Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

Teddy Tedaloo flying Virgin Atlantic

Well, yet another visit to the old country has come and gone. And it wouldn’t have been complete without the usual stupidity of airline passengers crammed onto a flight that lasts too bloody long. It just gives you one more reason to despair of the human race… as if we needed any more!

Even before takeoff, this Virgin Atlantic all-nighter from Miami to London Heathrow seemed destined to provide endless hours of entertainment (and I’m not talking about the little video screens we had at our private disposal either). A game of musical chairs from start to finish, we had a cast of characters to rival any Carry On film.

First of all, we had a flight attendant who was a dead ringer for English comedienne Catherine Tate. The only thing she didn’t do was point at her ginger-fringed mug and say “face, bovvered?” She was kept busy trying to sort out a pair of Italian passengers seated in the row in front of me, who were evidently having difficulty fitting into the space allocated them, despite being given bulkhead seats. One guy was as tall as two American basketball players placed head to foot, the other looked as if he’d just eaten Luciano Pavarotti for lunch (and probably had).

Add to this recipe an old Muslim lady who, right at the moment of takeoff, suddenly decided that she wanted to change seats, thereby prompting a severe reprimanding over the loudspeaker. For the entire flight she kept waddling past the new set of passengers seated in the bulkhead seats formerly occupied by the Italians. Back and forth, back and forth, she spent more time on her walkabout then she did on her arse. If she wasn’t teetering past someone, she was pestering someone to get her handbag down from the overhead bin. Why she couldn’t take charge of it herself is anyone’s guess.

I’ll admit that I was none too chuffed with my seating arrangements either. Oh, I had the aisle seat in the centre section as requested, however, Teddy did not have his own seat. Clearly, this could not be allowed to continue, especially considering there was a spare seat at the other end of our row. Alas, neither of the two blokes seated to my left were amenable to shifting down a seat, despite my explaining that Ted did not want to sit on the floor. (They obviously didn’t realise they were dealing with a celebrity and co-star of Mitzi TV.) Instead they suggested that once we were airborne I move two rows back, where there was one lone passenger with three spare seats. They tried to pacify me with some chewy sweets, which I accepted, though that didn’t solve the problem – which was securing Teddy a seat.

Unlike the ever-waddling Muslim lady, I waited until we were safely airborne and the fasten seat belts sign was switched off, then popped back to check out the situation in the 3/4 empty row. Well, the bitchy queen holding court there informed me that the flight crew had told him he could have the entire row to himself so he could sleep. Indeed. Perhaps he was related to the Queen as well. Not wanting to get into a bitch-slapping session, I let it go. It was going to be a long flight, and I didn’t want to get into a fight only a half hour into it. Instead I renegotiated with my seat mates, and went round to the other side and took the empty seat, with my companions shifting one seat over, thereby leaving the seat next to me free for Ted.

Peace at last. Well, except for the South African flight attendant who kept making announcements that no one listened to. Things finally got quieter after everyone had chowed down their airline meals and did the post-dinner run to the toilet. Although Mrs Waddle continued to do her waddling and handbag thing, the stupidity on our international flight finally began to lessen…

…Until it came time to make our descent into London.

The seat belt sign came on, and we were instructed to do the usual thing: return our seat backs to their upright position, put away our tray tables, shut off any electronic devices, get rid of pillows and blankies, and get the hell out of the toilets. Of course, there’s always someone, isn’t there? Sure, Mrs Waddle continued to be as stupid as possible, though by now we expected it. However, it appeared she had fierce competition. One row up and to my left sleeping silently like a bomb waiting to go off was a young female with ears like Eddie Munster. She had slept through the entire flight. (Don’t you just hate these people???) The flight attendant had to wake her up to alert her that we were preparing to land, despite the fact that anyone with half a brain would have realised this, sleeping or not.

Mind you, I did say half a brain. Well, this dozy twat had no brain. When she finally roused herself from her catatonia after several promptings from the flight attendant, she dug out her cavernous sack of a handbag and proceeded to apply makeup to her vapid unwashed face. This went on for a good half hour. I couldn’t help but notice her dangling seat belt, which had remained unfastened throughout the majority of the flight and continued to remain thus, despite our imminent landing. I figured she would eventually fasten it after she finished trying to instill some character into her characterless face, but I was wrong.

Five minutes before we were due to be on the tarmac, she dug out some paperback novel that I could only categorise as “Bint Lit”, judging by its cover, which consisted of a woman’s high-heeled legs kicking into the air and the word “Girl” in the title. (Who says you can’t judge a book by its cover?) Her seat belt continued to remain unfastened as she became heavily engrossed in some tale of a female protagonist who was likely as brainless as herself. Guess she thought she was on the tube. I kept hoping we’d hit severe air turbulence at the last minute so she’d bang some sense into her empty head, but sadly, our pilot did a cracking job of setting us down at Heathrow.

Damn.

This wasn’t the end of it by a long shot. Just as we were getting ourselves sorted to deplane, this airhead suddenly realised that she still had a ton of crap she needed to return to her handbag, so back went all her makeup, the fine literature she’d been reading, and god knows what else – I’d not seen the big Italian in hours, maybe he went in there too. Then she started to put her shoes back on. People were leaving the aircraft and there’s Miss Bint still mucking about with her shoes. It just beggars belief, dunnit?

I’ve never wanted to slap anyone so much in my life. Between her and Mrs Waddle, who was slowly waddling up the other aisle and doing one hell of a job of delaying everyone behind her, I was ready to scream. If it weren’t for the fact that I’d ordered a taxi, I might’ve stuck around for a fight. But I wasn’t in proper form, not having slept a wink for the entire flight. Besides, I had an exhausted little bear with me.

I think I need to take a break from flying for awhile…

Mitzi Szereto in Rhode Island

My bear (the famous Teddy Tedaloo) has recently decided that he wants to move to Vermont. Why Vermont? Well, we hear there are plenty of bears there and, being the single mother of a young bear, this sounds like just the place (providing we can afford American health insurance, which looks increasingly doubtful).

Indeed, I can envision us living in a cosy little upmarket log cabin-style house with high-beamed ceilings and wood-burning fireplace, located on a nice parcel of gently rolling land, and not a neighbour within sight or hearing distance. Apparently the price of real estate isn’t too bad there either and as long as I have high-speed broadband, who cares how far away things are? Now if there are any cute quirky little lads who happen to be single and within driving distance (bonus points to those who own a nice motorbike), we might be in business! (Note: I’m willing to put up with an American accent if said lads tick the right boxes. Hey, what can I say? I’ll make sacrifices for love. Besides, Ted needs a positive male role model who’ll take him to ballgames and such. Okay, nix the ballgame shtick, we can’t stand that crap.)

As for why we’d settle on New England, well, why not? It’s somewhere neither I nor Ted have ever lived. In fact, I recently returned from a visit there, though I didn’t make it over to Vermont, but spent my time in Rhode Island and Connecticut. Rhode Island is nice, but it’s in the hurricane zone. Connecticut is nice, but it’s too expensive and too full of New Yawkers. As for Massachusetts, forget it – that caw-caw accent would make me suicidal (please, no hate mail from you Bostonians, okay?). So it looks like Vermont is top of the list for now. I’m sure I can root out enough quirky content and characters to keep Mitzi TV going. And there’s bound to be a novel in it somewhere, too (perhaps even an erotic one, if things go well). If it’s anything like Rhode Island where I walked into a random Barnes & Noble and found a copy of my new book In Sleeping Beauty’s Bed: Erotic Fairy Tales, then it must be a good place.

Mitzi Szereto in Mystic, Connecticut

Would I be willing to leave behind the bright lights of Londontown for the peace and quiet of New England? You betcha! Would I be bored silly? Heck no! I tell you, it’s all happening in New England. Take Providence, for example. Providence has the best falafel I ever ate – and I don’t even like falafel! And there are adventures galore to be had at Providence Airport – or, should I say – Theodore Francis Green International Airport or whatever in heck they’re calling it this week. When it comes to ferreting out potential terrorists, they make the Heathrow security team look like a bunch of squealing girlies.

Last week I was minding my own business waiting to board my flight for Fort Lauderdale when along came this security dude armed with a really butch-looking test tube and some kind of pH stick he was waving about in a threatening manner. Oh, man, he was tuff stuff. All I know is, the bloke sitting next to me in the departure lounge must’ve been on some no-fly list, because that bottle of water he was hanging onto was confiscated and given a right going over by Mr Security Dude. Apparently, this test tube paraphernalia wasn’t intended to get people high (as we’d hoped), but was there to test if any suspicious vapours were emanating from our bottled beverages. It appeared that my fellow passenger Mr Vapour Man had set off some alarm bells, because that pH stick became intimately acquainted with the contents of his plastic water bottle. Talk about rude!

The point is, excitement can be found most anywhere. Or maybe not…

Right, well, I guess I need to start contacting some real estate companies in Vermont (and setting that plan in motion to rob a bank to fund this venture). As for the other part of my master plan, interested parties – that means you cute quirky little single lads in New England (or elsewhere, if you can convince me that you’re what I want/need/desire) – may apply for the position of being Teddy’s positive male role model by sending a CV to me care of my website. Photos and gainful employment required.

Mitzi Szereto on a frozen Watchaug Pond, Rhode Island

I don’t ski. And neither does my suitcase. However, it’s quite possible it will be in Colorado for the skiing season.

I suppose I shouldn’t really complain. My navy-blue American Tourister had a reasonably peaceful afternoon upon arrival on Saturday at San Francisco International Airport, where it was tagged and placed on a conveyor belt on its way to being deposited into the belly of an aircraft. At least it knew where it was going. Unlike myself, who spent several hours running back and forth between the pay phone and the airline check-in desk, wondering if I’d ever make it back to Blighty.

You see, I was supposed to fly to Denver, then change planes to London, had the flight to Denver out of San Francisco not been delayed by two hours, thereby making the connection an impossibility. Apparently San Francisco International Airport is notorious for delays, as is this particular airline. Several conversations with telephone reservations as well as the check-in people at the airport later, I ended up with a colourful hodgepodge of bookings, offering me routing through Chicago, Washington, and Los Angeles (along with a couple of standby reservations), the airline neglecting to mention that I was no longer on any Denver to London flights for either the original day or the following day, despite my being told at check-in that I had two bookings from Denver to London for both Saturday and Sunday, and despite my suitcase being checked through from San Francisco to Denver to London, and despite my boarding passes from San Francisco to Denver to London, and despite a non-refundable Denver hotel reservation only moments away from being booked and paid for. (The airline refused to pay for a hotel.)

Who is this glorious airline? Will I be sued if I tell? Let’s just say that their name begins with a “U” and ends with a “D”. And I will avoid them like the bloody plague next time I get my arse booked on a flight to America.

By the time I made what would be (or so I thought) my final flight booking, which was to be via LA (with yet another hotel room due to be reserved and paid for so that I could fly out to London the next afternoon), I went racing back through security to the check-in counter, jumped the queue (don’t cross me when I’m stressed), and tried to get my suitcase back. Well, U****D wasn’t having it, despite the nearly two hours they had in which to retrieve it. So while I was panicking about having to stay at a hotel overnight with nothing but the clothes on my back and a couple of Granny Smith apples, someone FINALLY decided to do something that actually made a bit of sense: get me on another airline to London that same evening. Ergo I was placed on stand-by with British Airways (ahh… civilisation). After trekking to the international terminal and finally locating the BA counter (do they want people to actually find them???), a new boarding card was placed in my sweaty little hand.

Of course the fun wasn’t over yet. I must’ve looked either very dodgy or very deranged – or else it was because I came from the big bad domestic terminal and from another carrier, but I got singled out for an extensive security search. Now, get your mind out of the gutter – we aren’t talking strip search here, although I did receive the cheap thrill of getting air blown on me in some glassed-in cubicle. Ooh, the life of an erotic writer!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, I can take it; I’ve been through worse in my lifetime. But I definitely draw the line when it comes to my bear. You harm one hair on his furry little head and you’re dead meat, mate! Well, the poor guy was removed from his warm and cosy little backpack, placed on a cold metal table, and treated to the indignity of being manhandled by some security geezer at SFO. I sat by and kept a very close watch, since Teddy is still technically underage – and there ARE laws against this sort of thing in America. Teddy survived unscathed (wish I could say the same thing about myself), and Mr. Security Man offered us both a bright California smile. I should add that the gentleman seemed far more involved in a relationship with my shoes, a characteristic I find rather worrisome in a man.

Now for the contents of my errant suitcase: I’m quite worried about the fate of my sexy little Staind vest top, which I need for this Friday night, since I’m going to see the Massachusetts lads at the O2 Arena in London. Add to this some cookies from Trader Joe’s and the earrings I bought in Wales – these things are not so easily replaced. Teddy also had a nifty pair of shades in the suitcase, which sadly he never got to wear, since he spent most of his time in bed or else avoiding a rather dodgy feline character named Oliver.

It’s all well and good to file a lost baggage claim and get a few quid out of the deal, but trying to replace all those items, and taking the time to replace them… well, I’d rather have my suitcase back than a few paltry pounds in my pocket and the aggro of having to go shopping to try to replace what is, for the most part, irreplaceable. You see, I hate shopping. Yes, I am a woman who hates shopping. It takes me up to three hours just to buy a pair of knickers. Don’t believe me? Ask my mother, who thought I was kidnapped by sex traffickers at a Macy’s in South Florida when I vanished in the lingerie department.

All I can say is, that suitcase better bloody well get here and soon, or else there will be major hell to pay…