"Remind me to send a thank you note to Mr. Boeing."*

LAX.

            I haven’t been to LAX in a while and my memories of it are hideous. If I can somehow manage to con one of my friends into giving me a ride, all I have to contend with are the long, snaking lines through security, the inevitably delayed flights, the ridiculous prices for water and food (I just paid $9.99 for a bag of beef jerky, for instance), and the epic wait at baggage claim.

            But today I have to say that the Los Angeles International Airport has really outdone itself. The terminal I’m in looks like a bomb went off: temporary plywood walls everywhere, long sheets of tarp taped over the windows, garbage strewn all over the floor, a very unpleasant stench AND my flight is delayed 45 minutes.

            But wait! That’s not the best part.

            In an effort to explain the appearance of the terminal, the powers that be at LAX came up with some clever catch phrases to slap onto the fake walls. Picture black lettering over grainy images of clouds and blue skies. These are little witticisms like,

            “Like a fine California wine, this airport is getting better with time. [Please excuse the construction.]”

And

             “Everyone wants to be an actor here. [Please act like you don’t mind the renovations.]”

Please forgive the graininess of these photos. I have a hand tremor!

            I really don’t mind the renovations, but why are there empty McDonald’s bags and newspapers and used syringes all over the floor? Are they somehow related to the construction? And why is my flight still delayed? Because it kind of seems like the first improvement this airport might consider making is figuring out how to get a plane to leave on time. I’ll drive to the smallest, ugliest airport in the world if my plane will actually take off at the scheduled hour.

            Okay, but in addition, there is one amusing sign that reads,

            “Look on the bright side. After this, coach will seem spacious. [Thanks for your patience.]”

            Um, screw you, LAX. First of all, way to admit that the seating in coach is a nightmare which should also probably be addressed before any new wings get added on to this inefficient behemoth.

            Secondly, how do you know everyone who reads your sign is flying coach? Are you just assuming that anyone willing to put up with these kinds of construction-related shenanigans must be poor? (Okay, they kind of have me on that one. If I were wealthy, I’d march myself over to a different terminal and get on the first flight out of this place.)

No. Thank you, LAX.

            And lastly, don’t thank me for my patience. You don’t know that I have any patience for this crap. And the more I write about it the less patient I am. A better thing to write might have been, “If you were to be patient, we’d be super grateful.” Then I might feel like LAX knew what a jackass it was being and felt really bad about it, instead of feeling cheeky and smug about having inconvenienced a ton of people and then pacified them all with some stupid signs.

            I know LAX isn’t a person, and so I’ve decided to take the high road and not be mad but—

            Holy shit! I just heard a rustling behind me inside one of those fake walled-off sections, so I have to move. I’m convinced it’s a rat coming after my raucously overpriced beef jerky. The little girl across the aisle is staring under my chair which makes it seem even more likely that Ratatouille is hanging out down there.

            I’ve relocated.

            Anyway. Not mad, just amused and baffled. And slightly grossed out (partially because in the grand tradition of Skateland, I’ve been sitting with the heinous odor so long that I honestly can’t smell it anymore. I was reminded of it when a lady walked into the terminal and was so overcome she had to cover her nose and mouth with her hand. Cringe.) Going to read a magazine and pray that my flight leaves soon.

Sad news: Skateland closed. About five years ago, apparently.

            Happy Thursday and if you’re traveling over the holidays, I hope it goes off without a single hitch.

*Quote from Captain Anson Harris (Barry Nelson) in Airport (1970).

"Rolled in from another town. Hit some gold, too hot to settle down."*

I worked for a famous person one time.

He is a musician and he actually isn’t that bad of a dude really, but his wife is THE DEVIL. He's not that great, either, to be honest.

I wouldn’t have brought it up in the first place, but I was once again reading through some old Doogie Howser-style computer journal entries and this hideous, angry bile must come pouring out of me now.

I’m somewhat convinced that leaving the entries as they were originally written is the best plan. But first, I must give some background.

I was hurting for work and had spent nearly a year babysitting my good friends’ Rebecca and Marty’s children. They couldn't keep me on. So, in order to keep my ship afloat, I applied at a nanny agency (more of that later).

Long story short, the agency hooked me up with a famous musician. His much-younger wife and two (new) young children needed a nanny, and I got the job. He had a three-year-old son named Conor and a 9-month-old daughter named Sophie. (Not their real names, okay?)

During the interview, his charming wife Beth asked me if I’d be willing to travel with them when her husband went on tour. I said “Of course!”

Who doesn’t want to travel?

So there I was, one month later, all set to fly to New York with the family. First class tickets, even. But just so we're all on the same page with what went down: Lacey had her period.

The following is excerpted from my computer diary of 2009:

• All of the baggage arrives, except for mine. The man at the lost baggage counter says it got delayed during search at LAX and he will have it at JFK by the 9:15 p.m. flight. We ask him to deliver it to the Essex Hotel, Central Park South.

• In the Escalade that takes us to the hotel, Beth asks the driver to stop at Duane Reade so we can pick up some essentials. (She knows about the period situation, FYI. I told her. Twice.) They all go in, but tell me to wait in the car. I guess I’m expected to fight the driver if he decides to drive off and leave them there.

• He and I have a nice talk. I tell him I saw Shirley MacLaine on the airplane. He thinks that’s cool and tells me about some of the celebrities he’s driven. We should've taken off into the sunset together. But we didn't.
  

• When everyone files back into the car (I was hoping she'd hooked me up with some tampons; she hadn't), I help fasten Sophie, the baby, into her car seat. Apparently I buckled the seat belt wrong, because in no time, Beth is yelling at me. When I apologize, she says next time, if I don’t know what I’m doing, for god sake, ask. I don’t cry, but probably just because I’m too tired to cry.

• In the hotel room, we eat tiny little cucumber, chicken, and crab sandwiches, which were provided by the hotel, along with a butt-load of garbage (chips, pretzels, popcorn) that Beth got at Duane Reade. This is the first time Lucia (the other nanny) and I have eaten since the morning.

• My bag hasn’t arrived by 11 p.m., and we’re all going to sleep. I call the front desk and ask them if they could bring the bag the next day if it comes any later. I don't want to "disturb" anyone (Beth).

The Essex House at Central Park South.
I liken it to The Dakota in Rosemary's Baby.

• I go to sleep in the shirt I’m wearing and my underwear. Then I think better of it (it was my only pair!) and clean my underwear as best I can in the sink and hang it to dry (my Mom taught me that). I luckily remembered to pack a couple tampons in my carry on, so I’m able to change at least that.

• Sophie (who is bunking with me--god forbid Beth have to parent during the night) wakes up every single hour starting at 12:45 a.m. Oh, except for once she slept for 2.5 hours (1.45-4:15). She is up for good at 8:30 a.m. I want to die, just so I can get a little extra sleep. At one point I bang my head against the bars of her crib.

A crying baby. Not Sophie.
Sophie was actually much cuter than this.

• Beth lets me sleep until 11:30 and is mad I’m not awake earlier.

• I put on yesterday’s jeans and unfortunately, the filthy, blood-drenched underwear that I attempted to clean is not dry yet. So I stick my last panty liner right on the crotch of my jeans and cross my fingers.

• We get the kids in the double stroller and go to Central Park Zoo—I am impressed by the fact that the women’s restroom smells worse than any of the animal cages—and the animals are pretty lame, too. The most impressive sight we saw was a polar bear taking a leisurely swim.
  

• While there, I attempt to buy a tampon or pad, but the machine in the bathroom is just for show—there’s nothing in it. It looks like an abandoned building.

This is too much. If you’ve made it this far, I applaud you. And I apologize.

I will fill you in on a later post.

*ELO lyrics from "Evil Woman."

Read Evil Woman Parts II, III, IV, and V.