Dear Seattle Center;

Okay, I admit it: I’m officially worried about you. This post was going to be another Dick Move!, but when I started to consider things a little more, I switched gears from “blinded by rage” to “concerned about your well-being.”

Seriously, we need to talk.

Have you completely given up?

Because it’s starting to feel like it. When I visited back in the spring with Desiree, I had hoped that the things I witnessed (cranky personnel, jacked-up prices, and a general air of pure hate for mankind) were simply a phase you were going through. I mean, you have gone through phases. Remember this? Or the time you thought you should go back to your original color? Sigh. But we got through that together, didn’t we?

I figured, the next time I see Seattle Center, it will be cheerful and upbeat and back to its old tricks. But that wasn’t the case.

I once again had out-of-town visitors (including Katie and my poor, easily-corrupted cousin) and since none of them had ever visited the Space Needle, it seemed like an obvious excursion. Why? Because people LOVE you, Space Needle. And for some reason, you think that it gives you license to suck.

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"Artist's" interpretation of Steven Slater exiting the plane.

Upon hearing about the Jet Blue fiasco of this week, I instantly began frothing at the mouth, as I usually do when travel-related Dick Moves! happen, and I have fodder for my blog.

I’ve since wiped away the foam from my chin, but have maintained a healthy state of righteous indignation.

Dick Move, Jet Blue Passenger.

Yup, that’s right, I said passenger (Didn’t expect that, did you? Yeah, my blog is full of surprises. Unless you read the titles of posts.)

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Forgive me for getting straight to the point on this one. But here’s my shouldn’t-be-at-all-shocking-but-nevertheless-is revelation: First Class is not a right. It is a privilege.

Even if you’ve paid full price for the ticket (which most people haven’t), you are still incredibly fortunate to be able to sit in first class. You are able to board first, deplane last, sit in a nice big seat, and eat fancy snacks. It is fantastic. But it is not a right.

The only right you have, whether you’re sitting in coach, business, or first class, is to be treated like a decent, worthwhile human being. This is, of course, provided you behave like one. This also includes treating other people like decent, worthwhile human beings.

And yes, that means flight crew as well. They are not fancily-dressed waitstaff. They are the folks who will save your ass should anything go wrong.

And if you are fortunate enough to sit in first class?  That goes double, because once again, you are PRIVILEGED to have that seat. You cannot act like a drunken buffoonish idiot.

Are you listening, douchebag seated in 1D?

Because holy cats, you absolutely suck. I hope the irony of committing a Dick Move! while sitting in a section called “first class” is not lost on you.

Let’s recap our trip, shall we? I promise, I’ll be brief. It was, after all, only a 3-hour flight, though sitting in your vicinity made it feel DECADES LONGER.

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My friend Desiree came in to town from Florida a few weeks ago, and among the many activities we packed into the few short days she was here, we planned a trip to the Seattle Space Needle. Our friend Jamie was also with us, and since she has an annual pass to the Space Needle, she was able to get us reduced tickets (and you know whether it’s the amount of fat in milk or ticket prices, I love things that are reduced). When she purchased her annual pass, she was also told that one of the perks of being a pass-holder is that you get 25% off at the Space Needle gift store. Again, discounts = awesome.

We had a lovely time at the top of the Space Needle with Desiree. If you’re visiting Seattle, I strongly suggest you go …

I am starting to perfect the one-handed self-portrait.

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A few of you might remember my experience at Stew Leonard’s a while back: one of the employees freaked out when I tried to take a photo of the inside of their store, which I felt merited a Dick Move! post. Apparently photos are not allowed inside of their stores.

Which, I’m sure, is why there are roughly 500 photos of the inside of Stew Leonard’s on Flickr.

This put me in a rather foul mood – besides which, I wasn’t really clear on whether or not I could take photos inside of the store. So I sent a complaint email to the company via their website. Shockingly, they replied. And then I replied back. And they replied again.

I was going to include the entire exchange in this post, but it bored even me, and I’m an active participant in the whole thing. I consequently figured it would put the rest of you in a mild coma. And I don’t want to be responsible for that. Instead, I’ve decided to divide the whole thing into six brief chapters.

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I’ve been carrying this one with me for a while. Wondering if I should write about it, but mostly hoping I would forget about it. Because this, dear friends, was the Dick Move that started it all. It happened years ago, during an otherwise almost-perfect trip. And when I think of all the others that followed it, I realize they pale in comparison. Because this one was calculated. This one was personal.

It was the Dickest Move of them all.

And finally, nearly 2 years after it happened, I’ve decided to acknowledge it for what it was. Because I’m tired of carrying it around with me. Tired of thinking about it. Tired of feeling that tightness in my chest whenever that weekend is mentioned. After all, it was my wedding weekend. And I deserve to keep only the happy memories from those sun-scorched September days, and dismiss all the bad (even if means pretending that certain people weren’t at my wedding at all). I’m going to let it all go. But first, let me tell you what happened.

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Ross: home of crazies and drug-fiends. Incidentally, I was just at this Ross in San Francisco last week.

SF Ross photo by Rojer, via Flickr.com.

Kids, I’m beginning to worry. I suspect (though I have no real proof) that, like green eyes and being able to roll your tongue, being a magnet for crazy people is genetically predetermined. Such is true of my mother (though really, she may be more attracted to crazy than crazy is attracted to her. But that’s another story.) And I think it’s true of me, too. (more…)

I can’t actually believe I had to write this post. I think that what I’m about to say falls firmly within the bounds of obvious human decency and etiquette. I feel that it’s something everyone one should already know – like how we shouldn’t shake babies nor pick our noses while performing surgery on someone.

And yet, apparently, there are a few morons wandering around out there who simply have no clue. Consequently, this blog post, however obvious, is now necessary. I am going to take a deep breath before I start. A breath that will not only signify my exasperation, but also give me enough air to scream through the rest of my post.

(deep inhale …)

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Photo courtesy of Nexeus Fatale, via Flickr.com

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I could have easily turned this post into a Dick Move!, but that’s pretty much a given when the TSA is involved. It seems there’s no point in even complaining about them any more. Though they supposedly serve the people, they’re not accountable to the people. It puts them on par with the IRS, the secret police, or an evil monarch.

In short, you’re screwed.

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Okay, first, a few disclaimers: my friend Christine suggested we visit a grocery store called Stew Leonard’s while we were in New York. Christine is all kinds of lovely, and I trust her judgment completely (check out some of her brilliance). Sadly, we didn’t have the sort of visit I (nor Christine, I suspect) would have hoped for. Nevertheless, I’m completely glad we made the trip there: it was fun and surreal. Plus, how could I not go to a place that’s been described as “The Disneyland of Dairy” in The New York Times? And while things didn’t exactly go as planned, I actually like it when it happens during travel. It usually makes for a good story. And let’s be brutally honest: sometimes Dick Moves! make for great stories.

Like Disneyland, Stew Leonard’s even has its own clearly marked exit off the freeway, and has a street named for it.

Yay! I love cow products!

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