Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Las Vegas Vol. 2, Chapter 1

You might remember my last Las Vegas adventure. Yup, that's where I spent Valentine's Day last year...with my dad.

Well, I took another trip to the City of Sin recently to celebrate the great Kaedy Kiely's birthday in style. Because we were celebrating a fantastic 50 year young lady, I expected and uneventful (in terms of bloggable stories) weekend. If not for the flight, I would have been right. Fear not, this was hands-down the weirdest flight of all time.

Now, we all have different preferences when it comes to flying buddies - particularly when they are strangers. No one wants to be in the middle seat with obese/smelly/loud/obnoxious (take your pick) neighbors. Some people are talkers. Some are not. I can be happy either way (those of you who know me aren't suprised to read that). True, sometimes people talk too much or people are rudley silent. But how many times have you been in a position like this? (And no, that is not a rhetorical question. I really want to know - and if you have stories, share them dang it!)

To say I was pumped about getting on the plane would be a gross understatement. My flight had been delayed for more than six hours (thank goodness I got up at 4:30 am to get to the airport on time), there were no alternate flights and I was sure to miss night #1 festivities. Oh, and when I get stressed, I break out in hives (it's even more attractive than it sounds). I was also jazzed because KK hooked up a first class ticket for me - and that meant a big(ger) seat, lower likelihood of encountering a "talker" and free drinks to help me unwind and fall asleep.

I quickly settled in to my front row seat and waited patiently to find out who my seat partner would be.

"Welp! Looks lke we're sitting next to each other." The voice was friendly and belonged to a beer bellied dude, probably in his 40s, moustached, wearing a ballcap that said something about the military and some college t-shirt.

"Hi!" I said cheerily. Clearly this dude was going to read a hunting magazine, drink some beers and conk out.

He sat down and we each situated ourselves with necessary items for the flight: music, reading material, disengaged stares at the wall in front of us.

"Hope you won't think I'm rude," said Billy Bob. "I'm not much of an airplane talker, I'll probably just fall right asleep."

"Oh, don't worry about it. I'm sure I'll sleep most of the way too."

"Whew, glad we got that out of the way then. No awkward airplane conversation," he kinda joked. "If you need to get up and I'm asleep, just nudge me."

"Ok, " I said with a laugh. As far as I was concerned, I had the perfect traveling buddy. We both wanted to just fall asleep, he was a normal guy - not some Richie Rich type who was going to look down at me for wearing leggings and a sweater on the plane.

The stewardess came by asking if we wanted a drink. I ordered a beer and he followed suit. She asked if I wanted a cup. He laughed. I said no thank you.

I cracked it open, ready for some "Shutter Island" and silence.

"Peace and quiet and a good beer. Right?" he said.

I smiled.

The thing is, the peace and quiet lasted an entire 90 seconds.

"So what's your situation?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are you single? Or...in a relationship? No wedding band, I see."

The doors to the plane weren't closed. The final passengers weren't even seated.

I fastened my seat belt.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Thanks J.D.

This was posted a while back, but I thought Holden could pass on some parting wisdom from the late great J.D. Salinger...

Granted, today he'd be in his 80's, but Holden Caulfield's take on women throughout Catcher in the Rye is honest and absolutely hysterical.

Here's a passage I was reading recently and thought you might get a kick out of it - Holden talking about gettin' it on:

The thing is, most of the time when you're coming pretty close to doing it with a girl - a girl that isn't a prostitute or anything, I mean - she keeps telling you to stop. The trouble with me is, I stop. Most guys don't. I can't help it. You never know when they really want you to stop, or whether they're just scared as hell, or whether they're just telling you to stop so that if you do go through with it, the blame'll be on you, not them. Anyway, I keep stopping. The trouble is, I get to feeling sorry for them. I mean most girls are so dumb and all. After you neck them for a while, you can really watch them lose their brains. You take a girl when she really gets passionate, she just hasn't any brains. I don't know. They tell me to stop, so I stop. I always wish I hadn't, after I take them home, but I keep doing it anyway.


Salinger, J.D. The Catcher in the Rye. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1951