Weekend Update

Dear Internet,

It’s been a fair bit since I have blogged with any meaningful regularity. I know this true because the lovely and gracious Poppy told me so her very own bad self. So it’s only appropriate this blog entry deals with our weekend jaunt to Poppyville. In order to minimize the stress levels to which modern life subjects us all, I’ll let you know that Poppy was (as previously stated) both lovely and gracious and we had a terrific weekend.

That said, there are times when your mind is not weighed down with your everyday woes and cares when you start to notice the manifest weirdness that swirls unnoticed otherwise. In our case, this started when we were in the gate are awaiting the call to board our flight. There was a woman arrayed in very 1970s raiments. Frosty blue eyeshadow, the fauxest of faux eyelashes and a blouse with a print emulating a stained glass window designed by someone unfortunately suffering under the influence of mescaline.

As befits someone seemingly extricated from a time capsule ca. 1976 Nashville, she was also a rather voluble sort. She spoke to the unfortunates at either side in a pronounced New Yawk accent which I almost, but not entirely, managed to tune out. Considerably more difficult to tune out was her dog, a small Shakenpys with a misanthropic disposition and anger management issues manifested by snarling loudly, so that it sounded like two asthmatic ducks fighting to the death over an iron lung.

Joy for us, Midcentury Dog Woman sat right behind us on the flight and promptly propped up her considerable feet on our armrests, as if she were flying Pap Smear Airlines. Other than her proffering us (quite unbidden) massages to the small of the back as she adjusted herself, and the Laryngitic Waterfowl sounds emanating from her vicinity, the flight was uneventful. Not that MDW was content with the foot propping thing, opting to berate whomever she called upon landing to pick her up, for foolishly suggesting she take a mode of transport which didn’t involve the berate-ee schlepping to the airport. Oh, and that Noo Yawk accent...I thought the poor wretch was going to die of adenoids.

Upon arriving and checking in, we went for lunch. For some karmically unexplained reason, we were seated behind another socially dysfunctional woman who alternately berated her mother (seated directly behind me, and apparently dying of shame) and her father (on the cell phone) and her 3ish-year old son, who had had quite enough of the whole enterprise. As the woman’s patience wore ever thinner, her decibel output grew commensurately, her mother turned increasingly puce with embarrassment and her son’s displeasure became simultaneously more lachrymose and vocal. To our eternal relief, Angry Restaurant Woman eventually skated to the very ragged edge of a complete emotional meltdown and announced her departure. She didn't actually say she would be climbing atop a fast food restaurant with a cache of firearms, the better to vent her vexations upon pedestrians, but it wouldn't have surprised me.

Had I not been busy working the chopsticks on behalf of some dim sum, I would have applauded heartily and bribed the lad to kick her shins upon egress.

Our day, of course, wasn’t quite done. We had clients to see (the “official” purpose of the trip, you see). Our client was unable to fetch us and we hailed a taxi. Our driver, a Somali national (if the profusion of stickers affixed to the interior of the vehicle are anything to go by) had the radio tuned to a Christian radio station – at full volume, no less – and in marked contradistinction to the message proclaimed over the airwaves, proceeded to weave suicidally in and out of traffic (of which there was an impressive, if immobile, amount) and honk vehemently at elderly pedestrians who adversely affected his progress. This jaunt took 45 minutes, during which time we heard an interesting exegesis of the story of Joseph in Egypt at 120 dB.

Dinner with the client proved uneventful in a good way.

The next day we arose and TFBIM shopped* and then we went over to the Buxom pied-a-terre and after catching up with TSMPM and admiring the growth of Master Buxom and Poppette (who are 7’5” and 7’2” respectively) we wandered happily to lunch. There we discovered why the Buxom offspring are in the 122nd percentile for height: dessert which is primarily a two paving slabs of chocolate brownie, adorned with caramel and ice cream and served in a small wading pool. This strict regimen, as near as I have been able to piece it together, seems to act upon the sleeping child, grasping the pituitary firmly during REM sleep and squeezing it fervently, pretty much as the dairy industry recommends for a recalcitrant Holstein. Poppy was Otherwise Occupied, and thus I was unable to sound her out on the matter.

The highlight of the weekend was being to finally hang out with Poppy. We had an Opening Night to attend, with dinner to follow and it was fun to see us all in suitable finery. Poppy, style maven that she is, apologized for her ensemble – which was very flattering to her, and damned fetching overall – because it was the only outfit which she could wear given her available underclothing…or something like that. At dinner we didn’t really get to catch up, because the band had struck up and when you have to speak at such a volume that your vocal cords can be seen vibrating from the pulses of your neck, well, it’s a bit difficult to get conversational. But what conversation there was proved to be solid gold as always. MWAH.

We arrived at our hotel around 1:30am and somehow managed to arise and walk by 9am. Having breakfasted with TSMPM (Poppy was again Otherwise Occupied) who had baked a spectacular banana bread and gave us lashings of most excellent espresso, we headed for the airport. Where our flight home proved safe and uneventful.

So here we are.


* One of the highlights of any trip to Poppyville was being able to stop at Paul Stuart. They had a sort of trunk-show thing going on and, being a man with a tenuous grip on my willpower, I ordered a suit. (Like an idiot, I realized I didn’t specify a “ticket pocket” on the jacket. ARGH!)


Badger said…
Oh, well thank goodness. Until you mentioned TFBYM, I assumed you were using the royal "we" throughout and/or that your experience with MDW and ARW had triggered some sort of dissociative identity crisis.
Joke said…

If anything it would have triggered a "stab your* neck with a fucking ballpoint" crisis.


* Not YOU-your, natch.
shula said…
The pap smear imagery made a total mess of me.
h&b said…
"Flying Pap Smear Airlines"

although - also - NOT the best imagery ever, because err.. that imagery.

Not allowed to fly with small dogs here, thank Christ. Only big ol' Golden Labs. And you have to be blind first, and not from drinking..
My float said…
Poppy Buxom said…
I can't believe I'm stuck in choir rehearsals quietly starving to death while other people are watching my children ingest their weight in brownie sundaes. If I weren't so religious, I'd be feeling pretty smug right now about how abstemious 'n' self-sacrificing I'm being.
Caro said…
Pap smear airlines, you really ought to patent that term.

I've never had that happen but I hate when people recline.

While I am not 7'2" tall, I am tall enough that they end up in my lap.
meggie said…
""..."" I second My Float.

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