California Doomed: Airport Stylin'

So what can only be the wisest decision for my digestive system included not only the primary and secondary gluten assaults as provided by Pizza Hut pizza (mmmmm... blech), then a wonderful dinner at Kit Kat restaurant in Toronto...

I also figured it would only be in my most sincere and heartfelt best interests to go gung ho in the Air Canada fancy schmancy pants lounge prior to our flight to LAX (Los Angeles, California, for all you non-travellers or knowers of airport coding).

I can't help it. They have ever-flowing, always re-stocked tiers of cookie plates for any and all to devour.

Oatmeal raisin anyone? What's that? Oh, there's chocolate chip as well? Well fuck me and call me Uncle Charlie Sheen, full of winning tiger blood.

Well, not really. Don't do that. Feyoncé probably wouldn't appreciate it (and hell, I have no idea where you have been, what if you are a carrier of some horrendous STD or something?)

I digress.

So yeah. I was all excited for the gluten-free chick pea/cherry tomato/spices/olive oil salad. Had two bowlfuls. One of the employees looked at me bug-eyed, in awe of my (bravery? stupidity?) for consuming such a large amount of fibrous beans in a single ten-minute sitting.

What can I say, I aim to impress.

Speaking of which, WTF. I usually travel with comfort, and ONLY COMFORT, in mind.  
Feyoncé even commented with those EXACT WORDS.

As I have mentioned previously, I particularly despise the once-over twice-over I typically get from the Air Canada Lounge staff when I accompany my guy into their superior and fantastical territory (in my pajama pants).

SO this time... THIS TIME, I actually wore somewhat fitted jeans with BOOTS over my jeans. I know, fucking crazy. Feyoncé thinks the look is ridiculous, but I did it anyway to be STYLISH.

FUCKING STYLISH, bitches.

I was totally hot like this, all shadowy and mysterious. Sort of. Jeans over boots Babies, jeans over boots.

I say that now, with swollen calves, blisters, and sweaty feet. No one gives a solitary shit about what I look like at the airport, or anywhere else, for that matter. 

But I decided, "Hey! I am going to mother-effing California, y'all! They are all wealthy and fashion-savvy, and every single woman has breast implants and no grey hair! I better step up my freakin' game!"

So yeah. Um, I don't do stylish well. Nevermind stylish + travelling + cranky + gluten-filled-bloaty.

Also? The entire time I am typing this, I am fighting the fucking moron in front of me who is attempting to push their seat back with their entire strength. It's amazing what an upright laptop, strong wrists, and perseverance can do.

Fucker.


I'm pretty sure the small Asian lady in front of me will only be comfortable if her seat is pushed back into our departure port of Toronto.

Okay, that's not fair. I have no idea if she is Asian.

But I do know she is one of those assholes with no concern for others' personal space.

If I ever become the I-fully-recline-my-seat-and-don't-give-a-flying-fuck types promise me that you will shoot me or send a computer virus to me stat to smack some sense into me.

Anyway, have I mentioned how much I fucking HATE flying?

My wrists are sore from sitting in crouching-passenger-hidden-carpal-tunnel form, to keep her from crushing my laptop. It's the only force from stopping me from full on claustrophobia.

The next post will let you know how much fun the transition was from friendly (not really) Pearson Airport into that shifty, terrifying area known as U.S. Customs.

*I should preface the next post with a disclaimer that I am the hugest wuss ever, especially when travelling. Like, 5 year old mentality and calm, cool, collected-ness. (Read: none).

Yes, in the end I checked, she was a 4'-0" tall Asian lady. Who apparently feels like that little car that FEELS really big inside.



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