My new least favorite airport

Charlotte, congratulations.

You have just surpassed Atlanta Hartsfield as my most-hated airport. (I once had to almost spend the night in the Atlanta airport and I have not forgotten. Luckily I was on the company dime so I was able to get a hotel room and get the hell out of there.)

I just took a trip to Myrtle Beach, and then from there to Charleston. Both my flight there and home included a stop in Charlotte.

On the way there, our flight had three gate changes and then about a two hour delay due to some mechanical issue. Myself and the other unfortunate souls to be on this flight were traipsing around terminal E each time they told us to go somewhere else. It was like musical chairs but with a plane.

Then, on the way back, my flight from Charleston to Charlotte was delayed – first by a half hour and then an hour. As a result I missed my connecting flight and had to wait for the next one. So I had to spend several hours in Charlotte, waiting. I did grab an Auntie Anne’s pretzel dog for dinner, which was the highlight, and they also have Starbucks, so that was another plus. But other than that, it was complete misery.

I tried to kill some time by getting a manicure at the spa but they were booked up until it was almost time for me to board. It was cutting it too close. The spa looked pretty empty to me so I’m not sure who had an appointment, but, so much for that.

The free WiFi was a total joke. The second I connected to it, I couldn’t get anything to work. Not Facebook, not a browser, I couldn’t Tweet. So I switched back to using my data (so I’ll probably have a huge bill this month – thanks, Charlotte).

And last but not least, WHY THE F ARE THERE BATHROOM ATTENDANTS? What service are they performing, exactly? During my stop on the way to Myrtle Beach, the attendant WELCOMED ME to the restroom. Uh, thanks, I guess? I’m just here to pee, not have a four-course meal. And I should tip her for that? Another bathroom attendant handed me a paper towel as I was washing my hands. Something I could have easily done for myself. Not tipping you for that. And the final bathroom attendant I encountered did NOTHING. So please tell me why these people are employed? At least give me a mint, or something like that. Nope. I mean, I guess I’m glad they have jobs or whatever, but seriously, I could stand in a restroom with a tip jar if that’s all it takes to make a little cash on the side.

I was never so glad when the plane took off last night and brought me home.

 

 

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Why do drunk people love me so much?

I went to a concert at House of Blues Friday night. It was an 80’s cover band. I’ve seen them before and I was looking forward to going. I wore some leggings with a long top over them, and almost went for the legwarmers, but I just felt like a fraud when I put them on. Plus my husband wasn’t into dressing up at all. He did put on a Def Leppard t-shirt just to be in the spirit of things, I suppose.

Prior to the concert, I was having dinner in the bar with my hubby. We were sitting at a high top table which afforded a great view of the bar itself, a small stage in which a super cheesy DJ was administering karaoke as well as random contests, all 80’s-themed. I noticed that the people coming in to the bar were not only in costume, but were DRUNK AF. Maybe drunk isn’t even the right word. Crunked? Hammered? Plastered? Fit-shaced? Just horribly, horribly wasted. And I’m not talking about your typical 20-something bar-goer. These were 40 and 50 somethings who obvi can’t hold their liquor anymore because it was 7 p.m. on a Friday night and the concert didn’t even start for two more hours.

So, side note: the DJ asked a trivia question about the song he played and said that anyone who could identify the artist would win tickets to an upcoming show. Within the first note I was like, duh, it’s “Shattered Dreams” by Johnny Hates Jazz. Welp, no one else knew the answer although a few tried. I didn’t even want the tickets but won ’em because, BAM. Everyone must know what 80’s prowess I have.

Had I been with a group of wasted MILFs I might have gone for the karaoke. But I’m still recovering from the plague, and may have mortified my husband, so I withheld. Had I taken the stage, the patrons of the HOB bar would have heard my rendition of “I Can’t Go For That (No Can Do)” by Hall and Oates.

Anyway. Back to this high-top table and the crunked patrons. Now you’d think if you saw a couple sitting at a table together, drinks and food being consumed, that this meant, eh, probably not good candidates to sidle up to and tell your life story to. You’d assume incorrectly. This particularly raucous group was standing at the bar not far from where we were. I looked over at them briefly and one of the gentlemen caught my eye and mouthed the name of the 80’s band, questioningly. I nodded. I guess that was the signal for them to invade us because the next thing I know, this woman, probably about 45, overtook us and in about five minutes, I knew more about her than I know about most of my co-workers who I’ve known for five years. She was BLACKOUT drunk. I saw her in the restroom of the venue maybe an hour later and she had ZERO recognition.

She seemed to really like me. I don’t know why. She was very concerned that I, too, wasn’t drunk. Then she didn’t like that I said I was from Cleveland even though I’m more toward Akron. Then she didn’t like that I said I grew up in the eastern suburbs because she grew up in Lakewood. (East side vs. west side = gangsta shit.) But even after all that, she felt confident enough in me to tell me about her children, where she lives now, the upcoming St. Patrick’s Day parade and the fact that she’s Irish, she went to Catholic school (so did I! Our first thing in common!) and then apologized profusely for how drunk she was. And in the next breath was #sorrynotsorry for being drunk. Oh man, she was a mess. Finally, I’m not sure how, she wandered away from us. Maybe she got bored. Or maybe her attention span was for shit. The next thing I know, she is headed for the karaoke stage. While she didn’t grab the mic, she did provide some strange, non-rhythmic backup dancing to the poor soul who was trying to deliver some Huey Lewis to the people.

Inside the show, I actually tried NOT to stand anywhere near her. I didn’t want to be vomited on, and that chick was definitely headed for Vomitsville. Her group was toward the front of the stage, and I was in the back. About an hour into the show, a large group in the front was escorted out by security. I’m pretty sure it was her group.

I honestly believe that I may have been the only person in the entire venue who was there for the music. It was like a drunken, neon-colored frat party. And yet, the entire time I was watching the show, singing along, nodding my head, etc., I was also thinking: THIS IS THE DREAM. Because it’s always been my dream to be in an 80’s cover band, as long as I’ve been able to play the guitar. And maybe it would play well with my ability to attract drunk people to me. If I was the singer in the band, I would at least be on stage, above the fray, lessening the chance of being barfed on.

I think I’m on to something!

One cough away from the grave.

If you could exhume my Google search history on my phone over the past few days you’d see things such as:

  • vomiting from coughing fit is it normal
  • can you injure your ‘lady bits’ from coughing
  • does codeine cause insomnia
  • Downton Abbey does Carson die (seriously, I was worried during the finale!)
  • coughing rib injury

It’s a good time to be me – and I’m available for parties and bar mitzvahs, too!

I went to the doctor for the second time in a month because of my hacking situation. While I was sitting in the crowded waiting room, I couldn’t help but continue to cough incessantly, albeit politely into my elbow like we’re taught to do these days. And yet, some old crotchety lady still glared at me. Excuse me for being sick at the doctor! At least they didn’t ask me to wear a mask this time – although they probably should have.

After the doctor, I headed to the pharmacy to pick up my antibiotics and inhaler that were prescribed to me. I’m not often home during the day so I don’t get to see the proliferation of old people who are out doing their thang while the world is at work. But at the pharmacy, I was easily the youngest person in the building (non-employee) by about thirty years. I could see my future, and the future has shingles.

Honestly, I’m about over it with this sickness. I don’t think my body can take much more of this. This inhaler is for the birds, too – I mean, I have done my fair share of inhaling back in the day #ifyouknowwhatimean but this thing makes me gag. #thatswhatshesaid

I think I have about 50 coughs left til my body just gives out on me. It’s been nice knowing everyone. Well, most of you.

Oh great! It’s 60 in February! STFU

Everyone here in my part of the US enjoyed unseasonably warm temps yesterday. Myself included. I took the dog for a walk back on some trails behind our city hall, which was enjoyable for exactly one minute before my foot plunged into a muddy hole, drenching it in ice-cold melted snowy muddy mixture of awfulness. The rest of the walk involved me not loving the squishing sensation that was happening in my left Skecher.

But it was great to see the snow melt and have the windows open, even if for a fleeting few hours. Everyone was posting pictures of what outdoor activities they were into yesterday. It was awesome.

Until my body was all like, “um, we’re in winter mode here and you can’t be throwing this spring shit in here all willy-nilly like and then expect me to not erupt into some kind of violent mucus thing!”

Yeah. It went there. So last night at dinner I noticed that I was getting this frog in my throat. No, I wasn’t eating frog legs. On the drive home, it was getting worse. I basically couldn’t get through a sentence without having to “het-hem” at least twice. I popped a Zicam when I got home but it was too late.

So today I feel like shit. This is the price I pay for going sled riding on Tuesday, and wearing short sleeves with my car window rolled down on Saturday. I no longer want to see any warm days until Mother Nature is ready to commit to them on the regular. This little tease of warmth has just screwed me up royally.

But I hope you all enjoyed it.

#ParentingFails

Most days I am an ok parent. I’d give myself like a B minus. I’m not knocking it out of the park, but I’m not Child Services material either.

My kids are growing up way too fast. With YouTube and Instagram and basically anything they can find on an iPad, they know stuff that I didn’t know until I was a little bit older. My 10 year old was looking up songs he liked and watching the videos on YouTube. I wasn’t comfortable with some of the things he was seeing – mainly gratuitous instances of the Twerk. So I thought, ok, he just wants to listen to the song … I’ll turn him on to Spotify. I installed the app on his iPad, helped him set up a playlist of his faves, and that problem was solved. Well, except for the occasional f-bomb and questionable lyric in some of the songs he chose.

Then the 6 year old wanted Spotify on HIS iPad. I let him access my account rather than set one up for him. I helped him pick songs and created a special playlist just for his stuff. He was satisfied, and I went into the kitchen to do something domestic, while the boys remained in the adjacent living room.

Maybe 30 seconds later, the following song BLASTS from the living room, off my 6 year old’s iPad:

“THIS SUMMER’S GONNA HURT LIKE A MOTHA FUCKA”

“FUCKA”

#ParentingFail

And by the way, I’m STILL mad at Maroon 5 for even producing that piece of garbage. You’re better than that, Adam Levine. And … other band members also in Maroon 5…

Watch Me

I try to stay hip to the music they’re listening to. So I thought it would be hilarious one evening when I retrieved a container of Cool Whip from the fridge if I put on a little performance.

My boys were watching TV or, more likely, something inappropriate on their iPads, when I leapt into the living room holding said container of whipped dessert topping. I thrust the container out with my left hand. “Now watch me WHIP,” I said. “Now watch me Nae Nae!” And did the requisite Nae Nae move.

They both gave me a blank, horrified stare and definitely didn’t appreciate the mom humor.

#ParentingFail

This just makes sense

Finally, trying to keep these kids clean is a chore. Especially when evening sports activities suck up some of our at-home time. This week we had a tournament that was a half-hour drive away. We basically had time to get home around 6, everyone change clothes, and run back out the door.

They didn’t get a chance to shower Wednesday night because of this. Then during the day Thursday we found out we were playing again that evening. They go to my in-laws after school so I called in a favor and asked if they could shower over there before the game. The only problem was they didn’t have a change of clothes so they would have to put their dirty clothes back on. I figured they could change when we got home … but when we got home that evening, we were in such a rush,  I forgot.

Therefore, they had on dirty underwear on Friday. It was basically going on three days old at that point. So I told my 10 year old to put on a clean pair. His response? “I’m about to fart, so …”

To which I said: “Well fart in the dirty ones and then put the clean ones on!”

I thought that was solid advice. #ParentingWin

Application to be a youth basketball referee

After witnessing what had to have been the worst ref in the entire history of youth sports officiate my son’s 5th grade game today, I have to wonder what the job application looks like for someone to become a ref. Side note: if I am ever arrested, it is definitely going to be for assaulting a ref at one of my kids’ games.

I happened to get my hands on the job application and I thought I’d share it with you, so you can see the screening process is quite thorough.

JOB APPLICATION FOR REFEREE FOR YOUTH SPORTS

  1. State your name
  2. Did you just say “your name” out loud? a) I said my actual name b) no c)yes
  3. Do you currently have a pulse? a) yes b) no c) how do I check?
  4. Do you wear glasses/contacts? a) yes b) no c) I am legally blind
  5. What is your level of education? a) high school grad/GED b) college c) raised in a barn
  6. What color is a basketball?
  7. Identify the basketball in the following photos:

baseball.jpgbasketballsoccer

8. Do you know how to blow a whistle?

 

 

Seriously, that is it! That’s all you need to do to apply to be a ref for youth basketball. Makes sense now, huh?

Please … pray for my family

I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the easiest person to live with. And that’s on a good day. I’m moody, I fatigue easily, and when I’m home, I usually just want to be left alone. Not usually an achievable goal with two kids and four animals and a husband hanging around all the time.

When you start layering on other circumstances, the situation becomes more dire.

Right now, I’m completely down for the count with a cold. Two nights ago I took cold medicine and the stupid-ass stuff kept me up all night. Like, zero sleep. Then I went to the drugstore and got other cold medicine. Tried to go to bed at 10, and was still up and wired at 1. I did finally settle down and slept like a rock after that, but I was facing the prospect of being up all night two nights in a row. I shudder to think what would have happened then.

Layer on top of that, the fact that I went to the dentist earlier in the week and got some temporary crowns put in. I had no idea until I set foot in the dentist’s office that I was getting temporaries. This is my first crown experience so I just assumed they did the whole thing. Nope – temporaries – and they’re in the front. So I can’t bite anything with my front teeth for two weeks until I get the real ones. It’s one whole piece, so if the temporary crown comes out, I will be looking like I just walked out of the Avery salvage yard up in Manitowoc County (that’s a Making a Murderer reference for you who aren’t in the know).

This wouldn’t be a big deal except I’m diabetic so my food choices are already limited.

Layer on top of that, I just hurt my foot when I clumsily walked into the kitchen cabinet coming around the corner. I think my little toe might be broken.

Honestly, I could not be more of a train wreck right now if I tried. So I ask you to please keep my family in your prayers over the next few days. They will need all the good thoughts they can get.

Feeding the Sloth

Everyone has that one co-worker. That guy (or gal) who is just too weird for words, who you try to tell your relatives about but they just don’t get it unless they work there, too. At the three jobs I’ve had in my adult life, none stand out as much as Jim.

Words that could describe Jim: cantankerous, crotchety, bipolar, sensitive, clumsy, caring, intelligent, old-school. He did PR at my first job, and he was well in his 40s when I joined the team fresh out of dropping out of law school. He initially saw me (and anyone under the age of 35 who knew how to use a computer) as a threat, but he and I grew to be allies when the going got weird at our company.

There are so many stories I could tell about Jim, and someday I will tell them all. Like the two times he got stuck in the elevator. When he got locked in the men’s restroom. When he broke my boss’ kid’s clay sculpture. When he went on-air on our local news channel and the anchor got his name wrong.

But today, I want to talk about the time when he got to feed a sloth.

There’s a movie coming out soon, or maybe it’s out already, I don’t know, but I saw a preview for it when I went to see Star Wars: The Force Awakens. It’s an animated film and the preview featured these sloths working at the DMV and working uber slow. Which is funny because it’s the DMV and it’s slow there. #amIright

I wasn’t there to personally witness Jim feeding the sloths, but my former boss was, and hopefully I can do it just a little bit of justice.

My company had forged some kind of corporate deal with the city zoo where we sponsored the daily animal show or something like that. So a few of the hot shots in my company got to go to the zoo and get a behind-the-scenes tour of the place. My boss went, and brought Jim along because he was the PR guy.

One of the cool, behind-the-scenes things they did was have a close encounter with a tree sloth. The thing was just hanging out in a tree and being slothlike, which is to say, not really moving. The zookeeper or whoever asked if they all wanted to try feeding it. They provided a demonstration of how to feed it by slowly holding your hand out to the sloth, containing the yam or carrot or whatever the hell they fed it. The sloth would then slowly reach out and gingerly remove the yam or carrot from your hand, bring it slowly to its mouth, and slowly eat it. Boom. Easy.

A VP does it. Hand held out, sloth hand slowly came, took food, slowly ate.

My boss does it. Hand held out, sloth hand slowly came, took food, slowly ate.

Jim’s turn. I don’t know if he just freaked out or wasn’t paying attention, but they hand him the yam and he just basically tosses it on the floor in the sloth’s enclosure. Everybody stands there in awkward silence, like, WTF just happened. Even the sloth is like, dude, whaaaaaat???

But that was Jim … awkward AF. He’s still around. He’s retired now, playing golf and probably doing other odd things. I see him once in a while when a group of us get together for dinner and we usually recount some of these moments once we’ve had a few drinks. I don’t know if I’ll ever work with someone as eccentric as him, or someone who could provide as many stories as Jim has.

People Whose Christmas Decorations are Still Up

It shouldn’t surprise you by now that I hate Christmas. OK, not entirely true, but I despise enough of the things about Christmas that I qualify for Grinch status.

One of the things I hate about Christmas is the fact that people put their decorations up in like mid-August these days and don’t take them down until the ides of March. In my house, if I catch wind that the boys want to put the tree up, and the calendar doesn’t read “December,” all hell breaks loose. Even the first week of December is a touchy subject for me. If there’s snow on the ground and you happen to catch me in the right mood, I *might* go for it. Then again, I might not.

December 11, 12, thereabouts, begins to be an acceptable timeframe to put up the tree. It’s a huge hassle for me to have to move furniture and have my living room be all cluttered and claustrophobic-like, so that is the impetus behind why I delay it for as long as humanly possible.

On the flip side, my tree is down by New Year’s Eve. If it were up to me, it would be taken down on December 26, but I realize my kids like to savor the holiday and admire their gifts under the tree.

If my husband isn’t lazy in a particular year and puts up outdoor lights, he better have them down by this timeframe, as well. They sure as hell aren’t getting turned on once the calendar flips to the new year.

So it boggles my mind, no, REALLY it does, when I am driving around on a day like today, January 11th, and people are still at it with the lights. We’re a good three weeks out now. I’ve worked a full week in the new year and it sure doesn’t feel like Christmas anymore. Therefore, everyone should also be done with it! Can someone explain to me why people still have their lights up? Is it laziness? Some other light-decorating holiday in January I’m not aware of? Honestly. I get so irritated when I’m driving at night and the street is all lit up like I’m in the goddamn Vegas Strip. If I’m feeling especially passive aggressive, I will YELL AT THE HOUSE. That’s right, I yell at a building. “Take down your lights! It’s not even Christmas anymore!” I yell in my most irritated tone. Give it everything I’ve got. It makes me feel better but doesn’t do a lick of good because they’re still up the next time I drive by.

Anyone else feel particularly ticked off by this or am I just in a special category of grump all by myself?

A few words about my yoga class

I know I’ve written about yoga before, about hating the Ohm. I stand by that.

This morning I attended a yoga workshop and noticed a few things, good and bad, that I wanted to share. Keep in mind that if you are a yoga person, some of this might offend you. Let it go.

First, a bit of the good. I take quite a bit of personal satisfaction when I am able to do moves that the younger yogis in my class cannot. Today’s exhibit: holding a plank for a long fucking time. Boom. I saw you go down on your knees, little twentysomething. Although it was NYE last night and you probably had a few drinks so you’re not at your best right now. Still. My planking is superior to your planking!

Also, I’m ok with the inverse of this. When there’s an older woman who just totally schools me in class. It gives me hope that I will be spry in my older age.

Now, a bit of the bad. People who grunt in class. I want to throat punch them SO HARD. This one woman, she was older, probably a hippie back in her glory days, grunted and make pleasure sounds for almost EVERY MOVE that we did in class. How am I supposed to find inner peace if you’re over there having an orgasm every 30 seconds?

Yoga pants that are basically see-through. Not that I’m looking, but if I can see your panties through your yoga pants, you need either a longer shirt, or you need thicker yoga pants.

People who show off. It’s great that you can do a full headstand or whatever, or crow that moves into a headstand, but if we’re not doing that pose, then there’s no need for you to be doing whatever show-offy thing you’re doing. Happy for you that you’re advanced in your yoga practice, but the rest of us are struggling and we all hate you.

People who invade your personal space. Yes, I know sometimes there’s not much room to maneuver in those classrooms. But if you’re flailing your arms around then please try to contain it to your mat. If you’re constantly knocking into me I’m going to probably turn around and clock you in the face. Namaste.

People with less-than-perfect hygiene. Someone near me smelled like what I can only describe nicely as “ass.” It was more of a “feminine odor” if you catch my drift. It was so bad that at one point, when hunkered down in child’s pose, I tried to sniff out the situation to make sure it wasn’t me. Yeah, just enjoy that visual for a minute. It happened. It wasn’t me, but the scent was distracting enough that it kept me wondering.

I know yoga is supposed to be a time of quiet reflection, where you try to free your mind and find peace. But these kind of things distract the hell out of me and make me cranky. I’m trying to be a better person and it just brings all the nasty in me right to the forefront.

I know I’m not the only one. I caught the eye of a woman across the room who was glaring at the orgasm lady. WE ARE IN THIS TOGETHER, SISTER, is what I tried to convey with my eyes.

Do you find these same kinds of distractions in your yoga practice? How do you overcome them? Obviously I need a way to rise above, because it ain’t workin’ so far.