Actually, it IS Rocket Science



Sunday Comics (pt. 7)

You know how sometimes you have a really good story but you just don’t know exactly how to start it because no matter how you cut it it’s just so flat out hilariously fucked up all around?

I guess that’s how I go about doing so.

I’m once again back on the mainland after spending a week in the land of Tora! Tora! Tora!’s and spamburgers that was stockpiled with more activities than I think I’ve done since I’ve moved to California combined, and had a fantastic time doing so, too, more to come on that later.  But I just thought I’d share with you the delightful bitchslap of a rude awakening that came with my entry back to the apparently oppressed, hateful-of-all-things-alive brethren that share landlocked coordinates.  You know, while it was still fresh.

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So my departure itinerary went like this:

Leave Hawaii @ 9pm, which translates to midnight California time.  Fly the red-eye overnight which would put me in San Fransisco at 5am (I was content with this because it would allow me to sleep through a 5 hour flight.  Karate kicks!)

Minimal hour or two layover in SF, arrive in Orange County at 10:30am, shuttle service picks me up, home by 11am. Flawless victory.

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The day leading up to it was actually pretty wonderful, as I got to spend it with my cousins and friends on a kayaking trip and scoping out the official royal grounds of “The Big Island” (Fun fact: you do, in fact, have to capitalize “The Big Island” or else Pele eats your unborn children with her fiery gnashing jaws).  We wrapped it up with some kickass pulled pork cochon sandwiches and I made it to the airport in plenty of time.  Shitchyeah, I’m KILLING it over here.

I even manage to be the FIRST ONE in line to get on the plane!  How flippin awesome is that?  I’ve got a window seat and I don’t have to delicately shove my ass in two other peoples faces to get there!    You’re welcome, America.

Time’s progressing and I still don’t see anyone coming to take the two seats next to me, even though it’s an overbooked flight.  Weird, considering we were the first group allowed to board.  Finally two harried individuals push their way through to the empty seats, and they look decent enough; a middle-aged couple, looks like they got the right amount of sun.  They know their spf limitations, I admire that.  I exchange a small smile in salutations…

And get BUPKISS in return.

But, you know, whatevah.  They looked super rushed getting on there, and everyone knows how panicky you can get when you think you’re about to miss your flight, and that missing your flight could mean that you could miss that important meeting tomorrow, and oh christ I don’t even want to think about that meeting right now and being late for this boarding call is making me think of it and JESUS is there a bar menu on this flight??

So I just figured they’d prefer to be silent partners on the progression of Row 31 D-F. Works for me.

Now, I tackle the finite internal politics of riding on a plane as I think any respectful politician would at a U.N. Conference.  Having sat in the middle seat between two others before, I know it’s never delightful.  In fact, if you’re traveling with others and you take the middle seat, it is an unspoken agreement that you’re taking one for the team, and I fully believe someone on either side of you should buy you your next meal, souvenir, drink, what have you, in retribution. So I do try to offer as much space as possible to said purgatory seater.  In this case, I made sure to pull all my stuff over so she could have a chance to spread out if she wanted to, even extra room beneath my seat, which she thanked me and took advantage of.

Now, here’s where it gets fun:

I had been sitting in the same position since I had gotten there, with both elbows on the farthest end of either arm rest, nearest to the seat itself, interlocked at my midsection.  You can picture it now, can’t you?  Here!  Refer to Figure “80’s Sitcom buildup” for an aerial view:

Fig. 80's sitcom buildup

As one can clearly see, there is space to move and/or become comfortable with a great deal of area with which to adjust the placement of your Radius and Ulna, respectively.

Which is why what followed next was an experience that if you’ve read this blog before, you know ignited in me what I have previously referred to as the ancient Irish belligerence rather than something that could have easily been resolved with a simple conversation.  Because babygirl in the middle decided that instead of using her words, she thought she’d played a little game called PISS ASHLIN OFF IMMEDIATELY.

1...

...2....

PASSIVEAGGRESSIVE THREE, BITCHASS.

And because she PROCEEDED TO DIG HER ELBOW BRASHLY  INTO MY OWN FOR AT LEAST 5 FULL SECONDS TO PURPOSEFULLY GET ME TO MOVE, I did what any normal, suddenly vindictive Irish firecrotch would do:

My arm suddenly and without control became as steadfast and unmovable as Ned Kelly as I stared off into the distance and acted as if she wasn’t being a passive aggressive piss-ant, therefore negating any further opportunity for a rational conversation that she had previously given up by behaving like an oversized spacial neanderthal.

Because what you fail to realize, lady, is the following:  This armrest is mine now, babycakes.  I claim it on behalf of previously scorned travelers everywhere.  Suck it.

Would you like to guess how long this went on for?  This stop-and-start-again elbow jab from the woman next to me, all while refraining from holding a rational conversation and thus expelling less and less sympathy or even any attention or surrender from my part?

Let’s just say I sat through Jane Eyre as the in-flight movie.  How ridiculous is that?  Why the HELL would you play JANE EYRE on an in-flight movie?  Granted, it’s a literary work of genius, depending upon who you ask, but the dynamic level between soft-spoken Brit-wit up against the peals of equestrian whinnies does not make for an enjoyable film when you’re trying to control all the sounds from your shitty-ass side console.  Oh, that and there’s a total overgrown brat sitting next to you trying to play off the fact that she’s wearing a dent into your arm.

Finally she launched into the passive agressive enthusiast’s last resort- the heavy sigh.  Yes.  YES!  I friggin LOVE the heavy sigh in this situation!!   You know why?!  It’s your death knell, puddin’ pop.  It’s your little white flag whether you want to admit it or not.  And although you think in this case it’s your last resort, it’s a veritable trumpet fanfare as far as I’m concerned.  And it’s made the last several hours sitting through a stuffy film and your knobby elbow love totally worth it.  I even fell asleep somewhere in there, did you catch it?  So by the time we touched down, I’ve got at least an hour over you on the sleep department, and I’d have to say, you somehow made me appreciate that arm rest even more than before.  So to put it into a phrasing that you might better understand:  thaaaaayyyyynnnnnnks.

Please note:  It takes a lot of energy to hold this much spite as ammo, I’ll admit.  But you really have to choose your battles, and this was one well worth fighting.  That’s also not to say that I didn’t pay for it later, which you’ll hear about soon enough, because I did indeed make an ass of myself on my connecting flight from lack of actual restful sleep. ha!

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