And he wanted to play in it.
So did I.
But... it was too late.
And we had no time to play "Body Bag". Today.
Besides... My General always told me that it wasn't a good idea to play in plastic bags.
It was one of the few lessons, from her, that I have faithfully relayed to my three kids.
The other one was: Expectation.
As in: "Just WAIT till your Father gets HOME, Missy! You are in for it!"
Except this particular one I haven't relayed. Very well.
I take care of the dirty work. In OUR family. Clean up my own messes. And the kids', too. For the most part.
Mellyman works hard. Long hours. And, he is a gentle soul. Yet he has SERIOUS backbone. And the kids, for some reason, seem to listen and respect his quiet form of discipline. Better than mine.
Often they seem to be looking at me like I'm speaking the language of Charlie Brown's teacher. Waa... waa... waaa... wahh.
Maybe I just bore them to death?
Now then: We were off to Dollar. Rental Car. Express Check-in. To pick up our ride.
Our '65 Chevrolet Biscayne.
I was hoping for turquoise. At least. To sweeten the deal.
No one else was in line. In FRONT of us.
Behind Tommy and I were four middle-aged. Men. Hauling suitcases and sets of golfclubs.
THEY did not have EXPRESS CHECK-IN.
Ha!
IN YOUR FACE!!!! GOLFER DUDES!
I got my keys and directions to where my basic level economy car was to be found and Tommy and I headed out.
Wow.
We found our car quickly. Right where they said it would be.
It was NOT what we were expecting. Tho.
We were magically upgraded. The guy at the counter had not mentioned it.
And, yet, the key fit in the door.
Wow.
Goodtimes.
It was NOT a Kia Rio.
It was NOT even a full-size.
It was a PREMIUM, silver Chrysler Pacifica. With leather seats.
It was the MIDDLE OF THE FREAKIN' NIGHT. Too.
I guess that was all they had left. For us.
But... we scored. Great deal for $100. Even with American money.
I loaded our stuff in the back. Pulled out my wallet. For the tolls. Situated Tommy in the backseat. On his booster seat and belted him in.
Said "Hi!" to the four middle-aged golfer Dudes. Who were climbing into THEIR SUV. Right in the space beside Me(l).
They all said "Hi!" back. With gusto.
They seemed all awake in the middle of the night and primed for their adventure. Too.
There was no one else in the parking garage. In our area.
Just Tommy and I. And them.
They had lots more stuff to load. Than us. And were doing busy doing it. BTW.
While I was busily staring at the front seat.
Of my PREMIUM UPGRADE.
Hummmm...
The driver's seat was pretty far back. Too far back.
And... I'm not a short woman. I am a medium woman.
I'm 5'5".
With the hands of a, say, 5'10"(ish) man. With pink fingernails. So... the hands of... uhhhh... Philip Seymour Hoffman in Flawless.
The hair of a Barbie Doll.
The nose of a hockey player.
The mouth of a truck-driver.
The mind of a...errrr... Barbie Doll.
The horns of a medium-sized Viking.
The heart of a Gladiator.
And pretty long(ish) legs.
Yet... not long enough.
To reach the freakin' gas pedal. And brake.
What I'm sayin' is this: "I'm more of a man than you'll ever be. And more of a woman than you'll ever get!" Heh heh. Good movie quote. That.
What I'm REALLY sayin' is this: I'm odd looking. And the seat was too far back.
And I didn't know where the button was. To move the seat forward.
It wasn't where it was SUPPOSED to be. TFI.
I checked.
I sat in the seat. And felt all around the bottom of it. No lever. Or button. Or knob. Or dial. Or handle. Or switch. Or cord. Or ANYTHING.
What to do?
Get out. And go back into the terminal to ask?
Nope.
Too lazy.
Call my husband? For advice.
NOT ON YOUR LIFE!
And... shhhhh... don't tell him I couldn't find the button, either.
K?
Okay... then. What to do?
How's THIS: What about askin' the golfer guys. For help?
Except... they were starting to back out of the space beside me.
I had to get their attention.
I unrolled the driver's side window a little.
Stuck my hand out. And did a little thing I call: COME HERE! Golfer guys!
With my forefinger.
I curl it repeatedly towards myself. It's sign language.
My middle finger I use for asking for "A table for one, please!" and giving traffic directions to OTHER drivers.
Anywho... the golfer guys' car pulled right back in and parked. Back in their space.
They all jumped out.
All four.
Hurried over. To Me(l).
Which naturally leads me to the joke: How many middle-aged golfers does it take to find the seat adjust button?
The answer is: FOUR.
One to check around the bottom of the driver's seat.
One to climb in the passenger side to help him.
One to lean on the inside of the driver's door and watch the other two.
And one to flirt outrageously with Me(l).
Heh heh.
They DID IT, tho.
They FOUND the button. On the driver's side door panel. Amongst the 30 other buttons.
When the one guy leaning on the inside of the driver's side door moved. To come over to me. And tell me that the button was no where to be found.
Thanks, GUYS!
I truly appreciated their help. And decided to give THEM something in return.
A little story to tell. Or... a little joke of their OWN. Of sorts.
Now then... Blondes DO have more fun.
But... they are also perceived to be stupid, vapid and easy. No offense Paris Hilton, Jessica Simpson and Britney Spears.
I decided to provide them with... their own PERSONAL DUMB BLONDE JOKE.
I climbed into the car, "Thanks SO much. Guys! I thought I'd NEVER get to
Disneyland tonight!"
They looked at each other.
The wild flirter said, "Disney World. You mean."
I replied, straight face and big wide eyes, "No. Disneyland. We're going on the Matterhorn Bobsleds FIRST THING IN THE MORNING!"
They look at each other again.
Tommy pipes up from the backseat, "Let's GO. MOMMY! I wanna be in Disney. Right NOW! And I'm THIRSTY!"
My turn: "Hush, Copernicus! The world does NOT revolve around YOU! Son."!
And... we were off. With a wave to our four golfers. Pedal to the metal.
Four-on-the-floor.
And... an automatic transmission.
BOOYEAH! BAYBEES!
Cheers, Mel.
To be continued. Up next: Through the ARCH. The GATES. Of Disney. We're HOME! ( I TOLD you we could almost SMELL IT!) Darn tired. And we LOVE the Boardwalk Villas. Briefly.
The thought of you in the parking lot with your legs not reaching the pedals has me cracking up at work....This is great. Keep em coming!!
Even though I am a Dawg, I still want to see Bama beat Tennessee!!!
You are awesome! This was just what I needed to brighten my day! Can't wait for more! 
