Welcome Home

I will write more on my magnificent weekend later, but I had to write down the homecoming portion of the trip. The plane ride back to Los Angeles (so sticky and hot, even at 10pm, ugh) was brief and easy. I ordered a Sprite on the flight and got a water, which I think was the universe telling me A) You don’t even LIKE soda, you just want it because it’s free and B) You’ve eaten like a pig at a slop bucket all weekend. Don’t you dare ask the flight attendant to fix it. I didn’t. I guilted myself into not eating the peanuts, either, which are still sitting in my purse.

The plane was pretty empty, which was nice, so it was easy to fight my way out of the plane, into the terminal and onto the curb, where my dad picked me up. Having heard little snippets of me alternatively cooing, bragging or jovially discussing M Fox, I’m sure he was curious about how the weekend went on that front, but, in his very Dad-like way, he very obviously asked about other things first. Like how my shuttle ride was last Thursday. We had moved onto “Oh yes, how was the wedding, which was the actual reason for the trip? Not that airport shuttles aren’t fascinating” and my dad was slowing down for a stop light. Navigating LAX in a car is hell. There was a stop light with a limit line underneath, as usual, but then a weird gap for traffic about 20 feet before it. As my dad decelerated toward the limit line, a barrage of cars started pummeling toward us from our right. I guess they had right of way, but I have no idea why their lane wasn’t put at the stop light intersection instead of so far ahead of it. Yet another reason why LA doesn’t make any fucking sense.

The car in front, which we would have hit if not for my dad’s New York brake reflexes was, of course, a fancy-pancy beamer convertible with a young, entitled rich kid in the front seat. My dad must have given him a rhetorical look of “What the fuck just happened?”  The kid leans out the window and says, “What the fuck are you lookin’ at?” To which my venerable father replies loudly out his window, “Your asshole!” There was a brief and, what I imagined to be, confused silence and then the kid squeaked out, “Yeah right!” and was gone. We continued on our way in silence for a moment. Then we burst out laughing. Then my dad, wiping mirth from his eyes, says, “That just came out of me, like poetry. I guess I could have said ‘I’m sorry.’ Anyway. Welcome home!”


One thought on “Welcome Home

  1. Adva Ahava September 3, 2008 at 5:36 pm Reply

    That’s AWESOME.

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