Seinfeld Moments: Part II

40 weeks down
13 weeks to go
8 months until the wedding

As I mentioned in a post a few months ago, there are going to be times when my writing strays a bit and I will choose to write about things which have nothing to do with daily life, being an Army wife, planning a wedding or any of the rest of it. These are what I affectionately refer to as my Seinfeld moments—utterly absurd stories about nothing at all. And regardless of their trifling nature, still make you stop, wonder if you’ve momentarily stepped into the Twilight Zone, and then laugh uncontrollably. These are the moments that I live for and greatly enjoy chronicling. Because let’s be honest, most of the time, regular ol’ life is really damned funny.

And in that spirit, my friends, I offer you three really good ones from the last week of my life. The high-stress, low-patience, holiday edition of my Seinfeld Moments, Part II: Irrational Others.


* * * * * * * * *

I pride myself on finding unique gifts for people. I like to make them meaningful especially to those close to me. My dad is a prime example: a hard-to-buy-for-man who doesn’t really like or need “stuff.” So I like to give him experiences instead. In that vein, this year my Christmas gift to my father was tickets to see “Wicked” (showing in a town near you!) which happens to be under the baton of one of my very good friends from college. So dad got the book and the soundtrack and a new sweater to wear on the night of the show. We’ll dine and get a back stage tour. Not a ton of “stuff.” But memories that he can keep.

But dad did ask me for one THING. The only thing that I knew I had to get him: A money clip. But being absent-minded and excited by all the Wicked gifts, I completely forgot about the money clip. Until December 23. Hear me now, believe me later friends, Christmas shopping in Washington DC on December 23 is a contact sport.

But I had a plan. There was a strip mall close to my house (close meaning five miles, which equals about 45 minutes with Christmas traffic) that had a TJ Maxx, and Marshalls, a Ross, a Bed, Bath and Beyond and a DSW all there together. I knew that the crazy pre-Christmas sales would bring last minute shoppers into these particular stores in droves.

But a *money clip.* That’s easy. They sell those in the little boxed, pre-packed-for-stocking-stuffing, paired-with-a-keychain-or-cologne, packages right by the checkout! I’m in. I’m out. No problem.

FYI: Bed, Bath and Beyond doesn’t sell them. Nor does TJ Maxx. Or Marshalls. Or DSW. Evidently no one needs their money clipped anymore.

I was getting tired and a *wee* bit frustrated and ever-so-slightly-Christmas-cranky when I walked into Ross: A.K.A. my last hope.

Sheer and utter mayhem. Outside of a Black Friday 2:00a.m. Midwestern Wal-Mart stampede for a $12 VCR circa 1989, I had never seen anything like it. Immediately upon entry, I was shoved aside in pursuit of the last empty cart in the store. I looked around, truly bewildered, wondering if the flurry of frantic motion was because the building was perhaps on fire. After several elbow checks that even the NHL might have frowned upon, I saw a display case by the checkout that looked promising. Small boxes of what appeared to be wallets and the like.

Sadly, the display was behind a long line of people in the checkout. I approached cautiously.

“Excuse me ma’am. Can I scoot by here?”

“I have waited in line for one hour.” Very matter of fact.

“No, no. I’m sorry, I don’t want to check out, I just want to look at the display behind you there.”

“You are NOT getting in front of me. Get to the back of the line!” What no Merry Christmas?

I held my hands up in the air like someone in a western just told to “Reach for the sky!!” just to prove that I had nothing in my hands to pay for and therefore was not trying to cut in front of her.

“Seriously ma’am, I’m not trying to cut. I just want to look at the display case behind you. I can’t see it unless I stand here in front of your cart.”

“Maybe you oughta buy something if you want to be in line so damned bad! Move to the end of the line, lady!” And then others, watching this exchange, but not understanding. “Yeah, seriously lady. Back of the line. We’ve been here, like an hour already.” I backed away slowly, tip-toeing like Elmer Fudd in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, hunting not rabbit, but rather a really big $10 paperclip. The scowls, upturned lips and slight shaking of heads followed me all the way to the exit. And when I got to the door, honest to God, I ran to my car for fear that a rogue cart might be after me. I fled the scene.

Dear Dad. Just so you know, I did not forget your Christmas money clip. It will be arriving from Amazon.com in 5-7 business days.

* * * * * * * * *

There is no place that I less like to hang out than the airport. I travel a lot so much of this is inevitable. But it is my least favorite place to spend extended periods of time. Please add to the equation that this year I was flying out on Christmas Eve from a very busy airport, and there was weather a’brewing making everyone jammed in said airport exceedingly nervous (and testy.)

One of my pet peeves about airlines is the mysteriously arbitrary loading zone numbers on your tickets. “Now boarding Zone 1!” And a cheer goes up from the crowd. Yet, no one knows how you get Zone 1. You didn’t *earn* Zone 1. And honestly, aren’t you all getting on the same plane?

And the people who try to Zone Scam make me craziest of all. Dude. You ticket says Zone 4. Just chill for a minute instead of trying to not-so-subtly-at-all, magically become a Zone 1 and thereby board the plane 2 minutes and 36 seconds before you otherwise would have boarded the plane.

This stuff happens all the time. But on this trip, I saw the best EVER arbitrary plane boarding argument.

First, the guy calls First Class. There was a special entrance for First Class. A very special red carpet runner next to a very ordinary black carpet runner separated by a velvet rope. Three very important passengers walked by and tried to walk down the black carpet. “No no, Mr. Smith. You should walk on THIS side!” And the steward indicated the red carpet side of the rope. Mr. Smith complied.

“Next we’d like to call our extra super special red carpet patrons to board.” Six or seven more people moved to the front of the line and walked across the red carpet and onto the plane.

“Now boarding Zone 1.” And all ticketed passengers bum-rushed the gate. The steward, clearly seeing he had lost control and desperately trying to regain authority yelled to push the passengers back, reminding that this was Zone 1 ONLY. And worse: they had (GASP) lined up on the red carpet, instead of the black carpet, which *clearly* since these people were not special, was not acceptable behavior. One particularly pushy women who was first in line (and whose ticket said Zone 3 by the way) wasn’t having it.

“Ma’am you must step back. You’re on our red carpet.”

“And?”

“Well, you’re not a Red Carpet guest.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, I’m not kidding. Please step to the other side of the rope, ma’am.”

“Really? You’ve got to be kidding. It’s a carpet.” And then, for show, definitely in an attempt to get the whole line behind her fired up and on her side… “Evidently the only way I’m getting on this plane is if I walk on the BLACK carpet because we can’t fly today if I walk on the wrong piece of rag on the floor!!

Whispered from the man behind her. “Seriously ma’am. Are you getting on the plane or not? You’re holding up the line.”

“OH I AM holding up the line am I?!?! Well in all my years…” And then she started screaming and cursing as she walked around the rope to the black carpet side, got her ticket scanned, and boarded the plane while the rest of us just rolled our eyes.

As I got onto the plane myself ( a legit Zone 3 and remarkably a mere 2 minutes after the floor show) I had to laugh. It was a hundred passenger plane—the kind with a row of seats on one side of the aisle that was for only one passenger and on the other side of the aisle that was made for just two. There was no first class. No separation or partition. No special treatment for the red carpet folks once inside the airplane.

And the cranky lady? Back row. Up against the wall. Next to the toilets.

* * * * * * * * *

My new office is very close to a hospital. Because of this all the eating establishments in proximity to my office are usually flooded with interns and residents, doctors, nurses and patients. On any given day I’m usually the only person not wearing scrubs or a white coat in the morning coffee line.

Late last week, the last day before the holiday break, I ventured to a fast food restaurant to grab a diet soda for my mid-afternoon break. I walked in at the same time as a very distinguished looking doctor—Quite stoic, mid-50’s, graying hair at his temples, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, a white coat over the shirt and tie, and decorated with access badges out the wazoo. He signaled permission for me to order in front of him.

“I’d like a large diet coke please.” The cashier nodded, took my money and produced a large cup of soda. And then in a shocking-even-for-fast-food move, she took the lid to the cup and smooshed it on top of my soda with the palm of her hand. It did not attach.

“Ma’am. I don’t think the lid is on that cup.”

“Sure it is.” And she smooshed it down harder with the heel of her hand. Now it is not only not on, but is also cracked.

“Seriously, I don’t think it fits. I think it’s broken. Can I please have a different lid?”

“No, no, it fine. That’s just what it looks like.” (Really?) And she pushed the cup across the counter to me. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, I picked up the cup. When I did, the lid popped off, and the soda spilled all down the front of my sweater.

“See, you didn’t need a new lid, you needed napkins,” she said to me, quite satisfied. Hmph. Sassy. And then she picked up the lid, smooshed it down hard *again* with the heel of her hand, and slide the drink across to me. At this point, the lid is cracked in about six places and definitely not on the cup.

I looked around to see if anyone was watching this happen besides me, thinking that it was possible that I was imagining all this take place. Or maybe I wasn’t being clear with my instructions? I turned to look at the doctor who was behind me, but stood staring at the ceiling, biting his lower lip. I couldn’t read whether or not he was ignoring the scene or if he was just irritated he had let me go in front of him and it was taking so long.

“Ma’am. Please. I’d like a new lid.”

“No no. No new lid. New cup.”

Are you kidding me? So she took my soda (only half full now by the way, since the spillage) and poured it into a brand new cup. Then she took the old, cracked, ripped-up lid and one last time, smooshed it on with the heel of her hand.

“There. Perfect. Thank you and have a nice day. Next!”

I took my beaten up half beverage in my hand and stared at it blank-faced. I turned around, looked at the doctor and said “my life is an episode of Seinfeld” and walked out the door.

The last thing I heard as I walked from the shop was the stoic doctor belly laugh so hard that he snorted.