Posts Tagged ‘Travel’

God hates it when I fly to Denver

Thursday, June 24th, 2010

A TSA employee is the proud owner of two Leathermans thanks to some seriously incompetent customer service on the part of Delta.

The day did not start well. The Fatass, who tends to pee and shit when she’s nervous, did both on Devon’s suitcase on the way to Dad’s house, where we were leaving them for the week. We got to the airport in plenty of time, but that didn’t matter, because Delta kept us on the baggage-check line for an hour because they hate us and want us dead. And because they were letting people cut the line ahead of us and were generally stupid poopy faces, but mostly because they want us dead.

By the time we got to the desk, it was too late to check luggage, so we had to take it through security. We lost $60 in knives because we had to take through a bag that should have been checked — a bag that was ultimately checked by the flight attendant anyway.

I’m gonna hire Wayne Brady to choke a bitch.

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Just Mauied

Friday, April 23rd, 2010
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Those sexy mo fos above are me and Devon, freshly married off the beach and eating a spectacular dinner at Spago at the Four Seasons Hotel. It is one of those places that serves meals in very small servings with very fancy presentations, but we got to try lots of different things, including the best cream of mushroom soup I’ve ever had. Also, chocolate ooze and ice cream, below. The sauce (aka, ooze) took 10 years to perfect and about five minutes to eat. I made that chocolate my bitch.

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Other highlights: SCUBA diving for the first time. It turns out a weight belt and an oxygen tank are FREAKIN’ HEAVY. Add that to sand and a strong wave, and the sky got a great shot of my ass as I flipped over on the beach. No harm done, though. A lot of SCUBA diving was overcoming the very primal fear of drowning, especially when the dive master asked me to remove my mouthpiece underwater and insert his extra mouthpiece, and I was all, “Dick, I need that to breathe. Hell, no.” But they won’t actually let you go any further unless you can overcome the natural terror involved in parting with your only source of oxygen. I got over it and was rewarded with views of pretty coral, fish and sea turtles.

Other activities included ziplining, which involves firing yourself 650 feet in the air at 50 mph in a harness attached to a cable; climbing; hiking; snorkeling; sleeping; and drinking margaritas. Drinking margaritas was very important to us.

We also visited Hana, a remote section of Maui where the roads are only sorta paved and they have trees that look like this.

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We found some guy and his wife living inside, and they told us to have fun storming the castle, but we had things to do, people to see, so we declined.

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Touchdown in Maui

Saturday, April 17th, 2010

Thanks to a couple who missed their plane, we made it to Hawaii. Continental overbooked, but we caught a break at the expense of the misfortune of others. I sit here now listening to the sounds of the Pacific Ocean and drinking a margarita as Devon marinates the fuck out of some chicken for tomorrow’s dinner. I’ll make some brownies later, because this is the sort of stuff we do on vacation.

I wasn’t sure we’d make it. Last Thursday, I spent the night in the ER with Dad, whose colon decided to go rogue and strangle his small intestines. That’s the way colons are sometimes, going bad when you least expect it. Dad survived the surgery and is recovering fairly well, minus part of his colon and sporting a colostomy bag. He had a pacemaker put in today, since he has also developed a heart condition. The time in the hospital is not doing good things for his cognitive function. Most of our travel plans seem to be up in the air until we actually leave.

I spent part of the 10-hour flight falling in love…with Walt Whitman. Few people make me as happy to be alive as Whitman. Dude was actually fired from his day job  for writing Leaves of Grass. People thought he was a big ol’ perv. I’m not a big fan of poetry in general. I spent too much time in college listening to too many emo kids whine about their pain, I guess. But Whitman is the shit, y’all.

We’re getting married on Monday (me and Devon, not me and Walt Whitman), and I’ve suggested Devon run from the crazy lady while he can. He is marinating chicken instead. He can’t say he wasn’t warned.

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Pop Quiz, Hotshot

Thursday, December 24th, 2009

Guess which one of the following items DID NOT make it through airport security.

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If you guessed the box cutter, you should not be working for the TS-Fucking-A.

When we moved into our new apartment, Devon picked up a bunch of box cutters, and I slipped one of them into my purse in case I needed to cut someone someday. I forgot about it completely. This razor blade made it all the way through airport security, while my Japanese Cherry Blossom body lotion did not.

Something ain’t right here.

To be fair, I never get shit stolen confiscated leaving New York — only when trying to navigate Denver International Asshats — so there’s a good chance I would have gotten an anal probe from the TSA Saturday upon my return home.

But do you know what happened as a result of me bringing this deadly weapon onto the airplane? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because I’m an ordinary person trying to get from point A to point B, just like I was the day the TSA protected the world from my overpriced girly products. Just like the vast majority of travelers.

Thank God they remembered to make me take my shoes off. Who knows what could have happened.

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I am disgusting and frighten off commuters

Wednesday, October 7th, 2009

I have a cold.

I know, this is not unprecedented in human history. It isn’t even a bad cold, at least not yet. But my throat is sore and my nose is runny.

A more together woman would have brought tissues on the train, or maybe a nice lace hanky with her monogram in the corner, but I am not one of those women. So I spent the ride sniffling intermittently, which seemed better than letting the snot run down my face and cling to my chin like baby food.

I guess the woman next to me had enough. She said, “Get a tissue! God!” and stormed off to the magical part of the subway car where everyone brings tissues and little plastic bags for proper disposal.

Dear Subway Lady:

I am sorry I was revolting. I did not think to bring a tissue. If it makes you feel any better, I also forgot my lunch bag. I did not mean to have an unplanned-for cold in your presence. A tissue would have been nice. Maybe you could have offered me one, if you had one. That would have been nice, too.

Life in New York City must be very hard for someone with your delicate sensibilities. You are too good for this world.

Love, Tissue-less Dirty Hooker

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My boyfriend is probably a serial killer

Tuesday, December 2nd, 2008

And I’m OK with that. It’s important to support each other’s goals. I just wish he’d be open about it. It’s difficult to build a foundation of trust when one person won’t ‘fess up about where he hides the bodies. He keeps insisting he’s not a serial killer, but he probably just thinks I’ll be mad if I find out.

We blew our way through season 1 of “Dexter,” and he spent a lot of time waxing poetic about collecting hobo fingers. But I don’t think he really kills hobos. That’s just silly. Where would he even find hobos around here? Homeless people in New York don’t actually go anywhere: They just ride the trains up and down the line until they die or are chased off by The Man.
No, I think he kills people who double park. When he has to swerve around someone parked in a lane of traffic, he takes on a kind of killer glow, like neon rage.
Devon, if you’re reading this, it’s totally OK to be a serial killer. You gotta be you.

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The TSA wants me to be a hairy Neanderthal

Monday, December 1st, 2008

That’s the only reason I can think of why they felt the need to confiscate my Bath & Body Works Japanese Cherry Blossom moisturizer and shower gel. These pleasantly scented $8.50 threats to national security made it through LaGuardia, but the folks at Denver International Asshats are obviously on top of their game. Last time it was my lavender-scented shaving gel. Interestingly enough, Devon made it through with a 6-inch-long iron pipe in his backpack.

A fucking iron pipe.

Clearly, the threat of giving everyone a really good scrubdown is more serious than beating the crap out of passengers with a fucking iron pipe.

Did I mention it was made of iron? And that it was a pipe?

Now, before anyone gets all up in my grill about not reading the security regs the TSA so nicely changes every six hours or so, let me say that I don’t question their right to take my shit. When I buy a ticket, I agree to all kinds of nonsense, like boarding the flight fully clothed and leaving my spear gun at home. I question their intelligence in deciding that my moisturizer and shower gel, which were about half empty and, volume-wise, would probably have fit in 3-ounce bottles if I’d had bottles to transfer them into, were a greater threat than a fucking iron pipe. If only I’d thought to bring caps, I could have poured the stuff into the pipe and saved myself about 20 bucks.

I also lost an earring. That’s probably not the TSA’s fault, even though I really, really want it to be.

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