Airline rudeness

I'm baaaaaack.  I just returned from my visit to America...with an expanded waistline thanks to the culinary delights of Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, TCBY, Olive Garden, Cracker Barrel and Quaker Steak and Lube (and that's just to name a few!)

Anyway, I'm not going to go in to exactly how much weight I put on, instead, I'm going to talk about the general rudeness of airport employees.  Now, I'm not new to airline travel, but I've never really had incredibly rude people to deal with before when I've traveled...until this past time and especially in Newark. I hate that airport, always have and even more so now.

When I arrived in Newark last week, I filled out my little landing card/customs form that all international passengers have to fill out and I waited patiently in line for the next customs agent (Yes, I know that they are not technically airline employees but he was working in an airport, so I group him in to this bitch fest).  Once I get up to the counter.  The guy goes through the standard questions like what were you doing in Ireland...blah blah blah, etc.  Since I don't know the customs agent's name, we will call him Too Much Power, actually just TMP for short.  Here is our conversation:

TMP: So, what were you doing in Ireland?
Me:  I live there.
TMP: (Looks at me funny.)You live there?  Well, on your landing card you say your country of residence in the United States.
Me: (Yes, I know I put that as my country of residence but technically I don't have a residence card in Ireland, just a Family Permit, so I figured I was correct.)  Yes, I did.  That's because I don't have a residence card there, only a Family Permit (I flip my passport to show him the permit).
TMP:  Doesn't matter.  Your country of residence is where most of your stuff is.
Me:  (Um, WTF?  That makes no sense. He's clearly picking this out of his ass now.)  Well, I'm in the process of moving, so actually most of my stuff is here in the U.S. (Even though I technically am done moving, the rest of this is actually correct if you'd see the amount of my crap stored in my mom's building so most of my stuff is in the U.S., and this guy just gave me a loophole and I'm not going to be wrong, dammit.)
TMP: Mmm hmmm.  Well, for next time you need to put your country of residence as Ireland on the card.
Me:  Well, I don't see what next time has to do with this time and once I'm done moving I will.
TMP: (Trying to be nice.) So, what made you move to Ireland?
Me:  (Not in the mood to be nice after all that, so I just remain silent as he stamps my passport.  Luckily he only asked once.)

After my stimulating conversation with TMP, I searched for my gate to my connecting flight.  Once I located the screen, my flight was the ONLY flight that didn't have the gate number.  So, I had to rely on the gate number that was printed on my airline confirmation sheet even though those rarely stay the same and it wasn't printed on my boarding pass either.  So, here I go. I locate the gate and start to go through security.  A mean 'ol lady stopped me (she worked there).  "What's your gate number?" she barked.   "I'm not sure.  It isn't on my boarding pass and it isn't on the screen," I say. "Hmm mmm.  You need to know your gate number.  Go over there," she snarls, with major attitude dripping down her body.  "Over where?" I ask since she only waved a general direction and the only thing I could see was a Jamba Juice.  Unless, I was boarding a Mango smoothy, I didn't think the Jamba Juice was the correct place to be.  "You need to go to the United gate security, not here," she mocked.  I was pissed at this point at how rude she was being.  I mean, come on.  I didn't work at the airport, how was I to know that United had there very own special gate with security?  I'd never seen it anywhere else.  So, anyway, unable to control my anger (I get like that sometimes) I said (or yelled depending on how hard of hearing you are), "What's with your attitude.  Just because you know where everything is around here doesn't mean everyone else does!  You need to calm down!"  Then, I turned on my heel and walked away in the direction of Jamba Juice.  I didn't dare make eye contact with anyone as I was certain they were staring at me...hopefully I entertained them.  Anyway, I did finally figure out where the gate was, but no thanks to anyone that worked there.

Since I've rambled on quite a bit, I won't go in to the lady working the counter in Charleston who wanted to charge me $200 for a bag that was six pounds overweight.  I freaked out on her, too.  And, thanks to the handiness of an extra Wal-Mart bag doubling as a carry-on, I didn't pay $200.