Memoirs Of An Evil Genius: Flying/High

December 28, 2007

Flying/High

I hate flying. To begin with, I don't enjoy being 30,000 feet in the air -- call me crazy -- with nothing to break your fall but 90,000 pounds of fiberglass and aluminum, and maybe, like, a rosebush. I also hate the fact that unless you are traveling WITH someone, you inevitably sit down next to somebody who wants to be friends. I do not want to be friends. I want to read my book and NOT DIE. This does not seem to me to be an unreasonable request of the universe.

I should say that I had a wonderful Christmas vacation. I went home, I saw my toddlin' nephew, I taught him how to say "octopus" (he said it like "OW-psss", and then I GAVE HIM ALL MY MONEY), and gave/received a lot of wonderful gifts. I got to play with my dog and hang out with my friends, and my four-year-old niece invited me to her birthday party. I told her that, as I live 2,500 miles away, I probably couldn't make it. Her response? "Ask your mom!" I had no more money left, so I gave her my blood.

THEN. I had to go home. Ever since I enjoyed this little experience, I have been a...not so good passenger. I tense up, I sweat, and every jitter of the plane causes me to start carving my last will and testament into the tray table in the hopes that it alone will survive our death drop into the rosebushes. So I do what all God's children are supposed to do -- I get good and tipsy before climbing aboard, and try to let my buzz dispel the clamor of nerves. We were maybe a half-hour into the five-hour flight (and I was maybe twenty pages from the end of my book) when the girl at the end of my row leaned over and asked in a drunken stage whisper what I was reading. I explained, to the best of my abilities.

Drunk Girl: THAT SOUNDS GOOD!

Me: It is good, actually.

Drunk Girl: I AM TOTALLY STEALING YOUR BOOK! HA HA HA! I NEED MORE WINE! DO YOU LIVE ALONE?

Me: No, I have a roommate. A crowded house, actually.

Drunk Girl: GIRL OR BOY?

Me: A girl. But our boyfriends come and go.

Drunk Girl: OHHHHH! ARE YOU BISEXUAL?

Me: Um...no.

Drunk Girl (disappointed): OHHHHH. SO YOU'RE STRAIGHT-UP GAY? I'M BISEXUAL. I LIKE BOTH!

Me: That's...what that means, all right.

Drunk Girl: YOU'RE ATTRACTIVE.

Me: ...thank you.

So by this time, everyone on the plane knew that I was straight-up gay, and that my new best friend liked it both ways. I was a trifle embarrassed, but tried to communicate that although I appreciated the company, it was reading time now. She didn't get it. She proceeded to inform me that she was flying out on an impulse to party with some guy she didn't know, whom she suspected would possibly be picking her up at the airport. She used some...outmoded terms to describe him, which I will not reprint here because I find them to be impolite and inappropriate. Just imagine her screaming "high yellow" or something similar, and you have the basic idea.

During the last forty-five minutes we bonded again when we encountered some minor turbulence in our descent that nearly sheared the wings off the plane, and I decided that if we were all going to die I wasn't going to meet my maker until I'd eaten every last piece of chocolate in my carry-on. I shared, and this seemed to further cement our bond. At the baggage claim, she was still with me, and still in...high spirits.

Drunk Girl: I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT STEWARDESS CUT ME OFF! I NEEDED WINE! WOOOO!

Me: When the hell are they going to send out our luggage?

Drunk Girl: DOES THIS OUTFIT LOOK TOO WHOREY?

Me: Nope, just whorey enough.

Drunk Girl: HA HA! LIKE YOU'D KNOW. NO, YOU WOULD, BECAUSE YOU'RE HOT. WOOOO!

Me: ...where are my bags?

Drunk Girl: WHY IS EVERYBODY STARING AT ME? IS IT BECAUSE I'M DRUNK, OR IS IT BECAUSE I'M DRESSED LIKE A WHORE?

Me: Can I pick more than one?

Drunk Girl: I LIKE EATING PUSSY. IT'S THE BEST!

Me: ...

Drunk Girl: YOU SHOULD TOTALLY TRY IT!

Me: ...no thank you--

Drunk Girl: OH, RIGHT. NO, IT'S COOL! YOU CAN HAVE ALL THE COCK YOU WANT! I LIKE THAT, TOO!

Me: Oh Jesus, please send my bag out right now. I will donate to the church -- any church -- just please. Please--

Drunk Girl: I SURE HOPE MY RIDE SHOWS UP!

Me: Yes, we all do.

Drunk Girl: YEAH! OTHERWISE I'M GONNA HAVE TO STAY WITH YOU!

Me: Oh, look, it's my bag! Bye! Don't get killed!

And it actually WAS my bag? But even if it wasn't, I was going to grab the next one that rolled by anyway, take it into the bathroom, change into someone else's clothes and make a mustache out of toilet paper, and then sneak back to the opposite side of the carousel to wait for MY shit to come through.

I am never taking the plane again.

December 28, 2007 in A Few Of My Least Favorite Things, Creature Discomforts, Family: They're Nuts, But I Love (Most Of) Them, Interludes, Stop Before I Kill You, Stressed For Success | Permalink

Comments

Book 'Em, Dr. No

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Joanne Harris: Gentlemen and Players
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Mary Roberts Rinehart: The Door
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Janet Evanovich: Visions of Sugar Plums
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John Buchan: The Thirty-Nine Steps
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James E. McWilliams: A Revolution in Eating: How the Quest for Food Shaped America
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Heather Graham: The Seance
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David Kamp: The United States of Arugula: How We Became a Gourmet Nation
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James Patterson: 1st to Die: A Novel
A recommendation from my mother -- she's hooked. I thought it was good, but Patterson's blunt, staccato writing style took some getting used to. Still, if you like procedurals, it's an effective diversion.