Blood, Sweat, and Wet Pants

My spring travel season started last week and I am pleased that my level of awkward encounters is rivaling the extreme episodes that took place last fall. I began my spring journey with my traditional struggle though the revolving doors at the airport and I managed to successfully make it all the way to Charlotte, NC without being an embarrassment to my family. Unfortunately I had a three hour layover and I should have known that my cell phone and my good luck would both eventually run out of battery life. I always plan my trips in a fashion that forces me to eat dinner in airports. I pretend to be upset about having to eat fast food or a “lunchable” from the magazine stand, but secretly, it is my favorite part about traveling. Maybe because my parents always insisted on packing mushed up peanut butter sandwiches and stale crackers for family trips. If I ever have children, I will be a little more considerate of their stomachs. Lunch is one of the top 3 more important meals of the day. As I got off the airplane, I went on a search for the perfect dinner time snack and eventually I settled with a BBQ sandwich and a huge bottle of water. I celebrated adulthood and the fact that mom had not picked my meal . I knew that BBQ was a bad idea considering my history of elegance and grace and that mom would have been correct by picking a cleaner option. I was feeling particularly courageous though, and to my surprise, I survived the entire sandwich without smudging any sauce onto my cleanish white shirt. The water bottle however put up an unexpected battle. I was sitting at my terminal and directly next to middle aged man with incredibly thick glasses. I removed the plastic wrap from the tip of the water bottle and I was eager to lift the nozzle and enjoy the watery greatness inside. When I gripped my fingers around the pullup nozzle though, I couldn’t seem to pull it open. Determined not to let the water bottle to get the better of me and ruin my good spirits, I placed the bottle under my right armpit to free both of my hands, allowing them to work as a team to pull the nozzle of the wretched bottle. Just then, in the peak of my struggle, I noticed the arrows on the top of the water bottle, signaling me to twist the cap up instead of the vertical pull I have been failing at for the last five minutes. Excited that I had finally cracked the code, I twisted the nozzle open quickly, forgetting that I was still squeezing the bottle with my armpit. I watched as my water squirted out of the bottle and covered the nearly blind man next to me. I think everyone has been a victim of a bad case of the giggles in an inappropriate time, but it happens to me a lot. Uncomfortable in silence, I often break into laughter in churches and hospital waiting rooms. This is one of the reasons I make a reasonable effort to avoid both of those locations. Anyways, as the blind man looked at me in fury, in search for a non-bladder related explanation for why his khakis and graph paper gridded shirt were suddenly wet, I broke into uncontrollable laughter. I tried to give a heartfelt and sincere apology for spraying him, but the harder I concentrated of holding a straight face, the more theatrical my giggles grew. As tears were rolling down my cheeks and snorts were escaping my nose, I decided it best to just leave the situation. I gathered my belongings and moved to the other side of the terminal and prayed that that man would sit next to me on the plane. Welcome back travel season, I have missed you!

Epic Tales of a Drooling Freakshow in Fluffy Pink Slippers

Approximately once a week, I convince myself that I am on candid camera. Some of the situations that I have found myself soaking in just seem too perfectly outrageous for them to happen in “ real life” and the only logical explanation I can formulate is that someone is secretly filming my life for a reality TVshow that is undoubtedly widely popular in Canada. I surely did not disappoint my Canadian fan base this weekend.

I flew out of Connecticut at 6am Friday morning and other than a small incident of being trapped with my luggage in the revolving door at the airport, everything was going fairly smoothly. That is, until my first layover in Pittsburgh.

When I awoke from my traditional airplane nap, my tongue had a dry leathery feel. I am not an expert in tongue saliva analysis but the way my dry tongue stuck to my lips lead me to believe that it had been dangling outside of my mouth for the last 2-60 minutes. The plane had just landed, so I checked my blouse for noticeable drool spots and collected my belongings from the overhead compartment.

As I was leaving the plane, the unthinkable happened. The man behind me stepped on the back of my sandal, and the strap that holds my foot in place snapped. I immediately found a seat at a nearby terminal and shuffled through my bag to see if I had anything that may save my shoe. I was hoping to open my purse and see a magical roll of duct tape that had materialized out of thin air, a Genie that would grant me 3 wishes, or at the very least, a stick of gum. No luck.
I decided that I was not going to let my bad luck ruin my spirits and instead take it as an opportunity to buy a new pair of shoes without the fear of buyer’s remorse taking over my conscience. The only problem was that I was of course still in the airport and my choices for shopping were limited.

I shuffled through the airport, failing with my attempt to walk normally with a broken shoe. I checked several stores hoping for a pair of loafer-like shoes and still holding out hope on finding a wish granting genie.

If I had found a Gene in the airport, I’m not sure exactly what I would have asked for. A pair of solid shoes, for sure since that was the only reason I was looking for said genie in the first place but I don’t know what I would use the other 2 wishes on. I think that I may ask for my household chores to take care of themselves and for my legs to always be smooth without my need to shave them. I also would consider wishing that endless amounts of chocolate chip cookies would fall from the sky- in which case I would also have to wish that I could eat endless amounts of said cookies without my waistline suffering the consequences.

Although genie hunting in the airport was not successful, I was able to find a solution to my shoe dilemma. I eventually found a store full of socks. If there was any hope of ending my awkward shuffle parade, I knew that it would be found in the Socks shop.

As I limped and wobbled my way into the store, and heaven’s lights shined down on me as I spotted a huge wall display of slippers. Naturally, I squealed with delight.

Now though, I had a whole new problem on my hands. They had black loafer slippers like I was originally hoping to find, but they looked so dull and boring next to the plethora of colorful slippers that filled the wall.

Although I have to admit that the decision was a difficult one, I ultimately decided that a pair of furry, pink/yellow/blue/green slippers best suited my needs.
I figured that this was the best choice because

a.) I generally like my airport slippers to make a statement. I would hate for anyone to see my new slippers and think to themselves that I have boring taste in bedroom footwear.
b.) Multicolored slippers would surely make for a more entertaining blog entry later.
c.) I would fulfill my childhood dream of becoming a Sesame Street puppet.

I proudly put my slippers on and pranced throughout the airport. I felt that I was experiencing everything for the very first time. The thin bottoms of the slippers allowed me to feel the different textures of the tiles and carpeting. I had made a few laps around the airport, before making the worst decision of my day.

As you know if you have read this blog from the beginning, I typically try to avoid the moving sidewalks at the airport. They rarely end well for me. With my new slippers however, I let my curiosity get the better of me and transformed into a sidewalk riding-daredevel. I decided that I could not leave the airport without experiencing the sensation of the escalator grids on my slippered feet. If you only take away one thing from this blog, please remember to never, under any circumstance, walk on the moving escalator with pink fluffy slippers.

As soon as I placed my full body weight onto the sidewalk, I knew that I had made a mistake. I could feel the grids pressing against my feet and instead of the massaging effect that I was hoping for, I thought that my feet were going to be sliced like slivers of cheese by the end of the trip. OUUUCH.

I had to get off the moving escalator as soon as possible and had to minimize the time each of my precious fluffy feet spent touching the moving grid of torture and hell. I ran to the end of the side walk , lifting my feet as high as I could with each step. I imagine it looked similar to burt or ernie walking on coals, or cutting through a field full of snakes. Naturally, by the end of my coal walk, I had formed an audience. I thought about taking a bow and wait for the round of applause, but opted to find my seat outside my terminal let my tongue hang out of my mouth and resume my traditional airport nap

100 ways too piss off a polish girl

It is a rare occasion when I make an effort to piss off a complete stranger. As someone who typically tries to avoid confrontation like poison ivy and the plague, I often allow irritating situations to slide by without argument. Although I generally like my conversations with new friends to be free of conflict; I also generally dislike being bullied. When I feel intimidated, sometimes I can't help but get a little sassy.

Last Friday, I found my seat on the airplane to Lynchburg with no intensions of making me seatmate uncomfortable. When a middle aged man with more salt than pepper in his hair joined me and offered a warm “hello” , I was delighted to have a chatty friend. I had been out of town for 2 weeks and had experienced entirely too much “Erin alone time”. Finally, Someone over the age of 18 for me to talk to, I thought to myself.

Saltn’ Pepper was visiting his daughter and family in Virginia. He majored in Music in college and enjoys reading poetry. As soon as he told me that he was a minister at a church in Ohio, I knew that our conversation would inevitably turn awkward/blog worthy.

When I told Salt’n Pepper that I was originally from Vermont, a look of concern and worry tormented his face.

“That’s a pretty um…. Liberal state isn’t it?” He said as he put the arm rest down between us. It was as if he thought that my political views were contagious and that skinny arm rest was his only hope of making it off the plane without being infected.

At this point I was tempted to tell him about how excited I was that my brother and his boyfriend were finally getting married, but I thought better of it. He had not yet said anything rude to me and fabricating a brother and future brother-in-law was not necessary.

After a moment of silence, Saltn’ Pepper pulled out his wallet, and handed me a homemade business card.

“ Part of my job is to counsel people in need. You seem like a really nice young lady and if you ever feel that you need someone to talk to. Please know that you can always call me.” He said.

I thanked him for this kindness and placed the handcut piece of construction paper into my purse.

Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

“ Are you Dutch?” He asked me.

“mmm…no..” I was polite, but very confused.

“ I alway’s say.. If you aint Dutch.. you Aint much” He laughed, clearly pretty proud of his own joke.

I laughed too. There are few things that I enjoy more than rhyming.

He then told me that he had a bumper sticker with the phrase on it and proceeded to tell me about the other funny bumper stickers that he had seen. This was turning into a very nice conversation after all.

“ I’m just glad that I’m not Polish” he said. “ I wouldn’t be smart enough to but a bumper sticker on my car properly”

I stared at him for a moment in utter disbelief. I really wasn’t offended, but I was shocked that a minister would say something of that nature, especially to a perfect stranger. I come from a strong polish heritage and I was tempted to tell him so, but I decided that it wasn’t worth the battle.

As our flight continued, I was amazed by the number of polish jokes this man knew, and how he was clearly not shy to share them with anyone who would listen. I could tell that he was joking and if I had known him better ( or at all for that matter) I would have probably found it funny. I sometimes make fun if children with lisps, I really cant judge.

I decided that although I was not going to tell him that I was Polish that it was the perfect time to end the conversation and read my cosmo magazine. As I opened my $4.50 of trash, I was sure to place myself at an angle that would allow saltn’ pepper to read “100 ways to make him hot in bed” over my shoulder if he so desired. I have always been good at sharing.

This is where the story gets interesting.

As the plane was landing, Saltn’ Pepper made a few more jokes, all at the expense of my ancestors. He stood next to me as we were waiting for our bagged luggage and the polish jokes continued until my bags arrived. As I gathered my belongings, he extended his hand toward me .
“By the way, I’m Alan Smithe” He said forgetting that his business card had his name printed on it.

All of a sudden, a rush of courage and sass filled my mouth.

“ It was nice talking to you, Alan. I’m Erin Giebutowski” I said, borrowing my mother’s maiden name.

I smiled and watched the color drain out of Alan’s face. Without another word, I walked to my car.

Good luck, Jerry

I like to talk to people on planes. In the past few years I have talked to single moms about their rebellious pre-teens, reviewed a wedding album with a jealous sister, and listened to a old man recite an impressive list of facts about roller coasters. Last Sunday though, I was just not in the mood. It had been a long weekend and all I wanted to do was take a nap. I was thrilled that I would be in a plane where there was really nothing that I could do BUT sleep. I could take a nice long nap without feeling guilty.

As I walked through Lynchburg security, I was greeted by one of the most obnoxious men I have met in real life. He was just one of those people who just assumes that everyone around them wants to hear about their jobs, about their daughter’s report cards, and about the bad case of acne that they had when they were 13. Normally, I would have been delighted to hear his life story, but Sunday I was only able to force polite head nods in his general direction and count the minutes until I would be able to sit in the plane and escape his chatter. I should have known that I wouldn’t be that lucky.

When I got on the plane, I saw that I was assigned to sit next to Sir Chatterbox and was temped to turn around and start walking to Boston. After deciding that if I was too tired to hold a conversation with a stranger that I was also too tired to walk 500 miles, I sat down and prepared myself for the longest 50 minute plane ride known to mankind. I listen to him ramble about his cable bill, about his boss, about visit to the dentist the previous Wednesday. When the plane finally landed, I politely wished him safe travels to his final destination and darted out off the plane like I was an IBS patient in search for a bathroom. I needed to escape before sir chatter had the chance ask me if I wanted to continue our conversation over coffee.

I go straight to the terminal, playing and winning my sidewalk race. I throw my body into one of the sticky plastic chairs infront of my gate and sigh loudly with great relief and confidence that I escaped my predator, sir chatterbox. I imagine that my feelings closely resembled those of jerry the mouse every time he escaped Tom the cat. I send the next hour watching season four of Dexter, which is a blog for a later time. The USAIRWAYS woman comes on the intercom.
Flight Delay.

Flight Delayed again.

And again.

Awesome.

Finally, after what felt like eternity, I boarded my final plane of the evening to Boston . Nap time? I wish. As I find my seat, I realize that I had never asked Sir Chatterbox where he was traveling. I know now that he too was traveling to Boston…. in the seat directly across the aisle from me. He was so glad that we could continue our conversation right where we left off.

Tom the chatty cat:1

Jerry the sleep/cranky mouse:0

Victory!

There is an awkward convention at the Philly airport today and naturally I attended. Today I have seen women in ball gowns, a handful of large teenagers in small amounts of clothing. I have listened to a young child cry because he father refused to let her to eat pizza at 9am and I watched two separate men trip when they tried to escape the moving side walk. There also seems to be a strong bald population traveling today. I remember Mr. clean fondly. I love airports, the opportunities for people watching seem to be endless.

Sometimes I wonder if people are watching me to. I suppose its not a far fetched idea to think that a stranger may be telling her friends about something silly I have done in public. Maybe I am even in someone’s blog somewhere.

I have a game that I like to play in airports. I suppose that it is more of a race than a game but I often keep score, so I think that it counts.

I never use the moving sidewalks. Even if I am late. It never fails that I get stuck behind someone who either is standing completely still or walks slower than I would like and I felt like I could get to my terminal fast if I just walked at a brisk speed. I also had a bad experience involving a moving sidewalk last year and I am a little nervous about giving them another try.
How does this qualify as a game or a race? Allow me to tell you.

There are always people on the moving sidewalks. They are never completely empty. When people are stepping onto the sidewalk as I walk past the entrance, I use this area as the starting line. I make it a goal to walk fast enough, and dodge child and stroller obstacles so that I can beat my unknowing competitor to the end of the side walk. Sometimes when people are walking slowly and I feel like beating them to my finish line is no great accomplishment, I change the rules. Instead of racing one single stranger, I make a goal to pass as many people as possible on the moving sidewalk. Today for example I was able to pass 10 lazy strangers. Happy Birthday victory to me.

I will write more later about the friends that I made on the airplane today, but I am about to board the plane to Lynchburg!
Cheers!

Mr. Clean is kind of a jerk

This week I came to the realization that I should never, under any circumstance, marry a bald man. Although the idea of being legally bound to a shiny mirror to admire my own reflection in thrills me, I l also recognize that my level of productivity would fall faster than humpty dumpty.
On Sunday evening, as I found my seat in the back of the airplane traveling to Charlotte, I had only one mission. I was going to finish reading a book that I have been nursing for over a year. When I approached seat 12 A, I sat down, fastened my seatbelt, and cracked open my novel. Little did I know that within a matter of minutes my hopes and dreams of finishing my book were going to be crushed by a bag of pretzels and a razor blade.
When the man directly in front of me settled into his seat, I took a moment to admire his bald head and smiled as I compared him to Mr. Clean. Just as I was about to lower my face back into my book, Mr. Clean slighty turns his bald head and I am able to see his scalp wrinkle. It was amazing. With every movement of his neck, I watched the exposed skin shift. When he chewed his complimentary pretzels, I watched the veins in the back of his head wiggle. I was completely mesmerized.
I found myself plotting ways to touch his baldness and making it look like an accident. I brainstormed through take off, through the safety announcements, and through the warm water that the flight attendant so kindly offered me. It just looked so smooth and the skin seemed so thin and I really just wanted to make it wrinkle with my fingertips.
I had finally decided that when the pilot turned off the fasten seatbelt sign, I was going to stand up as soon as possible and use the headrest of the seat in front of me for support. As I wrapped my fingers around the seat, I was going to accidently grace my fingertips across his head and then quickly apologize for invading his space so carelessly.
It was not until the attendant came on the radio to prepare the flight for landing that I realized that I had only read 5 pages of my book during the 50 minute flight. I should have been disappointed with myself for being so easily distracted but I was still too caught up with my plan of attack to care.
As the plane pulled up to the gate I hear Mr. Clean say to his neighbor, “ I actually just moved here from Vermont”. Naturally, I had no choice but to tell him with excess enthusiasm that I too hailed from the great green mountain state and now residing in central, VA. I was hoping that this connection would instantly bond us and that by the time we unloaded the plane, we would be established BFF and that I could just touch his head without judgment.
Fail. Mr. Clean was not at all impressed about our common link and made a few comments about how people living in the greater Burlington area don’t really count as true Vermonters. I was bummed because. A) the man that I wasted so much time watching turned out to be an asshole. B) I was certain that I was not going to be able to touch his bald head and C) I never finished that damn book.
Cheers