It should be a team effort

My mother and I were poking at the sodden center of a Cinnabon when they called my name.

We had leisurely wandered into the Sacramento airport, read about the art installations (including a 23 foot pile of luggage called "Samson"), and sat down to our second cup of coffee and the aforementioned pastry as my plane was boarding.

Luckily, the Sacramento Airport is fairly small, and my gate was nearby, because they were just about to close the door to the jetway as I ran up, clutching my bag, laptop, jacket and burrito salad.

You see, I had misinterpreted my flight information, seeing 11:00am, and thinking that was when my flight left, but, no. My departure time was cleverly hidden in the upper-left hand corner...

...under the staple.

This, my friends, is very good evidence why I am not only poorly qualified to solve problems in other people's lives, but need some help handling my own.



(Perhaps I'll blame it on the continued gentle swaying - my brain says that the Las Vegas Airport is rocking continually back and forth as I sit quietly. The slot machines are pinging and whirring in the background, and I look up from my screen and realize: We Americans truly are an ugly lot.)