Meth Mouth

I'm referring to the guy who sat across the aisle next to me on the plane ride from Dallas to New Orleans yesterday. I had just made it to the last leg of my trip back to NOLA after 4 long hours of delay at SFO, followed by a long hungry flight to Dallas and another two-hour layover. My dog and I had both visited the powder room, we had refueled, and were reinvigorated for our 1-hour flight back to New Orleans. I had reached the tail-end of a great PD James mystery novel and was very much looking forward to utilizing that hour to finish my book. Much to my chagrin, I never had a chance. We hadn't even taken off when the anorexic-looking, fidgety guy with hugely dialated pupils and facial scabs who reeked of wine sat down in the seat next to me across the aisle sat down and turned his body so that his legs were in the aisle and he was squarely facing me (it wasn't until later that I noticed his really bad teeth). As an attorney, I pride myself on the art of conversation -- and the artful tactics of avoiding it or ending it if absolutely necessary. I was totally out of my league with this guy. He had decided he was going to talk to me and there was no way out. The lady in the window seat on the other side of him periodically looked over his shoulder at me as if to communicate a silent pity for me (as well as a silent relief that she wasn't the one being held hostage by Meth Mouth). He clearly was high on crystal meth. I know this for several reasons, including drug ed from 4th-6th grade and having watched multiple episodes of Intervention. While I do have empathy for individuals who are fighting such demons (we all have them in our own ways), I have a particular disdain for adult men with children who are drug addicts because of the effect that it had on my own family. But I digress...

I have been known to dominate conversations and have an unfortunate habit of interrupting people -- I wasn't able to get a word in edgewise with Meth Mouth. He started off by telling me about the past several days he spent in Las Vegas (including details of the nudity in Cirque du Soleil's "Zoomanity", the play-by-play on his poker experiences at Caesar's, MGM Grand, and Mandalay Bay, and the literal blow-by-blow of his attendance at a UFC event). At some point Meth Mouth asked me what I did for a living -- I told him I was an attorney -- BIG MISTAKE. His follow up was, "Oh, well, you're going to love this story..." He then proceeded to tell me a story involving a construction job, his wife's sudden death, the full-faith and credit clause of the constitution, organ donation, a house in Katy, Texas, life insurance, discrimination, his 5 kids, an employment lawsuit, a medical condition that makes it difficult for him to sit for long periods of time, and the three-pronged test for common law marriage. I spoke not a word -- it was like he was talking at warp speed -- with hands flailing in between itches and fidgets -- I was trapped. My dog had taken the easy way out and had curled up in his carrier for a nap -- apparently even dogs have limits to their loyalty. I did feel bad that his wife had suddenly died -- he clearly was distraught and I had empathy for his loss. However, when he went on to describe his sudden 40-pound weight loss and his inability to sleep, his chronic broken bones, and lamented going to Vegas as a single guy with those nasty meth face sores that he claimed were caused by an eye infection (?! HELP!), I wanted to say, "Well, if you lay off of the meth, you might find that it will help all of those issues." When we finally arrived in New Orleans after what seemed like an interminably long time, I knew this guy's entire story, gratuitous medical details and all. And he wasn't finished yet. He followed me out of the plane and continued his ramblings until I finally was able to excuse myself to duck into the nearest ladies room. I would not have been surprised if he had followed me in, or had waited for me outside. Thankfully my tactic had worked -- I had found freedom. Never has an airport lavatory been so appealing. After boiling my hands and chafing them with soapy water to remove any residual Meth Mouth funk (his animated story-telling had included occasional dry-heave inducing physical contact), my dog and I went out to greet my husband (who had flown back the previous day) at baggage claim. As tired as I was when I got home that night, the physical contact with Meth Mouth left me feeling semi-violated so I took an extra long shower which included a full-body exfoliation. I even flossed my teeth twice.

God Bless America

I just few home for Christmas. My flight from New Orleans went through Dallas, where I changed planes onto a massive jumbo jet in which people from everywhere converged to fly to San Francisco.  The flight was teeming with people, I was with Shih Tzu, and as luck would have it, I was crammed into the second to last row (row 43 to be exact).  Call me crazy, but American Airlines seems to have made the seats even closer together which I soon found out after the man in front of me reclined his seat and, although inducing clostrophobia, then served as a convenient  head rest for me. The flight attendants were perhaps the bitchiest and snippiest I have ever had the misfortune of encountering. I had the chills and felt as if I was coming down with a cold. And my seat was right next to the lavatory. The flight was miserable. Having decent foresight, I had downloaded an Agatha Christie book onto my i-pod and attempted to escape into my 1915 London crime drama. When I finally arrived in San Francisco, I deplaned and met my mom at the baggage claim and was immediately rewarded for my hell-flight with a sighting of perhaps the cutest man in uniform EVER.  When I finally liberated my Shih Tzu from the confines of his sherpa carrier, I turned around and was greeted by a friendly voice: "Oh my gosh, that is the cutest dog! What kind of dog is he?!" The voice came with an adorable smile and a very hot man dressed in his Navy dress blues. I don't know if I was overcome by the fact that I had encountered the first nice person since leaving New Orleans several hours earlier, or if I was overcome by the dimpled-smile and general hotness of the tall, dark, and handsome uniformed man in front of me, but I was a little bit rattled and I wasn't the only one so entranced.  My mom was transfixed as well because she started asking the sailor where he was going, where he was stationed, how long he had been there, wished him a merry Christmas and a safe return.  Then I found myself in the middle of a detailed conversation about the sailor's hopes to be re-stationed to San Diego, which is where I went to college and where my half-brother was stationed as a Navy SEAL for over ten years, so naturally I had a lot of input on the subject.  If I was single, I would have wrapped him up in a bow and gotten him for myself for Christmas.  However, I would have had to go to the mattresses against my mother because she also had the same idea.  After the sailor wished my mother, my Shih Tzu and me a very merry Christmas and politely absented himself to collect his C-bag from the turnstile, I heard my mom  say, "Whoa. If only I were your age." And in the blink of an eye, I had snapped out of my trance, and happily recalled that I was indeed married to a wonderful (albeit un-uniformed) guy.  And so I am left with the recollection of a friendly smile after the world's worst flight and a renewed appreciation for the fact that our military service men (and women) not only risk their lives in an underpaying job for the sake of our freedom, they look damn good while doing it. God bless America, and especially our troops who can't come back to the states to spend time with their families this Christmas.  

Trolling for Cash

Some of you know that I am hoping to attend a graduate program at George Washington University next year (actually, class starts in a month). Because my husband and I just moved and haven't sold our house yet, I haven't started working, I already have nearly six figures in student loan debt, and the economy is generally just terrible, I am searching far and wide for any potential scholarship money I can find. I've heard reports that millions of dollars in scholarship money go unused every year, so I'm on a mission to find it. In my searches, I haven't found any scholarship money for political-science based part-time post-graduate work with an emphasis on animal welfare. However, I have found the following scholarships:



1) Scholarships for distant relatives of Annetje or Lambert Van Valkenberg -- I don't know who these people were, but apparently they have money to give away and variations in the spelling of Van Valkenberg are permissible;


2) The Arabian Horse Trust Scholarship -- you have to demonstrate an "interest" in Arabian horses (hmmm...define interest);



3) The Patrick Kerr Skateboard Scholarship -- not a chance!



4) The American Fire Sprinkler Association Scholarship (this one is one of my personal favorites) -- you can win a $3K grant for writing an essay about "successful sprinker operation" in your town or state;

5) The Duck Brand Duct Tape "Stuck at the Prom" Scholarship (also a favorite, but I'm sadly over 10 years too late on this one) -- a $3K grant available to the couple who makes the best prom outfit from Duct tape -- ouch!!;






6) National Marbles Tournament Scholarship -- marbles shooters (or "mibsters" as I have learned they are called) can apply for a scholarship as long as they have participated in a qualifying national tournament -- does anyone really play marbles anymore?;






7) The Tall Club Scholarship -- females over 5'10" are eligible for this one (clearly I'm not although I do have some Louboutin espadrilles that might hike me up that high) -- I must add that one of my roommates in college was "Miss Tall San Diego" -- she was 6'4";





8) The Columbia 300 Jon Jowdy Scholarship for active participants in bowling -- again, not a chance; and





9) Scholarship for people who are trained to use Morse Code -- no comment.




I did find a scholarship through a non-profit organization in Santa Monica called "Gaia" -- it's kind of a yoga-based spiritual group operating on the Ghandi-ism of being the change you wish to see in the world. I think I have a good shot at that. However, I also seem to recall a recent story about firefighters saving an old historic church here in New Orleans -- that Sprinkler Association one might be promising after all ...

Coming out of the Closet

I developed a somewhat unhealthy addiction this fall television season. I typically pride myself on being above the really bad television trash, but I totally caved this fall. I've been keeping this problem to myself, but when I found out that I had company with Anderson Cooper, I figured "what the heck?" Yes, you know what I'm talking about: the genius trainwreck that is the Real Housewives of Atlanta. I sometimes will let 3 or 4 episodes of Gray's Anatomy go by and then it will occur to me that I have to watch it on abc.com, but I didn't miss one solitary second of Real Housewives (and neither did my fantasy football-addicted, political junkie husband, I might add). How could this happen to me? Where have I gone wrong? Can I delude myself that the show is an intreaguing anthropological experiment, thus having some semblance of educational value? Not a chance. The real reasons I tune in on Tuesdays at 8pm are these:

1) Kim, the token white chick who wears the wig (see inset photo), has an unbelievable talent for making Dior look like Forever 21 or possibly an adult entertainment outfit (see inset photo), is dating a married guy she calls "Big Papa" (who is really Atlanta real estate developer Lee Najjar, whose son is friends with Brody Jenner and Spencer Pratt of The Hills fame, if you believe blogs like "The Frisky"), and refers to the screeching tone-deaf sound she makes when she opens her mouth as "this God-given singing talent";

2) the over-the-top NeNe, who has arguably demonstrated the best parenting skills in my humble opinion, recently found out that the man she calls Daddy is not really her father, has an irrepressible desire to allow her breasts to run free at all times, is married to a real estate investor who lost missed his true calling as a minister, and "BAM!" is a "free bird" -- I do like this one for sure;

3) Sheree, the soon-to-be ex-wife of pro football player Ed Whitfield, loves to talk about how classy she thinks she is, decided spontaneously to start a fashion line, perennial frenemy of NeNe, and allegedly has a "secret daughter";

4) DeShawn, everybody's friend and the token NBA wife, started the DeShawn Snow Foundation (something to do with girls' self-esteem) and decided spontaneously to throw the "Night of a Thousand Stars" gala to raise $1 million -- bless her heart, she ended up losing tens of thousands of dollars that night, but she gets points for trying;

5) Lisa, the newlywed and allegedly the ex-wife of singer Keith Sweat (seriously, what woman could take a lifetime of listening to "Twisted", "Nobody", and "Grind on You" ?), I used to think of her as the boring one until she threatened to flip Kim over the couch on the reunion show, and after seeing the outfit she wore (hello, shoulder pads!!) to NeNe's "Big Hats Brunch" I had a strong desire to nominate Lisa for Bravo network's fashion makover show What Not to Wear.

Like I said, a genius trainwreck. I can hardly wait for the second season and there is a possibility that I will consider purchasing the series on DVD so that I can enjoy the trainwreck over and over and over for years to come (which I will naturally hide behind a stack of Masterpiece Theatre DVDs -- I'm still not proud of this). As for the above-mentioned Gray's Anatomy, it is teetering precariously on the edge of jumping the shark and becoming less believable than General Hospital -- seriously, when Izzy started having sex with the phantom of her dead fiance, I had to draw the line.