Give Me Loose Leaf Or Give Me Death |
Today I would like to share a pointer to one of my very favorite bits of blog writing ever to be published, an entry which appeared about a year ago on the delightfully named A Somewhat Old, But Capacious Handbag.
This pithy excerpt from Miss Laetitia Prism’s charmingly malefic rant on street harassment is so good I might have to consider cross-stitching it onto all my throw pillows:
A particular disfavourite of mine is the less threatening "Cheer Up Love, It Might Never Happen". Nearly always said by strange men to younger women, this phrase translates to “Give us a smile!” or "Your facial expression displeases me: rectify this situation."…
When a bloke says CULIMNH - which would make a good trendy Gaelic baby name, pronounced "Keith" - he is of course not really concerned for the happiness of the lady in question. Firstly, he will usually say it not to a woman who looks genuinely upset, but to one of neutral countenance who has done nothing to provoke, evoke, invoke or otherwise voke the comment. Secondly, if he really thought she was unhappy, and wanted to go against the usual human habit of ignoring distressed people in public, he’d ask a question, like "Are you OK?" or "Is everything all right?", or perhaps, if he thought something truly terrible had happened, "Can I get you a cup of tea?"
I laughed and laughed. Because, ok, here’s the embarrassing truth: even though I was raised by rabid American wolves in the land of rugged double bitter black espresso served up straight in a shot glass, I somehow turned out to be one of those balmy people who, in the event of something Truly Terrible, would prefer a cup of hot tea with milk (not cream) over a seat in the lifeboat, or even over winning the frickin lottery.
For example. A few years ago I found myself aboard a fateful flight that was forced to turn back because one of the two engines went out in mid-air somewhere over the most barren patch of Texas. The pilot calmly (and a bit too cheerfully if you ask me) announced the situation, and then for the next twenty-five hair-raising minutes, our small plane bounced along on one shaky engine, listing unsteadily at a rather disheartening 45 degree angle while plumes of smoke poured out of its various orifices.
There was not a damn thing I could do for this excruciating twenty-five minute trip except grip my arm rests and ponder my rapidly impending mortality. After about five minutes of gripping and pondering and gazing at the wildly tilting smoke-filled horizon, I decided this might be an opportune time for a cup of tea. Even if it was only a weak tepid airline tea bag served in a plastic cup with powdered non-dairy creamer.
So I looked around for the flight attendant. But the poor woman was strapped into her special seat up at the front of the plane (unlike passengers, flight attendants have shoulder restraints on their seatbelts, increasing their likelihood of surviving an unpleasant air event by about 500%). She was cradling an armful of miniature bourbon bottles; her eyes were squeezed shut and tears streamed down her face, while a barrage of Hail Marys liberally spiced with choice entries from the Scatological Thesaurus gushed forth from her lips into a small air sickness bag. I suspected she probably wouldn't fancy getting up to fetch me a cup of tea right at that moment, so I stiffened my proverbial upper lip and made do with gnawing off what was left of my fingertips instead.
The precarious 25-minute tea-free flight actually lasted for about six hundred years, or at any rate for the very longest stretch of time I’d ever been without a cup of tea in my entire life. But at last we arrived safely back at DFW. Our smoldering touchdown was met by a squadron of flashing fire trucks and shrieking ambulances dramatically circling the tarmac, a gratifying though thank heavens unnecessary welcoming committee.
Better yet, the ten passengers who stumbled down the steps in various states of distress and disarray were met by a team of highly trained psychologists as well as clergy persons from the various mainstream denominations. (I suppose the airline must provide this service to cover its smoldering ass, but I couldn’t help wondering: what the hell do all these airline psychologists do with themselves in between unfortunate incidents? One sincerely hopes there aren't enough near-fatal equipment malfunctions to keep these people fully occupied.)
As it turned out, the other nine passengers who disembarked were all inveterate flyers and harried business people whose sole concern was to catch a connecting flight to Chattanooga or Atlanta or Orlando or where the hell ever they needed to be, asap. I was the only one who stood tottering at the gate, glassy-eyed and blithering, clutching my carry-on to my bosom like a wounded child, unable to recall my own name, much less my seat number, destination, or nearest of kin. Delighted to finally have themselves a project, the ten highly trained but previously idle psychologists herded me into a small windowless room with a door that said “Counseling,” where they sat me down in a padded armchair and proceeded to counsel me.
"How are you feeling right now, Elizabeth?" the head honcho pshrink asked in a concerned whisper as she leaned forward and gazed meaningfully into my eyes.
"I’d say about like three-day old fecal matter stuck on the bottom of a shoe," I answered truthfully. She wrote this down on her yellow legal pad, then studied my trembling fingers which had been chewed down to ragged bloody nubs. Her own manicured fingers were obviously itching to hurry through these preliminary niceties and get on to something more meaty and interesting, like maybe the Rorschach blots or the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory.
"What we would like to do…" she began.
"No but what I would like to do," I interrupted, with the bold chutzpah unique to a recent plane crash survivor, "Is have myself a goddamn cup of tea."
"The airline," the psychologist replied pleasantly, "has gladly provided tickets for a complementary meal before your next flight. But what we would like to do first…"
I stood up and bared my teeth at her. Barbaric American savages! I bet British Airways and Virgin don’t send a bloody team of ink-stained psychologists to a plane crash. I bet they send shiny, substantial, steel carts heavily laden with marmalade and scones and Double Devon and McVities Digestives, along of course with several steaming pots of Typhoo or PG Tips served in bone china cups with saucers.
"Tea," I growled through clenched bared teeth. "Now."
My retinas must have been bulging and glowing like red hot embers or something, because the entire team leapt to their feet and rushed me over to the nearest Starbucks kiosk with an alarming sense of urgency. Then they sat and watched in rapt awe and relief as I sipped my tea, and before their very eyes my deranged befanged foaming-at-the-mouth Mr. Hyde persona transformed into a mild-mannered, slightly boring, sensitive-new-age cross between Dr. Jekyll and John Boy Walton.
So listen up, you clueless blokes on the street (or in the airport, or wherever you’re lurking). Next time my facial expression displeases you, whether I’m reacting to a mild case of dyspepsia, a class 5 hurricane, a bad biopsy report, incipient nuclear warfare, or perhaps your own boorish demeanor, please don’t tell me to smile. Either put a sock in it and mind your own business, or offer me a goddamn cup of tea. Quickly. Posthaste. Pronto. Before things get REALLY ugly. |
Vibrating Liz |
| About the author: |
| Vibrating Liz is an avid writer, dancer, gardener, weight lifter, and cancer survivor who firmly believes that 50 is the new 18. She lives in a small rural village in the quirkiest part of the deep south with an engaging assortment of flora and fauna |
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