I’m writing this from a great distance… straight up. I’m flying home from visiting my parents in Ohio (where it was 6 degrees (!) at the start of the week and 66 when I flew out), and I began pondering the many things today that don’t make sense to me—in addition to that whole weather thing, of course, because that’s just crazy.
VIP Tickets to Parties
I don’t understand having levels of “special” at parties. This behavior would be unconscionably rude if you were throwing a party in your home, but throw a party in a club, and it’s considered de rigeur. You have the normal people, aka the people there to actually enjoy the party and occasionally gaze wistfully at the VIP section convinced that some distant day they will also be important enough to get past the rope. Then there is the VIP section. From my, admittedly limited, experience the VIP section is full of people who paid extra money to avoid the people who actually want to be there. This section is also highlighted by the dawning realization that there is a level of Really VIP that they still can’t buy into no matter what the ticket said. It is my fondest hope that one of these days someone throws a party and says “none of you are really all that important” and K-Fed has to buy his own bottle.
But that’s just me.
I will, however, begin separating my friends at any party I throw in my tiny apartment. I’m just kidding. You know I’d never have a party in my apartment.
Here’s a tip: just because you can physically carry it, does not mean it is carry-on luggage. If you could actually float a family of 12 down a river on it, it is not a carry-on. Also, you swearing that “last time it fit” when it has clearly never fit into anything other than a semi isn’t fooling anyone. The good news is when you crush everything around you and shove with all your might to get it into the overhead compartment, you wont have to worry about it shifting during the flight. It won’t shift. Ever. Not even when you hold up all the other passengers when you have to pry it out during deplaning. Well done.
Turbulence. I don’t get it. I don’t like it. I want it to stop.
Why is the man I’ve now dubbed “book boy” sitting in the window seat? We should clearly be sharing intellectual discourse on the meaning of… um… well, anything really, as you know what happens to me when I am faced with a boy who reads. Sadly, it appears to be beyond my ability to chat with him when he is a) reading, and doesn’t really look like he wants to be disturbed and b) there is a sleeping person in between us. Fate is cruel.
Again, self-explanatory and seemingly unending.
Kate, hoping that everyone had (or is having) lovely holidays!