Aww. My cat missed me.

I just travelled for 20 hours straight yesterday, an experience about which I have only this to say: ugh.

But I finished re-reading Lolita, thus cementing its place in my heart as one of my very favorite pieces of literature in existence.. (though I don't really count those out of existence, too hard to discuss with other people, you know). It has inspired me to list some of my favorite final couple of lines of novels, short stories, etc.:

"I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita." Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov.

"And indeed, as he listened to the cries of joy rising from the town, Rieux remembered that such joy is always imperiled. He knew what those jubilant crowds did not know but could have learned from books: that the plague bacillus never dies or disappears for good; that it can lie dormant for years and years in furniture and linen-chests; that it bides its time in bedrooms, cellars, trunks, and bookshelves; and that perhaps the day would come when, for the bane and the enlightening of men, it would rouse up its rats again and send them forth to die in a happy city." The Plague, Albert Camus.

"There was the hum of bees, and the musty odor of pinks filled the air." The Awakening, Kate Chopin.

"Time is porous with forgetfulness. I myself am falsifying and losing, through the tragic erosion of the years, the features of Beatriz." "The Aleph," Jorge Luis Borges.

"Yossarian jumped. Nately's whore was hiding just outside the door. The knife came down, missing him by inches, and he took off." Catch-22, Joseph Heller.

2-minute masseuse, you rubbed me the wrong way

Figuratively, of course! Because in reality, the (closer to 6-minute) massage you gave me this evening at the Rib Festival (or whatever the hell it was called) was divine. I especially liked all the attention you devoted to my pelvic area, as no one else has paid much notice to that particular zone lately. But still, I felt kind of creeped out by your light banter about your dissolving marriage as your fingers dug into my spine. I mean, the only reason I attended this so-called RibFest, and your little tent, was because St. Paul is pretty boring after you've done the whole Mall of America and I was looking for a cheap thrill. Thanks to you, I got it!

Now, don't get me wrong. Yes, I enjoyed being told that I'm the prettiest girl there (not much competition unless you've got a thing for forty-something's in unfashionably light shades of denim and scuffed white sneakers), that I smell lovely, that I have a movie star, glamorous quality, and also that I must be breaking hearts around the globe. Not really, but thanks! Your enchantment with me (as I awkwardly straddled the masseuse chair, my inner knees sweating) was duly noted.

I don't imagine I'll be calling you so that you can work your chiropractic magic on me next month while I'm in St. Paul, but I am keeping your card just in case I need someone to hit on me, make me feel slightly dirty, and pump up my ego. Thanks!

Kids these days! (are assholes)

The other day I flew from Atlanta to Honolulu on Delta. I selected my seat at the kiosk during check-in, 20B, an aisle seat with just a window seat next to it. I prefer aisle seats, especially during long flights, so I can pee when I need to without having to essentially ask permission from some (perhaps sleeping) other traveler. Also, I could give a crap what's outside the window most of the time. The only real advantage I find in a window seat is the ability to lean against the fuselage, and of course, anything is better than a middle seat. But I digress.

Upon taking my seat I was gratified to find that my neighbor was an unaccompanied minor - an 11-year-old girl who, presumably, wouldn't overflow into my personal space, hit on me, or smell. I was wrong on two of those counts, but that's not the point. I settled in. I'm re-reading Lolita, which, along with USA Today and my iPod, I carefully placed in the seatback pocket in front of me. My plan was to eat the hot meal, then pop half a Stillnox (the German over-the-counter equivalent of Ambien), and spend the remainder of the 9-hour flight unconscious and wrapped in my pashmina.

The girl next to me was called Devin but Devilish Bitch-child would've been a more appropriate moniker. Oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself. At first I was just mildly irritated with her incessant prattling, nonsensical observations and so forth. When I attempted to drown her out by listening to my iPod, she was hardly dissuaded from tapping me on the arm so I'd pause it and listen to whatever dumb shit she was saying. Plus, she'd commandeered the armrest between us and occasionally brushed up against me while flailing about inexplicably in her seat. I'll admit that I was grumpier than usual from getting up at 5:30 a.m. to catch my flight out of Charleston that morning.

Then, after we'd eaten, and the remnants of our meals sat on the tray tables in front of us, she expressed a desire to get up so she could get some crap out of her bag (which latered turned out to be a coloring book). I said, "Why don't you wait until they take away the trash?" as the trays were effectively pinning us in our seats and God knows where she expected they'd go if we both stood up. A moment or two later - "I know where we could put the trash..." to which I replied, "In the carts, when they come collect them?" Perhaps seven or eight seconds went by, and she started impatiently jabbing the call button in rapid succession: Dingdingdingdingdingdingding!

Exasperated, I sharply said something along the lines of, "Look, the flight attendants are working right now. They are not your servants."

Whoa. Big fucking mistake. As good as it felt to snap at her, I was soon to regret it.

After our trays were collected and I'd hauled her really fucking heavy and massive suitcase out of the overhead bin and she'd taken her sweet time to dig through its every outer pocket, I got comfy, donned earplugs and an eyemask, and dozed off.

A couple of times during my drugged out slumber, I felt her clamber over my lap, I assume on her way to the lavatory. Fading in an out of a consciousness permeated by the excited jabber of vacationers, I was asleep for approximately four hours. I awoke to a persistent tapping on my left arm (thinking, "this better be a fucking evacuation"). Yeah, she'd woken me up so that in case I needed, oh, four hours to fill out my entry form into Hawaii, I'd be all set. Great.

I filled out the form, responding to her renewed chattering with monosyballic grunts when I glanced in front of me and noticed.. USA Today...Lolita.......and no iPod.

Of course, she took it. Obviously. I mean, who would walk by someone on a plane, pause when they saw an iPod, check to ensure she was indeed sleeping, then reach and grab it from its spot two inches in front of her left knee? No one, that's who.

First, I tried the casual approach. "Hey, were you listening to my iPod, by any chance?" Flat denial. "Okay, this isn't funny. Give me my iPod back." Still, she refused to admit that she'd taken it. Still, I tried to pump her for information. "Do you think you could have knocked it out of the pocket when you got up?" which of course I didn't think was possible. I knew the little brat had simply taken it. But she shrugged, "I don't know" and gave me the unblinking blue stare that you've learned to give your parents by that age when you're lying through your teeth.

Playing devil's advocate, I had the flight attendants make an announcement, and my kind neighbors who were awake participated in the crawling around on the floor searching for the elusive iPod. The vile little brat simply lifted her stinky, flip-flop clad feet so that I could look under them.

The search died down when it didn't produce any results, and gradually the flight attendants and other passengers lost interest. I sat there seething. My lovely $250 iPod Nano I'd gotten for my 25th birthday, along with its $30 case, neither of which I could presently afford to replace, gone missing due to the whim of a nasty little girl.

I realized that she'd never admit to taking it and that the only way to get it back would be to make her feel sorry for me. I squeezed out a few tears as I looked sadly at the empty seatback pocket, which wasn't difficult, as I was pretty close to full-fledged crying anyway. Hey, I'm not materialistic, but I really love my iPod, okay?

Then, to win her over, I chatted with her about whatever shit she had to say (example: "Me and my mom and my grandma...all have at least two charm bracelets. I can't see the water! Why can't I see the water? My third grade teacher had four cats." etc.) and learned her family was rather dysfunctional, as her mother was in the process of divorcing her 22-year-old stepfather, but I was far from pitying her, rather, I felt at this point that she deserved having a crappy home life.

Anyway, it worked like a charm. She got up to go to the bathroom, and lo and behold, when she returned she was clutching my iPod. Her lame explanation? "I was looking for paper towels and I opened something and I saw this!" I snatched it back, my neighboring passengers (who apparently had suspected her as well, all along) rolled their eyes, and I let her believe that I believed her stupid story while maintaining a death-grip on the thing.

I so wanted to tell her I knew she did it, to say, "Hey, you little bitch. You better watch your fucking back, because I'm crazy and I'm going to come kill you," but really, what good would that have done (other than the thrill it would have given me to be really mean to her)? Clearly, she was a sad little soul who, from the looks of her, had obesity and lots of failed attempts to make up for her subsequent lack of self-esteem to look forward to. So one day, when you're fat and disillusioned, remember, little girl, wherever you are, that no matter how much you steal from people, no one will ever love you.

Call me Ishmael.

Sometimes I like to come up with horrendous first lines for imaginary novels:

"As I strode through the Waffle House parking lot, my heart was heavy, much like the various starches I'd consumed within."

"The police cars were forming speeding barricade around Benjy's flame-filled Datsun when he glanced up at the rearview and noticed an errant nose hair he'd neglected to trim."

"Chip was certain he’d impressed the senator with his scheme to build a waterfront development on environmentally protected lands on the basis of a loophole in an obscure county law, when he became cocky and blurted, “So?” sending several drops of spittle into the legislator’s rheumy left eye."

"The sun-drenched terrain was rocky, kind of like my relationship with my wife after she started dousing herself with patchouli oil and stopped shaving her pits."

"“My hangnail is throbbing,” she murmured, proffering her hand with an expectant gleam in her eye."

...and me with a deadline tomorrow!

Insomnia & Blind Date

Around midnight I'm usually sleepy, but for some reason sketchy reality date shows give me a second wind. I especially like it when the men are the desperate and needy ones. Lately they've been airing episodes of Elimidate where the girls all wear masks until they're eliminated. It's so fun when the guy ends up with the ugly girl. And during the commercials I rot my brain with catty celebrity-hater blogs that eviscerate the likes of Lindsay Lohan. I'm a hater, I'll admit it. I can't stand that bitch. I could opine on how nasty it is that she snorted her way into being drastically underweight, then got implants, but there're plenty of people out there doing that..

New Graffiti out tomorrow! Please check out my column online if you live outside of Charleston - or if you live here, and you can't find the mag in its usual spots due to the carelessness of the crackhead my editor hired to distribute the thing.

Holiday's officially over! Tomorrow, my week off from any official exercise will end! My butt's getting on the damn treadmill before it starts looking like La Lohan's. Also, today I cleaned out my checking account and loaded up on edamame, bananas, carrots, tomatoes, and avocado. I'm going to take a stab at actually eating the recommended servings of fruits and vegetables every day.. a novel thought, huh?

Stupid histrionics

Stop bitching at me because I say things that are uncomfortable for you to hear. Your hissy fits are duly noted, but grow up. You know who you are.

Why Mojo eats Science Diet.

I just saw a commercial for Iams dog food. The voiceover was from the perspective of a woman sappily relating how she gave her aging mother a dog and now they "run around like teenagers together." The music was inspiring, the dog/owner slow-mo shots touching. Okay, fine.. typical dog food commercial fodder so far, I thought. Then the daughter confided "Mom would just fall apart if anything were to ever happen to Buster." (probably as the dog and mom jogged down the beach toward a setting sun, but I confess, I wasn't really watching it all that carefully) Um, wait a minute. The mom was what, sixty-five? The dog had clearly reached adulthood. So the dog's going to be around for another ten, maybe fifteen years, then die, and the poor old mother's going to have to endure the agony of its death in her twilight years? My point is, I just really didn't think it was necessarily to grimly foreshadow the dog dying and the mother consequently ending up shattered and bereft, that's all.

Good morning & good evening

My reaction to waking up today and realizing it was almost 4 p.m.: "Um, wow..." Then I realized both cats and the dog were sitting beside my bed, staring at me. They probably thought I was dead.

For some reason I always think jet lag's not gonna get me. Here it is, now, almost 8 in the evening, and I'm still sitting around drinking coffee, downloading music, and forming and reforming plans for the remainder of the night while an old episode of One Life To Live drones in the background.

What a waste of a day.. my consolation, though, is that probably most people weren't very productive today, as it's a holiday weekend and tomorrow's the 4th of July.

Whew. Now I feel like I have to go out tonight and salvage what's left of today.

World Cup 2006!

I haven't blogged lately because I've been busy flying around and working on my column. Two jobs! I feel so industrious. ha.

At first I was supposed to spend 24 hours in Paris on my way home from Kuwait, but fate intervened and instead I ended up working one more flight and ending up in Frankfurt, where I joined in the crazed debauchery of the World Cup revelries. Biergartens were set up intermittently through the city, everyone was drunk (including me!), and fans ran around blowing whistles and airhorns festively adorned in red, yellow and black. The fanfare continued well into early morning, marked mainly by cars speedily weaving through the city streets blaring their horns, passengers screaming bloody murder, banners flying from the windows, and, I'm guessing, a fair amount of drinking to the point of vomiting.

Although I remain a conscientious objector of anything sports-related, I will relent momentarily and tell you that I support the French team. And if you're thinking, "I hate the French. Blahblahblah," then shut up. The U.S. is out of it already. Vive le France!