Floridians Rule! (now that we are here)

So this fat guy walks into our house.  You expect laughs with a line like that, and you will find them all throughout this story. But bare in mind that each laugh contributes a pang more anguish to mine and Whitney's fragile souls after our moving experience.  This fat guy was one of our movers.  He produced more sweat than an entire high school football team and he decided to plant his rotund backside on our couch with arms akimbo across the back. We've already called Stanley Steamer.  When he wasn't busy defiling our furniture, he talked.  He talked with the endless prattle of a little old person cooped up in the nursing home, overdue for a visit from his relatives... but the mover failed to inspire sympathy. He talked about country singers he had seen in concert, places he had visited (Vegas twice with two different wives), his coworkers, any thought that might have glossed his mind for a scintilla of a second set his tongue a quiver.  Oh, and the packers left all the lids to our pots and all our Tupperware dishes; we had to have them sent UPS.

Once all our belongings were safely on the way to Florida, it was time for Whitney, Isabelle, and I to make the same journey via US Airways.  We should have just stowed away on the moving truck.  We make it to the airport terminal without incident, though I must admit I was worried about having to get Izzy out of the carrier at the security check point.  I had no idea how she would respond with so many people around.  She did great.  Shout out to my kitty!  Anyway, we loaded the plane and everything was going smoothly.  The flight attendant had very calmly (I have not seen such serenity in anesthetized animals) explained our seat belts, cushions as a floatation device, oxygen masks, amazingly loud crash from the left side of the plane.  Yeah, that turns out to be us (the plane) crashing into the jetway as they are pushing us away from the terminal. No big deal, we'll just get maintenance to come and take a look-see, said the Wizard of OZ flying our plane.  An hour later and the wizard comes back on to say we all need to unload.  Your telling me!  They put us on another plane and we finally take off three hours late.  Who wants some Airline stock?!  

By the time we land Izzy has been in her carrier for 8.5 hrs, not counting the 2 minute security check, and instead of sleeping on the plane she opted for the more exciting drool-like-a-rabid-beast approach to air travel.  As soon as we are in the rental car, she is snoozing and it kind of freaks me out.  Tap, tap on the carrier.  Kitty?  Are you dead?  We rush to our hotel room, not the vet because she is obviously not dead or I would not be joking, and get our room.  Reason for rushing?  So we can set a litter box up for Izzy.  Amazing that the plane and/or rental car did not wind up smelling like cat urine!  Into the room we run, pull back the zipper of my duffle bag and...dramatic pause...cat litter all throughout the bag.  That is not enough.  Sticky shampoo too. I despise airport baggage people with the fury of a religious conflict.  I worship respecting other people's valuables.  They worship Satan.  We war.  Seriously, they had thrown about my bag with such force that it broke a hard plastic Tupperware container filled with litter and a shampoo bottle.  How?!  

I am tired. The saga will be continued tomorrow.