Taco Bell has a new menu item...

I haven't had a craving for Taco Bell since I was 19 and drunk. (Sorry mom). Taco Bell would never be my whole meal of food choice. But, neither would Wendy's, and I wolfed down some chicken nuggets like it was my job in Dulles airport yesterday. The point of this being that people are forced to make choices they would not normally make in airports.

I'm going to hold onto that thought because if that isn't the case it means that a middle aged man wearing sweatpants and a Family Guy t-shirt (tucked into the sweatpants) normally orders the newest Taco Bell menu item. This new menu item may or may not exist, but, if it does I'm sure it's called "Satchel of Taco Bell". I'll explain.

On Wednesday I flew from Austin to Dallas and Dallas to Washington DC. The flight to DC was on a small jet, with 2 seats on either side of the aisle. My assigned seat was, naturally, next to the man described above. He weighed at least 300 pounds. His sweatpants where made of some sort of acrylic material and I could see his unshapen body shaking under them.

So, I sit down. I take out my book. I am limited to one half of my seat. We take off (on the second attempt mind you, something about at error message!!). As soon as we level out and I start to relax, it happens.

My seat mate takes out a large Taco Bell sack filled with Taco Bell menu items. He puts down his tray table and lays them out. Six taco supremes, two burritos, and a mexican pizza. I start to gag as soon as the smell hits my face. Now, because only 3 people read this blog you each know how transparent I can be when I don't like someone or something. You also know about my gag reflex. It is brutal. I'll let you each imagine me in this situation. I'm sure your imagination will do it better justice than my words.

The older man sitting across the aisle from me catches my eye and we both look at each other in disbelief of what is happening. We laugh together, to ourselves.

I'll spare you the intimate details of how long and how disgustingly this man ate his Taco Bell. Let's just say it took over an hour. Let's also just say that at one point a morsel of Grade D beef and a shred of lettuce fell on my pants. Both the flight attendant and the man across the aisle laughed. My seat mate says "Sorry" and a piece of crushed taco shell flies from his mouth and onto my shirt. I literally can't breathe.

Now, I should say, at no point was this man aware of my discomfort. He was too busy rocking out to Rascal Flatts and searching the now empty satchel for more Fire Sauce. He had no clue that what he was doing offends every single flying social norm, ever.

Approximately 56 minutes into the eating of the satchel full of Taco Bell, my seat mate begins to reach his limit. One taco to go. He's not going to make it. He offers the taco to me. The man across the aisle and his seat mate are laughing at me again. I decline.

It's over. Finally. The wrappers get wadded up, the crinkled, torn Fire Sauce packets disappear back into the satchel. The flight attendant takes the remains of my nightmare away. The man swills the last drops of his Diet Coke (hah!), slams his seat back, stretches, audibly burps (I gag), and falls asleep. Then, he begins to softly snore.

I settle into my book and Ipod and drown him out for the remainder of the flight.

So, I had to sit next to someone really annoying on a flight. That happens to people all the time, that's not remarkable. What is remarkable is that I didn't actually kill him. It is remarkable that I could laugh in the middle of total annoyance. It is remarkable that I was actually a little happy for this guy. I was happy that someone could enjoy food that much, live in their own world, and a little jealous that he knew about the "Satchel".

End!

favorite feeling

I've decided that my favorite feeling (besides taking off control top pantyhose and a bra thats too small after a 12 hour day) is relief. Or maybe those feelings are the same? Anyway, feeling relieved is pretty sweet.

Being relieved means that my worrying was for not, that I made the right decision, and that my gut instinct is my best friend.

So, today, when I get home and take off my annoying work clothes and settle into my couch for some reading time I will be physically relieved and mentally relieved. And it will be so good.

I'm not that important and neither is my job

It has been 17 days since I last posted. This is mostly because I've been really busy with work and my life and being generally important.

I came home to Louisiana for the weekend to hang out with my mom and relax. It was a good weekend. I ate shrimp and grits and drank iced tea. I drank coffee and ate etouffe. We talked shit, and talked good things, we laughed and slept. It was good, but, I was ready to get back to my life in Austin today.

As I drove out of the driveway I was already thinking about work, about emails, about things I forgot to do. I remembered I left clothes in the washer and my trash in my house. So, I had begun to prepare for malodorous mix of mold and rotting vegetables upon my arrival at 6500 Champion Grandview.

I looked down at my dashboard to set my odometer. 4 warning lights were on. Break system warning light, anti-lock brake system warning light, the little car sliding off the road light, and the traction warning light. I stop. I put on my hazards. I turn around.

I turn-off and turn back on the car (like a re-boot?) I play with the parking break. Mom and I decide I'm not going anywhere.

I read the manual. Words like "Stop Immediately and contact your dealer" let me know I've made the right decision to not drive 7 hours on questionable breaks.

I start to freak out about what all I'm going to have to miss tomorrow. As I begin frantically writing emails, I calm down. No one cares. I'm not a surgeon or a doctor. I'm not a lawyer. No one is going to jail because I can't be at work. No one's life is going to shut down. No one will be mad at me for making the safe decision.

I'm just not that important (thank God!). What is important is shrimp and grits with your mom and not dying in a fiery accident on I-35 because I had a meeting.

Perspective. Isn't it liberating?

24 going on 67

I'm 24. But, most of the time I might as well be 67. I like to drink coffee and read books. I like to go out to fancy restaurants, watch TV, and be asleep by 10:30. I like to wake up early and run/do yoga.

I 'went out' this weekend. You know, pregaming at someones apartment, paying $10 for parking downtown, going from bar to bar talking to dudes with gel in their hair and wearing Banana Republic shirts with the bottom button buttoned and an undershirt. I have never been so annoyed in my whole life.

I left, alone, and drove home at 11:30pm. I got a Frosty from Wendy's on the way home. That was my favorite part of the night.

So, as hard as I might try, I'm not like most other 24 year olds. I refuse to pay $10 for parking so that I can pay $6 for drinks so that I can talk to people I don't even like. I hate jacket conversation. I don't want to explain what I do to people looking past my shoulder at some 18 year old in Forever 21 gear.

I'm too old (biologically or otherwise) to pretend.

Flaming Hot Cheetos

Flaming Hot Cheetos are, apparently, a huge deal among tweens and teens. How can I make such broad sweeping statements? Because I have evidence.

My work through Big Brothers Big Sisters makes me privy to the inner workings of a low-income, mostly Hispanic middle school. My work through genAustin makes me privy to the inner workings of a high-income, mostly white middle school. All kids covet Flaming Hot Cheetos.

The empty, crumpled bags fill the trash cans in schools and the fiery red cheese powder coats little pre-pubescent fingers. I know that someone has been punched in the face over a stolen bag of hot Cheetos. I won't say who.

Tomorrow morning, I'm going to my 'littles' first home soccer game. I asked if she wanted me to bring snacks for the team. Oh she did, and she requested Flaming Hot Cheetos. I declined. I will be bringing bananas and orange slices. She will not be happy.

I was on my way for a coffee meeting this morning and what do I see? An single Flaming Hot Cheeto lying in the middle of the apartment parking lot. Don't worry, I documented. See picture above.

Weird right? Flaming Hot Cheetos are a major part of my life. I can't seem to get away from them.

Still Don't believe the Flaming Hot Cheeto phenomenon? NPR does. Click here to see the full story: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5394069

Why all the hype? Flaming Hot Cheetos are pretty f'ing good and totally repulsive all at the same time.

Good work Frito-Lay, good work.

grand cross

Apparently, I am at a grand cross in my birth chart.

And what, pray tell, does that mean? It means I see an astrologist and largely feel like that is the only semi reliable thing in my life. Whatev, don't judge me.

A grand cross is a part of your life, that few people ever have, where big choices and changes in their relationships, career, spiritual life, family, friendships, etc all happen at once. It is powerful time of change and an opportunity to break old habits. It is, according to Gena (astrologist), the hardest and most powerful time in my life, probably ever.

This doesn't really mean a lot. I could have told her that everything in my life was falling apart and reconvening in a better way. What it does mean is that I feel validated in my internal craziness.

It means I should be gentle with myself and others. It means I shouldn't be anywhere else.

It's in the cards.

shameless

Today, I reached a new level of awesomeness.

Today, I watched a Jersey Shore marathon for over 6 hours. Jersey Shore is everything good and everything awful about America, my generation, and tanning/tats.

Sami "The sweetest bitch you'll ever meet" reminded me that jorts are, under no circumstances, flattering. Mike "The Situation" reminded me that everyone who wears Ed Hardy is a douchebag.

Snookie (or Snickers as she is affectionately called) taught me not to do cartwheels in a bar with no panties on and, most famously, don't talk shit or you'll get punched in the face.

All in all, I'm thankful I'm not a guidette and that I don't ever have to pretend to be one.