Archive for July, 2006
I love watching interviews with Mariah Carey. The woman has no idea how to act like a normal human being in today’s society and it’s just hilarious. The woman actually said, in an interview, “Whenever I watch TV and see those poor starving kids all over the world, I can’t help but cry. I mean I’d love to be skinny like that, but not with all those flies and death and stuff.”
Arrested development at its finest. I mean, at first blush, you want to condemn her of course, and as well you should. It’s a stupid, ridiculously ignorant thing to say and shows a complete lack of compassion and understanding for the human race. But the thing is…I’m starting to understand it in an odd sort of way. Celebrities are so insulated from the rest of the world and so stupidly isolated that how would they really KNOW what it’s really like out there unless they live it, sort of?
Okay, okay, they shouldn’t be making fun of skinny starving children in third world countries, but I get the isolation part, and if you’re intellectually challenged AND isolated, I totally get how this happens. You live the hyperbole, the parallel reality, the different world that you create for yourself and not the one that’s really out there, and if you have no contact with the outside world, how would you KNOW?
Living here is kind of like that for us, minus the ignorance about starving Ethiopians. We’re isolated down here and after a while, you lose your sense of reality. I haven’t had a normal conversation – I mean an actual, normal conversation with a real, live person – in a really long time and it’s just fucking creepy. I’m living a strange sort of celebrity life – not in the pampering, exciting kind of way, but in the isolating, you’re-not-sure-what-reality-is -and- isn’t sense. My relationships – the ones that matter – have almost exclusively taken place on the phone or via email for almost a year. While that’s been awesome to talk to people and to catch up, the daily grind is really bizarre, especially when sometimes it can feel like most of the people I interact with are either over 80 or spend their weekends setting their ill-chosen pet iguanas free in the woods or shooting squirrels in their backyard. And worse, that’s my paradigm for how everyone everywhere lives and I am starting to forget that it’s not that way for most people.
Help me. It’s been almost a year.
Anyway, I don’t think I realized what that does to me until I started thinking about that girl who kept asking me to go camping and realized: she’s been here two years. Oh my God. I’ve never been a super-social person (I like small groups with intimacy vs. giant nights out with everyone), but truthfully, I’m starting to wonder what I would do if I were presented with an actual, normal social situation and I’m starting to think I would act a lot like she did, because desperation and withdrawal does funny things to a person’s psyche.
I’m coming undone. It’s been that long. I have one friend down here – a man who is over 75 and volunteers with me. I adore him and love talking to him, but let’s read that again: My only friend is a man over 75. Other than that, the most meaningful relationship I have is with Edith at a local organization who calls me at work once a week to tell me what’s new. Last week she hung up the phone with, “Love you! LOVE YOU!” and I actually replied hesitantly, “Um, love you too!” and then promptly died. **
See? It’s a matter of time before I start pontificating about starving Africans and whether buffalo wings are made of real live buffalo. I’ve lost my mind almost completely and it’s scary. I still have standards. I still know what my real friends are like, and what I’m looking for, but as time passes, I’m starting to understand that girl who wanted to go camping with monkeys on some strange river up north after meeting me for five minutes. I’m reasonably intelligent. I have all my own teeth.
In other words, I’m a catch. But no, she’s not my type and I hate saying that, and I hate myself for thinking it because yes: I’m losing my mind, and how bad could it be? But I know it would get worse if we were friends, because we’d lose our minds together and would be unstoppable and then I would have NO REALITY CHECK and I’d bring her to family holidays and all hell would break loose because she’d be trying to make my family into vegetarians and insist that we all fly to Beirut together for fun and oh God, no. No, I do not think I will call her ever again for sure. But see? Do you see any semblance of a coherent mind in that last sentence? I’m seriously terrified of the next time I am in a social situation. I might attack my companions. Sit in their lap. Kiss them. Tell them how much I love them, even if it’s the first date and offer to rub their feet.
And honestly, now I’m sitting here in my underwear that are ripped to the point that they actually don’t have a crotch and I don’t know why I haven’ t thrown them away, much less PUT THEM ON, hair standing on end, a glass of wine on the bedside table and a kelly green t-shirt that says “Tuesday” even though it’s pretty much Friday.
Reality. It’s out the window.
*Her husband had just died and I didn’t want to insult her. Give me a break. And yes, Lawyerish, I thought of you as I wrote this. When you mentioned it the other day, I wasn’t sure how to properly explain that yes, I’ve already DONE THAT and it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but still. I told Edith at the VFW that I loved her.
** Kay Hanley
July 13th, 2006
If I had any balls at all, I’d be a music blogger. But the truth is, I’d only want to write about the bands/music *I* like, which is generally not what the mainstream wants/likes, and I’m not interesting and/or cool enough to write about new stuff, which means that if I were a music writer, absolutely no one would be interested in what I write about except for me and my mother. So I won’t inflict that on anyone except for just, uh, this one time I guess.
I’m stuck in the 1980s. I haven’t moved on. Nothing I listen to was made after 1994, except for The Killers, and the only reason they are *remotely* allowed is because they were heavily influenced by the 1980s and so they *sound* like they were made in the 1980s.
I was born in 1975, which means that during the decade I was most influenced by, I was no more than 14. Which means, ah, I don’t know, it’s just that I can’t help but think maybe I’m a little young for this stuff? I mean, it’s not like I listened to it in college, which is possibly the greatest four years of a person’s life in terms of music discovery, though I got some good stuff then. But it just doesn’t add up. How did we get here? I mean, I should have been listening to Tiffany and Debbie Gibson (and oh, I was. Trust me.) and New Kids on the Block (Dude. Totally saw them in concert with Tiffany. And yes, it was a defining moment, next to the time I *met* them while shopping in New York with my sister while wearing a Pepsi (!!) t-shirt, a poodle perm, giant glasses and a mouth full of braces. Donny tried to give me money – was it because I looked homeless or just needed fashion help? We’ll never know.). But I was also listening to Erasure, The Smiths, Depeche Mode (and almost got ‘DM’ tattooed on my ankle in high school. Gah.), New Order, Peter Murphy, Peter Schilling and ah, just so much more.
And I haven’t moved on! Not even a little! I still listen to the Cocteau Twins and Psychedelic Furs and I have the entire discography of New Order and Depeche Mode on my iPod. I can’t get enough of any of them, and I haven’t gotten sick of them in 15+ years. And then it hit me – it all boils down to the influence of a single album:
ELO’s Time.
Haven’t heard of it? Heard it’s cheesy? Yes! It is! But it’s also electronic and a great concept album. What’s the concept? Some dude dreams he’s traveling through time and misses his girl, ends up dating a robot (an IBM!) and bitches about acid rain. Its, um, narrated by an electronic voice, which is presumably a robot or computer or something.
I know. But it’s great.
I started listening to it when it first came out – I was in kindergarten, and my parents bought it, and even at the age of 5, I would make them play it over and over again on the 8-track until they flat-out refused to hear it even one more time. There was long, miserable time that it was discontinued, but finally, it was re-issued in 2001 with a few b-side bonus tracks that had obviously been written in the concept of the album, yet were mysteriously left off of the original. 25 years is a long time to love something, and its electronic vibe was so…soothing and lovely and perfect, even if it had this weird robot voice telling me what the year 2095 was like (it included time travel, trips to the moon and hover cars, if you’re wondering).
Critics generally hate it, and die-hard ELO fans were pretty horrified**, but it remains my single favorite album of all-time. It reminds me of my mother, who so indulgently let me listen to it over and over again, and of an innocent time. Yet it also set the scene for everything I would listen to later – OMD, Psychedelic Furs, Depeche Mode, New Order, Electronic, Cocteau Twins, The Cure – all of them reminded me in some way of that original album.
And now I guess I’m asking y’all in a way: what’s your favorite album, or what do you listen to, and why? And if you don’t listen to music, why not? Is it time, lack of interest or just…fed up with what’s out there? I don’t expect you all to answer, given that roughly nine of you comment every day out of the alarming number (ALARMING. Seriously, it scares me. I’m flattered, but holy shit, it’s just a question of time before my in-laws find this site, at this rate, which: OMG) of you who visit every day, but if you’ve never spoken up before, try it now. But if you don’t, I won’t be hurt, because frankly, every time there is a call for de-lurkers on another site, I just sit there, panicked, like a bump on a pickle and don’t say a word, even if I’m a regular.
But really, I could obviously use some new music recommendations to get me out of 1981. Consider it a public service.
*ELO, of course. From Time.
**Considering it followed the soundtrack to Xanadu, which was universally panned and disdained beyond all belief at the time, but oh! It was FABULOUS!
July 12th, 2006
Someone sold us a false set of goods when we agreed to move here. All we heard on a near-constant basis was, “It rains for like, 15 minutes and then it clears! It’s beautiful! Brief showers!”
A lie! It’s a lie! It’s raining non-stop. And brief showers? If you count torrential downpours and a virtual moat around my house a “brief shower,” then sure. The thing is, I like the rain quite a bit – this isn’t new, I’ve always liked the rain. But in a place where it’s perpetually warm, the driving rain feels like the closest thing we have to winter. You can settle in and snuggle up inside with a book, movie or laptop and the warm pet of your choice and just watch the world go by.
Except rain always comes with lightning that could sear your pants off, and I’m irrationally terrified of tornadoes. I mean, it’s not like I live in Kansas or anything, but there were more tornadoes here last year than any other state, or so the local news tells me. And y’all, have you SEEN how flat this place is? You can see the sunset – the FULL-ON SUNSET from absolutely any angle in the entire damned state, even if you’re sitting in the middle of the pan. It’s as flat as Jessica Alba’s stomach, and you have no idea how disconcerting it is until you see hills again and it hits you like a pancake to the face that the rest of the world has HILLS! Grassy knolls! MOUNTAINS. During a recent trip to Pennsylvania, A. and I marveled repeatedly to each other, “Oh my God – HILLS!” “Wait, wait…did you SEE THAT? The ground – it’s SWELLING!”
I’m not kidding. We were AMAZED and couldn’t stop talking about it the entire weekend, ” Look! It’s a hill!” and “Hey honey, look at me! I’m WALKING UP A HILL!” We were a big hit as houseguests, as we were so easy to please, marveling at the simplest of things, “The grass is soft and doesn’t feel like astroturf!” and “Daisies! Oh my GOD! DAISIES!” and, “Look! An ant that won’t snack on my flesh like a taco! TOUCH IT!”
I have totally distracted myself from my main point: tornadoes. When I was little, growing up in Pennsylvania, we had a small tornado hit our house and really it was no big deal – it took a piece off of the siding, then politely sidled back up the hill like a happy little cloud who had just eaten a satisfying supper. Except, I don’t think that’s how they work down here. They just HIT and then it apparently sounds like a freight train and then the next thing you know, you’re being hurled through the sky while Auntie Em throws muffins in your face. I heard rumors that there were some a few miles from here a few weeks ago, and I got the mattresses ready for the bathtub. I now know precisely how quickly I can get the mattress off of our bed and get it into the bathtub if we had to, and I know *exactly* how to get the guest mattress down the stairs and into the laundry room, which is my first plan of attack, if I have time. A windowless room is safest and believe me, I WILL BE THERE, cowering under that mattress. I have snacks in there now too, just in case.
Today, the sky turned that ominous greenish-grey, and as I was walking Sunny this afternoon, I got a strange chill and I begged Sunny to hurry things along (“Go potty! GO POTTY! MY GOD GO POTTY GOPOTTYGOMOTHERFUCKINGPOTTY BEFORE WE DIE OUT HERE!”). After we came inside and I went back to work, I heard it: the freight train. Getting closer. I started scrambling around the house like a manaical beast, gathering up the pets – Sunny in one arm, Cappy in the other, shoving them in the laundry room. I started crying (crying! CRYING! ) and running to the door to lock it (?!), then up the stairs to get the mattress.
And then I looked out the window. It was the fucking garbage truck. THE GARBAGE TRUCK. Jesus Christ. Five more minutes, and I’d been in the laundry room with a mattress over my head, crying and praying to someone – anyone – to save us from the deadly tornado and hurling muffins. Oh, and PS, I am wholly bereft and horrified that I didn’t even WARN A. of our impending death before I sprung into action. It seems I am a selfish asshole when I think I’m about to die and that includes my husband, who would throw himself in front of the tornado for me. But not me! Nope. I start pulling down mattresses and hiding under them, and it’s only when the roof peels away from the house that I wonder, “Did I remember everything? Like my husband?” And then I spent the rest of the evening upset, because I left my beloved husband – the man who means more to me than anyone else in the world – in the middle of a tornado. So what if it was a garbage truck! A TORNADO! I LEFT HIM IN A TORNADO! I am a horror among human beings. Please – don’t get into an crisis situation with me, man. I will shove your ass out of the way to get to that emergency exit, stealing the last life vest as I go.
I’m starting to think maybe it’s time for an increase in anxiety meds. Just a thought.
*10,000 Maniacs
July 11th, 2006
I’m a people-pleaser to a fault. I don’t know where it comes from or why – maybe it means I wasn’t held enough as an infant, or maybe I’m trying to make up for some long-ago shortcoming by my parents – I wasn’t breastfed, or I felt responsible for the divorce or whatever. Ooh ooh – maybe I have memories that are deep, dark in the corners of my mind, of a long-lost uncle I could never make happy, but desperately wanted to, so that I could get packages of gummy bears like my siblings. We’ll never really know, because it’s too late! I’m a people-pleaser!
People-pleasing makes me positively useless in any sort of situation when I’m being served/assisted/negotiating for a price. I am a peon among service people. I prostrate myself in front of them and thank them a million times for their business when I forget that I’m paying them. I’m all for being polite, but I spend so much time making sure that they feel good that I can’ t even remember what I went in there for in the first place, and if, God forbid, I’m dissatisfied at all with the purchase/interaction/whatever, I usually don’t say anything, because I think it’s my fault, and then they won’t like me. The bitch bathing suit clerk in Dillard’s won’t like me and the world will end and we will all have to eat pickled celery for all of eternity.
Anyway, this lovely bit of personality flaw is exactly how I get myself in the most ridiculous of situations, like paying too much for everything from car insurance (hello, Progressive! You lie! Lie!) to walking out of the salon with a really bad haircut and saying, “No! it’s GREAT! I love it!” through my tears so that the hairdresser won’t feel bad, and then going home and hurling myself on the bed and throwing a toddler-like tantrum and drinking lots of wine and blaming myself. It’s a vicious cycle.
Anyway, few years ago, I bought, errr leased my car. I was about to start a new job, and was in beyond desperate need for a car, since A. and I were sharing one while our places of employ were mere blocks from one another, and my new job was in the ‘burbs, away from his. That situation brought all kinds of fun, including the time when he left for a business trip and left the keys with the garage guys so I could leave later. I identified the car and hopped into it happily, and cruised at least 5 miles away when I noticed an open can of Pillsbury frosting on the passenger seat with a plastic spoon resting on the side. It was halfway empty, clearly eaten by a very hungry driver on the run. A second glance around the interior revealed a giant package of Entenmann’s chocolate covered donuts with exactly one bite out of each of the donuts, and half a coffee cake strewn about the back seat.
Oh my GOD. Frosting? FROSTING? Chocolate covered donuts? Is he a closet eater? Is he afraid to eat around me? OH MY GOD! He thinks I’m fat, and is afraid of showing his true eating habits, lest I mirror them! The poor guy!
It was when I found the lipstick and the plus-sized bolero jacket in the back seat that I realized I was fully driving someone else’s car. Someone else’s black 1998 Honda Accord that was identical to ours in every way, except for the frosting and the Weight Watchers keychain (the keys were already in the car when I got into it) (and based on the contents of the car, Weight Watchers wasn’t working).
Anyway, yes, it was time for me to get a new car, for a host of terrifying, frosting-laden reasons, and instead of negotiating like a normal person, I fully went into people pleasing mode at the Honda dealer.
People. Pleasing. Customer. Car. Dealership.
These words should warm the cockles of any car salesman’s heart, and if any of you have ever or do sell cars, I can tell right now that you are just WISHING it had been you behind that desk that day. Instead, it was Patrick, a giant-eared twenty-something geek with a bad suit and teal tie. And for some reason, I vehemently, and probably rudely, refused A.’s repeated offers of help on this little mission, which left me to my own weak devices. A mistake I will never make again. So when Patrick told me they don’t mark down CRVs, and that the only way to lower my monthly payments would be to do a four-year lease with the warranty expiring at the end of the third year, my response was an enthusiastic, “That sounds WONDERFUL! Totally reasonable! Thank you! Where do I sign, honey?” Yeah, I called him honey, because I’m maternal and also, people-pleasing.
And so, we lived happily ever after, Patrick, my car and me. Patrick with his comically high commission, and me, happily walking around naked as an emperor, until my air conditioner broke and it turned out to be the compressor and the dealership I am required by lease-agreement to take it to told me it would be $1700 to fix. Did I mention my warranty expired in March? And that leaves me with 8 months on this car? That I then have to RETURN, thus spending $1700 for a mere eight more months of cool driving? Investing in a new compressor for, essentially, the next owner of the car?
There’s a reason I’m telling you this, I promise. The Internet has given me many things, and the most recent gift is a free air conditioning compressor. My brilliant and infinitely more savvy husband did some research, and it appears that the Honda CRV compressor is historically faulty, and thus, if customers make a stink, the reimburse the entire cost of parts and labor. It’s a borderline-recall situation, and if it happens to you, fight back! Fight the system! Tell Honda how you really feel!
I did. I did! I didn’t people please! I threatened to never buy another Honda, and most importantly, for them to take their offers of wondrously low finance rates and shove them! I will buy Ford! GM! Kia! PEUGEOT! I did not apologize! Okay, I apoligized once. Or twice. Or maybe, I don’t know, four times, for being pushy and also, for my faulty compressor, because if it hadn’t broken, which must be my fault as I’m in Florida, then I wouldn’t be talking to them, would I? But it doesn’t matter! I won! They are now paying the full cost of the compressor.
And so, if only one person Googles Honda CRV compressor problems and gets here and sees this and saves money, then I will have repaid but a small debt to Internet society. Honda. Compressor. CRV. Recall. Key words, Googlers. Enjoy.
*REM, from the best album they did, Automatic for the People.
July 10th, 2006
I have no fashion sense. Zero. I like to pretend that this isn’t true, but I’m lying to myself if I say otherwise. I’m both blessed and plagued with the world’s most casual workplace, which means that I can show up naked and no one really notices. I’m alone in the office a lot, as most of the folks who work with me are out on assignment, and the others are working from home. I work from home sometimes, too, but I want to give Adam the space and respect of his own office, and I also think it’s good for me to get out – to see people, talk to strangers, even if it’s only Georgie, the parrot who lives at the Greek restaurant.
The unfortunate side effect of this is that my daily outfits range from the borderline acceptable (cute skirt and a t-shirt) to the downright slovenly (ill-fitting cargo pants and a Threadless t-shirt). I am not exaggerating when I tell you that my feet have not set foot in a single piece of footwear other than Reef flip flops in the last nine months. Well, except for the occasional sneaker when I go to the gym. To illustrate how sad the situation is, I recently graduated to leather Reefs, and actually felt fancy. Fancy! In Reefs!
Reefs and sneakers. Threadless Ts. I think it’s a cry for help, but who? Seriously, who can help me? I’m jealous of women who have the knack and/or inclination to dress well, but the cold truth is: I’m lazy. Pathetically lazy and also: tired. I’d rather sleep than make much of an effort in the mornings, and I just don’t feel like shopping most of the time. I’d rather spend the money on really great books, or music or dinners out and…more Reefs and Threadless Ts and bubble bath and perfume and maybe a lip gloss. At least I know what I’m doing in that arena. I walk into any random clothing store and usually end up muttering, “Fwahhaha?” when the clerk asks me what I want. I’ve no idea. I have zero sense of personal style, other than – again – Reefs, Airwalks and Threadless Ts. Help.
Thankfully, my blog is in better shape and definitely in better hands. There is a new look, yes! I’ve already been asked who did it, and to answer your question, it’s the beautiful Paige Maguire. You might know Paige as Miss Domestic, and no, she is no longer Miss Domestic, but has moved her work over to Flux-Rad, where she talks about seriously great music (my favorites are featured quite frequently), posts wickedly cool photos and the odd piece of fiction now and then. She’s a mom, too, to 4-year-old Dash, and has been a great example for of a mom who blogs who is anything but a mommyblogger.
It’s not entirely done yet, but will be soon, with fun, exciting new features like Flickr! Yes, I am the last person on earth to embrace Flickr, but it’s coming soon!
*Madonna
July 9th, 2006
Every single day, I think something nice about someone. Every day. Whether it’s how pretty they are, or how kind their eyes look, or how incredibly smart they sounded when sounding off about the wonders of melatonin, or why Mike Boogie has no earthly business being on Big Brother All Stars (anyone else addicted? Just me?).
While I consider myself relatively free with my compliments, the percentage is still somewhere in the 5% range of those happy thoughts I actually share with the owner. Mostly, it’s because I’m afraid of sounding like a stalker and/or a lunatic, and having the person think that I want something, or am trying to get into their pants. I also have a tendency to be a little over the top. I can’t give a reserved compliment without sounding insincere. Actually, I probably sound insincere anyway, because I am usually BLOWN AWAY by whatever it is I’m complimenting the person on, and before I know it, I’ve gotten mixed up with my words and I’ve just told a complete stranger, “I love you so much! Uhhh, I mean, I love that sweater so much! Not you! But I do like you! Maybe I would love you if I knew you! But not now! Ha! Just the sweater!” and run away.
99.9% of the time, I just like whatever it is they said/look like/whatever, and that .01 % of self-serving compliments are almost always reserved for Abe, whom I usually want something from and/or want to get in his pants. But that mercifully means y’all are safe.
Anyway.
I got a call from a woman today – a woman who saw something I’d done for work. She called to tell me how much she loved it – how much she loved me for writing it, and how much she hopes I continue to write, but for my life, as she’s been following things I’ve been working on. She finished it up by literally shouting into the phone, “KEEP WRITING! GET A BOOK DEAL! I LOVE IT!” and then hung up. She was probably 80, her voice breaking as she shouted over the airwaves.
I hung up the phone, put my head in my hands and honestly just burst into tears like a whimpering fool. She made my entire year with that one phone call, and she probably has no idea. She didn’t worry about offending me, or making me feel like she was a stalker – and she had to go through quite a bit of trouble to get my phone number, too, as I later learned she’d called four people looking for it. It was, to her, a simple thing to say, it cost her nothing but time, yet she went ahead and did it. And she had no idea how much it would mean to me, she just wanted to do it. She doesn’t know that it’s not just my day job, but a huge (wait for the gag word that I can’t believe I’m about to use in a sentence. You ready?) passion. (Heh, I just said passion in a sentence. PASSION! I might as well say “make love” and then throw up and die).
Complimenting someone else doesn’t take anything away from you – there is plenty of talent/beauty/whatever to go around – it just gives something to someone else, and you might never know how much. I know the 80 year-old reader who called herself Carol probably has no clue that I wrote down every word she said so that I’ll never forget it.
I know I said Fridays** would be fluffy, and I thought I’d go back to that. In fact, I had a whole post planned about the pros and cons of meringue (What is meringue? Why do we eat it? Why do egg whites get stiff, and why would anyone DO that?), but instead, I honestly want everyone who reads this to go out and compliment at least three people today. Genuinely compliment three people on things you notice. Maybe it’s the necklace on the clerk at the supermarket – for all you know, she made it and it’s her life’s work. Maybe it’s the way the waiter pours your wine – he could be studying to be a sommelier! Maybe that teacher at your son’s school goes home and works for 8 more hours in the evenings just to entertain her kids and keep parents happy, and all she wants is a “good job.” Or maybe someone is just always nice to you, no matter what. I’ll bet they’d like to hear it.
You get the idea. In the meantime, I’m figuring out where Carol lives so I can send her diamond earrings and kiss her on the lips.
*The Samples
**That I write on Thursdays 
July 6th, 2006
Some days when you’re down for a variety of reasons and just…sulking, something so wonderful happens out of the clear blue sky that makes you realize that yes! It’s all going to be okay.
Today wasn’t that day.
I hopped in the car, already grump-o from a series of totally annoying and stupid events, and was feeling kind of down after a weekend visit with my family (long story…), and I was so sure things would be looking up when I realized that while I had the AC fired up full speed, I was sweating enough to soak through my shirt and I was starting to smell. Yummy!
My car air conditioner broke and was actually spitting out hot air. It’s July in Florida. Do the math. Sooo, I sighed heavily and thought that while it’s true, we have had an alarming number of costly things happen to us in the last few months, an air conditioner isn’t that bad, even though my warranty expired last week and yes! It could be worse! We can swing this!
I took in a deep breath, cranked up the music and rolled down the window with REM on shuffle. Happy! Sun! Cool breezes! And then…after pulling out of a light, the car next to me decided to empty his ashtray out the window going 45 MPH. I hardly knew what happened when I felt things fly by my face and I was surrounded by an overwhelming stench of dirty ashes and burning cigarettes. The entire contents of the ashtray whipped through the air at lightning speed, and landed exactly in my passenger seat, after taking a detour all over my chest and face. A still-lit butt was slowly burning its way through my floor carpet on the passenger side, and my white shirt was completely coated in foul-smelling ash, while my windblown hair reeked of a strip club in Syracuse.
I’m in bed with a vodka tonic. Tomorrow will be better.
*REM of course. It was on repeat as the whole disaster was shaking out.
**And I’d like to point out that this is the second time someone else’s smoke caused me pain. Remember the rogue joint I almost got arrested for?
July 5th, 2006
Thursday night’s flight was clearly designed as punishment for someone on that plane, and, given my circumstances, I’m guessing it was me. It started out with Sunny screaming bloody murder as we entered the back of the plane, since Daisy, the rogue Jack Russell terrier behind us, was softly growling through the vents of her airline-issued plastic carrier. Instead of quietly answering her with a menacing turn of her own, Sunny thought that revenge was best exacted as loudly as possible, screaming like she’d been injured, and wiggling and kicking so hard that little paws and knees pushed out thed sides of the vented bag. To the untrained eye, I’m sure it looked like we were carrying a tornado in a duffel bag, waiting for the right moment to unleash its fury a few thousand feet above the earth.
Once she calmed down and was stowed safely beneath the seat in front of Adam (the middle seat was too small. This is, I might add, the first benefit of the middle seat I’ve ever encountered, ever) we took off in the most miserable and turbulent fashion ever in the history of flying. The plane hurtled through the air like a wooden roller coaster, lurching from side to side and careening over bump after bump, usually at the same time, creating a sickening combination of tenuous altitude and lateral torture. A look around the airplane revealed an odd mix of reactions – some were amused by the terrifying journey and laughed heartily as they shouted over the hum to their seatmates, “Good thing we skipped dinner!” Others were considerably less composed as they dropped their heads into their knees, hastily grabbing the too-small airsick bag on their way down. Still more prayed to God aloud, tears streaming down their faces as they clutched the arm rests with the force of a pit bull’s jaw.
The family behind me had a unique way of coping with the horror of it all. The young child, called, “Papi” by his grandmother, happily kicked and giggled his way through the passing storm, his feet just long enough to reach the tray table on the back of my seat. He demonstrated this power by kicking hard with both feet, using formidable force. Each pitch, totter and heave of the plane only served to fuel his excitement as he screeched with unbridled joy, and I became convinced that the last experience I will have on this earth, errr, sky, would be:
“AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
Kickkickkickkickkickkickkickkick
“AIEEEE MAMI!”
Kickkickkickkickkickkickkickkickkickkickkick
“AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE”
“PAPI! We’re flying Papi! LOOK! We’re flying! YAYAYAYAYAY!!!” She was as loud as she was, and boy, was Papi excited!
“AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. WE FLY, MAMI”
Kickkickkickkickkickkickkick
“AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, we hit what is commonly referred to as an “air pocket,” but what feels like a “giant wave of death that will kill us,” likely the size of the wave that drowned the Andrea Gail as we struggled to reach the crest, but failed as we fell, out of control. Down, down, down into the abyss, stopping only once we reached the depths of hell. I clutched the arm rest, sweating, head firmly pressed to the back of the seat, certain that if I became one with the aircraft, I could save us. Silence was of the utmost importance. One false move and the spell would be broken. I was holding the plane together with my calmness! Behold! The woman in seat 4D is a magician!
It was during the plummet that the woman next to me screamed out loud, like someone stabbed her in the eye. NO! NO! THE SPELL CANNOT BE BROKEN!
“BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” she cried, bursting into tears. “I CANNOT TAKE THIS. WE ARE GOING TO DIE.”
Instead of comforting her, my first instinct was to shut her up, because again: the spell! I told her so, in a not-so-calm way, “SHHHH! YOU STOP THAT CRAZY TALK. SHUSH SHUSH SHUSH!”
And then, realizing my rudeness, I tried to stroke her arm softly (?!), but because I was so nervous, ended up clawing at her flesh with my fingernails. “SHUSH! IT IS GOING TO BE OKAY IF YOU JUST STAY QUIET!”
“THAT HURTS.”
“SORRY. STOP YELLING.” And yet, we were both yelling.
As we pulled above the clouds and leveled off, all that remained of our histrionics was painfully awkward silence.
I just hope tomorrow’s flight is better.
*Kay Hanley
July 3rd, 2006
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