At 5 AM today, I packed a bag (full of fabulous Shoe Hive resort wear) headed for the Virgin Islands. Now, more than twelve hours later, it appears my bag has a better shot of making it than I do. Well, maybe. Instead of enjoying a glass of shiraz on a porch perched high above the Caribbean, I am bellied up to the bar of a Hooter’s in North Carolina.
Long story. Our 6:30 AM connecting flight to Philadelphia got cancelled, but not until after we’d spent an hour on the runway in Washington, long enough it turns out to have missed every other connecting flight that could have gotten us out of the continental US today. In a moment of desperation, we hopped a plane to Charlotte in hopes of standing by for a full flight to San Juan. My husband swears he had a plan to get us from San Juan to St. John.
I guess I’ll never know.
But my luggage might find out. It is currently sitting in Puerto Rico in airline limbo, unless an enterprising baggage service agent rummages through and finds Tory Burch flip flops or Alexis Bittar jewelry interesting.
Upon realizing we were stuck in the Queen City for a night, I suggested we each come up with one thing to do, knowing full well there is a Tier 1 Neiman’s in town and I am in a justifiable clothing emergency.
(Neiman’s, where I purchased this Rachel Zoe dress. Fashion emergency resolved.)
That’s where Hooter’s comes in: Brad’s idea–for the football of course. But a deal’s a deal, so pass the suds, honey.