Why Does It Cost So Much to Fly to Kansas City (This Isn't About That)?

I don't mind airports because there's a chance I'll see a celebrity, and I get really excited when I see loved ones reunited. In the past couple of years, that excitement has come with a tinge of jealously because my "greatly disappointing lifestyle" doesn't permit me to see my family nearly as often as I'd like.

So, when I boarded the first of three flights that would take me from Barcelona to Kansas City, I knew I was in for a long 20 hours, but it'd all be worth it when I ran into my family's white and freckly arms.

Actually, the trouble began at the gate before I boarded because the blog gods follow me around to be sure nothing I do goes according to plan. My name was called immediately after I opened my book, and the nicest lady on Earth informed me that I was one of the luckiest lucksters to be chosen for a more thorough and "completely random" security check. I was escorted to a small room and sat down next to professional BMX rider Daniel Dhers! I couldn't believe my luck even though I'd just found out I was a luckster! Daniel Eff'n Dhers! How jealous are you right now?

I had no idea who he was either.

I guess I passed because they put me on the plane without my cell phone. Good luck with that shitty hunk of plastic, guys. I'm not a mula de drogas. I just look like one.

I opened my book just as they announced that something was wrong with the door, and we had to go back to the gate. I had one hour and a half to get through customs and no checked baggage. Daniel and I, I thought, would be fine.

Nine hours later, I was sprinting barefoot through the airport in Newark only to find my flight to Chicago was cancelled. No one seemed bothered by this except me. Why was no one bothered!?

I felt like Kerry at the special services desk would have a much easier time typing if her nails weren't made from reclaimed Liberace capes, but before I got up the nerve to tell her that, she found a flight that redirected me through Minneapolis. I shuttled to another terminal, and just as I opened my book something caught my peripheral. A damn pigeon was slithering its turd body out from under my seat. Sick.

We boarded, and I was in seat 1A (the only seat in the entire row) which meant the young gay flight attendant and I became quick besties. I rescued my book before he stowed it in a bin far, far away and opened it as the captain made the mechanical failure announcement. Bestie got my bag for me even though I was a little pissy as we deboarded the plane.

An eternity later, I sat down in the same 1A seat but on a different plane. A piece of ice fell on the cover of my book from the air vent above me, and I asked bestie if he had any blankets. I swear I don't know how he puts up with me.

I'd missed my flight to Kansas City by a long shot and was told to find Linda. Linda and I found each other but for different reasons.

"Hi. Are you Linda? I was told you could help me."
"I'm looking for a lost unaccompanied minor."
"I'm 28."

Linda brought me to a counter and informed me that there were no more flights to anywhere in the universe that night. I told her that I was pretty disappointed because I hadn't seen my family in over a year. That did it goddamnit. Never underestimate the frantic but productive compassion of a Midwestern divorcee and mother of two. I asked her if she thought the lost minor was okay, and she waved it away because she was pretty sure someone else had probably found him most likely.

After reenacting the entire plot of Taken and telling me about a girl from Belarus she'd helped earlier that was on her way to a sex trafficking ring, Linda hooked me up with an early morning flight, hotel room and $21 in meal vouchers. She wanted me to use them at the TGI Fridays at the hotel, so I could finally have myself an American meal. I promised her I would.

I contacted my family through the miracle of Facebook just as they were walking out the door to come pick me up then went to the hotel counter to check in.

"Uh-oh. This one's on the airline, isn't it?"
"Yep. I haven't seen my family in forever, but what's one more night, right?"
"Oh! You came back home for the 4th!"
"No. Can I use these at the IHOP, too, or just TGI Fridays?"
"Oh man. We keep telling them not to tell people they can use those here."
"Where can I use them?"
"Only at the airport. Sorry, hon."

Goddamnit, Linda!

I ate there anyway because I was starving but couldn't understand why the waitress was being so nice to me. She called me every name in the book: sweetie, honey, hon, babe, girly. It finally dawned on me that I was going to have to tip her! Yuck. It was okay, though, because the free water with free refills, giant portions and watching the Royals lose by a million points felt like America.

I cranked the air up and spread out in a star shape on the gigantic bed. The wake up call thing gave me a lot of anxiety, so I set the alarm, too. I was terrified that at 5 a.m. I was going to answer the phone in my sleep stupor with, "Babe! I swear to god if you don't stop touching my butt, I'm going to shove your butt up your butt!" Luckily, it was a recording.

I did not go shopping at the Mall of America like Linda had suggested as she was scheduling my 7 a.m. flight at 9 p.m. the night before and for the first and last time refused a continental breakfast because I had $21 dollars to spend at the airport.

I only managed to use two of them ($7 each), so I gave the last one to Lupita (I made up that name because I didn't ask her what her name was) who worked at the airport and looked like she could use a pick-me-up. I told her she had to use the full amount or she'd lose the difference, and as I walked away I turned to see she'd spent a total of $2.17 on a coffee.

Goddamit, Lupita!

The flight to Kansas City was almost entirely empty. I strewed my crap everywhere and started a crossword puzzle because I'd finished my book. Before I knew it and because I'm not very good at crossword puzzles, we started our descent. I looked out my window, and I kid you not, I began to cry! I cried like a big baby and really freaked the flight attendants out.

I tore out of the airplane and surprisingly wasn't tackled. The great thing about Kansas City "International" airport is that it's little, and you can see your loved ones the moment you come out of the thing. I ran into my mom's white and freckly arms and both of us noticed the chauffeur tearing up out of the corner of our own blurry eyes.

I guess he gets excited when he sees families reunited at airports, too.

One time I saw Al Sharpton at the airport, and I pointed right in his face
and said, "Dad! That's Al Sharpton!" And my dad said, "Yep." 

I Still Don't Have Any Problems; Someone Please Give Me Some Problems Because I Need Something to Write About

I thought I had a problem for a millisecond today.

During the millisecond, I turned into myself and said, "The world is full of problems, and you, myself, don't have nearly your fair share of them."

Oh my god you guys. I think I'm going to be as big as Dr. Maya Angelou.

Sleep tight, Maya Angelou. I loved you, and I liked your poems 

even though I didn't really read that many of them because I don't like poetry all that much.

British People Think They're Better Than Me And I Agree With Them

When I was a kid, the only thing I wanted more than British friends was Jewish friends (if you don't count Black friends). But this isn't about my Jewish or Black friends, this is about my British friends and how they speak. I even worked for a Jewish guy for ages which was a dream come true, but like I said, this is about my British friends.

One cool thing about my parents is that they really appreciate British humour, and they shoved that humour really far down our throats until we really appreciated it, too. I thought every British guy was like John Cleese or Eddie Izzard, and every woman was Dawn French, Jennifer Saunders or Queen Elizabeth II. 

However, now that I actually know a lot of British people, I can say that that is 100% accurate.  

My first real Brit was Kim whom I've lived with for over a year and a half. No one ever asked me to, but if I was to design my absolute perfect Brit, Kim would be her. Then ultra-British Eleanor moved in with us, and I lost the plot. Imagine it! Just imagine coming home to two flatmates who can't help but talk that way all the time.

I've got my other mates, of course, who greatly outnumber my American friends (thank god). They're always from a Somethingshire or Nottingham or a place with a university or a Somethingbury or other places that don't really exist. They pick at accents trying to tell where other Brits are from and cringe when someone's a chav. I still have no idea what the hell they're talking about, but truthfully, I can't be arsed nor bothered about it because I love all of them especially the chavvy ones.

This is my mate, Kelly's, actual voice. Her ACTUAL voice.

Aren't you just so chuffed by that!? Could it be more lush? Bloody hell.

When I started teaching, I had loads to learn because I teach British English. My first day, a kid asked me if I had a rubber, and I was like, "No, I don't have a rubber you eight-year-old pervert!" The little girl and I, through the ancient and beautiful art of charades, eventually figured out she was talking about an eraser. I didn't have one of those either.

I had to explain to my sixteen-year-old student who was about to go to the States to study that he'd better say math instead of maths if he didn't want to be crucified. He protested, but I was like, "Bu, bu, but. Shhhhhhhhhh."

I still get pissed and pissed confused, which really pisses me off especially when I'm pissed.

A car only has a boot when you haven't paid your parking tickets, football is not something I give shits about in any of its forms, and yes, I know it's wrong. I didn't name the damn sport. I'm not a fancy dress person! Why can't we just have costume parties on days that aren't Halloween like normal people!? Filling your tank with petrol at the garage makes you sound ridiculous and just say TV for Christ's sake!

That's what I want to say, but what I really do is change the way I speak because just like my father, I secretly think I am British. It drives my fellow American, Melissa, up the wall and rightfully so. I reckon that makes me the most annoying person on the planet. However, being obnoxious is the American way, and my British friends love me for it even though they claim we're all terrible and speak incorrectly. They're my favourite.

One time I asked Eleanor if British people wore black on July 4th,  

and she said "no" like she didn't even care!

The Day Fabian Was Sick

Fabian (read the post entitled An Ode to Fabian, My Greatest Failure if you don't know who the hell Fabian is) was really sick this week, and the poor fella lacked his usual fabulous energy. It was awesome!

Also, him being so ill was the absolute only reason he was allowed to get away with the remark, "I hate Jennifer Lopez. She is trying to be like a new Beyoncé." Man, that kid is a jive-ass turkey. 

I sat at the foot of his bed, propped his feet up on my lap and quite unfairly made him make a Venn Diagram about the two of us. Enjoy it.

                                       FABIAN                                             EMMA

Two other quotes worth mentioning from Wednesday are"Sophia Grace has a lot of chins," and "Did you watch Eurovision?" "No." "Well, the mowan won." "What's a mowan?" "A man-woman." "They're called transgenders." "Whatever."

I don't care about Eurovision.

Momma Always Said, "No Whiners."

I have a complicated relationship with nature in that I like the theory of it, but I'm not very good at it.

My adult life has mainly been spent in seas of concrete, human pee and far too many people whose only objective is to piss me off by not abiding the unspoken urban laws. Call me a romantic but I love it. 

However, sometimes I just need to see a tree that doesn't have a hippie attached to it by a slack line or nine million dog turds in the tiny square of dirt surrounding it, so I was thrilled to spend my spring break reconnecting with our mother, Earth. 

I eased into it with a day trip to some natural hot springs located in the French Pyrenees. I think you should reread that sentence. We drove for a few hours, got lost, asked for directions in Sprenchlish and finally parked the car at the top of a baby Pyrenee. The journey down wasn't exactly harrowing but we forded a stream, got kind of sweaty, got lost again, whined a bit and interrupted a beautiful woodland couple who directed us towards Heaven. Heaven is a series of warm waterfalls pooling then spilling into the next down a steep hill. We striped to our underwear and couldn't wait to join the other nature lovers in sharing our dirty body fluids in glorified cesspuddles. It was incredible. 

A couple of days later, I threw my pack on my back and whined all the way to the bus station because we were going camping! We hopped off the bus in Tossa de Mar and consulted an iPhone before beginning our hike to the site. I think our hike was a healthy mixture of awe, whining, excitement and getting lost (get it together Apple). We were starving by the time we got there, but we decided to set up camp first. It was then that I learned two things: I'm pretty useless, and I'd forgotten just about everything.

Next, we wandered around in a hypoglycemic daze whining and hunting for food. We whined past two restaurants that looked amazing but were closed until we finally arrived at a place that had mediocre over-priced pizza; it was the best mediocre pizza I've ever had. That night, we nestle into our tents and whispered sweet good nights.

The next morning, we woke whining and feeling like shit. Well, all of us who didn't have an awesome air mattress designed, made by and purchased by wimps (I'm looking at you Riri and FraFra) felt like shit. The rest of us couldn't wait to be wimps, too, and thankfully, the campground supermarket sold them.

We spent the next four dreamlike days at the beach, clamoring through the wilderness after Fra, playing celebrity guess it games, making Fra do everything, drinking tea, watching Fra swim, drinking wine, hating the other campers, telling scary stories, drinking beer, eating the barbecued food made by Fra, talking about how great we are and showering. But I'm pretty sure we spent the majority of our time at the campground supermarket. It was a fantastic supermarket.

The last morning it was raining and cold, and we could no longer pretend that we could totally live there forever as we'd declared several times. The whining was pretty profound as we squished the air out of our mattresses, wrestled our tents into the world's tiniest bags and dreaded airing out all of our wet equipment. We took a taxi in lieu of hiking back to the bus station to catch the earlier one. As we pulled into Barcelona, we all felt very happy to be home even though none of us can claim it as our hometown. Who cares? It's ours now.

These are the exact people I'd choose to spend a zombie apocalypse with.
Fra is not pictured but he, we agreed, is the only reason why we'd survive it.

I'm Way Too Young To Be As Old As I Am

I am now older than Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix ever were, and that just proves to me that being talentless and unsuccessful wins the race.

Last Tuesday, I woke up feeling special because it was my damn birthday. I put on my special pants and my special sweater, ate special pancakes and smeared on my special face.

I was a bit hurt that the strangers on the street weren't wishing me a happy birthday. I felt like I was being very obvious about it.

Though I had to work (thanks for nothing Mom and Dad), I enjoyed my classes more than usual because I was thinking about my birthday outfit the whole time, and the theme of the day was me.

Birthday Outfit:
-puffy-outty skirt in my signature green
-deep v-neck embroidered shirt that makes me look well traveled and cultured but that I got at TJ Maxx in a   St. Joseph, Missouri strip mall
-brown boots with red shoelaces that I need to fix because theya makea me fall dahwn (I'm serious)
-black thigh highs that I immediately tore
- knew that would happen, so I put on my cheap reserves
-dried flower headband that's special because it's from Jenna, and I feel like a king when I wear it

I was told that I had only two responsibilities: clean yourself up and meet Poppie at the Barceloneta metro at a quarter to 10. Poppie is the best person to walk with because she holds you tight and says only funny and/or interesting things.

She's also a deceitful little trickster who lies out of her weasel mouth.

Here's the thing about surprises...I love them. In fact, I never ask questions about anything ever because I want everything to be a surprise all of the time. The downside to never asking questions, however, is that you become very ignorant which is exactly how I felt when I was led into the back room of an unassuming tapas place. I was expecting two or three of my girlfriends, but no...

My friends! All of my beautiful friends were there! And they'd made Emma masks, so they were even more beautiful than usual!

I felt all of the emotions at the same time, and they're lucky I didn't die. The decorations were great, the presents were thoughtful and undeserved, the masks were creepy and amazing and they'd gotten me real good. But those things were the icing. The cake was that for the first time, I was looking straight at my Barcelona experience in the faces of the people I've grown to love after having met them at different times along the journey, and they'd come together for no other reason than me.

The older I get, the more it dawns on me that I may just be the luckiest person in the world.

Untitled Birthday Song
By Adi Mahler

I think it fits you very well
a birthday on the 1st of April

That life is just a little joke
celebrate it well

I won't get over sentimental
I'll just tell you that

They say ginger flame burns hard
but I find in you tranquility

They say that gringo is fake and false
but I find in you sincerity

They say it's hard to find real friends in Barcelona but
I found a real friend in you

I was suppose to write more
but just got addicted to Game of Thrones

So I hope I'll remember all the words and sing them right

It's not embarrassing to say the truth to someone like you
and look around you
it's not only me that...

Then everyone sang!

We found a real friend in you (repeat a bunch of times)

It kind of makes you want to barf and gag but also makes you want to cry, doesn't it?

Feel More Awesome, Okay?

A couple of weeks ago, some friends and I drove to Waikiki, a nude beach surrounded by yellow cliffs nestled in the forest near Tarragona, because why the hell wouldn't we?

We parked the car and every one immediately needed to pee again because we'd only stopped once along the harrowing eighty-minute journey. We schlepped our crap onto our backs and started walking blindly into the woods. About a minute and a half in, we all found our pee spots. I was in my hiking outfit: an ankle length black dress that doesn't allow my legs to take full strides and wedge-heeled boots. After I gathered the hem up and over my incandescent butt, I couldn't really see or remember what I was doing, but my mother's voice echoed in my head, "Stick your bottom way out." I did that and only peed on my shoe a little.

Melissa lit a cigarette, we took a picture and continued our hike.

After asking for directions several times, contemplating how long we could survive in the wilderness on the provisions we'd brought (we guessed we'd just eat everything outright and hope for the best) and more photos, we eventually found the promised land.

I peeled my shoes off, dug my feet whose second toes are longer than the big toes into the finest sand I'd ever felt and reveled for a second. After we'd snapped out of it, we found our spot and peeled nearly everything else off.

We kept our underwear on, and I'll admit that I was a little relieved because I still haven't figured out the right style for my flaming pubic hair that draws way too much attention. I apologized for my razor burn because I wanted my friends to know that I knew as we eeked our way into the frigid water and gathered my courage to dive into a big wave I knew I wouldn't be able to jump over. While submerged, I felt like millions of lil' baby stingrays were fighting over where to play on my skin, and all those strange bumps on my areolas bubbled up. It felt good, really good.

We quickly got out because we're not heroes, and all the wine, cheese and Kelly's hummus were calling. I tried a few different sitting positions before I was satisfied that my winter gut wasn't spilling over too much. I've always felt a little strange eating without clothes on, but our spread was too good to not; my stomach noticeably expanded. After we finished, Sam took a photo of us holding food over our nipples because we're hilarious. I noticed that I'd forgotten to pluck my two determined nipple hairs as I pasted avocado skins to them.

Thankfully, Poppie brought a small bottle of sun lotion SPF negative number because I'd violated the first rule of ginger club and hadn't packed any. It was better than nothing, so I smeared it over my skin reminding myself for the billionth time that we're embarking on yet another summer I will go through without being a bronzed goddess. It smelled like coconut ambrosia!

We took more photos, did sand cartwheels and waded into in the sea once more because we are the luckiest people on the planet. But sadly, even the luckiest people have to put their clothes on and go meet others in town for a traditional Catalan dinner.

Like real assholes, we fell all over ourselves trying to convey the magic of what we'd just experienced to our friends while they had been working. Flipping through the photos, I felt myself getting a little less excited. I had no idea my thighs and stomach looked so doughy. Hold up, when did I get cellulite? What if my boobs were bigger? Maybe that would balance me out?

You see what I did there?

You just wanted a cool story about an incredible experience that I made infinitely less cool and incredible for you because of my body issues, but I feel like that's what a lot of people, especially women, do to themselves daily. We don't wear what we want to wear, eat what we want to eat, have sex like we want to have sex or go to the damn beach sometimes because we're preoccupied with the 2% that we don't consider perfect instead of the 98% that's banging. We're robbing ourselves of so much feeling awesome time.

And while I remember every negative thought I had about myself that day, I also remember not having a single criticism of my friends' gorgeous bodies even though I knew that they, sadly, were dealing with their own hangups. They're idiots, though. I thought they looked beautiful, confident and sexy.

And you know who else did?

The naked guy who was masturbating behind us the whole time.

I don't remember eating a bowl of fabulous before this hike, but I clearly did.