Itinerary

Tuesday

Mr. Flintstone gets into the rendez vous city without any problem.

I get caught in the middle of a hailstorm in NYC and LaGuardia is at a stand still.  ATC sanctioned.  Boo. 

I’m hungry, but anticipating a decent meal with Mr. Flintstone, I settle for a granola bar at the airport.

Still raining.  Boo. 

Still hungry, but still a glimmer of a hope for a decent meal with Mr. Flintstone, so settle for a second granola bar. 

Amy Winehouse is blasting in my ear.  A woman – most likely from somewhere deep south – taps my arm and politely yanks my right ear bud out. 

“Are you Vietnamese or Japanese?”  

I return her polite smile, grab my right ear bud now dangling in mid-air and stick it back in my year. 

Walk away. 

Another tap and another yank. 

“Do you speak any English?”

“Not tonight hon.”

Walk away.

In the plane.  4hours late.

Drink.  

My seat mate is giving me the evil eyes.  He thinks I’m going to poke his eyes out with my knitting needles.

Ignore.

Cab.

Hotel.

Hug. Kisses.  

Tuna Tartar. 

A sip of his wine. 

Sleep. 

Wednesday

When I open my eyes, he's already dressed and ready to leave for his meeting.  

No coffee in sight.  

Pout. 

Kiss on the cheek. 

Sleep some more. 

Up. 

Find shiny new diamond crusted bracelet on the coffee table in lieu of coffee.  

Bounce. 

Happily get my own coffee.  

Blackberry assault by Il Duce.  

Appease Il Duce. 

Nap. 

Jog. Lift.  Sweat.  

Shower. 

Send picture of self wearing Victoria Secret's Bombshell tank to Mr. Flintstone.  (I think kids call it Sexting.)

Greet Mr. Flintstone in aforementioned Bombshell tank and the bracelet. 

Drag Mr. Flintstone to a dive-y pizza joint. 

Sleep. 

Thursday

Up before Mr. Flintstone.  (Debatable if we are getting technical)

Coffee.  

Great migration across the street to a fancier hotel with a jacuzzi suite. 

Send Mr. Flintstone off in a cab. 

Another Blackberry assault by Il Duce.  

Appease Il Duce.  

Conference call.  Naked. 

Nap.  

Pick up edible supplies for a romantic evening.  

Mr. Flintstone forgets to eat lunch.  

Mr. Flintstone unceremoniously wolfs down the chocolate covered strawberries and other sweat treats that were meant for the jacuzzi later.  

Dig out the secret stash of chocolates that I was saving for self later. 

Pout. 

Mr. Flintstone digs out his own secret stash of a pair of diamond studs.  

End pout. 

Mr. Flintstone anal about getting to the fancy restaurant on time.  

Mr. Flintstone rushing. 

Curl hair in 2 minute 40 seconds and make up in 2 minute 20 seconds.      

Fancy restaurant 

Cold air blast.  

Demand Mr. Flintstone's jacket.  

A pair of waiters descend, one bearing a cashmere shawl and another "suggesting" might Mr. Flintstone be more comfortable with his jacket on.  

Friday

Sleep in.  

Mr. Flintstone has a conference call while I read the NewYorker in bed while drinking my favorite coffee. 

Breakfast.  

Blackberry assault continues.  

Blackberry thankfully out of juice. 

Nap while Mr. Flintstone has another conference call.  

Wake up confused.  

Yell for Mr. Flintstone who's still on the conference call.  

Go back to bed.  

Drag Mr. Flintstone to a dive-y hot dog place.  

Drag Mr. Flintstone to an ice cream place.  

Ice cream coma.  

Jacuzzi.  

Dinner.     

Saturday

Up before Mr. Flintstone (again, debatable if we are being technical)

Eat from the secret stash of chocolates while admiring new blings. 

FT weekend.  WSJ.  

Coffee.  

Airport.

You are meeting me in ______ on ______, right? 

Yes. Maybe.

Hug.  Kisses. 

Home.