Holding hands is for boyfriends and other important thoughts.

Let’s talk about Kevin. Kevin was on the plane with me from Indy to Phoenix (oh? My direct flight? Not so direct. Stopped not once but twice. Hence why I left at 3pm East coast time and got home at 7pm West coast. ) So anyway. I sat in the window, and the woman on the isle had a little girl in her lap that I assumed would take the middle seat. Then very close to take off Kevin, who I think weighed in the neighborhood of 250, comes and takes the middle. I HATE sitting next to big people on the plane. I’m small! By airplane people standards I’m nearly tiny! I take up my seat and mine only. I don’t spill over and I don’t take kindly to spillover by others, all touching my arm and shit.

Plus the guy was a talker. On planes, I roll like this: I read my books, I listen to my iPod, I sleep. Only if you seem exceptionally cool or are exceptionally good looking and male do I want to talk to you. If you’re 250+, loud, obnoxious, and less than scholarly and by less than scholarly I mean that speaking proper English seems to be a challenge to you, I’m the little bitch that doesn’t want to listen to you blabber.

Kevin starts out the flight by squealing about he hates take off. “Can I hold your hand?” What the hell do you say to that?! No? I’m a bitch and I refuse to hold your hand? You clearly can’t do that. All you can do is hope he didn’t involve his palm when he last wiped his ass and take the plunge. When we reached cruising altitude he ordered number 1 of 4 double Jack and cokes. Which reeked. And thus he initiated conversation that I desperately wanted no part of. But I was cordial! You have to be when you know you’re spending the next 5 hours together.

I put my iPod on. That means I want to listen to my music, not talk about iPods with you. I start to read my book. That means I want to read my book, not discuss the title of the book and how you’re heading to Vegas for your mom’s vow renewal. I finish my book and attempt to sleep. THAT means that my eyes are shut and I’m about to drift into my subconscious, it isn’t a cue for you to reiterate information about myself that I’ve already told you. You don’t have to remember anything about me. Such as, “What’s your name again? Lindy?” It’s my eyes are fucking closed, you douche.

B/c he continuously jostles my arm and b/c his drinks smell so bad he then has to ask repeatedly if I’m alright. B/c I’m clearly not getting any sleep I return to awake mode long enough for him to tell me that I have beautiful eyes before full on staring at me and telling me that I’m beautiful.

At this point he’s not only irritating, but slightly creepy since I know his wife is on the plane rows behind us and b/c he’s told me all about his daughter. (If you want to know, she’s 18. She has a tiny waist but huge hips and a big old ass. But no stomach. She wore short shorts once. Kevin told her she couldn’t be wearing those unless she lost some weight. This was a most awesome conversation).

So I go to sleep again. After I do successfully fall asleep, I’m woken up by Kevin nudging me. He hands me a card with his name, address and phone number and asks me if I’d mind sending him a note b/c he’d love to come visit San Fran and he’d love to see me. I asked if he had email (no) so I guess I’ll just be sending that post card. I’ll be sending it tomorrow I’m sure. If not tomorrow, then the next day. If not the next day, then never. And I’ll be washing my hair for the next 48 hours so I guess that post card won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

I can give you his address though if you’d like to drop him a note.

He asked again when takeover prep started if I’d hold his hand. He asked about 15 min in advance of actual touch-down which meant my delicate phalanges (is that the word?) got to be held in his sweaty vice grip for 15 min longer than I ever wanted them there. When I get really angry or really irritated I kind of start to shake a little, kind of vibrate-like. I think that I was practically levitating by the time Kevin de-planed. Truly delightful flight.

Oh, hold on, I hear rustling outside and want to go see if a vagrant is sleeping on my doorstep. Be right back. Umm, no, no vagrant.

Anyway. So in other news, what happened when I was home? Aside from getting “little brown bear” tan of my childhood, purchasing several amazing pairs of shoes on sale from Saks (including completely ridiculous pink suede Prada platforms), taking advantage of Jane’s generosity in helping my furnish the new pad, hanging out w/ my childhood friends, ensuring that Greggy didn’t to share beds with his girlfriend, spending an evening with my relatives who some reason are all over the age of 70, eating yummy and delicious foods, drinking at least one glass of wine per night…Jack got a new left hip!

Yes. Jack got a total hip replacement in his left hip. Goldens can be prone to hip displaysia and little Jackie B, who Jane has taken to calling “Misty” (I call him Mister and then sometimes insist on calling him “Mistaaaaaaaa” in a rowdy little voice but then my mom took it a step further by calling him what is honestly a bad GIRL’S name from 1983), has it bad. So we took him to Ohio State Univ Vet Hosp and they fixed him right up. Dick and Jane have the fun task of keeping the dog, who now has great hips and the same puppy energy level he had pre-op, “quiet” and “still” for 3 months. Much luck.

Maybe I can send Kevin to visit and it’ll scare the hell and energy out of my dog into a point of non-movement for three months. I’ll ponder that. In the meantime, I think I’m going to take a shower and get into my new 450 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Ta-ta kiddos. Sayonara.