White Trash + Airplanes = Free In-Flight Reality TV

Okay, so I really have to talk about this couple that sat one isle over from my seat on my flight to LA last night. I hate to be like this, but seriously, I think I had my first encounter with real, honest-to-goodness white trash.

This couple boarded the plane, looking kind of wanna-be hipish, but with some serious not so hip giveaways. Like the woman had rhinestones down the seam of her otherwise not so bad pants. And the guy, well, his nasty trucker's baseball cap just eclipsed his distressed leather jacket and hipster jeans. Oh, and he had that look – the one that kind of shouts, ‘I’m really stupid.’

The couple seemed really sweet when they boarded the plane. They were definitely young, maybe early twenties. And they had tons of electronic gadgets to keep them busy. An IPod, a portable PSP, what looked like a Blackberry. But all techno knowledge aside, they seemed really kind of lame in general. Like maybe they’d had just a few too many sips of contaminated well water.

Anyway, the flight attendant had to show the guy how to buckle his seatbelt, and then, and I swear, even after her demonstration, he asked the attendant how to unbuckle. Later, Ms. Trash had it out with the flight attendant, because though the attendant had already announced she couldn’t make change and asked for exact cash only, Ms. Trash didn’t have anything smaller than a twenty and wanted her alcohol. When the attendant told Ms. Trash she’d come back after she sold a few drinks and had change, Ms. Trash waited for the attendant to leave and then complained up a thunderstorm to her equally challenged counter-part.

Later, the two got in a fight and Ms. Trash yelled at Mr. Trash so loudly, about half the rows from 20 on back turned around to stare (on a very quiet red-eye).

During the flight, Mr. and Ms. Trash took down their carry-on luggage, and barricaded their isle in, by shoring up the empty isle seat with two suitcases. During the descent, even after the attendant’s announcement, they left their luggage there on the seat and floor. Then a flight attendant came by and told them to stow it above.

Pop quiz. Did they?

Not a chance. Mr. and Ms. Trash kind of stared at the attendant blankly. About five minutes later, the same flight attendant came back, clearly unhappy with the couple, and spent a few minutes loudly chastising their stupidity. She spoke to them like two-year olds and I had to clamp my mouth shut to keep from giggling. It took the couple another few minutes after that, to figure out what to do.

To top it off, a woman two rows up on the isle, kept turning on her cell-phone to check the time. That even after a flight attendant personally asked her to keep it off during the flight when she caught the women checking her voice-mail. And a group of men from Japan occupied the row of seats two rows behind me. They talked in Japanese at an unbecoming decibel level the whole flight, at one point arguing about who-knows what. If you’ve ever heard men argue in Japanese, you know what I’m saying.

Anyway, I’ve been on hundreds of flights, and though I definitely have some stories to tell about almost dying it on a few of them, I can’t say I’ve ever been as entertained by the company. Disgusted . . . well, there was that one flight to Japan next to some poor guy with the worst gas imaginable. Fourteen hours of holding my breath and looking longingly at the barf bag. Bust intellectually disgusting, never.

Ode of the day: To the unsung chance taker. Like people who finally fly, or leave their state (if not city) for the first time in over twenty years. I don’t get it, but I’m not them. And initiative at any point is better than a lifetime of unmerited complacency.

Pass The Box Elder Please

Someone held the door for me at the gas station this morning. Nice way to start the day considering how often I seem to get smacked in the face by the oh so many self-absorbed assholes multi-tasking on their cell-phones these days. The worst is, at least those cell phone dips have an excuse. Stupidity really is better than plain old rudeness, and rudeness seems to be contagious lately.

I have a parent-teacher conference this afternoon. Parent-teacher conferences are a funny thing when your kid’s in elementary school. It’s like we all act so serious we've forgotten we’re talking about 'Goosebumps' and really advanced addition (or ehem, geometry), not college admissions. But they make me nervous anyway. I want to make a good impression on my kid's third grade teachers so she can go and tell all the other teachers that her student's mom is really cool. You know, so I have another two years where at least someone admires me.

Anyone check the news? Texas and Ohio are either going to make my day or ruin it. Wait, that's tomorrow. Ignore me.


Ode of the day: To Box Elders

I’m pretty sure now that Box Elders are an alien species. Little science-bots or observers. They’re very calm, terribly hard to crush and don’t seem to mind being flicked a couple feet. Beat them up and they come back just the same, sort of clueless. And Box Elders sure love humans. You can always count on finding a couple hanging around just inches from whatever warm body happens to be in the vicinity; staring, furiously wiggling their little antennae like they’re reciting an alien reciting Ulysses. Oh, and they have no compunctions about walking all over you. Creepy.

The little black and orange flappers are everywhere. I went to pee earlier and had to share the bathroom with a little guy who seemed to be having issues stabbing the porcelain tile on the wall with the stabby little hairs on his feet. He couldn’t stabilize, and kept sliding down a tiny bit for every half-inch he made it up the wall. And he kept wiggling his feelers at me, like he wanted my help or something. Really, it’s bad enough I have to share the bathroom with my two male children.

I’ve flicked them off my arm in bed. Out of my green tea. Off my dark chocolate. They seem to like all the same things. Um, maybe they’re studying me.

If Weekends Smelled Like Something

Did this weekend ever happen? Did it? Wasn't it just Friday. I don't see the point of weekends. Weekends pass like lightning. Like I sit down to relax for just one little minute then next thing you know, it's Monday.

I wish I could say something exciting happened to me, or anyone I know this weekend, but I'd be lying. I saw Charles Bartlett, i.e., really bad movie. I bought a book on screenwriting and sat up all night, rehearsing my Oscar winning screenplay of epic proportions in my head (still plagued by insomnia this whole last week). It always sounds so much better when it's knocking around my brain than when I put it to paper. Sunday, I couldn't write a thing. It's all just still stuck in the faucet. I couldn't even edit - I'm just hacking my book to pieces.

I also cut a bunch of really pretty pieces of glass and then stood around staring at them. They looked a whole lot better arranged in my head. I had really great sex Saturday night though, so that makes up for it all, doesn't it? Good sex makes up for a whole lot of things. I got a backrub too. Back rub and sex and then, really, I got my husband to cook dinner. Sort of the holy grail of domestic mediocrity. Not that I'm complaining.

I've got to get ready for a show, and I'll be in LA for a week and half before it, so I'm reeeaaaalllyyy busy. Guess I should re-think the weekend. Fast as it was, at least I had some room to breath. Not as likely to happen the next two weeks.

I'm doing a really lousy job of pretending I'm fascinated by Arthur and the invisibles while I write this. The kids are too young yet to figure out that I'm not really interested. Just like when they tell me something and I nod head. I mean I do listen, but sometimes, they talk so much my mind ends up somewhere else. But as long as they're not torturing cats and licking the lead paint off the walls I guess I'm not doing that bad. One if not both of them are geniuses, so a lot of the time what I say matters little anyway. Even now, comparatively, I just probably sound ditzy half the time.

Why do people make such terrible movies?

Why aren't kids more discriminating?

Thank god they're not. Imagine if kids actually had good taste all the time. It's bad enough I have to argue with my eight year old because we're on a budget and he's in the mood for Sushi.

So if weekends smelled like something what would it be?