Glitz & Grammar

Life and Times of a Wannabe Writer


Flight 3176 to Reno

For goodness knows what reason, I thought it would be a decent idea to chug a bottle of wine and smoke a mondo bowl before getting on an airplane to go see my family for the holiday weekend. (Presidents’ Day was this Monday, peeps…check your iCals.)

Indeed, everything started off superb. I was Giggles McGee, having a grand old time packing my big purple suitcase while intermittently cracking jokes with my roommate and her buddy (a FedEx guy who WAS in uniform at the time [*swoon*]). Roomie and I did a few sambas in the dining room, which we converted into a dance floor since we can’t afford a table and chairs. Then the three of us headed downstairs, way too much luggage for a four-day trip in tow, and prepared to make our drunk asses to the airport. (Note: the FedEx guy was actually neither drunk nor stoned. ALWAYS have a DD, friends. No exceptions. Jail sucks. Trust me.)

Just as we were about to throw my shit into the back of my roommate’s bro-mobile, I asked the FedEx guy (who will remain anonymous for the sake of his continued employment) if perhaps he might be willing to pretty please drive me to the airport in his FedEx truck. Because if we’re being completely honest, how funny would it be to pull up to the airport in a FedEx truck? He was just all like, “Are you serious?” And I was all like, “Umm, chea!” And then he did in fact drive me to the airport in his FedEx truck! And it was in fact fucking funny.

Roomie and I sat/sprawled/clanked-around in the back where packages would normally be stowed. There were no packages back there though, because them shits “absolutely positively had to be there overnight” (Get it?) and this particular FedEx guy takes his job seriously! We snapped a few pics so I could tweet, tumblr, and Facebook that I was “getting a ride to the airport in a FedEx truck.” Because trust me, people cared. And then we pulled up to Terminal 2, where cheap people like me who fly Southwest get dropped off for their departing flights.

FedEx guy hid his face in the steering wheel while Roomie exited the truck, got on one knee, and reenacted the Dumb and Dumber scene where Lloyd cries out, “Goodbye my looooove!” As she did so, I slowly made my way down the steps of the truck, waving one hand as though I were Miss A-gosh-dang-Merica about to board Air Force One. I took one of Roomie’s hands, we giggled for a bit, then I hugged that BRF (Best Roommate Forever) goodbye and almost cried, even thought I knew I’d see her in just a few short days. (Click here for more history behind our magical bromance.)

But as soon as my accomplices drove off, the happy go lucky attitude I exuded just moments prior turned to straight paranoia. I tried to walk soberly to the check in line, but was certain every other soon-to-be passenger could smell the wine on my breath and the pot on my sweater. My eyelids were doing that one thing, too, that’s totally just like, “this bitch is for sure Cheeched.”

By the grace of who knows Who, I made it through check in and up the escalator towards TSA. But somewhere along that 30-second journey, my dumb ass lost the boarding pass. So I had to go through the stupid check in lane again. They reprinted me a second pass, which I gripped like a motherfucker as I déjà vu-ed my way up the escalator and into the line for security.

I got stuck in between a beautiful family of five and a cute young Asian couple. A TSA agent who, despite being only a few feet away from us, got on the intercom (because come on dude, TSA agents are important) and reminded everyone to take off their shoes before going through the coke-detector. Then she included the caveat, “unless you’re 12 years or younger, in which case you can keep your shoes on.” My natural instinct forces me to yell (yell, since I am not important and therefore had no intercom) “Ohhhh man! My 13th birthday was yesterday!” There were like 50 people in line, but no one laughed.

Anyway, I made it through the coke-detector, which was awesome given that I had an ass-full of coke. JK, of course. It was heroin. JK again! While putting my shoes back on, I got a text message from the guy who would be picking me up from the Reno airport. The R2D2 ringtone goes off at mass volume from my phone, which by this point had made its way down the conveyer thingie, toward the beautiful family of five who was putting back on their 6 shoes (two of them were 12 or younger. Do the math). 90 percent of the time my phone goes off, it’s the most embarrassing thing in the world. I don’t know why I choose to have nothing but Star Wars ringtones, but I do. And the vast majority of the time someone calls or texts, my face turns bright red as people around me stare and pass judgment about what a uber geek I am. But ten percent of the time, someone gets it. And it is awesome. And guess what? It just so happened that the beautiful family of five was super dope, and they got it. And they all went nutso for my R2D2 ringtone and I was just like heck yeah. It stays.

Then I started tripping balls again because I couldn’t find my gate, which I was certain was C-6.

I walked every inch of the mother fucking C-gate terminal twice before realizing there was no such C-6 gate. There was a C-5 and there was a C-7. But in between, where it would mathematically make sense for a C-6 gate to exist, there was no Gate C-6.

So I reviewed my boarding pass and realized that my flight in fact departed from Gate C-2.

Then I tried to get a drink but the airport bar was closed. Prob not the worst thing to happen in my life.

After charging up my MacBook, iPhone, iPod, and all other iStuff I only bought to appear “hip,” we boarded the plane and I was finally safe. Or at least I thought.

I chose a window seat. That was fucking dumb. You see, I’ve got this weird bladder thing where when I’m in a situation in which I cannot pee, I will have to piss all over the place. And like, immediately. So initially I was cool, because it was just me in that window seat, taking up the whole isle like I was the Queen of Coach. But then the world’s happiest couple decides to sit in the middle and isle seats right next to me, and all of a sudden I’ve got to piss like a gosh dang racehorse. After hopping over them like a little monkey a couple times, I finally regained composure, and control of my urethra. Then, world’s happiest couple continues to spend half the flight talking about my tattoos like I’m not right there. Sitting right next to them. Claustrophobic as fuck in window seat, tripping balls about my peepee problems.

Down below, Darth Maul or whoever it was with the two red light sabers waves us off the gate and onto the runway. The flight attendants do that same spiel I’ve heard a bazillion and a half times. Per usual, I get in trouble for not turning my iPhone off in time (iPhone! I’m hip!). I give her my usual “I swear I was just putting it in airplane mode. Does this flight offer complimentary booze service?” “No ma’am. Please just turn off your phone.” “Okay, cool.”

The remainder of my flight to Reno went something this: The only book I had on my Kindle was Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I read about two sentences and realized that book was just not even kind of something I could handle while 40,000 feet above ground and on drugs. So I went to put it in the seat pouch in front of me and notice like 10 empty candy wrappers in there. Most people would be like, “Gross, don’t they clean in between flights?” But I was just like, “Heck yes! There was a little kid sitting here before me and I had to LOOSEN the seatbelt?!” Then I paid $5 for a screwdriver and read Spirit Magazine or whatever, all the while playing that mind over matter game where you talk yourself out of peeing your pants.

Then we landed in Reno, where dreams go to die/where I grew up. My ride was this hot, tattooed ginger dude who once took me on a date to the Lake Tahoe Shakespeare Festival and packed a picnic that included wine he poured into goblets. Fucking goblets, man.

The ginger and I grabbed a few drinks at Reno’s famous Lincoln Lounge, where I sat in someone else’s pee but learned that there are other things to shoot besides just tequila. I know, right? We talked about travel, life, love, and the fact that I had way too much to drink and should probably leave before I ended up puking in public. He dropped me off at my brother’s house, where I cuddled and slept with my nephew-cat for ten straight hours. And to be quite honest, that was probably the highlight of my weekend in Reno.


A blog post in which I incorporate a graph (that I made all by myself)

Since recently re-entering the dating world (my re-entry actually began last September, I just still feel like a n00b) I have noticed a strong correlation between guys who talk about how wonderful they are and guys who are really not all that wonderful. Here is a graph I created to help illustrate my observations and findings:

I just can’t even believe the number of dudes who will go out of their way to convince me of how wonderful they are. They are all like, “Trust me, you’ve never met a dude more honest and sincere than me. I’m for reals the most honest and sincere dude on planet Earth!” And then they’re all like, “I don’t believe in treating women with anything but kindness and respect. Let me tell you, I am one kind and respectful mother fucker!” And then it’s like, “I’m only living with my parents right now so I can prepare to save all women and children of the world from chaos and mass destruction later down the road.”

These guys are so good at talking themselves up to be the catch of the century that by the time I’m done speaking with one of them I’m all like, “Holy shit this guy’s better than James Franco!”

But then he turns out to be the mayor of Jerktown.

And I’m just like what the fuck, dude. I thought you were supposed to be super wonderful?

It’s seriously so irritating, and the moral of this story is I’m only going to start dating self-loathing asshats. At least that way I can only be pleasantly surprised – and not heartbroken – if they turn out to be anything different.

Leave a comment

Quickie: Sexy and I know it

My eyes are the ugliest shade of brown you ever knew existed, and one of them is significantly larger than the other. Same with my tits. (Not the brown thing, but the varying sizes thing.) It takes two and a half hours to de-fro my hair, so I tend to go days without so much as brushing it. My body is covered in bruises and scars, and if I go longer than two weeks without getting them waxed, my eyebrows will literally take over my entire fucking face. I’m the only person I know who can gain ten pounds in less than a week, and more than five people have compared my big toes to Chicken McNuggets. I have cankles, a huge nose, and crooked bottom teeth.

But I am beautiful.

And I just wanted to remind you that you are too.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 67 other followers