The tale of Cruising 101, part A

The road to sipping mai tai’s on the beach is fraught with danger and excitement.

For most of my adult life, I’ve had many, many friends go on lots and lots of cruises and return to regale me with fanciful tales of beautiful beaches staffed with a phalanx of super-hot cabana boys, serving exotic cocktails, and moving the beach umbrellas to keep them from overheating. Not to mention getting a full body massage when the mood strikes. Well, this old Idaho potato queen can only endure so many of these rapturous tales before she decides that it’s her turn to participate in such bodacious adventures.

Thusly, I was very excited when a group of friends organized a cruise and invited myself and Mr. Pap Smear to accompany the entourage. Now, I should warn you, my dear readers, that I am not a well-traveled queen. I’m great at a road trip in my beloved land yacht, Queertanic, but if it involves airlines, shuttle transfers, and boats, I’m at a total loss. Luckily for me, a good deal of the research into all the travel arrangements had been done for us by others, names redacted to preserve some plausible deniability.

So, our flight was scheduled to depart SLC at a very civilized 11:00 a.m. I thought that was a very pleasant time. In my aged decrepitude, I use a mobility scooter to move about. I have named the scooter Queerteeny because when I pry it out of Queertanic’s trunk, it looks like my beloved land yacht is giving birth. I was going to be flying with Queerteeny for the very first time, thus I thought that I needed some extra time to get it checked out and approved to fly. Therefore, I planned to arrive at the airport three hours early so as to allow plenty of time for emergencies and whatnot. We were traveling along Interstate 80 and just took the airport exit. I glanced at my watch, and we were perfectly scheduled to arrive at the departure gates at 8:00 a.m. as planned. I thought to myself that I had planned this all pretty good, down to the minute. Just then, Mr. Pap Smear realized he had forgotten his blood glucose monitor, an absolute necessity! So, we gracefully drove Queertanic through the airport, bypassing the departure gates, at exactly 8:00 a.m. and returned home to retrieve the essential medical device. By the time we re-arrived at the airport, it was 8:30. God bless the curbside check-in for luggage, as it made the whole experience much less stressful.

Now, unencumbered by luggage, I was able to ride Queerteeny freely to the TSA inspection. I was required to dismount Queerteeny, take off my shoes, and step into the magnetometer. That was all well and good, but my blood glucose sensor kept setting the alarm off, so they had me step to the side and gave me the wand procedure, which also set off the alarms. Finally, a very strapping young TSA agent found it necessary to give me a full pat down, including putting his hands inside my shirt and along my waistband area and he actually patted my junk and cupped my buttockus maximus. HOW EXCITING! Who knew that the vacation massages would actually begin at the SLC airport?

I actually fell over while trying to put my shoes back on. Good thing that Queerteeny broke my fall. Just as we reached our departure gate with a comfortable ninety minutes to spare, I received a text from the airline stating that the flight would be delayed by two hours. Oh, fine! But at least there would be plenty of time for the ticket agent to give Queerteeny her pre-flight inspection and approval. That done, and with hours left to spare, I decided that I needed to explore the new airport. So, I put on my driving gloves, secured my purse in the basket, and set off at a brisk pace, taking the grand tour. I don’t really understand why people complain so much about having to walk long distances in the new airport. I found it quite pleasant to zip along driving Queerteeny with reckless abandon at a high enough speed to sustain a nice comfortable breeze through my beehive wig. I found it ever-so-pleasurable to drive alongside the moving sidewalks and give a nice queenly wave and a honk to all the riders as I passed them by. Perhaps I may have been driving Queerteeny a little bit too quickly because I nearly rear-ended a couple of grandmothers tottering along with their canes, narrowly avoiding giving them a Queerteeny enema, earning me a stern look from an airport security guard.

Finally, it was time to board the plane. One advantage to being old and infirm and driving a Queerteeny to the gate is that I get to board first. As I was driving Queerteeny down the jet bridge, once again, I let my speed get a little out of control, and I had to skid into the wall to slow down before I rammed the pilot in his ass. I’m pretending he didn’t notice this affront to proper boarding procedure. Having been first to board, of course, there was plenty of room in the overhead bin for my carry-on. Just another benefit of being old. Stay tuned for Cruising 101, part B next month.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1.    Do airport TSA massages ever come with “happy endings?”
2.    How much would be the proper tip for that?
3.    Should I mount lube dispensers to the front of Queerteeny to lessen any discomfort in the event of a rear-end collision?
4.    Would it be inappropriate for me to give the TSA agent suggestions on how to best fondle my junk?

These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.