Airport Living

I remember why I hate Arizona. More than tourists, more than crowded San Diego beaches – the state itself enrages me. First off, everyone who works at the airport was actually born in this country – I’m already out of my element. (Yay state legislature). Lady with a baby (questionably with one on the way to boot) in the smoking section. Most people are too unassumingly nice for their own good. The asian guy on the plane next to me actually spoke english, and the Einstein Bagel people stopped to have a 5 minute conversation with a little boy only after checking 12 times if everyone waiting around had been helped. Try getting that service in California. Scratch that: try even getting the Starbucks order you already paid for in California. The only person who wasn’t unassumingly nice was wearing a Yankees cap and didn’t think I would notice him watching me eat my sandwich. Go figure.

I really wish I were one of those people who are easygoing travelers. I am instead, one of those people who is in a bad mood at the airport for no reason in particular. I am simply put out by the thought of airplane travel. It’s not that I’m not good at it, it’s just that I would rather hitchhike. I have nightmares about airplane claustrophobia, am highly skeptical of the new security body scan x-rays, and have a general distaste for lines and the invasion of my personal space. I hate how my skin gets oily and my hair gets static, and the way the seats are so damn close together even my butt falls asleep by the end of the flight, no matter what.

Last but not least, people always joke about airplane food – but can anyone do something about airport food? I’m sick of the same things in every terminal across America – Burger King, Chili’s Too, and Cinnabon. NO WONDER EVERYONE IS FAT. Not to mention all the “real” Mexican food advertised in this airport, served by white people. Get me to hawaii with my gays, ASAP!

who knew...

...that a bad pick up line could become the theme for a whole night?

I realize it's been a while, so let me catch you up. Graduated about a week and a half ago. Loving life as a quasi-adult. Went to say hi to a friend up the street at Mitch's Surf Shop on my way to getting my graduation present (a really cool clear Marc Jacob's watch) fixed (needed some links taken out for my baby wrist). Lucky me, knowing everyone to ever be employed at Mitch's payed off and I was saved the inconvenience of a jeweler...but not before I was greeted properly by the staff.

As I walk in to the store - no makeup, hair up, flip flops - I hear from behind the counter "Comin' in hot." I paused briefly to ponder whether or not this is my cue to finish the rest of the overplayed P!nk song, and realized that it was merely an unfortunate pickup line. I look up to see a strange facial dichotomy of overgrown goatee and braces (I swear adult braces are following me everywhere). Baffled as to what my next move should be, I folded and put away a shirt that was on the counter. They really should have hired me when they had the chance.

Anyway, later that night I am sitting at the Living Room (I hang out there way too much as it is the only place in La Jolla that stays open past 10 pm) and Kimball announces that he is "nearby on his hog". I tell the table that we have more people "comin' in hot on the hog". Little did I know that "comin' in hot" was the greatest gift adult braces Steve could have given me today. It is now not only a party term, hookup term, and transport term, but actually was made a reality when Kimball and I skidded into the In N' Out parking lot at 11:30. Literally, comin' in hot. Thank you, Steve.