romance what?

Coming home from RWA on Sunday was a bit of an adventure. Canceled flights and credit card snafus made the day much more dramatic than it had to be, and I was never so happy to see my driveway at the end of it. But there were a few amusing moments thrown in among the crap.

On my last flight of the day, the 5:10 from Atlanta to Portland, I was seated in the front exit row on the aisle. Just so you know, this is like the Holy Grail of airplane seating for me (well, actually the Holy Grail would be first class, but in my current financial situation, that Grail is out of reach). I have all the leg room I need, no one is going to climb over me to get to the bathroom - it's perfect.

Or rather, it would be perfect, if it hadn't been for my seat mate. A very tall, very big man was crammed into the middle seat. Not big as in obese, you understand...just big. He was literally jammed into that seat, looking very uncomfortable, but he was cheerful as anything. During the flight attendant's little speech to those of us in the exit row about what to do if we crash (this is how the door opens, the slide comes out of here, etc.), I muttered something about how this plane better not crash because I'd had a hard enough day already, and he turned to me.

"Have you had a hard day?"

"I've had a shit day," I replied.

"Oh, I'm sorry. But you have beautiful brown eyes." (Let me point out that he was looking not at my eyes, but at the v neck on my t-shirt - his height gave him a bird's eye view of my tits).

"Thank you," I replied, not really giving a shit if he was staring at my tits, and turned back to my book.

"Were you part of that mix up in Houston?" he asked, ignoring my I Don't Want To Talk signal.

"No," I replied, barely looking up from my book. "I was in DC, and my flight there was canceled due to mechanical problems."

"Oh. What were you doing in DC?"

"I was at a conference."

"What kind of a conference?"

(I would also like to point out that at this point, any other person would have found a way to politely say "Fuck off, Sluggo, I'm reading", but I kept talking. Social conditioning can be a real burden sometimes.)

"A romance writer's conference," I replied, thinking Fuck off, Sluggo, I'm reading!

He frowned. "Romance fighters?"

"No, romance writers."

His frown intensified. "Romance riders?"

Exasperated, I held up my book. "Romance WRITERS."

"Oh, romance writers!" He chuckled. "Are you a romance writer?"

"Yes, I am." Seriously, fuck off. I turned back to my book.

He nudged me with his elbow, still looking at my tits. "I bet you're real romantic."

At this point I believe the Fuck Off that wouldn't come out of my mouth must have been visible in my eyes - either that orr he just realized that his oh so clever line wasn't working. Either way he patted my arm and said, "I'll let you read."

And he turned his attention back to our flight attendent, Fred, who I'm pretty sure had Turrets Syndrome.

But that's another story.