This week’s “That’s What She Said” is all about the ’she’. I talk about my weekend at the BlogHer09 conference. I don’t have a lot of pictures from the event, but what I do have you can see here.
“I can’t sell you this Sudafed.”
“Why?”
“You don’t have a barcode on your driver’s license.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I’m sorry; there’s nothing I can do. People make drugs out of this stuff.”
“Um, it already is a drug. One I need.”
“I can’t sell you full strength without proper state identification. You’re going to have to buy the regular strength.”
“Would it help if I cried?”
“No.”
“What if I tell you the elevator/airplane/vertigo diagnosis the Internet gave me. Would that help?”
“You’ve already told me twice and no, it won’t help.”
“Would it help if my panties fell out of my purse? It happened before you know.”
“Miss, I really need to help the other customers now.”
“Fine, but I really don’t think this is what they meant by crack ruins lives you know.”
It’s not a secret how much I like taking my pants off, though I do have SOME limits. There are a few places that I refuse to take my pants off like public restrooms, my grandmother’s house, or on a date with a total douchebag.
Yesterday, flying home from Chicago, I was forced to take my pants off in a dirty airport bathroom.
Before my flight home boarded I made a quick trip to the bathroom because I’m allergic to gross and nothing is grosser than airplane bathrooms. Right before I exited the stall I noticed my underwear on backwards. That’s the danger of boy short style undies and being in a rush to make a flight. I thought I’d be able to easily take off my pants and fix my undies, but just as I was about to drop my jeans I noticed liquid on the floor. Not wanting to risk the “is this pee or water” game I stepped onto the toilet seat to take care of business. Trying to maneuver a slippery plastic “let’s prevent toilet herpes” covered toilet seat with my pants half off in flip flops was not a good idea. Seeing that my foot was dangerously close to the germy toilet water I hopped off the toilet seat as fast as possible. In the process my left flip flop flew off my foot and under the next stall which, of course, wasn’t empty.
I froze.
There was no way I was going to walk out without a shoe. Um, germs much? No way. I’d rather die in a stall than walk barefooted on that floor. I had no idea what to do. I didn’t have my phone with me so I couldn’t send an emergency SOS text message to Summer, who was waiting for me in the terminal. Just as I was about to have a complete meltdown a perfectly manicured hand reached under my stall and handed me my shoe. Without saying a word. Not one. No laughing, nothing.
I’m convinced it was the hand of God. And people, it’s my job to tell you that God is a woman. With hooker red nails.
I slept in, packed and am taking Daisy to my brother. WHO IS NOT ALLOWED TO LET ANYTHING HAPPEN TO HER. Do you hear me Benjamin? Nothing.
Let’s just get this out of the way, shall we? Do you see my suitcase? Yeah, I packed my baby blanket because, apparently, I’m still six-years-old. Luckily the blanket is pink and therefore matches my second security blanket: my pink flask.
If anyone needs me I’ll be cuddled up in the corner drinking. Heavily. For the rest of you there will be a guest post tomorrow to keep you company and it will have nothing to do with BlogHer. I promise.
This week’s “That’s What She Said” talks about the movie “My Sister’s Keeper” and friends who cry… A LOT!
