2004-07-26

Written July 14th. I don’t know which was worse on my flight from Huntsville to Dallas – the four year-old kicking the back of my seat the entire way, or the pitch of the flight attendant’s voice when she spoke to the four year-old and her sister. No, wait. It was the ten minutes of screaming when the four year-old didn’t want to put on her seat belt. I feel your pain, kid, ’cause I sure hate putting that friggin’ seat belt on, too. Ah, yeah. I lurrrve flying. The flight wasn’t so horribly bad despite the fact that it seemed to be 50% kids under the age of 7, and we landed half an hour early, only to find that our flight to L.A. was delayed by an hour. Good thing we had the 3-hour layover in L.A, I suppose. From Huntsville to Dallas, I read a god-awful piece of crap called The Last Year of Being Single, which makes me sad because I was really looking forward to it. I happily left the book on the plane after I skipped to the end and found out what happened, though in the interest of kindness to my fellow (wo)man, I should have tossed it in the trash. The spud and I ate at TGI Friday’s. Ugh. We should have just opted for frozen yogurt instead. The restrooms in this airport are distressingly few and far between.

* * * Our flight from Dallas to L.A. was horribly packed. I was crammed in a window seat, because I made the spud (being much smaller than I) sit in the middle seat. The woman sitting next to the spud was one who’d had a very loud conversation on her cellphone while in the terminal. During her conversation, she’d been sure several times to mention her wedding, her husband, her honeymoon, and to wave her left hand around so that everyone could see and admire her rock. (It was gorgeous, I’ll give her that) So when she sat down next to the spud, I did an inner eyeroll and groan. “Oh, GREAT,” I thought. “She’s going to tell us allll about her beeeyootiful wedding. Grrrreat.” Well, I’m a bitch (big shocker there, eh?), because she was perfectly friendly without being overly chatty. And when we landed in L.A, she offered the spud her “In Touch” magazine. Did you know that one of those Olsen twins has an eating disorder? I had no idea. Who says “In Touch” can’t educate? I am perturbed to discover that fountain Coke products don’t seem to be easy to find in airports once you leave the deep South. Pepsi drinkers, don’t be offended since this is just my opinion, okay? Diet Pepsi has kind of a urine-y aftertaste. I hate Aquafina bottled water. Bleh. Time to check out the gift shops. Whoo! * * * We just saw Jeffrey Tambor. Surprisingly, the spud’s the one who spotted him. “Omigod! I see someone famous!” she said. “You know Three’s Company, when Mr. and Mrs. Roper moved away, and there was the guy next door who didn’t want them to move in?” Sad to say, Jeffrey Tambor’s face immediately popped into my head. “Where?” I said. She pointed to a man in a hat and sunglasses standing by some croissant sandwich place. Sure as shit, it was him. But I could NOT think of his name. Naturally, I picked up the cellphone and called Fred. “Go to your computer!” I said. “I’m at my computer already.” “Go to Internet Movie Database and look up The Ropers!” Jeffrey Tambor and a gorgeous blonde were on the move. The spud and I followed at a distance. “What’s that, a new movie?” Fred asked. “It was the Three’s Company spinoff,” I said. And yes, it’s sad that I knew that. “Okay.” “Start reading me the actors’ names,” I said. Jeffrey Tambor and his wife/ girlfriend/ friend stopped at the currency exchange counter. “Norman Fell… Audra Lindley… I think they’re both dead now, by the way…” “Yeah, keep reading.” “Jeffrey Tambor – ” “That’s it! I’m looking at him right now!” I all but yelled. “Take his picture!” With the spud standing as if posing for a picture, I goonily took a few pictures. Unfortunately, the camera was on some fucked-up setting, and I ended with really blurry pictures of his back. I have no idea what was going on with the camera. My brush with fame. Heh. As excited as I got seeing Jeffrey Tambor, if I ever see anyone REALLY famous, I’ll probably literally shit my pants. Come on, LAX. Jeffrey Tambor is all you have to offer?? * * * It’s 7:38 pm Hawaii time (I turned my watch back when we left L.A.), which makes it 12:38 am Alabama time, which makes it WAY past my bedtime. Thanks, Male Pattern Baldness in the seat in front of me. Thanks for slamming your seat back so far that it’s against my knees. Thanks for doing that the second we reached cruising altitude, even though you didn’t bother to go to sleep, but instead are sitting there chatting with your wife, or whoever the fuck she is. I’m not bothering you by constantly smacking the back of your seat when I shift my legs, am I? (Just a little trick I learned from a four year-old) Q: What’s worse than walking into an airplane bathroom and being greeted by a BIG stank? A: Walking out of said bathroom, knowing that the person waiting to walk in will attribute said stink to YOU, even though you didn’t do it. * * * It’s 8:55 pm Hawaii time, which makes it 1:55 am Alabama time. We’ve been in the air for three hours, and there is a stupid fucking twathead two rows up who has been intermittently shuffling the same goddamn stupid fucking goddamn fucking deck of cars for the last two goddamn fucking hours, and I want to rip her goddamn fucking ::fliiiip::TAP::TAP::TAP::FLIIIP::TAP::TAP::TAP::FLIP::TAP::TAP::TAP::FLIP::TAP::TAP::TAP:: head off her stupid fucking goddamn neck ::FLIP::TAP::TAP::TAP:: ::FLIP::TAP::TAP::TAP:: ::FLIP::TAP::TAP::TAP:: and shit down her stupid fucking twathead throat. WHAT? What the goddamn fucking christ am I going to do, tap her on her stupid fucking twathead shoulder and say “Excuse me, you self-centered twat, the screaming baby in the seat behind me doesn’t bother me because he can’t help his misery and also he’s cute, but if I hear one more goddamn fucking flip or one more goddamn fucking tap I will KILL YOUR STUPID ASS.”? Yeah. I’m not Courtney Love YET. I fucking hate this. I am staying in Honolulu for the rest of my goddamn life, I am never flying anywhere ever the fuck again STOP READING OVER MY SHOULDER SPUD, YES IT IS TECHNICALLY STILL “OVER MY SHOULDER” EVEN IF YOU ARE TO THE SIDE OF ME AND NOT THE BACK STOP IT. Why did my goddamn father have to take this assignment and why did I think this was a good idea? I hate the card-shuffling twat, I hate my parents, I hate this pen I’m holding because it’s not you (SHUT UP, BRIAN KRAKOW) HATE. HATE. HATE. OH LOOK. SHE STOPPED SHUFFLING. SHE’S GOING TO SLEEP. DOESN’T SHE LOOK COMFY. PARDON ME WHILE I GO POKE HER STUPID GODDAMN EYES OUT WITH MY PEN. ]]>