Egg Salad & Feet

I don't know what it is about me and planes.

Although, I must admit since I've been flying Southwest, I have had minimal issues with the exception of the guy that was shouting to Jesus every time we hit turbulence and kept trying to make a cell phone call from the plane.  That was oddly amusing.  This flight was not.

Yesterday, I veered off the Southwest plan, and I'm not sure when I will do that again.

I have a hard time with goodbyes, I always have.  So after my sister and I literally wrestled over me leaving her money, I gave her a HUGE tear-filled hug and went to check in.

No curbside check-in.  (Groan.)
Kiosk #1.  Not working.
Kiosk #2.  Slow.

All the while I'm watching the bag drop line grow, and grow.  Anxiety is starting to set in.  Frontier had a line with 96 people in it (yes - i counted) and 4 people to handle those people.  I might miss my flight!  So I finally conquered Kiosk #2, and RAN into line.

I got through in 29 minutes, which was long enough.

Now to get through security.  I looked down and saw an atrium packed full of mice winding their way through a gigantic maze - which had to be at least an hour.  Thank God for precheck, but even that line was long.  Then a security agent who had wings on her back and was donning a glowing halo told me if I was flying Frontier, there was no wait across the bridge.

WONDERFUL!

What she didn't tell me was that I'd be hoofing it across the bridge, over the river, through the woods, and be halfway to Colorado Springs by the time I finished.  At at the end of that rainbow, no precheck.

Lovely.

I've become snobbishly accustomed to not having to remove my shoes & laptop - and the one trip I bring a laptop, is the one trip I have to dig it out.
Still, I'm in trooper mode.  I got this.

I make it to the gate on time, tears have subsided, and now I'm just waiting to board the plane.  Since they already started boarding, I was in no hurry to stand in another long line, so I sat down and waited as I recovered from my arduous trek.

As the line shortened, I observed a mom with not one but THREE screaming toddlers (poor thing) hovering the way I was.  That alone was incentive for me to get up and get in line as I did not want ANY part of that.

As I make my way to Row 2 - middle seat I survey my neighbors with whom I will be sitting close to for the next 3 hours (I'm not a middle seat fan, but I'm preassigned and I got one with bonus leg room that others paid for).  Common courtesy tells you when someone arrives in your row donning a big ass backpack, that the person in the aisle stand up and let them in.  The lady in the aisle never got that memo, and that would become increasingly and abundantly clear throughout the flight.  Since she refused to stand up, I tried to gingerly sneak past her as she half-heartedly tucked her knees in, but I still ended up whapping her in the face with my backpack.
She immediately made a noise that sounded like I hit her with a truck and grabbed her mouth like I ruined her face for life.  "I'm so sorry!", said I, as I continued to negotiate the removal of said backpack with her still comfortably seated.  "Are you okay?" I inquired, worried I would have to summon a team of medics to address whatever her issue was.
"I'm fine," she mumbled, clearly not happy about the situation.  I was secretly hoping she would learn a valuable lesson at this point, but would later learn some people are just beyond hope... or courtesy.

As luck would have it, the SAME little old man (Ralph) that sat to my left on the ride TO Denver, was again seated to my left on the ride home.  (What are the chances?!?)  He immediately recognized my frustration with aisle lady, and attempt to assuage my frustration by asking how the visit with my nieces went.  I asked him about the conference he had attended and after a few minutes of exchanging niceties, earbuds went in and I wanted to just take off.  It was then that I noticed my portable battery charger was dead, despite charging it overnight.  Gah.  Must. Use. Phone. Sparingly.

Im pretty sure the last time I changed the time on the watch I was wearing I was in Phoenix, and had since been through three more time zone changes and daylight saving time, so while I can't pay attention to the hour, the minutes are accurate.   But when I looked down, my watch said 40 minutes after.

Wait.

We were supposed to be wheels up at 5:30.  Is my watch wrong?  So I tap Ralph and ask for the time, and he gives me 5:41.  The accordion looking thingy was still attached to the plane.  It was right about then that the flight attendants began to congregate in the front of the plane staring at the door like it was a confusing puzzle.  This was not the reassurance I was looking for...

Still, more time passed and additional personnel continued to come down the accordion thingy and it was clear there was a problem.

It wasn't until panic had spread throughout the plane that the pilot finally came over the P.A. system to tell us there was a problem with the door, but it was being addressed and we should be on our way shortly.

He has an odd definition of "shortly".  To make matters worse, on the flight out, Ralph told me about being on a flight over Kentucky when the door flew off and the oxygen masks dropped and how the pilot did a nosedive to get them to lower altitude... emergency landing... medical clearances... the whole nine yards.  So this was what I thought I would have to be prepared for.  I actually read the emergency guide and listened to the pre flight instructions.   After a lot of disconcerting banging and thumping, the door somehow got closed around 6:15 and we sat there... for another 10 minutes.

As we began to taxi away from the terminal, I noticed all the other planes were in a line for deicing.  Apparently we decided to skip that because we were running behind, but again - I have friends that build airplanes who have said if you ever see ice on the wing, GET OFF THE PLANE.

Perhaps it was better that I was too far forward to inspect the wings, as I'm sure I would have seen something I deemed to be ice.

So, we're finally in the air, and the seat-belt light goes off as we have reached cruising altitude.  Aisle lady decides this was a good time to air out her feet.  It is one thing to kick off your high heels, and another thing altogether to unlace boots that have been suffocating stinky feet for Lord-only-knows how long and let them puppies breathe. In a confined space.  With limited air.

How dare ye assault my snout in such an offensive manner.
Jiminy Christmas.

Do people really not smell their own stink?  Because we were in the 2nd row and I'm pretty sure anyone using the rear lavatory could smell that over even the heftiest number 2 anyone could drop.  So now not only do I have to worry about crashing, now I have to worry about gagging.   Thank goodness it had been hours since I had eaten.

Hold your breath, plug your nose.
I wasn't sure how long I could keep this up, but the watering my eyes were doing on even a half breath led me to stick with the plan.  Do not inhale through your nose.

After about 30 minutes in the air, I did a brief nose check, and I don't know if the stench had evenly coated the whole cabin or what, but it seemed to have dissipated enough where I didn't have to hold my breath.  Still bad, but not gagville, and holding my breath was getting exhausting.

Moments after I was re acclimating to breathing through my nose, the flight attendant came over the air with a reminder not to congregate in the lavatories... or the aisles she added at the end almost as an afterthought to avoid drawing attention to what she was actually saying.
Odd.

Apparently people like to join the mile high club in the mile high city.
I giggled.  I'd just never have the stones for that type of adventure.
But I find it utterly hilarious that someone does.

Well apparently that put ideas in other couples heads, because that announcement would be repeated THREE times throughout the flight.  The line for the bathroom in the front of the plane continued to grow because the rear bathroom was clearly "occupied."  I felt like I was on the airplane version of the Love Boat.

I wanted to turn around and watch the rear lavatory, but that just seemed rude.  Maybe they just wanted a sealed place to escape from the cloud created by aisle lady's feet.  Now that I could understand, as I had contemplated going to the bathroom just to stand there for a breathing break.  I just wasn't convinced the stench wouldn't have breached the door and permeated the lavatory anyway.

Little did I know, it was about to get worse.

Aisle lady was about to strike again.  With a vengeance.  Apparently hearing the flight attendant come around and ask if anyone wanted snacks or drinks (none of which were complimentary) was enough to trigger aisle lady's recollection that she had her own stash of food.  Down her head went, as she dug through her bag and resurfaced with a 8" by 4" by 4" plastic container like the ones you get at a deli when they send you off with a big ass hoagie sandwich.

Except this was no sandwich.

It was egg salad.

OMG.

Anyone that knows me that I abhor, abhor, the smell of a few foods.  Canned tuna, potato salad, coleslaw, and egg salad.  To add to that, I'm a consistency freak.  The noises it makes when you dig your spoon into it make me shiver.

So as she popped the top on that bad boy, I immediately went back into breath-holding mode.  What I couldn't escape, however, was the noises she kept making as she stirred it around and smacked it in her mouth.  Even with my earbuds in I could hear her.  LOUD AND CLEAR.  I kept checking the battery life of my phone, hoping it was a mistake and I could afford to listen to something - anything - while she loudly swirled, sampled and stirred through what appeared to be a half gallon of egg salad.
To make matters worse, she was savoring it.  Like she was eating a delicacy of immense proportions. This was not going to be a quick endeavor.

I somehow managed to quietly gag intermittently without losing any food myself.  I refused to replenish my dehydrated self with water from my bottle out of fear I would lose it as soon as it went down, especially since there were no barf bags in sight.

The pilot somehow managed to only make us 15 minutes late... sort of.   Aisle lady said we must have been speeding.  "Thank God there are no police in the air,"  she quipped, clearly amused at her own wit.
How ironic that statement was... Ralph giggled.

Upon landing, we made our way to the gate, and no one wanted off that plane more than I.  Apparently fate did not have that in the cards for me - or anyone else - anytime soon.

We pulled up to the accordion thingy, and people stood there and looked.  And waited.   And looked.

After 10 minutes the pilot advised us that they were having problems popping the hatch door.
OMG.
I landed safely, and now I'm still going to rot away on this plane.  The lady that popped the emergency door on the plane a few weeks ago started to sound like a reasonable person with a reasonable solution.

Alas, just as the masses began to get really restless, the door popped open.  However, as we have established, aisle lady did not think about others during our 20 minute wait to get off the plane.  Apparently that seemed like an inopportune time to collect her belongings and empty the seat pocket.  So as everyone else was itching to get off the plane, she blocked the aisle with her ass as she packed up her belongings and relaced her boots as if she didn't have to be anywhere for days.

I almost hurdled her, but someone a few rows back said "Jesus lady, you have got to be the rudest, ignorant, most self absorbed passengers I've ever seen... and I travel a lot."  I couldn't help but smile.  Freedom was feet away.  No pun intended.

Perhaps they need to make a brochure on how not to be an asshole passenger.

My next flight will be with Southwest.  If I can help it.

Sidenote: My mom called me while writing this asking what I needed for Christmas. I always say nothing.  She also refuses to read my blog.  If she read it, she'd know I need a new portable charger.   

Hankies are dumb

So... funerals suck enough.
Im about to get ready for another one at the end of this week, which precipitated this rant.

I asked my mom who was coming, and she said she didn't know... but added that people don't like funerals.

NO SHIT.

I don't go because they are "fun."  I go out of respect because no one wants 5 people at their funeral.
And... to support those left behind.  The loved ones.  Who need to know their person was special to others too.

My grandmother's "dying wish" was that I sing at her funeral.  If that wasn't some BS.  It was a hard enough day, and now you want me to sing???  I don't know how I made it through the song but Im sure I sounded awful.

Okay, so back to the story that brought us here.  The first funeral of which I have vivid memories happened my senior year when a friend and classmate killed himself under kind of suspicious circumstances.  It was a shock.  To all of us.

So, there we are, at the funeral, with a bunch of us squeezed into the same pew bawling our heads off.  Im sure we sounded like a gaggle of dying cats for THE ENTIRE SERVICE.  Well I must have looked especially pathetic as I excessively sniffled trying to stifle a full on bawling session, because at some point an older man turned around and offered me his handkerchief.

I gracefully accepted the kind offering, and that was where any modicum of grace ended.

WHAT THE BEJEEZ AM I SUPPOSE TO DO WITH YOUR HANKIE?

Not wanting to be rude, I used the mf...
               ...and it wasn't to coyly dab my eyes.

I was so despondent I wasn't thinking straight and I unloaded a ginormous snot rocket into this man's hankie.   Half the church heard it, I'm sure... including the donor of the cloth snot collecting square.

IT FELT GREAT.  All that pressure that was building over the course of the service had instantly dissipated.

Until I realized what I had actually done.
I had just fully vacated the contents of my entire nasal cavity into a stranger's hankie.
It was actually heavy.  Not so heavy I could throw it into a sock and knock someone out with it, but it was not light.

NOW WHAT ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH DO I DO?
I politely tried to fold it in half a bazillion times in an attempt to contain the volume of God-only-knows-what that I had just unloaded into this poor stranger's hankie.


DO I GIVE IT BACK?
DO I KEEP IT?

I had no idea what to do.  It seemed odd handing this man a handful of snot, but it didn't feel right keeping it either.

I wanted to die.  I wanted to hop in the casket and just hide.

So I did the unthinkable.
I tried to minimize the damage by wiping it on the underside of the pew.  Don't judge.  Im pretty sure God understood in the moment.

It was soaked.

I waved it back and forth under the pew as I sat there trying to dry it out to no avail.  I looked at my friend for help and she had nothing.  She even cracked a smile because I'm sure I had a look of utter horror on my face.

After the service as we followed the casket out, I handed the man back his handkerchief, doing my best to avoid making eye contact.  I would later learn it was the deceased's uncle.  I don't know if that tidbit made it better or worse.

The moral of this story?
HANKIES ARE DUMB.
DON'T ACCEPT HANKIES FROM STRANGERS.

OR CANDY.

Beware: Splash Zone

What is with modern toilets in public spaces???  

Case in point, the new bathrooms at work.  

To give you a little history, they used to not have the strength to swallow a single one-ply square. 

Now they are fully automatic with that sensor thingy that flushes every time you move.   While this solves the horrible problem of people who have an inability to flush, it creates so many more.

Talk about hypersensitivity.  So you walk in the stall, and prepare to line the toilet with paper or a liner.  What you aren't prepared for, however, is while bent over you are about to set the first of many triggered flushes off resulting in a power wash to your face.  Its disgusting.

Someone decided the settings on the flush must be set in jigawatts due to some anticipated need for the capacity to flush a silo worth of shit, because it flushes with so much velocity and thrust it actually escapes the toilet and soaks the floor.  There is no "Do not flush sanitary products" sign, likely because that beast could handle a diaper... pail.

Then, mid-business, it decides you are finished before you’ve barely started and gives you a flush with so much horsepower it’s like a super bidet.    And believe me when I say there is no surprise like that surprise when you are not expecting it.  You feel like Old Faithful just made a cameo appearance in your bathroom stall, yet you don't feel the slightest bit lucky about it. Now you have another problem.  Not only did it sandblast your bits, it also got your cheeks so wet you need a beach towel to dry off.  The problem is, you still haven't done the job you came there to do.  

So now you have to figure out how to dry yourself off without aforementioned beach towel, and without moving enough to tilt the light in a way that would trigger another flush.   Its like being a deer caught in headlights.  Don't. Move. And there will be no problem.

Then comes the dismount.  This is the trickiest part of all.  Because just as you stand you hear the low growl of the incoming flush which is no longer capped by your ass and you know it is about to send water flying through the stall akin to being in the Splash Zone at a Shamu show.     So, pants at your ankles, thighs, it doesn't matter - because you are about to make a dive for the door knowing there is a 6” swath by the door that remains unaffected by the splash and you don’t feel like getting drenched... again.  Nothing like the toilet version of Deepwater Horizon blowing up in your stall, except instead of sending oil into the air with astounding force, its sending your urine flying high into the air.   And your safe zone is hardly accommodating.   Now to escape before the damn thing goes off again when you open the door.  

You feel lucky to escape with your life.  

It’s all ridiculous.

Mamm-O'-Gram

Fun things have dashes.

Tilt-A-Whirl...
Whack-A-Mole...

So when the time came for my first mammogram, and having heard nightmares about how awful they can be, I decided to put my own spin on it as I often do.

Mamm-O-Gram.

Andddddd I say it in a Bob Barker come on down! kind of way.

Kinda sounds like someone is sending boobs through Western Union, but at least it sounded more fun than it was supposed to.  Isn't that the point of life?

So the day of the squish, they tell you to not wear deodorant.  Which I of course forgot about until it was already applied.  So there I am, scrubbing the bejeezus out of my armpits until the skin was raw.

RAW.

Not a good start.

Now, Im not a big sweater (and now it sounds like Im calling myself an item of clothing so let's try this again.)

Now, Im not usually one who over-perspires, but the day you're told you CAN'T wear any you just feel, well, GROSS.  Im pretty sure I was oversniffing my pits.

Upon arrival, they gave me a lovely gown that opens in the front and asked me like 20 times if I wore deodorant.  Okay, now I started freaking out.  Apparently, this is a big deal.   And despite the fact that my armpits were neon red, I couldn't help but think I missed a spot somewhere and the test results were going to run amok.

So I used their industrial strength bleach wipes on already extremely raw skin.  Im pretty sure I cursed like a sailor and made some pretty primal howls as i succumbed to the burning sensation, because when I opened the door everyone was staring at me.  Oh well.

After sitting in awkward silence in a little room with a bunch of other people waiting to get their boobs smooshed, my turn finally came.  As I got up for my turn, I saw the looks of sympathy shot at me as if I was about to walk the Green Mile and never return.


The nurse was super clincal about the whole thing.  I suppose.  She squishes boobs all day.  I think she was happy she had something to work with on my end.   I have NO idea how they do this to flat chested women.

And actually, the first time it was kind of amusing.  Kind of.  The glass is see-through, so you get to watch something you've seen daily for nearly 40 years contorted in a way you've never seen them before.   And geeeeeeez did they look funny.   I giggled more than once, which you could tell was an abnormal reaction by the look on the nurse's face.  I think she was amused at my amusement.

Who knows.  Maybe she was amused by my bright red armpits.   Whatever the case, it was pretty quick and painless and I was on my merry way quicker than a morning drive-thru at McDonald's.

Then the call came.

"We need you to come back in."

Oh. Shit.

My life has impeccable timing.  Every vacation I have ever been on, every dance I have ever been to, good ol' mother nature loves to show up and rain on my parade.   Once again, impeccable timing.  I got the call the day before I was to leave to visit a guy I had recently started seeing in another state.   Gah.   See aforementioned post (if its still up) about the tragedy surrounding that trip.  Some days, you just can't win, and this trip was one to beat the band.

They wanted me to come in as soon as possible, but seeing as how I was boarding a plane the next day and would be 2000 miles away for 5 days, that wasn't going to happen.
Needless to say, I was preoccupied for that trip.

In the back of my head, I kept going over whether or not I was able to successfully remove ALL of the deodorant.  I tried really hard to at least blame the deodorant so I could get through the trip without being too weird.  Weird being a relative term.

Upon returning, I went in for my follow-up.  Back to the squish room I went, and following the re-squish, I went to a room that was weirdly set up.  Noodles and wedges and every shape of foam you could imagine next to a stretcher/bed, which was adjacent to a computer with contraptions galore.

Shit was about to get serious.

Ive never been a flash my boobs person - AT ALL - so having someone basically ask me to walk around without my shirt on really weirded me out.  So she lays me down and wedges me into the most awkward position imaginable.  She then starts with this ultrasound probe thingy and less than 5 seconds in I hear her take a picture.   It literally made a shutter sound.  Immediately following that, she busted out a measuring tape and - using my nipple as home base, measured in the appropriate cardinal direction.  As in, picture is 1.2 inches west-northwest of nipple.  The whole thing was... weird.

63 measurements and 139 pictures later I was certain I was in the end stages of terminal breast cancer and I was going to die.  And yes, I counted.   And tried to read her face.  I do that for a living, so I figured I could get SOMETHING.  But she was goooooooood.

Nothing.  She gave me nothing.

No look of pity, no look of encouragement, NOTHING.

Then she prints out a LONG ASS string of photos, and leaves the room.  Are you effin kidding me?  Not even a "you can cover up now?"

Leaves me there 1/2 naked, convinced I was about to get reallllly bad news and in my head I began thinking of the various courses of treatment.

Fifteen minutes later, the doc came in and said I needed a recheck in 6 months, but for now, all looked "okay".  He explained I have really cysty boobs.  Great!  He made me feel like my boobs were ultra lumpy.  WTF.

But I was good.  For now.
And never again will I try to use Mamm-O'-Gram and Tilt-A-Whirl in the same sentence.

Me and my lumpy boobs will find something better to joke about.

Eff You Valentines Day

Valentines Day used to be one of my favorite holidays.  I don't even know why, since the idiot I've been with for the last 10 years never did shit anyway.  But at least I had a Valentine.

After the ending of a long relationship, the firsts are always the worst.

The first football season alone, the first Christmas alone, and of course the ever dreaded first Valentine's Day alone.

I used to be such a fan of cute, stuffed animals.

Now I find myself walking through Walgreen's and wanting to throat punch EVERY. SINGLE. TEDDY. BEAR.
All 500 of them.

I work in a male dominated field, so this week I get to sit and listen to what everyone is planning to do for and with their wife, girlfriend, and in some cases mistresses. (Don't get me started.)

That's the equivalent of some really bizarre medieval torture to me.  Bleh.

You cannot escape it either.  Its like the event horizon of a black hole.

Case in point:
Today I went to the grocery store.  The flowers were everywhere and for a second I thought I was in a greenhouse not a grocery store.  The highly oversaturated signage a nonstop reminder of a day I would much rather fast forward through.  The sweet smell was overpowering to the point I thought they should have barf buckets supplied at the end of the aisles.  Made me nauseous,

The funny thing is, I am dating someone.
Who lives 2000 miles away.
And probably isn't the Valentine's Day type.

Those are his only two flaws, I swear.  He's amazing.

He's not the type of guy who will ever fly 1/2 way across the country to surprise me*** or do a lot of those things we all see in the movies but rarely, if ever, see in real life.   Romantic men are like unicorns.  The sooner we all accept that, the less delusional we will all be.

And he has to work, anyway.

Not being able to be with the person you really kinda want to be with, makes it all that much worse.

So I will be spending Valentine's Day alone.
Punching teddy bears.

Don't judge me.



*** I stand corrected.  He WILL fly 1/2 way across the country to surprise me.  Or maybe for completely selfish reasons, but I can no longer make the blanket statement of never.

And he's still amazing.

FOR RENT: CAT

Are you sick and tired of being the only person well-rested at work?  Does it make you angry that you consistently get at least 8 hours of sleep every night?

Well say no more.

I have a guaranteed solution to your problem!

For a nominal fee, you can rent this cat!  (I'd offer her for sale, but she's technically not mine, so I gotta work with what I've got.)  She is highly anti-social and anxious, so she will be no trouble during the day.   At night, however, she will make a non-stop screeching noise akin to a rabbit getting killed.

If you've never heard a rabbit getting killed, hit the YouTube and search screaming rabbit...I reckon the getting killed part might be against their terms of service, but you'll get the idea.

Now imagine that on repeat.  For 8-10 hours.    It will make your ears bleed.  You will question your sanity.  You will want to die.

PROBLEM SOLVED!   You can now conform with the rest of your poorly rested co-workers, which will likely end any perkiness that alienated you from them in the first place.  Call it a bonding opportunity over common ground...

Other bonuses to aforementioned cat rental:
* She will find every pair of nice leather shoes you own and claw the living shit out of them in an attempt to sharpen her claws.   I know you're thinking - WAIT, she's not declawed?  No.  I normally do not confess this, but she belongs to a bleeding heart liberal who thought it would be mean to do that to her.   Easy for him to say, it wasn't HIS shoes or furniture she would do Edward Scissorhands impersonations of...   Lucky for you, she has discerning taste & only likes nice shoes.  So if you keep your ratty shit out, you'll be in the clear.

* She is litterbox trained.   However, depending on the length of your desired rental, I must disclose the following:  The little princess will not go in a dirty litterbox.  Anything short of sparkling & pristine will cause the little rat to drop a dolphin right outside the box.  Im pretty sure its her way of saying "Fuck You, Im a Princess."

* She is not fixed.  So if you need any inanimate objects in your house to be grinded on or snuggled with, she is not very picky.  This includes chairs, stuffed animals, bath towels... pretty much anything she can attempt to gain love from.  Disclaimer: This is during both the "heat" and the "preheat" stages.      

*Entertainment value!  She is also apparently a hot commodity in the feline world, because a few of her screeches will have every male cat in the neighborhood outside your door making equally disturbing sounds in an attempt to woo her.  You haven't lived until you've heard a gaggle of male cats singing to a horny she-kitty they wanna tap.  Its quite the orchestra.

* Deterrent!   Have your kids been nagging you about getting a cat?  What a wonderful way to test drive the situation!  Your kids are sure to change their mind after hourly litterbox cleanings for an anti social cat that will not go near them.  She hides so well, sometimes I don't see her for days even when Im looking for her.

* On A Timer!  When you wake up in the morning, disheveled and duffle bags under your eyes looking like the Bride of Chucky because you haven't slept in weeks, she'll retreat to her spot and promptly fall asleep.


Serious inquiries only, please.  Hell, I'll even throw some free nights in for you.  My sleep deprivation has piqued my generosity.   Don't let this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity pass you by!