I believe Elaine banged her elbow in that episode. but hell, she can't be more than 5'3". She doesn't know what it's like.
Arrive in Dallas, where the local time is 9:30am, and I'm hurtin' for some pulled pork. Breakfast of champions.
Since we were smart and had loaded up on books and magazines the day before, we were sailing smoothly into this 8 hour flight. They had two in-flight movies (Bandslam, which looked horrible even with the sound off), and Legally Blonde, which, by the time it came on, I was getting a teeny bit antsy, so I popped in the headphones to see what little Elle Woods had to say about the legal system.
Maggie opts with a more conventional, but still disgusting, bacon egg and cheese from McDonald's. We finish, and head for the plane, but not before I get a coffee from Starbuck's. Sleeping on a plane is like being in limbo. Sure, you sleep, but you don't get any of the benefits of sleep, so it's completely pointless. And incredibly uncomfortable. Make that a Large coffee.
Since we were smart and had loaded up on books and magazines the day before, we were sailing smoothly into this 8 hour flight. They had two in-flight movies (Bandslam, which looked horrible even with the sound off), and Legally Blonde, which, by the time it came on, I was getting a teeny bit antsy, so I popped in the headphones to see what little Elle Woods had to say about the legal system.
Hey, at least it cured my fidgety-ness.
Maggie got felt up by the sweet, old, Nebraska University loving woman in front of her. She said she was grabbing for the "recline" button on the seat...likely story you Midwestern-pervert-granny.
Other than the sexual harassment, the flight went smoothly. Disembark (or whatever you do when you get off planes), and we weren't greeted by any beautiful, coconut-bikini clad women placing leis around our neck. A little disappointing, but I guess I should've expected to be lied to by Saved by the Bell (that Hawaiian special, you know the one. with the chick who's married to fatman Kevin James in King of Queens).
On to the rental car facility. I must say, our first encounter with real-life hawaiians was a bit of a let down. Could've been because the people at Enterprise that helped us weren't exactly native Hawaiians. There was Fidel Reyes (no lie), and a blonde-haired, blue-eyed chick, who was definitely trying to pull off the whole "I'm just like Mila Kunis in Forgetting Sarah Marshall". Not sure if she was copying Mila, or Mila was copying her.
Up to the check-in desk. Oh, you say it's not in the lobby? It's on the 2nd floor? In a random room to the right of the elevators? Well, okay Mr. Supremely Laid Back Hawaiian, I'll take your word for it.
Walk into the check-in "room", and some more super nice, laid back people (I'm willing to look past the fact that our check-in guy was named Gary...Maybe it's been Anglicized from Garii). He gives us the rundown, and we're up to our room to clean up...Come on, you think we were going to wake up at 4:10 am to get a shower in?
Back down to the check-in room to chat with the Concierge (what's the feminine form of Concierge? Concierga? Isn't the end of the word silent anyway? Con-see-yay, if you wanted to be a stuck-up Frenchy)
She gives us some pointers, and tells us something that instantly makes both of us realize why the check-in room is a 2nd floor room and not the lobby...That's right, we've stumbled into the TimeShare Zone. Thanks a bunch Hotels.com. Of course, we're simply renting, so we're not on the hook, that I know of. And it's in Maggie's name anyway, so I'm pretty sure I'm golden. 5 to 1 odds she gets weekly mailings from this place.
Our Concierge kindly tells that if we sit in on an "information session", she can get us some good discounts on local attractions. "How long is the session?", I ask. "90 minutes to 2 hours, depending on your interest". Interpretation: "We're going to feed you shit for 90 minutes, and then pester you for 30 more minutes until you give in and fork over cash for a time-share you never really wanted in the first place. Oh, but wait, she needs to make sure we qualify. Combined household income of $55k. Wait, a family only needs to make $55k combined to "afford" a time share? I don't think so. That means that little Billy doesn't get any of the toys or clothes or video games or food that he wants, just because the Time Share folks are so damn persistent and greedy. I guess the bright side is that they choose not to screw with families that make less than $55k a year.
As our Concierge is giving us various tips about the island, I begin to have a realization. Hawaiians and Minnesotans sound eerily similar. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's something in the "yea", and the end of the sentence that makes the Hawaiian way-of-speaking sound a little too much like Minnesota-speak. Maybe I'm just tired.
Now for a nice cool evening jaunt down the beach to see if there's a beachside grill we can pop into for din-din.
"This one looks good". "yea, not too fancy. I like it". So we sit at the bar, waiting for our table. I grab a local beer from the Kona Brewing Company...Fire Rock Pale Ale.
Maggie grabs a drink with 17 different fruits in it, and a piece of pineapple so large that calling it a "garnish" is a punishable offense. 
Wait, what does it say on that cup over there? "Hil Ton". hmm. must be Hawaiin for something cool. No wait. "Hilton". Shit. We just got duped by the Hilton mega-franchise. What we thought was a nice little restaurant was just the Hilton estbalishment.
To be fair, Waikiki isn't exactly authentic Hawaii, and we weren't really looking for anything special. We were just so tired and the first place that served food looked like heaven-on-earth. Mind you, it's about midnight Eastern Time, and we were up at 4:20am.
In any case, the food was damn good. A nice raw Poke Appetizer hit the spot, and some more fishy goodness for our main courses, and we were ready for bed. wait, we need to get some groceries so that not every meal we eat is an ass beating. Oh right, even groceries cost more on the islands. Damn. Oh well. When in Rome (that doesn't make any sense. but it feels like it fits, right?)
Okay, now it's bed time. 2:30am EST. yea. bed time. Nah, I think I'll look at the Island maps a couple more times and try to finalize what we're going to do tomorrow.
Maggie got felt up by the sweet, old, Nebraska University loving woman in front of her. She said she was grabbing for the "recline" button on the seat...likely story you Midwestern-pervert-granny.
Other than the sexual harassment, the flight went smoothly. Disembark (or whatever you do when you get off planes), and we weren't greeted by any beautiful, coconut-bikini clad women placing leis around our neck. A little disappointing, but I guess I should've expected to be lied to by Saved by the Bell (that Hawaiian special, you know the one. with the chick who's married to fatman Kevin James in King of Queens).
On to the rental car facility. I must say, our first encounter with real-life hawaiians was a bit of a let down. Could've been because the people at Enterprise that helped us weren't exactly native Hawaiians. There was Fidel Reyes (no lie), and a blonde-haired, blue-eyed chick, who was definitely trying to pull off the whole "I'm just like Mila Kunis in Forgetting Sarah Marshall". Not sure if she was copying Mila, or Mila was copying her.
Still, we were pretty excited as we pulled out of the lot in our sweet, brand new, jet black...Hyundai.
Some quick driving to the hotel, and we were ready to check in. And finally, at the valet stand, we met a true Hawaiian. Man, they're the type of pleasant and laid back that makes you think that they're double-crossing you somehow. No, wait. They're the type of pleasant and laid back that makes you know for certain that they're double-crossing you. Only they're not. They're just that cool. But you can't help being a little paranoid...especially coming from a place where drivers are sweetly known as Massholes.
Up to the check-in desk. Oh, you say it's not in the lobby? It's on the 2nd floor? In a random room to the right of the elevators? Well, okay Mr. Supremely Laid Back Hawaiian, I'll take your word for it.
Walk into the check-in "room", and some more super nice, laid back people (I'm willing to look past the fact that our check-in guy was named Gary...Maybe it's been Anglicized from Garii). He gives us the rundown, and we're up to our room to clean up...Come on, you think we were going to wake up at 4:10 am to get a shower in?
Back down to the check-in room to chat with the Concierge (what's the feminine form of Concierge? Concierga? Isn't the end of the word silent anyway? Con-see-yay, if you wanted to be a stuck-up Frenchy)
She gives us some pointers, and tells us something that instantly makes both of us realize why the check-in room is a 2nd floor room and not the lobby...That's right, we've stumbled into the TimeShare Zone. Thanks a bunch Hotels.com. Of course, we're simply renting, so we're not on the hook, that I know of. And it's in Maggie's name anyway, so I'm pretty sure I'm golden. 5 to 1 odds she gets weekly mailings from this place.
Our Concierge kindly tells that if we sit in on an "information session", she can get us some good discounts on local attractions. "How long is the session?", I ask. "90 minutes to 2 hours, depending on your interest". Interpretation: "We're going to feed you shit for 90 minutes, and then pester you for 30 more minutes until you give in and fork over cash for a time-share you never really wanted in the first place. Oh, but wait, she needs to make sure we qualify. Combined household income of $55k. Wait, a family only needs to make $55k combined to "afford" a time share? I don't think so. That means that little Billy doesn't get any of the toys or clothes or video games or food that he wants, just because the Time Share folks are so damn persistent and greedy. I guess the bright side is that they choose not to screw with families that make less than $55k a year.
As our Concierge is giving us various tips about the island, I begin to have a realization. Hawaiians and Minnesotans sound eerily similar. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's something in the "yea", and the end of the sentence that makes the Hawaiian way-of-speaking sound a little too much like Minnesota-speak. Maybe I'm just tired.
Now for a nice cool evening jaunt down the beach to see if there's a beachside grill we can pop into for din-din.
"This one looks good". "yea, not too fancy. I like it". So we sit at the bar, waiting for our table. I grab a local beer from the Kona Brewing Company...Fire Rock Pale Ale.
Maggie grabs a drink with 17 different fruits in it, and a piece of pineapple so large that calling it a "garnish" is a punishable offense. 
Wait, what does it say on that cup over there? "Hil Ton". hmm. must be Hawaiin for something cool. No wait. "Hilton". Shit. We just got duped by the Hilton mega-franchise. What we thought was a nice little restaurant was just the Hilton estbalishment.
To be fair, Waikiki isn't exactly authentic Hawaii, and we weren't really looking for anything special. We were just so tired and the first place that served food looked like heaven-on-earth. Mind you, it's about midnight Eastern Time, and we were up at 4:20am.
In any case, the food was damn good. A nice raw Poke Appetizer hit the spot, and some more fishy goodness for our main courses, and we were ready for bed. wait, we need to get some groceries so that not every meal we eat is an ass beating. Oh right, even groceries cost more on the islands. Damn. Oh well. When in Rome (that doesn't make any sense. but it feels like it fits, right?)
Okay, now it's bed time. 2:30am EST. yea. bed time. Nah, I think I'll look at the Island maps a couple more times and try to finalize what we're going to do tomorrow.
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