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Where do white people, cheddar cheese, waxing and a noise machine meet? Milwaukee Airport.

16 Jan

I flew out of Milwaukee for the first time Friday morning, and do you know what I learned?

Where was THIS guy? Probably already in Florida.

First, I learned that the Milwaukee airport has a unique population of travelers.

I don’t think I’ve ever stood in line at 6:30am with a whiter, more senior,  more leisure-seeking crowd. And this is including the cruise docks in south Florida.

I wasn’t really paying attention until I noticed the number of people around me publicly clutching their boarding passes and photo IDs. There’s something about that move that smacks of novice. Business travelers have a routine and need their hands free to check email, so they can retrieve key documents in the nick of time, but they aren’t standing in line as if they’re about to undergo immigration.

Once I noticed that detail, I looked up at the faces and was surprised by how, um, WHITE they were. The line was ridiculously long (but fast moving, presumably because of everyone’s diligent preparedness?) so I had a fair population to sample. Using rudimentary physical characteristics, I was only able to easily identify 3 minorities in a line that included at least 100 travelers.

Coming from DC, which really is a melting pot, this struck me as odd. Then I dialed in and realized that most of those pasty faces were paired with white/blue/no hair. Snowbirds, indeed.

Second, I learned a few details about one specific passenger.

Behind me in line were three women in their early forties who were clearly getting away for a girl’s weekend, and they were beyond excited about it. Since they spoke loudly (at a fast clip with a midwestern accent that was more Fargo than Chicago), in the five minutes they were behind me, I learned a few more things.

For starters, one woman is apparently a real jokester. At least, she and her friends think so, but her husband apparently does not. In fact, there is speculation that he doesn’t “get” her sense of humor because he is “anal retentive” and a “real stick in the mud.” (Quotation marks are standing in for the air quotes they used when sharing this information.)

I also learned that someone in that group is hoping NOT for a spa treatment, but a bikini wax, because things have gotten, ahem, unruly. I’m curious to know if any other passengers in the line threw up a little bit of their Starbucks upon learning this detail. I might have, if I had been drinking anything.

I felt close to another discovery about this group, but they happened to look up and realize they were in the wrong line, so they peeled away and went cackling through the airport looking for the other terminal, presumably to bring joy and nausea into the lives of other passengers.

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Just when you think you know someone…

3 Jan

…there’s a record scratch and you’re all, “What the hell?!”

At least, that’s how it played out this weekend in Berkeley Springs. We were walking down the main street (better known as Washington Street, in case you’re curious) when I spotted an SPCA poster with photos of animals through the window of a consignment shop.

“Alan!” I yelled. Kind of like this:

And a few minutes later, there we were, standing in front of a large  poster board display of cats and dogs needing adoption. I was studying the descriptions when I heard Alan say, “Do you think they planned this, or is this song a coincidence?”

I stepped back and listened, registering Sarah McLachlan’s song, “Angel.”

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So classy, we wore our matching hoodies.

2 Jan

For the second year running, Alan and I rang in the new year at the state lodge in Berkeley Springs, West Virginia.

Just because you’re probably expecting it, I’m not going to make any jokes about Deliverance. (I think I’m maturing: this trip I didn’t even harass Alan with remarks like, “You sure have a pretty mouth” when he’d leave me to go to the bathroom.)

But I will share a snippet from the drive on Saturday when, utterly hungover from New Year’s Eve, Alan and braved the curvy backroads to find a bar called “Hillbilly Heaven” where people assured us we would be able to watch the bowl games.

“Hillbilly Heaven. Any chance that’s what they tell all the city folks just to set us up if we have to stop and ask for directions?” I continued, “I mean, can you imagine pulling over and asking someone where Hillbilly Heaven is? Sounds kind of insulting.”

“The way this road is going, I’m wondering if they’re sending us to Hillbilly Hell,” Alan offered.

“Hmmm… Hillbilly Hell? So that would be all yuppie-like, where you definitely couldn’t find Pabst Blue Ribbon and where you’d actually need teeth to eat the food, right?”

Definitely going to hell of some sort for that one. Hillbilly or otherwise.

I’m pretty sure the real gift he’s trying to give me is religion.

27 Dec

Not safe for communion.

Last week while I was in Michigan I got a phone call from a stranger informing me that she had erroneously received a holiday package intended for me. My suite number at work is 630-E; apparently FedEx delivered my package to a church at 630 E Street SW.

From her voice, I gathered that Mrs. Marshall was an older African-American woman. I thanked her for letting me know she had received my package, but then went on to explain I was out of town and couldn’t retrieve it immediately.

“I’ll be back in DC on Monday. Could I come by for it then?” I asked.

“Monday, you say? That could work.” She paused. “But, uh, it says ‘alcohol’ on the box.”

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I didn’t need medicating until I went to your pharmacy.

23 Dec

Fifty cents per can? It's like they're paying us to drink it. (Wait: they kind of have to.)

I remember learning in seventh grade that ambrosia is “food of the gods.” I’m wondering if there’s another succinct term that means “white trash provisions.” Because that’s what Alan I were clearly holding as we stood in line at Walgreens Monday night: frozen buffalo wings, frozen pizza rolls, frozen taquitos, two Gatorades, a Diet Mt. Dew and a six pack of Big Flats, a beer that Walgreens sells for $3/six pack.

Alan seemed embarrassed by our selections, but – I pointed out – it’s not like they had any salads for sale.

We were on our way to my friend Shannon’s house for the night, and we’d told her we would eat dinner before heading over. Neither of us was really hungry though, so we ended up just grabbing some munchies to pop in the oven later in the evening. Which is how we ended up in line at a Walgreens.

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