Trip Home: Part Deux

Okay, since I know you’ve been waiting with baited breath for the final part of my journey home, I’ll set aside all my final school papers to tell this story…because you wouldn’t believe if I didn’t document this in my blog. And I don’t want to work on these papers anymore….which just so happens to be the real reason, but that’s besides the point.

Soooo, after glaring at the flight attendant the entire flight from Atlanta to Denver, we finally land. Destination at last. Much to my surprise, psych, my bags didn’t make it. Wah wah. Annoyed, but not the least bit shocked, I dragged myself to the Delta luggage counter along with everyone else who was on the South Africa connecting flight with me. We made small talk while the inept and severely understaffed people at the counter attempted to locate our bags. Not wanting them to mishandle my bags any more than they already had, I agreed to wait until the next flight from Atlanta came in so I could personally bring my bags to the car.

By the way, did I tell you no one was at the airport to pick me up? No welcome home hugs...oh well, it made it less of a hassle to wait for my bags without inconveniencing anyone. To my husband’s defense, he was in Ohio wrestling at Greco Roman Nationals and did very well, so that was an acceptable excuse in my book. Anyway, after getting my bags and hauling them out to long-term parking where Matt had left the car for me a few days earlier as he flew out of the same airport (at least we were able to coordinate that, lol), I checked under the front passenger tire, found my key and started the car…can you believe it, I’m so dumb I didn’t even think to keep a spare key on me.

Alrighty, I’m on my way home, speeding (sorry dad) down I-25 and I look over to my right and think to myself “Gee that sky is really black…kinda reminds me of when my mom would tell us about the ‘tornado’ stories when she was growing up in Ohio.” Pushing it out of my mind, I turn back to driving and singing along to Mariah Carey (yes Sherelle, you can be proud). Well, being back in America, I see a sign for Chili’s and felt the urge to indulge in a Strawberry lemonade and chicken fajitas.

So, I pull off the highway, sit down to the table a get ready to enjoy my lemonade and meal. In the meantime, the sky starts getting darker, quickly. Then, across the TV screens, the weather channel comes on with a Tornado Warning. Then sirens go off. Then the freaking manager comes into the dining area and tells us they have to evacuate all of the patrons into their “safe area.” Well, well, well, guess what the Chili’s safe area is? Their refrigerator. That’s right. We were all hustled into a cold room surrounded by frozen chicken breasts and baby back ribs. Luckily they allowed us to take our drinks with us. So here I am, fresh off a stint in Africa as a disaster assistant, and now I’m stuck in a frickin’ Chili’s fridge with other diners waiting for a tornado to pass through. About 30 minutes later, the manager gave us the all clear to go back to our meals. Which I did, then promptly got the heck out of there, drove home and lapsed into a near diabetic coma from strawberry lemonade sugar overload.

Thus concludes my trip home. Now that I’ve written it out, I no longer have to think of it and hopefully my night terrors will cease.



This is the inside of a Chilis fridge, in case you care.