I am currently sitting in the Nashville airport. Aside from Memphis, Nashville is probably the second most hated city on my list.
My dad called me in a complete twit earlier. He had jetlag and was completely wasted (not drunk wasted- wasted like he was in a circadian rhythm coma). So I sit at my gate for about 30 hours, getting extremely annoyed by the stupid blonde valley girl sitting next to me as she made hand gestures and talked on her cell phone. Idiot face, the person on the phone cannot see your hands.
So my dad calls and says, “I just bought you a ticket on Southwest to Nashville. Flight leaves in an hour!” Keep in mind that there are at least 40 billion people in the airport. I am not checked in. I have no ticket. I have a huge bag, I have been dancing in place for ten minutes so I’m working up a good sweat, and I feel awful after eating my very heavy disgusting breakfast where I had to interact with the 8 Mile cast.
I run out of security, run downstairs, out the front doors of LAX, searching desperately for the Southwest sign. I find it, and there are 4098390482034 people in line. So I ask the stupid idiot woman working there, “My flight leaves in less than an hour- is there any way I can check in now?” She says, “No.” I almost punched her in the throat.
I’m about to puke. I’m sweating. I’m having a panic attack. My phone is ringing. I can’t get to it in time. It’s buried at the bottom of my bag under my laptop, chapstick, a huge book, and 309 other items. My feet are on fire. I have my Alaskan snow boots on and it’s 80 degrees outside, but when I left my house at 4 AM it was 40 degrees. My armpits are wet. I want to puke. Someone will inevitably get shanked in about 3 minutes.
Finally I check in. Next is security. There are 3209028203 people in the security line. I quickly move with the cattle line and they run out of mother effing plastic bins right as I get up to walking through the canopy of violation. I shove all of my stuff on the conveyer belt. Then I get yelled at. And I say “WE NEED SOME MORE PLASTIC BINS. MERRY CHRISTMAS,” at the top of my lungs, in a hateful voice.
So I get in trouble and have to go through security again and I yell, “MY FLIGHT IS LEAVING IN 15 MINUTES. CAN’T SOMEONE DO SOMETHING!?!?!?!”
The guy felt bad for me. So he says, “Ma’am, just take your stuff.” I think he knew I was about to chop his head off. I shove on my snow boots as fast as I can, and RUN like Kevin’s dad in “Home Alone” across the entire dad gum airport. I am sweating, my hair is disgusting, and then I hear them page me. I have never been paged in my life. I was mortified. I was embarrassed. I am just not one of those irresponsible retards who misses her flight.
I shove my way to the front of the line and get my ticket. Thank you, Jesus.
As I start down the jet way thing, I am met by a wonderfully flamboyant African American gay man who is talking to me about getting drunk at the airport and drinking bourbon. We bonded. He said (sassy),
“Girl I don’t drink nothin’ but Maker’s Bourbon! I’m a man’s man. When my bartender axed me if I wanted a double, I just said, BITCH! YOU JUST MAKE DAT UP RIGHT!”
He was holding a little battery-operated cooling fan that looked like a flower. It had little pink foam blades.
I get on this flight and am squished in between two men. They didn’t smell gross, so that was good. The one on my left was weird. He was like 40 and had braces and when he smiled there was spit all stuck in his grill, like a valossa raptor. Sick. The guy to my right was awesome. It was hard for me to understand him a little bit because he was a mumbler, but I did make out a few of his comments. He told me he used to play the trumpet in the circus and he and his friends got kicked out because they’d all start playing jazz and blues whenever they were supposed to play circus songs. I was laughing my head off.
Then my little gay friend across the aisle pulled out some candy from his airport goody bag which was bulging with National Enquirer magazines and candy. He gave the candy to the little boy sitting next to him and said a very enthusiastic and lispy, “MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
Then my circus trumpeter says, “I think he be like Little Richard. If you know what I mean.”
I just about fell out of my seat I was laughing so hard. Then when I told him I was going into counseling, he said,
“Oh yes. I used to be a psychiatric aid. And you know what? There was this girl who was there. She had 4 personalities. I mean. 4. real. personalities. And you know what? People, they made fun of her. They show nuff did. And you know what? One day she just straight up hurt one of ‘em. Yep. She did. And they was HURT.”
The flight attendants were wearing Santa hats and Christmas apparel and they went through a “Night Before Christmas” routine for the safety information. It was hilarious. “Twas 7 days before Christmas, and all through the plane, everyone was seated, and stored were their trays. Should the lights go out, we’ll help with a smile, for peppermint lights will light up the aisle!”
I think I fell asleep for about 10 minutes and drooled on myself. I am so classy. No wonder my dating record is so awesome.
At the end of the flight we came to a big huge THUMP onto the runway. I think I broke my tail bone. No joke. I heard it crunch. Everyone on the flight screamed bloody murder.
I got off the plane and immediately felt like getting right back on and flying back to LA. Everyone is obese. Like, type 3 obese. And everyone is wearing a Christmas sweater. Mind you, last week I hosted an 80’s tacky Christmas sweater party, but it was in complete jest. EVERYONE here is wearing one. And they mean it. For real.
Also, some country-hick hillbilly keeps making announcements about watching our bags so “we can do our neighborly duties, downnair at the ur-port.”
I might have Nashville more than Memphis. Actually, I know I hate Nash more than Memphis. I mean, at least in Memphis, there’s a little diversity. Everyone here is white, wearing a Christmas sweater, cowboy hat, cowboy boots, a big gaudy cross necklace, and they’re all fat. It’s very weird.
One cool thing that happened today, though, amidst all of the insane crap—my parents got me an Ipod for my birthday. I didn’t really want one- I mean, it wasn’t at the top of my list, but now I really dig it. I know, I know. I was the only person in the united states under the age of 30 without one until November, but cut me some slack. Anyway, so I ran through the airport listening to all kinds of awesome 80’s music, and I felt like I had my own soundtrack. RIGHTEOUS.
Now I am waiting for my parents to come pick me up. Apparently there was bad fog on the interstate and so I have been sitting at the airport for an hour and a half. Sigh. I got to hear a nice all-white Baptist choir earlier. That was enjoyable. They gave me a free CD. I must look pathetic.
I will probably blog a great deal on this vacation because I am experiencing reverse culture shock. I need a healthy way to vent instead of engaging in escape behaviors.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Traveling like a Slattery Sucks.
I have been bumped twice in the past 8 hours.
Because my dad is a pilot, people have this dumb idea that I get to ride through security in a golden golf cart and that flight attendants throw rose pedals on the ground as I walk through the airplane. I sit in first class with a mimosa and a plate of caviar and I never have to show anyone my ID. Bulllllll sheeeeeeet. In reality, most of my traveling has been a lot like being one of those low class folks on the Titanic, being shoved around like cattle with the commoners, getting frisked every five seconds by some pervy TSA agent, and having to take my shoes off and on a million times. Not a fan.
I am watching a 200 pound black woman stuff her face full of Burger King French fries at 8:30 in the morning, talk on her cell phone, and pick crap out of her teeth with her long silver fingernails. She is now licking her thumbs. The lady next to her is an 85 year old red headed lady talking at the top of her lungs on her cell phone. She is wearing a full length fur coat. It matches her hair. Maybe her hair is a wig made from the bottom of her coat. Recyclable alterations?
I was at the airport last night and had to deal with all sorts of shenanigans. Last night feels like a million years ago. I see some of the same people who got bumped last night waiting here with me. They got bumped this morning, too. I effing hate getting bumped. First of all, there were about 30 million Asian people with little carts, running around, bumping into me, stopping in the middle of the walkways, and blocking all entrances. Fire hazardous, rude punks. I almost punched one of them. Normally I am pretty understanding about cultural differences, but after driving around in the rain, never finding adequate parking, cutting my date short, rushing around trying to get everything done, I was fed up. Last night I just was not in the mood to be Carl Rogers. Or Mr. Rogers. Mr. Carl Rogers? I had this mentor party the other day, and my mentee’s mom told me that she went on a trip to Singapore a few years ago. She told me that the people over there had never seen a black woman before, so they stared at her everywhere she went. She told me she wanted to scream at someone by the end of her trip. I felt very empathetic all of a sudden.
Last night I waited with the lady who was the guidance counselor in “10 Things I hate about You.” Apparently she has some TV celebrity daughter, too, because people kept coming up and talking to her and telling her how wonderful the “season finale” was and they kept getting their pictures taken with her. I am all of a sudden completely irritated with “famous” people. They are just people who do their jobs. Why is that a big deal? I don’t get it. I saw Scary Spice last week. She was nice. I didn’t go up and throw up all over her and try to kiss her butt, though. I don’t get it. People are just people. Why do we make them more than that? Anyway, despite my night of madness, I did have one perk. Some crazy lady sitting across from me kept saying all kinds of crazy funny stuff. One of her monologues was as follows:
“My husband, he be downstairs. My daughter, she work for da Fed Ex in Muuurmphis. Well, one time I done got on the plane with my son. This here’s my son. Say hello, Josh. Make Diego say hello, too.” (Diego the Latino doll waves hello)
“Well, I had done been on the plane one time and they had pulled me OFF. I mean they pulled me RIGHT OFF. And you know the whole time it was my dumb husband’s fault. He downstairs. I kept sayin to him, I says, ‘We gotsta go! We gotsta go!’ and he did nothin’ but crap around. You know how they do. They just crap around.”
I want to make sure that everyone who reads this knows that this was her exact conversation with me and I am in no way fabricating. She was quite possibly the highlight of my week.
This morning I woke up at 4 AM. I am not even remotely conscious. I got bumped and watched about 10 other paying passengers curse out the gate agent, who was a little Asian woman named Sook. Poor old Sook. Some crazy Mexican lady kept yelling in Sook’s face. Imagine this: two four foot tall women, both from other countries, neither of them can speak English well, both yelling at each other and grabbing each other by the arms in complete frustration. Pushy pushy pushy. I thought I was going to have to referee. Instead I just sat there, watching them, trying to figure out how either of them wasn’t wearing a house arrest anklet.
So, crazy Mexican lady comes and sits down by me after her encounter with Sook. I had no idea what she said. I understood about 5%. She begins to tell me,
“My dwah-ter, she works in da Meemphees. You whaaant, you whaaant coffee?”
I tell her no thanks on the coffee.
“I get for you. I take you for coffee. You whaaant, you whant tea?”
No thanks, Lady. She is wearing platform sneakers and bright blue Princess Diana eyeliner.
“You come whiiiiiith me. We get coffee toghhhhether.”
I have to make a phone call.
I called my mom. Then I decided that I was pretty darn hungry. I ditched Crazy Martinez and went to one of those restaurants in the airport that charges you about 30 dollars for a hamburger that tastes like it’s made out of a skunk.
Of course, I end up sitting in the white trash section. This very homely white family sitting next to me looks like they were in the cast of 8 Mile. This woman is all lumpy and obnoxious and is wearing a scrunchy. A SCRUNCHY. They stopped making those in 1994, so who knows how she got this thing. She has a little raggety kid sitting next to her. He’s about 4. Her other son is about 8 and he’s dressed all trashy, too. The dad is sitting next to the 8 year old and he has a terribly vacant, middle-aged look on his face. You know, that face that says, “Man, when I first married this woman, I had no idea that 10 years later she’d be wearing a scrunchy and have a FUPA (Fat Upper Pubic Area).” Anyway, Dad keeps leaving every few minutes because his wife is such a moron. There’s a baby in a stroller parked next to the table.
The kids are super annoying. Especially at 7 in the morning. Kicking the table, smacking their food, getting their disgusting germs all over the place. I almost got up and threw my scalding coffee on the stupid mom’s face. She kept allowing the little 4 year old boy to be obnoxious. She’s laugh and coo all over him and hug him until his face was purple, but when the 8 year old boy would try to do the same obnoxious stuff, she’d yell at him and show her teeth like a German shepherd. It was apparent that big brother wanted the same love that little brother got, but when he tried the same tactics, he was reprimanded.
HOLY CRAP: NEWS FLASH. I am watching this man board the airplane. He is wearing black sandals with black socks, wearing black jeans, is wearing a Southwestern print Hawaiian style shirt, and this is the best part: HE HAS A SIR-LANCE-A-LOT HAIRCUT THAT IS HAIR SPRAYED LIKE SNAP-ON LEGO HAIR. This is magical. Seriously. His hair is stiff as it can be and looks like he could take it off in one piece. It is like a little mini mullet with bangs. Glorious.
Now, back to the white trash encounter. I heard scrunchy mc scruncherton say this to her son:
“You are getting on my nerves. There is no point in spending thousands of dollars on a vacation if I can’t have fun. You are keeping me from having fun. I can’t handle it. You better start acting right. You know how to act right- you go to school, don’t you? DON’T YOU? You better make sure that mommy starts having fun so that she isn’t wasting all of this money on this vacation.”
Let’s decode the family injunction:
Don’t be a little boy; don’t act like your brother. I don’t love you because you aren’t as cute as your little brother. Little brother is my favorite child. You are a complete doofus and I hate you. Love, Scrunchy Mom.
I hate that crap. You can’t be inconsistent with kids like that. It makes ‘em all crazy when they get older, and they spend their whole lives trying to figure out what’s “wrong” with them. I wanted to just say, “Kid, your mom is a total B-word, and if you just do exactly OPPOSITE of everything she says, you’ll turn out juuuuust fine.”
Plus if you’re such a tight wad that you can’t just enjoy your time together on your family vacation, heck, don’t take a vacation. Stay at home and keep on living your same old white trash life. Eat some ho-hos and watch Mama’s Family all day.
Stupid idiot.
The trailer park family got up and left. I was finally left alone in my immediate section, with an older guy and a young guy sitting to my left a few tables over. They were gawking at me. I gave them a hateful look.
The old guy says to me,
“We weren’t staring at you. I was staring at the picture above your head.”
“Suuuuuuuuuure.” I said.
Then he proceeded to leave his seat, come inspect the picture above my head, and tell me a bunch of weird info about this car that was in the frame, and how there was a movie made about this car, and the plot had to do with the car going across Route 66, and the police chased him all across the U.S., and blah blah blah. When I realized what a dork he was, I also realized that the guy definitely was not lying. He was staring at the car, and not me. Shwew.
So now I’m sitting on the floor of the LAX airport, trying to avoid the crazy Mexican lady who is talking on her cell phone and popping her gum.
There is also this obnoxious red headed two year old running through the airport screaming and acting like a little twit. I want to throw him on the jet way.
I think that I am exhausted. I’m tired as all get out. YIKES! I just saw the scariest woman ever. Her face had so much plastic surgery that it looked like she sucked a balloon over her face and she was inhaling. SCARY SCARY STUFF.
Anyway, I’m exhausted because I got 4 hours of sleep, I just finished finals a week ago, I partied like crazy on Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday, and the rest of the week I have been wrapping up work, job hunting, figuring out bills, etc.
I want to be rich so I can buy plane tickets like a normal white American person and not have to ride standby with all of the Titanic cattle.
Maybe there is an upside. Maybe because I have slept so little, I will be able to sleep tonight, for once, without the help of any sleep aids. Two nights ago I couldn’t sleep and I was watching Fight Club on cable. I started watching at the part where Jack says,
“You wake up in LAX, JFK, Dallas Fort Worth. Gain an hour, lose an hour. If you wake up in a different time, in a different place, are you a different person?”
Good question. I have felt all incoherent and weird like that recently because I have slept so little and I’ve been so edgy. It’s rough. Plus my skin is a nightmare. I have the complexion of a brick. I get all stressed and I have constellations all over my face. Rough, rough, rough. The stuff about acne just being an accessory of puberty is a big fat lie.
I think I am going to wrap this up and play with my Ipod.
I’m at a point now where it isn’t even worth trying to go back home. I hate Memphis. My whole life goal has been to escape. Now that I’m out, I really would be fine if I never went back ever again. I miss my sister and my cat. I miss a few of my friends. I do miss the culture sometimes, but right now, this whole ordeal just is not worth it. Gain an hour, lose an hour.
Right now I am listening to this flight attendant tell this mom about this kid who had an asthma attack on the plane. She’s going on and on and on. The kid looks like a fruit cake. He’s standing here in this dorky outfit and he talks like a little goofus. Way to really not live up the “kid with Asthma” stereotype, kid. Apparently this kid had an allergy or something and the mom clearly does NOT CARE but I think that the flight attendant is worried about getting sued, so she keeps talking about how they got a doctor to tend to the kid’s needs and he was very helpful and blablablabbla.
These airport people. They’re crazy.
Last night there was this lady in a full length sweater coat, a long purple and black wig, a big sparkly costume jewelry ring on every finger, big gold-rimmed Elvis glasses on her nose, red lace panty hoes, some black house shoes, and some sort of weird outfit underneath the knit sweater coat. Oh yes, she also had shoulder pads the size of Montana. She’s here again today. And she is wearing bright red lipstick. It matches her lacy panty hose.
My booty is asleep. Time to walk around. If one more nasty disgusting person yawns, coughs, or sneezes without covering his or her mouth, I am going to punch him or her right in the teeth. The end.
Because my dad is a pilot, people have this dumb idea that I get to ride through security in a golden golf cart and that flight attendants throw rose pedals on the ground as I walk through the airplane. I sit in first class with a mimosa and a plate of caviar and I never have to show anyone my ID. Bulllllll sheeeeeeet. In reality, most of my traveling has been a lot like being one of those low class folks on the Titanic, being shoved around like cattle with the commoners, getting frisked every five seconds by some pervy TSA agent, and having to take my shoes off and on a million times. Not a fan.
I am watching a 200 pound black woman stuff her face full of Burger King French fries at 8:30 in the morning, talk on her cell phone, and pick crap out of her teeth with her long silver fingernails. She is now licking her thumbs. The lady next to her is an 85 year old red headed lady talking at the top of her lungs on her cell phone. She is wearing a full length fur coat. It matches her hair. Maybe her hair is a wig made from the bottom of her coat. Recyclable alterations?
I was at the airport last night and had to deal with all sorts of shenanigans. Last night feels like a million years ago. I see some of the same people who got bumped last night waiting here with me. They got bumped this morning, too. I effing hate getting bumped. First of all, there were about 30 million Asian people with little carts, running around, bumping into me, stopping in the middle of the walkways, and blocking all entrances. Fire hazardous, rude punks. I almost punched one of them. Normally I am pretty understanding about cultural differences, but after driving around in the rain, never finding adequate parking, cutting my date short, rushing around trying to get everything done, I was fed up. Last night I just was not in the mood to be Carl Rogers. Or Mr. Rogers. Mr. Carl Rogers? I had this mentor party the other day, and my mentee’s mom told me that she went on a trip to Singapore a few years ago. She told me that the people over there had never seen a black woman before, so they stared at her everywhere she went. She told me she wanted to scream at someone by the end of her trip. I felt very empathetic all of a sudden.
Last night I waited with the lady who was the guidance counselor in “10 Things I hate about You.” Apparently she has some TV celebrity daughter, too, because people kept coming up and talking to her and telling her how wonderful the “season finale” was and they kept getting their pictures taken with her. I am all of a sudden completely irritated with “famous” people. They are just people who do their jobs. Why is that a big deal? I don’t get it. I saw Scary Spice last week. She was nice. I didn’t go up and throw up all over her and try to kiss her butt, though. I don’t get it. People are just people. Why do we make them more than that? Anyway, despite my night of madness, I did have one perk. Some crazy lady sitting across from me kept saying all kinds of crazy funny stuff. One of her monologues was as follows:
“My husband, he be downstairs. My daughter, she work for da Fed Ex in Muuurmphis. Well, one time I done got on the plane with my son. This here’s my son. Say hello, Josh. Make Diego say hello, too.” (Diego the Latino doll waves hello)
“Well, I had done been on the plane one time and they had pulled me OFF. I mean they pulled me RIGHT OFF. And you know the whole time it was my dumb husband’s fault. He downstairs. I kept sayin to him, I says, ‘We gotsta go! We gotsta go!’ and he did nothin’ but crap around. You know how they do. They just crap around.”
I want to make sure that everyone who reads this knows that this was her exact conversation with me and I am in no way fabricating. She was quite possibly the highlight of my week.
This morning I woke up at 4 AM. I am not even remotely conscious. I got bumped and watched about 10 other paying passengers curse out the gate agent, who was a little Asian woman named Sook. Poor old Sook. Some crazy Mexican lady kept yelling in Sook’s face. Imagine this: two four foot tall women, both from other countries, neither of them can speak English well, both yelling at each other and grabbing each other by the arms in complete frustration. Pushy pushy pushy. I thought I was going to have to referee. Instead I just sat there, watching them, trying to figure out how either of them wasn’t wearing a house arrest anklet.
So, crazy Mexican lady comes and sits down by me after her encounter with Sook. I had no idea what she said. I understood about 5%. She begins to tell me,
“My dwah-ter, she works in da Meemphees. You whaaant, you whaaant coffee?”
I tell her no thanks on the coffee.
“I get for you. I take you for coffee. You whaaant, you whant tea?”
No thanks, Lady. She is wearing platform sneakers and bright blue Princess Diana eyeliner.
“You come whiiiiiith me. We get coffee toghhhhether.”
I have to make a phone call.
I called my mom. Then I decided that I was pretty darn hungry. I ditched Crazy Martinez and went to one of those restaurants in the airport that charges you about 30 dollars for a hamburger that tastes like it’s made out of a skunk.
Of course, I end up sitting in the white trash section. This very homely white family sitting next to me looks like they were in the cast of 8 Mile. This woman is all lumpy and obnoxious and is wearing a scrunchy. A SCRUNCHY. They stopped making those in 1994, so who knows how she got this thing. She has a little raggety kid sitting next to her. He’s about 4. Her other son is about 8 and he’s dressed all trashy, too. The dad is sitting next to the 8 year old and he has a terribly vacant, middle-aged look on his face. You know, that face that says, “Man, when I first married this woman, I had no idea that 10 years later she’d be wearing a scrunchy and have a FUPA (Fat Upper Pubic Area).” Anyway, Dad keeps leaving every few minutes because his wife is such a moron. There’s a baby in a stroller parked next to the table.
The kids are super annoying. Especially at 7 in the morning. Kicking the table, smacking their food, getting their disgusting germs all over the place. I almost got up and threw my scalding coffee on the stupid mom’s face. She kept allowing the little 4 year old boy to be obnoxious. She’s laugh and coo all over him and hug him until his face was purple, but when the 8 year old boy would try to do the same obnoxious stuff, she’d yell at him and show her teeth like a German shepherd. It was apparent that big brother wanted the same love that little brother got, but when he tried the same tactics, he was reprimanded.
HOLY CRAP: NEWS FLASH. I am watching this man board the airplane. He is wearing black sandals with black socks, wearing black jeans, is wearing a Southwestern print Hawaiian style shirt, and this is the best part: HE HAS A SIR-LANCE-A-LOT HAIRCUT THAT IS HAIR SPRAYED LIKE SNAP-ON LEGO HAIR. This is magical. Seriously. His hair is stiff as it can be and looks like he could take it off in one piece. It is like a little mini mullet with bangs. Glorious.
Now, back to the white trash encounter. I heard scrunchy mc scruncherton say this to her son:
“You are getting on my nerves. There is no point in spending thousands of dollars on a vacation if I can’t have fun. You are keeping me from having fun. I can’t handle it. You better start acting right. You know how to act right- you go to school, don’t you? DON’T YOU? You better make sure that mommy starts having fun so that she isn’t wasting all of this money on this vacation.”
Let’s decode the family injunction:
Don’t be a little boy; don’t act like your brother. I don’t love you because you aren’t as cute as your little brother. Little brother is my favorite child. You are a complete doofus and I hate you. Love, Scrunchy Mom.
I hate that crap. You can’t be inconsistent with kids like that. It makes ‘em all crazy when they get older, and they spend their whole lives trying to figure out what’s “wrong” with them. I wanted to just say, “Kid, your mom is a total B-word, and if you just do exactly OPPOSITE of everything she says, you’ll turn out juuuuust fine.”
Plus if you’re such a tight wad that you can’t just enjoy your time together on your family vacation, heck, don’t take a vacation. Stay at home and keep on living your same old white trash life. Eat some ho-hos and watch Mama’s Family all day.
Stupid idiot.
The trailer park family got up and left. I was finally left alone in my immediate section, with an older guy and a young guy sitting to my left a few tables over. They were gawking at me. I gave them a hateful look.
The old guy says to me,
“We weren’t staring at you. I was staring at the picture above your head.”
“Suuuuuuuuuure.” I said.
Then he proceeded to leave his seat, come inspect the picture above my head, and tell me a bunch of weird info about this car that was in the frame, and how there was a movie made about this car, and the plot had to do with the car going across Route 66, and the police chased him all across the U.S., and blah blah blah. When I realized what a dork he was, I also realized that the guy definitely was not lying. He was staring at the car, and not me. Shwew.
So now I’m sitting on the floor of the LAX airport, trying to avoid the crazy Mexican lady who is talking on her cell phone and popping her gum.
There is also this obnoxious red headed two year old running through the airport screaming and acting like a little twit. I want to throw him on the jet way.
I think that I am exhausted. I’m tired as all get out. YIKES! I just saw the scariest woman ever. Her face had so much plastic surgery that it looked like she sucked a balloon over her face and she was inhaling. SCARY SCARY STUFF.
Anyway, I’m exhausted because I got 4 hours of sleep, I just finished finals a week ago, I partied like crazy on Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday, and the rest of the week I have been wrapping up work, job hunting, figuring out bills, etc.
I want to be rich so I can buy plane tickets like a normal white American person and not have to ride standby with all of the Titanic cattle.
Maybe there is an upside. Maybe because I have slept so little, I will be able to sleep tonight, for once, without the help of any sleep aids. Two nights ago I couldn’t sleep and I was watching Fight Club on cable. I started watching at the part where Jack says,
“You wake up in LAX, JFK, Dallas Fort Worth. Gain an hour, lose an hour. If you wake up in a different time, in a different place, are you a different person?”
Good question. I have felt all incoherent and weird like that recently because I have slept so little and I’ve been so edgy. It’s rough. Plus my skin is a nightmare. I have the complexion of a brick. I get all stressed and I have constellations all over my face. Rough, rough, rough. The stuff about acne just being an accessory of puberty is a big fat lie.
I think I am going to wrap this up and play with my Ipod.
I’m at a point now where it isn’t even worth trying to go back home. I hate Memphis. My whole life goal has been to escape. Now that I’m out, I really would be fine if I never went back ever again. I miss my sister and my cat. I miss a few of my friends. I do miss the culture sometimes, but right now, this whole ordeal just is not worth it. Gain an hour, lose an hour.
Right now I am listening to this flight attendant tell this mom about this kid who had an asthma attack on the plane. She’s going on and on and on. The kid looks like a fruit cake. He’s standing here in this dorky outfit and he talks like a little goofus. Way to really not live up the “kid with Asthma” stereotype, kid. Apparently this kid had an allergy or something and the mom clearly does NOT CARE but I think that the flight attendant is worried about getting sued, so she keeps talking about how they got a doctor to tend to the kid’s needs and he was very helpful and blablablabbla.
These airport people. They’re crazy.
Last night there was this lady in a full length sweater coat, a long purple and black wig, a big sparkly costume jewelry ring on every finger, big gold-rimmed Elvis glasses on her nose, red lace panty hoes, some black house shoes, and some sort of weird outfit underneath the knit sweater coat. Oh yes, she also had shoulder pads the size of Montana. She’s here again today. And she is wearing bright red lipstick. It matches her lacy panty hose.
My booty is asleep. Time to walk around. If one more nasty disgusting person yawns, coughs, or sneezes without covering his or her mouth, I am going to punch him or her right in the teeth. The end.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep, and you're never really awake.
Right now my insomnia is kicking my butt big time. I haven't even tried to go to sleep yet. I get more frustrated lying in bed thinking about stupid things than I do staying awake and piddling, so here I am, blogging away. I feel like I have not recovered after finals. I turned in my last paper early just because my hair kept falling out in big chunks and I was afraid that my heart might stop beating in my sleep. What did I do today? I worked my arss off. I didn't even get that awesome post-finals recovery day where you sleep in until 1PM and eat Chunky Monkey out of the carton and watch cartoons until you are finally motivated enough to put on some deodorant.
One of my clients killed me tonight. Her handwriting is less than stellar and she often cannot read what she wrote down hours beforehand. Tonight she said,
"Here are some things that the Chinese invented: gun powder, rockets, fire works, and mimes. Mimes? Those little French guys? Everyone hates them."
I said,
"Honey... I think you mean mines. As in.. land mines. As in... what blew off Lieutenant Dan's legs in 'Nam."
Then at some point, she pooted.
She was mortified. I laughed. Thank God seventh grade only lasts a year. I can't imagine being stuck in that stage for longer than a year. Ha. Can you imagine pooting in front of your therapist when you are always trying to impress her? Poor sweetheart. It was hysterical, though.
The other night I baby sat some kids to earn a little extra Christmas cash. I hate being broke. Anyway, they were good kids, but at the beginning of the night when they told me their dog "climbed up the ladder onto the roof and ate all of our food and fell onto the ground and its skull cracked open and there was blood and brains everywhere," I knew I'd be dealing with some interesting experiences.
All I know is that I went to the bathroom, left the kids alone for like two minutes, and found them jumping on the bed, buck naked, singing "The Farmer and the Dell" at the top of their lungs. They were also singing along to some creepy kids CD, so there was this deafening chorus of Disney-esque kids singing in the background. Unbelievable.
They also called me Tiffany non stop. Somehow, "Rachel" was far too complicated. Their last babysitter was named Tiffany, so apparently, my name is, also.
I called my grandmother the other night and she told me that "now is the time in my life where I should be getting married." I am really glad that I moved to LA. In the South (I speak for Memphis and Baton Rouge, anyhow), if you're a woman and you aren't married by the time you're 22, you're a haggard old bag of crap who will resort to teaching school, having lots of cats, and watching "MaMa's Family" every day at 4. It's nice, because in LA, you meet people who are well into their 30's who are not married, have never been married, and aren't on the lurch to get married. It's refreshing. People are out doing things with themselves; pursuing education, pursuing jobs, traveling, being creative. It takes a lot of pressure off. I just said, "Thanks, MeMaw. If I meet Mr. Right any time soon, I'll let you know." I highly doubt that Mr. Right will walk along in the near future. Thank God. Other people's obnoxious habits drive me flippin nuts. Cultural differences. Blows my mind.
On Monday I was telling my boss that I suck at multiple choice tests because I always factor in exceptions. I always think, "It's probably A. Unless such-and-such happens, and then the answer is B. But if THIS happened, C could work. It's D. Unless ___ goes down." I just suck at them. I am a global thinker. I imagine the possibilities. I look at things and see what they can become, not what they are. So then she says,
"That's because you're a democrat."
What?
"You're a democrat. You look at all of the options. Republicans are so rigid and believe in one right and one wrong. We aren't like that, we look at all of the options, and that's why we have it so hard."
I hate it when people make assumptions. We all do it, to some degree, but it irritates me. I am far from a democrat. I don't even know what the H I am these days, but democrat, I am not. I am also all about an absolute right and wrong. I have a pretty strong moral compass. I don't believe in situational ethics. Anyway, I just sat there with a blank face. I didn't even care anymore. I get so burned out on people just assuming that I am this or that, but I guess me being so irritated can help me be more sensitive about not making assumptions about others. Aw. Big hug. Life lessons, by Jack Handy.
Ramble ramble ramble. WHY CAN'T I JUST GET TIRED?!
I keep looking on craigslist (my vice) and these ads for insomnia keep popping up. Maybe I should check it out. Kind of like those people who take phin-phin and almost die and wind up driving Bentleys. Or like that guy in office space who got hit by the truck and won all of that cash money in the lawsuit. Actually, it wouldn't be like that at all. But anyway.
I'm gonna go give sleeping the good ole' college try. Might be back to blog again soon if the REM cycle falls through. Ciao for now.
One of my clients killed me tonight. Her handwriting is less than stellar and she often cannot read what she wrote down hours beforehand. Tonight she said,
"Here are some things that the Chinese invented: gun powder, rockets, fire works, and mimes. Mimes? Those little French guys? Everyone hates them."
I said,
"Honey... I think you mean mines. As in.. land mines. As in... what blew off Lieutenant Dan's legs in 'Nam."
Then at some point, she pooted.
She was mortified. I laughed. Thank God seventh grade only lasts a year. I can't imagine being stuck in that stage for longer than a year. Ha. Can you imagine pooting in front of your therapist when you are always trying to impress her? Poor sweetheart. It was hysterical, though.
The other night I baby sat some kids to earn a little extra Christmas cash. I hate being broke. Anyway, they were good kids, but at the beginning of the night when they told me their dog "climbed up the ladder onto the roof and ate all of our food and fell onto the ground and its skull cracked open and there was blood and brains everywhere," I knew I'd be dealing with some interesting experiences.
All I know is that I went to the bathroom, left the kids alone for like two minutes, and found them jumping on the bed, buck naked, singing "The Farmer and the Dell" at the top of their lungs. They were also singing along to some creepy kids CD, so there was this deafening chorus of Disney-esque kids singing in the background. Unbelievable.
They also called me Tiffany non stop. Somehow, "Rachel" was far too complicated. Their last babysitter was named Tiffany, so apparently, my name is, also.
I called my grandmother the other night and she told me that "now is the time in my life where I should be getting married." I am really glad that I moved to LA. In the South (I speak for Memphis and Baton Rouge, anyhow), if you're a woman and you aren't married by the time you're 22, you're a haggard old bag of crap who will resort to teaching school, having lots of cats, and watching "MaMa's Family" every day at 4. It's nice, because in LA, you meet people who are well into their 30's who are not married, have never been married, and aren't on the lurch to get married. It's refreshing. People are out doing things with themselves; pursuing education, pursuing jobs, traveling, being creative. It takes a lot of pressure off. I just said, "Thanks, MeMaw. If I meet Mr. Right any time soon, I'll let you know." I highly doubt that Mr. Right will walk along in the near future. Thank God. Other people's obnoxious habits drive me flippin nuts. Cultural differences. Blows my mind.
On Monday I was telling my boss that I suck at multiple choice tests because I always factor in exceptions. I always think, "It's probably A. Unless such-and-such happens, and then the answer is B. But if THIS happened, C could work. It's D. Unless ___ goes down." I just suck at them. I am a global thinker. I imagine the possibilities. I look at things and see what they can become, not what they are. So then she says,
"That's because you're a democrat."
What?
"You're a democrat. You look at all of the options. Republicans are so rigid and believe in one right and one wrong. We aren't like that, we look at all of the options, and that's why we have it so hard."
I hate it when people make assumptions. We all do it, to some degree, but it irritates me. I am far from a democrat. I don't even know what the H I am these days, but democrat, I am not. I am also all about an absolute right and wrong. I have a pretty strong moral compass. I don't believe in situational ethics. Anyway, I just sat there with a blank face. I didn't even care anymore. I get so burned out on people just assuming that I am this or that, but I guess me being so irritated can help me be more sensitive about not making assumptions about others. Aw. Big hug. Life lessons, by Jack Handy.
Ramble ramble ramble. WHY CAN'T I JUST GET TIRED?!
I keep looking on craigslist (my vice) and these ads for insomnia keep popping up. Maybe I should check it out. Kind of like those people who take phin-phin and almost die and wind up driving Bentleys. Or like that guy in office space who got hit by the truck and won all of that cash money in the lawsuit. Actually, it wouldn't be like that at all. But anyway.
I'm gonna go give sleeping the good ole' college try. Might be back to blog again soon if the REM cycle falls through. Ciao for now.
Monday, December 1, 2008
I am only blogging because I am really mad, and if I don't vent constructively, I'll probably walk up to the next innocent bystander that I see and break his or her jaw without batting an eyelash. I had a group presentation tonight that was an utter failure. Two people in my group really got on my nerves. Both were passive aggressive, ignorant, and lazy. Our presentation was a complete disgrace. I don't do half-ass work. I just don't. I do everything above and beyond because I'm at least half crazy and because I'm a workaholic. This presentation looked like a bunch of strangers met on eharmony, crapped out a PowerPoint, and attempted to make each of their topics mesh. It was a train wreck. Only a few of us took this presentation seriously. I spent ten mother effing hours integrating all of the slides to make this PowerPoint cohesive yesterday. Then, after our Rainman-esque presentation, after two of the members got into a fight in front of the WHOLE flipping class, and the group activity went to hell, our teacher approached us with,
"Where is your four page paper?"
Excuse me? Big red letters in my mind screaming WTF?! Four page paper? Did I just get punked? Ashton Kutcher, please jump out from under my desk with a camera. This is not happening. WHEN THE HELL DID A FOUR PAGE PAPER MAKE ITS WAY ONTO THE SCENE!?!?!?!
So, I am pretty sure that my GPA just got shot to hell and that I might have to check into Alcoholics Anonymous. I might start my bout with alcoholism tomorrow. Tomorrow will be a good day to start drinking. Tonight I am just too unmotivated.
All I wanted to do was come home and cry and drink a gallon of antifreeze. I couldn't cry, though. I am too damn tired. My family was here for the past week over Thanksgiving, and in that time period, somehow it's like I got sucked into this rip-in-time scifi vortex and totally lost track of my regularly scheduled life. I.e., yesterday, I opened my planner and had another WTF?! experience. Finals. Next week. Maybe I should have been a little more ahead on that one. Oh yes, and today I woke up and realized that my rent was due. I need a personal assistant. I'm calling Cousin JoEvelyn to come move in with me. JoEvelyn, my full time p.a.
I shouldn't be typing away about nothing right now. I have forty papers to write and a bunch of anti depressants to snort (I wish). I just can't study anymore right now, though. Just can't do it. This presentation has me so depressed that I can only keep replaying this scene in my mind:
Rachel stands in front of the class and gives her little shpeel. She rocks her section because she's not a slacker. Presentation spirals downward rapidly. Rachel runs through the classroom, clocks every non-participatory group member in the face with brass knuckles, runs for the corner, swings open the door, and starts funneling bourbon.
So right now I have more zits on my face than Oprah has chins. I haven't been this broken out since puberty. Also, I'm down to my last roll of toilet paper, and the thought of going to the grocery store makes me want to puke. AND, I have nothing to eat but frozen Thanksgiving leftovers. Don't get me wrong. This food is freaking good. The only thing is that I haven't been to the gym since Saturday and I don't want to be cramming my face full of casseroles if I'm not working this crap off. I just imagine my arteries being clogged full of mayonnaise. Sick.
The one bit of comic relief of my day came from my third grade client, who proudly told me as I walked in her door,
"I got my wart chopped off my toe today!"
I found this quite hilarious. Something about the complete oblivion that kids portray in the realm of social flirting is awesome to me. Maybe it's because I am sort of like that. I don't really give a crap as to whether or not I'm going to be accepted or rejected by the majority- I'm going to say what I feel like saying.
This is only problematic with men. I have recently reached this verdict. I tell my guy friends that I can't hang out until finals are over, and they flip out. I double book two dates for the same event on accident, they flip out. I try to be logical and explain things in a way that makes sense-- flip out, flip out, flip out. My girl friends are much easier to deal with. I say I can't hang out, they say, cool- call us when you can. Or they say, do I look fat in this? I say yes. Don't buy that. They say, cool, thanks for your honesty. I'm telling you. Life is already difficult. I don't need the additional drama. So I am going to invent a screening instrument that measures the amount of drama that men will bring to my life. If they score a 70 or higher in the passing department, I will schedule limited interactions with them on days when I am feeling generous. If they score below 70, I will pass their information along to some desperate girl in her 40's who is on the prowl for a man and who has no pulse. Some people thrive on that crap.
So. This concludes my venting of the evening. I hope that all people who did not contribute or who acted like complete douche bags in my group get amoebic dysentery during finals, I hope that my face will soon resume to its normal, only partially acne-infested self soon, and I hope that my friends will be low-drama until finals are over so I won't have to shank anyone. The end.
"Where is your four page paper?"
Excuse me? Big red letters in my mind screaming WTF?! Four page paper? Did I just get punked? Ashton Kutcher, please jump out from under my desk with a camera. This is not happening. WHEN THE HELL DID A FOUR PAGE PAPER MAKE ITS WAY ONTO THE SCENE!?!?!?!
So, I am pretty sure that my GPA just got shot to hell and that I might have to check into Alcoholics Anonymous. I might start my bout with alcoholism tomorrow. Tomorrow will be a good day to start drinking. Tonight I am just too unmotivated.
All I wanted to do was come home and cry and drink a gallon of antifreeze. I couldn't cry, though. I am too damn tired. My family was here for the past week over Thanksgiving, and in that time period, somehow it's like I got sucked into this rip-in-time scifi vortex and totally lost track of my regularly scheduled life. I.e., yesterday, I opened my planner and had another WTF?! experience. Finals. Next week. Maybe I should have been a little more ahead on that one. Oh yes, and today I woke up and realized that my rent was due. I need a personal assistant. I'm calling Cousin JoEvelyn to come move in with me. JoEvelyn, my full time p.a.
I shouldn't be typing away about nothing right now. I have forty papers to write and a bunch of anti depressants to snort (I wish). I just can't study anymore right now, though. Just can't do it. This presentation has me so depressed that I can only keep replaying this scene in my mind:
Rachel stands in front of the class and gives her little shpeel. She rocks her section because she's not a slacker. Presentation spirals downward rapidly. Rachel runs through the classroom, clocks every non-participatory group member in the face with brass knuckles, runs for the corner, swings open the door, and starts funneling bourbon.
So right now I have more zits on my face than Oprah has chins. I haven't been this broken out since puberty. Also, I'm down to my last roll of toilet paper, and the thought of going to the grocery store makes me want to puke. AND, I have nothing to eat but frozen Thanksgiving leftovers. Don't get me wrong. This food is freaking good. The only thing is that I haven't been to the gym since Saturday and I don't want to be cramming my face full of casseroles if I'm not working this crap off. I just imagine my arteries being clogged full of mayonnaise. Sick.
The one bit of comic relief of my day came from my third grade client, who proudly told me as I walked in her door,
"I got my wart chopped off my toe today!"
I found this quite hilarious. Something about the complete oblivion that kids portray in the realm of social flirting is awesome to me. Maybe it's because I am sort of like that. I don't really give a crap as to whether or not I'm going to be accepted or rejected by the majority- I'm going to say what I feel like saying.
This is only problematic with men. I have recently reached this verdict. I tell my guy friends that I can't hang out until finals are over, and they flip out. I double book two dates for the same event on accident, they flip out. I try to be logical and explain things in a way that makes sense-- flip out, flip out, flip out. My girl friends are much easier to deal with. I say I can't hang out, they say, cool- call us when you can. Or they say, do I look fat in this? I say yes. Don't buy that. They say, cool, thanks for your honesty. I'm telling you. Life is already difficult. I don't need the additional drama. So I am going to invent a screening instrument that measures the amount of drama that men will bring to my life. If they score a 70 or higher in the passing department, I will schedule limited interactions with them on days when I am feeling generous. If they score below 70, I will pass their information along to some desperate girl in her 40's who is on the prowl for a man and who has no pulse. Some people thrive on that crap.
So. This concludes my venting of the evening. I hope that all people who did not contribute or who acted like complete douche bags in my group get amoebic dysentery during finals, I hope that my face will soon resume to its normal, only partially acne-infested self soon, and I hope that my friends will be low-drama until finals are over so I won't have to shank anyone. The end.
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