Posts Tagged ‘christmas’

Candle Making with Rachel Vosper

Wednesday, October 26th, 2011

Last week, I was invited to the divine Rachel Vosper shop in Belgravia to try my hand at candle making. Three things made me want to give it a go: 1. Christmas is coming and this is a great gift idea. 2. I do love to get a bit arts n’ crafts every now and then and 3. It’s in Belgravia which is like, well posh innit. So off I went to play with some wax.

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Bangs A-Z of Christmas

Thursday, December 16th, 2010

A – Alcohol. Copious amounts are consumed throughout the season. People start stocking up in early December as if prohibition were making a comeback.

B – Baubles. Who knew there were so many varieties? It’s a nightmare! I say just spray paint a couple of golf balls and be done with it.

C – Coca Cola Advert. We all know Christmas doesn’t really start until that Coca Cola ad comes on TV.

D – Dolling Up. Approximately four tons of makeup are used per girl and gay man in the UK during Christmas*

E – Embarrassing Moments. With all that food, drink, tinsel and the possibility of a karaoke machine, Yuletide is a minefield of embarrassing moments waiting to happen.

F – Family. Internally, you may want to beat the bejesus off your second cousin, but externally, you’ve called a ceasefire until at least boxing day.

G – Gifts. Yeah yeah, it’s the thought that counts but inevitably you get that one gift every year that makes you cry out dramatically ‘do you even know me at all?!‘

H – He’s Behind You! I envy anyone who lives outside the UK and has no knowledge of what a pantomime is, therefore not wanting to punch someone in the windpipe whenever you hear this phrase.

I – It’s a Wonderful Life. Popcorn, blankets, cosy fire and a Christmas classic.

J – Jingle Bells. You may not hear bells the rest of the year, but soon as December rolls around, there’s a bell ringing version of every song ever created. Where do the bell ringers go when Christmas is over?

K – Kids. Of course the season is all about the kids, with their list of demands and attempts to convince us they haven’t been naughty all year – I prefer to continue eyeing them all with suspicion.

L – Last Minute Shopping. Or ‘Christmas Chicken’ as I like to call it. Just how late can you leave it before buying a gift and whereabouts on the hideously tacky scale will it lie? That’s the definition of fun times.

M – Music. Christmas is a wonderful time of year but the music is awful. It’s the same six songs played on repeat for six weeks. The opening bars of Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want For Christmas is You’ makes me want to punch babies in the face.

N – Negotiations. Where will you have Christmas dinner? What’s the maximum spend on any one gift? Christmas is like working at the United Nations when it comes to keeping everyone happy.

O – Office Parties. A great chance to see your uptight co-workers let loose – something to mock them about for the rest of the year.

P – Pine Needles. There’s nothing quite like the smell of a lovely Christmas tree permeating through the house, but you’re vacuuming pine needles up  til February.

Q – Quality Street. You’re already thinking of your favourites, aren’t you? I’ll arm wrestle anyone for one of those flat, toffee ones with the gold wrappers.

R – Regifting. No need to let a crappy gift go to waste. Rewrap it and that’s someone’s Valentine’s, birthday or anniversary gift right there. Times are tough, whaddaya want me to tell ya?

S – Skanky Santas. I don’t know why there has to be a ‘sexy’ version of everything, but some fake tanned, french manicured, extension wearing skank in a barely there red mini skirt with white fur trim and thigh high PVC boots is my idea of a Christmas nightmare.

T – TV. If your couch doesn’t have your ass print in it by New Year, you’ve done it all wrong. The soaps are the real treat. In real life, Christmas is a joyous time, in soaps, it’s full of punch ups, explosions and murder.

U – Unwrapping. Every family has their own set of rules about when gifts should be unwrapped ‘You can open one on Christmas eve, one before church and the rest after.’ Shoot, I say open them all in the summer and be done with it.

V – Visitors. You may not see people all year, but at Christmas, everyone comes around. Come January, you’ll have had so many people through your house, you’ll wish you’d have charged admission.

W – Wrapping Paper. I’ll be honest, I’ve never really understood it. I’m paying money for someone to rip it to shreds? You better remove that shit carefully so I can use it when I regift!

X – X-rays. Is Christmas really complete without at least one trip to the hospital? We think not. Icy pavements, food poisoning, falling over gifts – something will get you.

Y – Yelling. If you manage to make it through the stress of the Yuletide season without letting fly at someone at least once, you deserve a Nobel Peace Prize.

Z – Zzzzz. It may well be a joyous time of year, but it’s also utterly exhausting. ‘Tis definitely the season to have extra naps.

*Bangs stats may not always be 100% factually accurate

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Christmas Cheer

Wednesday, December 1st, 2010

It’s December 1st! That means I can finally start talking about Christmas! Woo hoo! Yes, you may very well be surprised to find that I love Christmas. Sure, I hate the music, but aside from that, I heart the Crimble season. I’m not so bothered about the gifts (though I do love the thrill of finding the perfect thing for the perfect person), it’s more about family, food, that warm and fuzzy feeling. Lights, decorations, how people are a bit nicer, all that good stuff.

Last year, I talked about how much I love writing letters and how I channeled that into sending Christmas cards to my blog and Twitter followers. And guess what? That’s right amigos! I’m gonna do the same thing this year! So, if you like Christmas and cards and receiving things in the mail, then email your name (and Twitter name if relevant) and address to bangs@bangsandabun.com and I’ll send you a card. Simples!

Last Christmas, I ended up sending about 50 cards to complete strangers and I loved it. I’m not having a big Christmas this year so it’ll bring me mucho joy to be able to spread good tidings and whatnot to others.

So, what are you waiting for? Send me your address already!

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Officially on Christmas Break

Wednesday, December 23rd, 2009

Well my lovlies, I’m now on Christmas break, so there’ll be no posts on here to get you through the Yuletide season. There there, don’t cry. I’m coming back. Regular posting will resume January 4th. In the meantime, you can browse the archives, brush up on your ‘Bangs-isms’ (I expect you all to be frequently using ‘motherbitch’ and to have perfected your bitch slaps by the time I get back) and introduce a friend to the wonderful comedy stylings of Bangs and a Bun. Have a family reading of my blog, around the fire – nothing says Christmas like my not-so-latent rage.

Thank you all for a wonderful year and for continuing to read my crazy. It is very much appreciated.

Here’s wishing you all a very Merry Christmas and a great new year.

I’ll be in Italy next week trying to get married into the Mafia – I’ll keep you posted on how that goes.

See you in 2010!

Bangs

xoxo

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Bangs Recommends

Monday, December 14th, 2009

It’s the time of year we’re all buying gifts. If you, like me, struggle to find the perfect thing for your loved ones, I thought I’d compile a little list of things I have enjoyed over the last two years, to maybe help give you a little inspiration – kind of like ‘Oprah’s Favourite Things’ but without the screaming, middle aged women. However, if you’d like to scream hysterically and jump up and down while reading this, I won’t hold it against you.

Read

No Matter How Much You Promise to Cook or Pay the Rent, You Blew It Cauze Bill Bailey Ain’t Never Coming Home Again – Edgardo Vega Yunque

I read this a couple of years ago and it’s a book that has really stuck with me. It’s set in New York in the 80s with a great cast of characters. The lead is the Puerto Rican-Irish Vidamia Farrell and the story centres around her meeting her Irish father and splitting her time between her two families (affluent mother and step-father in the suburbs and father and boho family in the Lower East Side). Her father is a former jazz pianist and the story reads like an improvised jazz song. It’s a long, meaty read that explores every aspect of the characters’ lives. It’s not for everyone, but I thoroughly enjoyed it.

See

Mesrine – L’instinct de Mort

I’m a huge fan of foreign cinema, especially French. I’m also a huge fan of Vincent Cassel, because he brings the hubba hubba. Well, he doesn’t bring the hubba hubba in this particular film, but in general, he’s hubba-worthy. This is the story of the notorious French gangster, Jacques Mesrine. It’s an epic two-parter that has moments of shock, humour, outrage and a gangster you actually kind of grow to like. If Cassel doesn’t get an Oscar for this performance, there is something wrong with the world.

I should say, I have no idea if this film is out on DVD yet, but if and when it is, you should buy it.

Pampering

I have always found smellies/toiletries to be a cop out. Not much thought went into it. A nice perfume, sure, but a standard soap+body lotion+talcum powder gift set is unimaginative and boring. Having said that, if you can find a way to make something ordinary look extraordinary, then smellies suddenly become acceptable. This company makes soaps to look like slices of cake or cupcakes. Anyone I’ve bought them for has loved them. It’s better than a bath bomb from Lush (incidentally, my ex, the serial adulterer from the Village People used to get me Lush gift sets for Valentines day, so now the scent of Lush has turned into the stench of shame, anger and resentment. Fun times).

Personality/Passion Gifts

These are the good gifts, when you really know someone and what they like. The following examples are clearly about me, but think about the people in your life, what they like and how you could flip it.

Any regular reader here knows I’m a bit of a shoe fanatic (that may be understating it just slightly, but whatever). I wouldn’t expect someone to buy me a pair of shoes (but by no means would I EVER turn that down), but if someone got me an arty print of a shoe, like this, I’d be thrilled.

I’m also really into art deco and the 1920s, so getting me a art print or book about these eras would win you major brownie points.

I’m a big fan of The Wire, but if you know me, you know I’ve seen every episode of every season probably upwards of ten times. But if you were to get me, say, The Wire Re-Up: The Guardian’s Guide to the Greatest TV Show Ever Made, well then we’d really be onto something. Alternatively, you could get me Idris Elba, star of The Wire, naked, gift wrapped in a bow and cooking for me in my kitchen.

I’m also into handmade things and getting a bit crafty. The quilt I made my parents last year was probably the most well received gift I’ve ever given. And the best thing about crafty/handmade gifts is that it doesn’t even have to be good! Just the mere fact that you put the time into trying to make the thing earns you major points.

See, Christmas doesn’t have to be all socks, boxers, CDs and gift cards. Take something ordinary and then run with the idea until you get to something that will mean a little more to the person you’re giving to.

What’s the best gift you’ve ever received?

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Face it, It’s Here

Wednesday, November 25th, 2009

Well, season’s greetings bitches!

There’s no point in being in denial about it. Christmas is in your face harder than Scarface’s coke shipment. Deal with it.

It doesn’t even ease in now. As soon as November hits, the Christmas commercials start. It’s always the furniture stores that roll out their TV ads first. A yuletide jingle playing in the background as they talk about 0% finance on a three seater sofa that you would rather ram up the sales guy’s ass. What kind of present is a three piece furniture set anyway? It’s not like I can wrap it. File it under stupid gift ideas.

As I’m tucking in to my breakfast the other morning, chatting to my parents, all of a sudden I tell everyone to shut up as I zone in on what’s being played on the radio. ‘Is that motherbitchin’ Silent Night?’ I ask. ‘It’s a hymn!’ says my mother. ‘Listen, Sister Mary Francis,’ I say. ‘I don’t care for that distinction.’ Christmas music, which is the most evil of all musical forms, hymnal or otherwise, should not be allowed before December 1st.

At least in the States they have Thanksgiving in November to ward off the influx of all things Christmassy too soon. Here, soon as the kids are done trick or treating, they roll out the fairy lights and santa costumes.

Then cue the ‘how not to put on too much weight over Christmas’ articles and the TV morning show debates about how the meaning of Christmas has been lost. And don’t forget every Tom, Dick and Harry telling you to make a hamper or something for the homeless.

Last year, I got on this kick that I was going to make presents. I spent a year making my parents this:

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and frankly, I think I peaked too soon. How am I ever meant to top that? Also, considering the big day is a few weeks away and I haven’t even sewed up a hole in my socks, it’s unlikely that they’ll be getting some hand made gift of wonder from me. So that means now I have to shop. When am I meant to fit that in? Between work and blogging and…you know, work and…blogging – there’s just no time.

As you can tell, I am full of the joys of Christmas. The thing is, I genuinely do love this time of year. And that’s because I love my family and the traditions we have. *cue soppy music* But if we could just put a cease and desist on the shenanigans until December 1st, that would really work out better for me.

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A Stitch in Time

Wednesday, January 21st, 2009


This past Christmas, I decided to take a slightly different route with a gift for my parents. Traditionally, Papa always gets a book and Mama gets a watch. But as each year passed the watches were getting bigger and bigger on account of her not-so-great eyesight. At the rate it was going, next year, she’d be like Flava Flav with a big ass clock around her neck, so that had to stop.

 

In November of 2007, after I had moved across country and was looking for a way to bond with my grandmother, who for once in my life, I was actually living near, I started to make a quilt. My grandmother, being quite the quilt connoisseur, got me all the materials I needed to get started. I found a pattern I liked and got to work. 

It had been a long time since my Home Ec classes in high school and my sewing was a bit rusty. Sewing the first few patches together, I stabbed myself with the needle more times than I care to mention, sewed bits on upside down, back to front and every variation of wrong. But it was ok, I told myself. I had time. 
This quilt couldn’t have come at a better time in my life. A few months prior, I had been laid off my job and dumped within the space of a week and this sparked the mother of all quarter-life crises. I moved across country, away from everyone and everything I knew and all I had was time and my thoughts. That was enough to drive me crazy. I needed something to get my mind off the shit heap that was, my life. Cue quilt. 

 

 


With each stitch, things seemed to get a little better. Heartache eased, quilt got bigger, more stitches, this blog was born, quilt got bigger, mind got clearer, more stitches. By the time March/April of ’08 rolled around, the quilt was damn near an obsession. Every spare second of my time, I could be found knee deep in fabric, wadding, scissors, thread, needles. At this point, I knew I would be going home for Christmas and decided that I would give the quilt to my parents. I thought it would be a nice gesture and furthermore, I figured by December, I would be sick of seeing the damn thing. 
I was working on the quilt, adding patches and tidying it up, right up until the day I left to go home. Cut to Christmas morning and the look on my parents face when they open their gift was priceless. A year before, I had shown them, via webcam, the first few patches I had sewn together, feeling all proud of myself. It was hard to imagine then, that it would get so big.

 

I called home home a couple of days ago and Mama told me Papa is at home, sick and he’s wrapped up in my quilt. My hope is that one day (provided I don’t die alone), I will wrap my children in that quilt and tell them of the place the quilt once had in my parents’ life.
Oooohhh yeah…and it’s reversible, bitches! 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tip of the day – Be grateful.

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Yes, I Like It. No, I Don't Own a Christmas Sweater

Monday, December 8th, 2008


I’m excited. Trés excited (when I bust out the français, I’m serious). Next wednesday, I’m flying back to England to spend the Yuletide season with my family. 

 

This is exciting because a) I haven’t been home for Christmas in four years, b) I haven’t been back to England for three years and c) I frikkin’ love Christmas! 
Yes, for all my cynicism and sarcasm and taking the piss out of other people, I cannot get enough of Christmas. After four years without the Christmas traditions I’m used to, I can’t wait to get home and dive right back into them again. 
My dad and I will go pick out a Christmas tree, just like we did when I was a kid. My mama always wants a small one, but my dad’s a big Canadian lumberjack who insists that the tree must be taller than him. My input on the tree was always essential. Unless I signed off on the height and width of the tree, it was a no go. 
We’ll get it home and pull out the decorations. We still have the decorations that my brother and I made when we were in nursery school. My bro made one that was a santa on a sled (the sled was made out of lollipop sticks, of course). We’ve had it so long, the santa has long since fallen off and disappeared, but we’ll still hang the lollipop sticks on the tree like they have some meaning. 
We’ll throw on the Ramsey Lewis Christmas Album (which is the only acceptable Christmas music to listen to), my mama makes her delicious homemade eggnog and we decorate the tree. 
Christmas eve, mama and I go to midnight mass and Christmas morning, I’ll be the first one awake, waking everyone else up. Yes, I’m 27, but it’s still my responsibility as the baby of the family to be more excited than everyone else on Christmas morning. Mama makes breakfast and we sit by the tree opening presents. 
For Christmas dinner, we go over to our family friends’ house. We’ll sit down to eat, but before we dive in, my dad does a toast to ‘absent friends’ (a shout out to our grandparents who can’t be there to enjoy it with us) and that gets everyone choked up for a second before we chow down. 
So, I know that Christmas is for kids, but I love everything about this time of year. The sights, the smells (not so much the sounds – Christmas music makes me want to hurt people, unless, of course, we’re talking about the Ramsey Lewis Christmas album), everything about it. I just love it. I had such great Christmases as a kid and I don’t think that magical feeling associated with it will ever leave me. 
Don’t worry, by the 27th, I’m usually back to my normal self. But hey, even an ice queen’s heart has to melt sometimes, right?

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Shop Til You Drop (kick someone in the face)

Tuesday, December 2nd, 2008

 

When news broke on the weekend about a Wal-Mart employee in New York being trampled to death on the job, you would think it would put everyone off shopping at that establishment. Not me amigos. Oh no. It’s Christmas, bitches and if I have shopping to do, fear of death by trampling will not stop me. And how dangerous can a Wal-Mart in Toronto be really? 

 

I got up early, called my dad, told him where I was going and asked him to pray for me. Let me say at this juncture, I am not a Wal-Mart shopper. I avoid it like flip flops on unpedicured toes. My parents had asked me to get a digital photo frame for my grandmother for Christmas and Wal-Mart was the only place I could find them for a price that wouldn’t involve me having to prostitute myself on weekends. (In the unlikely event that my grandmother has, over the course of the past week, bought a computer, learned how to navigate the interweb and is reading this right now, you’re getting a digital photo frame for Christmas Grammie and you’re gonna bloody like it). 
I get to Wal-Mart (henceforth referred to as ‘Hell’) and had to figure out where to go. Would a digital photo frame be with the electronics, or photo frames or over in the photo shop? Hey, you wanna know a fun game? If you have an hour to kill, go to your local ‘Hell’ and try to find a Wal-Mart employee who knows what the frik is going on. The first worker I asked spoke to me in charades. Throw me a ‘sounds like’ bitch, this ain’t working! She motioned me downstairs. 
Worker number two shrugged and waved me into the photo frame section. I wandered through those three aisles with no luck. I then got lost and ended up in the children’s clothing department somehow. It took me a while to find my way out of that maze and I made my way to the electronics department. 
I asked some 16 year old worker where I could find digital photo frames and he gave me a typical teenage response; ‘I don’t know.’ I stared at him blankly thinking there was more to the sentence, but apparently, that was it. 
‘Well, do you think you could ask someone?’ I asked. ‘Because I’ve come all the way across town to get one.’ I tried to smile but barely managed to mask my inner rage. 
We go to gormless-egit-electronics-department-worker-number-two and his response was also ‘I don’t know.’ ‘They moved a box of ‘em the other day and I don’t where they moved it.’ 
I took a deep breath. Tried to find my happy place. Zen, zen, happy, happy, joy, joy, do not punch him in the nuts, do not put him in a choke hold. Breathe Bangs, just breathe. 


‘Well, do you think you could ask somebody?’ I tried to muster up a smile again, but probably looked like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. 

‘No,’ he says. ‘There’s no way for me to find out where they moved it.’ 

‘I think there is,’ I said. ‘And I think it’s called ‘picking up a phone and asking someone.” I dug my heels in, making sure they knew I wasn’t moving until they found out where these God forsaken digital photo frames were hiding. They asked some other loser who said they ‘could’ be in the photo shop, but they ‘could also’ be upstairs. 

I charged over to the photo shop, where an equally gormless employee finally remembered where he had put the display. As I lay my eyes on it, a light shone from the heavens and a choir of angels sang. An end to this digital ornament madness was in sight. Until I saw some other woman making a beeline for the display. Nuh-uh bitch, back off! I wanted to buy every last one of those muthas, lest I should have a need for a digital photo frame myself any time in the next ten years, I could avoid ever having to go back to Hell to get one. 

Once my purchase was complete, I had to go back home and sleep it off. They entire experience was traumatic. But who wants to high five me for not bitch slapping someone? C’mon, give it to me!  

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Christmas Planes, Trains and Automobiles

Tuesday, December 18th, 2007


Thankfully, I’m not traveling anywhere for Christmas this year. Last year I had to. Here’s the story of that marvelous adventure:

 

It was an early start to catch my flight from Toronto to Halifax. With no appropriately sized suitcase for an eight-day trip, I threw everything into a huge green monstrosity and was out the door by 8.45am. To save money I decided to take public transport (two trains and a bus) to the airport. On reflection, if a cab had cost my entire life savings, it would have been worth it.

 

Firstly, there was the five-block walk to the first train. Then I had to lug my huge case down two flights of stairs. I should say at this juncture, I was wearing an outfit which didn’t really allow for physical exertion: an oversized chunky knit jacket, thick sweater, skin tight jeans and high-heeled, knee high boots.

 

I hurl my handbag over my shoulder, pull up my sleeves and pick up the case. One hand on the railing, the other hoisting my luggage, I’m only a few steps down before I’m breaking a sweat and the entire population of Toronto is lined up behind me. I’m directing people around me like cars. And, as if any more proof were needed that chivalry is well and truly dead, men literally pushed and shoved their way past me. Thanks fellas.

 

Finally, I make it to the bottom, only to be confronted by turnstiles. I dig in my purse for a train token. Hurried commuters push past as I make my way to the ticket booth. Now, how to get me and my trusty suitcase through the turnstile? Just as I’m ready to pick it up over my head and throw it, the man in the booth points to the gate behind me. I push the gate. Nothing happens. I keep pushing but to no avail. I look over at him. He gestures and mouths something at me, but I’m plugged into my iPod and don’t have a free hand to take out an earphone, so I don’t know what the hell he’s saying. Finally, a passerby realizes that it’s entirely too early for a game of charades and opens the gate for me.

 

I follow the signs for the northbound platform and discover more stairs. Better yet, there is a whole bunch of people coming up, meaning a) I just missed a train, and b) I have to battle against the flow of traffic. I pick up my suitcase and weave through people ungracefully, trying to make it to the bottom in one piece. When I finally do, the doors of the awaiting train are closing. I must have been a sorry sight as, shockingly, the train driver opened the doors. I jumped on and collapsed for two stops.
At my next stop, I put on my game face, ready to tackle the crowds and find the stairs down to the platform. Swarms of people are pushing up. Before I knew it, I was being carried unwillingly on a wave of people, desperately trying to hang onto my monster suitcase. Actually, they did me a favor and I ended up at another stairway that was less busy. Out of breath, I got to the platform and boarded the train, exiting at the last stop to catch the bus for the airport.

 

Thankfully, there were escalators, though they can be both a blessing and a curse when you have luggage. No matter which way you do it, you never know which step your luggage will end up on. I got on first and naturally my case missed a step so I had to do a casual lean back trying to maintain my grip. Once at the top, I find myself doing a lap of this huge bus station trying to find the airport bus. Needless to say, having reached one end, I’m told it’s at the other.

 

The bus, though billed as the ‘airport bus’ is actually just regular city bus, which doesn’t easily accommodate large numbers of people with multiple pieces of luggage. I’m wedged between two people, all three of us with our suitcases lodged between our knees and chins. At each stop more people get on, tripping over people, bag straps and whatever else, making it possibly the most uncomfortable bus ride in history.

 

Finally, we make it to the airport and I’m able to check in my cumbersome case. Lines through security are long, as people bundle their things into grey trays to be scanned. I take off my coat and pile it onto the conveyor belt. I see they’re asking certain people to remove their shoes, but I’m confident that the woman will appreciate the amount of work that went into my jeans/knee high boots (with no zips) combo and won’t ask me to remove them. As I begin my stride through the metal detector, the woman points at my boots. Before I can say ‘I know, they’re nice aren’t they?’ she says ‘Off!’ I smile sweetly and say “Are you kidding me?” Apparently not. We had a boot Nazi in our midst. Resistance was futile.

 

Knowing the removal of these boots is a ten-minute operation; I take a seat and start pulling. Meanwhile, a girl wearing Ugg boots marches right on through. She should have been asked to remove those purely on the grounds of having no taste. Ugg boots? Seriously? Take them off and leave them off. Do the world a favor and travel barefoot. It’s clear I’m being singled out because I have great sense of style. But seriously, skin tight jeans and tight knee-high boots – what was I going to smuggle down there? Ugg boots on the other hand, don’t even get my started on the number of concealed weapons you could stash in just one of those woolly wonders.

 

After ten minutes of yanking, pulling and stuffing jeans into boots, I was finally allowed to pass through. I applaud the vigilance, but as a rule, ugly footwear should always be the first to come off.

 

At last on board, I sink into my seat and start dreaming about Christmas trees and Grammie’s pumpkin pie. A bit of a kafuffle breaks out around me as people in the row in front are asked to check their seat numbers – I pay no attention, but silently chuckle at people who can’t read a ticket correctly. Then I hear: “Excuse me, Miss, excuse me.” You’ve guessed it; I’m in the wrong seat. As is always the case with these things, I was sitting in a window seat so had to disrupt two whole rows and keep a huge line of people waiting to get to their seats as I moved. As much as I paid for that seat, it should have come with the ability to open up and swallow me whole.

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