I have a friend. Well...an acquaintance really, whose Facebook photo makes her look like a witch.

Literally...it looks like she's wearing a cape and pointy hat. It's not even a costume; just a weird outfit + bad angle, but she loves it.

She seems to think she looks good in this photo, though. I keep waiting for her to change it, but it's the only photo she's posted and I suspect it won't be coming down any time soon. The odd thing is that the more I look at the photo (I can't look away!), the more I remember that I never really liked her that much in the first place. I only accepted her "friendship" because I remembered her and wanted to see what she was up to, but now my curiosity has been satisfied and I wish there was a way to stop the photo from popping up all the time.

I'm seriously considering de-friending her. Anything so long as I don't have to look at the creepy witch photo on my "feed" ever again...

Labels: Internet, Ugh

Drowsiness hits me like a brick at thirty thousand feet and for the next four hours I drift in and out of consciousness, half suspended in reality while half-suspended somewhere above the Atlantic. I like this feeling. Thrust at the mercy of physics and a pilot named Evan who ends each of his updates with the word “Aloha.”

We are not flying to Hawaii.

I got the window seat that I asked for and am happy for the empty seat between me and the woman in 21D. Her friend is across the aisle in 21C and it seems like they’re on some kind of girls’ trip, doughy and giggly in stretchy velvet pants and zip-up hoodies. I look at them and my mind fast-forwards one week; I see their pink peeling noses, five extra pounds, a hickey from an almost-divorced businessman. D pulls a familiar magazine out of her carry-on. I look away but listen as she turns the pages too quickly, and continues to chats with her friend. I resist a strong urge to lean over and point my name out on the masthead.

The flight attendant is demanding our attention now. She does a half-hearted Macarena while her partner narrates in English and then again in heavily-accented Spanish. I know the dance by heart, but watch anyway, all the while trying to imagine scenarios in which a Delta leather-like seat cushion could actually save my life.

Safety instructions are followed by a special announcement; it seems they have mixed cocktails onboard now, specially designed by a celebrity “mixologist” (her word, not mine) whose name I sort-of recognize but can’t quite place. The special this month, our flight attendant announces, is a pink martini “in honor of breast cancer.” A pleased murmur spreads throughout the cabin and it seems that no one else has noticed she’s left off the word "awareness." The girls next to me are particularly excited and eagerly fork over five dollars each for the makings of the special drink: a can of Minute Maid Pink Lemonade and a very tiny bottle of Finlandia.

“Cindy Crawford’s husband,” I say to myself, finally remembering where I’d heard the name Gerber. The girl looks at me warily; I can tell she doesn’t like me. Right now, I don’t really like her.

I think that if I were flying with a friend maybe I, too, would be giggly and up for a drink at 9 AM. But I’m not with a friend; I’m alone and cranky because I was up all night packing and am not entirely looking forward to this weekend. This weekend, when my youngest cousin will marry and the rest of my family will ask me over and over again when I plan to do something about my perpetual state of singleness.

Perhaps I should order a cocktail...

Labels: My Crazy Family, travel, Ugh

It’s not written about very often, but most women know that the iPod is much more than just a spectacular little mp3 player—it also happens to be the best line of defense against unwanted male attention. The second I slip those little white buds into my ears, it’s as if I’ve wrapped myself in an invisibility cloak. I no longer have to worry about mumbling “um…I’m seeing someone” or “sorry, I’m not interested” at strangers who ask me if they can “just talk for a minute.” Instead I can just walk on by, completely oblivious to the comments. In the rare case that eye contact is obtained, a simple shrug and point to the ears will generally suffice. [Note: This trick also works with panhandlers and those creepy people who cover themselves in silver robot paint.]

After spending nearly six months without an iPod, my reentry into the earbud wearing ranks has proven refreshing and even a little bit freeing. I was just starting to get comfortable, just starting to lose that feeling of always being watched while running errands or commuting to and from work, when I met him—the man for whom the word “persistence” must have been created.

The scene: Atlanta Hartsfield Airport
The time: late last night

I was returning home from a business trip and while waiting for my flight, I decided to watch a few episodes of ATHF, which I’d recently downloaded from iTunes. I was completely immersed in the show when I realized that a shadow had descended upon me. Three well dress men in their early thirties had surrounded me and were talking among themselves in Spanish. I lowered the volume for a second and realized that they were talking about me.

“She’s so pretty,” said the tallest of the three. “Wow, she’s pretty. Do you think she can understand us? She looks Latina.”

“No I think she’s Italian,” said one of the others. “You should talk to her in English.”

Please keep in mind that these men were literally standing 8 inches away from me.

I lowered my eyes and focused on the tiny screen in my hand. After a few seconds, they walked away and I relaxed. I got into the show again and had nearly forgotten about them when I noticed that the tall one had come back and was now sitting in the empty seat next to me and facing in my direction. It took me a moment to realize that he was talking to me. I stared at him for a second and pointed at my ears. He kept talking.

“This must be what it’s like to be deaf,” I thought to myself. I frowned at the guy and then finally removed one bud. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t hear you. I’m watching a show…”

“You’re very beautiful,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard a word that I’d said.

“Um,” I stammered. “Thanks. I’m going to watch my show again now. Bye”

I put the headphones back in and did my best to concentrate on the show, but I couldn’t help notice the fact that he hadn’t budged and was apparently still talking to me.

I took the earbuds out again. “When I have these in, I can’t hear you. Ok?”

“Sooo beautiful.”

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or run away. Fortunately, they had already started boarding and so I quickly packed up my stuff and got in line. The plane was large and only about a third of the way full. I took my window seat near the middle and had the entire row to myself.

For about three minutes.

“Can I sit here?” The tall man asked as he settled into the seat next to mine. His friends walked by and high-fived him.

“Lucky!” One of the three shouted. They took their seats a few rows behind us while I immediately started searching for the emergency exits.

“So…” tall guy started, leaning into my already crowded seat. “Where are you going?”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“I’m going to Newark,” he offered.

I looked at him. “You know this is an airplane, right?”

“You’re so beautiful…”

I turned up the volume—ignoring the “turn off all electronic devices” warning—closed my eyes, and fell asleep. I woke up about 30 minutes later to find an empty seat next to me. Relieved that he’d finally given up, I raised the armrest and waited for the flight attendants who were coming down the aisle with snacks. I was trying to decide whether I wanted a granola bar or pretzels when the male attendant leaned down over me.

“That gentleman in the back has purchased you a drink,” he said.

I laughed nervously as the attendant turned around and shouted at the woman pushing the drink cart. “Hey, someone bought her a drink so give her whatever she wants. Ok?”

“Oooooh,” squealed the drink lady. “Aren’t you lucky?”

By this point, everyone on the plane was turning around to see who the girl getting the free drink was. I sank in my seat and laughed half-heartedly.

“So what’s it gonna be?” she said when she had wheeled her way to my seat.

“Whatcha got?” I asked, expecting the standard airplane drink menu of whiskey, scotch, Bloody Mary’s and wine.

“How about something fun? A mojito, perhaps? With fresh mint? Or I have new mango vodka! That’s good with cranberry juice…”

“Yeah, I’ll take the mango,” I said.

“Hey Tracy!” the flight attendant shouted back towards first class. “Do you have the shaker?”

Tracy brought down a shaker, and I watched as she measured out vodka, ice, and cranberry juice and shook it with all the flair of a professional bartender. She garnished the drink with a fresh lime and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said and took a sip. It was unexpectedly good.

The plane started to hit a bit of turbulence and the seatbelt sign came back on. I took comfort in this, hoping that it would mark the end of Mr. Persistent’s courtship. Moments later another flight attendant leaned into my seat.

“That guy would like to buy you another drink and he asked me to give you his card.”

I tried to mask the tortured look on my face, but she picked it up and laughed.

“I’ll tell him thanks, but no thanks?” She offered helpfully.

“Please. Thanks…”

Once the flight landed I grabbed my things and barreled out of the plane. I had to use the restroom but I pictured him waiting for me outside so I practically ran to baggage claim where my mom was waiting to pick me up.

“Let’s get out of here,” I told her. “Quickly.”

“What happened?” She asked with a look of alarm.

“Oh, I’ll tell you on the way home…”

Labels: Ugh

The cover announcing this made me groan (audibly) as I stood in line at the CVS this morning. A large man in a Tiki Barber jersey snorted in disgusted agreement. And the stringy-haired 17-year-old girl ringing up my purchase nodded when she saw me staring at the magazine rack. "I know, right? It's like, what the ef?"

I'd like to kick the genius who came up with that snazzy idea. And the hardcover version even has a bit of Mylar on the cover so you can look at your pretty person of the year mug all day long. I had gone into the store to buy body wash, but I somehow left feeling like I needed it more than ever.

I guess I should just be glad that it wasn't Tom from MySpace...

Labels: Magazines, Ugh