Wurkin' 9 to 5ish

I am currently riding (dragging alongside?) the fitness train again (a ride I may have taken once or twice before). I hopped back on sometime last July when I realized I couldn’t get my ring to come off my finger anymore. Shit happens when a good portion of your day requires deskwork…and also when you’re really into donuts. To counteract this I decided to become super into fitness (so still into donuts, but super into fitness, because this is how we COMPROMISE, OKAY). And by super into, I basically mean during business hours, because I guess that’s all I’ve got in the willpower tank.  

This goes one of two ways.

Way 1: I wake up and bust out a round of high-intensity interval training followed by a breakfast full of words like protein and fiber, further mixed with many green things. I then saunter into work feeling extremely self-satisfied, pretending that every time I open a door, the song “I woke up in beast mode” precedes my entrance like a pro UFC fighter. I barely manage to restrain myself from instagramming some kale while simultaneously informing everyone around me that I busted out a few one-armed burpees before 9 am. #obnoxious

Way 2: I attend a Les Mills GRIT class around 5 pm. If you don’t know what this is, here’s a quick primer: for 30 grueling, non-effing-stop minutes, you do insane things that raise your heart rate to the level of zebra-versus-lion-on-the-open-savannah. For example, sometimes you will have to jump down into a burpee, throw down a pushup, jump back up, then jump into the air until your feet touch your butt. You then continue this series of movements until an entire minute has passed, at which point you are allowed 15 seconds of “rest” until the next move. So I get through 30 minutes of this madness, shake my head like an animal to shed a liter or so of sweat, then walk out the room (that’s right, not out OF the room, but OUT THE ROOM) wearing my bright red face and sweat-soaked shirt like badges. In my world, Fat Joe is busting out the song “All the way up” (you know, from the Mountain Dew commercial) as I walk in slo-mo through the gym, turning heads as I go, occasionally stopping to body check a nearby weight lifter (where does she live? ALL THE WAY UP). In everyone else’s world, there is probably just concern that the girl walking past with a little foam on her mouth might collapse shortly if she doesn’t get that breathing under control. It’s all about perception. 

Whichever of these ways prevails, the overall feeling of badassery reigns supreme until it hits approximately 6:00. From 9 to 5ish I’m declining donuts left and right, popping almonds while I smugly survey all the chumps who ate out for lunch, throwing back blueberries and slathering green peppers in hummus while I jog in place (okay I don't really jog in place). But then the clock hits 6, and to the great satisfaction of the aforementioned chumps (because god knows that people on the exercise plus vegetable train can be annoying af), the beast inside of me awakens. It starts dragging me, step by step by sideways glance, toward the vending machine, the leftover donuts, the velveeta queso across the street from my office.

It. Is. Savage.

I try to be zen about it.

I tell myself: ENOUGH. Your body is a temple. It is the vessel you have been given to live this life and –

Myself interrupts: IT IS A VESSEL FOR GRAVY. FILL IT.

Sometimes I win this battle. Other times I go home and eat a fudge pop smashed up in a bowl with a Reese’s egg on top. Then I might follow that up with some chips. Then maybe I roast a marshmallow peep on top of the gas stove…

Listen. What matters is that my ring comes off my finger now. To celebrate this, I recently took serious advantage of the after-Easter candy sales. I may or may not have been standing at the Walgreens register at 6:30 pm, face still red from GRIT, with 3 bags of discounted chocolate in hand. You win some, you lose some, amirite?

Maladies and medicine

As I always knew would one day happen, Taylor’s renegade ways have gotten him into trouble.

Since we first met, Taylor has called me a conformist because I’m all about the rules. I never enter a situation without making myself fully aware of any associated laws or social customs, and deviation from those things just isn't an option in my world. I apply equal stringency to the rules of the road. I am that person in front of you who immediately brakes upon sighting a yellow traffic light, causing you to wave your fist in anger for not allowing you to blow on through before it hits red. I am that person who goes 47 in a 45 only if I’m feeling frisky – a rare occasion indeed. 

Then there’s Taylor. Taylor makes a point of initiating contact between his car and any unfortunate traffic cone he should find out on the roadways, veering across lanes with a grin on his face while I screech out a safety lecture from the passenger seat. He often issues the following warning beforehand: “Watch out babe, it’s about to get western up in here”.

Traffic cameras have a ball with his antics, sending us neat letters in the mail with pictures of Taylor gleefully gliding through the first few seconds of a red light. This also elicits screechy lectures from yours truly.

Up until this point, Taylor has simply waved off these lectures as nonsense from a card-carrying member of the “fun police”.  But as they say, it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt, and Taylor has indeed been hurt.

While on his way to work a few weeks ago he decided that the extensive line of traffic just wasn’t for him and figured he’d save a little time by passing everyone on the shoulder, a feat he could easily manage on the motorcycle. However, as I could have informed him in any number of my traffic law lectures, this maneuver is quite illegal – and for good reason. Turns out that if you’re riding up the shoulder of the road, obscured by two lanes of stalled traffic, the opposing traffic cannot see and does not expect you to come flying up the road. This is particularly problematic in the case of vehicles attempting to make a left through the waiting cars, which is precisely what was going on approximately 50 feet in front of Taylor. To make a long story short: Taylor flies up road shoulder, car turns left given that the two legal lanes of traffic are not forthcoming, car smacks into Taylor, chaos ensues.

Note that I left the house at the same time as Taylor that morning and watched as he made the decision to pass those cars. I did my normal “tsk-ing” and then returned my attention to some good NPR Trump bashing. Approximately 1 minute later, as the line of traffic began to move, the most terrifying moment of my life thus far occurred. I registered that there was a wreck in my periphery. I spared only a quick glance, avoiding that shameful rubber necking. In that glance however, I registered an awfully familiar motorcycle lying on the road. I froze as an internal battle raged for what felt like hours in which one side was screaming that the bike belonged to Taylor and the other side screamed back that this was an impossibility because this kind of tragedy could not be a thing. Fortunately, before the full impact of possibilities could hit me, my attention was hijacked by an arm waving from the ground. This arm belonged to Taylor, who was amazingly intact and waving me over to him.

According to a traumatized witness: Following an acrobatic flip over the front of his bike (which he has demanded video of from the street cam, and which the cop has promised to send), Taylor apparently crawled to the side of the road and proceeded to throw his helmet in a fit of fury. He was certain his leg was broken and he was piiiiissed.

Though (amazingly) not broken, his leg was in pretty bad shape. His foot required several stitches and along with the leg is temporarily unable to carry out its typical support duties. This means many hours on the couch and several runs of Back to the Future, only the former of which elicits complaints from Taylor and only the latter of which elicits complaints from myself.

This also means extended periods of time dealing with the medical community, a place that appears to be more irritated with Taylor’s accident than he is. Following the initial ER visit we returned out of concern for Taylor’s rapidly swelling appendage. When we reached the point where his toes no longer looked like they had room to expand, I felt it would be prudent to get that checked out. Patrick, the very nice man who got us through that particular visit, asked that we please return in 3 days to make sure all was well. We did so and following a 4.5 hour visit during which Taylor was subjected to everything from 50 blood draws to an ultrasound, we were sent away with a new ACE bandage and what I’m sure is an impressive tab. In that time we spent approximately 5 minutes with a doctor who poked at the newly red and inflamed portion of Taylor’s leg and said, “uh, I don’t think it’s infected…but I guess I can give you antibiotics just in case…”. He is apparently not up to snuff on the antibiotic resistance war currently being waged. Following a not-at-all reassuring shrug, he then informed us that coming to the ER for anything other than a stabbing or a shooting essentially made us a “burden on the system”. Thanks, doc. Just to be clear, you are essentially a burden on the collective sense of humanity.

The Tuesday following this incident we were scheduled for a post-trauma checkup during which Taylor would get his stitches removed. The place responsible for such post-trauma appointments was quite specific about its availability. Our appointment options were Tuesdays between 1 and 3. Sweet, we’ll take Tuesday. Let’s say 2:30. Unfortunately, Delaware ended up receiving 2 inches of snow that day. On this section of the east coast that is just under what would constitute a phone call to FEMA but just enough to shut down the city. No post-trauma checkup for us. This was particularly unfortunate as Taylor’s wound had chosen this day to turn an interesting shade of green. With no primary doctor and no wish to further burden those uncertain souls at the ER, we headed over to see a doc-in-the-box, also known as the minute-clinic, also known as urgent care.

Reluctant as she was to put down her phone for a moment, the receptionist at said minute-clinic checked us in using as few words or facial movements as humanly possible. Once in a room we explained our predicament to a nurse who presumably then explained it to the doctor who would be seeing us.

Said doctor walked into the room and asked to see Taylor’s foot. He proceeded to stand next to the bed impatiently while Taylor struggled to get on it and unwrap his own foot. Doc smiles looked at the foot, turned around, and walked out of the room. He returned a moment later with two sharp instruments and headed for Taylor’s foot. Taylor attempted to pull his foot back and demanded to know if the instruments were clean. Doc smiles said, “yep” and began removing the stitches without another word…and without gloves. Taylor later remarked, “Dude, this isn’t a car, you gotta talk to this thing”. Aptly stated, I thought.

Other interesting points of interaction included the following:

Taylor: “There are 12 stitches to remove, ok?”

Doc Smiles: No response. Runs into problem when one stitch sticks to instrument. Solves problem by wiping instrument on the side of the vinyl bed and proceeding to next stitch.

Upon removing what I’m sure he thought was the last stitch, Doc Smiles starts bandaging the wound back up.

Me: “Whoa. Whoa. Can we talk about this for a second? Are you worried about this festering portion of the wound at all?”

Doc Smiles: “It is definitely infected.” …continues to bandage wound.

Me: “Great, so maybe we talk about that?”

Doc Smiles: “We’re an urgent care. I’ve done about everything I can do, but considering that he’s got this infection while already on antibiotics, that’s a problem.”

Me: “Right, so can I get a suggestion on a plan of action here…?”

Doc Smiles: “The antibiotic probably can’t reach the wound because the blood vessels were probably broken in the impact. Might want to get some IV antibiotics at the ER.”

Me: “So should we just head to the ER then?”

Doc Smiles: “I’ll just prescribe him an antibiotic.”

Me: “…that doesn’t make sense…”

Doc Smiles suddenly bursts into a monologue about the Harley trike he purchased in the 70’s and how hard it was to get around curves. After this he leaves the room and we never see him again.

Nurse pops in a moment later with the prescribed antibiotic that, according to Doc Smiles, will not be effective. In one long monotone sentence she instructs Taylor to take two a day for seven days no matter what and then leaves the room. I poke my head out the door after about 5 minutes and ask if we’re supposed to leave now. Some lady sitting at a computer simply nods and turns away.

So we leave the land of apparent language deficits and head home where I unwrap Taylor’s foot because Doc Smiles has wrapped it so tightly that all of the accident-related blisters have burst. As I get to down to the business of re-wrapping I realize that despite Taylor’s attempt to educate him on the number of stitches he would need to remove, Doc Smiles has left us one, perhaps as a souvenir of our time together. Considering that antibiotics can’t do anything about bacteria on foreign objects (or, ostensibly, on Taylor’s wound??), I grab some tweezers and a tiny pair of scissors from my makeup bag and remove the thing myself. Not to worry - this was followed by a heavy rinse of hydrogen peroxide and, in any case, couldn’t have been worse than Doc Smiles’ vinyl bed assistant.

Attempt #2 with the post-trauma clinic is this coming Tuesday. We so look forward to making more friends in the medical community.

cc

Travels and Tribulations

1. I told Taylor it was a bad idea to take the crypt keeper’s car on a 2400-mile trip.

2. Taylor told me I was afraid of adventure.

3. I said yes, I was in fact afraid of adventure if adventure meant standing on the side of the freeway bathed in the smoke of a busted engine.

4. Taylor said that would not be happening.

5. I heartily disagreed.

Repeat steps one through five each day for the month prior to departure.

Step 6: Become a card-carrying member of the “I told you so” club following five brutal hours stuck in the middle of nowhere Iowa.

Yeah.

You’ll be proud to know that the second I realized what was happening, I closed my eyes and willed myself to be a good person. Not a person who throws things and yells with great fury about her supreme righteousness, but a good person. After a dramatic show of engine smoke and a slow coast to the closest gas station, we sat in silence for a few moments before each exiting the vehicle. I grabbed the furry beings from the backseat and walked around to the front of the car moodily stare at whatever mess was under the hood Taylor had just opened. It wasn’t good. Some kind of liquid was exploding out of some kind of pipe and the look on Taylor’s face was not inspiring hope.

He shook his head and said, “I thought she would make it”. (She? Seriously?)

I shook my head and said, “I didn’t” and left the matter at that while I went off in search of some grass so the furry beings could relieve themselves and I could choke down all the words trying to claw their way out of my mouth.  

Five sweaty hours and a little emergency fund hemorrhaging later, the matter had been mostly resolved.  The car is now in Victor, Iowa awaiting our return with its busted little transmission.  Enterprise, after driving an hour to get us (on top of staying open late for us – I take back every time I’ve said that I hate everyone because I love these people), sent us on our way with a sweet 2016 rental Jeep. They had originally planned to send us on our way in a sweet 2016 Toyota Corolla, in which they came to pick us up, but while driving back to the office it started to have transmission problems. Go figure. Upon crossing into the neighboring state I saw a specialized license plate that said IH8IOWA.

Amen.

So, counting the transmission problems in the first rental car, we were 2 for 2, and they say bad things come in threes, right? I’m generally not one to get worked up over any statement that starts with “they say”, because who is “they”, anyway? In this case, I guess someone who knows what “they’re” talking about, because listen to this:

Once we return to Victor, Iowa we have to drop off the rental car and then somehow tow the crypt keeper’s car (hence forth known as CKC) back to Delaware. We will then also need a vehicle for Taylor to drive while he fixes (and then SELLS) CKC. Thus, we purchased a Chevy Silverado in Idaho Falls. Taylor drove said Chevy Silverado to Island Park to visit family, and then it promptly broke down during the drive back.

My thoughts on this: #@!$%&**@#$%!!!!

My conversation with the dealer about this:

Me (after telling him the harrowing tale of our travels): If there’s any way you can help us out here, I would really appreciate it.

Dealer boss guy: “Yeaaaah. I appreciate the story, but my concern here – “

Me: “You don’t get concerns here. I get concerns. I HAVE concerns. Many of them.”

Dealer boss guy: “Well, it’s just that I have no idea if he was off-roading around up there in Island Park and ignoring some kind of check engine light.”

Me: “Just because he has a very large beard doesn’t mean he goes hillbilly off-roading every chance he gets. Really, the bottom line here is that we bought the truck like 2 days ago, and it would be pretty rude of you to just dump us like this.”

He then offered to tow it back to Idaho Falls for an easy $400 so they could take a look and “see what they could do”.  I said I would have someone with a decent sense of humanity help us tow it for free so he could take a look and “see what he could do”.

So we did that. The next day I get a call from Mike. Mike’s a good guy. He said that when inspecting the truck before purchase, his technician must have missed that an oil line was swinging around all willy nilly under the truck, clamp-less and alone. Thus, when Taylor was “driving around on those rough roads in island park”, it must have hit something and burst or whatever (not quite his words but close enough). I informed him as well that beards don’t equate to constant travel on dirt roads and then asked when we might be getting it back. Apparently, these clamps are in high demand because this phone call took place 4 days ago and we are still quite clamp-less.

Let’s hope they find a clamp or a bread tie or something pretty soon because we have to go home and they are at risk of becoming the next addition to my ever-growing shit list, right after Buicks and the great state of Iowa.

Lastly, since I’m always spreading hate and discontent around here, I’d like to end with two things that are not on my shit list:

1) The lovely people that live in the horrible state of Iowa. They were very helpful in our predicament. I simply hate the actual dirt and rock and corn that constitute that wretched state, the land of my misfortunes.

2) The rental Jeep. Because it has an actual plugin that is keeping my laptop happily humming along while I spread my hate and discontent. Also because it runs…knock on wood.  

Okay. Amen.

On the road again

Taylor and I are once again driving across the country because the convenience of a 4.5-hour plane ride sometimes overwhelms Taylor. Actually, I think it has more to do with how he often says, “If you break down in a car, you break down. If you break down in the air…” he never finishes this sentence, but I get the point. So here we are, gliding past Ohio with a carsick puppy, $40 lost to tolls so far, and 200 miles to go until we reach our first stop in Chicago.

It is worth mentioning that we are gliding along in what Taylor has affectionately termed “the grocery getter” and what my sister and I have less affectionately termed “the grandpa mobile”. It’s a two-decade old Buick Lesabre that Taylor bought for a sweet $750. Once he convinced me that a summer road trip across North America was just what we needed in our lives, I assumed we’d be taking the recently manufactured Subaru Legacy on which I am still making payments. I assumed this because when we went about purchasing a car in Delaware, we chose something with a high enough price tag that we could safely rely on its ability to make a cross-country trip if necessary. Cleary I assumed wrong as I am now enduring the occasional outburstvof “Lesabre life, baby!” from the driver’s seat, or if he’s really feeling excited, a lecture on how I’d never get this kind of smooth suspension in an airplane. I will give it to him that I was able to nap earlier today almost completely horizontal thanks to the space in this boat on wheels. That was pretty comfortable until I woke up to “uh oh” … this was Taylor’s response to the engine light coming on. I guess I looked alarmed because he offered to cover it with tape since that worked well for the ABS brake warning light issue he’d been having earlier in the month. Livin’ the dream, people. We’re livin’ the dream.

I would also like to state that traveling with a puppy is hazardous for your mental health. This is especially true if you hate most people with white-hot intensity are an introvert. I was minding my own business on one of our stops, just letting the puppy stretch his legs, when I was alerted to the presence of another human being by a loud shriek issued somewhere to my left. Five minutes of puppy adoration ensued, followed by 15 minutes of listening to this complete stranger’s entire history of shih tzu ownership. This was interrupted only when I tried to follow the wandering puppy and was told to “let it be, sometimes they need to poop but they have to work it out first”.  At one point I saw Taylor heading my way but then saw him dart into the gas station once he saw my predicament. He hates the babbling of strangers as much as I do and sometimes it’s just every man for his self, no hard feelings. Except that I gave him a good punch to the arm when I finally made it back to the car.

As I was considering the pitfalls of road tripping around in an automotive relic with perilous tolls, sick puppies, and loud strangers, I came across some writing I had done during a plane trip home for Christmas. Reading it made me appreciate almost everything about this road trip because I forgot how much more exposed you are to the masses when traveling by air. On that particular trip I must have been paying a debt to karma or Jesus or whoever is running this show because I could not have hand picked worse people to sit directly behind me. And I’d like to point out that that’s saying something because I think everyone is the worst. Especially when travelling.

It began almost immediately and ended almost never. I sat down and heard some conversation behind me that became difficult to tune out at some point, mostly because I had forgotten my headphones. Somehow these two strangers (henceforth referred to as Bro #1 and Bro #2) had met on this flight and started right off with some deep shit about the philosophical meaning of life, plus what it’s like to shadow dentists in dentist school. It was only after this odd combination that they introduced themselves and shook hands like they had just found themselves at a fricking business meeting.

Here are a couple tidbits that I actually typed as they were being uttered (because how else was I going to survive) with a little commentary from yours truly:

“Oh my God dude, it’s so funny you would mention that, my name used to be so unique that I also knew when someone was talking about or to me!! Now though I sit next to a guy at work with my name – Noah – and he’s like so outgoing and talkative so now people are usually talking about a Noah other than me.”

FASCINATING.

“I firmly believe that only idiots enter the public sphere.”

Well, depending on your definition of public sphere, you could be very wrong or very right. For example, if occupying an airplane full of other people counts as a public sphere, you’re kinda right.

Then, for a minute, there was sweet, sweet silence. But alas, after 30 minutes of blissful quiet, they could stand it no more. Bro #1 sparked up the conversation again with, “Know what’s interesting? We have been conditioned for THOUSANDS of years to angle our heads toward the screen like this” (meaning the TV screen on the back of his seat).

Dude, screens have not even been around for THOUSANDS of years. Stop trying to science. You’re embarrassing.

The next item of business involved a diatribe on the various extractions Bro #1 had experienced in his lifetime. Wisdom teeth…tonsils…you name it and he’s had it extracted. He was also “basically raised in a cult”, used to have severe sleep apnea, studied abroad and took a lot of pictures with the bride and groom of weddings he stumbled across in whatever foreign country he was in (what?) and experienced constant winter nosebleeds as a child (his words exactly: “HUGE streams of blood coming from both nasal passages”) which was eventually corrected with rhinoplasty. Fortunately, his friendly seat mate (also known as Bro #2) was in dental school, which I guess qualified him to administer an on-demand lecture detailing the anatomy of the nose and throat and what the exact culprit of these nosebleeds was likely to be. His final advice: “You gotta let your body do its own thing”. Yeah, I think I’ve read that on an emergency room wall somewhere….the good doctor’s mantra.

More facts about Bro #1: He’s preeeeeety good at his job…like, his boss loves him. He went to three different high schools. He has a commercial driver’s license. He has Netflix and Hulu but he’s thinking about phasing out Hulu. He recently started listening to electronic music. He was flying westward from the east coast because the “girl situation” was getting serious, but not serious enough that he would ever move there permanently (he’s “too free for that”).  He almost got in an argument with his friend recently about file sharing. He “has a moral system that supersedes the laws set by the government”  and thus has a server in the Netherlands that he uses to illegally download movies. He has an “audio file” friend who is part of a subculture that doesn’t believe in music streaming. I don’t know what half  of that even means but here’s my overall assessment of Bro #2: he can talk for almost 4.5 hours straight and I think he’s lying about having any kind of “girl situation”.

As if the bro squad wasn’t enough for one trip, there was the woman in front of me loudly requesting “rocks” for her whiskey as the flight attendant was trying to pour drinks for the passengers 4 seats past her. He does not appear to understand the term “rocks” and she does not appear to be capable of using the lower-class version of the word – i.e. “ice” – so on goes the awkward exchange of “ROCKS, WE JUST NEED SOME ROCKS UP HERE” followed by “I’m sorry, wha…what did you say? What was that? So sorry…” And then, when asked if she would like a receipt for her whiskey, her response: “WHAT? OH, no. We don’t need one of those”. Upon consumption of their four drink orders, Miss rocks and her man promptly proceeded to make out in a dramatic fashion, breaking their lip lock once to discuss New Year’s Eve plans and then again when she passed out on his shoulder. Her male counterpart must have found himself quite bored after this because he then began occupying the time by blatantly digging out the contents of his nose and discarding his findings by absently brushing his fingers over her sleeping head.

So yeah, I’ll take the Lesabre life, carsick puppy and all.

Airline injustice

When it comes to my ability to tolerate plane travel, I’ve really come a long way in the last couple years; I now travel often enough that I can take the ups and downs pretty gracefully. I barely notice my fellow travelers and their beastly children anymore, long lines and pushy people no longer phase me, and I’ve learned to deal with the fact that I always end up next to someone who wants to engage in the most excruciating small talk possible over the course of a 4-hour flight. However, as with all things, there is an end point. Usually in the shape of a brick wall so you can slam your head against it a few times because that shit would feel better than what you’re actually dealing with.  

Over the past few weeks I have traveled enough that if I were infected with some type of contagious disease, half the world would have caught it by now from me specifically. Throughout all of this travel, I have remained calm. I was calm for 8 hours of transatlantic plane time, screaming babies and all. I was calm for the 4 flights that followed that flight within the next week. I was calm when 3 of those flights had me in a plane for a total of 14 hours in one 24-hour period. I was calm in the customs line that would have wrapped around Florida and calm when the customs officer made me unpack my entire bag to satisfy his damn curiosity about the cigars I had purchased in Spain. I was calm both times that my body was adjusting to an 8-hour jetlag. I was calm when I asked my family to endure a 6-hour round trip car ride to get me to the airport and I was calm when I woke up at 6:40 am to start that trip.

Then my calm ran out. I walked up to the digital departure and arrival screen after enduring TSA’s flaw-filled security checks for the 7^th time in three weeks. I found my flight and scanned the line for my gate number. It was then, when I saw the word “cancelled”, scrawled in red where my gate number should have been, that I lost my patience. Pure, unadulterated rage washed over me as I used every last bit of inhibition I possessed to stop myself from falling on the floor and screaming. I WAS IN THE HOME STRETCH AFTER HOURS OF OVERTIME AND SOMEONE JUST STOLE HOME BASE.

Someone was going to pay for this. And by someone I mean many ones and by pay for this I mean unknowingly be the object of my irritation and therefore the subject of my very angrily typed blog. Take that, world.

To begin, this one goes out to the American Airlines representative who picked up the phone when I called about this cancellation, since no one bothered to call me:

Hello, Tasha with American Airlines. Thanks for picking up the phone after 12.5 minutes of your automated system asking me what I wanted without the apparent ability to understand the words “cancelled” or “flight”. Thanks for offering me a “courtesy” replacement flight at 11:59 PM at this timely hour of 11 AM. As much as I’ve come to feel that airports are like home, I think I’ll decline your courteous offer to spend the next 12 hours in the SLC airport waiting for a redeye to Philadelphia. Yes, I am going to stay on this phone until you offer me something earlier. No, I don’t believe you that there are no other options for me. I don’t believe you because I have a laptop, an Internet connection, and Travelocity. I see other flights here. You are giving one of those to me. Also, if I had it my way, you would be calling it an apology flight, not a courtesy flight. Courtesy is giving me first class so I can drink enough free booze to forget this happened. 

...Got a 'courtesy' flight at a more appropriate but still annoyingly delayed time. Felt annoyed for duration of flight despite consumption of peanut butter M&Ms...

To the passenger sitting 3 seats to my left: Hello, sir. I am currently listening to the mind-numbing hum of a Boeing 737 charging through the airways at 400+ miles an hour. The fact that this level of noise is not sufficient enough to mask the sound of your CHEWING from ACROSS THE AISLE is a problem. I’m not entirely sure what the consequences are for murder in the first degree when you’re airborne, but we're about to find out if you don’t put that bag of chips away immediately.

To the child sitting directly in front of me: Hello, small child. Let’s just get this out there: I don’t think you’re cute. I don’t think your antics are charming. I don’t think that you turning around in your seat to stare at me slyly from the corner of your eye is adorable. I also don’t think it is particularly adorable that, after turning to stare at me, you move on to flopping around in your seat like a hooked fish, causing everything on my tray table, which is attached to the back of your chair, to go flying. On the contrary, it makes me want to lock you in the bathroom for the duration of the flight. No, I don’t want to see the app you are using that teaches you how to put make-up on Barbie’s face. Do a puzzle or something. Actually, I don’t care what you do, just stop involving me in it.  If you are under the age of 18 and you aren’t related to me, I can’t be responsible for my actions if you annoy me any further. I don’t have the energy to muster tolerance for other people’s ratchety little monsters, society be damned.

To the mother of the child sitting behind me: It’s cute that your child is only sitting behind me because you decided you needed some extra room for your bags or your other kid or something and so, midflight, you banished him to the vacant seat behind mine. I am super happy watching you nap right now while your kid kicks my seat and yells so loud that I can’t hear Nelly rapping St. Louis gold through my headphones (which I initiated in order to drown out the chip chomper on my left, thank you very much). This just in from someone who has never raised a child: I think you’re doing it wrong. So there.

To the flight attendants: CAN’T YOU SEE THAT I AM IN A BRATTY CHILD SANDWICH HERE? FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, STOP GIVING THEM SODA.

To the passenger next to me: Staaaaaahhhhp asking me about my life. It makes me feel like I have to ask you about your life, and I don’t care about your life. I’m sorry about that, but I’m very tired and super annoyed and it’s hard to muster the appropriate facial expressions for your many stories. You are taking up the entire armrest, you can’t have that AND my attention for four hours. Also, I saw you snapchatting during takeoff. If this plane crashes due to your insolent refusal to switch on airplane mode, I’m using your body as a shield.

To American Airlines: Hello, oh titan of industry. You are the worst. If you’re going to ask me for my e-mail, phone number, my first-and-yet-to-be-born child, and everything in between when I purchase a ticket to board your aircraft, the least your lazy butt can do is contact me in some way if you’re going to wake up and decide you don’t want to operate that particular aircraft on the particular day that I paid to be on it. I watched the news, chumps, and the weather was fine.

Also this:

1) You suck for not having snacks on any of your domestic flights. If you’re going to strand me in the airport at this fragile time in my life, I WANT PRETZELS. And Biscoff cookies. Maybe borrow some from Delta.

2) The weird fog that always comes out of your plane’s air conditioning vents makes me uncomfortable.

3) Your tendency to delay, like, 73% of your flights due to “mechanical problems” also makes me very uncomfortable.

 4) Your in-flight WiFi never, ever works.

5) You forced me to put away my laptop JUST when Hotstepper started playing on Itunes, and then you didn’t land the plane for another TWENTY minutes. I cannot abide this nefarious behavior.

That is all.

A match made in heaven

It turns out that in order to be his easy-going, laid back self, Taylor needs me to be my type-A, never-laid-back-about-anything self. I complete him like that. 

I figured this out one day when I was in a really good mood, mostly because I had discovered there was a Taco Bell within a short distance from the apartment. Despite his distaste for east coast fast food, I lured Taylor there with promises of a Grilled Stuft Nacho. I can’t really blame him for hesitating – fast food is a different thing over here than it was in Idaho. The fries are usually cold, the wait generally twice as long, and the employees generally quite cranky. However, I refused to believe that Taco Bell would let me down like that, so off we went. 

When we arrived we walked up to the counter and, after an annoyed glance, the drive-thru girl went back to sweeping. We stood there for a few awkward minutes until another girl walked up and looked at us with a very confused expression. “Are you ready to order?” she asked. I nodded and happily ordered my food, followed by Taylor grumpily requesting a #6. We paid and I went to fill my drink, after which I went in search of Taylor, who had disappeared. I found him standing amongst a bunch of tables, looking disgusted. He went to sit down at a booth and stood back up almost immediately, huffing about how filthy it was.

“I guess we’ll just have to sit at a table”, he grouched. So we sat down at a table, where I quietly sipped on my soda because I wasn’t sure what was happening. Then, after a few silent sips:

“I really wanted to sit at a booth!” Taylor suddenly exclaimed.

“Well, just let me wipe that one off and we can sit there,” I offered.

“No! Look at the floor underneath it, so disgusting”, he responded.

We sat there quietly for another few minutes until our food came. As I was busily developing a relationship with my Chalupa, I heard Taylor say, “Oh! She is so annoying!” and I followed his gaze to the girl who had taken our order.

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked around my mouthful of happiness.

“I don’t know, she’s just…annoying!” he said again, followed by a vicious bite of his taco.

I was torn between laughter and concern over the fact that Taylor, who never appears to be annoyed by anything, was annoyed at this person he would probably never see again. So I just said, “Be nice, she’s pregnant and probably tired”. He spit out some lettuce and said indignantly, “I’m tired, too!”

Around this time, a group of noisy children was running around the restaurant, treating the tables like gym toys and screaming at the top of their lungs. I wasn’t paying them much mind until they finally left with their parents and Taylor said in a venomous voice, “Why are people allowed to have so many kids?! They’re sucking up all the resources!” and then, as he stared at their retreating figures out the restaurant window, “SEE! That little kid took TWO straws!!”

I was at a loss for words and, again, didn’t want to laugh at him in his fragile state, so I decided my best course of action was to offer him a soothing pat and a bite of my Chalupa.

On the way home he complained bitterly about “east coast potholes” and “east coast fast food” and anything else beginning with the words “east coast”. A few hours later, when Taylor joined me for a workout (that chalupa comes with a price, after all) and Jillian Michaels was screeching, “you better bring some INTENTION to this workout”, Taylor responded, “you better bring some SHUT YOUR MOUTH to it”.

Whilst muddling through my post-workout haze (i.e. laying comatose on the living room floor), I was pondering how weird it was that I was in one of those rare, happy-go-lucky moods at the same time he was in one of those rare, everything sucks moods. Then, in a flash of self-proclaimed brilliance, I popped up off the floor and yelled, “Dear God! This apartment looks like a hurricane hit it! I don’t understand how two people can make such a freaking mess!” followed by a dramatic stomp to the bedroom after snatching up a lone pillow from the couch. Taylor immediately followed me into the bedroom, taking the pillow and placing it nicely on the bed, speaking in soothing tones about how the apartment looked fine. After assuring himself that I was no longer agitated about the state of the apartment, he proceeded to spend the rest of the night happily flipping through TV channels and chattering away about some Facebook post he saw about beards.

So, while Taylor clearly recognizes that ALL THE THINGS are annoying, he appears to be content with the idea that I will attend to the business of actually being annoyed about them. In exchange, he will attend to the business of driving in all the scary places while I wring my hands in the passenger seat. It’s a match made in heaven.

She bad. Well, kind of.

Not only have I driven in east coast traffic, I have driven in east coast traffic Like. A. Boss. Sort of. It went down like this:

(Quick side note: Apparently, Delaware is the most boring place on the east coast, or so I’m told. If you live in Idaho Falls, you are officially living amongst twice the amount of people that I am, but SOMEHOW there are three times the amount of vehicles on the road here. Also, I stand by my previously aired complaint about the excessive number of highways and on-ramps, and would like to add that no one taught Delaware about street signs – they either aren’t labeled, are labeled with ten different names, or have ridiculous names like “Purgatory Swamp”…how fitting.)

But like I said, it went down like this:

Myself and another graduate student decided we should go to the gym after spending our afternoon in my office picking through a large box of chocolates. She decided I was going to drive so I could find my way to the gym from that point forward – after all, I had eaten way more chocolates than she had. So we piled into my car and ventured out into the 5:00 traffic. We arrived at the gym about an hour later, way too late for the Body Combat class we had intended to attend. We looked around for a second at all the other exercise options available and then piled back into my car to head home. I was extremely frazzled after enduring all the traffic and, even though I like this friend of mine very much, she doesn’t really have the qualities I look for in a co-pilot. If you are the directing passenger in my vehicle, I rely on you to tell me which lane I need to be in at least two miles before it’s time to turn. My friend decided to tell me I was in the wrong lane for an upcoming right turn approximately three seconds before I needed to take it. I was pretty annoyed about that but decided I could switch lanes quickly enough since there were only three cars coming up on my right. So I flipped on my blinker while screeching at the other cars to hurry the eff up. The first two cars wisely heeded my advice. The third car, however, inexplicably stopped in the middle of the road, right before the exact spot that I would need to be turning. The cars behind me started laying on their horns and my cortisol levels were exploding. “GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY”, I screamed, my arms waving around frantically. Meanwhile, my passenger was squeaking, “It’s okay! It’s okay! Just go straight and we’ll come back around!”, which I was ignoring because I had been in the car in this insane traffic for long enough as it was and this idiot in the car next to me wasn’t going to sentence me to another unnecessary five minutes. So, I put my gas pedal to the floor, swung the car in a wide arc around this moron, and successfully turned (there is some argument as to whether that turn was executed on two wheels or four) onto the street I needed, all while managing to throw a dirty look into his or her headlights as our faces passed through the beams. “Bam, east coast”, I thought, feeling pretty impressed with myself, all the while imagining how I would go home next time with a little street cred to flip around. My friend however, was not impressed at all, and beyond insisting that I almost plowed over some unfortunate pedestrian on the crosswalk, didn’t speak much after her screams subsided. I felt that she was over-dramatizing the situation but allowed her to do so since I imagine she will volunteer to drive if we ever go anywhere together again. I’ll check with her on that when we’re back on speaking terms.

Despite this self-proclaimed roadway success, I am still absolutely refusing to drive in places like Philadelphia. In fact, through a series of very complicated events, I recently found myself alone in Philadelphia with my car. This is a place where it is normal to see cars PARKED in TURN LANES and on SIDEWALKS because they’ve run out of room. A place where drivers scream and honk and spin cookies in intersections…or maybe they’re just pulling off a quick U-turn…either way, I simply cannot function in such a lawless society and only got back home because someone drove the 45 miles to Philadelphia with someone else who then drove me and my car 45 miles back home. It was traumatizing. Don’t worry Idaho – I’m representing over here.