Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Hooker Adventures

Last week I attended a hooker convention. You know, my kind of hookers – the classy kind. I am, after all, based in the Quad Cities, home of Fred Garvin, male prostitute.









We departed Wednesday morning from the Quad Cities on a flight to Detroit, Rock City. After a delay on our flight, we only had a 45 minute layover in Detroit to make our flight to Baltimore. I don’t check bags because I don’t want my luggage lost, so I’m hauling a 40-pound carry-on behind me as we are running to the gate to make the flight. We get to the flight and since everyone else has already boarded, there is no room for carry-ons, so they check my bag. (Of course, it got lost.) That flight is delayed, so we are certain we’ve missed our flight to Lancaster, Pennsylvania. We get off the plane in Baltimore and again run through the airport. When we arrive at the Cape Air gate, the friendly counter person is speaking into a walkie talkie, saying, “I have the two passengers from US Air, we are en route” and she rushes us past security. Wow, this is some service! Then we see the plane:






And realize that we make up 30% of the passengers on the flight. Yes, that is the pilot, on the plane, washing the windows. Here is a shot from my seat:






The pilot is on the left, one of the passengers is on the right. At this point, my knees are hugging the sides of the pilot’s chair. I could’ve reached up and bear hugged him. Except that I was busy telling Jesus how sorry I am for everything I’ve done lately because we were flying through a solid wall of fog and hitting massive turbulence. When we landed, all seven passengers applauded.


At the hooker convention, I was equally celebrated and berated by all varieties of older women. I managed to break out with an impressive bout of adult acne, and did burn the side of my face with a curling iron because in my heart I am forever 13. I was unable to drink because the co-worker who accompanied me does not drink, and it really is not fun to drink alone, or to be watched peevishly while one drinks. I was also out of Prilosec, which is essential to my drinking.  So I suffered, parched.  Sure, a hooker convention SOUNDS fun, but it's really standing for 10 hours saying the same thing over and over and over and your face and back and legs hurt when you are done.  And then there is paperwork.

This is what I sell:

Five hundred smacks, baby.  And it doesn't do your dishes.  Plus, there are 10 blades, at $149 each.  That's a lot of Diet Coke and peanut M&M's.

 
Meanwhile, my family was doing all kinds of great things while I was gone. Oldest Daughter was in her Hauntcert, which is an orchestra concert where the kids dress in costume to play creepy songs. OD rocked her kangaroo outfit. Then Youngest Daughter attended her Fall Festival (a.k.a. Halloween party) and went as a Beauty Queen.





I want to tell you more, but it is 10 p.m. and I just finally got the kids tucked in (playoff game tonight for HS football) and Current Husband just got home and expects to be spoken to (which is not code for sex, literally, we have to schedule conversations anymore), so I will leave you with this bit of entertainment.  It is off of the upcoming album by The Black Keys, and I am almost as excited for that  new CD as I am for Breaking Dawn to come out.  ALMOST.



 



3 comments:

Mel said...

Ha! Glad I am not the only middle aged person still burning myself with the curling iron (not that I am glad you burned yourself, just glad you shared)! Yeah, that tiny airplane? No way! You are brave!

Rhonda said...

I'm not sure I would have made it on that plane.

Lisa @ akawest said...

Not code for sex...you summed up parenthood with that one.

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