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Not Serving Alcohol at the Airport Should Not Be a Thing

I am at the airport. I like writing in airports. I usually have a cocktail in hand, but as it’s 4:45am here in Los Angeles, that’s not possible. It is illegal to serve alcohol before 6am. Aren’t airports exempt from such rules? I saw that one movie with Tom Hanks that one time, and for some reason, that makes me feel like they can serve me a damn adult beverage. If this were Europe, I would be able to have the drink. Hell, if this were Europe, people would be strolling up to this bar here at the Rock & Brews in their club clothes. They would still be very drunk because they rolled into the club at 2am. They may be angry because they only got a few hours to party. That’s how Europeans roll. How do I roll? I’m wearing a PINK sweatshirt like a basic bitch, yoga pants, and my hair is in a bun stands erect from the top of my head.

The bartender has apologized to me about four times at this point. I must look like I need this drink. In my defense, it wasn’t like I ordered a shot of tequila. I ordered mimosa… like a lady.

Since I couldn’t drink, I’m eating. I should have probably ordered oatmeal or fruit. Not only because health, but I haven’t pooped in four days. I’m eating a breakfast croissant. I just ate all the bacon off, and I am mainly eating the fried potatoes that came with it. I am emotionally eating because the last 21 hours have been hell, which almost feels like an understatement.

I woke up at 7am to an email alerting me that I could check in for my flight at 12:59am. This had to be wrong, I was flying out Wednesday night, not tonight. American Airlines fucked up. I was sure I would see a headline reading something like, “American Airlines Causes Panic Among Passengers When System Malfunctions”. No dice. So, why was I getting this alert 48 hours in advance?


My brain read a 12:59am on Wednesday, 7/25 as a 12:59am on Thursday, 7/26. Panic set in for this passenger. I hadn’t done laundry and for the love of God, I needed a haircut. I swiftly pulled up, and there was option to change the flight… 6:10am. So, here I am. At Rock & Brews. Have I mentioned that they aren’t serving alcohol yet?

Post flight-fuck up panic, I was scrambling to book musician for the podcast I produce – which is recording tonight. As in Wednesday, 7/25. Trust me, I’ve never been more aware of July 25th as I am this year. Let it be known that July 25th is “Health & Happiness with Hypnosis Day”; “National Hot Fudge Sunday Day”; and the Feast of St. James, who is the patron saint of: veterinarians, equestrians, furriers, tanners, pharmacists, oysterfishing, woodcarvers. It also looks like he may have invented the pilgrim hat?

Where was I?

The musician. For the record, I am not a last-minute kind of a gal. We were supposed to record yesterday, and I had a musician. Then it got moved to Wednesday on Monday, and my musician couldn’t do Wednesday, so hence the scrambling. I had also lost all my guests, so I spent Monday scrambling to find two guests, who couldn’t do their pre-interviews until yesterday afternoon, which means I didn’t get my notes to the podcast team until 10 minutes before our call. And then, there was the call... the call to end all calls. I couldn’t form one complete thought. I sounded stupid. I sounded… unprepared. I cried after the call. And by cried, I mean I sobbed. Sadly, it was the first, last or only time I sobbed yesterday.

Post call, I went to get a pedicure. NOTE: I cannot afford a pedicure, let alone a 12-day trip. Nonetheless, I got the pedicure and am currently waiting to board for this 12-day trip.

I went to Target for bug spray because I am traveling to Iowa and Minnesota, and there are lots of mosquitoes, and mosquitoes love me. Because I’m so sweet. ICYMI: That was sarcasm.

Finally, I went home to tackle laundry. Ok – I stopped by McDonald’s for a Happy Meal. And then home.

About 45 minutes later, my timer went off to switch the laundry over. This seems like a mundane detail, but it’s the nail in my day’s coffin. As I grabbed my laundry bag and cell, I flew out the door. Halfway down the hallway, it hit me… I didn’t grab my keys.

The locksmith arrived within a half hour. He looked at the lock, and said, “It will be $80.” I sighed a sigh of relief because I had a fear it would be over $100. But then he followed with, “Then another $30 for the service call, so your total is $110. Is that ok?” He had me. Right where he wanted me. I had been sobbing, and he knew. I was standing there sweating. I had stupidly told him how stressed I was. He had me.

To top it off, as I signed for the credit card charge, it asked for a tip. I can’t not tip. I don’t know why, but if I am asked for a tip… I tip. But also, this guy could get into my apartment and knew I would be on a trip. I tipped him $15. In cast you haven’t done the math, that brings the locking out of the apartment to… drumroll please… $125. OUCH.

I spent the rest of the night sobbing while I finished my laundry. I looked at my budget, and realized just how very screwed I was. I should not be traveling. I should be working every hour of every day, and when I am not working one of my three small jobs, I need to be looking for a full-time job.

But here I am. Sitting at a bar at 4:45am, drinking a Diet Pepsi (gross) and eating a breakfast croissant. The left side of my brain is telling me that I shouldn’t be going on this trip, but the right side of the brain is telling me that life is short. I have obviously listened to the right side of my brain. I’m sure my brother wishes I had listen to the left side.

Ok. Time to board. If I post this, it means I survived. Which means, I’m a survivor.

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