I love the TSA, I really do. Making me put my flip flops through the x-ray machine? When did they implement this policy?! One of the great reasons for wearing flip-flops when travelling is that, unlike all those people wearing sneakers and heels and boots, you didn’t have to take your shoes off. Today, however, I found myself placing my flip-flops in one of those stupid grey trays and shuffling barefoot across the grimy floor of Washington National airport. And no, TSA, I’m not using those stupid goddamn booties you have provided “for my convenience.”
Oh yeah, and one of the wheels on my rolling suitcase fell off this morning while I was on my way to work. It’s probably chilling in a gutter somewhere while I’m dragging my gimp suitcase all over Washington, DC. When travelling, I prefer my large Columbia backpack, but you can’t exactly take one of those on a business trip, can you? Well, you could, but you would look ridiculous lugging that thing around while wearing a suit.
The flight itself sucked, as usual. Air travel has gotten absolutely ridiculous. Sitting in the row across from me was a Spanish couple that was well on their way to joining the mile high club, and behind me there were two little kids screaming their heads off and kicking my seat. I wanted to bang my head against my tray table and scream “OMG WTF WILL YOU PLEASE STFU!!! HOW MUCH LONGER UNTIL WE GET TO HOUSTON?!?!”
Oh, and Continental’s tuna sandwich sucks…like really, really sucks.
When I finally got to Houston, I caught a cab to my hotel. My driver wore cowboy hats, boots, and a spoke with a thick Texas drawl. When I told him I had just arrived from DC, he eyed me suspiciously and asked, “You work for the guv'mint?”
“Naw, the energy industry.”
He liked this answer, as he apparently used to work in the oil fields when he was younger. He immediately started ranting about the federal government and its multitude of regulatory agencies that were just screwing everything up. He complained about the “liberals” blaming President Bush for high gas prices (which, he has a point…it’s ridiculous to pin high gas prices on Bush).
And THEN he says: “And these CAL-I-FORNIANS come on over here and bitch about the price of their gas while they’re spending $4 on a cup of Starbucks coffee!”
Uh….oh. Lindsay, now is NOT the time to say “But those caramel frappacinos suuuure are delicious! WESTSIDE IS THE BEST SIDE, CALI REPRESENT!”
But eventually, he learned where I was from:
“I can tell from your accent, you must be from the Midwest.”
My accent, from the Midwest? WTF? This is the second time in the past few months that I have heard this. WHY, GOD, WHY?!
“Uhh, a bit more west, actually.”
“Wyoming?”
“Uh, a bit farther.”
“Cal-i-fornia?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I heard a bit of Midwest in ya, so you must have some good roots there.” (I do…Illinois).
He bitched some more about Iraq and the Middle East. (His solution? Nuke them. Yikes!)
When we finally got to our hotel, he took my bags out of the car and said “Well, I heard this is a nice hotel…although it is French.” (The Sofitel…and yeah, everything is in both English and French. Bizarre, considering we’re in Houston.)
Ah, what a wonderful day.
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