Roll it down or gulp it down 2
Today’s blog post addresses a gravely serious issue that is all too often overlooked.
This isn’t easy for me to talk about, but I’m putting personal feelings aside in order to raise awareness for the tragedy that I fell victim to last Sunday morning.
People have become too stupid to roll down the freaking window when they puke in a cab.
And so, I feel compelled to launch the “Roll it Down or Gulp it Down” campaign. And yes, I’ve been in a cab with someone who swallowed their own puke to avoid disaster, so I know it’s possible.
All those in violation will be issued giant Flava-Flav style necklaces with plastic buckets at the end instead of clocks.
I’m doing it for the upholstery, people.
I’m also doing it so I never have to hear the words “Pizza toppings! Everywhere!!!!!“ ever again.
Yes, that is a direct quote.
This is the part where you admire me for my bravery in the face of stomach acid.
It’s also the part where I inform you I am eating hummus as I write this, and you gasp in amazement at my stomach of steel.
But back to Sunday morning. I swear on my Michael Kors watch that there is a perfectly good explanation for the…um…ensemble I rocked at the Las Vegas airport.
Even a fedora can't fix this hot mess. Note the judgmental stare in the background.
I bet you can figure out my excuse.
And yes, my sweatpants do say “HUSTLE” in rainbow letters. Thank you for noticing.
The "Hustle" is for Hip Hop Hustle. Holla.
I always make the effort to choose a stylish yet comfortable outfit while traveling as it tends to bother me when people find it apropos to schlepp around in PJs and UGG boots.
OK, so maybe there was one exception last February….
The true meaning of camel toe.
…if you’ve ever traveled on a red eye in the dead of winter with a husband in a neck brace, you’d understand.
But other than this one minor infraction, I’m in good standing with the airport fashion police. Well, at least I was.
The sweatpants disaster began as a perfectly cute outfit, I promise. Imagine a pair of simple black leggings in place of the hustle pants and you’ll get the idea. The morning also started out surprisingly well. Despite needing to be out the door by 5:30 am, Scott and I were running early — a complete anomaly for Team Taylor. We quickly hailed is cab outside the Hilton and were on our way to McCarran airport.
The cab driver seemed friendly and was driving a newer vehicle with a credit card machine–always a good sign. But the cab was freezing. All the windows had been rolled down which at this early hour is never a good idea, even in the desert. I quickly rolled the two backseat windows up in order to warm up.
And then I smelled it.
It smelled like a night at the Flamingo gone horribly wrong. Like a bad buffet doused in vodka. Like horrible decisions involving tattoos, Elvis impersonators and possibly Lindsay Lohan.
It smelled like vomit.
Because it was vomit.
And I was sitting in it.
The cab driver had clearly taken the car to be shampooed immediately prior to picking us up, but lets be honest…there’s only so much you can get out of a fabric upholstered backseat. There wasn’t enough to notice it right away or to immediately feel that the seat was ever so slightly damp…if I hadn’t rolled the window up I probably would never have noticed, a thought which makes me shudder.
Within two minutes or realizing I was sitting in someone else’s hangover we had arrived. I sprang from the cab and broke out in a full sprint (something that rarely happens) to go change in the bathroom.
As we were visiting Vegas in June, I had only packed cocktail dresses and swimsuit cover-ups…the hustle pants were my only option that didn’t involve shivering on the plane the entire way home. I emerged from the bathroom with tears in my eyes. I’m bit of a germophobe, and after the spa incident, and my sunglasses’ near-death experience, this was just more than I could handle.
I was full on bawling by the time we reached airport security. If you’ve never gone through a full body search at the TSA checkpoint while crying dry-heave style, I really don’t suggest it. I now understand why the workers wear gloves…several tears and possibly a few drips of nasal congestion sprayed across the woman’s hands as she patted me down.
Still trying to decide if this was poetic or pathetic.
Shut up.
Upon arriving at the gate I decided to have Scott snap the above photo of my “What Not to Wear” moment as someday I’ll probably look back on this and laugh.
That day is yet to come.
This is even worse than the last airport fashion catastrophe, involving my new (at the time) Louis Vuitton purse. I was enraged when I woke up as we landed in Seattle to discover the chewed up gum covering the front of the handbag. The horror!
Seriously, who spits out gum on the floor of an aircraft? People can be so slovenly. After deciding a call to 911 might be inappropriate, I spent a good twenty minutes engaging in some serious huffing and puffing while I searched for the scoundrel who had ruined my favorite new accessory.
And then I remembered one very small detail. There had been gum in my mouth when I fell asleep on the plane.
That gum was no longer there.
Again, kindly shut up.
The good news is that the bag lived.
The bad news is that Tim Gunn was on my sweatpants flight.
Just kidding. But I really hope he never reads this.
"I'm always watching..."
