The Grabber

When I stepped into the back seat of my neighbor's very large SUV I noticed Shirley seated on the other side of the console.  She reached across, gave my arm a big squeeze, and said, "So good to see you Lou."

I said, "Good to see you, too."  

I was lying.

Shirley and I have little in common.  Sure, we live near each other, sit down to pee, and have 46 chromosomes.

But that's where the similarities end.

Unlike Shirley, I do not feel the need to grab hold of someone's arm when speaking to him or her.

In fact, I can imagine very few scenarios requiring me to latch on to someone's arm.

--One of my daughters is attempting to escape when I'm giving her advice.
--A waiter is about to give my wine to someone at another table.
--A stranger has slipped off a cliff and is screaming for help.

Truth be told, the stranger would probably fall to his death before I could react.  He'd likely be partially digested by crocodiles before I could finish my dramatic gasp.

And, even if I was able to successfully grab his arm, chances are excellent that I would lack the strength to pull him back to safety.  He'd have to weigh less than 25 pounds if he expected me to save his life.  And considering my subpar stamina, the emergency response team would have to arrive within two or three minutes.

So, after stepping into the back seat of the large SUV and being manhandled by Shirley I groaned.  

I remembered too late that Shirley was a grabber.

How could I forget?  She assaulted my arm for seven and a half minutes last summer at that neighborhood picnic.  She'd had me cornered in the kitchen.  By the devilled eggs.

And here we were.  Sharing the back seat of a car.

I should have driven.  Damn.

It is physically impossible for Shirley to utter a word without touching the person to whom she is speaking.  She grabbed hold of my arm no fewer than ten times on that torturous twenty minute trek.

But she shared the love.

Shirley massaged the front seat passenger's shoulder a dozen or so times during the drive.  The only person immune to the assault was the driver, whose shoulder was just beyond Shirley's reach.  She'd desperately extended her hand, fingers wiggling, falling just short of the target.

(Think Tyrannosaurus Rex communicating with Helen Keller.)

The evening was a frustrating, yet somewhat entertaining, social experiment.

A few days later I was having lunch with another neighbor.  I asked her if she had noticed Shirley's propensity to latch onto the arm of everyone and anyone she spoke to.

Laura quickly defended Shirley. 

"Oh, she's very nice.  When you get to know her you'll like her.  She'll be more friendly."

More friendly?

Will she caress my face with her hands?  Stick her tongue in my mouth?

I suppose I'm being too hard on Shirley.  I should be more kind.

So what if she's grabby?

She may come in handy some day.  Like if I ever find myself falling off a cliff.

Chinese Line Torture

It was ten minutes before the scheduled boarding when one Asian passenger got to his feet and made his way to the front of the boarding area.

That’s all it took.

Within 30 seconds the gate area was completely void of Asians.  Only a few confused looking Westerners remained.

The line, which was far from single-file, stretched the length of a football field.

“Are we boarding?” I asked.  My question was quickly answered by the gate agent’s announcement.  “We will start boarding China Eastern Airline’s flight to Shanghai with our First Class passengers.  All others may remain seated.”

Right.

Thus began my initiation to Chinese Line Torture.  It didn’t bother me at first.  In fact, I found it kind of Interesting. Because I had no interest in standing in a line to get onto a plane that I would be stuck in the for the next 15 stinkin’ hours.  

But sadly, Chinese Line Torture was unavoidable on my flight home.  

And I became painfully aware of the fact that Asians have no regard for my personal space.

Luke, Kimmy and I were in an insufferably long line to check in for my flight.  There were 15 Asians in front of us, taking up 2 feet.  Behind them stood me, Kimmy and Luke (taking up 10 feet), 3 Asian women jammed into Luke’s back pocket, and the rest of the line.

Clearly the people in the Phuket airport that morning did not embrace the 2007 Beijing campaign to “eradicate undesirable manners.” The Beijing city government had declared the 11th day of every month to be "lining day", part of a campaign to eliminate bad behavior including crowding, line jumping, spitting and littering.

(To be fair, I did not observe littering, but I certainly heard more than my share of snorting.)

Not surprisingly, I was the last person on and off my plane to Shanghai that day.

I didn't have a fighting chance. These guys were pros.

And it was beginning to get on my sleep deprived nerves.

I decided to channel my inner Asian when it was time to board my plane to JFK. I got in line right away when my group was called. I hurried to the end of the line, beating the Asian guy running from the other direction by a nose.

But he didn't get in line behind me. He stood NEXT TO ME.

I gave him my best "step out of my space" look and nudged closer to the Asians in front of me.

And it worked. The guy was no longer standing next to me.

I guess I showed him. You can't take advantage of this American Woman!

I turned around to give the poor guy a smile.

I had been kind of rude with that "step out of my space" look. Wouldn't want to give him the wrong impression. After all, I was representing the United States of America.

But he wasn't there. Where'd he go?

Then I noticed him. Standing 10 people ahead of me.

Damn line jumper.