Quality Is Overrated
Hi there! Hope you are not looking for something good! Because, I have been a little busy. And apparently, as demonstrated below, I do not have the time for complete sentences. Aren't you psyched?
So basically, here is the short version. And by short version, I mean "now I will go over, in minute detail, the trivial annoyances that have kept me from writing stuff."
It also means, "By the way, I seem to have written this whole thing in the present tense. Seriously, please go read the newspaper. Or a flyer. Or an instruction manual, for God's sake, because this is all I've got and I actually need to get back to work even though it is 11 p.m."
But anyway. Shortish version:
Last week, I go to work, like the little adult I pretend to be. While there, I am informed that I am leaving for Dallas the following day. Dandy.
I catch a 7 a.m. flight to Dallas the next morning. I get to Dallas and I deal with a Crisis, which turns out to be so delightfully crisis-y and compounded that I never actually see my hotel room in Dallas, which allegedly contained (1) a bed, and (2) a shower. Instead, I spend the entire night working in a bitty little office that is quite literally, according to the properties of gravity and physics, too small to contain me, my laptop, and my Delta-approved carry-on bag all at the same time. We take shifts.
It is about sixteen hundred degrees in this office. I am informed that the heat is stuck on high, but that someone is coming to fix it the next day. This does not help me very much.
Also, there is no food. I start chewing on pencils and checking the corners for discarded, hair-covered mints. I am unsuccessful.
The next morning, I arrive at the airport at 5:30 in preparation for my 7 a.m. flight, wearing the same suit that I flew to Dallas in the day before. Only now it is sweatier. In the past 24 hours, I have eaten a total of three peanuts and one half of a slimy, brownish banana that someone located in a breakroom. Everything is closed, and so I prepare to scavenge for unaccompanied children, who I will cook over a spit in a darkened sundries store.
I go through security. I am repeatedly informed, by officious little plastic signs, that I am not allowed to make jokes about bombs. Immediately, all I can think of are a lot of jokes about bombs. There are not very many good jokes about bombs.
I bypass the line of people who are waiting to have their liquids inspected. I feel vaguely superior for having packed no liquids.
Possibly I am a little too cocky about my understanding of the regulations regarding liquids on carry-ons.
Following the x-ray of my bag, I am pulled out of the line, without shoes, and informed that there is a Problem. A very nice man directs me to the holding area for alarming airplane flyers. I have been wearing the same suit for over 30 hours. I smell worse than anybody else, and I am oddly satisfied by that. I plan on using this fact in my defense, as it means that I have obviously not packed any liquid, such as, for example, perfume.
(Or soap, actually. I also have no soap.)
The nice man shakes his head at me. I am informed that I have committed the cardinal offense of bringing lip gloss onto the airplane. Time for beatings.
I am also informed that lip gloss is a regulated item, and is listed on the same page as nunchakus. meat cleavers, and sabers. Also prohibited on this list: cattle prods, throwing stars, and dynamite. I am heartened by the fact that I am reasonably sure that I left my cattle prod at home, but...I mean, you never know! What if I packed it by accident?
Also, in reviewing the list kindly provided by the nice man, all I can think is that this...well, I mean, it's sort of an alarming tableau of kinky. The only way these elements may again be reunited is if they remake Blue Velvet. I think I am funny.
Simultaneously, I think immediately of about fifteen jokes involving lip gloss and bombs. With great effort, I supress.
The nice man starts to go through my bag. I tell him timidly -- as one does when she has no shoes on and her jacket is over there somewhere and so she is in this little camisole shirt thing and she is cold and also possibly a felon -- that I do not wear lip gloss. I am unaware of a lip gloss situation. I am not perpetuating the lip gloss machine! Plus, I do not even own any throwing stars. Basically, what I am saying is, YOU'VE GOT THE WRONG GIRL.
The nice man proceeds to empty the contents of my carry-on. This enables me to see the clean underwear I am not wearing. I sigh.
Nice man sifts through the clothes, and finds my little toiletries bag. He very carefully lifts the bag, as though my lip gloss may detonate at any minute ("Easy, breezy, beautiful, BOOM!"), and sloooooowly unzips the top.
(I am actually all fascinated now, because did someone actually plant lip gloss on my person? That would be...I don't even know. Kind of awesome.)
(I begin imagining a Maybelline Mafia, led by Christy Turlington. They are all armed with eyelash curlers and those white pencils I have no idea what one is supposed to do with. This is sort of pleasing again, and I forget about the underwear problem.)
But I am right smack dab in the middle of the lip gloss problem still, and this is when nice man lets out a little gasp of FOUND IT, and promptly pulls out...a tube of lipstick.
"Lip gloss," he whispers.
"Lipstick," I say. "Which is hard. You know."
He stares, perplexed, at the little tube. And then he opens it, and rolls it on out, and sighs.
"Lipstick!" I say triumphantly, at 6 a.m. and wearing the same suit I have worn for thirty hours. I feel vindicated. I am taking what I can get at this point, and see, I am not a crook, mister nice guy in the vest! I told you I didn't wear lip gloss, you big old non-believer looking out for my well-being!
He continues to stare at the tube. Then he suddenly leans in to me.
"How am I supposed to tell?" he asks in a desperate whisper. "It all looks the same. I've been screening for ten years, but what do I know about makeup? I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT MAKEUP."
"Well, lip gloss is...wetter," I begin, trying to be helpful. But he has other fish to fry.
"And do you know what they have now?" he continues, about two centimeters away from my face. "They have LIQUID EYELINER. PLEASE TELL ME WHY WOMEN NEED LIQUID EYELINER."
"I don't...hi!" I say. "Hi! Actually, can I have my shoes?"
He is not much listening to me.
"Are Prescriptives prescribed?" he demands. "Is that medicine? Because a lady last week told me that Prescriptives makeup was medicine."
I end up spending a good ten minutes with the nice guy in the vest. He has sort of a working knowledge of makeup brands now. I may have made a joke about Wet 'N Wild being an explosive device that magically transported all wearers back to 1985, but fortunately, he overlooked that. Small plastic signs everywhere quivered in horror. And I am officially the lamest little rebel in all of Texas.
Incidentally, I manage to remember that everything is bigger in Texas.
Simultaneously, I opt not to mess with the state.
Probably for these reasons, I am permitted to board the plane. I am sitting in the middle seat of the second-to-last row.
Next to a baby. And I like babies. But this one is mad.
Although I am bone tired, and still have seven zillion more things to do, and have been detained for transporting dangerous cosmetics, I still recognize the fact that I have officially begun living a cliche. I start looking for white people dancing badly/women shopping/men refusing to ask for directions.
The flight attendant, who recognizes me from the previous day, and apparently recognizes the suit -- or smells the desperation coming off of me in waves (smells like feet!) -- offers me a little bottle of vodka from her pocket. It is 7:16 a.m.
The in-flight movie thingy is about Jennifer Anniston's status as a style icon. It involves a lot of pictures of her breasts, plus startling statements about her personal style, such as the time she wore a red dress. "RED HOT!" hollers the little box on the screen. Two minutes later, she is "THE LADY IN RED!" This makes the baby scream. I understand the baby.
I doze off, only to be immediately shaken awake by nice flight attendant with the vodka, who informs me that I am drooling onto the bosoms of the passenger in seat 48F. I am only mildly horrified by this. Passenger in seat 48F, who had explained to me upon take-off that she was "drugged to the gills" and would sleep through the flight, is entirely unconscious, and has not noticed.
I spend a solid ten minutes debating whether it is proper to clean my own drool off of passenger in 48F. I ask myself repeatedly, "What would Jackie O. do?" I finally realize that Jackie O. would not be caught dead in seat 48E.
Watch more of Jennifer Anniston's boobs. A red dress again? What vision!
The baby has a cold. The baby is travelling with his dad. His dad is sleeping. The baby starts sneezing on me. Copiously.
The flight attendant brings me a washcloth, as the entire left side of my body is covered in snot. She wakes the baby's dad and informs him that baby just sneezed up a gallon of sludge. He tells her to mind her own business.
She offers me the vodka again.
I arrive in Atlanta. I pay one hundred million dollars to retrieve my car. I return to the office, smelling like a jock strap and covered in infant snot. I inform my co-workers that I am sexy. They gag reflexively.
I start working, and quickly realize that I cannot find the paperwork I am supposed to have.
I turn my carry-on bag inside out, before realizing that paperwork in question is probably still on the inspection table in the dangerous-flyers section of DFW airport. With a nice guy in a vest.
I see something small and shiny in the bottom of the bag, way over in the corner, half concealed by the stitching. I reach down, wiggle it out, and hold it up in the light.
It is a tube of lip gloss. And it is made by Wet 'N Wild.
Seriously. Where it came from, I do not know. But this is when I decided to go home.
So, now you know where I've been! And clearly, I've been all busy, being a hardcore lip gloss smuggler. They'll never catch me! I'm Wet! 'N I am Wild! I am too wild to spell out the entirety of the word "and." That is pretty damn wild.
I have, actually, done other things as well, including a trip to the mountains with our bestest friends Spam and Cookie (listen, do not blame me for these nicknames, as they were Spam's own creation, and that is only after he was convinced not to refer to his wife as "Turkey," as was apparently the original plan). And we took pictures of leaves there. And we drank some things, and I was sorry I had not collected all those nice little vodka bottles for later.
But unfortunately, I can't go into much detail about all that awesomeness, as I have to do more work now, because I am still busy as all hell. But here are several things I should type before I go back to typing words like "aforementioned" and "heretofore," which are, at this point, dangerously close to becoming part of my regular vocabulary:
1. I have 1,310 emails. I have read about six of them. I swear I will get to it. If it is some sort of email emergency, please just...I don't know. Alert me somehow! Try faxing!
2. Y'all go here and check out the lovely things these talented people are selling for breast cancer awareness month. Each of them is donating some percentage of their sales to breast cancer related charities, and this is obviously very cool. So shop, but feel totally good about it, and everyone wins! Including boobs!
3. I don't actually have a third thing.
Y'all have a good week, and I will try to stop working for a minute and be back with some actual stories about something or other. Until then, nobody mix lip gloss and a cattle prod. Because that sounds a little too wet 'n wild, even for me.