The Call Button of Duty

I have returned to the ol' U.S. of A.  My return was made most apparent in the following conversation I had in a bar bathroom:

Girl:  "Cute boots!  Where'd you get them?"

Sauce:  "Thanks!  Amsterdam, actually."

Girl:  "Hmmm.  Where's that store?"

Sauce:  "Um, it's a city.  In Europe."

Yup, I'm back in Montana for sure.  If the horse sculptures, cowboy art and single escalator at the airport didn't remind me, that conversation certainly did.  Let's have a geography lesson for my bathroom buddy.

Get some knowledge.  Credit.

Now you know.  Hopefully, somewhere out there, I've enlightened a bar patron or twelve.  I also hope I've shown that the Indian Ocean is full of old wooden ships and that Canada is populated by snowpeople (I have cousins that live there, I would know).

Now that we've had our daily dose of learning, I am ready to concentrate on going back to work on Saturday.  Of course I really mean that I am dreading putting on that uniform because I've been eating like Louis the freaking XVI for three weeks (and I haven't even been in France).  Ugh.  Other than the fear of all things nylon and Lycra, I'm actually looking forward to working.  I am obviously a glutton for punishment. 

I hope you're getting excited for my return to serving the good people of the world.  I know I'm getting excited to vent about it on the Internet.

I leave you now with proof that all service jobs are full of douches. 

Probably an accurate representation.  Credit.

There I was, enjoying the cramped comfort of seat 26A three hours into my nine-hour flight, when the lady in front of me hit the call button.  It wasn't so much that she gently pushed the button, but rather impatiently mashed the button as if the flight attendant could feel her extreme need for useless shit.  Down the aisle I noticed the nearest flight attendant filling the drink cart.  Clearly busy.  Naturally, this went unnoticed and - to get her point across - the lady decided it would be prudent to repeatedly turn the call light on and off.

After only a few moments, the flight attendant notice the flickering call light and makes her way down the isle.  She smiles down at the lady and begins to ask what she may need when she is rudely and promptly interrupted.

"Well if you're going to just STAND over there you might as well get me a Diet Coke."

Say what?!  I imagined with pleasure the dramatic eye roll I can only hope occurred as soon as that flight attendant turned her back to that bitch.  I noticed it took awhile for that Diet Coke to find it's way back to her seat.  Yes, douches are everywhere.  No orange shorts required.