I Don't Need No Stinking Training!

Well folks, I proved once again that my preferred method of training, otherwise known as "Wingin' It", is not one that will or should be embraced by the masses. Yes, I competed in my first half marathon—that's 13.1 miles for those that don't know. No, I did not train, which is to say I didn't do any sort of exercise for the 2 ½ months leading up to the race. Nope. None. No running. No swimming. No biking. No speed walking. All I did was stand backwards on a bus, fall asleep after eating burritos, and take advantage of every possible opportunity to sit and watch mindless programming on the boob tube.

Now you'd think after my most recent triathlon debacle that I would embrace the concept of training. Apparently, I don't learn lessons on the first five attempts. Regardless of the fact that I made no effort, aside from thinking about exercising, to get out and run or move in some way, I knew that I could tackle a half marathon. Sure I've never run that far in my life, but it seemed totally doable.

I know what you're thinking… Cardelia, why would you sign up for a half marathon when you despise running? Furthermore, why would you compete in one when you made no effort whatsoever to train or prepare for such a fete of athleticism? Well, friends, the answers to these questions are simple. I'm willing to try just about anything. I do love a race, and when my non-running friend suggested we participate in this race back in January (you know, back when I was convinced that I was on the path to getting into shape), I was all for it. I mean, I was training for a triathlon in the first place, so continuing marathon training afterwards didn't seem like such a stretch. Little did I know at the time how unmotivated I was to train for the triathlon. As for not dropping out of the race when it became obvious that I was scarily unprepared, well, I'm no quitter. Sure I quit ballet, gymnastics, band, drama, debate, my job at the ice cream place, and various other jobs and activities, but when I've got money on the line—I don't like to lose it (and when it comes down to it, I'm a penny-pincher through and through...but don't call me cheap!) That, and I slept through a half marathon for which I had registered (and paid) a couple years ago. Sure, I have the shirt that makes people believe I participated, but it just makes me feel ashamed every time I put it on to go to the gym.

In the interest of not being a total sham, I dedicated myself to running this half marathon. Also, the other folks in our group dropped out, so it was just me and my non-runner of a friend who organized the "team". I knew I could complete the race, and I didn't want to let anyone down—especially myself. Perhaps I also suffer from a bit of misguided ambition and over-confidence in my minimal athletic abilities.

The day of the race arrived, and, although I decided one week before the race to make no effort to exercise at the last minute, I was feeling good. I was feeling confident. I was ready to tackle the world. I was also ready to take advantage of the free post-race wine tasting, but we'll get to that later.

I woke up bright and early at 3:45 in the morning, threw on my running attire, grabbed my bag of post-race necessities, and headed out the door. I was the designated driver since my friend's house was on the way to the Golden Gate Bridge. I left the house and headed in her direction. When I got to her neighborhood, I stopped in front of her apartment, called her, and waited for her to appear. After what felt like an eternity, she had yet to step outside. I felt slightly antsy that we were cutting our timing a little close (not knowing what the parking situation would be AND knowing that the last shuttle from the parking lot to the start of the race was at 6:10 AM. She called me to ask where I was, and I informed her that I was in front of her house, going as far as to tell her what the cross street was. Then, I looked at the street sign and realized that I was parked a block away from her house. I drove down the street, picked her up and we were on our way.

Thankfully, she was more prepared than I was on the food front. She brought enough "energy" food to share. We savored our Clif Bars as we headed up to Sonoma. My friend marveled at my cool and collected confidence about the race. She was amazed by how unprepared I was and how it didn't seem to affect me in the least. She, on the other hand, was a bundle of nerves. I told her it was just my vast experience with racing (I have competed in 7 triathlons and 4 foot races after all). Of course, it's pretty obvious that I was just enjoying some quality time as I was floating down the river known as Denial.

We reached the parking lot for the race and it was a barren wasteland of nothingness. Apparently, our fears of being late and without a parking space were completely unfounded. We boarded the bus, made our way to the starting line, and stood around in the chilly morning air for another hour before the race started. After much waiting and quite a bit of huddling to keep warm, the race began. I kept up a running pace for the first mile. Then, once I crossed that mile marker, I dropped away from my friend and started a run/walk routine. The first five miles were pretty uneventful and went fairly quickly. As I was working my way through, I thought, this is going to be a very uninteresting story.

Once I passed through the first five miles, my pace slowed down a bit. I was getting pretty hungry. Now when I say "pretty hungry", I mean I was starving. It had been over two hours since I ate that Clif Bar, and well…I needed something. Luckily for me, I pocketed a small bag of "Sports Beans" before leaving the car. Those little sugar and electrolyte-filled jellybeans were the only thing I had to consume. Trying to make them last, I only ate 2-3 per mile. Once I got to Mile 8, I finished the rest of them. And that's when things got bad.

My pace slowed. My hips hurt. The soles of my feet were screaming. I found myself walking more and more. The more I walked, the slower I moved. At one point, I realized that I felt less pain when I ran, so I tried to keep that up, but it was next to impossible. I was so exhausted…and hungry. Around the middle of Mile 9, I noticed an ambulance driving toward me on the road. Someone must have been injured. As much as I wanted to feel sympathy for the race victim, I was more interested in figuring out a way to get a ride on the ambulance with them. Surely someone would take pity on me and get me out of the misery of this foot race!

I soldiered on. My hands were so swollen that I couldn't make a fist. I was so exhausted that I knew I couldn't stop, lest I never start moving again. Around Mile 11, I happened upon two older ladies (and if you didn't know, my people are the elderly and obese). They were talking about being the last finishers in the race. As I came upon them (walking, mind you), I informed them that I'd be right there with them. Then one of them said, "Well, she's got a hip injury, so we can't move fast at all."

Yes, in my head, I was thinking "Score! I found the one person who won't beat me!" Then, as I thought that, I decided to pick up the pace and run…for about fifteen feet. I commenced walking again, and within minutes, the lady with the hip injury passed me. In my mind, I thought I was moving at a pretty good clip. In reality, I was walking slower than a retiree with a bad hip who was limping along at a sluggish pace.

Trying not to let the mental race get me down, I walked on (sprinkling a little jogging in for good measure). I could see the ladies far ahead of me. I had a sinking suspicion that they might beat me. About this time I really had to go to the bathroom. I mean, really. At Mile 12, there was a port-a-potty. I chose to use the facilities. Once I finished my business, I tried to pull my pants up…and that's when disaster struck. I was stuck in a port-a-potty, confined to the bad smells of a tiny toilet, and I had lost my basic motor functions. I couldn't pull my pants up. I tried and tried, but my hands were so swollen, that I was unable to hold my pants enough to pull them up. As anyone who has ever spent time in a port-a-potty knows, you don't want to touch anything in there. I thrashed around trying to pull up my pants so as not to risk a ticket for public indecency while still trying not to fall on the toilet, or accidentally lean on the urinal for that matter. It was hell, but I managed.

I left the scene of my temporary pantsless captivity, and continued onto my final 1.1 miles of the run. I walked, I jogged, I walked, I walked. I was going to make it. As I rounded the corner onto the final drag of the race, which was probably the final half-mile, I decided to go out with pride. Despite the fact that I was in some intense pain and couldn't, for the life of me, figure out why anyone would want to run a full marathon (since, at this point, a half marathon seemed excessive), I started to run. Okay, so it was a slow jog, but it was better than walking. It was also my only chance to pass the hip injury, and pass I did (granted, I passed her fairly close to the finish line, in much the same way I passed the one-legged boy just feet from the finish line in the 10K I ran in New York a couple years ago).

I ran all the way to the finish line, and all I could think was "FEED ME." I felt like the plant in Little Shop of Horrors. I crossed that finish line at over 3 hours (which is kind of pathetic, but let's just move past that, shall we?), and I was glad. More than relief, I felt an intense need to eat. Apparently, I looked some kind of horrible because people along the run (specifically, the coaches for various teams, asked me about my well being), and after I crossed the finish line, a race volunteer made an effort to engage me in conversation. He asked me questions about myself. Basic things like, what was my name? Where did I live? I gave him curt answers, and followed everything up with "I need to eat." I made a beeline for the food table, and he continued to ask me questions (presumably to make sure I wasn't going to collapse) and offer guidance regarding the location of post-race activities. Within minutes of eating cheese, crackers, oranges, and bananas, I felt like a new person.

I knew I should look for my friend in the finish area, but I decided she MUST have gone to the wine tasting. So, I wandered over to the main tent, collected my wine glass, and proceeded to taste as much wine as possible (while still keeping an eye out for a tiny, cute blonde, with a white tank top). Unfortunately for me, the crowd was full of people fitting her description, AND my contacts were all foggy. So, I couldn't really see. I continued tasting and walking around. I borrowed a stranger's cell phone to call her (even though I was fairly sure she left her phone in my car…along with my phone).

Then, after an hour of hunting, I found her standing inside the finish area. As I approached her, she was talking to a volunteer about looking for me in the medical tent. She didn't see me cross the finish line (and she had been there for two hours since she completed the race in just over 2 hours—not too shabby for a non-runner), so she was worried that I fell victim to my own lack of training. I tapped her on the shoulder, and she was stunned. I then urged her to leave the area, walked her over to the wine tasting tents. I was a bit tipsy, and I needed her to get into my same mindset, lest she be a little annoyed with my inability to find her within a reasonable amount of time (not to mention the fact that I selfishly chose to get drunk and abandon her while she worried for my own safety and well-being).

We wandered around. She drank wine. We ran and got sandwiches. Then we went to a spa and luxuriated in the hot tub, enjoyed massages, and hung out by the pool while eating cookies. It was a glorious day.

The next five days, however, were far from glorious. They were just painful. I suppose that's what I get for running 13.1 miles without any sort of conditioning.

Lesson learned.

Or not.

Time will tell.

I Coulda Been a Contendah

As I sit here watching the gymnastics qualifiers on the Olympics, I can't help but think of my time as a gymnast. It was 1984. I, along with every other 8-year-old in the country, idolized Mary Lou Retton. My parents were kind enough to let me chase my Olympic dreams, and my mom surprised me by enrolling me in gymnastics. I was so excited! I had all but forgotten about the dreadful ballet/tap/tumbling class I took in the 1st grade. I desperately wanted to take dance lessons, and once I started, I discovered how much I hated it. It had nothing to do with my lack of talent (which became evident later in life, although, now that I think about it, the teacher always snapped at me for my inability to successfully execute the routine) and more to do with the fact that I was the only girl in the class that went to public school. All of the other girls went to a private Catholic school and made fun of me. Actually, strike that, they ridiculed me and refused to talk to me, stand near me, or even feign kindness toward me because I went to public school. And, yes, you did read that right. I was in the 1st grade. These were not adults. These were 6-year-olds that fully embraced a class system—in Oklahoma City. I did what I could to win them over, even attempting to do a headstand with no hands (and, no, it didn't work out. Such a maneuver is impossible unless your head is shaped like that of Frankenstein, but I was determined to do something impressive during the tumbling portion of class). The best part about taking dance lessons was the costume for the recital, and the real kicker was that I got the a nasty case of the chickenpox the week of said recital, so, much to my glee, I couldn't perform with the other girls—but I got to keep the costume!

Alas, enough time had passed that I was ready to try my hand at gymnastics. After all, I did have a small jungle gym in my backyard, and I was quite adept at hanging upside down. My mom and I selected a smashing outfit for my first Saturday at class. I wore a baby blue leotard and lacy white tights. Okay, I'll admit that I selected the tights because they seemed fancy, and I really wanted to impress my coach and other classmates with my classy wardrobe (and yes, as usual, I had delusions of grandeur and imagined that I would step into class and they would immediately peg me as a member of the next US Olympics team). I pranced into class with a nervous excitement. We spent the class practicing sitting on the balance beam (the practice beam was on the floor to avoid any injuries for the first-timers). Due to the fact that I was wearing tights, I kept sliding off the balance beam. It was very frustrating for me, but even more upsetting to the coach who reprimanded me for my inappropriate choice of attire.

"Don't wear tights to gymnastics. Your legs should be bare. That's why you keep falling."

"But my mom made me. She said I have to wear tights."

"Tell her this isn't ballet class."

I'll admit it. I wanted to cry. I've never been that tough when people get snippy with me. And yes, I also threw my mom under the bus since I played a role in the outfit selection. However, my mom did (and still does) have a steadfast rule about wearing hosiery. When I went home and informed her that I wasn't allowed to wear tights, she told me that I must be wrong. She thought it was totally ridiculous. The next week, she sent me there with tights. I took them off before class started. By class three, mom turned around on her pro-hose stance. My personal safety was at stake after all.

I instantly took to gymnastics. I learned to walk on the balance beam. I could do a flip on the bar. I could even end a handstand in somersault and vice versa. I was really good. Every Saturday I went to American Gymnastics, and I gazed at the large poster of Mary Lou Retton, knowing that I was follow in her footsteps. Each week we learned a new skill. The more skills we learned, the less I was allowed to do. The coaches didn't see the promise that I knew I had. Sure I couldn't clear the horse because I was afraid of hurting myself, but I knew that with a little practice I could overcome the obstacle. Sadly, the coaches didn't give me a second chance. Instead, they had me try to do a pull up on the high bar. I couldn't do that either. But, honestly, what 8-year-old has the kind of upper-body strength to do pull-ups?

Rather than give me more chances, I was relegated to practicing my cartwheels with the other untouchable—the girl who always wore the same ripped-up swimsuit. After just a few Saturdays, I was no longer allowed to be part of the main gymnastics class. While the other girls practiced running and jumping on the horse, or learned to do flips on the bars, or even practiced walking and jumping on the beam, I had to spend an hour and a half doing cartwheels. The other girl always insisted that she go ahead of me, so I had to watch her bare ass (because the swimsuit happened to be non-existent on her posterior) tumble in front of me. I learned a few valuable lessons. First, I never wanted to be so poor that I had to wear a ripped up swimsuit to gymnastics. Second, if you want a kid to quit something on their own, refuse to let them be a part of the class and insist that they stand on the sidelines with someone that never washes their hair and tumbles with an exposed ass.

Every Saturday I went to class, just sure that I would get to join the other girls, but every Saturday, the coach told me to keep practicing my cartwheels. When I told my mom I didn't want to take gymnastics anymore, she gave me a lecture on being a quitter. She didn't want to spend the money on the class if I wasn't interested in doing it, but she also didn't want me to quit the things that I started. Once she discovered that she was paying for me to practice cartwheels (unsupervised at that) for an hour an a half a week (which, for the record, is something that I did in my front yard on a daily basis…for free), she opted to take me out of the class.

My Olympic dreams were crushed. Apparently, I wasn't going to be the next Mary Lou Retton. Rather, I was just going to be an average kid from public school, who had to hang out with poor folk.

Who Knew Seeking Cancer Treatment Was So Much Like Dating?

Yeah, the American healthcare system is horrendously bad and puts the onus on individuals to pony up for care. Yeah, insurance companies are out for themselves. Yeah, other countries have it so much better because they have free healthcare. But then again, in other countries you have to wait for medical care and that blows. But not here in America, nope! Here we have privatized healthcare, so you can get treated in the blink of an eye. Sure the healthcare system is a mess and people go bankrupt because of their medical expenses, but you can count on getting immediate treatment…or can you?

Apparently not if you're my mom.

Does this have anything to do with her healthcare plan? No.

Is it because she's flat broke and has no money? No.

Is it because she isn't making an effort to seek treatment? No.

Is it because she's not an emergency case? Who knows!

So what is it? Well, from what I can tell, the people at the doctors' offices and cancer treatment centers don't seem to think treating a new patient is something that should happen in less two month's time.

Suffice it say, I'm mad. I'm angry. I'm frustrated. And I'm not even the one with cancer!

Essentially, she was diagnosed and told that she would get treatment shortly, but hasn't been able to get a hospital to admit her (or even begin the initial testing to determine what kind of cancer it is and how aggressive it is…and well, figure out what kind of treatment plan she should begin—all things that should (and apparently usually) occur within a week of being diagnosed).

Instead of having this work smoothly, she just has to wait by the phone for someone to call her and inform her of her initial appointment. It's kind of like going on a date with a guy. You like him. He likes you. He says he'll call. You wait. And wait. And wait. You try to call him just to remind him you exist. He doesn't pick up. You wait. You bump into him on the street, and he tells you that he's really busy but REALLY wants to get together soon. You wait. You go out with someone else. The same thing happens. You wonder if you're an ugly old hag. You wait. You get annoyed. Yeah. It sucks.

So here's how it all went down (and continues to):

Way back in the early-mid July, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. She called to tell me about in mid-July and explained that she was going to a well-respected cancer hospital in Texas. She had been told that she'd head down in the next week.

The next week came, and she hadn't heard hide nor hair from the hospital. After waiting a few more days (and calling her own doctor several times), she called the hospital. According to them, she wasn't in their system. She was told that they never received her information; therefore, she was not in their system as a new patient. She called her doctor who said that wasn't true. Then, she asked the doctor about her biopsy reports. Apparently, the radiology center didn't send the reports. That's when she called the radiology center, and they claimed to have no record of her being a patient and told her she never had a biopsy (despite the fact they billed her for it). After being shuffled from person to person, she finally found someone that was willing to look for her information and send it to the doctor.

Once the radiology reports were sent out, she called the hospital again. They told her that it would be at least 8 weeks before they could set up an initial appointment. Feeling like that might be too long to wait, she ended up calling a local doctor. They were on vacation. No one in that office was able to return her phone call because the doctor, head nurse, and main scheduling person were out for two weeks.

After making a few thousand more phone calls and researching other treatment centers, she received two phone calls in the same day: one from the local doctor and the other from the cancer hospital in Texas. The local doctor didn't have an available appointment for a couple weeks (and the doctor was still on vacation), but they offered to get her an appointment with the newest doctor in the practice. Being that she has lupus, my mom didn't feel comfortable being a new doctor's guinea pig (and feels, much as I do, that her treatment may be a bit tricky…you know, having an auto-immune disease and all). The hospital called her and asked her to send her reports from her surgery. When she told them that she hadn't had surgery, they were shocked. They couldn't believe so much time had passed without removing the tumor. The nurse promised to expedite the process and get her in as early as mid-August, but no later than the end of the month.

We were all pretty hopeful that she was making progress. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. She waited for an answer about her appointment, but heard nothing. When she called to get a status update, she was informed that the person in charge of scheduling was on vacation for a week.

Okay, really? There is no better method of dividing up the workload when someone is out on vacation? No one else can do that one job? No one can pick up the slack? No one can return a phone call? No one? Absolutely no one? Really? Do they really think that's a good system? And to chastise someone for not starting treatment sooner when NO ONE IS WILLING TO SET UP AN INITIAL APPOINTMENT? Really?

Time passed. Mom called the nurse on Friday to see about that appointment (since that was the day the nurse was back from vacation). The woman put her off because she needed to look into the file and see what they could do. My mom demanded that she call her before the end of the day. The nurse agreed.

Then she waited. While she waited, she looked up some other treatment options. And that's when she found out that Johns Hopkins will admit a patient within 48 hours if they have already been diagnosed. My mom wrote them an email, and within minutes of writing that email, she received a reply (from someone that was on vacation, but happened to check her email and took the urgency of my mom's situation to heart). In the email (on which a few people from Johns Hopkins were copied), the woman told my mom that they would set up an appointment for her as early as next Tuesday.

Wanting to be fair (and probably preferring to go to Texas which is closer to home), she called the nurse back at the hospital in Texas. Yes, it was 4:45, and no, the nurse didn't call at all during the day. There was no need for my mom to introduce herself, as the woman knew who she was. The answer she gave was rather unfortunate. Apparently, she had no answer, and even if she did, the earliest appointment wouldn't be until close to the end of September. My mom politely told her that she could just toss out all of her paperwork because she was going to go to Baltimore, since they are willing to actually treat her in a timely manner.

And that's where it stands. My parents are headed to the East Coast for a very exciting vacation in which my mom will be poked and prodded, and my dad will sit around, watch Fox News, and eat crab cakes.

From the beginning, my mom would say, "I know it's frustrating for us because we feel like this in an emergency. I guess for them it's just another day at work." While I see her point, I still think it's shameful. No one should have to wait this long to find out basic information about their disease. Especially when the medical community sends the message to the public that time is of the essence when treating cancer.

This better work out. My mom really needs that second date.

Titillating Tales of Terrible Tourists v.3: So THAT’S Why I Don’t Live in Dallas!

Ah, Day 5 of 8 tours in a row (which thankfully went back down to only 7 tours in a row since both Day 5 AND 6 were nightmares, and I really needed to take a break). What a day! It was totally not worth it to get out of bed!

Speaking of getting out of bed, I was late doing that…and I missed the train I needed to take. So, I missed the train and had to wait for the next one. It felt like it took an eternity. Needless to say, I was running a bit late, but apparently that wasn't a big deal because the check-in process was a bit slow that morning. As I looked at the line, I found myself hoping that they were giving out boarding passes for someone else's tour. Why? Because the line was full of young twenty-something girls wearing dresses that barely covered their asses. That's just the kind of tour I do not want. In fact, no one wants that tour. It generally ends up sucking ass and is far from profitable. It wasn't my lucky day. I got a busload of princesses.

As I walked over to meet the group, I met the bachelorette party. They were a nice group of girls. I had high hopes for them. They were also in their late 20's, so there was a chance that they wouldn't be too demanding (and, on the whole, they weren't). Once I was on the bus, I gave my commentary during which the girls in the back carried on a very loud conversation. Then I wandered through the bus to introduce myself to everyone. As I made it through the aisle, I discovered the rest of the groups of girls. The next group I met was a group of three girls celebrating a birthday. They also seemed like they could be well-behaved and fun. Then there was a group of 8 friends enjoying an Oprah-approved girl's weekend. They were great. They were also in their mid-to-late 30's.

Finally, when I got to the very back of the bus, I formally met the girls that I despised at first sight. They were wearing the dresses that barely covered their behinds and were the ones that asked me (and my fellow guides) several times if they really had to stand in line with the rest of the people for the check-in. Apparently, they believed that being "hot" was reason enough to get special treatment. You can imagine how excited I was to meet them, but, as always, I chose to give them a chance. People can always prove you wrong. At first they seemed friendly enough. They were from Dallas, and they represented your typical group of annoying girls. There was the leader. She clearly spent a few hours ensuring that her hair was perfectly coiffed and that her makeup was caked on and flawless. There was the less attractive one that made up for her lack of physical perfection by being loud and sassy, and the other three were minions. All of them bowed to the leader's moods and whims. That became obvious when we arrived at the first winery.

Prior to getting to the first winery, I had to collect tasting fees on the bus. I announced that I would be doing this and gave people the option of paying with a credit card at the cash register when we got to the winery. As I walked through the bus, the task was fairly simple. The bachelorette party didn't want to do the tour and tasting, so I gave them their options (one of which was to buy a bottle of wine and drink it on the veranda). Surprisingly, they opted to take the tour.

When I got to the back of the bus I was greeted with anger. Apparently, the Dallas girls felt that they had been hoodwinked and believed that they shouldn't have to pay tasting fees. I apologized for their misunderstanding, and the response I got was "Well, we know it's not your fault, but I just thought you could use some feedback."

Feedback is great, but that didn't answer the question as to whether or not they wanted to go on the tour or just go do their own tasting sans group. Two of them gave me money (ironically, the first to give me money was the one that raised the stink about paying for tasting fees), one told me she was using a credit card, and the other two complained that they didn't know what was going on. They then tried to hand me their credit cards. When I didn't accept their credit cards, they got mad at me. Let me restate that, the leader got pissy with me when I wouldn't take her credit card. Once again, I explained that she would have to use her credit card at the register at the winery. The cash collecting was just a way to simplify the process. It was at that point that I knew my day was going to be a bad one.

We got to the winery, and the girls disappeared. I had to hunt them down to pay for their tour and tasting. There was no way I was going to let them get away with it for free. It simply wouldn't be fair. Throughout the tour, they were nothing less than rude. They talked throughout the entire tour (much as they did while I was giving commentary on the bus). I've never seen the head docent as angry as he was that day. They giggled, pointed, and talked throughout, being generally disruptive. Why they went on the tour is a mystery to me.

Once we got through the tour, those girls were the ones that lagged and decided to jump in line at the time at which I asked that they be on the bus. My fellow tour guide was there with his group. I was watching the line, and he walked up to me and said, "If looks could kill…"

Apparently my disgust was obvious. We held an entire conversation with faux smiles on our faces during which he teased me for having gotten the hot girl bus. He jokingly offered to trade buses because they were "smoking hot", and he felt he would do great with them (and, in all honesty, he probably would have been better off then me. You see, I'm the one that has a bad time with girls like this. Why? Because I'm a girl. The other female tour guide who is in her 20's has the same problem as me. Girls are bitchy, and hot girls are the worst. If I were a guy, they wouldn't make me the enemy (and don't worry, that part is coming up), but I'm just a Plain Jane kind of girl who uses her wit to win people over rather than a skimpy dress, not to mention the fact that I acknowledge that there are other people in the world and am considerate of others).

Our conversation went like this:

Me: I just remembered why I don't live in Dallas.
Tour Guide: Oh? Why? The architecture? The food? Is it the highway system?
Me: Surprisingly, it's none of the above.
Tour Guide: I can't imagine what it would be.
Me: I know, it's weird, huh?
Tour Guide: Well, I'm going to go take care of the gray hairs.
Me: I wish we could trade. I'll take the oldsters any day over this.

After much glaring (on my part), everyone completed their transactions and made it back to the bus. We headed out to our lunch stop, and I explained the importance of being timely. Once the hour and a half was up, I went looking for everyone and spotted the bachelorette party check the time (which happened to be the exact time that I told them to be back on the bus) and walk to the restroom rather than go to the bus. You can imagine my dismay. Needless to say, we were late leaving the winery.

As we pulled away, I decided to take that time to remind people that when I say be back on the bus at 1 o'clock, I mean be on the bus. I do not mean go to the bathroom or make last-minute purchases. It is appalling how self-centered people are!

Now did my kind reminder make a difference at the third winery when it was time to go? No. The Dallas girls joined forces with the birthday party and the bachelorette party, and they made no attempt to get on the bus, forcing me to yell at them as if they were children. Once on the bus, they became overbearingly loud, and there was nothing I could do to control them. I continued to try and focus on the people on the bus that were nice, but I have to admit it was a challenge. The leader of the Dallas girls kept complaining about the air conditioner along with anything else she found to be unsatisfactory to her personally.

We got to our final winery, and I decided to steer clear of the gaggle of girls. I spent time with the other guests, and then I went outside to sit on a couch and let the time go by. As I sat there, I glanced over at the large fountain at the front of the winery and saw the Dallas girls posing for pictures. Two guys, who were not part of the tour, were sitting next to me and were giving a running commentary on what the girls were doing. They were pretty funny and were basically disgusted by the girls. I felt a silent kinship with them.

As the guys were making fun of them, I found myself looking in the direction of the girls. I wasn't staring, but I also couldn't see that well because my contacts were foggy. At one point, I heard one of the girls say, "Ew. Our tour guide is totally staring at us. Oh my god, I can't believe our tour guide is staring at us." The sad part was that I wasn't looking at them at all when she said that. I was busy trying to get my contacts to clear, so it wasn't a struggle for me to look at things, and, in all fairness, they were standing directly in front of me. To not look in their direction I would have had to completely reposition myself.

It was at this point, I could hold my tongue no longer. Despite the fact that I was sitting next to a couple from my tour, I decided to make a snide comment about the girls.

Me: Those girls are the bane of my existence today.
Guy 1: Oh yeah? You know them?
Me: Unfortunately, I'm their tour guide. I hate them.
Guy 2: I hated them the second I saw them.
Me: Me too. (Turning to the couple next to me.) I'm sorry, I shouldn't say this in front of you.
Husband: Oh, don't worry. I'm with you.
Wife: Yeah, I'm no fan.

And that settled it. It wasn't just me. And once again, I felt like I was in the 7th grade.

Our time at the fourth winery was up, so I gathered everyone up. The girls made it on the bus and the leader immediately started yelling at me.

Leader: I need a corkscrew. Give me a corkscrew.
Me: I don't have a corkscrew.
Leader: That's stupid. Why wouldn't you have one? I need a corkscrew. How are we supposed to drink?
Me: Gee, I can't imagine why I don't carry a corkscrew. (At that point, the people around me started to laugh).
Leader: (Yelling to everyone on the bus.) Does someone else have a corkscrew?
Me: Perhaps someone has a saber.
Leader: It's hot. Turn on the air conditioner.
Me: It's on full blast. Since it's 95 degrees outside, it takes time for the bus to cool down. You'll just have to be patient.

The bus ride continued, and all of the girls (with the exception of the party of 8) joined forces and were loud, loud, loud. I chatted with the people on the bus and was interrupted several times by the leader demanding that I turn the air conditioning up. The third time she whined about it, I couldn't help but become totally condescending and take on some faux southern charm.

Leader: (Whining.) It's really hot. You need to turn up the air conditioner.
Me: (In my best Texas accent.) Honey I know you're hot, but there's just nothing I can do. The A/C's on full blast. You're just gonna have to sit tight.

And that shut her up.

Then, a long 20 minutes later, we made it to the ferry. Everyone got off of the bus, and as the group of 8 exited, one of them tipped me. She pulled me aside and said, "They were so loud! I had to put my earplugs in. Did they tip you? I reminded them that they need to tip you, especially after the way they behaved."

I smiled at her and thanked her for her concern, but I knew they weren't going to tip me.

The birthday girl exited the bus, shook my hand and thanked me. "You are really patient. I feel sorry for you. At least you're done with us now."

"No," I replied. "I still have to ride the ferry."

"Oh, well, you still did a good job."

No tip…unless her praise of my patience was the tip.

Then the Dallas girls exited and ignored me.

I got everyone on the ferry, and I did everything I could to avoid the girls. In fact, I went as far as to hang out in the bathroom, so I could be alone for a spell. Once I left the bathroom, I walked over to the bar to say hello to the bartender.

"You look wiped." He said in greeting.

I was a little surprised. I thought I was hiding it well. "Yeah, rough day."

"Want a shot?"

"Nah," I replied. "I'll be fine. I had the bus with the girls."

"Oh, " He looked at my sympathetically. "I just served them. They didn't have enough money for their drinks, so I gave it to them for $15. Then they dumped their purses and gave me all the change they had in the bottom. I think I got a dollar fifty."

I laughed. "Well, I'm glad to hear that I'm definitely not getting a tip."

After that I wandered around to find other guests. The boat docked, and I exited. As the girls came off the bus, I considered ignoring them, but, as usual, I took the high road.

"Thanks!"

They ignored me. Later I found out that, as they passed my fellow tour guide, one of them said, "What's she standing there for? Does she think she's getting a tip? What a loser."

Yeah, those girls were awesome. I might have to walk if I get another bus like that. I just don't understand why adults feel the need to treat people like that. Seriously. Why so self-centered? Why force an adversarial relationship on someone that is only there to be helpful and do her job? Why be obnoxious? I just don't get it.

And they are the reason that I can't live in Dallas. Nope. Can't do it. Not as long as people like that make up the population.


--------Well, I may stand corrected. I had an awesome couple on my tour today, and they were from Dallas. I suppose not EVERYONE that lives there is a vapid, self-involved a-hole.------------

Addendum, Dos: One of the tour patrons wrote a review on TripAdvisor.  Thankfully, they thought I did a good job.  The guide at one of the wineries...well, he didn't fair so well for that hissy fit he threw...

Titillating Tales of Terrible Tourists v.2: A Legacy of Bad Parenting

After the Fat Girls in Dresses episode of my tour guiding career, things went somewhat smoothly. I did have a sick passenger that had to be taken to the hospital. So, that was an experience. And then, one of my passengers cut herself with a plastic knife on the bus, so I had to get her to a hospital as well because she was convinced she needed stitches. I dealt with a few more people that raised a stink about tasting fees. But really, things were fine. Then one day, I encountered the most obnoxious person/family yet. And they were from Wisconsin.

It all started out innocently enough. They were sitting in the front, and I introduced myself to them. There were two couples. Apparently, the older couple were the parents of the youngish guy (who was probably in his late 20's/early 30's) and his wife. To make this story easier to tell, I should give them names. From now on, they will be known as Mom, Dad, and Son. The daughter-in-law was pretty quiet, so she won't factor into the story too much. At first sight, they seemed like a really nice family. That was probably because Dad was fast asleep during the entire bus ride up to the first winery.

That day we had the crappy schedule where we ate lunch first—at 10 o'clock in the morning. That's always a disappointment to the people that opted to bring their breakfast on the bus. It's rare to find someone that wants to eat their lunch within an hour of finishing their breakfast. We rolled up to our first stop, and Dad was roused from his sleep. He seemed like a fun-loving kind of guy. They opted to do their tasting first (as many do when we get to the lunch stop first), so I chatted with them at the tasting bar. They were a little on the loud side, but that's to be expected.

After the tasting, they got some lunch and bought a couple bottles of wine to drink with their lunch. I wandered around and chatted with everyone. Once our hour and a half was up at the winery, I collected everyone and we were back on the bus. Dad was awake, and he was already pretty drunk, which is pretty impressive. As the 15-minute ride continued, he became slightly obnoxious, but not too bad.

We got to the next winery where we took a tour, and he opted to bring his bag of food and wine with him to the tour. I found it odd, as did the docent who made note of the fact that Dad walked around the inside of the winery eating a baguette. Dad kept interrupting the tour with annoying questions, and he was obviously getting on everyone's nerves. Then, he crossed the line when someone asked how much an empty barrel weighs, and he decided to try and pick one up. The docent nicely reprimanded him since, well, there are safety issues at stake. Then Dad wandered around, knocking on things, sticking his head in vats. You know, doing things he shouldn't have been doing. The tasting started, and he continued to be obnoxious. It finally came to an end, and we were back on the bus.

Dad and Son spent the time asking me random questions just to see if I knew the answers. When we got to our third winery, I announced the time I wanted them back on the bus (which allowed us 45 minutes at the winery), and Dad "booed" me. He then complained that he wasn't getting enough wine during the tasting.

By the time we got back on the bus to drive to our fourth stop, everyone hated him. He switched seats, so he and his son were sitting together and his wife and daughter-in-law were behind them. He kept shouting at me and being generally obnoxious. The ladies next to him then started making snide remarks to his wife. You know, saying things like, "Wow, you really chose your husband well," or "I see you're a real catch. You must make your family feel proud," or "It's impressive you decided to stay married to him this long."

Needless to say, he wasn't making any friends. Mom wasn't doing a good job either. She made superficial attempts to keep him quiet. For instance, when he'd start shouting, she would cover his mouth and tell him to stop. Then, she would laugh and run her fingers through his hair. Yeah, that's a real deterrent from bad behavior.

We got to the fourth winery, and they just continued to get louder and more obnoxious. On the bus, I chose to talk to the nice Irish couple in front of me (since I didn't actually have a seat, I sat on the ice chest with my back facing the windshield. Yes it's dangerous. Yes, it's not legal at all).

After awhile, Dad wanted my attention, so he handed me an empty water bottle and asked me throw it away. I took it. He then asked me for another water. I handed him one. Then he handed me another empty water bottle and asked me another water. I chose to hand back the empty water bottle. Thankfully we approached the ferry, so I needed to give everyone instructions. I got back on the microphone, and he did everything he could distract me. He yelled at me, asked me questions, and requested that I get him more water the whole time I was talking. He also threw his empty water bottle at me.

And that's when the bus stopped, and everyone departed. As the family got off the bus, the son handed me a $10 bill. It's good to know they don't feel they should pay extra for being obnoxious pains in the ass. I just wanted to be done with them, so I was thankful they made an effort to tip me at all. Oh yeah, and Dad decided to start calling me "Kimmy" and insisted on hugging me. Oh, and the son spilled wine on me.

Once on the ferry, everyone spread out. I wandered around and talked to everyone. Then I went upstairs and chatted with a couple for quite sometime. As I was talking to them, I was leaning against a window, and someone started slapping the window behind me. The guy I was talking to said, "Ugh. It's Wisconsin."

I turned to find the whole family out there trying to say something to me through the window. They were all drinking Coors Light and were trashed. I had no idea what they were trying to say, and I wasn't about to go outside to find out. I turned around and continued talking to the couple. We all discussed how much we disliked them and the fact that good old Dad was probably drunk when he got to the bus in the morning.

After a few minutes, the son came inside. He was totally trashed. He chatted with me for awhile, and it turned into a revealing (and disturbing) conversation.

"What's that bridge that we just crossed under? The Golden Gate?" He slurred.

"No, it's the San Rafael Bridge. We'll see the Golden Gate on the port side of the boat." I answered.

"Are we going to cross under the Golden Gate Bridge?"

"No," I explained. "We're in the middle of the bay. If were were heading out to China we would cross under the bridge, but we're just going to San Francisco."

"The tour was good. Except that tour at the champagne place was too long. It was boring. We wanted to just drink." Son then finished off his can of beer.

"Well, you didn't have to go on the tour. I'm sorry you feel that way."

"You should take that out. Nobody comes here to go on a tour. We just want to drink."

I glanced over at the couple next to us, and we exchanged a look. "Well, many people like to learn how the wine is made. But that's why you have options. You don't have to do anything."

He then changed the subject. "We have to figure out a place to eat tonight."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find something."

"Yeah." He crushed his can. "First we have to go pick up the kids."

"Kids?"

"Yeah, we left the kids at the hotel for the day."

"Uh," I started to worry. "How old are your kids?"

"They're 8 and 11. They're totally fine. They have their Xbox, so they'll just play that all day. We left them a cooler in the room with some food."

"So, it's a good idea to leave kids in a hotel room in a city without any supervision?"

He stumbled a bit and leaned against the wall. "Oh yeah, they're totally fine. They have their Xbox, and I had the hotel take out the mini bar stuff because I didn't want them eating stuff out of there because I didn't want to pay for it."

Needless to say, I was in awe of such excellent parenting. "Wow. That's brave."

"Nah, it's fine. They don't care. Hey, I have to go get some more beer. I'm empty." He then went downstairs to the bar.

And then I just stood there in shock. The couple next to me looked shocked too. And then I made a comment about how sad it was that the parents AND grandparents had such poor parenting skills. Seriously. Leaving an 8 and 11-year-old alone in a hotel room for 10 hours while you are off getting totally wasted is a TERRIBLE idea. I would be lying if I said I wasn't horrified.

After another 15 minutes, the boat docked, and I made my way to the exit to greet everyone on their way out. I saw the Wisconsin family come out and I hoped they wouldn't see me. Unfortunately, Dad found me.

"Kimmy!" He yelled. "I need a hug."

I tried to get away, but there was no escape. They then surrounded me.

"Did my son tip you?" He asked loudly.

Of course, I wanted to say no, but I didn't. "Yes."

"Did he?"

"Yes."

He turned to his son. "Did you tip her?"

"I don't remember." His son replied. "But you should probably tip her."

As they were surrounding me, I noticed other people trying to approach me. For obvious reasons, the other people didn't want to be anywhere near the family. I stepped aside to greet them, but dear old Dad kept moving over and blocking them. His wife told him he should give me money. He then asked her if she had any, and she told him that he had all the money. He then stood there (still blocking me from other people, despite my best efforts to distance myself from their spectacle of annoying drunkenness) talking loudly about tipping me.

"Yeah, you want to get tipped. How much did he give you? What do you think you deserve? This must be uncomfortable for you to have us standing here talking about tipping you."

Eventually, he pulled a $20 bill out of his wallet. He started to hand it to me, then demanded that I give him change.

"Hey, I need change."

I stood there silently and didn't put my hand out for the money.

"I'm not giving you this much. I need $10 back."

Appalled (and not really wanting his money at this point), I replied. "I don't know that I have a 10."

"I know you do."

"Well, I don't want to look. Just keep it."

"Oh come on. Just give me a 10." He started to get annoyed.

"Fine." I reached into my pocket, and luckily the first thing I pulled out was a $10 bill. "Here."

He handed me the $20 bill and stumbled away with his drunk family.

What an embarrassment.

I feel so sorry for those kids. And I'm so glad I'm not related to anyone like that.

Titillating Tales of Terrible Tourists, v.1: Fat Girls in Dresses

As you may or may not be aware, I am now a professional tour guide. Oh yeah, that's right, I stand backwards on a bus and talk into a microphone. Yes, I AM in charge of a group of 40 adults who may or may not act like children. On the whole, it's a pretty fun gig. I started leading wine tours on the weekends back in April. I had a rough start, but I think that's to be expected when you start a new job. Sure I didn't know much about wine when I started, but I can masquerade around as an expert with the best of them (or perhaps maybe just some of them). If nothing else I've got a comedy routine going that sometimes works and sometimes falls flat.

When I left my job and started doing this full time, I was, admittedly a little nervous. Thankfully, I had the BEST tour EVER on my first Monday. Everything clicked. Everyone on the bus was awesome, and they all were on board with the Cardelia Boardeaux show. Then, just one week later, I had the WORST tour ever (It could be the worst tour yet, but you'll have to decide that once you read my tales of woe).

Worst.Tour.Ever. aka. Fat Girls in Dresses

It was Day 5 of five tours in a row, and I was exhausted. All week I fell asleep on my couch by 7:45, and I woke up bright and early at 6 o'clock. I felt like I was living the movie, Groundhog's Day. Every morning I woke up and found myself on a bus saying the same thing. Occasionally, I would start searching for people who were on my tour the day before. It got confusing, but eventually I got the hang of it. Then I woke up on Day 5.

Sure I was tired. Sure I didn't really want to be there, but I'm a trooper. The day before my fellow guide and I decided to do tequila shots on the ferry. There was no real reason for it. We both had mediocre tours that were far from profitable on the tips front (and I'll talk more about that later), so we decided to let off some steam. What I didn't know was that I should have held off on those tequila shots until the next day—because I would need them.

Back to my tale… I got to the ferry building, and I went through the whole check-in process. I wandered over to my group, greeted them and collected their boarding passes. Then I turned around to check for the bus…and it wasn't there. I called the bus driver…and he didn't pick up. I called the check-in person, and she wasn't helpful at all. I called the bus driver again. He promised that he would be there in five minutes and wouldn't tell me where he was. I gathered the group, and we waited. Still no bus. I called again. He was at the gas station. Uhhh…what? He promised me ten minutes. I tried to entertain the group. They weren't happy. I called again. Ten minutes. And again. Ten minutes. I was not happy. At long last he pulled up (and by "long last" I mean that he arrived 30 minutes after we were supposed to leave). Rather than pay attention to what was on the sidewalk and where I was positioned with the group, the driver parked and opened the door in front of a huge pile of garbage, thus forcing the already annoyed guests to navigate around said trash bags in order to enter the bus.

Once on board, I apologized to the guests (again) for the delay and started my spiel. When I got to the part where I explain that the wineries have tasting fees that are not included in the price of the tour, two women in the back raised their hands and started yelling at me. They were under the mistaken impression that they could drink the wine without paying for it. I attempted to calm them down while I was at the front, but they weren't willing to let it drop. That, unfortunately, resulted in an argument between the people in the front of the bus versus the two ladies in the back. People were yelling back and forth at each other about the fact that the website DOES in fact state that tasting fees are not included. In an attempt to bring order to the bus, I suggested that the two ladies in the back have a private talk with me when I'm not on the microphone. I really wasn't in the mood for a riot. I mean, we started off bad not having a bus and all, so the guests were ready to fight.

The tour continued, I gave some hilarious commentary that made no one laugh, and then I decided to suck up some time by handing out water and trying to win everyone over with a little one on one attention. As I made it to the back of the bus, I happened upon three girls from Chicago (this, of course, was after the two ladies in front of them complained about the tasting fees and accused me of entrapment, but then took back that accusation since they recognized that I was merely the messenger…and, for the record, entrapment is the wrong term anyway). The girls weren't terribly friendly (and one of them was quite rude), but were willing to tell me that they were from Chicago and insisted that I give them bottles of water. One of them was on her cell phone and wanted to know exactly what time we were going to be at each winery. Apparently, they had a friend that was following the bus in her car and meeting them at each winery (and yes, that is weird). I chose to just let it go.

Back at the front of the bus, I continued with the tour. As we got closer to the first winery, I had to start collecting money for the tasting. Once again, I got an earful from the ladies in the back that started the full bus argument over tasting fees. As it turns out, they were in San Francisco because their husbands, who are cardiologists, were in town for a big medical convention. That knowledge did not make me feel sorry for them. The girls from Chicago gave me some trouble because they wanted to know exactly what their options were (and the one was still on the phone…and grilled me once again on exactly what time we would be at each winery). Then, I got to the three guys in the very back. As it turned out, two of them worked for a wine company and wanted to know if their tastings were free. Having never encountered this, I had no idea, but I was more than happy to figure it out. I suggested they just ask the wineries directly, since I have nothing to do with the actual money handling (with the exception of collecting the money upfront for the first winery, so that there is only one payment instead of forty individual ones).

Once inside the winery, the guys were able to get their free tastings, and the tour went well (There was one little thing that could have been trouble, and that's when the docent likes to make a joke about me taking the tasting fees on the bus and keeping the money for myself. You can imagine that this doesn't sit well with me or the people that believe they are being ripped off in the first place). We headed back to the bus, and I made nice with the driver (we did have to work together as a team all day, so a grudge really wasn't going to do me any good). The group was back on the bus, and we headed to the next winery (where we had lunch). I gave my commentary along the way, and things seemed okay. We got to the lunch spot, and I wandered around, checking on the guests to make sure all was well. We had an hour and a half there, and I then took on my role as "sheep dog" when we got to the 10-minute countdown for our departure time. I stumbled upon the Chicago girls that were dining with their friend that was following the bus in her car, and I politely let them know it was time to leave. They ignored me, and I still chose not to think much of it, even though, for whatever reason, I felt somewhat uncomfortable around them.

We all piled back on the bus and headed to the next winery. It's an easy one to get to…but it wasn't my day. The driver turned onto the street before the entrance of the winery. He then tried to turn the bus around in a private driveway that was too small for the task, so he tried another driveway. Everyone was annoyed (myself included), and I didn't know what to do or say to divert everyone's attention from the obvious, and very embarrassing, mistake. As I looked to the back of the bus, I saw the girls sneering at me. It really wasn't my day.

We made it to the winery, walked in, and the wine guys from the back asked if they could do the tasting for free. Unfortunately for them, they were denied. Unfortunately for me, they made a big stink and were quite vocal about it. I wanted desperately to separate myself from the situation, but I couldn't escape it. A couple of other guests walked into the tasting late, so I offered to take care of it at the register while they got their glasses of wine with the rest of the group. I walked up to the counter where the three guys were sorting out their situation next to the three girls from Chicago who were buying a glass of wine each.

I was standing between the two groups (within inches of the three girls, mind you), waiting for the salesperson to help me when this conversation started.

Wine Guy: I don't understand why this is such an issue. I mean, come on, this is really bad customer service.
Fat Girl 1: The problem is this tour. It sucks.
(The guys walked away to join the tasting in the other room)
Fat Girl 1: Actually the problem is that crazy tour guide. She's so weird and annoying. What's her problem? She's really stupid.
Me: (Stunned and unable to hold my tongue, I started speaking without even looking at them.) I am standing right here.
(A sudden hush fell over the room.)
Fat Girl 2: (Whispering loudly.) Oh my god, she's standing there.
Fat Girl 1: (Also whispering loudly.) God, what's her problem? She's so weird.
Me: Still here. Still not deaf.
Fat Girl 1: (Continuing to whisper loudly whilst standing 2 inches away from me.) Can you believe her? What a loser.
Me: And you are being very rude.

The fat girls in dresses then completed their transaction and exited the winery to sit outside with their friend that drove her car alongside the bus. I paid for the additional tastings and went to the bathroom to try and talk myself out of crying. That's right, they got to me. I suddenly felt like I was in the 7th grade. I was completely baffled by the whole situation. What had I done to those girls? I was nice. I could see they didn't want to talk to me, so I didn't force myself upon them. I'm pretty sure I wasn't acting crazy, and I know I'm not stupid. But all of this knowledge wasn't enough to prevent me from feeling ganged up on and miserable. They called me names! Who does that when they are in their mid to late 20's? Why?

I pulled it together and went to the tasting room to be around the rest of the group, trying my best not to look out the window at the place where the girls were sitting. The woman leading the tasting approached me a couple times to see if I was okay. She didn't know what was going on, but she acknowledged that I was obviously having a bad day and offered me a couple pieces of chocolate as a pick-me-up.

The tasting ended, and it was time to get back on the bus. I gathered up the troops, and as the Chicago girls got on the bus, they gave me dirty looks. I was totally flabbergasted. What did I do? I didn't call them names! They called me names. They were the ones being rude. I felt so down about the whole thing that I just gave up. I announced to everyone that we were heading to our final winery, and I sat down (since I fortunately had a chair that day—sometimes I have to stand the entire time, and that wouldn't have worked out very well on this particular day). I opted to talk to the people close to me, and as I glanced toward the back of the bus, I saw the girls shooting me more dirty looks.

We got to the next winery, and I hung around the guests long enough to help the wine guys from the back of the bus get their free tasting, then went back to the bus to talk to the driver. He told me his story of the morning, which did sound pretty harrowing. As it turned out, it wasn't entirely his fault that he was late. There was an unfortunate chain of events that occurred. Of course, there were a couple of things he could have done that would have prevented the situation, or at least, lessened it, but I decided to just let it go. I revealed to him my issue with the girls in the back.

Our time ended at the final winery, and the group was back on the bus. I explained that we had a 45-minute drive to the ferry and offered to give me people suggestions on restaurants for the evening. I had no plans to make it to the back of the bus in those 45 minutes, so I lingered as long as I could with each person. As I was talking on the microphone and walking along the aisle, I noticed that the guys in the back decided to join forces with the girls. They were all mocking me. Yep, I was back in the 7th grade. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't angry with the guys. I helped them all day long. The least they could do was to be nice to me.

We got to the ferry, and the girls sneered at me as they exited the bus. Everyone boarded the ferry, and I did everything I could to avoid the top floor where they fat girls had planted themselves. When I saw my fellow tour guide, I told her about my day, and she went on a mission to find the girls and the guys. Apparently, she talked to the guys and mentioned that she knew they gave me a hard time. She also saw the girls and reported back that they looked like bitches.

After killing as much time as I could on the bottom floor, I decided to be an adult and face the second floor. I saw the guys and the girls sitting near each other in separate booths. I wanted nothing more than to just avoid them all, but I opted to approach the guys. They were very nice to me, and I insinuated that their behavior on the bus was less than acceptable after how much effort I put into helping them get free tastings. They tried to egg on the situation and get me to approach the girls, but I opted to just let them be.

The ferry docked, and I exited the boat first, planting myself outside to say goodbye to all of the guests (and collect any tips that might come my way). The guys came off the ferry, thanked me for the trip, and didn't tip me. Then they asked me if I could give them the address for a restaurant. Yeah, that takes nerve. More people from my tour were exiting the boat, so I asked the guys to step to the side, telling them that I would help them later. At that point, at least five people walked up to me and tipped me. When I saw the fat girls from Chicago walk out of the terminal, I noticed they were doing everything they could to not look at me and be invisible. Not being one to ignore this sort of behavior, I chose to step directly in front of them and thank them for their patronage, adding that it was a real pleasure to have them on the tour.

Bitches.

The crowd left, and I turned to the guys that were still waiting patiently for the restaurant information. I approached them and offered up the info. That's when I got the apology.

Wine Guy: So, we're assholes, huh?
Me: Yep.
Wine Guy: Especially since we didn't tip you.
Me: Uh, yeah. Especially after encouraging the conflict between those girls and I.
Wine Guy: So, what are you doing right now?
Me: Not sure.
Wine Guy: Want to have dinner with us? We're buying.
Me: Okay. Can my friend come? (I gestured to my fellow tour guide.)
Wine Guy: Of course.
Me: Then let's go.

And we had dinner and drinks and drinks and late night eats. It was fun, and they told me why the girls hated me (and revealed to me that the girls were angry with them for talking to me on the ferry). Apparently they were angry from the get-go because I talked and gave commentary. For whatever reason, when they signed up for a guided tour of the wine country, they seemed to be under the impression that a guided bus tour is like a private limo ride. Also, they really didn't want to be on a bus with other people. Knowing that their friend was driving alone in her car to all of the wineries, I just wondered…why did they drop $300 on the tour when they could have just been in her car with her for a fraction of that? And why was any of this my fault? I was just doing my job.

Bad tour. Bad, bad tour.