The Starting Gun.

It went off at seven in the morning, at which point the dogs rolled over and looked at me like I was crazy (I was). I hit the snooze button (twice), then dragged my ass downstairs to make coffee. It was still dark outside, which I found highly upsetting. It was also raining steadily, which the boys found upsetting, because they had to go out in it in order to pee.
I went the lazy route and re-heated Friday's coffee in a pint glass in the micro-wave. I was too tired to care how awful it was. I tried to put my suitcase in the car surreptitiously, after feeding the dogs and putting a bit of half and half on their food to distract them. It didn't work. These are smart animals. First they thought "we" were going somewhere, and they got really happy. Then when they realized that only I was getting in the car, they got upset. I left as quickly as possible.
Despite the rain my drive to the airport was fairly easy. I got there and went to the economy parking lot, where I drove up and down every row in the "A" section before landing a spot at the very back.
As I was getting out of the car and retrieving my suitcase from the back seat, I was passed by a courtesy vehicle - I use that term loosely - which was completely devoid of passengers. I flailed my arm for a moment in hopes that it would stop. It didn't. There were no other people in the whole parking lot. I walked to the terminal in the rain, dragging my bags and my coat and cursing the courtesy vehicle, which I found parked on the near side of the lot, the driver smoking a cigarette and talking on the phone.
There was no line at check-in. I checked a bag ($15) because I was bringing two bottles of wine and a tube of toothpaste that was 4.19 ounces for K.
Security was fairly easy since I had left anything questionable (like potentially deadly shampoo and conditioner) in my checked bag. I was therefore quite surprised when I was pulled from line after walking, shoeless, through the metal detector.
"Is this your bag?" asked the young man behind the screening counter.
"Yes."
"Would you come over here with me?" He led me to one of those small cubicles where they open your bag behind a partition so small that everyone in line can see exactly what you've brought. I was more confused than worried, because, as I said, I had packed most of my stuff in my checked bag and had only cold medicine, kleenex, and reading material in my carry on. He rummaged around for a moment, then smiled sheepishly, flapped the bag shut, and handed it back to me.
"Have a good flight."
"Uh... thanks." I pulled my boots on (not to self: D0c Martens not the most convenient footwear for the airport), grabbed my bag, and sat down in the "now that you've been man-handled here's a chair where you can put your shoes on and try to regain your dignity" area. I peered curiously into my bag, wondering what might have given the man pause, and then discovered that I had grabbed my portable cd player out of the car in case of emergency (like a screaming child). The b.h. has the iP0d and I didn't want to be stranded without music. I'm sure that they don't usually find people flying with antique electronic devices, and it probably looked like a potential hazard.
The plane began boarding as soon as I had finished my bagel and cream cheese. I had chosen the window seat in the last row so that I would board quickly and be able to fall asleep without fear of drooling on a stranger. Unfortunately there was no window in the last row, so my claustrophobia was in full gear by the time we took off. Also, the flight was full and the guy next to me was pretty tall and angular, all elbows and knees reaching into my personal space. Luckily I had taken an antihistamine prior to boarding and promptly passed out, missing the pretzels and soda and waking up only when the turbulence started to get serious, which was a minute or two before touchdown.
My bag popped out at the claim area as soon as I got there, and I wove my way through various rip-off artists trying to get me a "flat fee" ride to Brooklyn (only $55!) to the cab stand.
Seventeen dollars (plus tip) and fifteen minutes later, I pulled up in front of the restaurant where K works.