Tuesday, February 28, 2012

You Betcha!

I am sitting in an aircraft, bound for North Dakota.
Note: It is frigid in the cabin. I have graduated from wearing my big hoodie to wearing my big hoodie and my big designated-Fargo coat. In the cabin of the aircraft, yes. I believe that the frigidness is an attempt by the flight crew to acclimate the body to the air temperature at my destination, sadly.
Because flying through Las Vegas is clearly the most efficient route from Oakland to Fargo, obviously, I am sitting in a plane with a bunch of twenty something dudes with wacky accents, exceedingly large white teeth and bloodshot eyes headed home from a wild night in Vegas, oh yah.
Behind me is one of those ladies with the annoying aircraft voice. You know, the one that you can hear above the drone of the engines and the drone of the hung over dudes with the accents and big teeth and the screams of the kids in back, who seem to be enduring a torture of being torn limb from limb.
I look out the window. The ground 33,000 feet below is white. Snow, yes. I imagine we are flying over South Dakota. Or Wyoming. Or Germany, maybe.
The lady across the aisle is tapping my shoulder and asking for a favor. She is holding stacks of catalogs with ladies bundled in hats and sweaters and boots on the front covers. Catalog Lady is a buyer for a boutique in Minnesota, she explains.

She reaches across the aisle with a handful of catalogs.
Would you mind looking through the catalogs and selecting some items that you think a conservative Minnesotan might like? She is saying.
Conservative? Minnesotan? Conservative Minnesotan?
Is she possibly talking to me I am thinking, a blonde Trophy Wife from the Golden State who just happens to be bundled in possibly the most atrocious air travel wear in the history of air travel who just happens to be on her way to (one) of the most remote locations in the northern plains?
I am from California, I am saying. But I can look if you'd like.

Her eyes narrow with suspicion. She pulls the catalogs back into her lap. No thanks, she says.
Access denied.
I only have one thing to say about that.

You betcha!

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