Big City Women

I know, I know. Zero posts in August. Boo hoo.

Actually, my month long blog-hiatus was probably a good thing. Sometimes it's best for us writers to take a break and let our minds re-fuel with new ideas. I could have forced myself to puke out posts, but they would've probably been just as chunky, smelly, and unfunny as real vomit.

First of all, let's back-track. From Aug 25th - Sept 1st, I dived down to Chicago and New York City. Great places! But I'm not here to bore you with places; I'm here to entertain you with people. Women, in fact. Big City Women. So without further ado, let me introduce you to Jane, Mary, Stephanie, Joan, The Queen of Tuesdays, and Miss Frisk.

Jane, a 65ish woman I met on the plane from Saskatoon to Chicago, was either eccentric or lunatic. We sat beside each other for two hours without saying a single word. During our descent, however, she started asking questions about where I was from, where I was going, etcetera. Turns out she was from Chicago, and went on to warn me about certain neighbourhoods, shitty restaurants, and drive-by shootings. Two things about her interested me: one, she had a son in Big City advertising (my career goal), and two, she was wearing a large expensive ring (sign of wealth?). Somewhat shamingly, both those things led to me giving her my name and email address. I don't even think she knew what email was. Anyway Jane, if you're alive and listening, I'm sorry I led you on. Let's just be friends... but only if you're rich.

Next is Mary, another 65ish woman (the start of a depressing geriatric trend). She was a ticket-taker at the Indiana Beach rollercoaster themepark. The only thing she said as we entered the gate was: "Now I wanna hear you scream!". Umm, Mary? I want to hear you shut up -- you're rickety wooden rollercoasters make me nervous enough.

Now Stephanie was only 11. Tall, yes, but only 11. We had supper with her and her family one night, and her dad reminded us every five minutes of just how young Stephanie was. Did he think we were going to hit on her? Sorry, dad, but I only whore out to old ladies with expensive rings and city connections.

Joan the Docent was our 65 year old guide through the Chicago architectural boat tour. She often went off topic a lot to talk about her personal tastes in real estate. Joan was awesome.

Now if I thought Jane (the old lady on my plane ride to Chicago) was entertaining, that was nothing compared to the one on the way back. A 65ish year old spinster sitting one row ahead was so cheery and giddy about life that we quickly named her "The Queen of Tuesdays". Why? Well, it was Tuesday and she was loving it. Plus, she seemed the type to orgasm over cheap movie nights and Toonie Tuesdays at KFC. She chortled violently every time the stewardess mispronounced "Saskatchewan", and gabbed tirelessly about things like Saskatoon berries and airport transfers. Trust me, if you never meet The Queen of Tuesdays, you're not missing much.

Finally, after claiming luggage back at our home airport and clearing customs, my two travel buddies were given permission to exit the airport and go home. I, however, was randomly selected for a random bag search. Argh. Now let me introduce you to Miss Frisk.

Miss Frisk was a pokey, proddy airline guard who loved opening my suitcase and asking embarassing questions. In fact, I'm not sure some of her questions were even official. Example:

Miss Frisk (holding laptop): "Any adult content on here, sir?"
Me: "Umm no--"
Miss Frisk: "ANY AT ALL, sir?"
Me: "Really, no--"
Miss Frisk: "Webcam pics? Girl on girl action? Double penetraish?"
Me: "NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Anyways, despite this strange vacation overview, I had a blast. Of course there were wonderfully beautiful glamazons strutting 5th, plus decked out models on Michigan Ave and gorgeous actresses with angelic voices... but for every million of those in NYC, there's a hundred frumpy airline guards, ten retired docents, and one Queen of Tuesdays.