Well gyns, what can I say? Its my muther-effing birthday.
And, yeah, I’m rolling into 24 like a boss– or much better than I rolled into 23, anyway. But thats mostly just because I was kinda fat last year.
Good news gorillas: 24 is a skinnier year thus far. Whooooo-WHOOOOOOOOOP.
Bad news barracudas: 25 is definitely looking like I’m going to revert back to fat. I’ve had no less than 4 S-bucks cake pops and 2 non-non-fat caramel lattes this morning. Whatever, its a rotational system of fat years and skinny years, happy years and sad years, single years and marriage potential years, blacking out my mirrors years and taking clavicle popping mirror selfies years.
This year being my golden birthday (24 on the 24th, try to keep up) I decided I deserved something I really wanted and I could think of nothing I wanted more than to spend some Q-time with dear old mummsies and poopsicles.
So I hopped on a plane at LAX with my… yeah, sorrz, I won’t go there. Miley Cyrus teen supah star throwbacks aside, I did hop on a plane Wednesday night to take the red-eye back down south. Howevs, quite out of character, I was feeling some anxiety about the flight and consulted my local LA doctor for some advice and in typical LA doc fashion, boy did he give me some ‘advice.’ Miley Cyrus still a teen but with peroxide butch haircut references not aside, I took one xanax.
Yeah, haters gunna hate but it was my first time and a FREAKING DOCTOR TOLD ME TO. If you have a prob with that you can just get over it, yahdogs. It was a one time deal. Trust me on that, and here’s why:
This is what I remember. Arriving at LAX. Deciding it would be fun to wear sunglasses, look towards the ground and answer any and all questions with as few words as possible so as to appear famous. Sitting in my seat on a plane to Houston (yeah, the booming metropolis of Lafayette, Louisiana does not yet provide overnight direct flights to and fro) and then a stewardess coming by and tapping me on the shoulder and telling me it was my turn to “deplane.” Okay first of all, “DEPLANE” is not a freaking word and second, seriously, WHAT. THE. FOCK. Didn’t I just sit down?
Nope. I have no recollection of ever being in the air and I very well might have apparated like a Harry-Potter-boss and just don’t even remember casting the spell.
So then I found myself in the Houston airport and I had about 1 hour before my flight home started boarding. Let me just say that was a hazy hour. Walking, alone, was a challenge. I just kinda propped myself against the wall as I walked down the hallways. AND THERE WERE SO MANY HALLWAYS. SO MANY LETTERS. SO MANY TERMINALS. And it just so happened that my fantasy-island-definitely-not-up-to-safety-codes “plane” was located at gate B-84-K. Um, I’m sorry, what? Can one of the golf carts just take me there? Oh wait guess what guys. The golf carts with the people yelling COMING THROUGH do not COME THROUGH FOR YOU AT 3 IN THE MORNING WHEN YOU’RE “A LITTLE DIZZY.”
But my smartz prevailed through the haze of my drug-induced situation and after a train ride in the wrong direction and then one in the right direction I finally found the terminal. But at this point I’m wiggin’ out like the immigrant character that is Tom Hanks in the terminal. What language are you people speaking? How do I get to the other side? What is ‘american dollar’? Can I paint something? Oh and mind you, I’m still proppin’ myself up against walls.
For me, finding my gate was like when Michael Phelps won his 40th Olympic gold medal– mostly meaning I beat my chest and howled. Victory was mine.
And then disaster struck. Of course of course of course.
A gentleman of the country decided to take it upon himself to join me. One second I’m muttering the prologue of The Canterbury Tales to stay awake (yeah, I still know it and in friggin’ Middle English, no less) and the next thing I know there’s just this dude sitting next to me. OUT OF NOWHERE. I did not see him coming. What DID I see? His tribal tatoos (yes, plural), various patterns of camouflage on various pieces of his ensemble, a bedazzled belt buckle and a hefty wad of tobac he was making no attempts to conceal or even keep from kinda sorta falling out of the side of his mouth piece by disgusting piece.
I’m sorry did you need something from me? Theres no way you’re possibly over here to ‘chat me up,’ right? I mean let’s review: its 3 in the morning, I’m rockin’ a top knot like I’m smuggling a family of squirrels up there, no make up, a shirt bearing an oversized cat face, I’m muttering what probably sounds like she-devil speak under my breath and OH YEAH, I’M OUT OF MY MIND ON THE XANAX. All good things, ya’ll, all good things.
Alas, my new companion tells me “he recognizes me from somewhere.” I ask him where he’s from. He tells me he lives in North Louisiana (East Texas) and then he tells me a few more details about himself and his past. I put the pieces together and realize we were not in high school at the same time so we couldn’t have seen each other at any sort of high school sporting competitions or student council bonanzas, “he don’t get to Lafayette that often,” and “he never been west-a-Texas.” So yeah, I don’t know this dude. AND THEN IT HITS ME.
AND I TAKE A MOMENT TO PINCH MYSELF BECAUSE THIS SIMPLY CANNOT BE POSSIBLE, RIGHT?!
Does homeboi “recognize me” from the only other place I let my light shine? The televisions? The three times this spring I was on the show for seven second increments?
No, this is too good to be true. This “never been west-a-Texas,” toe-bac chewin’, bedazzled belt lovin’ man could not possibly be a fan of Kathy, right?! Or even a Bravo watcher, right?! Do I even ask? Maybe it’ll be better to just let this live in infamy– I can just assume he does, in fact, recognize me from the show and is, in fact, a KG fan. And then I’ll forever remember him as the very southern, very straight open-minded gentleman that loves our gurl.
Self control aside since the day I was born, I ask.
“Do you know who Kathy Griffin is? Or have you seen her talk show?”
Wait for it…
“Someone gave that red-headed bitch her own gah-damn talk show?”
Glad we cleared that up.
Then we cleared up a few other things. He wanted to talk politics. He told me not to “lose it to the liberals outta ways out there in Cali-forn-knee-yah” (too many syllables, hombre). He had a few other choice comments and then went off on a 30 minute history of his life. Thank god, cause I was super curious… It was really a short history though. Definitely didn’t require the full 30 minutes but I think he had a flair for embellishing a bit. All good things, ya’ll, all good things.
So then finally I was saved, as if God himself was speaking through the airport intercom. It was time for me to get on the plane and my new friend was NOT on my flight. But, always mindful of being cordial despite any other ‘issues,’ I turn to this man and say, “nice to meet you, have a nice trip.” And when doing so I finally noticed what was going on here…
His eyes were at half-mast and supah blood shot. And down below the sockets was some blimp sized puffiness. Very clear to me now. My new friend was ALSO having a bout with some “doctor’s advice.” Howevs, I do not think we were rolling in the same deep if you know what I’m saying. If you don’t know what I’m saying let me just spell it out for you– I took one xanax on my doctor’s orders for flight anxiety. I’m thinking this guy took a bottle of xanax on top of some meth on top of some alcohol on top of some red-bull on his own advice. One more time: all good things, ya’ll, all good things.
But whatever. I say goodbye and turn to leave but then he asks, “can I get your number?”
“No I don’t think that’s really going to work out.”
“Well can I at least Facebook you. I just posted a bunch of pictures of this huge-ass rattlesnake I killed while digging a pipeline. I cut off its rattler and am keeping it in a jar.”
Guys. Lets just listen here and now. What’s my number one deal breaker? Snakes, ya’ll. (See Post RE: GIANT SNAKES ROAMING AROUND LOS ANGELES)
He begins scrolling through his phone to pull up a picture of said “rattler.” Hazy but not stupid I see what he’s doing, tell him “don’t bother I’ll see it on facebook,” and also say “look me up, my name is Willy Jones” (which technically is a half-truth because Willy is a variation on Wilhelmina but, really, Willy Jones is all I could comes up with on the spot? Yet somehow he believed me…?). Then I got the FACK out of dodge.
I hope he has a long and fulfilling Facebook friendship with any and all Willy Joneses he so chooses to friend.
Basically it was a, “you had me at hello” situation but only, “you lost me when you called my boss a bitch” or maybe just at the bedazzled belt or maybe when you told me you life long dream was to win “at least just one MMA match” in your backyard.
So then I got home. MISSYGURL and Don fed me real Louisiana food and my taste buds were all like, “hey yo Mina, you’ve deprived us in California, yahbetch.”
I finally got to see my pups, yelled at my father for over-feeding them (supes fat little wiener dogs) and I introduced them to the dog-face shirt that I wear in their honor.
And now its my birthday and I’m going to go eat some cheeseburgers.
Peace out, ya’ll. And seriously thanks for the bday wishes. My only birthday wish is for everyone everywhere to stop using the comic sans font. Thank you.
P.S. Seriously don’t worry about the X. Over it. And I mean that. Not kidding. Really. Seriously. Like legitimately. Like legitimately seriously. Actually. Not lying. Nor kidding. Nor ‘joking around.’ I’m serious. Seriously.