(*a disclaimer. I use many instances of the word “ass” in this post. And I enjoyed it. Because some expletives make me laugh. Because I’m immature, apparently. But if that kind of thing offends you, just stay off the crazy train today and catch the next post.)
Now that I’ve been home and had no time whatsoever to catch my breath from the busy week in San Diego, I feel the need to pause and tell you about the ugly underbelly from my travels, or, more specifically, the things that only I, with my warped sense of humor and idiosyncricity, found….amusing, annoying, and/or disturbing on my trip to California, and in the days following my return home. (Longest run-on sentence in the history of this blog.)
One of the first meals we ate in California was at a bar that doubled as a Mexican restaurant. Their tagline is, “Bad Ass Mexican”. And, I mean, that was certainly cause for some interest in the place because I LOVE Mexican food and if there was a possibility that I could try “bad ass” Mexican food, I would not require persuasion. And I didn’t. So that’s how I found myself sipping a margarita, enjoying the best guacamole of my 36 years…. and staring at ass.
Yup. The waitress, that I didn’t notice until we had ordered and she turned around, had on a leotard. A thong leotard.
Pieces of a mental puzzle began to come together as I began to realize THAT is what was meant by “bad ass” Mexican. The other servers had on booty shorts with lots of exposed cheekage, but ours was the only one in a thong.
I am all about self-expression and since she is a consenting adult, I just sipped my margarita and marveled at her boldness to bare and thought, “You do you, chick.”
And that was that.
Until Friday. When Hubs and I visited Mission Beach. We saw more ass.
As we strolled the boardwalk, several women proudly walked around in their thong bikinis. I saw lots of ass that day. Inspirational ass. I really need to get back into my pilates routine and start doing some squats. I’ll never bare my own ass in a public setting unless I’m in another country and 100% certain that I don’t know anyone IN said country, but I can still strive for California level assage.
And, see, “ass” can be used in so many different ways. So my title will continue to make sense, even though I’m not talking about literal be-hinds from this point in the post, forward.
Examples of correct uses of the word “ass”:
“Don’t be an ass.”
“You smell like ass.”
So keep these variations in mind as you read ahead, if you’ve stuck it out this far.
I wrote last week about my struggles with anxiety during this trip. I talked about dealing with strangers and an unfamiliar setting, but I want to mention specifically a couple of situations that were sort of a mental obstacle course for me.
My fellow introverts will feel me on this. The rest of you? Well, I’m pretty sure you’ve either accepted my….uniqueness by now or you just think I’m crazy. Either way, I don’t expect you to understand, only accept or overlook.
On Monday and Tuesday of my conference, I selected a seat on the 3rd row of 4, at the end of a table. It was a good vantage point to hear and see the speaker, and it was a good place to be in case I needed to step out for any reason, and cause minimal disruption.
On Wednesday morning, I was running a bit later than usual, and when I walked into the conference room, these two Latina ladies had stolen “my seat”. I say “stolen” because they had been there for the other two days as well, and why they felt the need to suddenly change seats was both frustrating and unsettling for me.
I like claiming my space. And, when I’m alone in an unfamiliar setting, I like making my nest and keeping it…..uncluttered. Of other people. I took it as the personal affront that it was so obviously meant to be. I promptly returned to my room and retrieved my pepper spray in order to avenge myself.
Unfortunately, the last sentence only happened in my head and I defeatedly took a seat on the front damn row, and tried not to allow bitterness to destroy my concentration.
What DID hurt my concentration somewhat was the woman beside me.
This lady, while nice, was a bit…..uncouth. You can always tell, at these types of events, who is there to work and who is there to play and who can do both in a balanced way.
The lady who took up residence beside me all week was there to play. But it was her personal habits for which I judged her.
Like the fact that she stayed on her phone THE WHOLE TIME the speaker was speaking. Every. Day.
And the fact that she would LOAD her plate with breakfast food and eat MAYBE 20% of it.
And the fact that she was swiping ranch dressing off her plate with her fingers and licking it off during our last full day of class.
I realize not everyone was raised with some semblance of etiquette or manners, and she was very nice to me, but some people’s behaviors are just…..offputting. And I’m not entirely convinced she and her husband weren’t swingers, so I’m always a little wary of strange couples that are JUUUUUST a little too friendly.
She kept inquiring about my evening plans every day and I had to very much restrain from yelling, “NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUSINESS!”. Not because I mind talking about the fun experiences I was having and planning, but I don’t like for people to invite themselves into my space. And she already had and I wasn’t interested in double dating the rest of the week, even if the intentions were innocent.
I don’t want this to turn into a full on bitchfest, and since I’ve droned on and on for several paragraphs now, I’ll just mention briefly the other things that, in one way or another, made some small dents in the smoothness of our travels last week….
First, the guy almost going into a full on panic attack on the plane from Houston to San Diego. The poor guy was rocking back and forth and looked like he just wanted to scream. I felt really awful for him because I knew there was nothing I could do to help him. But I did say some silent prayers for him. I hope he can get him some Xanax or something similar before he has to fly again.
There were the two, yes TWO screaming children on the return flight to Houston. I had been watching TV on my phone up until about the last hour of the flight. From the time I took out my earbuds to the time we landed, these two kids continued to cry and throw down. I felt truly sorry for the passengers that were close to them, as well as the kids’ parents. I mean, sometimes there’s just nothing you can do. These kids were on opposite ends of the plane. We were in the middle. So we got the benefit of both! Yay us! Seriously, I’m so glad I never had to fly with a small child. That HAS to mostly suck for a large variety of reasons.
Finally, my last complaint involves nothing from my travels and just the local b.s. that causes my blood pressure to spike. Namely, the DMV.
After all these years of people needing licenses to operate motor vehicles. After all of the technological progress of the last 4 decades. After ALL OF the tax dollars that have been spent in this country and this state. I have yet to figure out WHY it still takes HOURS to achieve anything at the DMV.
I am currently sitting in one, waiting on Reagan to get an opportunity to take her written driver’s examination. We tried yesterday afternoon, but our number didn’t get called before they stopped testing for the day.
So we came to a different DMV today. And there are a limited number within reasonable driving distance. We are currently 60 miles from home. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
These offices are neither fully staffed, nor ADEQUATELY staffed, if you get my meaning. The lack of efficiency in these places is frickin baffling. And the school! The school where Reagan took driver’s education! Why couldn’t they have some type of damn checklist for us to show us EXACTLY what would be needed before we show up to test?!?! Instead, the instructor throws a bunch of papers at the kids and they are somewhat left to figure it out on their own. And, surprise, TEENAGERS KNOW NOTHING! Ask one a question. I’ll bet you $100 they’ll either nonchalantly, OR while rolling their eyes OR while giggling sillily, will say, “I don’t know.” Or they’ll shrug.
But I digress. Because if not, I couldn’t tell you about the freaky people at the DMV. It’s like….a rural Walmart on steroids. There’s the southern mamas with their perfect hair and Michael Kors bags bringing their teenage sons and daughters for testing (that ain’t me. My hair is a hot mess and my bag was a hand-me-down from my sister and I’m pretty sure it’s a “Tarjeyyy” original.
There’s people snacking. People letting their kids run wild. People in tank tops, and people in work clothes and teenagers in pajama pants.
It’s a damn zoo is what it is.
So, there you have it. An inside look at my judgment of and disdain for much of the human population.
I keep much of it to myself, meaning, I don’t write about it much. But perhaps I should.
Especially since it appears we are hostages of the DMV and may never see the outside world again.
*update – she passed! Dobby is freeeeeee!