Make sure your volume is up! 🙂
Here is a tale for those of you who enjoy laughing at my outrageously awkward and/or painful adventures.
Whether it’s me unknowingly showering in and drinking from my mom’s douche bag as a child, or being tortured by sadistic massage therapists or having the buzz muff, Lord knows I’ve given you all much reason to laugh at me. But I’m good with that. 😉
Here’s the latest saga. May you revel in my misery…
I flew to Boston a couple of weeks ago. Got there just fine. All was good.
Then, I flew home on Monday. Ummmm…let’s just say that the travel home was not quite as enjoyable.
So, I get to the airport and get in line to check in. I go up to the counter and start the process of getting my boarding pass. While the chick is typing away, I get a call on my phone that my flight has been delayed. You’d think the chick at the counter who was checking me in would have mentioned that because the delay was so long that it was going to make me miss my connection in Charlotte.
Since she didn’t think it was important, I brought it up. She said, “Oh, yeah, I didn’t even notice that.” Great. Just great. I asked if she could get me on another flight and she said she could get me on an American flight into Chicago (I was originally booked on American–shittiest airline on Planet Earth), and then from Chicago to Phoenix would be on United.
Works for me, as long as I can get home at some point in the next 12 hours.
Then, she tells me that the flight to Chicago is also delayed but only by 30 minutes, so I should still have about an hour between flights…no big deal. I’m good.
I head off to security, and though I’m wearing scrub pants like nurses wear with no zippers, buttons, or anything other than cotton, I set off some kind of terrorist alert in security. Apparently, whatever I’m smuggling into the Boston Airport is in my girlie parts and needs to be investigated thoroughly.
The TSA chick tells me what she’s going to have to do to me and I was like, “That’s fine. Do what you need to do.” I’m not one to begrudge TSA for keeping us safe.
Alas, I had NO idea that I was about to get a near-gynecological exam in front of EVERY DAMN PERSON IN THE FRIGGIN’ AIRPORT. People literally stood there, dumbfounded, as she pretty much checked me so intimately that she knows how close a shave I have in my nether regions.
The other TSA agents, and every person within 50 feet, stood there staring, mouths agape, while she felt me up like a randy teenager in the backseat of my 1973 Buick LeSabre.
When she finally finished getting to 3rd base, and everyone else finished plowing through every item in my suitcase (panties included!), and after I was tested for bomb residue, I walked over to collect my things and look up the number for the Rape Crisis line. Of course, one of the TSA guys (not a bad looking fellow to make matters worse!) was standing there looking at me with a shit-eating grin. I laughed and said that normally I get paid for things like that…especially if there’s an audience.
Gotta keep a good sense of humor, right?? Good grief…
Next time, I’m going through security like Vince:
Then I grab some grub, call my sissy and have a fun chat about my molestation, and then check to see how long of a delay this flight to Chicago really has. Well, what was a 30-minute delay is now closer to 45, which only leaves me, according to the chick who checked me in, about 45 minutes to deplane, find my new gate at Chicago O’Hare (the biggest friggin’ airport in the world), and board. Time’s a ticking…
Finally, I get my ass on the plane, plop down in one square foot of space and then sit. And sit. And sit some more as the plane goes nowhere. The tarmac becomes our home for another 15 minutes. Now my “making my connection” time is down to 30 minutes and I’m starting to panic a bit. But eh, fuck it. It is what it is and worrying about it isn’t going to make the plane take off any faster.
At last, we are vertical and hit crazy turbulence. So the pilot is going up and down, up and down, trying to find us a pocket of air that wasn’t so rough. But what does that do? Keeps us in the air longer. The clock is now down to 20 minutes between flights, less so unless I’m the very first person off the plane (not gonna happen), and I realize there is no way in Hell I’m going to make my connection. Ugh.
When we finally start our descent the guy I’d been chatting with says that he thinks I actually have a little over an hour. Turns out the chick who checked me in didn’t account for the time zones. Well thank God and pass the gravy! I’m getting home tonight! Woo hoo!
By the time we land and my ass gets off the plane, I have 15 minutes until my connecting flight starts boarding, so I know I’m gonna have to run. Now, I don’t really consider myself a “runner” in real life. Only when a herd of dog-sized spiders are chasing me or they are giving away samples of Ben & Jerry’s. But that night? I was gonna be flying through the terminal, heart attack be damned!
As I get off the plane I ask the flight attendant if she can direct me to the United terminal. She says, “Sure thing! Walk WAAAAAAY down that direction and when you get to the Chili’s, turn right and walk about 4 blocks.” Holy moly! How in the hell am I going to make it? But I was a determined lass and I broke into a dauntless run.
I get all the way there (by now I’m on the edge of death) and see my flight number at the gate, but… it says the plane is going to Vegas, not Phoenix. WTF? So, I go ask the attendant and she looks at me and says, “Oh honey, you’re screwed. Your plane arrived at a gate at one end of terminal 3. Now you’re at the exact opposite and far end of terminal 3 and you need to be at the very opposite and far end of terminal 1. And your plane takes off in 30 minutes, but they close the doors in 20. You are never going to make it.”
Below is a map of Chicago O’hare, in case you’ve not been there. If you need some way to gauge how far of a walk it is from where I was HORRIBLY AND INCORRECTLY directed to and where I actually needed to be, just note that there is an entire hotel and 4 parking lots in the middle of the airport and that’s not even 1/2 of the distance I need to go.
Black dashed lines indicate the WRONG trek that horrible women sent me on.
Red dashed lines indicate the correct location I needed to get to in Superman-turning-the-clock-back-flying speed.
Can we all say it together? Fuckadoodledoo!
But I’m one determined broad. I like my hubby and miss him and WANT TO GET THE HELL HOME!
So, I break into a run. And I mean a run like Satan is chasing me with the TSA lady from earlier and a fiery speculum with my name on it.
I’m sure after about 100 yards that I’m going into cardiac arrest. Then I figure a stroke isn’t far behind.
I look furiously for one of those “beep beep beep” carts that lug people around. I’m willing to give the driver all the cash I have (and possibly some seriously deviant nookie) for a ride to the farthest ends of the earth. Nope. Not a one to be seen because it’s about 10:10pm at this point and they are all happily at home.
I keep running and running and running, then I finally see one. Hallelujah! When I’m about 15 feet from it, and elderly couple get onto it HEADING THE OTHER DIRECTION, of course.
I keep running. Sweat is pouring off me. I’m beet red in the face, I’m sure. My heart rate is an easy 200 beats per minute and I’m sure that death and a missed flight is my destiny in the next 5 minutes.
I finally get to terminal 1, having no idea that the C gates are at the FAAAAAAR end of terminal 1 after an escalator down, 2 moving walkways (one of which was not working–big shock there), then an escalator up, and then my flight is at almost the very last gate. Of course. So I keep running.
I make it to the gate as they are about to close the door, but I MADE IT YOU FUCKERS! 😉
I get on the plane, now with a splitting headache, heart palpitations and soaking wet. But I’m on a plane and if I stink it up, so be it!
3 and a half hours later, I arrive happily in Phoenix.
But no, this saga is no where near done yet.
The chick next to me in the plane is a very kind and funny flight attendant, lucky for me. So I ask her what terminal we’re landing at. Terminal 2. I’m parked at terminal 4. Of course. So I ask her if she knows how to get to the Sky Train. She groans and says that the Sky Train doesn’t go to terminal 2. I’ll have to hoof it to terminal 3 to catch it. Normally they have little carts that’ll take you there, but since it’s 12:30 at night, there are no carts. Shocking. 😉
So, I go down, get my luggage, dig out my keys and put them in the outer pocket of my travel backpack, snap the pocket shut and start trudging to terminal 3. Oh, and I failed to mention that I was breaking in a new pair of shoes that have a sole so thick and yummy that it’s like walking in soft sand. My calves and thighs were burning so badly that I thought they might spontaneously combust.
I finally get to terminal 3 after a ridiculous amount of cursing and sweating, get on the Sky Train, arrive at terminal 4, walk to the parking garage elevators, go to grab my keys, and the pocket where I put them is unsnapped and the keys are nowhere to be found.
At this point it’s 1:00am. I’ve been up for 21 straight hours, run a marathon, bathed in vat of sweat, died twice and come back to life. And now my keys are missing.
What did I do? Well, I can tell you that I’d lost my sense of humor at this point, so I sat in the floor and cried for 10 minutes. I, and I’m not kidding, can’t recall the last time I cried. It’s got to have been at least a few years. But I just sat there and wept the tears of a child who lost their teddy bear out the car window on a deserted freeway at night. Oh, and I cussed a lot. A LOT.
Finally, I realized that my only options were to retrace my steps or throw myself down a flight of stairs.
So I got up and got moving.
Back through terminal 4.
Back onto the Sky Train, looking in every cabin.
Back through terminal 3.
Back to the hike from terminal 3 to terminal 2 (dragging 40 pounds of suitcase the whole time too!).
Back to baggage claim.
And there my keys were. I must have somehow snagged my backpack’s pocket when I was getting my luggage and they fell out. Thank God they were there.
So then I headed back on the seemingly never-ending trek from terminal 2 to terminal 3.
Got back on the Sky Train to terminal 4.
Got off at terminal 4 and slogged through my puddle of tears on the floor.
Found my car.
Drove my exhausted ass HOME SWEET HOME!
And took out a hit on everyone who’d messed with me that day.
KIDDING! Please don’t send the FBI to my house. It’s kinda messy and I’d be embarrassed. Plus, me no likey prison.
By the time I got home I was so tired and so strung out that I couldn’t fall asleep and was up ’til 5am, so I had to call in sick to work. So, I guess there was one silver lining! Sometimes a girl needs a day off to get some well-earned sleep!
Lord have mercy…what an adventure!
Good news is, I made it home in one piece. Oh, and I got a 90-minute massage the next day to make my poor aching muscles feel better.
Unless you like being molested.
Then I hope for you lots of grabby-ass hands all over your fine self!
Okay, so those of you who know me know that as far a I’m concerned, women never have to “use the bathroom” for anything besides powdering their noses.
I don’t like bathroom talk.
If I could, I’d pretend bathrooms don’t exist.
I don’t wanna know what goes on it one, why I shouldn’t “go in there for 20 minutes” or anything else related to bathroom things. It’s just gross.
You guys have heard me before say that my idea of heaven is that when I die God will let me play with a truckload of non-pooping otters. It’s not heaven if they poop on you.
So, needless to say when I saw the latest Cottonelle ad I almost threw up in my mouth, out of my mouth, on to the cats and all over the floor.
Seriously, don’t we all know the purpose of toilet paper?
Do we really need a commercial where a girl in white pants, who has clearly snorted too much blow, asks a man if he thinks this new TP is so good that he can go commando? (Cause there are just so many new fangled things one can do to TP to make it tons better—ugh, idiots.) And I love that they picked someone with a delightfully cheery British accent…does that somehow make it more proper to discuss your bowels and what they do?? Good Lord…
Anyway, apparently, rippled TP is the first and only difference between having a poopy butt and not having one. Does this mean we’ve all walked around nasty our entire lives until this particular TP? Yay! Saved by new TP! Now I can have a friend or two because I’m not basking in my own glorious filth all day, every day.
While I am loathe to give this gross and disgusting company any publicity, click on Miss Poo’s jolly face to watch the revolting video where, when you get down to it, she’s asking strangers, “Can you wipe your ass well enough to not get filth all over the inside of your pants?” I mean, c’mon people? Really? Is NOTHING SACRED ANYMORE!!!???? Must we talk about mookie stinks making a permanent home on your panties in such graphic and disgusting detail on television???
So, here’s what I vote for.
Below is the kind of TP ad I wanna see (though I’d rather see none at all!).
The TV screen would be all white with a still shot of a roll of pristine TP (and maybe an otter or two) and it would have a voiceover that read:
This TP is not made of razor blades.
This TP will not cause you to bleed, get herpes or go insane.
Use it like you’ve been using TP for decades and it’ll do about the same thing that all others do.
Oh, it’s a little softer, if you like that kind of thing.
Now, go back to your happy life and forget I’ve just spent 15 seconds talking about your ass and its relationship with TP.
Thank you and good night.
That’s all I need to know, dammit!
I need nothing more than that and I’m good.
So can we please just say no to these kinds of ads?
Plus, I’m a Charmin girl anyway.
I had an 11th grade student of mine 100 years ago when I taught high school write a poem about me and my butt being squeezable like Charmin*. Lordy, those kids were wonderfully inappropriate. Anyway, I’ve been a Charmin girl ever since cause it still makes me giggle.
Okay, no more butt talk. I’m out.
*Click here to hear Mr. Whipple yet at women for squeezing the Charmin. 😉
So, I try to never leave the house. I find staying at home keeps me happy and healthy and less stressed. Plus, if I go out then I have to put on makeup and brush my hair…it’s just so much to worry about. Okay, half-kidding here, but seriously, I’ve spent the majority of my life ripping and running about so it’s nice to be able to stay home a fair amount of the time. And today is a perfect example of why I like to remain on my sofa.
I got my hair dyed on Monday. While it looks pretty, it’s not what I wanted it to look like. So I got in my car and drove to Sally Beauty supply. It’s about a 15-20 minute drive, but I figured it was worth the extra time in the car during rush hour to get help from the experts.
I walked into the store and there wasn’t a soul to be seen. I could have robbed the place blind were I so inclined. I said, “Hello,” in a very nice voice and I got a, “Hey,” said back to me. And that was it. I still didn’t see a human anywhere.
So I said, “Can you please help me with some hair color?” She finally comes out of the back room and I explain what I’m looking for (which was a black hair dye with a blue undertone). She said, “I’ve never heard of that. Here use this.” And she hands me bright blue hair dye. I mean solid electric blue hair dye. So I explained I meant blue/black. (Every fuckin’ manufacturer in the world makes it.) She said, “Look, I’ve really got to get back to what I was doing,” and she walks away.
Moments later I hear her say into the phone, “Yeah baby. I’m back (insert grunt here). So, (insert gum smacking noise) what do you want for dinner?”
My head about popped the fuck off. REALLY? REALLY? That’s what kept you from being even slightly friendly or helpful? You are seriously getting paid to essentially tell me to go fuck myself while you sit in the back room, smacking gum and chatting with your boyfriend about dinner? I wanted to go in there and rip her head off and then shove it up her ass. Alas, I just stuffed my pockets full of expensive make-up and left.
KIDDING!!!!! I’m the kind of person who gives money back to the store if they give me a dime too much in change. But I’m telling you, she wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass if I had. What a hideous employee.
Then, on to my next stop: TJMaxx.
I had to return 2 rings. So I get in the return line, wait for almost 10 minutes, get to the front and the very polite girl says, “Oh, you have to go to jewelry to return it.”
Okay, fine. Not her fault and she was nice, so I was polite, thanked her for the help and went to the jewelry department.
Where I wait.
Finally after about 8-9 minutes a girl comes up and asks if she can help. She was very nice and smiley, returned my rings with no problem. And when we were done returning she asked if I wanted to see something else. I told her I’d scoped out a few necklaces and rings I wanted to see and was ready to try them on.
About that time a girl walks up to the counter and the chick who’s helping me turns around and talks to her for about 5 minutes about her shoes. NOT KIDDING at all. For fuck’s sake. Really? I’m sorry your feet aren’t happy. You poor thing. Mine aren’t very happy either standing here waiting on your rude ass.
Then she finished up her very important, “My feet are sore” conversation and I say, “Hi again, can I please try on a few of these rings?” At which point she turns around, walks to the other side of the counter and starts helping people who had just walked up that moment.
Yet again, WHAT THE FUCK????
Now, for those of you who don’t know me well, or only know me via my sass-mouthed blog, you may not know this, but I am polite to a fault. I mean ridiculously polite. I say excuse me when someone rams into me. I’m a please, thank you, you are welcome kind of person. I always say hi. I usually find a way to compliment someone when doing business because it’s nice to see a smile cross their face. So if you are thinking, “Well, maybe you should adjust your attitude, missy!” just know that I never have one in a store. I really am stupid friendly.
As such, I have no clue why people suck so much!!!! When I’ve worked with the public in the past I’ve done my very best to take care of their every need and make them feel respected and appreciated in the process. Is such an attitude unheard of anymore in customer service?
I’m constantly stunned by the lack of giving a shit so many people have about their jobs and the way the treat people while at them.
I don’t know about you, but I’m thankful every day that I have a job. And so I do my damnedest to do it to the very best of my ability, and 90% of the time with a smile on my face. (Trust me, sometimes it is SOOOO hard to keep my sass mouth at bay, but I do because I’m at work and it’s the professional thing to do.)
Might I make a plea to all customer service reps out there (and I’ve been one before, so don’t think I’m being all accusatory and talking out of my ass without understanding how hard of a job it can be): If you don’t like people or can’t fake that you like people–GET ANOTHER FUCKING JOB! There are plenty of jobs where you can sit in a cubicle and not deal with the public. Do that instead.
There is never any reason to be an asshat to someone, especially if they are being nice to you. I understand if someone is treating you like shit that it can be difficult to maintain your cool, but for the rest of us out there that are kind and treat customer service reps with the respect they deserve, can you please at least pretend to do your job?
For those of you who do that grinding job of dealing with the public and still manage to maintain your kindness…THANK YOU! I know it isn’t always easy, but people like me sure appreciate it. 🙂
That’s my rant o’the day!
Whew! That was exhausting!
Oh, and on top of everything my air conditioner died last night and it’s only 95 degrees this week. Ugh. Kill me! 🙂
I hope you guys have a good week.
Just Say No to dickheaded people. 🙂 Hugs! 🙂
Okay, I promised that I’d do another book giveaway and the time is nigh! 😉
You can download to your Kindle, or any other freaking device on earth onto which you can download the Kindle reader, any or ALL of my 3 books (download the reader by clicking HERE).
Last time I did my Kindle giveaway all of the books went to #1 (HOLY SHIT CAKES!) on the Kindle Free Top 100 list (my mom was very proud!). Totally freaking cool! I was quite delighted, to say the least. I have to admit, I wouldn’t complain if that happened again.
If you like any of them, I’d be forever grateful if you’d leave a great review. I’d offer you my first born, but as I’m a childless old bat that would be an empty promise. Will eternal gratitude suffice?
Here are the 5-day freebies, in case you have no clue as to what I spout on and on about. 😉
Anyway, I hope you guys love them–that they make you laugh and help you to have the most joyful lives and happiest taste buds.
Oh, maybe telling you when this is going to happen would be a fine and dandy idea… Duh… Drool…
I picked those days as my dad’s birthday falls during them so it’s kinda a shout out to pops for his birthday. Good grief, I’m a sentimental old fuck. 😉
Love you guys! Enjoy! XOXOXOXO
PS: Tell all your friends to get their free copies too. Who couldn’t use good food and happiness and maybe even some naughty nookie?