As I listen to these old ladies next to me at the pool in Boca discuss plastic surgery (“You should SEE her nose now, she went from ogre to belle of the ball”), early bedtimes (“Irving can’t even stay up past the evening news, forget the late show!”) and 5:00 dinner reservations (“I wanted to do 6:00 but Estelle said too late, she’ll get indigestion”), I can’t help but shake my head in dismay.
At the fact that I don’t live here. This is my mothership.
I’m here at Dulles airport, in DC (well, technically VA. I think. I’ll be honest I have no idea where I am.) I’ve already had quite the chain of travel snafus trying to get to Florida, starting with my cancelled flight out of NYC and followed by the world’s worst traveling cabaret ride.
Finally, things were starting to look up. My awesome parents picked me up from the bus yesterday, took me to a lovey dinner, gave me wine, and watched SNL40 with me. As always, I was the first one asleep.
Then this morning, Dad drove me to the airport. Flight is on time. Everything is coming up roses.
Then I decided to grab a quick coffee from the only coffee option here in Terminal Z (yes. Terminal Z. What the fuck else would you expect)– Dunkin Donuts. Coincidentally, I’m standing right behind the pilot of my fight. She’s about to get to the front when the cashier announces– “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry, but we are all out of regular coffee for the next 30 minutes. Only decaf.” My pilot takes one look at her copilot and says, with a grave, dire expression, “You don’t understand how much I need this coffee.”
So like– HOW MUCH are we talking? Like I can’t fly this plane at ALL without the coffee and we need to cancel? I might fall asleep mid flight and need the copilot to take over? I might get the caffeine-withdrawal shakes and accidentally clip a mountain top? I might be so out of it that I accidentally fly us somewhere even colder than this goddamn tundra? I’m just trying to figure out how many of these Xanax to take. On top of the three I immediately popped when I first got behind you, heard you say you were flying my plane, and then watched you yawn 5 times in a row.
I made the mistake of letting the chatty lady next to me on this 5-hour bus ride, sitting with her son (who was sleeping at the time), know that I’m a teacher. Since then, her son has woken up and proved himself to be the WORST. He seems to have mistaken this charter bus for a Broadway stage, and himself for Nathan Lane in The Birdcage. But louder and more dramatic.
The mom, inexplicably, is amused by this, despite the fact that everyone else on the bus is undoubtedly plotting the child’s murder. Or her murder. Or mass murder. The guy across from me has turned up the volume on his iPod full blast. The woman next to him appears to be praying to Allah. The man in front of me seems to have just given up on enjoying this ride, and possibly on life entirely.
The mom smiles at me. “You’re a teacher. You must love kids.”
Me: “Sure do.”
From 8-3pm. On a work day. When they are under MY control.
Your song-screaming child, in this moment, is, make no mistake, my worst nightmare. Never again will I be able to enjoy Beauty and the Beast. Or music in general. All sounds, really.
So, no, kid. I will NOT be your guest. Do you hear me? Neither will that guy, or that lady, or that old man. NO ONE HERE WANTS TO BE YOUR GUEST.
You may also NOT have one of my skittles. So don’t ask again.
The only person worse than the person who brings tuna fish on the bus is the person who brings lox on the bus.
NOW how am I supposed to enjoy this egg salad I brought on the bus?
Asshole.
Recently, a guy friend of mine who I haven’t seen in years took one look at me and said, “Wow. You really just don’t age.” And that was a really lovely, flattering compliment, but I’m not taking it too seriously because I’m sure he was just saying it to be nice.
In related news, I need to find a way to make that guy friend marry me.
Apparently there was some kind of impromptu issue on my street this morning, so traffic cops came to block off my road. I guess they didn’t have any more traffic cones or manpower, so they did it by lining up 4 city trash cans across my street, spacing them in a way that made it impossible to drive through.
As I exited my building, I watched as a harrowed woman drove right up to the trash cans and, holding a cigarette in one hand, used her free hand to drag two of the huge metal trash cans far enough apart that she could get through. She then put out her cigarette, spit on the ground, got back in her car, and drove right through the blocked off street.
I fucking love this city.
That moment when you run out of tissues, toilet paper, Starbucks napkins and paper towels, so you’re forced to blow your ever-running nose into THIS cocktail napkin.
And yeah, I know. I too hope I don’t have to use the bathroom before morning.
…and for years, I thought THAT was how you played the piano.
So you can imagine my trepidation the day a male piano teacher showed up at my house to give me my first private lesson.
Sitting here blowing my nose over and over, I can feel the beginnings of a chapstache– you know, when the entire area between your nose and mouth becomes raw and chafed? And this reminds me of a really bad stretch I had, years ago, when I was constantly sick and the chapstache literally lasted three seasons. I was in a relationship at the time, and each night when my boyfriend and I got into bed, in an attempt to heal myself in the sleeping hours, I would dig my entire hand into a huge vat of vaseline and smother it all over my face, making sure to cover all surrounding areas, most importantly my nostrils and chin.
I still can’t figure out why we broke up.
Dear Dog Playing Piano in My Upstairs Neighbor’s Apartment,
I can only assume you are a dog, at least. It’s the only explanation for the current assault on my ears (and music in general)– that a canine is upstairs desperately trying to work an instrument that is clearly made for humans. There is no other scenario in which a piano could make THAT unpleasant a sound. When I played piano, back in my early youth, even I did a better job than what is happening up there, and trust me when I say I was quite horrible. Even the day I puked all over the keys, my instructor, and my instructor’s fancy work suit (causing him to silently stand up and walk out of my home, never to return), I did better than what you’re doing up there, you goofy, delusional shih-tzu (there’s no question you are a shih-tzu, as they are THE WORST).
But, I will throw you this bone (Hah! Get it?!)– I am totally impressed by your ability to scream “god dammit!” or “fuck!” every time your paw slips on a key (which, coincidentally, is every time your paw moves at all).
Cursing is a cool human trick. Maybe stick to that one and lay off the piano.
Love,
Your Downstairs Neighbor Who is Home Sick but Now Actually Wishes She Was At Work
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