I'm not proud of it, but I sure as hell ain't sorry, either

So, when I fly down to the 'ville to visit my parents, I inevitably end up infuriated at the self-important yet moronic TSA employees. I've chronicled this before.

This time, I arrived at the airport a good half hour before my flight left, and as I was approaching the (only) security checkpoint, they said, "You're going to Chicago? Cuz they're waiting for you."

Okay. So, you just told me the airplane is waiting for me. Will you attempt to get me through security in a timely manner?

Stupid question.

Three people checked my ID within earshot/sight of one another. My bags were put through the xray machine twice -- then a severe woman with thinning gray hair took my purse aside and announced, "Ma'am, I'm going to have to take a look through this.

Okay.

The man at the counter to the single gate behind me was announcing final boarding call. I waved at him and said, "Just a minute!' He waved back amiably as this woman went though all the contents of my wallet.

She searched through until she found a tube of lipgloss. Really delicious lipgloss that I can only get in NYC. That Fauxinca bought for me, special.

She said, "Ma'am, you are not going to be able to take this on the plane."

Me: My lipgloss?
Lady: You can take solid lipstick but not gels.
Me: It's under three ounces.
Lady: It must be in a clear, five inch square ziplock bag in order for you to take it on the plane.
Me: Are you kidding?
Lady: THESE ARE THE RULES!
Me: You're being pedantic.
Lady: . . .
Me: Pedantic. That means overly attached to the letter of the rules without respecting their spirit.
Lady: I have to run your bag through the machine again.
Me: Fine.

She brings back a cop.

A cop.

Because my lipstick IS NOT IN A ZIPLOCK.

Lady: Ma'am, as these are not in a ziplock you cannot take them on the plane.
Me: You think I'm going to do harm to my fellow passengers with my lipgloss? The lipgloss that you would let me take IF IT WERE SEALED IN A FLIMSY ZIPLOCK BAG?
Lady: What do you want to do?
Me: I want you to allow me to take my lipgloss.
Cop: (Looks sort of sheepish and ashamed)
Lady: (Looks defiant and possibly considering a citizen's arrest)

We engage in a staredown.

At this point, another security guy pipes in: WE DO NOT HAVE AUTHORITY TO MAKE EXCEPTIONS! THESE ARE THE RULES AS THEY ARE MADE IN WASHINGTON

At this point I shoulder my bag and stomp off indignantly, once again deliriously happy I don't still live in Southern Indiana.

I'm really sorry, Southern Indiana, but, with the exception of Bloomington, I totally hate you.

Now is the time I reflect and learn:

a. TSA is useless and annoying.

b. I know you catch more flies with honey, and I probably could have appealed to this woman's sense of moral superiority and power hungry-ness and flattered her into having mercy on me and giving me my lipgloss. But I really wanted to humiliate her.

I couldn't help myself.

No wonder Southern Indiana hates me back.

Major Milestone?

I just totally forgot how old I am.

I was sitting here?

On the couch?

Thinking about my birthday?

And I couldn't determine whether I was turning 32 or 33.

Seriously.

I honestly could not remember.

I had to do the math, based upon my birth date.

1974?

Oh, phew.

I'm only turning 32.

What does this MEAN?

Oh, god.

Scene From The Lush Counter

I stopped by the Lush counter on my way home from work Monday. Nestled in a corner of Macy's, it's a little oasis of smelly things tended by perky, perky salesgirls. I suspect the cocobutter fumes make them high.

So, I was waiting in line behind a tall, blonde woman with a long black coat. She had a little heart-shaped pin on her lapel and appeared to be in her late forties. Pretty unassuming. She was purchasing some massage oil bars. When I stepped behind her, she turned to me and initiated the following exchange:

Blonde: Oh, what are you getting?
Me: Um, some shampoo?
Blonde: Oh, don't you just love girly things?
Me: Totally.
Blonde: I had some airline stewardesses from American Continental stalking me, and they couldn't understand why I spent money on girly things. They called me a city girl! I think they were jealous. You know?
Me: You had airline stewardesses stalking you?
Blonde: I didn't want to tell you this, but I was raped. By eight airline pilots.
Me: . . .
Blonde: It was terrible. They took turns. And I just think those stewardesses were jealous! They were following me around and taunting me and making fun of me! Because I had nice things and cosmetics! Just don't turn to me and be angry at ME because you chose to be a stewardess and I chose the life of a city girl! Isn't it great being a city girl?
Me: Oh, yeah, totally.
Blonde: So, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but one of the stewardesses, she had both male and female parts. She wanted to live as a woman, but she hated women. That's why the whole thing started.
Me: Um, that's really too bad.
Blonde: I'll never fly American Continental again.
Me: . . .
Blonde (finishing her transaction and walking off): Enjoy your shampoo!

Okay.

That has really stuck with me -- I mean, American Continental? Those are two different airlines, completely.

She must have been crazy, is all I can imagine.

My Calendar

So, if August was the end of summer, and September was the month of airplanes, I suppose I should continue the designations:

Starting with October. Or, rather, mid-October, but let's not split hairs. October is Sober October. Hear that? That's not the sound of fall leaves underfoot. That's the sound of crispy crackly me as my wino-ism dries on out. I figured my liver could use a break, and I could focus on doing things that are not necessarily alcoholic.

Of course, Sober October just began yesterday (I'm on day two of temporary sobriety! Where's my medal?), and tonight I'm meeting my friends for "drinks," so we'll see how that goes.

I'm feeling strong, people. I won't break. Get me some marijuana. . .

Next is November. Luckily, I'll be back on the sauce by then, because guess what? I'll give you a hint, I've declared it over there to the right -- I'm doing NaNoWriMo. That crazy writer thing where you declare that you will write a novel in a month? YEAH! I'm gonna DO IT!

If you're already scoffing at me, you're probably someone who knows me, and you're probably right, but why not shoot for the stars? Or, at least, shoot for an advanced case of carpal tunnel syndrome.

Freud Would Be Super Proud

From my dad, who called to chat --
Dad: Hey! I've got great news!
Me: Yeah? What's that?
Dad: I got my penis scoped!
Me: WAY too much information.
Dad: My kidneys are healthy!
Me: That's all you had to say, man.

Do I have to let him know before I just have my therapist send all his bills straight to him?

Speaking of my therapist (I usually am), the second memorable quote of the morning was from him, as I was ranting about the inexplicably assholish behavior of one of my clients --
DeeP: So, how's your ass?
Me: (Glancing at ass) Huh?
DeeP: 'Cuz you're getting FUCKED in it.
Me: Thanks. So very clinical of you.

UPDATE:
In unrelated, but related (She's a PSYCHOLOGIST, for Christ's sake!), but seriously AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH news:

In court papers, McMahan denies that he ever had a sexual affair with his daughter. But he doesn't explain how his and Linda's DNA turned up on a vibrator that Linda's husband uncovered in her luggage.

I'll probably get excommunicated from the family, but, hell.

Since September 1, I have been on 12 planes, and will get on two more tomorrow morning.

I have been to (or through)8 cities and two countries.

I have been to two weddings, but no funerals.

I have played with numerous babies, cooked many meals, laughed a lot, danced a lot, drank a lot, and didn't take nearly enough pictures.

How on earth do people actually work full time? I am fucking busy, people.

Generally, I try not to write posts like this about blood kin, but this is too good.

The first wedding of the month was in West Virginia. Upon my return I wrote the following email to the second wedding's bride-to-be, Sarah:

---------- Message ----------
From: Me
Date: Sep 25, 2006 11:36 AM
Subject: hey
To: Sarah

happy wedding week!

Are you working this week?

So, right, I was thinking of you a lot this weekend at my cousins
wedding. I was thinking that you might want to incorporate some of
these ideas into your wedding:

- for that sense of excitement, try playing some upbeat music as you
introduce the wedding party -- like Eye of the Tiger

- have your cheesy dj (my other cousin's comment "do you think they
have a special catalog for those wedding dj vests?") kick off the
dining portion of the wedding by announcing that whichever side of the
room screams the loudest will get to go to the buffet table first.
then lead the room in a gigantic screaming match.

- invite my dad, who will refuse to leave his dog at home, then sulk
furiously when I tell him "you cannot bring your dog to the wedding."

- serve beer out of a keg -- self-service style

- have some drunk dudes decide it's a good idea to climb to the roof
and then their hysterical girlfriends can stand outside and scream and
people can cry and generally make a scene

- have your drunk, perma-stoned brother as the best man, then give him
a microphone and let him do a speech. End up turning off his
microphone because he's verbally berating the wedding planner.

(apparently, right before his speech, he was pissing in the bathroom
with my other cousin's boyfriend, and he said: 'I don't have a speech,
yet, I'm gonna wing it. how's you're PISSING your life away? HAHA!
Get it!" Then Mike (cousin's boyfriend) came out and reported all so
rachel was able to videotape the speech. I've asked her to upload to
youtube for us.)


_____________________________

I hope to have photographs for posting soon.

I also forgot to mention to her the following exchange at the end of the evening:

Best man is standing next to an older lady, with a napkin tied jauntily around his head. He has his hand resting on the woman's shoulder. She is gazing up at him in annoyance.

I walk up and hear him slurring drunkenly.

Best man: You know you want me to bang your daughter. It would make you so happy.
Me: Uh, hey, what's going on.
Best Man: She totally wants me to bang her daughter.
Me: Do you have a ride home?
Best Man: Yeah! (Points at lady.) She's taking me!

AND SCENE.

Quickly! Quietly! VOICES!

Right now I am sitting in a fourth grade classroom in New Mexico. The chairs are small and the table is short.

My sister is the teacher. She's a hot teacher, I suspect there are some crushes, but she's pretty strict and otherwise badass, so they're probably also a bit intimidated by her.

This month I have been on 12 planes, in 7 cities and two countries.

I have been to two weddings but no funerals.

Knock on wood.

I have lots of fun updates to make but now I have to conduct writing prompts with eight-year olds who like martians, adventures, and football.

My fourth-grade writing assignment

Rachel was napping when the doorbell rang.

It startled her -- she sat up and nearly fell off the couch. The late afternoon light was slanting in through the blinds. She had been asleep for hours. She rubbed her eyes and stumbled through the living room to the door.

She opened the door, but no one was there. There was, however, a large brown box at her feet.

She bent to pick it up. It was heavy, too heavy to carry very far. She thought, vaguely, this must have been a very expensive package to ship. She slid the box into the door and across the carpet so it was in the middle of the room. She sat again on the couch and stared at it through sleep-bleary eyes.

She wasn't expecting a package. She wondered what it could be.

She stood again and wandered into the kitchen to look for scissors. She opened the junk drawer and rooted through balls of string, random loose buttons, batteries, refrigerator magnets with paper clips and small nails stuck to their backs, and eventually found a small pair of scissors with orange handles.

She walked back over to the package and knelt beside it. It was tall, a foot or more, and wide, a large square box with her name and address on it and little clue as to where it was from.

She searched for a return address but found none.

She used the scissors like a blade and sliced the tape that bound the flaps of the box together.

She managed to free the top of the box and open it -- all she could see, at first, was mounds and mounds of packing material that looked like dried grass. It crunched a little when she touched it.

She started to pull the grass out of the box by the handful, making a big messy pile on the carpet next to her. She pulled and pulled for what seemed like a very long time before she found the heavy item in the box. She had a large pile of the grass next to her.

The object was black and glossy -- it looked like marble, only smoother. It was completely smooth. When she touched it her fingers slid along the surface. It was very black, a deep, inky color that gleamed in the light and seemed to absorb the light, to change a little with it, revealing reddish tones.

She slid her hands around it and lifted -- it was very heavy.

She managed to pull it out it out of the box and place it on the coffee table, where she looked at it, puzzled.

What on earth? It looked like the statue of a man. Who would send something like this to her?