Fly much? Ever look out the window at the world below?
Ignore the date of this post. I wrote this on 1/6. Up at 3:00 am to be driven from Connecticut to the Airport after last night's plane delays and travel fiasco. At the airport I eat breakfast (am complimented at 5:00 am on my "bright eyes" - are you kidding me? I didn't sleep a wink; you must be looking at my day old makeup) and snooze in a seat by my gate. Gate 48A. No luggage because mine is lost somewhere in America, nowhere to be found at the moment. Probably, hopefully, because it is in transit from Chicago to San Jose.

A 7:00 am flight out of JFK to SJC.
This is totally fascinating. To me. By fascinating I mean, it's an unusual sight that I thought I should have seen by now, at this point in my life. I'm on an airplane heading west from JFK. Seat 22A. A window seat. Over the course of the last three hours, in between bouts of sleep and fits of magazine reading, the view out my window has been, well, bordering on surreal. Not just what you've seen on tv. Not just the busy cities that look like ant empires dotted with buildings and intricate webs of highways and roads. This landscape is at the same time familiar but unrecognizable. How many times have I flown on a plane? I haven't the foggiest idea. In fact, I don't think I could even come up with a reasonable estimate. This year I've probably flown, oh, 30 to 40 times. I've even achieved Gold status in the frequent flier club I belong to. The answer is, I've flown too many times to count, yet the view from up here seems vastly different than I recall.

A while ago, there was a pure white landscape, striped and divided in differing shades of white. I'll draw it in later.

Then there were patterns with vivid greens and browns. I can only assume this is farmland. I of course, have absolutely no idea where we are - over which state. I can't get the attention of any flight attendant to ask. They're only around when you are desperate to squeeze by their beverage cart to get to the lavatory.

The shades of greens and browns give way to shades of beige 15 minutes or so later. Time is relative out my window. When I look out, glancing back at my page to write what I've seen, the scenery seems to change minute by minute. But when I've napped for a while, I can look out and everything seems to have stayed the same. The beige and taupes look to me to be arranged in a very distinct and orderly manner. There are boxes and huge circles of solid color and stripes of alternating shades. It looks like a neutral colored, complicated patchwork I'd like to have as a duvet or quilt.

Later, out my window, the sharp lines and clearly marked boxes, stripes and circles have much less definite lines, as if they've faded away in a sandstorm. It's strange. The shapes are still there, but seem to blend or feather a bit at the edges. It looks to me like it's either a frozen tundra or an overbaked desert sandscape. I imagine for a moment we're flying over the Las Vegas desert but I know in reality we're not even close. Where are we? Somewhere over middle America? Passing over Middle Earth? Haha. Unnecessary cultural reference to a popular tale...

Just now out my window the sun is casting a thousand mile shadow of a lone cloud over the land below, as if it were the star in a giant shadow puppet show. As we pass, I notice what looks like creases a dried riverbed leaves behind. If I had any artistic talent at all and could draw what I saw, it would look like a bumpy trail with feathery lines jutting out at the sides like the outlines of a leaf. You know when you stand at the shore with the waves coming in and out over your feet how the pattern of the sand changes and is drawn downward toward the outgoing waves? The streaks of sand leftover where you were standing are almost feathery... that's what it looks like down there. Maybe small mountain ranges?

As if to tempt my theory about flight attendants, I see one and flag her down. As expected, she has no idea where we are (why should she? It's not like she's a human GPS.). She offers to ask though, and moments later she comes back to tell me we've just flown over the Vail/Steamboat Springs area.

By this time, there is what looks like fuzzy blackish-brownish mold blanketing stands of wintery bare trees. I can't imagine the trees have leaves because of how dark they seem in the distance. No green to be seen. This could be due to the sun's glare however. It's hard to know. Down below is now blurry with fog over what I imagine to be ski slopes and trails. I can barely see the white speckled forest through the hazy clouds. I wonder if my imagination is now blending with what I've been told. I mean, I don't really know if we're flying over Vail, but the suggestion does seem to make sense of the landscape.

It's hot by my window. It's winter and the sun is blaring at a direct angle, seemingly low in the sky. It must be cold out there though. Only three more hours or so until we land. Suddenly, I need to sleep. I've had my fill of waxing poetic about the landscape. Actually, the landscape is now changing so rapidly I can hardly get my thoughts and observations down. I type fast but I can't compose that fast. Besides, staring at the sun is now giving me a blinding headache. Sleep is good.

This is not to be believed.
I know I just said this, but it definitely bears repeating. You just can't make this stuff up. Tuesday night I went out for dinner with Zander (the Libertarian) and we had a great time. I stayed up until 1:30 am packing and getting my apartment cleaned up so I could fly to Connecticut in the morning. I woke up at 4:00 am and was picked up to be taken to the airport by my friend Mike at 4:30 am. Mike's a good friend. Either that or he's nuts for getting out of bed so early. As he predicted, it was very cold out. I was wearing sweats with sneakers, a ski jacket and no make-up. I'm thinking I looked just like I felt: like I'd just rolled out of bed.

By ten to 5 I was at the airport. By 5:00 am my bags were checked and I was sitting at Gate 9. I called my sister to chat. She works at Rockefeller Plaza in New York City so she's the only person I knew would be awake. Jess had to run to a meeting so I pulled out my CD player and listened to some tunes for a while. At 5:40 am my cell phone rang. Surprised anyone would be calling me so early in the morning, I jumped to answer the phone. It was Blue Box Bob.

I don't think I've mentioned Blue Box Bob before. Bob is a marketing guy at Sony. He's a very nice guy. He's got twin twelve year old boys and a two year old boy. Ever since I started talking with Bob, he's been highly communicative, as any good marketing guy should be. He sent me text messages, called me on a daily basis and penned lots and lots of emails. In November, he went to Comdex in Las Vegas to set up the booth for Sony at the Bellagio. I received an email from him while he was there in which he says he went shopping and saw something in the window of a store that looked like it belonged to me. He had to buy it. He told me it came in a little blue box. Now, keep in mind, I hadn't even met him yet. Why was this guy buying me something from Tiffany's before I've we've even met? I sent him a note back. I told him he was totally freaking me out. I told him to back off.

Apparently, I don't speak "guy", because he didn't get it. He started to text message me three or four times a day. Even when I didn't respond to his messages, he emailed me, called me. He just didn't get it. Over Thanksgiving, he asked me to text message him when I landed in New York, just so he'd know I was ok. Like an idiot, I did so -- 6:00 am-ish, EST...he text messaged me immediately back to say he was relieved and was going to go to sleep. Um, he was up at 3:00am PST waiting for my text message? That's scary.

After that, things got even more weird. We went out a couple of times. After our first date, he said he'd gotten me a free digital camera from Sony. A week or so after that, he said a friend of his over at Apple had "scored" him a free iPod for both of us. He swore he didn't spend anything on me except for a cute iPod cover made by Coach. I said it was very generous but I couldn't accept his gifts.

So anyway, back to the airport at 5:40ish in the morning. Blue Box Bob calls and says, "Good Morning, how are you?" I say I'm fine. I ask him what he is doing awake at such an early hour. He then asks me if I'm sitting at Gate 9 ready to board. He says, "I think they're about ready to board your flight. Are you sitting at Gate 9, across from the Admiral's Club?" Hesitantly, I say yes. He then says "Well come on over to the Admiral's Club and hang out with me for a few minutes. I've got some goodies for you." At this point, I am incredulous. I start to stammer things like "What in the world are you doing at the airport at this time in the morning?" (He claimed he was flying down to Orange County and he wanted to surprise me so he didn't tell me when we spoke the night before). "There is no way. No way. No way am I going in there! I'm not wearing any make up!" The girl across from me was giggling under her breath, looking at me, empathetically. What are the odds? I mean, really, what are the odds he would be at the airport, directly across from my gate, at o'dark thirty in the morning on the very same day I was flying out to visit my sister and her family? IMPOSSIBLE. Against my better judgement, I slapped on some lip gloss and walked over to the Admiral's Club. Blue Box Bob greeted me with a big hug. He was holding a Coach shopping bag, in it, presumably was the blue box from Tiffany's, the free digital camera and the iPod and Coach case. I'll never know, because as he offered me the bag, I told him I couldn't accept his gifts. He looked disappointed. Thankfully, right at that moment, I heard the boarding announcement for my flight over the PA. I left him standing there with the bag. I was stunned. Stupefied. No, mortified. Incredulous. Words cannot describe how unbelievably freaky the scene was.

When I landed in Chicago and walked to my connecting flight gate, I had to call one of my friends to tell her what happened. My friend is currently in a relationship, but she too has dated quite an interesting array of guys over the last year. All she kept saying was "No. No he did not. No way! And you didn't take the gifts?!" Now before you think badly of my friend, consider this: she told me I did the right thing. After I implored her to confirm I wasn't a complete crazy woman for not taking the gifts. She also said though she wasn't sure she would have been strong enough to pass everything up. I was thinking that all along, myself. I know I did the right thing, even though all I wanted for Christmas was a digital camera and an iPod. I'd surely have to "pay" dearly for my reward had I accepted.

A few days and many text messages and voice mails from Blue Box Bob later, I broke down and IM'd him. In my IM, I told him I didn't think we should see each other anymore. He was much more serious about us than I was -- I hardly knew him and I didn't think we had a real connection. I haven't heard from him since. I feel a little guilty about the way I blew him off. I mean, it was cowardly and impersonal. But it had to be done.

You can't make this stuff up.
For the last several months I've been engaged in the internet dating scene. By "engaged", I mean, I've posted my profile to a bunch of sites and have been fielding emails, winks, smiles and IM's from guys all around town. It turns out it's a real crap shoot with most of these guys...even if you ask them up front if they're an axe murderer, they're not likely to give up such critical information at the get-go. In fairness, I suppose if I were an axe murderer, I wouldn't volunteer this information before a first date anyway... I like to think I give most guys a chance, or at least I respond in the acceptable internet dating way by saying "Thanks, but no thanks."

Have you ever been out on a date and gotten the feeling you are part of a big joke or maybe even on one of those goofy shows like "Candid Camera" or something like that? I'm in the twilight zone. I keep looking around for the hidden cameras. Lately, the guys I've been dating have turned out to be total losers and it seems like the dates are out of "surreal world".

I was seeing this one guy, we'll call him bipolar-gambling-Iliveathomewithmymom-man. Our first date was at a pool hall in downtown San Jose. From the start, there was great chemistry. So much so, that by the end of the night, I broke my own rule (no kissing on the first date) and made out with the guy. It was the best first date I've ever been on. Unfortunately though, for the next 3 weeks I found that our great first date was like getting a great pupu platter at a Chinese restaurant. It's been my experience that any time the hors d'ouvres are really delicious, the entrees are lousy. This situation was no different. Every time we went out, I learned something more distressing about bipolar-gambling-Iliveathomewithmymom-man. Aside from being bipolar, a gambler and living at home with his mom, he also was separated, not divorced (for 4 years!), owed the government $13,000 in taxes, couldn't cum from getting a blowjob (probably due to his bipolar meds) and refused to "go south of the border" -- if you know what I mean. The last issue was the dealbreaker. I mean, any ONE or maybe two of his issues may have been doable, but the compound effect of all of his problems turned into a giant red flag. Bipolar-gambling-Iliveathomewithmymom-man had lots of problems, yet he had the nerve to tell me I needed a boob job and a tummy tuck. Really. He told me it was probably due to the fact he watched so much porn that he had unreasonable expectations of the women he dated. He told me he was disappointed I didn't look like Jenna Jamison. Right. I'm thinking, you think I've got problems? It's time to take a good hard look at yourself.

You just can't make this stuff up.

About a week or two afer I stopped talking to Bipolar-gambling-Iliveathomewithmymom-man I went to a small cocktail party in Mountain View. The party was being thrown by an acquaintance of mine and I went there with a couple of my friends. As we are walking up to the front door, I could swear I heard the voice of Bipolar-gambling-Iliveathomewithmymom-man. Sure enough, there he was, just standing there outside the front door. He saw me and we both just stood there, in awkward silence. Then, he leaned in to give me a big hug. Later, my friend said it was like he was a vulture coming in for the kill. I don't think I've ever heard a hug described quite like that.

So we go inside and although I've told my friends all about Bipolar-gambling-Iliveathomewithmymom-man, none of them know yet that he's at this party. What are the odds? I pull aside my friends and tell them what's going on. Everyone is shocked. Then they all laugh. I felt like I was on one of those humiliating reality shows. I was in absolute disbelief something this random could happen. It had to be a set up.

As the evening wore on and I found out that Bipolar-gambling-Iliveathomewithmymom-man had a friend visiting from Australia, who was a friend of the host's boyfriend. I count four degrees of separation. I met the friend from Australia and everyone else at the party (it was small, only 15-20 people) and before I knew it I was cornered or rather pinned up against the wall by Bipolar-gambling-Iliveathomewithmymom-man. Apparently he thought he needed to apologize for dumping me. He told me it was obvious I was uncomfortable around him based on my body language (my arms were folded and I backed away from him each time he leaned in). I told him there were no hard feelings, and then he went to kiss me. Ummm -- what? Yes, I gave him my cheek, but then he went for my ear. Icky, icky, icky. Unfortunately, I was pinned against the wall so I saw no escape. It seemed the whole room saw him doing this. My friends were in a huddle, trying to figure out how to recue me. Because I am afraid to piss off an unstable guy like that, I let him talk.

First, he told me he was like a dog, who picks up a bone he likes but then he sees another bone so he drops the one he has to pick up the other one. The dog does this continuously until he is simply left without any bone at all. He blamed his wandering eye on the influence of watching too much porn. Later in the conversation he likened himself to the scorpion in the tale of the scorpion and the frog. As if I needed further illustration of why he was a complete a-hole. The story goes like this: A scorpion and a frog meet on the bank of a stream and the scorpion asks the frog to carry him across on its back. The frog asks, "How do I know you won't sting me?" The scorpion says, "Because if I do, I will die too." The frog is satisfied, and they set out, but in midstream, the scorpion stings the frog. The frog feels the onset of paralysis and starts to sink, knowing they both will drown, but has just enough time to gasp "Why?" Replies the scorpion: "Its my nature..." Bipolar-gambling-Iliveathomewithmymom-man claimed he was just a poor scorpion -- and then he blamed his behavior on being bipolar. Porn, bipolar, whatever. He also added he thought his buddy from Australia was hitting on me. Not sure what relevance that had. His friend was wearing the tiniest pair of jeans I've ever seen.

You just can't make this stuff up.

Pho and fried neck pain to go please.
Something about hot soup on a cold, damp day. Something about it, not sure what, is comforting. Not so much so that I can forego the painkillers though. Darvocet is my friend...

Ok, stop that already. I'm not a junkie -- yet. I tweaked my neck on Sunday, not sure how I did it so don't ask. I can't tell you how many people have asked me, "how did you do it?". Does that really matter? You know what, how I did it isn't nearly as important as how much pain I am currently in. Which is, a lot. It hurts my head to even think about the how, which, by the way is still unclear and may forever remain a mystery. It just happened. Just like that. Could have been the yoga class, could have been the chin hang, could have been the run. Could have been me turning my head to check out that cute guy on the elliptical. What-ever.

Did I mention I'm in pain?

If I'm in pain, you should be feeling some sort of sympathy pain for me, right? Sorry to inflict that on you, but it's one of the perils of sharing my thoughts with you.