AshleyFlys.com - tales of travel, torrid affairs, and a hatred for DELTA » Mind Vomit

Ten Reasons Why Not to Fight a Viking in an Elevator

Ashley — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 03:40:43 +0000

Last night, I was the lucky purveyor of a gigantic fight outside my apartment building. Now, when I say apartment building — I mean live/work commercial spaces for (relatively sane) creative professionals. Generally people are, you know, sleeping, throwing parties, having ‘bedroom interactions’ … at four o’clock in the morning on a Saturday. Not at L2* Living, where your next door neighbor could be a serial killer or… in this case, a Gigantic $&@!-ing Viking.

So in the midst of … ahem, a mixture of Pinot-consumption and ‘bedroom interactions’ … The Boyfriend and I hear a loud CRASH from what we assumed were our Crazy Swinging Neighbors invading our roofdeck again. As we (naked, naturally) ran up the spiral staircase to confront them for shagging on our orbit lounger – we found the two of them, shockingly (mostly) clothed, hanging over the lip of the roof, eyeballing the scene below.

The Female Swinger looked over her shoulder, waving.

“Hey Ash! Don’t worry, we’re not having sex on your patio, we’re on the roof part this time!”

“… okay!” I half-smiled, not sure how to address that sex on top of our apartment … anywhere … was kind of theoretically Not Cool in my mind, but …

“But there’s a SWEET FIGHT downstairs!” she called, before turning her attention to the obvious scene below.

Fight! I mentally chimed, always in the mood for viewing a healthy altrication. I ran downstairs with Boyfriend, sprinting to our sliding glass doors. Flinging them open, I suddenly realized I needed to clothe.

Boyfriend, who already had some pants on, watched the figures downstairs roll about on the concrete, punching each other, while I found some jeans and a sweater, and — stuffing a snowboarding cap on my post-bedroom hair, I bounded back to the balcony so we could watch the action.

“There is no lamb For the LAZY WOLF!” bellowed the larger dude below, who was blonde, very pale… and physically GIGANTIC.

“Did he just quote some Viking lore?” I whispered excitedly to Boyfriend, who shook his head quizzically.

Pretty sure that he had, I immediately determined the fellow’s ancestry. He probably had a ship somewhere, but had been banned from it for pillaging villages and causing Loads of Unnecessary Death.

“Help!” called the Annoying College Guy. Gigantic Viking turned his head, staring down the Tiny Ninja Security Guard who had begun creeping up toward the scene. I imagined him gnashing his teeth, or using his Viking powers to hypnotize the fellow… because our security guard literally took one look at the dude, grabbed his walkie, and RAN.

“YOU PLAY MUSIC LOUD! NIGHT TIME! MY CHILDREN SLEEP!” yelled the Viking, who apparently housed some offspring in our massive loft building. I knew his unit layout, too — it was a one room loft — I mused for a moment where he kept them. Perhaps in the bathroom.

Gigantic Viking continued to pummel College Guy. Boyfriend quietly dialed the police, before grabbing a beer and leaving the house.

I nabbed a cold one as well before returning to the window, just in time to see Gigantic Viking take his Gigantic Foot … raise it like a radiation-bombed Karate Kid … and SMASH through the all glass front door of College Guy’s apartment.

“AAAAAHHHHH!” the kid wailed, seeing his floor to ceiling glass windows come tumbling down in shards. He crumbled into our pseudo-grass, staring at the Viking (who was surely about to kill him), his ruined house, and his utter lack of door. Viking began approaching, slowly, and College Kid knew in that moment… he was about to die.

As if by pre-determined Fate-or-Something timing, The Boyfriend came strolling casually around the corner with his beer. Viking turned. His body lowered slightly, as if he was about to go into a full on Viking sprint –

“LAPD!” came a bullhorn, and sirens flashed. As if by magic (perhaps Gigantic Viking was also part… vampire or something…) the humongous Beanstalk of a man disappeared. College kid wandered around in a circle for a moment, before collapsing on the ground.

The police eventually took care if it, but not before (further) beating up College Kid (they thought he did something), hitting on me from the Balcony (“Don’t jump, Juliet! But if you do, I’ll catch you!), playing chess on our gigantic outdoor chessboard, and sitting by the communal hottub for half an hour.

They finally made some reports, and as of today — after Viking cornered me in the elevator (thank goodness a tiny little workman was in there with us, or I fear I would have had to fight him with my pruning shears) — Management has officially kicked him out. About an hour after our elevator altercation, movers were on the premises throwing his $!#% into the back of a truck.

I have come to the following conclusions about Vikings after this experience.

1) Vikings are $*@!-ing huge.

2) Vikings want to eat your soul.

3) Vikings will mash you between hairy knuckles and feed you to the whales.

And now… I’m going to go consume some Sherry and reflect. That, and hide from the Viking Children that will one day shoulder the L2 Management / College Guy / White Hat Chick injustice for the rest of their Freakish Viking lives.

I said I’d give you ten reasons… but? Time for some well deserved inebriation. That is all.

Regards,
Ashley

A Dissertation About People Who Loudly Eat Apples On Airplanes

Ashley — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 18:45:55 +0000

Charlotte, North Carolina, 1:56pm. Finally sinking my front lip into a much deserved MASSIVE “brown beer” ale after a hell-flight on U.S. Airways 1437 from Laguardia. I was seated in the forever-loathed Middle Seat. Next to a smelly bum and — far considerably worse — a Chewer.

I hate Chewers. Chewers are that strange class of de-evolved people that find it socially acceptable to CHEW SHIT in your earlobes at close proximity. For instance, the $*@!-ing coach section of an evil leg-mangling domestic carrier while I am attempting to regain much-needed hours of anxiety-ridden SLEEP.

I knew this would all become a problem the minute I attempted to vault my six hundred pound purple carry-on into the wedge of space that somehow classifies as an “overhead”. As if my personal space was not pre-invaded enough by seeing a B row on my fuck-you-customer-of-Travelocity ‘over-purchased’ airline ticket, as I’m destroying the muscles in my forearms some — person — decides to touch me. And I really don’t like to be touched.

Tap-tap-tap!

What, the fuck. I mentally simmer, giving the obese mini-suitcase a final heave and slamming the cover closed. Just as I’m about to take my seat –

Tap-tap-TAP!

I whirl around, attempting not to belt “I HAVE HAD THREE HOURS OF SLEEP AND WILL MURDER YOU IF YOU TOUCH ME AGAIN,” and eye-glaringly confront my assailant. A small, 90 pound redhead heavily channeling the 60s gazes back at me. She smells like a tree.

“They make these things smaller and smaller every day now, don’t they?”

She giggles, gesturing around the airplane. Excuse me, little tiny freakish person dressed in seventeen shades of GREEN — are you our environmentally conscious stewardess offering up shot glasses of wheatgrass? NO. No you AREN’T, because we aren’t on VIRGIN AMERICA, we’re on U.S. AIR where everything SUCKS.

Not as bad as Delta, though, I mentally remind myself. Nothing save riding on the coals of hell is worse than Delta.

“Right,” I reply with stiffened lips, attempting to smile as I realize this… little, baby vomit green… thing… has my coveted Aisle Seat. I suddenly catch my breath with envy.

The Aisle Seat is where anything is possible. In the Aisle Seat, you can write mean things about the festering people around you and successfully avoid their voyeuristic eyeballs. In the Aisle Seat, you get served by the human beings who push the Drink Cart first, but have the most time to rummage about in your pocketbook to extract a crisp five in exchange for a bottle of Something. Finally, in the Aisle Seat you can escape to the bathroom at your own will.

I hated this little ball of annoying in that moment. And as the minutes ticked on as she (obviously not a versed frequent flyer like myself, who can shove-and-sit in less than 15 seconds) proceeded to arrange her little “space” like she’d be in it for A YEAR… fluffing her pillow while the growing line of impatient commuters mentally (or in my case, actually) tapped their feet… carefully arranging her food…

Oh. No. I mumbled, horrified as I saw the items she began removing from her Hippie Love travel sack. And I knew then… she was that dreaded class of inhuman folk… she was a Chewer.

Minute 10. Middle Seat. Electronic items now permitted, I hastily fumble to plug my earbuds into my (it was already on, $*@!-ers!) iPhone. Ensue scrambling for mind-drowning rock playlist.

Minute 11.5: Chewer pulls out a GIGANTIC APPLE. Turns it, contemplating.

Minute 12: Chewer begins polishing GIGANTIC APPLE. Consumption is nearing.

Minute 13.5: The first horrifying sounds of Apple Death ring through the cabin. Chewer has begun chewing on GIGANTIC APPLE.

Minute 14: Decide going deaf is worth not hearing disgusting Chewing sounds, use forefingers to shove earbuds as deep as feasibly possible into eardrums.

Minute 15.5: Endure Ray Lamontague’s “Trouble” louder than anyone ever should.

Minute 16: Chewer finally extracts remnants of GIGANTIC APPLE from her incisors, and proceeds to PLUNGE the mangled carcass into her seat pocket.

I am so horrified at this point I’m not sure if I’m even going to make it through the rest of the flight. I practically croak as I TAP-TAP-TAP the offending human being who has created a holocaust in row 19, and without warning scramble over her to go regain my sanity in the lavatory.

The remaining forty-three minutes passed by in pure hell. My fear that she would eat something else, paired with the fact that my right earbud now wasn’t working — made my heart race Panic Attack fast until touchdown.

When we were finally given the clear to unlatch our death-trap seatbelts (WHY airplanes don’t provide PARACHUTES instead of the shitty ‘floating device’ cushions is beyond me), I sat absolutely rigid until the line of human salmon moved downstream with their obese carry-ons and/or offspring.

When my turn finally came, I took one last look at Chewer. She glanced back at me, sheer Chewing evil in her eyes, and began tugging at an Extra Large pack of Double Bubble. I think I audibly squealed in horror as I ripped my suitcase from the overhead and sprinted out of the airplane like a Jewish bat out of Hitler hell.

I am now holed up in the only pub in the North Carolina airport that serves alcohol, with a large beer at my quaking fingertips and four hours to go.

The odds are not in my favor.

Back to the liquor menu.

Ashley

Watching Stupid Actors Is Better Than Going to the Zoo

Ashley — Sun, 21 Mar 2010 16:48:47 +0000

Oh. My. Goodness.

I’m presently experiencing the next best thing to driving around South Africa, oogling up-close rhinos on an experimental “do it yourself” safari tour.

I’m in a Starbucks. In central Hollywood. Four feet away from me… there are actors rehearsing.

Now, I’m not talking Broadway “star” types, that would be far less exciting – and you wouldn’t find second-string Simba or The Phantom running lines in a commercial chain California coffee house anyway. These are Brand NEW Actor-Types (BNATs), obviously going to the Super Method Acting School around the corner from here (I know, because I went there for a spell before getting kicked out for non-conformity), where you pay $600 a month to essentially join a cult and cry once a week in front of your balding, over-the-hill classmates.

These BNAT’s are only table away from me — dressed in every piece of black they could find in their wardrobes, have matching little “artist hats”, and are theatrically flailing around brand new (uncreased, unread) Drama Book copies of whatever basic play they’ll be attempting scenes from. I’m trying not to stare.

…

Aw, to hell with it, let’s name them!

We’ll call the guy… Trundle… and the chick… Gertrude. YES. TRUNDLE and GERTRUDE. Now, I’m going to directly transcribe a few of the idiot dribblings that are being flung from the mouths of these creatures. No editing. Here we go:

______

Gertrude: So we’re in the car in this scene. We’re driving. Should we, like, move around like a car?

Trundle: Maybe. If we want to establish truth. This is Method.

Gertrude: Right. Method.

______

Are you listening to this? These two are seriously discussing — and I mean, “like, for-seriously!” — discussing whether to mimic the movement of a VEHICLE during an acting class.

No offense to the mentally challenged — because I’ve volunteered for the mentally challenged — but ARE THESE TWO PEOPLE RETARDED?!

_____

Gertrude: So… like, there’s a kiss in between these words, here. Do we have to do the kiss in front of, you know — like, the class? Like in front of the teacher?

Trundle: Well… not many girls are going to go that far. Not many girls have that much invested in this character — I think we should show them, like in the room, that you’re really invested in Blanche’s character.

Gertrude: Really? You think?

Trundle: Yes. I do. I mean, this was one of the greatest novels of all time, so we need to do it justice. For the the guy, you know, the poet who spent half his life writing it and other things… for our careers, you know, for your character…

Gertrude: Blanche? I’m playing Blanche, right?

_____

Oh… my… goodness. I’m about to throw up into my triple shot Macchiato… did Trundle just refer to A Streetcar Named Desire as a NOVEL, and Tennessee Williams as a poet?!

_____

Trundle: The way I’m sitting right now… you know, the way I look right now… do you think this is a good look for the scene? You know, the black and stuff?

Gertrude: Yeah!

Trundle: You know, because I grew up in like, Connecticut, but the bad part of the Connecticut… like, I have a lot to give. I’ve seen alot. That’s why I became an actor. I want to show the world my pain. Like Pucino.

Gertrude: Wow… you have so much to show an audience, like, experience…

Trundle: Yeah, I don’t even really need to be in this class. I met an agent from ICM on Facebook the other day. He really thinks I should be out there just working, you know?

____

THIS is where I accidentally let out a snort that’s so explosively loud, the two of them turn around and stare at me. They’re both so collectively offended I can’t hold it in anymore. I begin laughing. Uncontrollably.

Trundle’s eyes are like fire.
____

Trundle: Let’s go rehearse at my place, Chrissy, this obviously isn’t a good WORK ENVIRONMENT anymore.

____

At this point I’ve put my Starbucks cup over my mouth, and I am laughing INTO it. Good work environment, Trundle? IT’S A @#$%-ing STARBUCKS!

Trundle and “Chrissy” (I’m still of the opinion that Gertrude is more fitting), huff and glare as they loudly gather their things, slamming and crushing scripts into Actors Connection branded messenger bags, and scraping the chairs against the floor as they roughly push them in.

And finally… glowy, exfoliated chins vaulted higher than the Nora Jones blasting ceiling stereo system, the two young Almost Method actors march out of the Starbucks, simmering and visibly attempting to kill me with their bad energy.

I smile into my mocha.

Sorry, guys. Even with three Basic Meisner classes under your belts — you still can’t even pronounce Stanislavski properly, much less successfully mind slaughter me for laughing at your idiocy. Good effort, though.

I love actors.

Happy Sunday.

– Ashley Avis

The Wonders of the Avocado

Ashley — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 01:42:05 +0000

Today, I discovered the avocado.

The avocado, I have established, is a delicious capsule of other-wordly-goodness. The disturbing… yet titillating… yellow-green be-mushed innards of this fantastical thing both horrify me — and captivate me all in the same… irreversibly faklempt moment of MUST. EAT. THIS. desire.

I have officially consumed twelve avocados in the past three hours.

I do not regret this decision.

My sudden predilection to be overwhelmed by the avocado… this… thing… this FRUIT-object that resembles an ALIEN POD, spawned by some kind of Saturn-inspired gremlin and yet TASTES like Zephelogeretes himself crafted it out of a warped, oversized pea and sheer Walt Disney-inspired-Fantasia-pegasus magic…

My!

I love the avocado. I love it for all of its imperfections, its strange — dimply skin that would be grotesque if homogenized to the face of an adolescent — but on the avocado it’s… wonderfully, disagreeably perfect, an absurd husk of occasionally peeled bewilderment.

RETARDED ACTORS – Leave My Remnants of Sanity In Peace

Ashley — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 19:07:30 +0000

So I wake up this morning, ridiculously and blissfully content for the first time in weeks… I shuffle down the stairs, looking around for coffee through the I-went-to-bed-at-4-am eyeball blur… find said coffee, microwave it… sit down…

“I WANT A FUCKING REFUND FOR MY WEBSITE YOU F-ING…”

I won’t go on much further for the sheer amount of profanities that were idiotically strung about through yet another one of these psychotic webdesign client emails. Back in January (on my birthday, more specifically) I had some asshole get hold of my client files for the past three years and email absolutely everyone telling them how easy it was to do a credit card chargeback.

Granted, there were a few folks that didn’t get resume updates for the month and deserved refunds. Like, FIVE of them. And even though nobody but their parents/relatives/significant others were LOOKING at the freakin’ website anyway — in the theory of things, they deserved to get some money back. And they did.

However — all of these crazy people decided to jump into an email string screaming Class Action Lawsuit, Chargeback, and KILL ASHLEY! Jesus christ. SORRY, you pathetic people that have eight hours a day to spend theorizing on how to put a hit out on me because your SELF PRODUCED REEL didn’t get optimized for the measly TEN DOLLARS you paid to have it done — here’s your refund — but GET A LIFE, ALREADY!

Some of these nutters even went as far to research me, find out who I’m dating (The Boyfriend is a brilliant photographer), string together that OH MY GOD — we did some cross promotions together that OH MY GOD were actor affordable and OH MY GOD how could we possibly be working together?! It’s a conspiracy!!! LET’S DO A CHARGEBACK!

I really hate working with Wannabe Actors Who Think They Have Careers But Really Don’t Because They Suck And/Or Are 40 And Still Working the Temp Desk.

And if the “radicals” find this post they’ll freak out and try to report THIS to the BBB, too.

Coffee’s ready.

– Ashley

Bob the "The Downtown Power Broker" Picks (Idiotic) Email Fight, Threatens Career

Ashley — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 18:32:18 +0000

I absolutely love it when psychotic man-children (i.e. self-proclaimed ‘Power Brokers for Upscale LA Living’) decide to pick a fight with you over email.

The Boyfriend and I are in the process of attempting to find a new spot somewhere in Los Angeles… preferably a gigantic live/work loft we can turn into a fine art gallery ON the ocean… our sights are as full as our gigantic wine glasses.

March 3rd, 11:45pm, Mid-Wine: I’m sitting on a windowsill, sipping Pinot (as per usual), and find this gorgeous industrial loft downtown in a rather famous building. It’s for sale. I decide to take a cordial shot in the dark. I decide to email the broker with a proposal.

“Hello there, Bob*,” I type, eyeballs widening with fear at the gigantic snowflakes catapulting themselves around outside my window, “Just saw the lovely loft you represent… random, so please excuse — but would the owners be at all interested in doing a rental arrangement while it’s on the market?”

Keep in mind — as beautiful as this loft is — it’s not exactly a penthouse, either. Whomever is selling is not doing it because they “don’t need the money”.

I send the email, continue sipping my fermented grapes, and staring at the monster snowfall occurring in central Connecticut.

Ping!

I hate the sound of the iPhone email. However, I had one. From Bob, the ‘Upscale Power Broker’.

“We DO NOT DO short term rentals,” screamed the email in capitals, “NO ONE ELSE in Downtown does either. BOB.”

Well $*@! you, I grumble, mentally banishing him from my real estate search.

I have a bit of a problem, though. I have a hard time letting assholes like this — and their idiotic ’self proclaimed’ (read: fabricated) brokerage credits — go:

I had to. And I thought that’d be the end of it. Bob would realize he should — from this point forward — talk to clients with a Santa-inspired benevolence, understand further he’s also a client-mutilating dumbass — we’re obviously looking for exactly what he proclaims to be his speciality – and either apologize or go sit in the pool of sorrow that is his single, shitty studio apartment in East LA.

Bob replies:

Dumbass. Really? You’re in the people business and you’re REALLY risking pissing someone off — for absolutely no reason — to get in the “last word”?

Perhaps it was the wine — or the fact that I’m just EXTREMELY confrontational when it comes to dealing with idiots — OR the fact that I was the highest grossing agent at Corcoran/Citi-Habitats when I was in real estate, and I HATE pompous real estate agents like this in general:

Then this mole of a human being goes and Googles me. He unearths my Backstage blog from ’07-’08.

Wow. I’m just absolutely amazed that a grown man — who doesn’t sound like a young kid, from my perspective [he sounds like a crotchety late 40-something that tried to be an actor, got a shitty job paying minimum wage in the William Morris mailroom instead (if that's not a delusion of his warped noggin, too), and got fired because he didn't have the intelligence or people skills to survive in the entertainment industry --] would further an email fight.

My final email, before blocking the guy — considering it’s now Thursday morning, I’m happily sipping on coffee, and I’m realizing what a ridiculous vat of shit this has gotten stirred into:

And… close the book on Psychotic Not-So-Powerful-’Power-Broker’-Bob. I won’t throw in his first last name, because I’m kind of afraid he’ll do more Googling, find this, and come stab me in my sleep.

At this point, I’m seriously considering whether I should move back to Los Angeles. There’s too many people out of their f-ing minds.

Perhaps I’ll move to Alaska and build an igloo. Might have trouble with the coffee, though…

– Ashley

Dear DELTA: A Letter from Ashley Avis.

Ashley — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 03:19:14 +0000

Dear Delta,

I was recently on flight 45 from Los Angeles to Tampa, Florida. The flight was as delightful as flights-in-coach can theoretically be, the salted peanuts were more than satisfactory, and my complimentary pillow — to my surprise — did not smell of disgruntled infant feces. All fantastic factors I think your airline should be overwhelmingly proud of.

However — one minor detail seemed to elude the Delta Team on August 31st, 2009. It concerned a window in row 16. A window that didn’t exist.

Before you crumple-toss this letter aside with the assumption that it’s some random flying patron who is exasperated by the lack-of-free-blanket-situation you have going on… continue reading. I have a serious issue to discuss with you, Delta.

Upon sitting down and (consequently spilling my overpriced airport Macchiato) in seat 16A, I shortly thereafter became aware that the entirety of my row would remain unoccupied for the duration of the flight (or “Delta flying experience”, as I’ve come to call it). I made a fateful slide over to seat 16B. The Gods were watching out for me that morning.

After the customary buckling of the seatbelt, perusing the irrelevant pop-art safety precaution pamphlet, and draining the rest of my less-than-strong vanguard coffee, I prepared myself for takeoff. The stewardesses did their safety thing (failing yet again to inform us of our ultimately screwed position if something went minority wrong with the plane), and the airliner began trucking down the runway.

It began to take up speed.

I continued sucking down my Macchiato.

This is where it gets interesting.

About forty-five seconds into takeoff, just when I was about to reach for the prohibited electronic item and turn it on — a sudden WHHHHHUUUSHHH sound erupted from my direct right, accompanied by a large window FLYING out of the window socket and ramming into the place where my head would have been, right in window-seat of 16A.

WHHHHHUUUSHHH.

We had just taken off from the ground of the runway. And the window of row 16 had ERUPTED out of the airplane.

I was shockingly calm as I eye-bulgingly stared at the emply place where the window should have been. Obese Pearl-Wearing Domestic Woman in row 17 began screaming, and hysterically proclaiming how we were all about to plunge rapidly to our deaths.

Everyone else was staring at the hole, listening to the WHHHUUSSSH sound, and essentially in various progressive states of shock.

“WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIIIIIE!”

With one look at Obese Pearl Wearing Domestic Woman, I decided then and there that if I was fated to plunge into the cement runway of LAX on that absurdly early morning hour, I was certainly not going to do it with the shrill voice of an over-pampered retard resounding in my head.

And with one steady motion… I leaped upon the fallen window.

Yes. Leaped, Delta.

I grappled it between two 22-year-old arms, and I forced it back into the gaping hole from whence it came.

WHHHUUUSSS…hhh…….. hhh…. h.

The sound stopped.

Obese Pearl Wearing Woman tempered her yelling into a soft hyperventilating wheeze.

The passengers all looked at one another. Did the stiletto-wearing chick in seat 16(B) just save us all?
I was mentally forgiven for my second personal item by the entire aircraft that day.

We landed in Tampa with gusto (funny how the pilot instructed all stewardesses not to leave their seats for the entirety of the ride) and the WHUUUUSH sound only re-emitted three or four more times. I was not able to hear high-pitched sounds for a good six days after the experience. I’m pretty sure Obese Pearl Wearing Woman is now deceased.

And thus, Delta, for all of the effort and borderline customer servicing of your psychotic Midwestern patrons (and, you know, circumventing near death) I feel entitled to either the sum of 13.5 million dollars, or free flights for the rest of my life.

I’m certain I’m being more than fair — and if anything, giving you guys a massive deal.

Think of all the lawsuits you could have had. Think of all of the eardrum replacement therapy you would have had to provide for. The cost of re-caucking the window so that it fits back into it’s original frame.

I look forward to your response, Delta. Thank you most sincerely for the opportunity to be in a position to legally screw you over.

Think you can routinely take my nail clippers? What now.

Most sincerely, Ashley Avis

DON'T CRUNCH YOUR LARD IN MY EARLOBE.

Ashley — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 17:08:09 +0000

Okay. I have two INSANE, can’t-sit-still-for-desire-to-vomit and/or sprint out of the ROOM while glaring at you — absolutely unresolvable pet peeves.

One is the general concept of chewing. I have to actually restrain myself from physically maiming someone — even The Hot Boyfriend — when someone decides to, you know, stand over you, sit directly next to you, get within about six feet of you and stand there blankly staring at the wall doing nothing for society and CHEWING. Munching. Grinding their stupid teeth on whatever piece of lard they happen to have immediate access to and having that SOUND reverberate in your EARLOBE.

My second biggest pet peeve isn’t ridiculously off-base from the first… but deals with individuals who also STAND OVER YOU either staring at THE AFOREMENTIONED WALL or talking TO A SIBLING while eating something large and fluffy that takes forever to consume and generally fills the oral cavity almost completely. Then they proceed to converse. Nonono… not only converse, but continue on nonsensically for HALF AN HOUR while you are attempting to work and potentially do something productive instead of talking with your mouth insanely full of Costco-sized marshmallows or a loaf of bread or last week’s homogenized LASAGNA.

Face Stuffer: “You didn’t even (stuff face, stuff stuff) recognize Jeremy, did you?”

Sibling: “He’s taller. He looks angry to me.”

Face Stuffer: “Yes (stuff stuff) he’s got (stuff) a (stuff) bad (stuff stuff stuff) attitude”

Sibling: “Maybe deep down he’s like, I Don’t Wanna be a Christian. I Don’t Wanna be a Carpenter”.

Face Stuffer: “Maybe he’s like (BIG STUFF) oh shit.”

…

I desperately need coffee.

– Ashley

The Day I [Almost] Saw a Unicorn on American Airlines

Ashley — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 02:47:55 +0000

Well if this one goes down, I’m screwed.

American Airlines flight 203 from Miami International to LAX. Finally going home. Finally.

However, printing out my boarding pass after a foiled attempt to upgrade (calling the airline when you’re in the back of a line of 30 trying to do the same thing you are is theoretically very crafty, until some wheezy chick named Arlene tells you that you aren’t a preferred “AAAdvantage Member” and unworthy of first class upgrading), I was placed in seat 32A.

Back of the plane. Window seat. Ugh.

I suppose it could be worse. I could be fated to a middle seat at the VERY back in row 39, in between a cueball bald gangmember type and this gorgeous African American woman I’m 95% sure is a vampire. I stood behind her on the breezeway. She has acrylic toenails. I’m not sure what else could possibly be a sign.

However, as I made my way down the aisle — past the coveted First Class rows and the oversized, square-shaped grey glory of the actual person sized seats — I suddenly noticed something amazing. Spectacular! Mind-blowing, even.

Wait for it……

The coach seats. Had. PILLOWS.

Pillows! With mini-blankets! Awaiting our bottoms to mistakenly sit on them while trying to lodge our Second Personal Items beneath the prison seats and balance a Chai Latte at the same time!

I stared at my pillow-mini-blanket set and all of it’s shrink wrapped wonder. ”Hello,” I murmured softly, carefully plucking it from 32A’s scratchy cloth seat and depositing it onto my lap. ”You do exist…”

There’s an airline out there that still gives you pillows. I could see a unicorn now and be significantly less astonished.

Now if they would only serve me a damn drink…

Severely deprived of an Adult Beverage, Ashley Avis

The Elusive Search for Alcohol at Miami International

Ashley — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 02:29:32 +0000

12.15pm, Monday. 7-8 minutes early. We’ve finally landed in Miami International, an airport I’d graced once before at age 18, attempting to fly from a tragically ending Miss Teen USA pageant to my Tampa senior prom.

Flying middle seat in a 17-pound white faux-Swarovski prom dress? Next to a vomiting baby? Not advisable.

I’m headed back to LA after an astonishing nine days with my family. Holidays are officially over, and I’m rendezvousing with Hot Significant Other at LAX. Five hours of Pricelining, Travelocity-ing, and Kayaking later — I was able to not only schedule our flights to arrive within ten minutes of each other, but craftily convinced a Delta agent (oh, you morons) to waive the Random Last Minute Fee and utilize my I-Hate-Delta-Anyway 42,000 miles to cover my significant other’s overpriced ticket from New York. Saved a cool 190 reticketing + taxes + actual person phonecall with that one.

Silly Delta.

Landed in Miami International, which is essentially an idiot fest of massively overweight families dragging even more massively overweight offspring. Half of these Fat Child Things carried some kind of food item that would inspire even more obesity. I ogled the post-Christmas ridiculousness. Our world has really come to this, hasn’t it? Yes, Ashley, yes it has.

Deboarding, I tugged my delightfully happy (purple) Liz Claiborne carry-on behind me, swishing my hair (I’d actually washed it pre-flight), and pausing to call Dad about a marketing idea. I glared as another Fat Offspring Product rolled his 2-ton bag over my freshly polished boot.

I needed a drink.

Stashing my iPhone away, I began trekking down the D gates, eyes narrowed and searching for anything resemblant of a bar/pub/shitty restaurant-with-full-bar — anything. Au Bon Pain… no… Harry’s Country BBQ… hell no… CocoBay… yyy– no alcohol, damn it… Random Generic-Looking Martini Bar Randomly Next to Gate D37! Perfect.

Increasing my speed (being wary of the slick undersole of my new boots, I’d tripped three times already — contemplated fake lawsuit, deferred), I eyeballed and concentrated on the only available hightop table, situated conveniently at the end of the bar area and away from all of the annoying tourists connecting to their annoying Midwestern connections. Faster, I willed my gray knee-highs, faster faster faster… almost theeeere… BASTARD!

A (literal) monster of a man lumbered over to the Stool of Refuge, somehow rolling his mass over one side of the lone seat and sitting. It was like watching the blob consume a building.

I squealed to a halt, eyes flashing. I could even tell that my ridiculously happy new carry-on was pissed. And it’s freakin’ inanimate.

Two more children — semi-liquid food of some sort smeared barbarically across their faces — skidded by me, screaming.

Need. Liquor.

Looking helplessly around for another seat, even one at the bar, there was absolutely nothing to be had. Similar angry looking traveling regulars (we should really form a clan) stood at the outskirts of the Martini bar, waiting like alcohol deprived lions.

I gave it about eight seconds before turning on my heel, making a (surpassingly graceful) pirouette on the slick terminal floor, and marching back toward gate D40.

“At least I washed my hair this morning,” I grumbled under my breath. There’s nothing worse than being in an airport, needing a drink, and feeling like a heaping pile of unattractive crap on top of it all. I suddenly remembered the sudden blemish on my forehead that had appeared venomously overnight, and felt even more sour. I wanted to shove all the ridiculous sweat-pant-wearing youngsters and steal their Uggs.

Okay, that’s a little angry. But anyway.

“NOW. BOARDIIIING… First Clazz!”

I’d continue ranting about the Morons Within, but they’re calling us to board the next death bird. Till a politically incorrect next time.

– Ashley Avis

AshleyFlies.com – A Blog of Toils, Travel, and Vehement Hate of DELTA.