Husband of The Year (Or, How I Ended Up in NJ)

I do a lot of pretty rad stuff as a married man, and most of it is for my wife.  And while I quietly self-congratulate, this feat, I feel, deserves some attention.

Last weekend my wife was off visiting friends and family in New Orleans, leaving me behind to pet- and house-sit.  I didn't mind.  Manweekend, what I was calling it; I did very little except run, eat wasabi peas and banana chips, drink a Guinness or two, and play Xbox.

You might've noticed that "showering" was not on that list.

Regardless, my wife was due back in New England by Monday afternoon.  When the appointed time came, I made my way up to Boston's Logan Airport, to (do what any good husband who doesn't want to find his balls chopped off in the middle of the night does) pick up his travel weary wife.

Only, ... I was a bit early.  And.  My wife's connecting flight from Newark, NJ had been canceled.

For this very reason, I always opt for direct flights.  I hate having to de-plane, hustle across to a different terminal, hope to god my checked luggage (if I was stupid enough to check any of it) makes the connection with me, to queue up to board what is essentially the same plane all over again, with the same obnoxious passengers.

As much as I enjoy the idea of flying from place to place (it's convenient, fast, makes me feel like a spy sometimes) the people have essentially ruined the experience, from a personal and security standpoint. 

No longer do you see men and women dressed up to fly someplace.  If anything, you see people in sweats and flip-flops.  "I want to be comfortable," is generally the complaint.  "I don't want to have to strip at security" comes the other end of it. 

Can't say I blame them, as I shuffle thru a metal detector, holding my pants up in one hand, my shoes in another like a village idiot.

So, back to the story, my wife's flight from Newark to Boston had been canceled.  She was on "standby status" til about 1pm, when she MIGHT get a flight from there.

My beef was ... Newark is a hub... meaning, there's a ton of flights leaving Newark, all day.... going in all directions, to every other major hub in the country (Boston included).  Why in the blue fuck was there a four hour wait for another Boston-bound flight?

And the flight wasn't even GUARANTEED!  Her only guaranteed flight status was for a flight departing Newark at 9pm... a full 12 hours away.

There was no fucking way I was about to let me wife sit in New Jersey for that long, lest she be mutated into a Snooki.

The request came quickly, via text message: "Will you come and get me."  And honestly, I made my decision with the same raised pulse I would have if she asked me to pick up some bread on the way home.  It was a natural conclusion for me to make.

To be sure, I texted back: "You want me to drive to NJ to come and get you?"  And she said "Yes please."

And just like that, I was off.  I had everything I needed: a full tank in the Prius, GPS, full charge on my phone, gun, money.... I made my way to pull out of the short-term parking lot.

"Didn't you just get here?"  Said the attendant when she read my ticket.  I explained the situation in as few words as possible, making sure to mention I was driving all the way to New Jersey to pick up my tiny wife.  The woman in the booth sigh and flipped a switch.  The gate in front of me lifted.

"Get out of here," she said, and failed to charge me the $3 minimum.

I was fortunate that I was getting on the road at a time when there was virtually no traffic; Rt 90W was empty and I was making excellent time thru Conn. as well.  I was being filled with these long-lost memories of making this same drive to Brooklyn and Queens years ago.  Everything was bathed in this weird sort of trans-dimensional glow.

I pulled off at a highway rest area to pee and top off the tank (I didn't want to imagine a scenario where I'd have to look for a gas station in The Bronx).  This was one of those McDonald's/Mobile/Chintzy Souvenir places that require an American to ask for an interpreter to facilitate any sort of commerce. 

In the parking lot, I watched two 11 year olds punch the living Bejesus out of each other, over only what I could imagine was the last McNugget.  And I mean, they weren't just "rasslin" like brothers, but actually throwing (and landing in some cases) real-deal, closed fisted blows to each other's face.

It was pretty intense. 

No one was breaking them up, just a ring of adults looking on, perhaps making bets or egging them on in a crude parking lot gladiatorial spectacle.

Back on the road, Ang and I stayed in pretty much hourly contact, giving each other sit-reps.  According to the GPS, I'd be arriving at Newark around 245pm.

The GPS, however, failed to account for the massive parking lot taking form at the GWB approach.

For those of you who are not familiar with the greater NYC area, the George Washington Bridge is one of the few connectors between the city and Northern NJ.  I had never traveled this far into the city before, on my own (I usually took the Whitestone on to the LIE, or Long Island Expressway, into College Point, Qns).  I had no idea I'd be stuck on the GWB for over an hour....

Relaying this info to my wife, who by now was tired, cranky and scared, did nothing to alleviate the growing tension.  I took the time to ask her to find out exactly where she was in the airport (terminal wise) to facilitate a quicker pick up.

Once I squirted thru the GWB, I was only maybe ten minutes from the airport.  I called again, asking for a terminal.

"They don't have terminals here... I'm at international arrivals...."

I should point out here, too, that my wife might have been delusional from eating New Jersey Airport Sushi for lunch.  ....No one has ever accused my wife of being a savvy traveler.

On my approach to the airport, I saw signs for different terminals.  A, B, C airlines were at Terminal A, X, Y, Z airlines were at Terminal B.... international flights were at Terminal C.... ok, I thought.... she must be at Terminal C....

Or one would think.

It would take us a solid 15 minutes to find each other, due to frustration and miscommunications.  During that time, I got yelled at by the cops (twice by the same guy, who was looking more and more mad everytime I made another lap.  But then again, if I were a cop in NJ, I'd probably want to kill myself too), cut off by some arab in a gypsy cab, and nearly ran over a family of Indians with more luggage than pounds in Kim Kardashian's left ass cheek.

Finally, we figured out where each other were, and I made my approach.  I could see my bride, in her sweats and tank top and flip-flops, clutching her duffel bag, looking beat but happy.  I pulled to the curb and eyed another cop making his way towards me.

I hopped out of the Prius, helped her with her bag and for the first time in about seven years, said: "Lets get the fuck out of Jersey...."

We had 6 hours of driving ahead of us.  For being apart for a whole weekend, I didn't mind.