I just got back from a weekend of
total debauchery genteel jazz music, wine tasting, spa, and very little internet. It was magic. We flew in to San Francisco and drove down the coast for our annual pilgrimage to the Monterey Jazz Festival, this time with three of our best friends in tow.
While we were waiting for our plane we witnessed one of those beautiful moments in life. There was a lady celebrating her seventieth birthday, and five of her sisters, along with an assortment of neices surprised her at the airport and were all going on the trip with her. She was ecstatic; the surprise was a total success. Everyone on the plane was feeling revelatory.
The flight was not without drama. The attendants were mostly on call for the sisters, who were apparently attempting to break some sort of drinking record. There was a medical emergency when one of them ran short of breath from all the excitement. Then something went weird with the plane and we had to abort the landing and circle around San Francisco until we went down for a bumpy landing met with EMS and air field security.
Everyone broke out into applause when we landed. At least those of us who weren’t throwing up or busy cracking out the valium. We were feeling a bit giddy from escaping death (that might be a bit of a hyperbole, but in my mind we were only moments away from being a national tragedy), the general euphoria of a vacation ahead of us, and witnessing the family reunion.
So when yet another sister was waiting for the sisters at the luggage carousel, it was just too much. Everyone was in tears. Mr. Giraffe approached them to tell them how touched we all were watching this beautiful day unfold. As he made his way over the birthday girl yelled “Oh my god, you guys hired a stripper too!”
My inner broad was doing a slow clap with a cigarette hanging out the corner of my mouth. Bravo ladies, you give me hope. And I think the least Mr. Giraffe could have done was take his shirt off.