Sunday, July 31, 2011

A typical day in the life of...

Yours truly. This little gem is from last summer- I wrote it to my friend after I had an amazing trip to the grocery store.

You wanted an email so here goes. So- after I dawdled at work for a long time because I had nowhere to go and no one to go there with, I decided I would treat my self to a bottle of wine. So I went to Robert's and while I was there, I decided to buy some food, as well. Because we have very little food in the house and apparently last week, when Dan pulled some pop corn out of the box, it came out with a roach. And we all know- I don't do roaches. So until Dan is back in town- I am not consuming anything out of the pantry- unless Sophie is right there to attack if a god forsaken creature should show up. P.S. I just typed anything out of the "panty" and not pantry- and it took me a while to realize what was wrong with that sentence.

So anyways- I am purusing Robert's, trying to decide what I will consume tonight when I decided I wanted something to go with ketchup. Naturally, I grabbed a bag of regular zapps (naturally)- and I would like to point out that I made the decision to grab the little bag (that feeds four to six) instead of the big bag (that feeds an entire village)- so I should get some credit. I was also next to the crackers, so I grabbed some so if I decided to eat some cheese, I wouldn't have to eat goat cheese with a spoon (and honestly this is just me trying to maintain the idea that I am a self sufficient, somewhat respectable adult. I really think there is nothing wrong with goat cheese on a spoon, but I am really trying at this whole adult thing).

I was headed to the wine when I began recounting what I had eaten today: part of a blueberry muffin, some of a mocha granita, some mash potatoes, and a Popeye's biscuit (or 1.5 biscuits, or 1.7--- probably actually just two whole biscuits). So let me go over that again: carb, carb, carb, fat, saturated fat, fat, carb, fat, carb, carb, saturated fat, polymonotrioctoquadro saturated fat, carb. At this point I decided I should probably get some vegetables- just to give myself a healthy option. And in case you didn't know- I have an unending love for canned asparagus. That stuff is so good it will make you want to slap your momma (that is when I don't already want to slap her- which isn't often. Hi Mom). Sometimes Everytime I eat it in front of people, they bitch about the smell and how disgusting it is, but I think they are just jealous that I love canned asparagus more than I love them. It is especially good with French dressing. Anyway, I wandered on over to the canned asparagus and grabbed myself a few cans and then selected a fine bottle of wine (yes! Rex Goliath is on sale for $7!) and then went to check out. Well- this is when my adventure really begun.

The girl checking me out was a young, heavy set, blond girl that kind of eye balled me when I walked up (not in a mean sort of eyeballing way, just in an eyeballing way). And she rung up my 5 items (chips, crackers, wine, and two cans of asparagus) and then looked at me and said "are you just getting off of work?" and I said "yep." And she said "getting some stuff for dinner?" And I said "actually, getting dinner, doesn't it look good?" At which point she looked through my bag, eyeballed each item (and in the bad kind of eyeballing way) and then looked at me and said "no- this is really unhealthy. The least you could have done is bought fresh asparagus." Whoa whoa whoa. Back it up here. We went from small talk to 'what the fuck' talk in about pernt five seconds. So then I told her I bought the canned asparagus because I wasn't so sure I was going to eat it tonight and didn't want it to go to waste. She then looked at me for quite a while- up and down- up and down- and goes "hmph, well at least your skinny." Which I got defensive about (like 'bitch, why you callin me skinny- you don't know me') and told her "yeah, well I work out" (because apparently I had to offer an explanation on why I could select my dinner items and maintain my girlish figure). So then she starts telling me about how she lost ten pounds and then gained it back and is trying to lose it again but her parents keep bringing her cake (.......what?).

While she was unfolding her life story to me, I put my wallet under my armpit (as I often do, because it is really f-ing big) and collected my belongings. At the point that I was all sitcheated (read situated, but in a fun way), I tried to grab my wallet and I realized the zipper was stuck on a loop on my sleeve immediately next to my armpit. I stood there and struggled with the wallet and tried to make small talk about this girl's cake problem until it came to the point where I had to interrupt her extremely interesting story and ask her to pull it off for me. I had to lean way across the bagging area and let her rummage around my pit for a while until she got it untangled. At which point, I looked at her and said "Well that was awkward- have a nice day" and booked it home to have my chips, ketchup, cheese, and wine.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

If people watching were an olympic sport...

I'd have a gold medal.

My mom said that when I was a baby I would stare at people so hard in the grocery store that they would get that paranoid feeling and turn around to find the stalker. I am sure they were soon comforted when they realized they were not in harm as it was just an innocent bald-headed baby checking them out. However, I wouldn't be surprised if their new found ease was soon replaced with uncomfortableness when I continued to stare blank face.

Twenty something years later I am still staring. People are just bizarre. And they do bizarre things. And dumb things. And things where they hurt themselves. And for some reason (I blame it on being raised on The Three Stooges), I find it hilarious when people hurt themselves (not badly, just enough to curse loudly or cry a tear or two). This little thrill of mine ties in nicely with my pastime of people watching.

Last weekend, I was fortunate enough to enjoy some laughter at the expense of another. My parents and I were at the final Harry Potter movie (which is a whole other bundle of confusing emotions within itself- last HP... I've known these kids practically their whole life... they are so old... wait that means I am so old) and because the theater was so packed, we had to sit in the handicap row in the front. (Before all of you ethical people get all up in arms I would like to say that we were not stealing the seats from people in wheel chairs and their dates- there was no one in the theater that specifically needed those seats. It was not like that episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm where Larry uses the handicap bathroom and all hell breaks loose).

There were about five seats on our row and the other two were taken, as well. The one closest to me  (but actually about 8 feet away) was taken by a kid probably in his late teens. About half way through the movie, a woman got up to go to the bathroom and as she walked by the kid, she tripped over his feet and fell. Like a tree. She fell hard. She didn't put her hands out to stop her or anything. The kid bent over to apologize and she angrily brushed him off and pretended like she was OK (which is the appropriate response when you bust your ass in front of a bunch of strangers). I tried hard to concentrate on the elder wand drama on the screen in front of me, but all I could think about is how that woman fell like a muggle trying to learn quidditch. I suppressed a smile and finally got back into the movie.

When we left the movie, I was all giggles when I brought it up to my parents. My Dad was not fortunate enough to witness it but my Mom was. She agreed- that lady fell hard*. It was then that I realized that the last two times I went to the movies with my parents, I got to watch more than the movie--- I got to people watch. I don't know what magic is at work that makes this true, but this realization made me want to pull them back into the theater just to see someone else do something stupid.

My dad and I got to witness a great Three Stooges move one time when we were leaving the theater. We had gone to see something that my Mom was not interested in (probably Lord of the Rings or some other badass sci-fi middle earth type production) and when the show was over, we started slowly shuffling out of the theater. As we reached the aisle we watched a kid (no surprise here- boy in early teens) decide that he was not in the mood to wait for everyone else to make it down the steps- he had places to go and people to see. So he took it upon himself to cut everyone in front of him. By hopping over the side of the stairs. What this idiot did not think about before he did this was the ramp at the bottom of the stairs leading out of the theater is a downward incline. So while it looked like he was only three or four feet up (if the stairs were on a flat surface)- the ramp added another drop. We heard a big "mmmmmphhhh" as he hit the ramp six feet below. Dumbass.

Our other glorious people watching movie moment happened when we went to see The Forty Year Old Virgin. My parents and I were settled in our seats near the top of the theater waiting for the movie to start. In this theater, the stairs at the top get wider and there is a rail in the middle of the stairs that starts about two thirds of the way up to divide the seating on the side from the seating in the middle. A group of ladies were making their way up the stairs at the exact time that the lights went down. One of the women had not scoped out the area she was walking into and walked straight into the metal rail. Square in the crotch. As the rail reverberated, her friends broke out in loud laughter and she repeatedly yelled "SHIT" through gritted teeth. It was wonderful.

I can only hope that I get to experience such great acts of humanity in my future movie adventures with my parents.

*When I was telling a friend about the woman falling like a tree, they responded that it was dark so she probably couldn't see to put her hands down. This logic cracked me up. Like when it is dark- your body does not react the same- so don't expect your involuntary bodily reactions designed to protect yourself to kick in when the lights are a little low. It's just not going to happen.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Tampering with a smoke detector is a federal offense...

But being a class A asshole is not.

Oh, travel woes again. I am pretty sure it is just my destiny in life- to get on any plane that is having some issues and to happen to board that plane with all of the biggest jackasses possible. Anytime I get caught up in some travel mess, I find that it is not the situation that I am in that I hate- it is the people that I am in the situation with that make it so terrible. As Sartre said "Hell is other people." So right indeed.

So this flightmare occurred on my way to Bahston for the 4th. I took a late flight out of NOLA and expected to arrive in Beantown around midnight. I had about an hour layover in Detroit- should have been plenty of time to grab some food, pee (I DO NOT pee on planes..... EVER), and get to my next flight. But, to paraphrase an old Mississippi State coach, after the plane took off 'lots went wrong.' (God bless Mississippi, the only state that looks Louisiana look good).

I was fortunate enough to have randomly selected a seat in front of a guy who made the cast of Jersey Shore look like Rhodes Scholars.  He was apparently in New Orleans as a construction guy but was based out of Michigan. At one point, he asked the guy sitting next to him where he could see alligators because he really wanted to wrestle one and that "it couldn't be that bad, they were always doing it on tv." Really, if you think about it, that is a beautiful way to live life. I mean- magic must really exist, as do vampires, Jedis, and love stories where the nerdy person suddenly becomes hot and gets the cool kid in the class. To sum up the genius in seat 23B, I will give some stats and some quotes.
  • Number of phone calls made or answered while still in the air: 4
  • Number of times he used the phrase "I am going to make it rain": 20+
  • Number of times he told his friend sitting next to him that he had a blind date: 12
  • Number of times he referred to his blind date as a "bitch": 10 (as in that 'bitch' is going to looovvve me)
  • While talking to the girl next to me: "Where are you flying to? Maryland? Where is that?"
  • While talking to the girl next to me: "What's your name? That's a weird name. Where are you from? Where? West Africa? Is that like in Africa Africa?"
  • While talking to the girl across the aisle from him: "Where are you from? Louisiana? No- I mean like are you French or something cause you look French. Oh- well I am French. Like good at French kissing, if you know what I mean."

We got to Detroit and began to circle the city. Around and around and around and around. The Captain made an announcement about bad weather in Detroit and needed to delay our landing. At this point, Einstein got really fed up and begin to make his first in a series of phone calls: "Man this is bullshit. This asshole says there is bad weather. I don't see shit. I am looking at the sunshine. Yall better wait at the bar for me. I am buyin shots for EVERYONE. I am gonna make it rain, yo." While ole' boy gave his experienced opinion on the meterological situation, a child three rows back screamed the ABCs for the 7th time. The child's mother interrupted him long enough to see if he wanted anymore candy. I cannot think of a recent situation which better highlighted the range of assholes that epitomize America. Don't get me wrong- I love this country- I get all choked up when I hear patriotic music- but it never ceases to amaze me how many people feel that their right to "Freedom of Speech" actually means that they are informed and strangers actually want to hear what they have to say.

In order to not completely lose it, I had to really focus on my breathing and start composing this post in my head. I quietly smiled to myself as I thought of multiple ways to describe this guy's stupidity as I counted his wonderful catch phrases.

After circling The Motor City for 45 minutes, the Captain made an announcement that we needed to land in Grand Rapids to refuel and wait for the weather to blow through Detroit. As you can imagine, this announcement did not go over really well- especially with the guy who was now standing up his blind date. There was a massive uproar and many a groan in which people bitched about their plans (emphasis on their because they were the only ones that had plans- honestly- when I fly- I usually just fly about without any plans). We landed in Grand Rapids, and I texted my friend in Boston to let her know what was going on. For some reason, my iphone kept autocorrecting Grand Rapids to Grand Rapists which leads me to believe that Apple has more advanced technology than they claim since apparently they could now autocorrect my words to match my situation and my mood.

We sat on the ground in Grand Rapids for about 45 minutes while the storm blew over Detroit. During this time, the asinine guy behind me somehow proceeded to get incredibly drunk even though I never saw a flight attendant serve him a drink. At one point, someone from the ground crew had to get on the plane to get an oxygen tank for another plane which prompted the idiot to shout "What!? I mean- Jesus Christ- if they need some help just send them to a fucking hospital." I would be incredibly upset, too, if I was missing a blind date with someone I had already nicknamed "Bitch."

We eventually got off the ground and got back to Detroit. When I got off of the plane- I checked the monitor- and realized that my flight to Boston had been delayed- it was 12:02- and I had until 12:10 to get to the flight. OK- not a problem. I can get there. Then I checked the gate information. My flight to Boston was at Gate A75. I was currently at Gate A6. That's right, A6. I took off. I sprinted between each moving sidewalk and then powerwalked on the sidewalks. I passed groups of people leisurely ambling. I was running like a bat out of hell in flats, a regular bra, jeans, and a long sleeve shirt. I swear that the concourse was over a mile long.

I got to the gate breathing like a heavy set mailman who has smoked his whole life and just got chased by the neighborhood dog. I was also sweating profusely. Grossly profusely. Like a dude. The great news was the plane was still there. I could not have been happier. Despite my life lesson of 'always carry underwear,' I did not have an extra pair on my person and was going to be an unhappy girl if I found myself sleeping on the airport floor again (for the second time in two months) with unfresh underwear.

I got on the plane and found my seat without making eye contact with anyone. I felt really bad for the woman who was sitting next to me. I used my long sleeve shirt to wipe the pools of sweat off of my face and tried my best to put my hair up in a way that didn't look like I just went through a natural disaster. I failed. We sat on the runway for a few minutes while other passengers got on the plane- the same passengers that were walking through the airport as I sprinted by them like a Kenyan in the Olympics. I got to Boston safe and sound- a little sweaty, gross hair, hungry, tired, and with a full bladder. But I got there. Surprisingly enough, my luggage made it too. While I skipped showering before I went to bed (so I would not wake up my friends), I absolutely put on some clean underwear and happily fell asleep in my final destination, with visions of alligators attacking idiots from Michigan dancing through my head.