missed my plane to Tucson by minutes. Damn you, Southwest Airlines, for always running on time. “Looks like we’re gonna have to fly you outta here tomorrow,” said the woman behind the counter. As she clicked away on her computer, I stared at her long, fake talons, curled and painted with daisies, and despised her for them. “Sorry, there’s nothing we can do. You’ll get in at 4pm tomorrow.” 4pm tomorrow? What was the point? "I can't be there later than 2," I said. I felt tears steaming up my eyes. The woman chomped on her gum and flipped back her hair, wavy and crusted with gel. Yuck. “I wish I could help you,” she said. She had that broad, whiny Long Island accent that makes everyone sound like Amy Fisher. But she wasn’t helping the comparison any: Look at her thick chocolate lip liner, her iced blue eyeshadow. How does this woman live with herself? “Wait, we could maybe fly you to Chicago tonight,” she said, clacking her hideous nails on that computer that held all the secrets of my fate. “You’d arrive in Tucson at 11am tomorrow. It’s the best I can do.” She smiled then, and I must admit, she looked kind of pretty.

(Hey, you know what? It's snowing in Chicago. Snow!)