blame [air]canada.

For the past two days I have either slept through my morning alarm or somehow managed to set it for a completely incorrect wake-up time.  ALL of this is AirCanada’s fault.  Seriously.  I’m not positive why the AirCanada travel gods decided my vacation to Sicily was going to be my judgment day, but they did and they carried out their wrath with a holy vengeance.   You see, first they failed at getting my bag to arrive in London with me even though I physically took myself off my connecting flight from Toronto to London to go ass-backwards through the Toronto airport to re-check my luggage because I realized on my flight from NYC to Toronto while reading the airport mumbo jumbo written on my ticket that my bag had been “short tagged” and would almost certainly be hanging out on the Toronto baggage carousel like a loitering teenage HOODLUM.  Then they routed all of my calls to India where I was told complete lies about the location of my bag.  Here is one conversation I had with AirCanada India during my stay in Sicily:

AirCanada India:  blah blah blah it’s on its way blah poop blah just wait 10 to 20 minutes.
Me:   WAIT, what?  10 to 20 minutes?
AirCanada India:  Your bag will be there soon.
Me:  Did you just say 10 to 20 minutes?
AirCanada India:  Uhh Yes.  Your bag will be there soon.
Me:  In 10 to 20 minutes?  That doesn’t make any sense.  How do you know that?
AirCanada India:  Ummm I don’t know.  It’s written in Italian.
Me:  … and you don’t speak Italian, do you?
AirCanada India:  No.

Thank the good, gracious, please don’t ever spite me like this ever again travel Lord that I didn’t wait 10 to 20 minutes, because my bag was not actually delivered until several days after that conversation which was just 2 days before the end of my vacation.    Inside my bag was everything I had packed.  All the clothes I had spent the past 3 weekends fighting for at endless New York sample sales, all the American treats I packed for my sister, all the purses, shoes, jewelry, travel toiletries – everything was perfectly in tact.  Even the lavish bottle of champagne my boss gave me for Christmas that I’ve been saving for the perfect occasion was still tucked neatly between my summer dresses and evening jackets just as I had left it.  There was, however, one really lovely surprise.  As I dug deeper, I soon discovered that all of my underwear (yes, just my underwear) was dripping wet which subsequently created a powerfully dark, damp, death basket for my battery powered alarm clock.  That’s correct.  AirCanda killed my alarm clock and now I’ve been pushed, against my will, into a completely foreign cell phone alarm clock universe and I feel scared and alone.  Scared and alone.

RIP battery powered alarm clock.
I miss you everyday.