Well, I’m home from Seattle and still sick as a dog. Thankfully, whilst I was away, my sickness decided to pretty much vanish. Seattle was absolutely fantastic and I’m going to break it down in a few blog posts. The first post being about the second I stepped into the goddamn airport. Seriously, never travel with me as I am a nightmare human. But on the plus side, traveling with me could mean meeting one of the greatest hockey players of all time.
Every single time I go through security, they always check my bag 100 goddamn times because of my coconut oil. Apparently it resembles a bomb or something.
Agent: What IS that?
Me: Oh, that’s my coconut oil.
Agent: Please remove it.
So I take it out and they carefully take off the lid and carefully inspect it to make sure it is in fact, not a bomb. This happens every fucking time so I decided to beat the system and take my coconut oil out of my bag before it goes through the scanner thingy.
Here I am at security. Thinking I am just so smart with my new Coconut Oil Bomb Scheme, I take my back pack off and put it on the ground. I crouch down to take out the coconut bomb and hear the faintest sound of something ripping. And suddenly, SHIT’S FEELIN’ DRAFTY DOWN YONDER.
I take out the coconut bomb and stand back up. As no one was behind me yet, I put my hand on my left ass cheek and thigh and felt skin instead of pant. I said out loud “what the actual fuck is my life” which is a wildly fair statement. Airports + Carolyn = No.
Well, all my shit is already going through the scanner thingy, I clearly can’t go back to find a bathroom. So here I go through the metal detector with my ass hanging out. Oh look, I forgot to take off my belt, WHY DON’T I JUST TAKE OFF MY PANTS. Back through the metal detector I go. Oh look, I forgot to take the loose change out of my pocket, LET’S DELAY CHANGING PANTS MORE.
AND THE WORST PART? They still ask me about my fucking coconut oil.
Agent: What is this?
What I Wanted To Say: IT CLEARLY SAYS COCONUT OIL HOLY FUCK.
Me: It’s coconut oil.
Agent: What is that.
Me: Oil made of coconuts. I use it on my skin and hair.
Agent: Okay, I’ll just have to look in it to see how much is left. Here’s a separate bag for you.
Finally, I’m through. And thank god there are people behind me now to witness all of this. I’m just playing it all cool like this was the latest fashion trend. You peasants don’t even know. Out of security I go and do you think there’s a fucking bathroom to be found? NOPE.
OH LOOK. CUSTOMS.
The worst part of this whole ordeal is the fact that I wasn’t traveling with someone. My first solo trip in for fucking ever and I don’t have someone to stand behind me at all times while my ass is exposed. Classic.
So I get through customs. Thankfully, the agent didn’t watch me leave his station. AND THEN I HAD TO WALK DOWN THE HALLWAY THAT NEVER ENDED.
400 years later, I finally got to the end of the hallway and the bathrooms were there. Finally, sweet Jesus, I can stop flashing everyone in Canada my ass. At least I decided to just pack a carry-on instead of checking luggage because I would have 100% been fucked. Who just carries spare pants around in their carry-on?
So yeah, my first Seattle blog entry has nothing to do with Seattle at all.
At least Mark Messier wasn’t right behind me the entire fucking time.
The Meeting of Moose.
I was incredibly early for my flight. I always would rather be unnecessarily early than be on time but have something ridiculous happen that ends up making me panic run through an airport. After 20 years of sitting and waiting for boarding, I finally hear the agents announce that we will be boarding ASAP. Perfect. I wanted to get on the plane basically first as I knew it was a shitty prop plane and my bag would take up 90% of an overhead bin. Yeah, I was that person.
But then I heard someone say “yeah he’s over there. Let’s go get his autograph!” And my lack of attention span decided to follow them to see who they were talking about. I fiiiiiiiiiigured it was going to be an Oiler of some sort as they did the Farewell to Rexall Place the night before.
Well, I sure didn’t expect it to be Mark fucking Messier. If you don’t know who that is, I’m going to be that bitch and not explain because how dare you.
He was signing a few autographs and talking to some other gentlemen who had suits on more expensive than everything I’ve ever owned. Then he started to walk away and I followed him like the creepy person I obviously am.
Him: Off to catch a flight?
IT’S THE FUCKING AIRPORT MARK NO I CAME TO BUY SOME GODDAMN LUMBER.
Me: Yep. Going to Seattle.
Him: Sounds fun.
Me: Can I be that person who asks for a picture?
Him: Sure. Want an autograph?
Me: No, I don’t give a shit about autographs. Wow, that was insulting.