First-world problems

After meticulously planning a two-week vacation, my checked luggage was lost when I landed at my destination. I had to wait around my friend’s apartment looking out the window for a good day and a half, stewing in the same clothes I had started my journey in, nine time zones away. 

Poor me.

Then I looked at the bright side.

1. I was in Paris.
2. I was staying for free in an apartment that was two blocks from the Eiffel Tower and was outfitted with gorgeous French doors that opened onto a balcony that I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find out that Audrey Hepburn had graced. Outside this charming apartment, the Eiffel Tower looked like it had been painted against a background of blue October skies (see photo). Quel domage.

I may have been washing my panties out in the sink but I was in Paris. In other words, un problem du premier monde.

First-world problems are everywhere, if you know where to look and when to listen.

“Should we go to the beach today or just hit the resort pool instead? You know I hate getting sandy.”

“I’m in a pickle. My Swiss au pair isn’t arriving until a week after the kids finish preschool.”

“I can’t decide between buying a new four-story townhome with a rooftop deck or staying in my 1912 Craftsman.”

“One of my resolutions is to purge my stuff this year and simplify and streamline. I just have way too many clothes, shoes, books, CDs, computer equipment, train memorabilia, Precious Moments figurines…”

I sympathize, I really do. Problems are problems, even if you’re not starving or in danger of eviction or battling the measles. But a first-world problem that actually needs to be addressed is our collective lack of perspective and self-awareness. I’m sorry you weren’t able to snag those heirloom tomato seeds and it sucks that your metabolism has plateaued to the point that you can’t lose those last five pounds. But every time you get stressed or P.O.’d, take a breath and think of a third-world problem.

Nothing like Ebola or lack of clean drinking water to make the long line at Chipotle suddenly bearable.

What's your favorite first-world problem?

Airline boarding process

I recently was flying out of Seattle when I realized just how low I ranked on the food chain of travel. I wasn’t flying first class. Or business class. And I didn’t have gold, silver or aluminum club status. I wasn’t a member of the military, or even wearing camo cargo pants ironically. I didn’t have small children or a feeble grandparent in tow. I myself wasn’t disabled, on crutches, in a wheelchair, or zooming around in one of those motorized La-Z-Boy scooters.

And no, I wasn’t sporting a Russell Wilson Seahawks jersey. Which on that day moved you to the front of the pre-boarding line.

In other words, my carry-on suitcase and I were hosed. It didn’t matter that I checked in 23 hours 59 minutes before our flight. I clearly was not part of any cool kids’ club. And I clearly need to get a credit card that earns me miles.

Can it really be called pre-boarding when 90 percent of passengers are locked and loaded by the time they announce Zone 1? Airlines want us to pay for upgrades so that we can board earlier and more importantly, feel as though we’re part of an elite group of flyers, the Star-Bellied Sneetches of the skies.

Here’s an idea: Maybe they should shift it to post-boarding. Board all of the seemingly normal, deodorant-wearing folks first and then call for the dregs. Wearing patchouli? You can finally board, and take the seat in the very last row. Lump all the Chatty Cathys together and seat them in the same row. Got a pupu platter of dietary issues? You get to board, only after the gate attendant flogs you with a bunch of lacinato kale that you get in lieu of the snack pack. Carrying a shit-ton of computer equipment so you can rock some in-flight spreadsheets? Enjoy sitting between the 6’7” dude in front of you and the inconsolable toddler who likes to kick behind you.

Or maybe the airlines should just go all Lord of the Flies at the boarding gate and let us fend for ourselves. Armed with my conch shell as my only carry-on item, I can assure you that I'll be elbowing my way to the exit row in short order, Russell Wilson jersey or no.

Designer luggage

Flipping through a fancy-pants fashion mag, I happened upon an Annie Leibovitz photo of Angelina Jolie drifting down a Cambodian river, accompanied by only her Louis Vuitton travel tote. 

Bitch, please. 

Sit too close to the edge and that Alto bag is a croc’s snack bag.

I don’t care how rich you are, crazy expensive designer luggage seems as ill-advised as buying a mansion built on quicksand.

Total money pit.

At some point, darling, you’re going to have to check that shit and if history has told us anything, it’s that baggage handlers and the cargo hold are not kind to luggage. And a Louis Vuitton steamer trunk is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Those dudes are going to head straight for it and play kick the can. Sure, it’s sturdy and exquisitely made but it’s a suitcase. It’s suppose to encase your suit and protect your fabulous belongings, not be one of them.

Leave such gross excess to the likes of Karl Lagerfeld and his pets, you know, mammals we can all get behind hating. 

(photo: upscalehype.com)

People who stop at the top of escalators

Um, excuse me. You there at the top of the escalator. No, not you. That guy. The completely unaware yambag checking his watch, looking at a map, looking anywhere but behind him. EXCUSE ME! I’m about to rear-end you, and not in a good way. Where the fuck do you think I and the rest of moving humanity queued up behind you are going to go?

Up your ass, that’s where. Escalators don’t break for boobs, Einstein, and neither does my ire. I’m going to create my own moving walkway and I’m going to call it “Your Back.” Are you listening now?

(photo: perezsolomon.com)

TIWTPITF: The Indian version

TIWTPITF goes international today. My friends Kathy and Dustin have been traveling through India and have compiled the following list of things they want to punch in the bindi. Namaste.

1. Indian light switches. You have to press them in a counter-intuitive way to turn them on, they're not marked so half of them do nothing, and there are a million switches on one plate. Well, maybe 8. But we counted 38 switches just in our room. You can't just plug something into an outlet. You have turn the switch to the outlet on. Otherwise, you'll be charging your camera battery for 8 hours and it won't do a damn thing.

2. Amul Butter. This is a popular company (and probably a monopoly). The butter comes in little single serving packages—you know, like at the pancake house. They're on the table for breakfast. The only thing is you can never open the fucking things. Wouldn't you think that the design to open them would be a no brainer? Usually one of the servers comes over and opens it for me. The helpless American.

3. Car horns. Obviously there is no regulation. They all sound differently: duck quacks, farts, musical, and screeching. It's the last that is the most horrible, especially when you're riding in an open tuk tuk and the horn blowing maniac is right next to you. They show no restraint or control.

Designer luggage

Status luggage is impractical, like penis-extender sportscar impractical. You might as well light wads of cash on fire. Your vintage Louis Vuitton train case and sleek Hermes carry-on are bound to get beat up and dragged around, much the way you deserve to be treated for buying such an unnecessary status symbol.

If I’m going to drop coin on a designer label, you can bet it’s going to be something I can drape close to my body and keep in my line of sight. While you may enjoy first-class treatment in the main cabin, your luggage doesn’t—it’s just targeted for pilfering by baggage handlers and then thrown into suitcase steerage with the rest of our lowly bags. Call me cuckoo crazy but I think luggage should be what you carry your money around in, not what you get carried away buying. Back away from the matching set of Gucci luggage and stick with the Samsonite. If you don’t, I have a sneaking suspicion that your luggage might not make it to your final destination.

(photo: handbags800.com)

The middle seat

I’ve booked the ticket, now I just have to pick my seat and wrap things up.

Uh oh.

The only seats available? 15E and 31B.

This can only mean one thing: the middle seat.

Fucking hell.

Whether I’m sandwiched between two big-ass loafs or wafer-thin Minnies, the problem is the same.

I’m trapped. God forbid I’m actually able to fall asleep. It’s only a matter of time before I lean right or left and drool on the Ed Hardy acolyte who’s hogging the armrest with his tattooed forearm.

If I am able to contort myself like a Cirque de Soliel freakasauras flex and pull out my laptop, I’m unable to move in my invisible straitjacket.

It nosedives from there. I spiral deep into my childhood, where I was left to straddle the hump in the backseat of the family car, trapped between my two older and decidedly ungenerous brothers. While my aisle mates are not likely to pinch or punch me, they are likely to irk me all the same with their superior seat assignments.

So I’m left with no choice but to land a solid punch to the middle seat’s face. Which is harder than it looks, considering I have no room to haul back and let it rip.

Fucking hell.

(photo: itinerantfan.wordpress.com)

Motel art

When visiting Fallingwater a few years back, a guide told us that Frank Lloyd Wright designed low ceilings and lots of windows into the famous home so people would be encouraged to go outside.

Well, motel art is about as far away as you can get from FLW, but the result is the same. I want to flee the premises when I am in a motel room dripping with bad art.

But first, I go into the bathroom to see if my eyes are bleeding.

Thomas Kinkade-like landscapes, art that is reminiscent of the cover of Duran Duran’s “Rio,” prints of ships and sandpipers, still lifes that match the bedspread—it’s all one stinky art fart. Motel rooms are where art goes to die a slow, faded, badly framed death.

Next time, don’t take an Ambien to get to sleep. Take down the art, turn it around, and stick it in the closet next to the ironing board. You’ll sleep like a baby.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/ cjanebuy)

Duck tours

Hopefully, you live in a landlocked area, mercifully free of bodies of water and the crap they attract. I’m not talking about guano. I’m talking about those daffy Duck tours.

Originating in Boston, these city tours tote hapless visitors around in amphibious vehicles, showing them the city by land and sea.

I can deal with the concept: repurposing military DUKWs for sightseeing excursions is kind of brill. It’s the execution I want to execute. The graphics are cheeseball, the out-of-work comedians who double for tour conDUCKtors definitely do not quack me up, and the music they play makes me want to tenderize Disco Duck with a giant glitter ball.

If that wasn’t enough to make my eyes and ears bleed, the Ducks incessantly quack as they drive around town, which makes it pretty miserable to live or work on their route. I know; I’ve been there.

If these motherduckers migrate to your town, be sure to flip them the bird.

(photo: bu.edu/comet/explore-boston)

Blabbing on red-eyes

You’ve made your connection, and he’s in the aisle seat. It’s like some sort of dreamy Sofia Coppola movie and you’re the romantic lead. You’re enjoying pillow talk with a sexy stranger who may be your true love, or at least your ticket into the mile-high club. Sorry to interrupt, but can you do me a favor?

Shut. The. Fuck. UP.

I don’t care what time zone we are currently flying over—my internal clock and my wristwatch say it’s 3:30 in the morning. I took this flight and an Ambien because I’m good at sleeping on planes. I have my rituals: I don’t drink caffeine, I listen to Joni Mitchell laced with Sufjan Stevens, I wrap myself in my giant knitted shawl.

All I ask is that a bratty toddler not kick my seat and that you Shut. The. Fuck. UP.

Even with headphones on, I can hear you yammering away with your life story and relationship history (which, from the sounds of it, you might want to keep to yourself until the third date; just a thought).

When I ask if you could lower your voices because every other single person on the plane is trying to sleep (as evidenced by the pitch-black cabin and profusion of navy blankets, sleep masks, and earbuds), you stare at me as if I just killed your dog. I explain that of course you have the right to talk but that I’m just asking for some courtesy of your fellow travelers. Bring the volume down or I’m going to descend into madness and punch you in the face. Forget about true love’s kiss from Prince Charming in 18C. Your kiss is on my fist when they turn out the lights.

What passengers have you wanted to kick the crap out of during a flight?

(photo: flickr.com/photos/wenzday01/3357083325/)

Impatient bus drivers

Don't pretend you don't see me running up to the door. And in case you are visually impaired (always a bonus in a person responsible for the safety of the masses), you’ve got to hear me pounding on the side of the bus and yelling at you to freakin’ stop.

What did I ever do to you?

Someone once told me, “Never run for a bus.” Maybe I read it in a fortune cookie. Regardless, wise words these. When I disregarded this advice and wiped out on the pavement in front of a busload of people as I was sprinting to the bus stop, I prayed that the driver would, as usual, just keep on truckin’. Oh no. This mutant driver actually stopped, opened the door, and asked if I was okay. Yeah, except that my road rage has now been joined by road rash, and I look like a walking HAZMAT area.

The upshot of all this is that at least I know the secret to getting you to step on the brakes when you see me coming. But even maiming myself for a bus ride is a crapshoot. I can’t really punch you in the face since you keep driving away but you’d better watch your rear-view mirrors. I might just decide to run for a bus. Your bus.

(Photo: seacat.files.wordpress.com)

Airport bagels

As much as I crave a fresh, doughy, warm-from-the-oven poppyseed bagel, I really can’t stomach airport bagels. You know the kind: dry yet weirdly foamy pucks that have the audacity to masquerade as a bread product. They get busted out in airport coffee shops and delis and at lame buffets (steer clear at your next sales conference if you know what’s good for you).

A freezer-burned Lender’s Bagel would taste like a delicacy compared with this waste of intestinal space. All I can say is, whatever corner of hell they're made in must have really suck-ass water. I suppose the airport powers that be think any sort of filler food is fine for a long flight, but let me tell you, I’d rather chew on the Skymall catalog than try to choke this thing down. Even using it as a vehicle for cream cheese is futile: the spread just sits there, refusing to melt into the breadrock—even if the potential murder weapon has been toasted.

We delicate flowers need alternatives to McDonalds, sure, and sometimes trail mix isn’t going to do it. But no amount of asiago is going to mask the sawdust that went into these plastic-wrapped plastic bagels. Kick them to the curb in favor of something like PB&J or mac and cheese. I’ll happily take the remaining inventory off your hands. They'll make excellent pucks for makeshift airport shuffleboard. Meet me outside Gate 18; we’ll borrow some brooms from the janitorial staff and get it on.

(photo: www.flickr.com/photos/packie/3619199966/)

Seat hogs

After suffering through planes, trains, and automobiles for nigh on a week, I’ve had it with all the greedy fucks who ooze over several seats. At the airport, businessmen ignore the masses at the jam-packed gate and set up shop with their computer and carry-on to one side, meal to the other, and cords snaking out and plugging up all the available outlets.

On the bus, selfish hosebeasts sit on the aisle, cock blocking the empty window seat next to them by dumping a backpack on it, or simply ignoring my presence behind sun-blocking shades.

When my friend and I scrambled onto the Amtrak regional train bound for New York, we found ourselves in a free-for-all of epic proportions while trying to score two seats together. This might have been easier had the asswipes not come out in force, draping themselves over two seats and feigning sleep.

Move your fat faker ass, and your little dog too!

If you insist on being a waste of space, I’m afraid I have no choice but to assume the seat of power and hand your ass to you on a silver platter. You'll feel the earth move under your feet as I herd you to a standing-room only area for the duration of your trip. If you covet your neighbor's seat again, I'm going to gather up your belongings, pile them in your lap, and wrap you in yellow "POLICE—DO NOT CROSS" tape. That should contain you nicely while I punch your greedy gob. Awake now? No? Then you won't feel it when I smother you with your travel pillow.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/joekerstef/2882501714)

SkyMall

Three hours into a flight from hell, a Meerkat Gang Sculpture is starting to look pretty damn good. In fact, I don’t know how I ever lived without it. What's happening to me? Who am I?

The trip starts out okay: I’ve taken my Dramamine, and I’ve got snacklets, an aisle seat, plenty of reading material, my iBook, and some sort of craft project.

Then it all goes to shit.

The seats are too small to pull out my laptop or knit, let alone stretch my legs. The guy next to me smells like 1969 and the overhead vent is not assuaging the stench. The three year old behind me is taking great delight in kicking my seatback while crying without pause. I plow through my rag mags in short order. Clearly, there’s nothing left to live for…so I pull out the SkyMall catalog.

When, at 30,000 feet, I think I've hit rock bottom, things gets worse. I feel very 1993 Franklin Covey as I contemplate a framed print of a Zen garden. Ooh, where do I swipe my card? Oh wait, here’s a light therapy system! For only $399.95, I can make my frown turn upside down in rainy Seattle! A plantar fasciitis kit? Now you’re just freakin’ my shit out, SkyMaul—you’re reaching into my soul and uncovering my deepest desires. In fact, I think I just might— Holy fuck, a watch winder! If only there was an automatic piehole feeder and a bum wiper, I could just throw in the towel.

Before I give up on life and go down the battery-operated rabbit hole, I need to do one last thing: unleash a can of whoop ass on this twisted love child of QVC and Lillian Vernon. A few repurposed items should do the trick.

I don a Doolittle & Loafmore sweatshirt and LED lighted safety glasses and get to business. I collect a plane's worth of DieMall catalogs in a NFL hammock. I heap them into a copper fire pit and crumple up a wall-size crossword puzzle as tinder. With my Swarovski lighter, I torch the hot mess. No number of indoor hoses and plant waterers can help you now. Go back from whence you came, demon catalog, and take Hammacher Schlemmer and its schtupid name with you.

But leave the snow cone cart.

Baggage claim cock block

Are you way more important than everyone else?
Is your luggage made of solid gold?
Are you smuggling someone across the border in a steamer trunk without air holes?
Did your water just break?

If you answered “yes” to any of these questions, fine. You suck dead bear but I’ll give you a pass at the baggage claim carousel. If you answered “no,” you must need me to fly my fist in a northerly direction toward your face.

Lemme tell you why.

When a flight lands, I try to hightail it out of the airport. Sometimes I'm forced to check a bag, so I haul ass from my arrival gate, only to find myself jockeying for position around the baggage carousel while I wait for my Samsonite to tumble down the conveyor belt. You’d think I’d be so flippin' happy to be off my flight and out of its Lilliputian seats that I’d just be content to feel my limbs again. Uh, no.

The flightmare continues, as I elbow my way through chuckleheads in pleated khakis or gamey business suits with phones clipped to their belts, parents who are wrangling several unruly kids hopped up on M&Ms, and reunited couples engaged in serious tonsil hockey. What do these penis pumps have in common? They are in my way and irking my shit. Who the fuck knows if my bag made it to my destination, since I can’t see the conveyor belt, let alone get to it. Asshats of every kind queue up against the carousel, forming a Hands Across American Airlines bond that I can’t break through. When a waste of space scores a bag, he doesn’t remove it from the fray. No, he usually sets it beside himself to create an additional hurdle for me to trip over/kick the shit out of when I finally spy my bag amidst the golf clubs, checked car seats, and floral tapestry suitcases littering the conveyor belt.

Then there are the families.

Just a suggestion, but maybe you could have a family meeting over by the Smart Cartes and designate ONE parent to retrieve your bags. Again, it’s just a thought and if you’d just rather stick together in a line like the von Trapp Family Singers, so be it. Just be aware that I’m going to use my carry-on bag and my laptop case to box your ears like a monkey rocking the cymbals. Find your roller bag now, bitch. I don't think that red ribbon you tied onto the handle is gonna help you.

(Photo: bridgeandtunnelclub.com)