California dreamin' #2: The paws that refreshes

Viva California--or at least the limited stretch of it I've seen on this trip, having so far only traveled from LAX to a convention center near the Happiest Place on Earth, Incorporated.

Notably, it was a trip with little incident. In fact, at least one good thing happened along the way--I arrived at the airport on Thursday afternoon only to find that my reservation had been canceled, due to major delays through Houston, my halfway point. Now given the way I have felt about coming to F--king Anaheim, I must admit that my heart skipped a beat at the thought of not having to head out at all that day, even though I had a Friday fairly chock full o' meetings.

Bonus! If my most important meetings were moot, could I just skip the conference altogether, stay home, and catch up my housework, gardening, Sims, and backlog of DVR recordings (e.g., I really need to know where, when, and how Jess is going to turn into Tess on One Life to Live).

However, once again, reality prevailed over fantasy in my life--I knew I had to go west, and, quite amazingly, the Continental rep rebooked my flight, this time as a non-stop to LAX. It did mean that, upon landing, I would have about a 45-minute ride to Orange County before being able to relax. But the non-stopper also meant that I would arrive in California a full 2-1/2 hours before I was originally scheduled to. Hurray! Could I be hopeful for a moment that my notoriously bad travel karma was starting to change for the better?

Well, now, really, Sweet Polly Purebred, how do you exist in this world? Of course when the sun shines, a little rain must fall, too, that song by Albert Hammond about Southern California notwithstanding. But, girl, don't they warn ya? Man, it pours.

In my case, the drenching came in the form of Diet Coke. Now I like an ice cold Diet Coke as much as any gay gent watching his middle age spread before him. However, I generally do not like it served, like revenge from a spiteful, philandering boyfriend, in my lap. Unlike that scenario, I didn't end up with a tell-tale rash or a distinctive itch. But I did end up with some icy caffeinated goodness in my lap and down the side of my right leg, thanks to the butterfingers of the woman sitting next to me. While trying to maneuver a cup of coffee for her companion, she inadvertently dropped the cup of Coke into my lap, some 36,000 feet above Missouri.

Of course, it could have been worse--the coffee, not the Coke, could have landed in my lap. Still, I won't pretend that I enjoyed the incident, since it soaked the only pair of casual trousers I'd brought on the trip. I had tried to pack light--the airline recommended way and not operate under my usual paranoia, "I should bring more clothes in case I spill something on them."

Well, *I* didn't spill anything, as it turned out, and see what I get for heeding a corporate edict and not my own good counsel?

I couldn't stay irritated for long, however. The woman had been pleasant the whole flight, chiefly occupying herself by reading passages of the Bible in Spanish to her companion, albeit somewhat loudly during the viewing of Chocolat, the inflight movie. No religious zealot she--at least as far as my weak Spanish could elucidate me--she seemed to have a sense of humor and personality as well. In one scene in Chocolat, when we briefly see a dog hump another dog (it has context in the film, take my word for it, and is not intended to be purely prurient), La Guatemalteca caught me blushing (hey, I'm a white guy, it's what I do best), and we both shared a giggle over the moment.

The interaction all seemed innocent enough until the Coke-spilling incident, when the nice lady laid hands on me--but not in a religious, healing way. She was, shall we say, very thorough in dabbing the spilled drink from my lap and legs. She even repeated her method more than once to make sure she got every, uh, drop.

I alternate between being highly clueless and highly suspicious, which is no mean feat, I can tell you. I wasn't feeling particularly clueless at the moment, more suspicious than anything, but thought, oh, just let it go. She's reading the Bible ferchrissakes! How untoward could her attentions be, especially with her sisterly companion at her side? I'm such a perv in spirit if not in deed. Honestly.

However, a few flashes of smile, a few gentle touches of arm later, and I felt my suspicions were confirmed, my being fully clued in. If there is indeed a god (and I like to think that there is from time to time), then here was my golden opportunity to find religion, turn straight, and improve my Spanish all in one.

Wisely, I think, I chose to remain heathen, homo, and linguistically befuddled in one language rather than two.