Via local writer Beth Spotswood, a rant from Leslie who recently flew from to Nashville to visit her dying father.
Excerpts:
I’m in the middle seat between the tallest man and the tallest woman in the world, and I feel like a third wheel. They should know each other. I wish I were tall. Elegant people are always tall. They don’t perch Indian-style on bar stools like tiny little gremlins. My mom tells me I sit like a child. Paul Bunyan to my left might be literally twice my size. I wonder what he weighs. I shouldn’t think about that. But seriously, what does this guy weigh? The woman to my right crosses herself. A Hispanic woman is crossing herself. Now I’m bored. I do hope I’m close enough to be in that Catholic force field though if the shit goes down.
Whenever a plane takes off I always expect it to immediately fall right back out of the sky. I close my eyes and I can already taste the impact (watermelon). I mean, I’m not stupid. A pressurized metal tube that magically carries dozens of people through the air? Air travel is absolutely impossible and doesn’t exist. Our spirit animal Andy, the prong-horned antelope is guiding and protecting us on our journey. Andy and Catholic God. This seems just as likely as anything else
[snip]
I’m finally in Nashville. Someone taps me on the shoulder. God damn southern people who still think it’s okay to interact with strangers. Oh. It’s my mother. I ran into my mother at baggage claim. I wish someone had told me she was coming into town. Does no one tell each other anything in this family? Why is every little thing such a fucking secret?! I’m starting to understand why I am notoriously bad with communication and correspondence.
Leslie's other rantings appear fairly regularly at Squid Pro Quo.
(Also points for great blog name.)
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