Now, sometimes (every few fortnites or so, apparently) I actually get the urge to write something, only to find there’s no computer nearby. So I’m starting  a new segment, cleverly called “Tuesday’s Moleskine,” because I have a moleskine (it’s black and fairly ridiculous), and sometimes I need to transcibe that bitch. See: tuesday morning at the airport.

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“I am currently at the gate waiting for my plane to BALTIMORE whooo-yeah!! So, at this point you may be saying out loud to your computer screen, “Tuesday, this trip is getting a little redundant. It’s hardly the first time you visit Baltimore, and I’d thank you to get a hold of your fake enthusiasm, please.” Well, that shows how much youknow, because I’m actually inordinately, inappropriately excited! Yeah! Baltimore! Totally!

 OK, to be fair a large part of that is just being away from the towering, crazystrict presence of parents who don’t make any particular distinction between twenty and thirteen years of age (not, mind you, that I feel it’s worth moving out and like, paying rent to someone, especially when I have no steady income. Life is all about figuring out your priorities, and one of my big ones is to live comfortably, as much as that’s possible. Marry up*!).

 So I’m waiting for my plane to come. It only took me, oh, twenty minutes to attract the weirdos (ok, to be fair I have taken planes, buses and so on before without attracting any weirdos at all, so I guess I’m not going to go on a whiny rant about my (probably nonexistent) ability to attract weirdos. But let’s just say that I’m very delicate looking, very thin and sinewy but rather plain looking, in terms of attractiveness, and that combination (of seeming defenselessness coupled with possible self-esteem issues) attracts a lot of weirdos a certain kind of guy. Let’s just say before I decided to Not Date the inquirers weren’t exactly Prince Charming.

So, anyway, I have just set up my laptop when a guy, a bit overweight, late thirties to late forties (can you tell I’m terrible at guessing ages?), Haitian with the heavy accent to go along, sits across from me. No problem so far. I call up my dad to ask a question, and when I hang up HaitianDude leans over and asks to borrow my cellphone.

Now, sometimes I am rather paranoid, I can admit that pretty readily. So I hesitate to answer because I am having visions of him starting to dial and then making a run for it across the airport – which I will admit makes not much sense since he’d probably be tackled by security before you can say “Hey!” But paranoia isn’t supposed to make sense, so moving on I asked first if he was calling out of state or…? No, no, he assures me, not out of state. When I ask which area code (I realize this is a bit much, but after all I wouldn’t mind answering these questions were I the one asking to use some stranger’s very expensive, new looking razor cellphone), he explains, eventually, that he’s calling Haiti. To which I said, “Oh, it’s out of country. Yes, that’s much better.” Except the much-better part was in my head. So at this point I’m about to give up the phone, despite not being very comfortable, and I ask (yes, I was full of questions, I’m a very irritating person and you probably wouldn’t want to borrow a phone from me, because I am weird about things like that) about how long he would need: five minutes, he says.

Now maybe I’m just a terrible conversationalist (maybe, ha) but this seems like an awfully long time to be on the phone. Like, that’s a whole conversation with your lawyer or dad or something, not a quick check with someone like I assumed – I mean, I was a bit taken aback because I was assuming he’d say something like “thirty seconds” or “a minute”. At this point I start hemming and hawing some more, and then Guy very nicely guesses that I really don’t want to give up the phone and says “You can say no.”

So I say, “Yeah, sorry.” And smile all apologetically and go very quickly back to my ipod and laptop, because I have the strong sensation I have been a total bitch – which frankly I don’t mind being to someone I won’t ever see again. They’ll just be like “yeah, I ran into this real bitch at the airport” and that’s the end of that. So I put on my bitch persona, complete with headphones to block out further conversation.

 All that does not make him a weirdo, frankly it makes me a bit of a weirdo, if anything. But later, when he sits right up next to me and touches my arm and says, literally, “Do you know Jesus loves you”? Yeah, that’s when he makes my weirdo list. Will now retire the word “weirdo” from this post, btw.

 I say “Yes, I know.”

And he says “Do you?”

And I was like, “Yeah, really. I really, really, know. I am Christian.” And I was tempted to fish something Catholic-y from my bag but refrained in case he would then attempt to convert me to his particular denomination. And this conversation goes on for a goddam while, too – Jesus is great, Jesus loves you, give yourself over to Jesus, yes I agree, yes I have, and so on – and maybe I would have put an end to it a bit more abruptly were I not still feeling guilty over my non-phone-lending ways. Eventually he wandered off and has accosted (or, okay, from a distance it appears to be normal conversations but you know he’s out there pimping Jesus like nobody’s business) like three people since. Also, this is why Jesus gets such a bad rap – shit representation. Christians! Be cool!

 Other stuff going on around me includes: everyone has Dunkin Donuts coffees and bagels, which makes me glad I ate a lot otherwise I’d be wasting money on terrible, overpriced donuts, and there’s the most attractive gay boy sitting in front of me. Well, okay to be fair I have no idea what he looks like from the front, but his hair is so, so beautiful, a kind of layered medium brown that waves perfectly and goes down far enough that I can barely see a bit of pale, pale neck. And he’s wearing a lovely black shirt. He is like a vampire, and totally brings out the middle-school, medium grade lust in me. Yum, such delicate shoulders. I wish he would get on the phone again so I could listen to that beautiful, lilting voice encourage someone to finish their paper. Hmmmm.

 

 

*just kidding. No, really. If I end up marrying someone more well-off than myself I’d probably end up all resentful and insecure, like I’m the asshole mechanic husband with an inferiority complex who drinks because his junior partner lawyer wife makes more than he does. It’s just terrible of me! Oh well. A girl’s got to be able to take of herself, always, even when she currently isn’t – as long the capacity to do so is there. You gotta have backup. And so on. This was a pretty long footnote.”

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I never really ever got around to finishing my bloggings of last year’s trip to Baltimore, but I’m feeling good about my writing prospects this time, because

a) it’s a much longer stay, three weeks and

b) I’m spending a good part of the day doing nothing, so I actually have the time

Until later,

– Tuesday

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