Friday, February 10, 2012

That One From That One Time

So.....I was reading comments, and noticed that I had a blogging I apparently wrote 2 years ago in the drafts folder thingy, and it was so good, I immediately forgot about it and never posted it. ANYWAY, I actually do remember this stupid day in history (just not, ya know....typing about it a whole lot) and it amused me *twist moustache*. So, what the hell. Here's some blog I found from a manic trip home for Christmas, written December 30, 2009. Enjoy.

I was flying out at the crack of dawn on Christmas Eve, so I figured it would be a good idea to go ahead and have 4 seconds of free time in the days preceding to, you know, buy all my Christmas presents and pack clothes to wear that matched. But, everything was packed. Coffee maker was set. I had my boarding pass. I'll just get up at 3:30am, it's only, what, 1 am now? Pssshaw. Grab a quick shower, zip the suitcase big enough to hold a body, and be on my way. La la la, right?

4:15am: wake up to light from phone with ringer off (d'oh!) as the cab company called. Twice. Merry clusterfuck to me!

I am not processing rational thought at this point. Chris, go outside immediately and tell the nice man you're coming. Put clothes on. Drink coffee- wait, no. But it's made, I have to- NONONO! Put it down. What are you doing?! PUT IT DOWN! I run outside and I'm off to the airport, as the cabbie regales me with the rivetting tale of how he was 20 min early because he passed up fares. I love when they do that. You're gonna get tipped, buddy. Christ. If you think you're the first guy to sit in front of my house for no reason, you're wrong. Let's get past this.

I get to the airport, and all is well. Except for my poor friend's flight being delayed. (I had serendipitously ended up in the seat next to my friend on his connecting flight to Pittsburgh from LA, and we were going to ride into town together. Not so much.) I'm heading to security for concourse C, aka: Siberia, and all is clear. Until I round the corner. No worries, iPod is engaged. Here's the thing, I tend to be unaware of the fact that I kinda start dancing when I zone out in line/on the train/on the street/etc. Amy Winehouse was a dark period of time for me in public. It's fairly harmless, but it's hard to explain when you're broken from your reverie by a security guard berrading you for not bringing plasic bags for your potentially dangerous lipgloss. What?! I'm sorry, I can't hear you over this sick ass beat?! I love when airport employees talk to you like you're 4. And for the record, O'Hare is the only airport in the universe that actually enforces the baggie thing, which makes me believe they're just assholes. "O-kaaaay, but next time you have to put everything in a plastic bag, or it'll be taken away." I just offer a sheepish apology and try to look like it's my first time at the rodeo, as I shuffle through security. But the hate burns bright in my chest. I don't think so, missy. Do you think I haven't mastered the art of passive carry-on success? You killed my mot- ok, you didn't. But the the pain of helplessly watching someone in ill-fitting pants absorb my schadenfreude as they throw away my brand new, discontinued Banana Republic body spray will forever be burned in my memory. It has taught me to master the savviness needed to skate by you. It has hardened me. You-1, Me-493. Revenge, it is sweet.

I shake my way to the tunnel to C. If you've never been to O'Hare, this is the techno tunnel. There are random, squiggly, multi-colored lights on the ceiling that mesmerize you as you gently glide through on the moving walkway. I usually underscore accordingly (Thome Yorke's Black Swan is an excellent choice). For a delirious kid like me at 5am, it was divine. Unce! Unce! Unce! Unce! At some point, I figure it's safe to call Pittsburgh and get someone to pick my ass up. I'm not confident in the fact that mother will remember this call ever took place, but I remain hopeful. I'm conscious for about 3 minutes on the plane, then it's curtains until I'm gently lulled awake by a screaming child. I drag myself through the breezeway and head to the tram, taking in the familiar sights with a familiar grain of salt-laden smile. I'm fairly certain the Pittsburgh Intl. Airport is the only place on earth where a statue of Franco Harris and George Washington are next to eachother, signifying equal importance. Immaculate Reception/First President of the United States. Tomato/tomahto, apparently. Directly below them is a skeleton of a Tyrannasauraus Rex. Where the hell am I? After a series of nonsensical attempts at communication, it is determined that my brother just woke up, and I was stuck with the dinosaur and General Washington and a guy that looked like Santa in a tan plaid shirt (again, could've been hallucinating) until he got his shit together. Brilliant. Guess I'll shop.

I thought I was having a bad day, until I saw the chick that has to run The Body Shop kiosk next to baggage claim at 8:30am. Burn. I took pity, and picked out some sympathy hand cream. Upon inquring about the price, I'm told, and I quote, "Well, everything is 50% off with a $5 donation to help stop Somalian sex trafficking!!!"

That is not what I expected to come out of the sincere face of a 90 lbs chick in an elf hat. I stared at her a minute, wondering if, in my delirium, I had possibly misheard her. I had not.

"Do you have to say that all day?"


"Oh. Ok, I'll take it."

I walk away just a bit stunned by the bizarreness of my recent exchange. For the price of a latte, you can save 45 illegal vaginas! MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!! So, mouth agape and head cocked, I do what comes naturally: relay it immediately to choice sick friends. I'd like to share some noteworthy responses:

"Nice. So what's for breakfast?"

"Tough choice- save half off or shut down your pet project..."

"But if they stop sex trafficking, what is Santa gonna bring me for Christmas?"

"Hey, underage prostitutes have to follow the rules of the road, too. I'm glad Somalia is taking its traffic problem seriously."

"What did you buy? And do Somalian sex slaves know it's Christmastime at all?"

"No more Somalian ho ho ho's..."

ANYWAY, after determining that I've just witnessed the worst job in the world, and assuring my cousin I'm bringing her a Somalian prostitute named Nya for Christmas, I'm finally retrieved from the airport. Franco and Washington and sex slaves, Oh my!