Thursday, July 8, 2010

From Virginia to California

So since we last talked, I have relocated to California for the month and am now working in a "Relax the Back" store.  Basically, I make it so that Google thinks our store is awesome and puts us at the top of their list whenever someone types in certain words.  Other perks include sitting in massage chairs, falling asleep on tempur-pedic mattresses, and playing computer games with my boss when he tells me to (he literally tells me to stop what I'm doing and play with him or else I'm fired).  Sometimes I work on the sales floor.

I get a kick out of selling $6000 mattresses to people when my normal sleeping arrangement is an old mattress on a dusty hardwood floor.  I look forward to the day that I have $6000 extra so I can upgrade,  but there are so many things I want to upgrade before then.

I just lied.  I really only want to upgrade my computer.  Other than that, I'm pretty content.

Just lied to my own blog...


The Plane Flight

Let's go ahead and cover my experience traveling to California.

I flew out of Roanoke Virginia headed towards Oakland California.  Two friends of mine - Sorensen and JJ - drove me to Roanoke and we talked about girls and missions the whole way.  Hanging out with them is a lot like hanging out with what the equivalent of feminists for men would be.  They hate girls.  Strongly.  They feel oppressed by girls and their powers to emotionally manipulate them.  I play along because I think it's funny to be bitter towards 3 billion people because of the actions of 2 of them.  But for them, the hatred is real (especially for JJ).  Imagine someone eating your baby.  Now hate that person.  Same feeling, more or less.

After checking in at the airport and giving 47 pounds of my most precious belongings to strangers (who were kind enough to leave a note saying that sifted through my things), I stopped in the cafe.  I stood there for about 8 minutes while workers not more than 7 feet away from me made salads, saying, "We'll be right with you, sir." over and over.  They lied.  They weren't right with me.  Not by any interpretation of the phrase.  That 8 minutes is forever gone from my life and I'll never get them back.

I ordered a burger.  I waited for that burger for almost 45 minutes and got it during the final boarding call for my flight.  It's not like the restaurant was swamped - maybe 3 other people.  The airport only has 6 gates - not that many people go through it. 

 So after scarfing my burger like a starved refugee, I ran and got on my plane.  I sat next to a young guy with probably the biggest beard I've ever seen in my entire life PLUS it was braided.  I've always been proud of my facial hair-growing abilities, but this guy (who was about 27, I would guess) absolutely dwarfed me in every way.  I'm like a boulder covered in a healthy layer of moss.  He's like a boulder covered in the Amazon.  Staring at people is rude, but staring at beards shouldn't be rude.  I'm starting a beard-starers movement.

Anyway, I managed to sleep for most of the flight which is rare for me.  I usually have a tough time sleeping in anything that isn't my bed.

The Detroit airport should come with complimentary running shoes.  Everyone in that place is sprinting somewhere.  I was amazed with how everyone was running everywhere.  If the government wants to solve the nation-wide obesity problem, make all flights stop in Detroit.  I have this problem where my sense of urgency doesn't seem to be properly calibrated.  It wasn't until I had strolled my way into range of the magical speaker thingy saying "Last call for [your flight]" that I panicked a little and starting running.  I ran past my gate from panic, but quickly realized it and turned around.  I felt foolish, but I was on my plane.  I got on and I was all sweaty and tired and I felt bad for the lady sitting next to me, but I was on the flight and that's all that mattered.

I knew this was going to be the painful flight to Salt Lake, so I busted out my computer and watched episodes of Ed until the battery died.  Then I listened to music.  The flight absolutely sucked, but Ed is a good show, so I was kind of satisfied.  I wish my computer battery lasted longer than 3 hours.

My flight landed in Salt Lake City and I (again) had very little time to get to my next flight.  Keep in mind my defective sense of urgency.  I called my mom on the phone and sauntered my way over to my gate, chattin about Caribbean cruises and whatnot - totally oblivious to the external urgency that the universe was trying to relay to me.

I don't know if other airports do this, but in Salt Lake, when flying on a smaller airplane, they scan your ticket and then tell you which door you're leaving from and send you down a big hallway with like 30 doors that lead to planes.  So the lady scanned my ticket and I'm guessing she told me the door number, but I didn't pay attention (still on the phone with mom) and I just followed people down the big dark corridor, chatting away with my mom and vacations and such.  Once I realized that I had followed the wrong people for like 5 minutes, I began to panic a little.

When I panic, I wander around (if you haven't figured that out yet).  I started asking people around me if they knew where the Oakland flight was while aimlessly walking through this huge hallway as the urgency began to set in, but of course they didn't know where it was because they were headed to Las Vegas and Idaho Falls and stuff like that.  I began running around asking people if they knew where the Oakland flight was and I'm guessing my panic was starting to show because people started to look scared of me.  Looking back on it, having a big guy running straight towards me shouting random words like "Where" and "Oakland" would have scared me, too (like a semi headed towards a smrt car with lights and horns blazing), so I guess I can't blame them for hiding their children and slowly shuffling their way past me.  Finally someone that actually worked at the airport pulled out a list and told me door 18, so I ran over to get on my small plane.  The sign above the door said "closed" but the door was open and the plane was still sitting there, so i just went on through and up the little staircase, determined to get on the plane.

I'm fairly confident that no one reading this has ever knocked on the door to a locked airplane, but I imagine it feels a lot like pounding on the door of a bomb shelter as an A-bomb drops in the background.  I felt desperate, and I kind of was, but I really wanted to get on that plane.  The door opened and I was greeted by flight attendants laughing hysterically at me.  I'm sure I was blushing, but at least I was on the plane.

I have this curse on me that every flight that I fly on, I somehow end up at the very back of the plane.  Also, apparently there's a rule that every single passenger on a plane needs to see the safety dance (which they had almost finished when I started my frantic pounding).  Now imagine everyone staring at me stumbling my way down the isle towards the back of the plane, accidently knocking people with my computer bag while the exasperated flight attendants began pulling out the fake seat belts and life vests that they had just put away after completing the safety show.  I felt foolish, but strangely proud and important because lots of people had to wait for me.

For the flight I sat next to a bald dude who was staring at colorful paper the whole time and writing questions on it.  I listened to music.  The flight felt longer than it really was, but that's because my back was tired from crappy Delta seats and my feet hurt from running around on concrete floors in $10 Walmart slippers.

I landed, left the gate, and rediscovered that Mexico has stealthily retaken California.  I hate Spanish.  So much.  I'm fluent in it, but I hate it.  However, in order to talk to anyone or answer people's questions, I had to speak it.  Simple questions such as, "what does this sign mean?" or "where is the bathroom?" make me cringe and moan a little before opening my mouth.  I felt like a sheep-herder, but with Mexicans.

I get to the bag claim and look at the little red blinking signs to find out where my flight was.  I eventually decided that the one blinking DELTA over and over (no city, no number) was mine and stood there, worried that my bag hadn't made the frantic transfers from flight to flight that I myself had almost missed.  My heart rejoiced like a chubby kid caught in a full pantry built out of fluffy marshmallows as my 47 pound bag came violently tumbling out of the bag-birther machine thingy.  I grabbed it and went outside to the curb and waited for my brother-in-law.

And waited.  And waited.  And waited.

Apparently my brother had better things to do and was running late to get me (he later told me what he was doing and I am not comfortable repeating it to anyone... use your imagination).  The weather outside was nice - not as humid or hot as Virginia - but the Spanish language was everywhere and it was driving me crazy because I was having a tough time thinking in English, my preferred language.  My thoughts were a lot like this - "I wonder que tipo de work I'm going to hacer at my trabajo?"  Good ol' Spanglish.

Then I got home and got like 3 hours of sleep before waking up to go to work.  When I awoke, I found out the plumber was over and had turned off the water.  Panic ensued, which led to me wandering around for like 10 minutes.  I eventually got the bright idea to jump in the frigid pool to wash myself, so I went out and took a really big bath.  I came back inside, towel still wrapped around me, and the plumber announced that he had just turned the water back on ("Good news, everyone...!").  In my mind, I strangled him to death.

Now I work in a back store.

1 comment:

  1. Your blog makes my boring days sitting in an ice cream store much more interesting.

    Also, I couldn't help but think that I work in an ice cream store and sell ice cream, so its only logical for someone in a back store to sell backs. Remind me to NEVER visit your workplace.

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