Happy Holidays. Because saying "Merry Christmas" is for insensitive douchebags.
So whether my fellow college students want to hear it or not, I'm done with exams and heading home for the holidays on Day 2 of Exam Week. This is awesome because I get to go home and do generally festive things, but it does have some drawbacks. One of the more serious ones is of course everyone's general lack of holiday cheer in the traveling world. At first I thought it was because I was saying "Merry Christmas" to someone who actually gives winter sacrifices to Norse gods or something, but even after switching to the oh-so-PC "Happy Holidays," I'm still getting sour faces and general lack of cockle-warming cheer. Mmm I love the word cockle.
Side note-let's start using words that sound hilarious in general context/serious settings. Like my new favorite word: invaginate. This word is so infrequently used that autocorrect just got all up in my business about it, which is sort of ridiculous because the word "autocorrect" also isn't recognized by autocorrect. Existential crisis? Anyway. Invaginate. It means "to sheath" or "encase." Which if you think about it is sort of obvious. You know why. ANYWAY, I want to start using it in completely serious contexts, like in class, "Everyone in Arthur's life knew that while the sword was invaginated in the stone, he would have to get off his ass and earn being king in a non-lazy way." Or used in those fucking obnoxious Kay Jewlers commercials: "This holiday season, don't show her you love her by taking her anywhere fun, or actually doing things to ease her stress like picking up your shit off the bedroom floor like she asked. Instead, buy her one of these horrifically expensive diamond trinkets that only have value because we tell you they do. Plus they're super sparkly, and humans love sparkles. We'll even invaginate it for you in one of our special cheap shitty boxes covered in velvet, which no one even thinks is cool anymore. This holiday season, give the gift of throwing money at your relationship in the hopes that she'll start sleeping with you again. Every kiss begins with Kay."
Moving on. I dragged my ass out of bed this morning at the crack of 9 AM to spend valuable hours of my life sitting uncomfortably next to strangers as my lymph nodes burn with the dryness and despair of being much higher in the air than nature ever intended while a squalling infant takes at least three months off of my life and the stewardess nearly crops of a valuable toe with the drink cart (which you have to fucking pay for anyway). I wish we could go back to the days of old when flying was an adventure. No, not like an Amelia Earhart adventure, we all know how that turned out. More like a dressing-up, glamorous, you-don't-have-to-pay-extra-if-you-want-to-breathe kind of adventure. In a time when people were far less frequently morbidly obese, so they didn't spill under AND over the armrest in a puddle of lard while their unlucky seatmate flattened herself against the window and prayed for an upgrade. Nowadays everyone is grumpy and wearing Uggs, two things which are criminal, particularly around the holidays (being grumpy, not wearing Uggs because that's criminal always).
So I got on the CT Limo (which is a joke because (A) They are FAR from limo-material and (B) They're run by the mafia), and tuned out to the sounds of Little People (which you should listen to if you like music/being chill). When I got to the airport, I quickly scanned the outside check-in people to see if they seemed more likely to give me a free pass if my suitcase was a couple pounds over. They did not. I sidled up to the counter and put on my best adorable-face and asked if I could throw my suitcase on the scale just to see if I needed to take anything out. Aaannnndddd-49 pounds, bitches. I am great. The men behind the counter are less excited, probably because they suck. I get inside the airport and wait in line to have my driver's license scrutinized. I pass the time by checking out the younger male TSA agents (sometimes you get lucky), and glancing over at the little sign that lets the more curious holiday traveler know exactly what the TSA agents see when your body goes through the brand new scanner thing. I am expecting this knowledge to be comforting, because there seems to be no reason to (A) Look at everyone's genitals and (B) Tell everyone you're looking at their genitals if there is in fact reason to do so. Keep that shit to yourself and keep the line moving.
My assumptions as to the nature of the sign were in fact horribly misguided. On the sign was a nice little picture of the male front and back, followed by the female front and back. For the 832590432890th time in my life, I praised the heavens for the nature of my birth and my general girliness because fellas, they can totally see your junk. And if this picture was a legit indication, they can see it in rather excruciating detail. SO if you've got any qualms about complete strangers who hate their jobs and get their kicks out of judging you on the size of your manhood (can't imagine why you'd have those qualms but whatever), don't fly. Or pack your briefs with convincing sock puppets or something. Seriously.
After laughing hysterically at this sign then realizing people were staring, I move through into the security checkpoint, where I proceed to remove anything that might conceal a weapon/preserve my dignity. I look down ecstatically at my fucking awesome sparkly blue socks and hope everyone in the airport is as excited about them as I am. They're not. Douchebags. After walking through the (sorry to interrupt but a man wearing a FEDORA just sat down next to me and asked to share the outlet with me. I said yes because he is wearing a fedora.) security checkpoint, a friendly woman comes up to me and tells me she needs to feel me up because I might be a terrorist. She has based this on the fact that I am wearing a North Face fleece, and studies show that blonde girls with North Face fleeces are generally actually Osama Bin Laden. When I get older I've GOT to get the name of his plastic surgeon.
This pat-down is actually not so bad because the lady prefaces it by saying "It'll be like a nice massage before you get on your flight." This is quite possibly the best thing any TSA agent has ever said to me, and it has inspired me to come up with a new slogan: "TSA. We do foreplay right." I'm sure it'll catch on soon.
Side Note: Can we talk about automatic faucets for a second? Yeah? Okay. Fuck them. I counted how many seconds the faucet ran water in the airport bathroom. I went, "One Mississippi." Then guess what? The water shut off. WHO HAS SMALL ENOUGH HANDS TO ONLY NEED ONE MISSISSIPPI TO WASH THEM? Fuck you, automatic faucets.
After my massage I sit down to put my pants back on (that was part of routine procedure, right?) and I look up to see an elderly man putting his belt back on. This combined with my recent brush with second base made me giggle, and I make a wise crack about how the fine boys in sky blue had stolen his dignity. He responds by giving me an in depth history about every encounter he'd ever had with TSA agents that had led to his feeling violated in some way (so, all of them, then). I make a polite excuse about having to get on an airplane or something and start heading towards my gate (AFTER I wished him a Happy Holidays, of course). I then run across the greatest display of adorable I will probably see all day. TRIPLETS. IN A TRIPLET STROLLER. I quickly recover from my mini-stroke from cuteness overload and say a quick prayer to the Norse gods that these bundles of baby joy and their capacity to rupture eardrums will NOT be on my flight. Reality is so much less romantic, isn't it?
I then make it to my gate and seek out an outlet to charge my laptop so I can write a blog about my travel adventures so far, and I have quite a difficult time locating one. I have to cross the hall to a different gate and sit against the wall, then I realize that Triplet Mom is at this gate. This gives me the chance to breathe a sigh of relief because she will not be on my flight while simultaneously watching her trifecta of adorable from a safe distance. It is after a few moments of this creepy child watching that I realize: this woman is really obnoxious. You know how when you travel with something cute like a puppy or a child or something and everyone instantly thinks that they're your best friend and therefore entitled to put their hands all over your cute companion? And it's obnoxious? So people are doing that, but instead of being annoyed or at least humbled by all the attention, this hoe is lapping it up. She starts singing nursery rhymes to her children at deafening levels, then doing some sort of terrifying baby dance. People realize that she's really obnoxious and stop paying attention, so she starts feeding her infants McDonald's to try to regain public favor. It is at this point that my holiday cheer finally starts to wane, along with my ever shrinking faith in humanity. Watching this mother goad her children into performing tricks of adorableness by singing then feeding them like baby seals has put me right back in the...WAIT. Just saw a baby boy wearing BABY UGGS. This is the ONLY time that Uggs are acceptable. I just melted like the pansy ass snowfall outside from last night.
Fine. Happy Holidays to all. I'm going to watch Narnia on the plane and drool over Prince Caspian. Another post will be coming soon.
P.S. Just saw a really old man wearing RED PANTS COVERED IN SANTAS and a Christmas tree tie. I gave him the biggest smile ever. Faith restored.
Side note-let's start using words that sound hilarious in general context/serious settings. Like my new favorite word: invaginate. This word is so infrequently used that autocorrect just got all up in my business about it, which is sort of ridiculous because the word "autocorrect" also isn't recognized by autocorrect. Existential crisis? Anyway. Invaginate. It means "to sheath" or "encase." Which if you think about it is sort of obvious. You know why. ANYWAY, I want to start using it in completely serious contexts, like in class, "Everyone in Arthur's life knew that while the sword was invaginated in the stone, he would have to get off his ass and earn being king in a non-lazy way." Or used in those fucking obnoxious Kay Jewlers commercials: "This holiday season, don't show her you love her by taking her anywhere fun, or actually doing things to ease her stress like picking up your shit off the bedroom floor like she asked. Instead, buy her one of these horrifically expensive diamond trinkets that only have value because we tell you they do. Plus they're super sparkly, and humans love sparkles. We'll even invaginate it for you in one of our special cheap shitty boxes covered in velvet, which no one even thinks is cool anymore. This holiday season, give the gift of throwing money at your relationship in the hopes that she'll start sleeping with you again. Every kiss begins with Kay."
Moving on. I dragged my ass out of bed this morning at the crack of 9 AM to spend valuable hours of my life sitting uncomfortably next to strangers as my lymph nodes burn with the dryness and despair of being much higher in the air than nature ever intended while a squalling infant takes at least three months off of my life and the stewardess nearly crops of a valuable toe with the drink cart (which you have to fucking pay for anyway). I wish we could go back to the days of old when flying was an adventure. No, not like an Amelia Earhart adventure, we all know how that turned out. More like a dressing-up, glamorous, you-don't-have-to-pay-extra-if-you-want-to-breathe kind of adventure. In a time when people were far less frequently morbidly obese, so they didn't spill under AND over the armrest in a puddle of lard while their unlucky seatmate flattened herself against the window and prayed for an upgrade. Nowadays everyone is grumpy and wearing Uggs, two things which are criminal, particularly around the holidays (being grumpy, not wearing Uggs because that's criminal always).
So I got on the CT Limo (which is a joke because (A) They are FAR from limo-material and (B) They're run by the mafia), and tuned out to the sounds of Little People (which you should listen to if you like music/being chill). When I got to the airport, I quickly scanned the outside check-in people to see if they seemed more likely to give me a free pass if my suitcase was a couple pounds over. They did not. I sidled up to the counter and put on my best adorable-face and asked if I could throw my suitcase on the scale just to see if I needed to take anything out. Aaannnndddd-49 pounds, bitches. I am great. The men behind the counter are less excited, probably because they suck. I get inside the airport and wait in line to have my driver's license scrutinized. I pass the time by checking out the younger male TSA agents (sometimes you get lucky), and glancing over at the little sign that lets the more curious holiday traveler know exactly what the TSA agents see when your body goes through the brand new scanner thing. I am expecting this knowledge to be comforting, because there seems to be no reason to (A) Look at everyone's genitals and (B) Tell everyone you're looking at their genitals if there is in fact reason to do so. Keep that shit to yourself and keep the line moving.
My assumptions as to the nature of the sign were in fact horribly misguided. On the sign was a nice little picture of the male front and back, followed by the female front and back. For the 832590432890th time in my life, I praised the heavens for the nature of my birth and my general girliness because fellas, they can totally see your junk. And if this picture was a legit indication, they can see it in rather excruciating detail. SO if you've got any qualms about complete strangers who hate their jobs and get their kicks out of judging you on the size of your manhood (can't imagine why you'd have those qualms but whatever), don't fly. Or pack your briefs with convincing sock puppets or something. Seriously.
After laughing hysterically at this sign then realizing people were staring, I move through into the security checkpoint, where I proceed to remove anything that might conceal a weapon/preserve my dignity. I look down ecstatically at my fucking awesome sparkly blue socks and hope everyone in the airport is as excited about them as I am. They're not. Douchebags. After walking through the (sorry to interrupt but a man wearing a FEDORA just sat down next to me and asked to share the outlet with me. I said yes because he is wearing a fedora.) security checkpoint, a friendly woman comes up to me and tells me she needs to feel me up because I might be a terrorist. She has based this on the fact that I am wearing a North Face fleece, and studies show that blonde girls with North Face fleeces are generally actually Osama Bin Laden. When I get older I've GOT to get the name of his plastic surgeon.
This pat-down is actually not so bad because the lady prefaces it by saying "It'll be like a nice massage before you get on your flight." This is quite possibly the best thing any TSA agent has ever said to me, and it has inspired me to come up with a new slogan: "TSA. We do foreplay right." I'm sure it'll catch on soon.
Side Note: Can we talk about automatic faucets for a second? Yeah? Okay. Fuck them. I counted how many seconds the faucet ran water in the airport bathroom. I went, "One Mississippi." Then guess what? The water shut off. WHO HAS SMALL ENOUGH HANDS TO ONLY NEED ONE MISSISSIPPI TO WASH THEM? Fuck you, automatic faucets.
After my massage I sit down to put my pants back on (that was part of routine procedure, right?) and I look up to see an elderly man putting his belt back on. This combined with my recent brush with second base made me giggle, and I make a wise crack about how the fine boys in sky blue had stolen his dignity. He responds by giving me an in depth history about every encounter he'd ever had with TSA agents that had led to his feeling violated in some way (so, all of them, then). I make a polite excuse about having to get on an airplane or something and start heading towards my gate (AFTER I wished him a Happy Holidays, of course). I then run across the greatest display of adorable I will probably see all day. TRIPLETS. IN A TRIPLET STROLLER. I quickly recover from my mini-stroke from cuteness overload and say a quick prayer to the Norse gods that these bundles of baby joy and their capacity to rupture eardrums will NOT be on my flight. Reality is so much less romantic, isn't it?
I then make it to my gate and seek out an outlet to charge my laptop so I can write a blog about my travel adventures so far, and I have quite a difficult time locating one. I have to cross the hall to a different gate and sit against the wall, then I realize that Triplet Mom is at this gate. This gives me the chance to breathe a sigh of relief because she will not be on my flight while simultaneously watching her trifecta of adorable from a safe distance. It is after a few moments of this creepy child watching that I realize: this woman is really obnoxious. You know how when you travel with something cute like a puppy or a child or something and everyone instantly thinks that they're your best friend and therefore entitled to put their hands all over your cute companion? And it's obnoxious? So people are doing that, but instead of being annoyed or at least humbled by all the attention, this hoe is lapping it up. She starts singing nursery rhymes to her children at deafening levels, then doing some sort of terrifying baby dance. People realize that she's really obnoxious and stop paying attention, so she starts feeding her infants McDonald's to try to regain public favor. It is at this point that my holiday cheer finally starts to wane, along with my ever shrinking faith in humanity. Watching this mother goad her children into performing tricks of adorableness by singing then feeding them like baby seals has put me right back in the...WAIT. Just saw a baby boy wearing BABY UGGS. This is the ONLY time that Uggs are acceptable. I just melted like the pansy ass snowfall outside from last night.
Fine. Happy Holidays to all. I'm going to watch Narnia on the plane and drool over Prince Caspian. Another post will be coming soon.
P.S. Just saw a really old man wearing RED PANTS COVERED IN SANTAS and a Christmas tree tie. I gave him the biggest smile ever. Faith restored.
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