My Yankee Husband’s Bad Influence Has Made Me Suspicious Of Everyone

While I was sitting in the Atlanta airport finishing my last post and trying to forget that in another 45 minutes I’d be on yet another plane, I noticed a woman watching me. She was a little older than I am and she seemed to be alone. And she stared at me and her book for equal amounts of time during the 30 minutes that I typed. I had my back firmly against a wall and kept her in my peripheral sights as I did my thing. I’m not usually a paranoid person, but in large airports and strange cities I tend to be more aware. And when my dearest-darling-life-giving laptop is in my clutches, I’m like a mother with a premature baby in the middle of a crowd: convinced that every molecule approaching is the one that will bring an infection and yank the precious baby away. Where do I get my metaphors? Anyway, I kept her in my sights. She had a book, but she was only looking at it half the time. She stood up and walked in front of me once, and I waited to see where she would settle in a new seat so that I could discreetly get up a few minutes later and move in the opposite direction. Instead she walked away and then walked back. And sat down and kept glancing at me every few minutes. I started to tell myself that I was being paranoid – she’d never met my eyes as I glanced at her; maybe she was looking at someone else? Maybe there was a spider on the wall behind me, and she was waiting in case she needed to save my life? Maybe she was figment of my freaking-out imagination? I packed up my laptop and got in line to board the plane, and guess what? You’ll never guess. I wound up sitting behind the woman on the plane. I did meet her eyes as I passed her seat and she smiled at me, lowered her eyes and blushed. AHA! It could only mean one of two things: She had picked me out to commit some horrible act of violence upon or….she’s in love with me. Since it wouldn’t be the first time a woman has hit on me, and since I tend to go with the happier of two solutions, I silently voted for the love-factor. When she turned around in her seat to speak to me, I was still debating which was right. “You do not remember me, I don’t think?” An accent. She definitely had a French accent. The only person I “know” that is French is definitely male – and married to one of my best friends. IF he’d had a sex change operation, I would’ve heard about it. So, no, lovely yet strange French lady. I don’t know you. And now I’m chatting with a total stranger in a plane. Damn it, I have become my sister. “I think you were in France a few years ago?” she volunteered. Um. I was? Oh yeah! I was in Paris two and a half years ago. But…again, the only person I knew while I was in Paris is back in the Deep South, still male, and very still speaking sans accent. And I’m still chatting with her. Damn it, I don’t need another person to make cookies for. “You helped me. In the airport. My baby was sick on my blouse, and you picked up his toy and washed it for him? You remember?” Well, Holy Vomit Batman. Yes I do. She was walking into the bathroom in front of me in THE WORST AIRPORT EVER – Charles de Gaulle – and her very small baby chose that moment to lose his cookies all over her. She dropped his toy on the floor, and I picked it up and washed it for her and handed it to him on the changing table while she changed her shirt in the middle of the bathroom. We barely exchanged a word. I assume that I finished what I had gone into the bathroom to do – it was probably to remind myself that I still loved my husband, because I DO remember that we had a huge fight in the middle of Charles de Gaulle. So I ended up chatting with her for a few minutes (I did not ask for her address to send her a Christmas card – I may have become my sister, but I have not become my godmother. Yet.). I have no French beyond vous lez vous coche a vec moi, and I speak English entirely too fast, but she DOES speak English quite well. And right before she turned around to put her seatbelt on, I asked how in the world she recognized me – because I had looked her straight in the eyes and not known her at all. She smiled and said something to the effect that if I had had a small baby, and a total stranger helped me, I would remember too. “Also,” she smiled. “The eyes. You have very beautiful blue eyes and all that red hair. It’s a shame we are both married to men, no?” Well. I don’t know that it’s a shame – but I welcome compliments on my eyes from all comers. Moral of the story: Baby vomit creates international relationships.

Surviving the panic attack

I wrote this in the middle of a layover. I’m posting it unedited 6 hours later because…well, hell, because this is my blog and I CAN. Obviously, I survived. I’ve never been a lover of airplanes. They get me less and less efficiently from point A to point B on every trip, but for some destinations – say, Europe – they really are necessary since I don’t have the kind of vacation time it would require to cruise back and forth across the Atlantic. I’ve learned that I’m going to be nervous. That the first step on the plane is accompanied by the tightening of a tail that evolution still hasn’t convinced my body is unnecessary; the deep-lung-breath of air that holds me over til the next deep one comes when I set foot off the plane; the temporary hand-clutching that slowly eases as I make my way to my seat. It’s a ritual. I was raised Catholic – I’m good with rituals. Sit in the seat, open the book. Read merrily along through jostling, crying babies, The Stewardess Address, The Captain’s Welcome. When the plane actually begins to move, my eyes close, I say a prayer to the first saint that comes to mind, and then I concentrate on breathing and pretend to read until the plane is winging it’s way through the air that surely it was never meant to occupy. I’ve flown many times before. I’ve flown alone. I’ve flown with a large group. I’ve flown with just a few people. I’ve flown through turbulence so bad that 20 people I knew personally were throwing up in their bags. I’ve sat next to a pregnant woman who had a seizure and threw up on me, causing my own gag reflex to rear its head. I’ve flown across the ocean a few times and I’ve flown around the US. I’ve spent hours watching movies, sleeping, reading, talking, eavesdropping. So why in the name of all that is holy did I have a freaking panic attack this morning as the wheels left the ground? I broke out in a cold sweat. I clenched my hand so hard that I still have indentations in my hand. I took deep breaths and got scared looks from the woman next to me. 50 minutes later, when the plane landed in Atlanta, I felt a relief on the level that I felt last night when I realized My Guy won. Where the hell did that come from? And how am I supposed to get on a plane in another 80 minutes? Funny thing - the second half of the trip? No big deal. I dozed, I read. What the heck was that about?

This is what ELATED looks like

Election Day. I'm Scared. Hold Me.

I voted - there was almost no line at 2 PM. My hand was shaking. Have I mentioned I'm terrified? I'm supposed to be packing for my conference. I need to triple check my travel orders and reservations. I need to make those stuffed mushrooms for the election party tonight. I need to clean the litterbox, take out the trash, put the recyleables in my car, charge all my batteries... But I'm glued to the TV - and they're NOT REPORTING anything yet since, ya know, there's like a half a day left til this thing's over. Please, dear God, Zeus, Flying Spaghetti Monster - Anyone Who Will Help - let this be over today, in whatever time zone that today ends. Please don't make me get on a plane tomorrow while there's still 24/7 discussion about who might win because no one knows that I'll miss out on. I'm beginning to think the Taco Bell I had for lunch was a bad idea.

Look! Cat Pictures!

Because they are so much more soothing than watching the news.

Well, there goes my self control

I can't keep it in anymore. I have to spew it somewhere and The Professor has taken to answering me with grunts and silent nods. Next thing I know he'll be stuffing his ears with cotton that I won't notice due to the fact that I haven't actually looked at his face in days. Why? Because his face doesn't reveal the latest shimmer of motion in the polls, or tell me the latest stupid thing some campaign person has said, or give me some slight glimmer of what 50.1 percent of the voters in this country might do. I wake up to the morning show on the cable news station with at least 3 people talking. I turn on NPR as soon as my body is in my car. Due to the wonders of a program called VBrick, I check in with various news sources on my PC all day. Another hour of NPR on the way home...and I arrive home just in time for the evening rounds. Obviously, someone needs to stage an intervention. Just give me a few more days. Being Another Bright Blue Dot in a Really Red State - and a state (like 48 others) that doesn't divide its electoral votes proportionally - I always have this Shadow in my head when it's time to vote. The shadow asks "Why bother?". Electoral-vote.com - my first online stop in the morning these days - tells me that the other guy is currently ahead 61%-36%. And since the popular vote means next to nothing in this country...why am I doing it? It is just a Shadow, though, and I beat The Shadow down with a stern lecture on rights, responsibilities and patriotism that I won't go into, because you would probably barf all over your computer monitor. And no one wants to see that. I'm excited this year. I'm terrified. Frustrated, too - My Guy's not perfect. But he's a damn sight better than Mr My Friends. Oh! Speaking of him...go check this out - I endorse its message 1000%. I'm also so incredibly hopeful that this time, My Side won't screw things up. And every time I dare to think those words, my heart seizes up - Oh NO! I Just jinxed the entire election with the awesome and terrifying power of thinking that the best might happen! I want Tuesday to be NOW. This very second. This election has been going on for 2 years and I'm sick of it. I want Tuesday to be 6 months from now because I'm not ready to deal with the disappointment if we lose again. I want to fast forward to Wednesday morning so that I know if it's worth staying up all night watching election returns when I have a plane to catch at 9:30 AM. I want it to be the moment that we win RIGHT NOW. I want John McCain - and most especially, Sarah Palin - to disappear. I want to never hear their names again, and I want that to happen because enough people realized that they're loony in the head and that they should be put out to pasture. A very large pasture. Not in an evil or vindictive way, but in the way that you don't allow mentally disturbed people alone unsupervised with your three month old and a butcher knife. The world needs to be sheltered from them. Ok, I have to go put on a costume and party with a bunch of ...how does my blog-friend Karen put it? Oh yeah, a bunch of "tree-hugging bleeding-heart liberal pinko commie Massachusetts Alabama Democrat{s}". So, to leave you with a happy note, I have a present for you: This video has been linked all over the internets this week - and here's a warning: Get Tissues. Many of them. You're welcome.

To Keep my brain from exploding in a rainbow of political ramblings...

Here's the obligatory post of the cats getting their annual dose of the first fire of the season. I got the camera in hand before we turned it on, and - Honestly - this was 90 seconds after the fireplace was turned on for the first time this year: What are they getting from the fumes that I'm not? Jealous? Absolutely.

Playing Chicken with the Birds

There are 3 birds outside, chasing each other and doing who-knows-what other kind of birdly activities in my bushes. All Lucius and Sultan know is this: if they combine the terrifying power of their direct, compelling and oddly supernatural stares, they will surely lure the birds through the glass and into their waiting clutches.

He'd be embarrassed, but..

I am so proud right now. Of my nephew. Watching the debate, my sis and I were on direct link via Google Chat (And, I daresay, a scary psychic link). And she told me at the beginning that my nephew, M, was watching with her. Now, M is 14. How many 14 year olds watched the debate tonight? But every now and then, my sis told me a comment that M had made. After it was over, he had a few more. More importantly - he watched the whole thing. And had opinions. Regardless of his politics, I am incredibly glad that my 14 year old nephew cares enough to watch one and a half hours of political discourse when he could be playing online, or reading one of his books, or doing one of a million other things. I know adults that don't care that much. I'm proud of him. I know he's involved in an organization at school - completely on his own, my sis wouldn't push him into something like that - and I'm so glad that he cares. That says a lot about the person he is, and the person he will become. About the kind of parents my sister and brother-in-law are. In short, I'm proud (have you gotten that fact yet? Well, I just watched a debate where they repeated things). And I've had enough to drink during the presidential grandstanding (I had to - "I have a bracelet too" - we're in a jewelry war?) to share that with the world at large. It's enough to make me think that the future won't be so bad.

The benefit to still having acne at age 30:

When you walk in the door to your house with your arms full, and a cat-who-shall-remain-nameless (LUCIUS, I WILL NEVER LET YOU GO, STOP TRYING!) makes an escape attempt through your legs, causing you to land flat on your face on the carpet at 80 mph, causing, in turn, a large rug burn right under your nose and a smaller one on your chin that actually get bloodier and more painful 36 hours after they happened ……People will assume it’s just another massive zit gone bad. Or that your husband belted you one. I guess it speaks well of The Professor that everyone assumes I’ve had a facial eruption. PS: Said not-so-unnamed cat stopped an inch outside of the door, sat down and looked at me. When I stood up, he made a beeline back in the house and went to his food bowl. I will never understand why he needs to go out so badly, when every time he makes it free from my tyranny, he immediately heads back inside. Life's about the journey, Deborah, not the destination... PPS: My arms were not full of my laptop at the time, so the only thing you need to worry about is my face, if you feel so inclined.