Last night I not only got “ma’am’ed,” but I also got “mama bear’ed”- which was a new one for me. I’m pretty sure I don’t look my age, but the ma’am thing is always hard to stomach – even though it was from a solider with a Southern accent, so probably second nature. I just don’t think of myself as the ma’am sort, not even when all of my hair is silver and I am officially a biddy. (I am confident that at come point in my life I will be a biddy.)
I’m taking a little vacation right now and made cookies for the friend with whom I’m staying. I make pretty great cookies; it’s one of my more likable and practical skills. Anyway, when I saw the bedlam at check-in, I became a little “concerned” about the potential for lost luggage. While I can manage without a lot of things, I’m don’t want my buddy to have to manage without some delicious, homemade cookies. Ergo, I took the big ol’ Ziploc out of my to-be-checked (lost?) bag and shoved it into my carry-on. Potential problem averted. I’m all about proactive action.
Anyway, because of the check-in bedlam – which turned out to be a precursor to pandemonium at security, lots of fun – I was a little, um, later for my flight than ideal. I executed some solid sprintwork and deft people dodging skills on the moving walkways,* backpack o’ cookies and all. Of course my flight was assigned to the absolute farthest gate in the absolute farthest terminal. Whatever, I totally made it to the gate a whopping sixteen minutes before departure time – sweaty, but within FAA regulations. While I made it to the gate in time, my airplane did not: delayed. I debated between rejoicing and sobbing. I had to pee, which I’d rather do at a lavatory in the terminal than on-board a plane, and I desperately wanted to buy a soda – both missions which I now had plenty of time to accomplish. In the corner for the opposite emotion, I totally made it to my gate and booked this flight because I want to arrive in time for dinner.
Pretty much right away I decided it didn’t really matter what my response was to the delay; my flight was delayed and my feelings sure weren’t going to change the situation. (There was a weather issue on the arrival end, so all flights to that region were delayed.) Thus, I did what any sane person would do: remembered that there just so happened to be a gallon Ziploc baggie of homemade cookies in my carry-on and I was maybe fifty feet from an airport watering hole with beer and ESPN.
Since the cookies are technically a treat for a friend, I did not pig out. I merely had a couple and offered them to the friendly folks who held my spot and watched my beer while I took care of a bladder obligation. (I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to take care of that before settling in with a beer and a ballgame, but I suspect I just got overly focused on my alterna-plan.) They declined (fools) but a solider seated at the table next to them piped up with a, “Yo, ma’am! Ma’am! Hey, Mama Bear! Mama Bear, Baby Bear – can I have a cookie please?” Cookies are for sharing, so I hooked him up, but the interaction was a bit creepy to me. Like I said above, I don’t view myself as a ma’am or a mama bear, but I can see where pulling out a baggie of homemade cookies in an airport bar and trying to share them could cause some confusion.
By the time my flight departed, the baggie was down half a dozen cookies, which left plenty for sharing on my arrival end. Their presence made for a better delay for myself and another; hooray for unanticipated foresight!
*By the way, people: stand on the right, move on the left. Also, it’s a moving walkway, not a “moving, stand across both lanes and have a conversation” way. This confusion is why when I travel, I sometimes pretend not to be an American. I have national pride about a lot of things, but our moving walkway (and escalator) etiquette and abilities are not on the pride list.
dribs and drabs 
0 Responses to “Airport Cookies”