It is DAMN cold here.
Like, I don’t remember cold being this cold.
I know what you’re thinking — “Look at her, she’s lived in California for 3 months and now she thinks she’s all West Coast and whines about how everything else is lame but her. I’m a big moron.”
Well, you’re wrong, except for that last part.
I’d probably be complaining about how cold it is here anyway and how I wished I lived in a warmer place.
Living in California only affords me the right to never complain about how cold it is there, just as it affords Justin the right to never complain about how hot it is after moving from Alabama.
Even though he still does. I turn the fan above 74 degrees, and suddenly all memory is gone of living in a state where restaurants can legally operate without a kitchen, where the waiters simply hold your delicious chicken dinner out a window and bring it to you piping hot minutes later.
I guess some people are just eternally one temperature.
At work, my fingers often get so cold, when I walk out to my car at night, they get that painful feeling you get after playing in the snow without gloves. I talked to my LA boss and my building manager and they all sort of pretend to care and push an imaginary button which doesn’t actually change the temperature, but I quit complaining about it because I don’t want to be the Girl Who Complains. Well, I am sort of that, but I don’t want to be the Girl Who Complains A LOT.
Everyone complains at work, right?
I don’t think I’d have any friends if I didn’t complain about stuff.
I certainly wouldn’t have a website!
Speaking of, let me tell you about my delightful flights out to Pittsburgh. I had a layover in Detroit where Justin appropriately warned me of thug pilots commiting fly-by shootings. The point is, I had two plane rides, and on BOTH of them, I sat one row away from some snot-nosed little kid whose soccer mom and investment banker dad thought that turning 2 warranted the purchase of an overpriced DVD player so that they could save the actual parenting to the fucking Wiggles and Elmo on a four-hour cross-country plane ride.
Back in MY day, I had one (1) hard plastic, no points-of-articulation Strawberry Shortcake that I could either sniff, stare at, or make walk across the tray table in front of me, but not during takeoff or landing. When I was old enough to deserve expensive technology, I was allowed a GameBoy, BUT only if I had headphones and then only if it was low enough that my mom couldn’t hear it when she put her head up to my ear.
But, no, both times, on both planes, these kids were watching their little show at MAX volume with no headphones. Is this even allowed? Am I the only person that was bothered? Am I the only person who can’t hear the theme song for the lovable kids’ show “Max and Rudy” without wanting to stab little Parker in the face?
His name really was Parker because I heard his mom call him that, and I’m sure the kid on the other plane was named Preston or Trevor or Mercedes or Waspy Wasp.
I seriously cannot believe there’s no regulation for this. What if some teenager brought their boombox on their shoulder?
So, I obviously came up with the prefect solution.
Next time some kid does that, I’m whipping out my laptop and playing hard-core porn at full volume. Hell, I’m not going to even point the screen at me.
And if he starts to cry, I’m going to explain to him that that there’s the whole reason he exists. Well, except for the money shot.
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!
It is DAMN cold here.