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Jill’s Got Nothing on me Part II — By Mack

Jill’s Got Nothing on me Part II — By Mack

Continued from part 1. Go read it!

Our plane lands in Chicago and I check my mobile boarding pass to find the gate of my connecting flight. I’ve been mentally gearing up to weave through passengers and dashing down the terminal so as to make my connecting flight with its narrow layover time. All of a sudden, my boarding time has jumped from 1:15pm to 8:30pm.

I gave my in flight entertainment one last kiss and told her I had to figure this shit out. To which she replied, “I hope my plane isn’t delayed.” It didn’t even occur to me she might be on the connecting plane too. But I was already gone. My target, the LED departures schedule.

Flight                               UA 1125                                       LAX                            Cancelled

Shit, so that’s why there’s an insanely long line in front of the United Airlines customer service counter. As I wait, a certain someone ends up in line behind me. She was speaking in her faux British accent again. “How can I my flight be cancelled? My manager is going to shit a brick. My shoot is at 6!” Was she really a model after all or was she just keeping the ruse up? As she had a mini tantrum with her manager on the phone, I notice everyone at the counter having little tantrums with their customer service agents. So when I finally get to counter I take a different approach.

Airline travel brings out the worst in people after standing in security lines, sitting in close spaces, playing absurdly high prices for bottled drinks, and fighting for wall sockets to recharge their iPhone/laptop. When the plane schedule messes up, that triggers the already stressed travelers to lash out. For these customer service agents, their 9-5 is bearing the brunt of this frustration.  “Hi.” I said with a smile mixed with a little bit of worry, for disarming’s sake.

Before I know it I’m ticketed on a 2:30 flight in business class. But then I see my friend arguing with her counter service agent, same as everyone else. I approach. They’ve put her on a 6:10 flight out. Using my charm I ask the agent why he can’t get her on my flight and tell him the flight number. The agent is perplexed as if I’d shown him an oasis in the desert.

He switches her flight and British? model girl can’t believe it. For the next hour we talk and she starts showing me pictures of her shoots on her face-cracked iPhone. “You have to sit next to me on the plane. I hate flying so much,” she pleads. “Maybe you can ask the person sitting next to you to switch.” She has no idea I’m in business class and that there’s no one in the world who’d trade 7B for 35E.

If I give the bloke next to her my seat, it will set a precedent I’m not comfortable with. I’m not willing to give up my awesome seat to sit with some girl that my instinct tells me is an attention hungry cock tease, used to having men spend money on and bend backwards for. Maybe if this were a cute girl next door who lived in New York that I could have a future with. But at the same time, I do feel cold  casting her off to the back of the plane as I enjoy my free drinks and extra legroom.

We board the plane and my seat is even better than I expected. There are plenty of seats open in business class. I approach the flight attendant and tell him that I was traveling with a friend. “When our plane got cancelled and we were rescheduled for this flight, they split us up.” He tells me I have to go to the attendant outside the gate and get him to switch it. I do what he suggests but this gate counter guy won’t even look up from his terminal when he tells me, “I’m sorry, it’s too late. Go back to the plane and sit down so they can close the doors.” My phone buzzes with a text message from British? girl. “Where r u? Seat next to me is empty. :)”

I go back to the flight attendant and tell him the guy at the gate was a douche. The attendant replies with, “Okay. Sit down, let me close the doors, see if the other business class passengers arrive. I’ll find you before we take off.” I sit there waiting, anxious. Another text buzzes my phone. “I dont wanna be alone for take off.” I text back. “I’m working something out. Got a trick up my sleeve.”

Finally the flight attendant returns. “Okay, I can do this, but you’ve got to give me your credit card. Everyone has to think you’re paying for the upgrade or I’ll get in trouble. I’m going to run it, but I won’t charge you anything.” I hand him my card and he swipes it handing me back a blank receipt. I go back to British? and tell her to come with me. She’s pretty blown away when I show her her new seat.

We spend the flight drinking shots of Jack Daniels and Bud Lite, holding hands, and drawing lewd pictures on my legal pad. And maybe a few other things. She said she’d never heard of the mile high club before. Much like her hair, breasts, and accent it was another thing of hers I didn’t believe. But I didn’t care.

—Big Mack Attack

 
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Posted by on October 3, 2012 in By Mack, Dating

 

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And now the thrilling conclusion…Quantum Entropy! – By Mack

The conclusion.

Soooo…this post is about a month and a half over due. Whoops. But better late than never, right? For those who don’t remember you can catch up with the preceding saga here (1) and here (2). Otherwise shorter synopsis: cool, smart, and sexy dorky girl (who we will call Quantum Entropy) I had a connection with and was dating.  However there was a faint hint of of something being “a little off.”

When planning a second date, dinner and drinks simply won’t do. It usually calls for something to wow her, or at least inspire fun. Normally I’d have to rack my brain, but with Quantum, I had the comfort to take it easy. We ended up at an improv show a friend of mine works for. I found myself up on stage giving suggestion to the actors. Some of my suggestions  were so out there one of them stopped and said “really?” I tried to get Quantum to go volunteer (by grabbing her hand and raising it myself) but she punched my arm and playfully called me an ass.

Laughter may not actually be the best medicine, I’m pretty sure it’s an aphrodisiac as we were all over each other at the bar.  About a half a dozen drinks later, we’re stumbling around the streets of New York looking for a Boar’s Head deli. I swear it was the only mile in Manhattan without one. We ended up in a Walgreens for a bottle of water when we passed some inflatable lawn furniture. Quantum chimed in with, “You know there are people who are into balloons. Like for sex.” To which I snapped back, “They’re called ‘looners.’ It’s a fetish.” She gave me a perplexed look. “You’re not into that are you?”

I should have said no. I’m not into balloons or any other kinky fetishes.  But there was something that stuck out to me. Maybe it was a suspicion of a closed mindedness I wanted to challenge. Maybe it was the tone in her voice, the implied condescension. Maybe it was the look on her face of perturbed dissatisfaction. I didn’t think she was unattractive at all, but in that moment she was. So I replied, “What if I was?

“I don’t think I could date you,” she retorted.  I just laughed it off.  But I don’t think I ever answered her.

We ended up going back to her place but upon entering the apartment she warned me that her roommate was a little “weird.” The plump (but not fat) middle aged man, named Dirk, sat at his dinner table with a look of dissatisfaction. I tried, in my own charming manner, to engage him. I’m usually pretty good at winning people over, even the socially inept. He just stared at me and answered my questions with short single syllable responses. “Yes,” “no,” and the dismissive”huh.” Quantum grabbed me, ushering me into her room.

“Dirk can be a little creepy, but the rent is cheap.”

“And I’m sure he doesn’t charge extra for watching you as you sleep.” My joke didn’t go over well as she gave me a terrified look. “I’m kidding.”

“I think he might have cameras in here.” With this phrase I’d normally start to question the sanity of my present company. But the Dirk really was creepy. “Let’s get out of here” she suggested.  We took a cab back to my place, eating our sandwiches during the ride. Quantum gave me excuses why she was still rooming with the guy. Being a full time student doesn’t leave much time for work and living in Chelsea isn’t cheap. But anyway you slice it, creepy crazy roommate was a mood killer.

Back at my place we got back into it, but there was something askew.  Maybe it was the fetish comment, maybe it was my suspicions of her paranoia, and maybe the thought of Dirk possibly scheming of ways to kill me and collect my pubic hair. Whatever it was, we both couldn’t get lost in the moment. Suddenly Quantum chimed in, “You know what would be fun?” She pulled out a prescription pill bottle.  “I don’t think I need any Viagra.”

“No, it’s an Ambien. It’s more fun that way.”

“I’m still pretty drunk. Is that safe?”

“It makes it better.”

My powers of deduction and reasoning were greatly diminished at that point. I think we had already each done a shot when we got into my room. But I decided what the hell, down the hatch. And for a good bit it was fun…and then I woke up. As you can guess much of the night is fuzzy. So I don’t remember what I said to Quantum as she was getting dressed to sneak out my door. So the rest of this is pretty much me guessing what we said to each other.

“Where are you going?”

“I think…I think I’m going to go home.”

“What? Why? I was hoping to wake up next to you.”

“I’m not really a cuddler.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright? You had an Ambien too.”

“I’ll be fine. I have them like every night.”

“Umm…okay…”

Had I not been super dugged/drunk, I would have been more insistent about her staying. I wouldn’t have been good to go home. Granted I wouldn’t have made her sleep with me if she wasn’t comfortable (I could always take the couch.) I don’t see how should could have made it home safe. Especially with Dirk probably waiting for her. But there’s only so much I could do in that state and holding my head up wasn’t one of them. Quantum walked out of my apartment and out of my life. I think we may have had one superficial text conversation after that. But otherwise that well had dried up.

To start anew.

–Big Mack Attack.  o_O*

 
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Posted by on August 10, 2012 in By Mack, Dating

 

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That was good, this was better. –By Jill

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I guess I’m on some sort of luck streak. I thought the garbage bag of was a freakin’ God sent, that’s nothing compared to what happened at JFK. (I’m flying home to Seattle to see some wonderful friends.)

As I wait through the gargantuan security line ahead of me there seems to be an express line which is only available to people who waited to arrive at the airport 2 minutes before their plane started boarding. I got to JFK mega crazy early. I don’t miss plane flights and am content playing my 3DS for hours at the gate. But my fellow passengers aren’t so content seeing foreigners in broken English plead with the TSA agent that they’re going to miss their flight. Tensions rise and for some reason a 10 year-old throws up.

Eventually one of the TSA agents cave (something I’ve never seen) and switches one of the two check points over to the express line. Meaning that gargantuan line I’m in now only has one person processing boarding passes. I continue to watch tension around me approach a boiling point. The newly cordoned off check point finally lightens the load leaving my line still congested but an otherwise unused station for metal detector preparation wide open.

Maybe it was my relaxed demeanor (brought on by that bottle of wine I finished before my shuttle) or just my cute smile, but I politely asked the TSA agent if it mattered which metal detector line I went though. He unclasped the elastic barrier and ushered me into the empty line. Booya!

But it didn’t stop there. Flash forward a few hours. I’m in my row 28 C seat (that’s back of the plane by the bathroom/aisle seat) when the drink cart pulls out. Now my favorite drink in the world is club soda/seltzer and for some reason air plane drink carts tend to have only 2 the whole flight. So by the time they get to me I’m S.O.L. With the cart pushed all the way passed me to the front of the cabin, one of the flight attendants, (middle aged, but not yet bitter by old age, she could have been my 3rd grade teacher) walks to the back towards me. I grab her attention and ask her if she’d save me one of the limited club sodas. I know she heard me, but this request seemed to be out of her realm of possibility. She doesn’t respond so much, as she turns away and returns to the cart.

I figure “oh well” and return to my Kindle. About 2 minutes later, she comes back with a full can of club soda and a cup of ice. I feel guilty as the looks of the other passengers glare at me (the drink cart is still about a dozen rows ahead of us).

When the drink cart finally does get to us. Said same flight attendant inquires to my English limited row mates about what condiments they’d like in their coffee/tea. After that debacle of misunderstanding, I ask how much one of the liquor bottles are. Her reply, “how many do you want?” She and I exchange a spark of a glance. I’m about to become a partner in crime and I have no idea why. I simply respond “Two. Jack,” and she slips two bottles of Jack Daniels into my front seat pocket and moves on. “Let me know if you need ice or some more later.” She winks and moves on and I’m dumbfounded.

I’ve had guys buy me drinks and honestly I’ve never felt guilty not even talking to them afterwards. It’s their job to charm or whatever me. If I’m not in the mood to put up with their pick up shit, that’s their sleazy fault. But this…I was confused. What did she want? Did she like me? Was she just being nice? Is the cosmic balance of the universe simply rewarding me for putting up with a year of shit in New York? Or did she want something? I’m sure many guys have lesbian stewardess fantasies and even a few girls like myself. But I’m not the type.

In the end I figured fuck it. If she liked me, let her make her case. There was always the thank you but no thank you, response. I was going to just leave the bottles in the seat pocket, but then I figured if someone found it she might get in trouble. I took them with me and so far on this awesome Seattle trip they’re still in my bag. As for the somewhat sexy cougar lesbian flight attendant? I simply got a wink and an enjoy your stay on the way out.

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Posted by on July 29, 2012 in By Jill

 

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All I wanna do is to thank you even though I don’t know who you are…–By Jill

So wet. And not the good kind.

The other day it poured rain like a mother fucker. And not just any old mother fucker, but a mother fucker awakened by a rape horn at 4 in the morning.   If the metaphor is lost on you, I’m saying it rained really hard. Hail in some parts of the city, but thunder and lightening throughout. And of course it’s the one day I don’t have my umbrella because I left it at the bar last night.

As I creep out of the subway tunnel, hoping over puddles already pooling on the stairs, a crowd of stranded subway commuters awaits me at the entrance.  They stare at the sky hoping for reprieve while I’m wondering if the rain will seep though my bag and ruin my iPad if I run three blocks. A woman sitting on the floor among the captives intermittently shakes her cup of change like heavy maraca. Da-du-DAH, Da-du-DAH. I give her what change I have to which she responds with a polite “Thank ya kindly, and God bless.”

The instant she finishes her blessing, a man shuffles down the stairs with a garbage bag for protection. He disrobes his disposable poncho, gives me one look and says, “You want this?” “Damn, skippy. ” I reply (I’ve become very fond of that phrase) then take out my wallet and give the maraca lady another buck. I thank the gentleman and head on home looking like white trash (literally).

As I navigate the drenched streets through a severely limited peripheral vision, three things strike me. 1) This is what Harry Potter must feel like when he wears the Cloak of Invisibility. 2) I’ve never had the sensation of getting wet, i.e. pelted with rain, without actually getting wet. It’s sorta trippy. And finally 3) I would have Geggy Tah’s Whoever You Are stuck in my head the rest of the day. Granted I wasn’t driving, but I think the spirit hold true.

–Damn Skippy!

 
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Posted by on July 20, 2012 in By Jill

 

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Subway Energy — By Jill

I’ll start off this post by saying that generally I’m a “keep hands to yourself,” bubble-of-personal-space type of girl.  Sure I like a good cuddle now and then but that takes a while and when it comes to sleeping with someone, it’s you stay on your side – I stay on my side. Don’t know what it is, but this is how it’s always been.

But as sensitive as I am to things that make me creep out, I am also sensitive to good touch. I’m not talking about masturbating here.  Dirty minds! No I mean that physical comfort you can share with someone. Hell, I’ve been on dates with guys, them sitting next to me at a movie or a play, our shoulders barely touch, and I can feel an electricity. It’s like anticipation wrapped in attraction with a side of tingling.  Don’t know why it happens. It’s not logical. But when it does, it’s undeniable.

Needless to say, most of the things on New York’s MTA subway system generally makes my skin crawl, waddle, then run. When the trains get super super crowded I almost freak out from claustrophobia. Standing smushed between people is worse than crowded seating. I usually lean forward in my seat immersing myself in my Kindle (the perfect escape from reality.) But this one day last week I felt the spark on the B train.

It wasn’t the exciting spark, it was more of a soothing wellness feeling. The train got rush hour crowded. And for some reason I didn’t lean forward. Instead I kept shoulder contact with the guy next to me (maybe ’cause he was kinda cute.) We never looked at each other, I was in to my book, he was into his iPad. But I felt it. It was that feeling comfort I had when I was with my 10th grade boyfriend, spooned on his couch after school watching Simpsons reruns. That type of comfort you can melt into.

The burdens, anxiety, and anger that accumulate on these hot and muggy days  the city of New York bestows upon me evaporated. I may have even put a little extra weight into him and I swear he did the same damn thing.  I stole a glance or two, but he never looked back.  My stop was fast approaching. I didn’t want to get up. I swore to G-d he was going to ask for my number. But sure enough 103 arrived and nothing. I got up and exited. Looking back at him through the window he never stopped reading that damn iPad.  The B train continued to 110th and stood there perplexed as to what the hell happened.

 
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Posted by on May 31, 2012 in By Jill

 

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The New York Post Date! — By Mack

My dating profile got a message one day.  But rather than the usual “BigMackAttack84? That’s a silly name” or “How can you hate the Princess Bride?” (I put that just in to grab attention,) it was a message from someone at the New York Post. Turns out they have some Dating Game/Blind Date column they run on the weekends. The gist? A girl picks one of three guys and the New York Post pays for an awkward blind first date.  Now Jack often decries the evils of News Corp and their tyrannical Aussie dictator, The Murdoch. But c’mon, the guy’s going to pay for a date, not asking me to buy blood diamonds.

I replied to the message and filled out a questionnaire and before I knew it I was off to a photo session at the News Corp building. The crusty hallways of the New York Post were not what the glamorous exterior of glass security gates and a series of check points lead me to expect. It looks closer to a crappy public school, but oh well. Callie, the girl who sent me the message, met me and lead me through the inner bowls of pure evil. I signed my rights away on some legalese contract (probably shouldn’t be writing this blog, but who cares? I’m a fictional character!) And before I knew it I was in a photo shoot.

About a week later Callie contacted me, informing me that I had been chosen. Whoo! Free datesville, population me…and some…stranger. I’d meet my future love at Brooklyn Bowl.  I arrived at the venue only to have the bouncer ask me for a cover for the show. Apparently Less Than Jake was playing. If I was still fourteen I’d have freaked out. I told him I wasn’t there for the concert. He stopped me.

“Look buddy, this is a convert venue. If you’re not going to the show you probably shouldn’t bother.”
“I’m here for this New York Post thing.”

Immediately a girl from the back of the line jumped forward.
“Did you say you were here for the New York Post date?”

With one glance of her I knew…(to be continued!)

–Big Mack Attack!

 

Ben’s note.

By the way, the real preview article (they do one before the date and one after the date) is here http://www.nypost.com/p/entertainment/dating/broadway_babe_hopes_to_cast_new_zxH8ffaxX15fvUnPJKQIyM.
Ironically, this article came out after I had been on the date. So that poll (which I kicked ass in) was completely meaningless and had no bearing on whether I was chosen or not.

 
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Posted by on May 2, 2012 in By Mack, Dating

 

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And More Taxes!! — By Jill

 

 

Upon receiving the letter from the State of New York demanding an additional $895 I immediately went back to Liberty Tax.  The woman who had helped me before was there. But instead of being the mountain of confidence with “11 year’s experience who didn’t like to make mistakes” she seems now to angry and annoyed at me.  Apparently “doesn’t like to make mistakes” just means you get angry when you do.  Seeming lost, she jumped back and for to her manager (which is weird cause I thought she was the manager) but he was busy with other things. So much of the experience was spent waiting for him to finish what he was doing.

Most of this waiting time was spent looking at the giant Liberty Tax promise poster which clearly stated “If you’re not 100% satisfied we’ll refund your preparation fee.” As she struggled with the software trying to figure out how to amend the tax form with out having to start a whole new one, I decided after all was well and done, unless they got what I owe to New York very low, I would demand my preparation fee back ($262.) Why not? I decided to go with them over H&R Block (I still had their numbers written down with my tax documents.)  When you are selling tax services, you’re selling numbers and the ability to produce those numbers. If you fail at that you’ve failed at your job.  And c’mon, this is New York. New Yorkers don’t put up with bull shit! (Actually they do and in larger amounts than I’ve ever been exposed to.)

The error came down to one part NY state (they attributed my Seattle earnings to taxable NY income) but mostly parts Liberty Tax declaring me a partial resident then having me pay no Manhattan resident tax. (Turns out if you’ve live in Manhattan 180 days you still have to pay a prorated amount.) The amount owed went from $890 to $710, but then with some deductions to finally $360. Then said I wanted to talk about refunding my preparation fee.  The “nice lady” said her manager would have to deal with that. She went over to him (once again he was on his iPhone) and brought over a printed copy of the poster to point out to him.

Eventually he sauntered over to me. “So you’re going to pull this on us now?”

“Pull what? I went with you over H&R Block because I was only going to owe $90. Now I owe $400.”

“But that’ wasn’t our fault. And we fixed it for you.”

“Yes it was your fault. There’s a $360 discrepancy here. If it’s New York’s fault, help me take it up with them, otherwise you pay it.”

“I mean, I’ll give you your money back. Fine, that’s just fine. I’m just saying, it wasn’t our fault. And you’re pull this on us now, after it’s all done.”

I walked out of there triumphant but ambivalent. Yes, I was in full right to ask for my money back. $360 is a lot of money that will make the coming month rather difficult. Yes, it was clear Liberty Tax lacked professionalism and courtesy. They lacked the dignity to hold themselves accountable and own up to their mistake.  There’s were a whole list of reason I could come up to feel better about asking for my money back. But at the end of it I still felt wrong.

Ultimately I came to this, had I walked in there that afternoon and said “You guys fucked up, give me my money back, I’ll go have someone competent do my taxes right” that would have been okay. But I didn’t. I employed someone’s services to do a job (albeit a shitty one) then I had that same individual do further work to their best of their ability, fix that job. Someone had worked hours for me. And to not pay them for that work, because of a very poorly worded corporate policy, felt wrong. (Yes I realize that that $260 is not going into that tax preparer’s pocket.)

I called the manager back when I got home and told him to cancel the check.

 
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Posted by on April 21, 2012 in By Jill

 

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